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Janaina Medeiros

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@hynjinns
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FELIX 'SOCIAL PATH' @ GOV BALL
im sprinkling a salt circle around us. for protection.
im like when a girl consumes too much media but doesnt have enough real life interactions
ââ profiled ; aaron hotchner
summary: you've spent years convincing the bau that your love life is chaotic, casual, and completely detachedâwhile quietly dying every time aaron hotchner looks at you. but when your dating profile attracts the wrong kind of attention and your unit chief is forced to look a little closer, it turns out there are very few things more dangerous than being profiled by the man you're hopelessly in love with.
notes: i've been a little conflicted about posting lately, but... it's my birthday, and i want aaron hotchnerâso here you go! i've been working on this for a while and had a very very smart friend help me with the "profiling" parts (especially reid) so i hope y'all enjoy! i also really wanted to actually write the smut, but this fic hit the block limit so hard and fast it actually hurt. as always, please please let me know what you think!
warnings: swearing / cursing, blushing, italics, reader wears a skirt (and heels), reader has a cat, implied age gap, best friend!reid, some pretentious ranting, horny thoughts, likely incorrect behavioural and psychoanalytical information, likely incorrect technical information (sorry garcia), canon-typical themes (homicide, etc. referred to off page), stalker / stalking behaviour, ambiguous use of "online dating" (because i tried to keep it vaguely around s6/s7 era), kind of rushed ending? and... fade to black / implied sex (iâm so sorry) 18+ only still, mdni.
word count: 19001
MONDAY 9:25AM
Working for the FBI means having secrets is difficult. Working with the BAU makes it downright impossible.
Not because your colleagues are nosyâno, theyâre just⊠perceptive. Which means if you want to keep something to yourself, you need to know how to manipulate their perception. Even if it doesnât work on all of themâyou glance at Reid, already seated at the round table with his nose buried in a bookâat least it works on most of them.
At least, it works on Aaron Hotchner.
Your boss. Your unit chief. The man who absolutely cannot find out about your big, fat, massively inconvenient, deeply inappropriate crush on him.
Reid glances up from his book as you drop into the seat beside him. âYouâre wearing a skirt.â
You cross your legs and lean back. âExcellent observation, Reid.â
âItâs impractical,â he says simply. âEspecially with heels. Your centre of gravity shifts forward by almost fifteen degrees, which shortens your stride length and reduces balance recovery time. Youâre significantly more likely to trip while running.â
You roll your eyes. âGood thing Iâm not planning on fleeing the scene of a crime today.â
âIgnore boy genius, baby girl,â Morgan says as he steps into the room, heading straight for the espresso machine. âYou look good.â
You flash him a grin. âSee? Somebody appreciates me.â
Reid hums as he glances back down at his book. âInteresting how your clothing choices become statistically less practical in direct correlation to Hotchâs proximity.â
Your stomach flips. âSpence.â
He lifts one shoulder. âWhat? Heâs not listening.â
You glance back at Morgan, whose eyes are glued to his phone, brow furrowed just slightly as he waits for the whirring coffee machine to fill his cup.
âThatâs not the point, Spencer,â you mutter, turning back to him. âYou need toââ
The conference room door swings open again and Hotch walks inâfiles tucked under one arm, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
âMorning,â he says, dropping the files on the table. âHope everyone had a good weekend.â
Morgan snorts. âWhat weekend?â
âYeah,â Prentiss mutters, dropping into the seat beside Reid. âI was here until five on Saturday finishing geographical profiles.â
âThatâs because you alphabetise your paperwork,â you point out.
She gives you a look. âI enjoy being proficient.â
âWell,â you say lightly, leaning back in your chair âsome of us managed to finish our paperwork on Friday and still have a very enjoyable weekend.â
Garcia gasps dramatically as she falls into the last empty chair, coffee in hand. âOoh, look at you. Was there a man involved?â
You shrug one shoulder, biting back a smile. âIâm choosing to plead the fifth.â
Morgan points across the table. âThat means yes.â
âOr,â Reid says without looking up from his book, âit means she enjoys making people speculate.â
âAw, Spence,â you tease. âDonât sound so bitter.â
He finally looks up from his book and fixes you with a look so flat it borders on threateningâbecause he knows what youâre doing. Itâs what you always do. Itâs how you manipulate their perception. How you keep your secret.
You perform.
