summary: your boyfriend accidentally brings home his stethoscope, so you use it to check his heartrate.
pairing: frank langdon x girlfriend!reader
tags: 18+, mdni, afab reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, small bit of grinding, sitting on frank's lap, mischievous seduction
word count: 1.8k
notes: why doctor boyfriend if not do doctor stuff to him :]
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The day is winding down. Aureate light streams in through your half-unfolded blinds, flooding your living room with natural lighting. The only other sources of lights are the numerous candles littering all flat surfaces, matching the sunset that’s dimming outside.
Evening tends to be your favorite part of the day. No more responsibilities now that your workday was over, just finishing up on the numerous things that had to be done before you were able to tuck yourself into bed and let the day wash away. Plus, that meant your boyfriend would be leaving his day shift, heading straight to your apartment to slouch into your arms and moan about how exhausting his day had been.
Bubbles pop in your sink as your hands duck into the warm water, fingers closing around the silverware floating near the bottom. You hum softly to the music floating through your house from your living room TV, fully entranced by the repetitive task of scrubbing at dishes and placing them in your drying rack. A single plate of dinner sits on the other side of your kitchen, covered in saran wrap to stay warm and clean, ready for Frank when he gets home.
You raise your head at the sound of keys outside your door, a smile already pulling at your lips. The door creaks open a moment later, revealing your boyfriend one glimpse at a time. His fingers around the door, his shoe, then his knee, slowly followed by every other part of him.
As usual, he looks ragged, weary from a long day. Multiple strands of hair droop over his forehead, tickling his eyebrows. He looks down as he kicks off of his shoes, those pieces staying stubborn as he lifts his head back up.
“Hey, baby,” he greets quietly. His voice usually tended to be softer when he came home, ears still ringing from the loud environment of the hospital, but you didn’t mind it. It fit the quiet and calm environment you tried to turn your apartment into for his arrival.
Keeping your hands in the sink, you lean back against him when his arm curls around your waist. His chin tucks into the dip between your collarbone and neck, watching as you scrub leisurely at a dish.
You tilt your head to press your temple against his head, smiling like a lovestruck fool. “How was work?” You ask, moving as slowly as possible to tuck the dish into the drying rack. One hand reaches in to pull the plug from the drain while the other reaches behind you to curl around his waist, squeezing at him playfully. “Save any lives?”
He groans, face pressing further into your skin as he rubs his cheek against your jaw like a cat. “Exhausting. Glad to be home with you.” The words are muffled as he presses his mouth to your neck, placing a chaste kiss there.
Once you’ve finished drying off your hands, you turn to face him, both hands now sliding around his waist. You press your chin into his sternum, blinking up at him. “I’m glad you’re home, too.”
As if reading your mind, he dips his head down to press a gentle kiss to your lips, shoulders lowering as he relaxes against you. After he pulls away, he bumps his nose against yours, moving to press a kiss to your cheekbone before finally untangling from you apart from one hand on your hip.
“‘m gonna shower.” Frank raises his hand to brush it through his hair, giving your skin a squeeze. “And then we can watch a movie?”
You nod, covering his hand with your own. “As long as you don’t fall asleep.”
He gives you an almost bashful smile. “No promises.” Leaning down, he presses a parting kiss to your forehead before finally disappearing out of the kitchen. “I’ll be right back.”
After he leaves, you busy yourself with more cleaning up. Once he was out of the shower, you would be too busy spending as much time with him as possible, leading to your mess piling up until you managed to find another moment of free time. You always had to find these windows of opportunities to actually focus on getting things done.
The shower is still running by the time you finish tidying your kitchen, a groan every once in a while the only sign that Frank hadn’t fallen asleep beneath the spray. You glance around to assure you’ve finished everything, focus landing on his backpack, lying abandoned next to his shoes.
Well, there was no such thing as a bad time to gain some girlfriend points.
Kneeling on the floor, you unzip the backpack slowly. Reaching in, you expect to pull out just his lunchbox, however your fingers brush against something cool and metal instead. Curiosity quickly wins out, untangling it from whatever he had shoved in there and pulling it out.
His stethoscope glimmers beneath the golden glow in your apartment. The calligraphy “L” on the bell glints at you tauntingly, as if mocking you with how expensive it is. Frank had lost his old one a few months ago, meaning that you had to listen to a few days of whining about how he had to spend seventy-five-ish dollars just to do his job.
Placing the ear tips in both ears, you press the bell to your own chest and listen to the thud of your own heart. It’s so loud in your ear that you don’t hear Frank’s sock-covered feet padding towards you, hair still wet from his shower.
“Fuck, did I bring that home?” He groans, louder now that he’s had some time to relax. Both hands go onto your hips as he stands above you. “Meant to leave it in my locker.”
You grin as you look up at him, pulling one of the tubes out so you could hear him better. “I’m not complaining. This is fun.”
Taking off the stethoscope, you hang it around your neck. One hand curls into the fabric of his sweatpants to pull yourself up off the ground, his hand curling beneath your forearm to help you up. You use that as an opportunity to grab his wrist, turning and pulling him over to the couch. “Sit, sit, sit.”
Frank watches you with a look of pure amusement as he settles back on the couch, stretching out his legs as you settle beside him. Returning the headset back onto your ears, you press the bell to his chest. “How do I know if something’s wrong?”
“It doesn’t sound like badump, badump?” He jokes.
You scrunch your nose up in playful annoyance, the hand not holding the chestpiece reaching out to poke at his chest. “Be serious, doctor,” you scold. “I’m trying to make sure you’re not dying on me.”
That pulls a laugh out of him, heartbeat thumping a bit faster in your ears. An idea sparks in your brain at how easy it was to audibly raise his heartrate, the corner of your mouth pulling up into a smirk.
“Excuse me.” You sit up on your knees before throwing a leg over his lap, situating yourself down on his thighs. Your knees press into his hips as you squirm slightly, attempting to get comfortable.
Once you’ve settled, his hands on your thigh and thumbs rubbing circles into your skin, you focus back on his heartbeat. You must seem really focused on the way it picks up, because he laughs again. “Are you having fun, baby?”
“I have a diagnosis.” You sing-song the words, glancing up at him. You squirm once more, the apex of your thighs pressing directly in the spot that makes his legs tense beneath you. “I think you have a crush on me.”
Frank’s fingers tighten from where they’ve settled at the top of your thighs, fingertips pressing pale circles into your skin, exposed from the way your shorts ride up higher. Despite the way his pulse thrums even faster in your ears, he still smiles as he watches your face. “What led you to that conclusion?”
You hum in response, giving him a look before shrugging. “Your heartrate picks up when I do this.” Bracing the hand not holding the diaphragm against his abdomen, you give a singular roll of your hips, just enough pressure to hear a sharp intake of breath through the stethoscope’s headset. His grip on you also tightens, a subtle attempt of making you stop moving.
“We call that tachycardic,” he breathes out. His pupils have slowly grown in size, usurping the baby blue you’ve loved since the first time you looked into them. “Heartrate faster than normal resting rates.”
A smirk blooms on your lips, sitting a bit higher on his lap. The bell falls a bit lower, unable to hear his heartbeat and only slightly able to hear his breathing now, but you’re more focused on how he looks like this. Hair unruly as it airdries, pupils blown as he watches you, lips parted to breathe out all of his heavy exhales.
As much as he tried not to be, Frank was always easy to read. In the way he shoved his hands into his pockets when faced with a situation where he needed to think harder, or how he propped his arm up on the back of the couch whenever he wanted you to tuck yourself into his side. Maybe it was the fact that your eyes never strayed far from him when he was in your space, but it was pretty easy to tell what he wanted at all times.