You swipe through dating apps, talk about men, brag about your weekends without ever being too specific. You flirt with almost everyone on the teamâReid more than the rest, because heâs your scapegoat... and your best friend.
Heâs the only one who can see through the charade. Not because heâs emotionally perceptive, but because he did the math. He noticed the pattern. He realised very quickly that every time Hotch walks into a room or says your name, you react in a way that can only mean one thing:
Hotch is the secret youâre trying so hard to hide.
Because if you give a team of profilers an easy explanationâharmless flirting with a messy dating life and a weakness for attentionâthey wonât notice the way your entire body betrays you whenever your infuriatingly gorgeous boss gets too close.
Hotch clears his throat. âWell, lucky for all of you, itâs a quiet week.â
Reid shuts his book and sets it on the table.
âNo active cases as of this morning,â Hotch continues. âWhich means weâll be catching up on consults, court reports, and the mountain of paperwork everyoneâs apparently been neglecting.â
His eyes meet yours for the briefest second, and your pulse skitters.
âIâm bored already,â Morgan sighs, leaning back in his chair.
Hotch ignores him. âWeâve got two local consult requests from Fairfax County and a follow-up review from the Richardson case. Dave, Iâll need your notes finalised by this afternoon.â
Rossi nods once. âYouâll have them.â
âGarcia,â Hotch continues, âthe Milwaukee office wants that digital forensic review by Wednesday.â
Garcia gasps softly, pressing a hand to her chest. âBut I already colour-coded my entire week. That review wasnât supposed to be due for another fortnight.â
Morgan blinks. âYou colour-code your schedule?â
âObviously,â Garcia says. âHow else would I maintain my sparkling personality under crushing institutional pressure?â
Reid straightens. âTechnically, organising information activates the same reward pathways asââ
âDonât,â Prentiss says immediately.
Reid frowns slightly. âI was just going to say gambling.â
You snort softly before you can stop yourself, covering it quickly with your hand. Reid shoots you a look. Prentiss just shakes her head. And when your eyes finally flick back to the front of the room, Hotch is already watching you.
Not the team. You.
Your stomach twists.
That signature Hotchner scowl should not be as hot as it is. It shouldnât make you cross your legs a little tighter or make your heart race the way it does. You should be used to that scowl by now. Youâre on the receiving end of it often enoughâwhenever you crack a poorly timed joke or flirt a little too hard with Morgan.
Yet somehow, you still feel like you canât breathe until his gaze finally shifts.
âMoving on,â he says evenly, âJJ will forward the consult details after the meeting.â
He spends the next thirty minutes briefing the team on consults and court appearances while you do your best to stay focusedâbut itâs hard. Itâs hard because every time you look at him, your gaze drops to his mouth and your mind fills with all sorts of filthy ideas. Then he starts moving his hands as he explains something and you canât help but wonder what they might feel like wrapped around your waist, your thighs, your throat.
His voice is a low rumble at the back of your mind, warm and firm, but you have no idea what heâs actually saying. All you can do is think about how that voice might sound, wrecked and rough, telling you how pretty you look when youâ
âThe briefing ended three minutes ago,â Reid says.
You blink hard. âWhat?â
He closes his notebook with a sigh. âThe meetingâs over. You can stop internally monologuing now.â
You frown. âIâm notââ
He gives you a look.
âUgh,â you groan. âYouâre so annoying.â
You push up from your chair and walk out of the conference room without waiting for him, but youâre not surprised that heâs right behind you by the time you reach the bullpen. You drop down at your desk with another indignant huff, watching Reid do the same from the corner of your eye.
Everyone else is already settled at their desksâkeyboards clicking, pens scribblingâand thereâs a fresh stack of files next to your computer with a sticky note on top that reads: Fairfax files. Prioritize pages 12â18. â Hotch.
You want to laugh at the little sign-off, as if anyone else would have put these files on your desk. Your fingers trace over the note once before you peel it off and stick it to the bottom corner of your computer screen.
Reid snorts. âYou know most people throw those away, right?â
You glance sideways at him. âI donât want to forget the page numbers.â
He hums. âSure.â
âYou know,â you say, turning your chair to properly face him, âyouâre being particularly judgemental today. Whatâs your problem?â
He stares at you for a moment, then glances back at the sticky note still attached to your monitor.