And right now? His eyes are only on you.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, body rolling to drag along his again. Finally, he pushes back on your hips, grunting as he attempts to push you away.
“I have a diagnosis of my own for you,” he murmurs into the quiet bubble surrounding the both of you. His spine straightens off of the back of the couch, breath brushing against your lips.
Fingertips trace a spark up your spine before his hand curls around the back of your neck, applying pressure to the sensitive spots beneath your ears. “You have ulterior motives.”
A grin blossoms on your lips, head leaning back into his touch. A challenge of your own. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Frank gives you a hum of mock acknowledgement, eyes flickering down your body, gaze molten at the sight of you perched in his lap. When he glances up at you, he’s wearing a matching smile. His fingers move from the back of your neck to the back of your head, pulling you down. “C’mere and kiss me, baby.” He mumbles in the limited space between your mouths.
You let a giggle slip out right before you finally press your lips to his, the sound muffled by the kiss. His hand stays in your hair the entire time, manuevering your head to kiss you deeper, until your lungs are sparse of oxygen and your lips are kiss-bitten and rosy.
When he finally pulls away, he grins against your lips. “I’m assuming no movie tonight?”
now pretty baby i’m running back home, frank langdon
frank langdon x fem!reader (5k words)
in which frank is back from rehab, trying to act like nothing’s changed — but the tension between you says otherwise. you quietly make his first day easier, even as he starts noticing just how much you care.
warnings: frank’s addiction and back pain, reader and langdon had a love-hate relationship, fluff, sweet and touchy langdon, kissing
<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ
Your mood is lighter than usual as you walk through the doors of the ER. Way lighter than it should be considering the fact that the 4th of july is no celebration in an emergency department. So you hold your excitement in for no one to see, only thing left being the feeling on your stomach.
Frank is coming back today. Everyone knows it, the information being a hot topic going around for the whole week. It leaves you wishing you had heard it from him.
You don't blame him, it's not like you were the closest friends ever when he left. If anything people thought you hated each others guts, always bickering and making everything a competition. But it was comforting in way, because it felt way easier to tease him than to tell him you actually just hated the effect he had on you.
And you still remember how didn't feel like you were antagonists at all the day he left, when he gave you his most genuine smile through the frustration he felt as you kissed his cheek and told him to get better.
So it's safe to say you have no idea what you're going to say to him once you're confronted with it. Should you act like nothing happened? You don't want to come off as mean. But can you act like his best friend all of the sudden? That seems like a bit too much.
You think you have enough time to think about it until walk into the locker hallway and he's standing right there, letter in hand as he reads it carefully.
He looks good, is the first thing you can think about. Casual clothes look good on him, making you wish you had more opportunities to see that side of him. Hair covered by the sports cap, bomber blue jacket hugging his torso and jeans that fit him just right. The bag slung over his shoulder tells you he's in here for the same reason as you.
"Langdon." The name slips easily from your tongue. Not Doctor Langdon, not Frank — just Langdon and exactly like you'd call him before. "You're back." As if it's some kind of surprise.
Frank looks up, and you're surprised by the way his lips stretch into a wide smile. You're too used to the roll his eyes that's followed by a smirk, not a warm smile.
“Hey.” His voice is unusually gentle, and to add up to your shock he steps in for a hug. “It’s so nice seeing you.”
His hands find your upper back, head almost against yours. It takes you a moment too long to react, hands moving from their awkward place at your sides to rest on his waist rather uneasily.
"Am i the first to see you?" You ask once he pulls away, as casually as possible.
"Oh no, there was big 'welcome back' sign when i walked in." He jokes, though you catch an undertone to it.
You notice how subconscious he seems to suddenly be, like he feels that no one has paid any mind to his absence. Which is a lie, because you didn't realize how his antics with you were a big part of your day until he was gone. And you find yourself talking about him with Mel without even realizing.
So instead of feeling like rolling your eyes at his smug remark, all you want to do is be nice to him.
"It's good that you're back." You settle truthfully.
"Couldn't let you steal my thunder for too long." He playfully remarks, though it's obvious he doesn't mean it.
"Sure." You snort, having to busy yourself with opening your locker to hide how warm you feel.
Frank stands there for a second, still looking at you like he wants to say something but doesn't in the end. You pretend not to pay attention as the locker doesn't open when he clicks on the numbers, huffing in frustration once he looks over at the letter in his hands.
He kneels down to where is new locker now is, and you now feel bad for having a top shelf one as if you're superior to him.
Then you see it from the corner of your eyes, the way his face contorts with pain once he bends forward before quickly masking it away. It makes your stomach sink with realization, and you think about how he probably feels like it's mockery that suddenly his locker is at the bottom. A little reminder of the pain on his back that got him here.
The gears turn on your head as your next words come out impulsively, "Would you mind trading lockers with me?"
Langdon shoots you a confused look before you rush to explain.
"It's not that high up but i struggle to reach the back sometimes." You wave your hands towards your locker, hoping the excuse doesn't sound too made up.
Because if he were to inspect it, he'd realize it's a complete lie. Sure, you'd rather have a locker one row down but you can still reach just fine with little effort.
"Yeah, sure." He seems to take it, seemingly unaware of the true meaning behind.
His ears turn a little pink as he gets up, face slightly angled away and making you have to fight back a wince at the sight.
You pull the few things you keep in you locker out, transferring them into the new one as you trade codes.
"Sorry for the bother." You give him a small smile of appreciation, as if he's the one doing you a favour. You want him to think that, because the last thing you wish is for him to feel like you're pitying him.
"It was no bother." He murmurs as he pulls out some scrubs from his backpack before stuffing it inside the locker. His expression being free of pain brings relief to you.
A sense of protectiveness washes over you and you decide that if there's anything you can do to make this easier for him, you'll do it. Not because you think he needs coddling, but because that's a friend would do. At least that's what he seems to want to be.
You make way to the break room for your first coffee of the day, sipping on it a while later as Robby does a short debriefing before the shift starts. You watch as Frank's face falls at being told to take over triage, though you suppose it has some fairness to it — but you still throw him a sympathetic glance.
Your paths don’t cross much again until you’re midway through the morning, looking forward for a second coffee as you catch a small break.
And you’re surprised by his presence for the second time. Frank is sitting on one of the chairs of the break room, fingers playing with the bracelet in his wrist as he looks ahead.
“Oh, hey.” You greet, not wasting any time as you pull a cup and pour the brown liquid into it. “Want one?” You question politely once you realize he doesn’t have one.
His only answer is a nod, stance a little anxious. You don’t ask him about it, settling for making him the coffee the way you remember him liking before quietly placing it in front of him.
“Thanks.” His smile is tight.
You turn your back to leave, stopping on your tracks once he calls your name. “Do you have a second? Kinda wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Course.” You soften, pulling the chair beside him to sit. To be truthful, you’re not sure if you do have a minute but you’re praying no one interrupts it.
“I wanted to say that i’m sorry.” He starts, voice steady to make it clear he means it. “For a lot of things, really. Mostly for abandoning and disappointing you, none of it was your fault and i ended up just putting it out on you and making your time here a bit more miserable.”
Your heart tightens in your chest, and although you don’t agree with a lot of what he’s just said it’s still nice to know he’s acknowledging it. That he’s put thought into this and is trying to improve his communication.
“You didn’t abandon us. And you sure as hell didn’t disappoint me.” You retort with a reassuring look, even when you know he doesn’t believe it. “I was worried if anything.”
“I’m still sorry.” He clears his throat, sitting up straight in his seat. “I was addicted and made it everybody else’s problem. That’s not fair— even if our whole thing was being mean to each other.”
“You’re forgiven, then.” Your hands reaches to squeeze Frank’s, a small smile pulling at his lips.
“I kept like— meaning to text you.” The doctor cringes as the words come out, “Just didn’t know what to say. Felt weird.”
“It’s okay.” You chuckle.
But knowing that he had felt the same as you all these months brings relief to you.
“Missed you.” Frank breathes, vulnerable.
“Don’t go growing sweet on me, Langdon.” You huff, but the squeeze you give to his fingers tells him it’s okay.
You feel giddy once his cheeks turn slightly rosy at your words, a smile that shows teeth on his mouth. The roles would’ve been turned a few months ago, his flirty remarks thrown at you as you huffed in frustration when your skin grew as hot as a flame.
“You’re different.” You assert gazing at him.
“Good different?” He inquires softly, thumb tracing your knuckles timidly.
“Still under observation.” You shrug your shoulders, soft under the attention that he gives you.
You feel different around him now, more comfortable. Knowing him felt different before, all the ocasional intimate moments you shared with him didn’t come close to what this one feels like.
“So mean.” He gasps in false offense.
A laugh bubbles out of your throat, as gentle as you feel. You notice his eyes flicker to it but don’t think much of it.
The door opening has you pulling apart from his hand, as if being caught red handed. You’re not quite sure why you do it, because friends can hold hands.
Dana eyes you both with raised eyebrows before focusing on you without making any comment on it. “Mckay needs you on trauma 2.”
“Yeah, i’ll be right there.” You get up in a jump.
The nurse is out before you know it, already busing herself with something else.
The moment turns awkward and you avoid making it worse by heading towards the door with slight regret. Before your hand touches the handle, you turn back.
“You can still text me, you know? Just— about whatever if you need to.” Your suggestion is clear, hopeful look in your eyes.
“Yeah, i will.” He nods before picking up the coffee you made.
You leave the room feeling lighter, the weight on your shoulders finally off. Maybe it was meant to go this way. All you needed to start again was a little push.
The interaction has you feeling like a teenager, giddy and emotional. Your stomach tingling even more than used to when he’d brush his fingers against yours for more than needed.
Maybe different is good.
<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ
The keyboard clicks under your fingers as you type fast, something you've gotten better at over the years of charting that piles up if you don't learn to be organized.
It's always a nice short moment to rest your legs before getting back to running back and forth, from patient to patient. So you've started looking at it as a relaxing period.
You roll your neck as it starts to feel a little stuck from being in the same position for long, tapping your finger victouriously against the table as you finish what feels like enough for now.
"Think fast." Langdon appears on your right, throwing you a packet that you manage to catch successfully.
It becomes familiar once you turn it, your favourite chocolate. And maybe it was a hunch because you don't remember ever mentioning it to him.
"Thank you." You shoot him a grateful look, it has been a few hours since you last ate. "I'll pay you back later."
"Don't worry about it." He brushes your idea off, standing in front of the big screen to take a look at the patient list. "Choose your next patient yet?"
"Nope." You manage through a mouthful.
"There's a guy who thinks he got bitten by an exotic spider, has it in a jar and everything." He brings up before suggesting, "That could be cool. You should check it out."
You find yourself unable to hold back the amused glance you throw him. "I might."
The doctor's answer is a hum, hands behind his head as he stretches. You pretend not to pay attention to the skin that peaks from under his scrubs shirt.
With a sigh, Langdon bends on one knee to tie the laces of his snickers that seem to be undone.
You're about to reach for an ipad when you hear him groan, caught midway through getting back up for a second. It's obvious that the sound comes out without his permission, teeth coming to bite on his lower lip.
"Fuck." He curses, hand pressing against his lower back and neck red from either embarrassment or pain.
You rush to get up from your chair, thorn between doctor and friend mode. "Langdon," Your call is careful as you approach him with worried eyes.
"M'fine." He mumbles, not looking you in the eye. An immediate lie that you can see is reflexive.
"I didn't even ask if you were." Your words are soft, somehow proving a point. You watch him exhale, eyes shutting for a second longer from what you think is probably his ache flaring.
"Just got up too fast, don't worry about it." He brushes it off, still his teeth are gritted.
You touch his arm with your hand, "Are you in pain? You can sit for a bit, i'll cover--"
"I don't need help." Frank interrupts sharply and fast, taking a step back so your hands falls.
You chuckle nervously, "I didn't say you do."
The tension builds in your chest as he starts to build a wall between the two of you, refusing to let you see any vulnerability that comes from prickling on his back. You try not to let it get to you, maybe he's not ready to acknowledge it yet and would react like this with anyone else.
But are you anyone?
"You insinuated it." He crosses his arms with a huff, blue eyes set on anything but you.
You fight back a scoff, about to say something when he steps in again.
"Look, just don't tell anyone about this." It's almost a beg, though the way he looks towards you makes you sure he's mad at you.
Now you just feel frustrated, because you don't think you've given him reason to think you go around telling things about him. Or that he can't trust you. The frown on your face probably tells him exactly how hurt you feel, because he steps away again before you get a chance to speak.
"Gotta go check on a patient." He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly before practically running from you.
You watch him walk away until he's out of your sight, aware of how stupid you look standing there like you were stood up on a date.
"Trouble in paradise?" Dana questions with a sly grin when you finally go back to your chair.
"Dunno how this ER is ever a paradise." You ignore what she's so obviously hinting at, doing your best to look like it's not affecting you.
"Is there something i should know about,?" She asks more seriously now, tucking her glasses on the collar of her scrubs.
"There's no something." You huff, unaware of the scrunch of your eyebrows.
"Right." She snorts sarcastically. "You seemed to be at his throat a few months ago. And now you're actually nice to him. So there is something, honey."
"I just know when to stop, he doesn't need that right now." You refer to the dynamic you had before. Though you can feel it building back up after the last interaction.
"He sure as hell still looks at you like the sun shines out your ass." The nurse's smile is teasing as she says, but her look tells you she's being honest.
"He doesn't" You wish he did. "Besides, he used to hate me too." You prompt.
"Cause it was the only way you'd pay him attention." She retorts with raised eyebrows before adding, "That boy is head over heels for you."
You remember how your first impression wasn't the best, the way he immediately eyes you up and down and acted confident, way too confident. As if you had no option but to already be charmed by him.
Yet you barely spared him a glance, even when he looked taken aback. And from then on the bickering started. You pretended to hate him, he did too. That was the easiest way through the path you didn't want to go into in the first place.
You catch yourself almost believing Dana's words, having to shake yourself out of it when you notice her knowing stare.
"I need to stop listening to you." You declare, getting up from your chair with the intention of distracting yourself with a patient.
"Kids these days." Is the last thing you hear her mumble.
<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ
You make it your task to not be gloomy over one interaction for the rest of the day. Try to distract yourself with seeing as many patients you can, consequentely not having to see Frank again without having to look like you're avoiding him.
This not to mean that you're angry at him, you just have no idea how to act after that. Maybe tomorrow you can come back and pretend that it didn't happen, exactly like he wants.
So you get through your shift just as if it's just another one without him — like the many others in the past few months.
By the time it’s over you’re grouchy, bag thrown messily over your shoulder and earphones on as you make your way outside. The bus station is the last place you want to be right now and you feel like you might just take the long walk home.
The timing feels perfect, the 4th of july fireworks erupting through the sky when you’re making your way through the parking lot. It has you stopping for a moment, eyes looking up at the sparkling.