âIâm experiencing prolonged second-hand embarrassment,â he says plainly. âAnd repeated exposure tends to increase irritability.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah, wellâyouâre increasing my irritability.â
He nods. âGood.â
You frown.
âIâm attempting corrective behavioural conditioning.â
Your eyes narrow. âBy being annoying?â
âExactly,â he says, already turning back to his computer.
You glare at the side of his head for a long moment, searching for a comebackâbut your mind is completely blank. So with another irritated sigh, you turn back to your own screen, scoot your chair into the desk a little harder than necessary, and settle in for whatâs shaping up to be a very boring Monday.
The next two hours pass by in a blur of interview transcripts, witness statements, and crime scene photos. The Fairfax County PD files detail the death of a woman in her late thirties who accidentally overdosed in her Reston home early last week. No prior history of substance abuse, financial instability, or high-risk behaviourâuntil forty-eight hours before her death.
In just two days, she withdrew a large amount of money, missed work without explanation, visited several bars sheâd never been to before, and bought herself thousands of dollarsâ worth of expensive jewellery and lingerie.
To anyone else, it might look like some sort of breakdownâan impulsive spiral that led to the kind of recklessness you canât come back from. But to you, the behaviour feels too... artificial. As if someone is trying to construct the narrative of a troubled womanâchecking all the right boxes to give investigators an easy explanation for a tragic overdose.
Only there isnât enough concrete evidence to support your instinct. No stalker. No ex. No clear unsub who could have orchestrated this kind of ruse to cover what might actually be homicide.
You sigh. âReid.â
âHm?â
âTell me if Iâm overthinking this.â
Reid pushes back from his desk and scoots across the narrow stretch of carpet between your workstations. He doesnât stop until his chair bumps the side of your desk, causing your pen cup to topple over and spill across the files youâve got carefully laid out.
âOops,â he says absently, pushing the pens aside.
You roll your eyes and start gathering them while he scans the files.
âThe behavioural shift feels manufactured,â you say, dropping the pens back into their cup. âBut thereâs enough legitimate stressors here that I canât tell if Iâm forcing a pattern because itâs too clean.â
Reid examines the highlighted timeline for another few seconds.
âYouâre focusing too much on the existence of the stressors,â he says. âStress explains escalation. It doesnât explain inconsistency.â
You frown slightly.
âShe suddenly becomes impulsive socially, financially, and sexually, but her organisational habits never change.â He taps the timeline. âShe still pays bills early. Still meal preps. Still attends a dentist appointment two days before her death. Real behavioural deterioration isnât usually selective.â
Your brows lift. âSo, Iâm right?â
Reid nods, leaning back in his chair. âYouâre right.â
âWhatâs she right about?â
You nearly jump at the sound of Hotchâs voiceâlow and even, a little rough around the edges in that way that always makes your stomach tighten.
âShe thinks the behavioural shift is staged,â Reid says. âAnd I agree.â
He scoots back slightly as Hotch leans in, one hand braced on the back of your chair while the other pulls the file closer so he can read it properly. His tie falls forward, brushing lightly against your thighâand suddenly, you canât breathe.
Heâs close. Way too close. You can feel the heat of his breath on your skin. Smell the bitterness of coffee beneath his cologne. Hear the quiet creak of leather from his belt as he leans in further.
âItâs too compartmentalised,â Reid says, his voice more distant than it was just a second ago. âReal behavioural spirals usually bleed into every aspect of a personâs routine. Sleep disruption, missed payments, changes in grooming habits, social withdrawalâsomething.â
Hotch lifts his hand off the desk and presses his thumb to the tip of his tongueâthen flips the page.
Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body feels too hot, your clothes suddenly too tight, the bullpen too smallâbut you canât move. Not with Hotchâs hand still on the back of your chair.
âBut this is curated,â Reid goes on, tapping the timeline with the end of his pen. âThe impulsive behaviour escalates while the foundational routines stay completely intact, which suggests intentional narrative construction.â
Hotch turns his head just slightly, dark eyes finding yours. âYou caught that?â
You clear your throat. âI just... thought the escalation pattern felt off.â
âHer behavioural analysis is spot on, actually,â Reid says. âI canât find a flaw in it.â
Hotch hums quietly as his eyes move back over the file.
âGood girl,â he says absently.
Your entire nervous system short-circuits.
âKeep it up,â he adds, smoothing his tie as he straightens.