Hands stuffed on your jean’s pockets, you feel a little relieved at the fresh air hitting the back of your neck over the humid weather. A sigh leaves your nose, shoulders slumping as the tension of work leaves your body.
A hand touching your arm has you jumping, finding Langdon staring at you with an apologetic but tempting smile.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s now beside you on the sidewalk, back on his casual clothes.
“It’s fine.” You shrug, turning your attention back to the fireworks.
The silence between you goes slightly unnoticed by them, but becomes evident once the noise starts dying down.
“Heard about your closed cervical reduction.” You prompt, chewing slightly on the inside of your cheek in a nervous antic.
“Yeah.” He perks up, excitement in his voice. “I think i’m still shaking.” His hand lifts in the air, you try not think too much about how attracted you are to it.
“That must have been pretty cool.” You reply, a little regretful of not having been there to witness.
“Didn’t know i still had it in me.” Frank admits, self doubt all over the frown on his eyebrows.
“Of course you do.” You retort immediately, like it’s obvious. Because it is.
His whole expression softens at your words, big blue eyes staring right into yours and you think of how much he looks like a kicked puppy right now. It makes you want to smile.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.” His apology is genuine. And he looks regretful for having to do it for the second time today.
Your reflex is to want to say that ‘it’s fine’. But you don’t. Because it actually feels good to know that he is sorry. So you nod slowly, accepting but not leaving space for anything else.
“It’s still a little bit of a— sore subject? My back.” Langdon tries, grimacing at the way his words come out. “I’m working on it, i promise.”
You let your lips pull into a sympathetic smile, “I understand. Didn’t mean to make it seem like you’re weak or in need of help.”
“You didn’t.” He asserts with a shake of his head. “It was hurting. It hurts even more today because of how long i haven’t worked for.”
Your shoulders brush and you feel a shiver on your arms, even over how warm it feels. “Is there anything i can do to help?”
“Are you by any chance a good massager?” The doctor jokes with a teasing smile.
But you take it in consideration, fingers moving before you get to rethink your actions.
His eyes widen once he realizes what you’re doing. “I was just joking, you don’t—”
“I can do it.” You interrupt.
Your hand reaches for his lower back, moving closer as you press your fingers into the muscles there to try to bring some tension down. You use your thumb to make slow circles on the muscles on either side of his spine, pleased when he lets out a sigh.
“You forget i’m a pretty good doctor too.” You play, voice lower.
“You are.” He hums, a little distracted by the touch of your fingers even if over his shirt.
The realization of the intimate moments has your heart pounding against your ribcage, almost jumping out of your throat in the process. You’re glad he can’t feel how hot your skin right now.
“Does that help?”
“Yeah.” Frank breathes, air puffing out of his lips slowly — you can’t help but look at the way his throat looks good as it does, not even when he adverts his eyes back to yours.
You wish you had the courage to slip your fingers inside his shirt and feel his skin that radiates with warmth over the shirt.
With sudden embarrassment you pull away, breathing in a little too hard as you try to make yourself look composed. But the man next to you seems just as flustered, hand running through his hair like it became messy for no specific reason.
“Hey.” He calls after another moment. “Wanna go out for dinner?” It comes off casually, his lips pressed together in a line of an awkward smile.
You chuckle in surprise, “As celebration for your successful return?”
Something flickers in his eyes, “Sure.”
As much as you want to, it could get too late really quickly and you don’t have the will to walk all the way home late at night. “I’d love to, but i’ll have no way to get home after.”
“I can drop you off.” He says simply.
“Are you sure?” You ask with uncertainty, feeling a little like a bother.
The look Langdon throws you tells you he’s offended you’re even asking, eyebrows raised because the answer is obvious. “Never been more.”
“Okay.” Your words are sheepishly, “Thanks.”
“C’mon.” He motions with his head towards the street, arm reaching out for a moment like he’s going to wrap it around your shoulders before he drops it back on his side.
You end up getting take away, finding an empty bench on the park and making yourself as comfortable as possible with boxes scattered all around.
The hum that leaves your throat is honest as you have your first bite, stomach finally happy after not having a real meal for hours.
“I don’t know how you like those.” Frank grimaces as you stuff a french fry inside your mouth.
“They’re perfect.” You shrug with indifference, more interested in the food in front of you.
“They’re soggy.” He points with a bite of his own burger, sauce on the corner of his lips in an adorable way.
“More for me.” You retort happily.
Langdon can’t help but it set his eyes on you for longer than needed, taking in your tired expression and wrinkly clothes. Your untied shoes and the way you curl into yourself, eyelids closing and opening slowly. He could look at you like this forever, vulnerable and sweet.
“What?” You frown as you notice his staring, napkin coming up to your mouth in attempt to clean the reason of it.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head with a small smile. “‘S just weird. Us not arguing all the time.”
You cock your head to the side in confusion, “I guess.”
What you don’t know is that he’s scared you liked him better before. Because what you said about him being different is true and your words have stuck on his brain like a vine. He’s just hoping you mean it in a good way.
“Do you miss it?” The vulnerable question comes out before he gets to stop it, voice small.
“Miss what?” You ask after a sip of soda, still unaware of his distress.
“Our bickering.”
You pretend to think for a moment. “A little.” You answer teasingly, smirk on the corner of your lips.
Frank’s stomach drops just a little, “Wow. So rude.” He tries to joke back, but the way his chuckle comes out force has you looking at him.
“Frank.” You bump your shoulder with his as reassurance, “I like different.” I like this version of you. Although you don’t say it.
He takes it, relaxed at your words.
Conversation flows easily between you, and he feels like an absolute idiot for taking so long to finally get to know you and what you like. He’s wasted too much time. So he listens to you talking your mouth off about a movie you watched a week ago, paying attention like it’s the most important thing you’ve ever told him.
You talk about whatever comes to mind, work swirling into the conversation as you talk about your first day at work.
“I don’t even know why you hated me so much!” He quips in as you go on about how meeting everyone was.
“To be fair, you came off as quite cocky. Y’know, with your whole—” You gesture with your hands. “Perfect tidy hair and bluest eyes ever thing.”
Your defence has him grinning widely. "You think my hair is perfect?"
And the worse is that you truly do, eyes catching the strand that falls across his forehead in the most perfect pattern. You’d be stupid to say he’s not beautiful as hell. You’re sure a lot of girls think the same, it has brought a certain green eyed monster way too many times.
“Jerk.” You huff, not denying.
“I was trying to impress you, by the way.” He adds as if it’s an obvious thing.
You’re hot at the compliment, food discarded as you clean your hands with a napkin just to have something to do other than looking embarrassed.
His fingers come to grab at yours, pulling your attention back to him and making it impossible to avoid his words. “Honest.” They squeeze your skin.
You can almost hear your heart as his eyes trace every inch of your face, stopping for an extra second once they land on your lips. The urge to lean in is stronger than you, only until you almost get to feel his breath against your skin.
Frank angles his body towards yours back, hand dropping from yours to rest on your knee. His thumb brushes over your jeans, tentatively eyeing you as to make sure you’re okay with whatever is happening. You don’t seem to hate it at all, your own eyes glued to his lips.
He clears his throat gently, “I want to do this right, i promise. I’m not screwing up this time. And i-“
“Frank.” You stop him.
“Yeah?” He’s almost waiting for your rejection.
“Shut up.” You mumble, holding back a smile at the way his eyes look a little glassier when he’s up close.
“Okay.” He nods vigorously, letting you take charge as you pull him into a kiss.
Fingers immediately reach into his hair, leaving it messy as you run them through it like you’ve always dreamed about doing. He hums at the gesture, free hand coming to rest against your ribs.
You’re sure he can probably feel your heart beating wildly against them, moving closer on the bench so his hand slips down to the slot of your waist more comfortably.
The soft squeeze he leaves there has you melting against him, fingers wondering down to his bicep and squeezing it in retribution. His muscles flex under your touch, pulling you flush against him with gentleness. His nose presses to yours with a sigh, intoxicating taste invading your mouth and having you never want to kiss anyone else again.
He’s the one to pull away after a few minutes, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek for good measure and keeping you close even without his mouth on yours.
“Everyone’s betting on this at work.” You sigh at his mouth against your jaw. “We should pretend to hate each other and make them all lose.”
“They’re all betting on us getting together?” He asks unfocused.
“Yeah.” Before adding with a tease, “Wonder where they got that idea from.”
He hums with a pinch on the softness by your hip, “Don’t think i’m gonna be able to pretend i don’t wanna kiss you all the time.”
You could be okay with that. You think as he pulls you into a warm hug, pressing one last long kiss to the top of your head.
And now that he knows what’s at stake he’s not risking losing you again.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
You sit on the edge of the bed, Jack beside you, his voice low and careful. He traces the gentle planes of your face with his fingertips, speaking quietly about the little joints and hidden bones beneath your skin. His touch lingers, deliberate, as if memorizing every curve.
“This is your supraorbital ridge,” Jack leans closer, his fingers brushing lightly over your brow.
Then his hand drifts lower, cupping your chin. “And this,” he murmurs, tilting your head slightly as he traces the edge of your jaw, “over here is your mandible, and your zygoma,” His thumb lingers a moment, warm against your skin.
“Open your mouth for me,” he whispers. You obey, and his finger rests gently on the side of your face. “Good, this is your temporomandibular joint, feel that hinge?”
You can’t help but giggle, a soft, nervous sound that makes Jack’s lips twitch. With slow, deliberate precision, he slides two fingers gently into your mouth, pressing lightly on your tongue to examine its movement.
His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every little reaction and small movement, like he’s memorizing you completely.
Jack’s fingers slide a little further along your tongue, gentle but deliberate, following the line he’s been tracing. You feel the warmth of his touch deepen as he moves closer to the back of your mouth. After a moment, a light gag escapes you, soft and involuntary.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, keeping his touch careful as he holds your chin steady. “Here is the median sulcus of the tongue, and back there is the uvula.”
Jack gently withdraws his fingers, letting you close your mouth. You swallow, your cheeks still warm from the closeness.
“Good job baby,” he whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “But I’m not done yet.” He pats the bed beside him, guiding you to lay back, his voice soft but insistent. “Lie down, I need to see the rest.”
Summary: 4 times you and Jack almost meet + the 1 time you actually do.
Word count: 1.5k
Tags/Warnings: fluff, mentions of blood, implied age gap (but not specified)
A/N: Okay so, this is kinda ass lol. Technically the events in this happen before the events of "Gentle touch", but it can totally be read as a standalone. Just keep in mind that reader is still a student nurse and doing her rotation in the ER. English is not my first language and this was not proofread. Enjoy!
series masterlist | masterlist
The night had been going horribly — well, there have been worse nights, but Jack was really struggling to focus on the good at the moment.
After a streak of difficult patients and even more difficult procedures, he felt like all he needed was a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar, no creamer.
How Shen even manages to drink those sugary lattes is beyond him.
At fist, when he entered the break room, all he could focus on was the coffee machine, but as he began to pour himself a cup, he noticed an almost empty tray, with only a few cookies left.
Usually he would be hesitant, knowing well how territorial sleep deprived medical workers can get over their food, but the tray was left in plain sight...
Clearing up any doubt, though, there was a pink heart shaped post-it on the wall above it, with a message written with a glittery pen and a loopy handwriting.
FYI they're gluten free, but they contain eggs and lactose :(
enjoy!
Given the fact that whoever left them felt the need to share this information, he took it as an invitation and took one.
Surprisingly, it was one of the best tasting cookies he had ever eaten, and so, he made it is mission to find out who was the good Samaritan.
"Hey Lena," he began, leaning casually over the desk at the nurses' station, pretending to look over at the chart, "do you happen to know what's the deal with the cookies in the break room?"
She didn't lift her gaze from the screen in front of her, too focused on the task at hand. "I've heard something about a day shift nurse, but I'm not sure. If you're really curious, though, you should ask Dana next time you see her."
Jack gives her a shrug before changing the topic of the conversation, asking her if the labs he ordered came back.
The rest of his shift went rather smoothly, and no one really needs to know that, before going home, he went back to the break room to take another one of those mysteriously delicious cookies.
Unbeknownst to him, a little less than ten minutes later, you walked into that same room, and your face broke into a smile when you saw the empty tray, happy that the night shift staff enjoyed them as well.
Luck apparently was not on your side.
After a long day in the ER, all you wanted to do was shower, have dinner and fall asleep while watching some history documentary narrated by some random British professor.
Instead, you were back in the Pitt, only this time you were a patient.
Triage was full, as usual, and the only thing that was keeping you from falling asleep on the chair was the throbbing pain caused by your bleeding finger.
Turns out that trying to cut an onion the same way you've seen people do in culinary shows was not a good idea.
Now you would likely have to spend all night in that chair, waiting for someone to do something you could do yourself, if you had the right supplies at home.
You were so sure of this, that when you heard your name behind called you almost couldn't believe it.
When you stood up from the chair, you could feel people staring at you, annoyed by the fact that you had to wait much less than them before getting called.
Once you got close enough to the desk, Lupe smiled at you, before opening up the entrance and letting you inside.
"You missed this place already?" Bridget asked you as soon as she spotted you.
"Not in the least," you mumbled, taking a seat in the chair where the nurse had walked you to.
"Alright, let's make it quick then."
She began working on you, and you couldn't help but start chatting with her.
"How's your night going? I've seen you're packed," you commented.
Bridget simply shook her head, jokingly rolling her eyes. "Tell me about it. Abbot's going crazy, and it's not even midnight yet," she replied, making you laugh.
You had heard that name, Abbot, a lot at that point of your rotation, but still you had never actually met the man — not even during handoffs.
Bridget finishes patching you up, and before you knew it, she discharged you.
"You don't need me to tell you what to do with this finger, right?"
You shook your head, a tired smile appearing on your face, and thanked her, before finally leaving the ER for the day, just a few minutes before an incoming trauma.
"You knew that patient?" Jack asked Bridget as she helped him tie his gown.
"Y/N? Yeah, she's a student nurse doing her rotation here. She's a sweet girl. And a great nurse."
Abbot nodded, trying to recall if he had ever seen you in the ER, and came to the conclusion that it hadn't happened — yet.
"Oh, Y/N would have loved this case," Langdon stated.
Robby simply hummed in agreement, putting his readers back in his front pocket and starting to walk away, Frank following behind him.
Here it was, that name again.
Jack had decided to pull a double, and ever since the day shift staff arrived, it seemed like all they could do was repeat that name.
"It would be so great if Y/N were here right now. She's great with kids", or, "That intern was such a prick. Y/N would have handled that patient much better."
It seemed like everyone had fallen in love with this mysterious woman, and Jack felt left out.
"Why do you keep talking about her as if she were dead?" he asked with a frown.
"Because she's abandoned us," McKay replied in passing, before picking up another case.
When Jack managed to look even more confused, Dana decided to put him out of his misery. "She's just sick, but everyone has a flair for the dramatic."
Jack's mouth curled into a grin, amused by the woman's words. "Is she that good?"