You donât say anything as he turns and walks away. You couldnât even if you wanted to.
Reid just sits there, hands folded in his lap as he watches Hotch disappear into his office before slowly turning back toward you.
âYou know,â he says thoughtfully, âthe age-gap preference is actually more interesting than the authority fixation.â
You finally blink. âWhat?â
âBecause the authority thing makes perfect sense. High-pressure careers tend to reinforce attraction to competence, decisiveness, emotional restraintâespecially in workplace environments where leadership qualities become psychologically linked with safety and stability over long periods of exposure.â
You frown. âWhat are youââ
âBut the older man preference is statistically more complicated because you donât actually display the attachment markers usually associated with paternal absence or instability.â
Your eyes go wide. âSpencerââ
âYou have a healthy relationship with your father, no documented authority issues, and relatively secure interpersonal attachment patterns, which suggests the preference is less psychologically compensatory and more rooted in behavioural reinforcement.â
âReid.â
âFor example,â he goes on, ignoring you completely, âyou spent your formative professional years surrounded almost exclusively by older men in positions of intellectual and behavioural authority. Gideon, Rossi, Hotchâwhich likely created a reinforcement pattern where emotional competence became unconsciously associated with attraction, arousal, and sexual interest.â
You freeze. âReid, I swear toââ
âYou donât react this strongly to older men generally,â he continues. âYou react strongly to Hotch because heâs emotionally controlled, professionally authoritative, intellectually intimidating, andââ
He pauses, tilting his head.
âVery obviously your type.â
You glance frantically around the bullpen, scanning the desks for the rest of your team.
Morgan has his headphones on, completely focused on whatever report heâs typing. JJâs desk is empty, as usualâsheâs probably with Garcia. And Prentiss is only halfway back from the kitchen, still stirring her fresh cup of coffee.
Your gaze cuts back to Reid. âYou are so lucky no one heard that, Spencer.â
He shrugs. âWouldnât matter if they did.â
Your brows pull together. âWhatâs that mean?â
âYouâre good at redirecting attention,â he says, slowly pushing his chair back toward his desk. âYouâre less good at hiding physiological responses.â
Your hand flies up to your cheek, palm pressing flat against the burning skin.
âWhatever,â you mutter. âItâs warm in here.â
Reid glances around the bullpen. âItâs sixty-eight degrees.â
âI hate you.â
âNo you donât.â
You shoot him one last glare before turning back toward your computer, aggressively waking up the monitor with your mouse.
You stay chained to your desk for the next few hours, finishing up the victimology report for the Fairfax files before taking them to Rossi for final review. Then you head out with JJ to grab a late lunch from the deli down the street, and when you get back, thereâs a brand-new stack of files on your deskâonly this time, with a tall takeaway cup of coffee set on top.
âHotch got dragged into some last-minute Section Chief meeting across town,â Morgan says, pushing his headphones down. âSaid he needs those cross-referenced before tomorrow morning.â
âGreat,â you mutter, dropping into your chair.
Morgan chuckles softly as he pulls his headphones back up, turning back to his own pile of reports.
You grab the coffee from the top of the files and find a sticky note stuck beneath itâwritten quickly but still in his unmistakable handwriting: I owe you one. â Hotch.
Your stomach flips.
God. Thatâs pathetic.
You peel the note off and drop it into the top drawer of your desk, not wanting another psychoanalytic lecture from Reid if he were to spot that note stuck to your monitor.
The rest of the day passes the way every other caseless Monday afternoon does. JJâs the first to head outânot long after fiveâtaking advantage of the slow week to spend a little extra time with Henry. Rossi leaves about an hour later, announcing to the bullpen that heâs got a date with a bottle of wine and reruns of his favourite medical drama. Morgan manages to clear the files on his desk before seven, finally putting his headphones away before bidding the rest of the team farewell.
Prentiss and Reid linger until nearly nine, and only when the motion sensor lights blink out does Prentiss finally glance up, realising how late it is. She gathers her things and nudges Reid, whoâs been firmly stuck in hyperfocus mode despite the rest of the world quietly slowing down around him.
âYou coming?â he asks, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
You look up slowly, your brain buffering as it untangles itself from the files spread across your desk.