"Oh, yeah. She's one of the best student nurses we've had in years," Perlah chimed in.
Both Princess and Dana nodded in agreement, and Jack just scoffed.
"Guess I'll have to meet her someday."
Making fun of Shen's obsession with Dunkin is always one of the highlights of Jack's shift.
So when he spotted the fellow attending, holding his signature coffee filled cup, he was already prepared to make fun of him, until he noticed the gift card John was holding in his other hand.
"Who's the lucky person?" "Y/N."
Was Jack going insane? Was it an inside joke that everyone agreed on, just to mess with him? How was it possible to hear that name at least one time a day and having never met the woman?
"What? Why?" he asked, looking like a confused German Shepherd.
"You remember I switched to the day shift a few days ago? Me and Y/N had a bet, she won, and now I gotta pay up."
Jack remained silent after that, and now it was Shen's turn to question him.
"What is it?"
"It seems like everyone knows her except me."
"Wait, you've never met her?" John asked incredulously, and Jack shook his head.
"Going on for weeks without meeting Abbot? Sign me up," Ellis teased him.
"Parker, you've met her too?" "Yup. She's great. Really pretty as well."
"Abbot, I've got a patient for you in Room 7."
"On it!"
Today, like many other days, Jack decided to show up earlier, and Dana didn't waste a second, immediately putting him to work.
When he gets to the room, he knocks on the door before walking in.
And you're there as well.
The patient is laying on a gurney, and at her feet is sitting a young kid, currently trying out your pink stethoscope, much to your and his mother's amusement.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Abbot. But I don't think you'll need me since there's already a doctor in the room," he jokes, earning a laugh from the young boy.
"Dr. Abbot, this is Ms. Taylor. She came in for an abdominal pain. I've already taken her medical history."
Jack looks at you a second too long before nodding and turning his attention back to the patient.
After hearing everyone talk about you for weeks, he almost can't believe he's actually meeting you.
Throughout the examination you're quick to help, seemingly reading his mind, and whenever you ask him any questions, you listen to the answers with a focused look on your face, scrunching your eyebrows in a way that Jack finds incredibly endearing.
Once you both walk out of the room, Jack finally offers you his hand.
"By the way, I'm Jack. Good job in there, kid."
You take his hand and shake it, smiling up at him. "Thanks, Dr. Abbot. I'm Y/N, nice to meet you."
And who can blame Abbot when he spends the rest of your shift trying to get Dana, and in consequence you, to work on his cases?
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
Summary: How going downstairs to the ER to check on baby Jane Doe turned into patching up the night shift attending.
Word count: 1.9k
Tags/warnings: fluff, episode 7 spoiler, use of pet names (kid, hon'), medical inaccuracies, mentions of violence, canon divergent, implied age gap but not specified
A/N: Okay so, I'm back (sort of). This is inspired by the new episode, clearly, and if you're asking yourself "where's Samira?", the answer is making out sloppy style in a closet with me. I also changed up some things form the intro post for paediatric!nurse!reader, but no one cares about that. The gif in the header is by @wesandresons . English is not my first language and this was not proof read. Enjoy!
series masterlist | masterlist
Accepting to switch to the day shift the same week of the 4th of July was not one of your brightest ideas.
It did seam like one the day you accepted to cover for a fellow nurse who had to go on maternity leave — and technically, it is.
You will get to live during the day and sleep at night, and maybe you'll fix your sleeping schedule too.
That's what you keep reminding yourself as your shift progresses.
Your morning had been going pretty well, and you had just finished your morning rounds when your floor got a call from downstairs.
"What do you mean they found a baby in the bathroom?" you ask Clara, a student nurse who's doing her last rotation here in the pediatric department before her graduation.
"That's what they said," she replies before taking a sip out of her ridiculously large cup.
The both of you should be working, but the shift has been pretty— no, you're not even going to think about that word.
"So, why haven't they sent them upstairs yet?"
"We need them to run some labs first."
Both you and Clara basically jump off your chairs when you hear the voice of the attending pediatrician behind you. "Actually, would you mind going downstairs to see how baby Jane Doe's doing?"
Before you can reply, the woman is already walking away, ready to jump on another case.
As you slump into the squeaky swivel chair, you hear Clara letting out an amused scoff. "Good luck with that! I've heard that Westbridge is shutting down. They must be really busy, on top of the whole 4th of July thing..."
And boy, she was not wrong.
Immediately as the elevator doors open, you're thrown into a world that you had realized not so long ago you couldn't keep up with.
Beds are piling up in the hallways. Nurses and doctors are constantly running around, falling into a dance that looks rehearsed, with the sole end goal of saving lives as quickly as possible.
After a moment of hesitation, you walk up to the nurses' station.
Sitting behind the desk, you find none other than nurse Dana Evans, your mentor during your rotation in the ER back when you were still in nursing school.
"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."
The woman glances at you from over the glasses sitting low on her nose before breaking into a smile.
"Oh, hey kid," she greats you, walking up to you to give you a hug.
"Look at you," she says pointing at your badge that states you're not a "student nurse" anymore, "you're a big girl now."
"Yeah, I'm a real nurse now."
"Ah! How's Peds treating you so far?"
"I mean... We're understaffed and overworked. But we keep going."
"Amen to that. So, what brings you here today, hon'?"
You tug the pink stethoscope draped around your neck, rolling your head around slowly, trying to ease the pain.
"Heard you have a baby Jane Doe around here. Boss sent me here to check on her."
"Be my guest," she replies, before pointing to the room where you could find the baby.
The pediatric room is a familiar space, making you feel immediately at ease in the chaos that the Pitt is. Cartoon animals are plastered on every wall, and there, in a hospital bassinet and guarded by Donnie, a nurse you met back during your rotation, lays baby Jane Doe.
"Oh, hi! I'm nurse Y/L/N, from Peds," you introduce yourself with a smile, not quite sure he remembers you. "How's she doing?" you ask Donnie, getting closer to the bassinet to have a look at the baby inside.
"Oh, hi Y/N! Long time no see," he replies while giving you a quick hug, "She's doing pretty good. She's been changed and fed. Also, her latest labs just came back."
"Can I take a look?" you question.
"Of course," he says, handing you the iPad.
You take a moment to read all of the information about the baby, and quickly come to the conclusion that everything seems normal, making the frown of your face deepen.
"Everything looks good. Do you have any theories as of why she ended up in the bathroom of a hospital?"
Donnie shakes his head, and you let out a sight before shifting your attention to baby Jane Doe, feeling all of your tension melt once she smiles at you.
"So... Are you going to take her upstairs?"
Your face twists into an apologetic expression, and Donnie immediately understands, even without hearing your next words.
"I'm so sorry. We're packed up there, but we'll let you know as soon as a place opens up. I was sent down here just to check on her and see at what point you are with the labs."
He nods before your attention moves back to the baby once you hear her shift in her bassinet.
Without thinking too much about it, you lift her in your arms, gently holding her head in you hand and patting her back.
"I'd take her home with me if I could," you say mindlessly.
"I have one at home, and I'm telling you: you don't what to do that," he jokes.
"Oh my God, Donnie! You became a father? Congratulations!" you say with the biggest grin on your face.
He thanks you with a genuine smile, and you can tell how happy he is by the way he talks about his newborn.
"Well," you gently lay baby Jane Doe back in her bassinet, "I guess I better head back upstairs. I'll let you know when a place opens up. It was nice seeing you Donnie!"
"You too, Y/N!"
After disinfecting your hands, you start walking in the direction of the elevator, but as you pass in front of a room, you hear some weird noises.
You technically don't work on this floor, but you can't bring yourself to just walk away, reasoning that someone could need help.
Gently, you move the curtain to take a quick look inside.
What you are met with is the sight of Dr. Jack Abbot sitting shirtless on a gurney, apparently trying to patch himself up.
He looks up from the tray in front of him, startled by the noise you made while moving the curtain, and for a moment you stare at each other in silence.
You clearly don't belong to this floor — the pink scrubs prove that much — and you don't really have a valid reason to be in this room.
In the end, though, you're the first one to break the silence. "Dr. Abbot? What's going on?"
He blinks at you, and when he doesn't reply immediately, you feel the need to justify your presence.
"I'm so sorry. I'm nurse Y/L/N, and I'm from Peds. I was sent here to check on baby Jane Doe, but then I heard some noises in this room and I wanted to make sure everything was fine. You might not remember me, but I did a rotation in this department some years ago. But, of course, you work the night shift — or worked? — so we never actually had a shift together. You probably don't care, it's just that I thought you might think it is weird that I know your name. I mean, probably you still do, but—"
Thankfully, Dr. Abbot decides to put an end to your humiliating attempt to make the situation any less weird.
"Of course I remember you," he states as he rips a piece of medical tape, "Y/N, right? Everyone was constantly singing your praises. We were all kinda bummed when you choose Peds."
All you can do to ignore the funny feeling in your lower belly that the words of the handsome — and shirtless — man in front of you originated, is let out a laugh, which ends up sounding more like someone punched you in the stomach.
"So…" you divert after regaining control over your own voice, "What happened to you?"
"Bullet grazed my vest," he replies casually, his attention back on the supplies in front of him.
"Wait, what?" you ask, not sure whether you're more concerned or confused.
"Geniuses thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn't think about how long it would take to load the appliances. They panicked. All hell broke loose."
You cross your arms in front of your chest, shaking your head. "Still doesn't explain why you were in that situation in the first place."
"On top of my work here in the ER, I'm also a SWAT physician" he replies.
The question comes out of your mouth before you can bite your tongue. "Why do you do this?"
You don't have the right to ask him these type of questions, and he certainly does not owe you an answer, but still, he gives you one.
"My therapist said I needed a hobby."
This manages to get a real laugh out of you, and you think you may have saw one corner of his mouth lift slightly for a brief second, before settling back into a neutral expression.
"Then I also hope they told you that humor is only a healthy coping mechanism as long as it's not used as a diversion tactic."
There it is again: the almost smile.
"I'll keep that in mind, kid," is it's reply before he tries, and fails, to reach the wound on his shoulder with the cotton swab in his hand.
"Do you need any help with that, Dr. Abbot?"
But it's not really a question since you're already reaching out for a pair of gloves. You can see him pondering his options, but in the end he hands you the swab, and crosses his arms in front of his chest, making his biceps even more prominent.
You give him a heads up before starting to carefully clean the wound, and automatically you rest your free hand of his freckled back, felling the heat radiating from his body through your gloves.
"Did you make a chart?" you mumble, breaking the comfortable silence you two had fallen into.
"No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or the police department."
You hum as you finish your work, feeling slightly intoxicated by his smell, a mix of cologne, sweat and antiseptic.
Once you're done, you take a step back and take off your gloves, throwing them in the bin.
"All done. I hope I did a good job, Dr. Abbot," you say, shifting in place nervously, and causing your shoes to squeak against the linoleum floor.
"I guess I better go back upstairs before they start looking for me," you joke. "It was nice meeting you again. Minus the part where you got shot at."
Your comment manages to get a real smile out of him, and you feel one making an appearance on your face as well. "I'll see you around, Dr. Abbot!"
Just like that, you leave the room, and Jack swears to himself that he'll find a way to make that happen.
Unbeknownst to the both of you, Robby had briefly witnessed your interaction, and he'll make sure to bring that up to Jack before leaving for his sabbatical.
Who knows, maybe before he comes back, Abbot will have found the courage to ask you out.
A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it's criticism (as long as it's constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open!
After finding out you're pregnant with his child, Titus must secure his family's approval in order to make you a unique proposal: Become the new Mrs. Danforth.
He's my man | @leannashort
You catch your fiancé "kissing" another woman and try to break off the wedding in a fit of emotion, but Titus isn't ready to let you go. Willing to prove his devotion to you, he helps you get rid of the other woman. While still in a fit of rage, Titus uses your hot and bothered state to his advantage and engraves in you just how much he loves you.
His Queen | @/leannashort
Your engagement initiation doesn’t go quite as you expect and the Danforths find themselves intrigued by your newly exposed secret side.
The Game | @bullet-prooflove
Tonight's game night is a special event.
Fun and Games | @atlaslapis
The Danforth family has an interesting post wedding ritual that unfortunately you have to play in
The Belle of the Ball | @ofstarsandvibranium
Every year, the eldest of the Old Families compete in the games to earn more wealth, fame, and power. However, this year's games the prize is something much different - you.
Horns & Halos | @/ofstarsandvibranium
People say opposites attract. That can’t be anymore true when it comes to your relationship with Titus Danforth. He’s the Devil. You’re an Angel. And yet, you two work so well together.
The Life You Lead | @/ofstarsandvibranium
You try to move on after your break up, but things don’t really go as planned.
The Hunt | @thatfanficstuff
It's time for Titus to be married. You refuse to allow his bride to be anyone but you.
The Prize | @/thatfanficstuff
The hunt is over and it's time to claim your prize.
Two Birds | @zivistardust
i need you | @pope-codys
after killing your husband, you ask titus for help
continuing the family line | @/pope-codys
titus picks you to give him an heir
Dad!Titus | @titus-danforth
no one expected Titus to be such a good dad- his wasn’t the greatest and the man hardly smiles or talks. But looks were definitely deceiving.
summary: whitaker and f!reader unexpectedly arrive together at the pitt after secretly spending the night together. throughout the day they work closely, with him supporting and encouraging her, clearly proud of her abilities. however, ogilvie begins to show subtle jealousy and competitiveness, creating tension especially when he undermines her in front of others.
this is part 5 of the series i'm writing. check out Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 and Part 4 for the full story.
writer's note: for some reason, the part i wrote with ogilvie was really liked, so i'm here to bring you more of evil whitaker !! hope you enjoy it.
tags: whitaker and sunshine reader, no use of y/n, evil whitaker, secret relationship, unspoken feelings, jealousy, love triangle, workplace tension, protective whitaker, angst.
They hadn't planned to arrive together, in fact it felt more like some kind of cruel joke from destiny, it was true that each of them was coming from their own apartment after spending the night together, and even if neither of them said it out loud, it lingered there between them anyway.
They both smiled at the coincidence, because honestly, not even if they had tried they would've ended up face to face right at the pitt entrance like that.
Naturally, they started talking as they walked through the ER doors, he made a joke about what had just happened and she let out a laugh, a little louder than necessary, enough to make Dana turn and look at them.
''That's new,'' Dana said to Robby.
They both greeted them with a small nod and kept walking toward their lockers to drop off their things, and on the way they ran into Trinity, who didn't say a word, just gave them a knowing smile and a thumbs up directed at Whitaker, clearly trying to tease him, but he just shook his head, like he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction, even if there was something there he couldn't fully hide.
After that, the morning was strangely calm, they were working together and he kept encouraging her to speak, correcting her when she got something wrong, and giving her a small smile when she got it right, and at one point with one of their patients she noticed something Whitaker hadn't. That made him pause just for a second, genuinely impressed, and while she was ordering the labs he found himself looking at her a little longer than he should have, scanning her up and down, trying to hide the pride that settled in his chest.
Ogilvie noticed, of course he did, and when the three of them were together it almost felt like they forgot he was there, especially Whitaker.
"You're very supportive today," Ogilvie muttered.
"I'm always supportive when someone's correct," Whitaker replied without changing his tone.
"Really? Then i'm still waiting for my coffee date, after I saved that patient the other day I think I deserve it."
When she came back, the only thing she saw was Whitaker and Ogilvie staring at each other, and she didn't like it at all, there was something in the air, something tense, and she had the feeling she was the reason for it.
Almost automatically, her hand went to Dennis' arm, giving it a small squeeze just to pull him out of whatever that was, breaking whatever invisible pull seemed to exist between them.
"Let's move on to the next patient," she whispered, careful, like she didn't want to make a single wrong move.
Whitaker nodded and Ogilvie gestured for him to go first, while she walked between them toward the next room, where this time Ogilvie presented the case.
Young woman, autoimmune flare, unclear presentation, and once inside the room Ogilvie shifted instantly into that easy charm of his, like nothing from before had even happened, like the tension didn't exist, and the patient responded quickly, more relaxed despite the pain.
She stayed slightly back, observing, while Whitaker watched from the doorway, and then Ogilvie glanced at her.
"Why don't you grab the labs?" he said lightly. "I've got this."
"I can stay."
"It's fine," he cut in smoothly. "We don't want to overwhelm her."
The patient nodded absentmindedly, and Whitaker didn't say anything, pretending that he didn't hear a word.
She hesitated just a second too long, then nodded and stepped out.
In the hallway, her chest felt tight, and it wasn't about the case, it was the look Ogilvie had given her, like he was trying to prove something.
Whitaker stepped out a minute later.
"Why did you leave?" he asked quietly.
"He said he had it."
"And?"
She forced a small shrug. "He did."
"You don't have to step back."
"I wasn't."
He didn't look convinced.
Minutes later, when they were both by the door, Ogilvie walked out and Whitaker stopped him right there, looking at him, waiting for him to explain what he'd done with the patient. Ogilvie just gave him a slightly mocking smile but still presented the case confidently.
Whitaker listened carefully, then asked, "And what did she think?"
"What?" Ogilvie paused.
"You were both assigned."
Ogilvie's smile faded just a little. "She stepped out."
Whitaker looked at her.
"Well?"
She straightened slightly, feeling both of their attention on her.
"Why did you leave?"
She didn't want them to keep going, didn't want this to turn into something bigger, or the shift would become unbearable.
"I felt like Ogilvie was more than enough to handle it, I was just getting in the way."
Whitaker didn't respond, he just looked at her, really looked at her, like he was waiting for the truth, but she wasn't going to give it, and after a moment he just shook his head and walked away, leaving both of them there.
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating, she didn't know if anyone else could feel it but to her it was unbearable.
"You don't have to compete with me," she said calmly.
He let out a soft laugh. "I'm not."
"You are."
"Maybe I just don't think it's fair." He stepped closer.
"Fair?"
"You get extra attention."
"I don't ask for that."
"Doesn't mean you don't benefit from it."
She swallowed, but before she could answer her eyes shifted past him, Whitaker was standing there, watching them.
Ogilvie noticed, and a small, deliberate smirk crossed his face.
"See?" he murmured softly, and then he walked away.
The patient was crashing, septic, unstable, the numbers dropping faster than anyone liked.
Robby was leading.
"Pressors now, draw cultures, move."
Everyone moved, except Ogilvie, who hesitated just long enough to say, "Are we sure that's the right call?"
"Yes," Whitaker said without even looking at him.
"We could wait for-"
"We don't have time, who's going to do it?" Mckay asked.
"She will," Whitaker said.
She stepped in immediately, already prepping the meds, while Ogilvie's jaw tightened.
The patient stabilized ten minutes later, barely. As they walked out, Robby glanced at her and muttered a quiet "good job," but the adrenaline still hung thick in the air, and Ogilvie didn't hesitate to lean into it.
"Bold move," he said lightly. "Letting her call it."
Whitaker turned slowly.
"I made the call."
"Sure."
That tone again, that same edge, and Whitaker had spent the whole day trying to be patient, trying not to let this interfere with work, but he was done.
"You don't get to undermine her," he said evenly.
"I wasn't."
"You were."
The room went still.
"You don't get to question her competence because you're insecure," Whitaker stepped closer.
Silence.
"This isn't about-"
"It is. She doesn't get extra credit, she doesn't get special treatment, she earns every call she makes."
Ogilvie stiffened.
"And if you have a clinical disagreement," Whitaker continued, "you bring it to me or to Robby, not to the room, not to score points."
"You think I'm scoring points?"
"I think you're letting personal feelings interfere with patient care."
McKay interrupted before it could escalate further, and Ogilvie finally seemed to realize that everyone was watching.
"I was just asking questions," he muttered.
"Then ask better ones," Whitaker said before walking away.
The ER slowly started breathing again.
"Damn," McKay said.
Whitaker found her outside, near the ambulance bay, the morning air was cold and she had her arms crossed, no jacket.
"You're going to get cold," he said.
"I heard what happened," she replied without looking at him. "McKay told me… you embarrassed him."
"He embarrassed you."
"That's not the point."
"It is." He stepped closer and she finally turned to look at him.
"I don't need you to fight for me in front of everyone."
"I wasn't fighting."
"You basically told him he was insecure."
"He is."
"That's not your job to say."
"It became my job when he questioned your competence."
"You don't get to decide that," she exhaled sharply.
The words hit harder than she meant them to, and he went still.
"I don't get to decide what?"
"When I can handle something on my own."
The only sound between them was the wind and the distant ambulance, filling the space that suddenly felt too big.
"I trust you," he said carefully.
"Then act like it."
"I won't let someone undermine you."
"I wasn't being undermined, I was being challenged."
"He wasn't challenging your medicine," Whitaker said quietly, "he was challenging you, because of us."
And that was it, the real problem, the thing she had been trying to avoid.
"So what? I'm supposed to shrink so it doesn't look like favoritism?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration finally showing.
"I just don't want this to cost you."
"And I don't want to be protected like I'm fragile."
"I don't think you're fragile."
"Then stop treating me like you have to shield me."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"It feels like it."
He looked at her, something raw breaking through.
"You think I did that for my ego?"
"What? No."
"Then why?"
She hesitated, because she knew.
"You care too much," she whispered.
He let out a hollow, almost humorless laugh.
"Yeah, I do."
"If people think I'm only strong because you're behind me, I lose credibility," she said, looking up at him.
"I would never let that happen."
"You can't control that," she swallowed. "You think I don't hear what people say? You think I don't see it?"
"You want me to apologize?"
"No."
"Then what do you want?"
She stepped closer this time.
"I want you to trust that I can stand on my own."
"You can," he held her gaze.
"Then let me."
He looked at her like he was trying to rewire something instinctive inside him, and for a moment neither of them moved.
"I'll do better," he murmured.
"I know you will," she said softly, then added, "maybe we should work a little apart."
Confusion crossed his face instantly, he hadn't expected that, not now, not after everything, and for a second he just stood there, trying to understand how they had ended up here, because if someone had told him that his day would end like this he would've laughed, because not even in his worst scenarios had he imagined her saying something like that.
But he understood anyway, and he wasn't going to take that choice away from her, even if his chest felt tight, even if something in him didn't want to let go.
So he just gave her a small, closed lip smile and nodded. "Okay," he said.
She smiled back at him before turning and disappearing back inside the hospital, leaving him there, standing in the cold.