âNot yet,â you reply, blinking tiredly. âHotch needs these by morning.â
Reid tilts his head. âWant me to wait?â
You wave a hand. âNah, go ahead. Iâll get security to walk me to my car.â
âAlright,â he says, already turning away. âJust remember that positive reinforcement loses effectiveness when the subject becomes emotionally dependent on it.â
You glare at his back. âIâm reporting you to HR.â
âYouâd have to explain the context,â he calls over his shoulder.
You roll your eyes as you turn back to the last file on your desk, taking a deep breath and flipping it open.
With the bullpen almost completely silent and the promise of sleep so close you can taste it, you manage to get through it in record time. You even give it a quick second pass to make sure you didnât miss anything glaringly obvious in your tired stateâbut youâre used to working through sleep deprivation, and by ten p.m., you finally start packing up.
You organise the files back into a neat pile, then open the top drawer of your desk for Hotchâs note. You stick it to the top file and grab a pen, scribbling just below the words he wrote: Dangerous thing to promise me.
And, just as he did, you sign off with your name.
Then you gather the whole stack in your arms and cross the bullpen toward his office. Unlocked, as usual. You nudge the door open with your foot, warm lamplight casting an orange glow over the quiet space. It smells faintly like coffee and his cologneâenough to make your heart start racing the second you step inside.
You set the files neatly on his desk, trying not to linger on the quiet traces of him scattered throughout the room.
Thereâs still half a mug of cold coffee abandoned beside some paperwork, and the cashmere sweater heâd been wearing beneath his jacket this morning is draped haphazardly over the back of his chair. Quiet evidence of just how suddenly heâd been called away.
It makes you feel a little better knowing you really have helped him out.
You adjust the files until theyâre perfectly straight, then take the sweater from the back of his chair and fold it neatly before setting it on the chest of drawers beside his desk. You hesitate for just a second before grabbing the mug of cold coffee and heading out of his office, straight for the break room. You empty it, wash it, dry it, then return to his office, placing it back on his desk exactly where you found it. Then you switch the lamp off on your way out, pulling the door most of the way shut behind youâthe way itâd been before you stepped inside.
It doesnât take long for you to gather your things, head down to security, and badge out. One of the guards escorts you to the parking garage, waiting until youâre safely inside your car with the engine running before he takes the elevator back up.
Once home, you quickly feed the yowling Leiaâyour cat, whoâs very unimpressed by your late arrivalâtake a quick shower, change into your comfiest, threadbare sleep shirt, then crawl into bed with your laptop balanced on your knees. You know you should just try to get some sleep, but youâve been ignoring a few personal messages and emails for a couple days now, and you know that if you donât get to them soon, youâll start to feel guilty.
You open your emails, reply to a couple, then pull up a new browser tab and type in the login address for the dating site Garcia set you up for. Not that you couldnât have set up your own profile if youâd really wanted to.
Noâthis profile is just the unintentional byproduct of your ongoing attempt to redirect attention.
One slow Thursday evening in the bullpen, while youâd been loudly complaining about how impossible it was to meet men with a job like yours, Morgan had the brilliant idea of making you a dating profile. Garcia immediately lit up at the idea, pulling the site up on her computer while Reid launched into a rambling statistical analysis about the probability of finding genuine compatibility online.
Hotch hadnât contributed to the conversation, but youâd known he was listening.
That had been the whole point. You always perform a little harder when Hotch can hear.
The site finally loads and you type in your credentials, waiting a few seconds for your profile to pop up.
Twelve notifications.
You click on the âmessagesâ tab and start scrolling. There are a few old conversations that fizzled out and youâve long since decided not to reply to. There are a couple of messages from people you never intend on starting a conversation with. Then there are two new messagesâones youâd seen pop up on your phone but couldnât be bothered to engage with over the weekend.
After all, youâre not actually looking to date anyone.
But one of the messages catches your eye.
DCRunner00: You seem like the kind of person whoâs either very funny or very mean. Iâm willing to risk it.
You snort, then type out a reply.
You: Unfortunately for you, those traits arenât mutually exclusive.
Just as you hit enter, Leia leaps up onto the bed.
âHey, sassy girl,â you coo, moving your laptop to reach for her.
Your fingers graze her soft coat, and she gives you an incredibly disapproving look.
You roll your eyes. âAlright. Sorry for loving you.â
You settle back against the pillows as she makes her way to the other side of the bed, curling up as far as she can possibly get from you.
Ping! Ping! Two more messages pop up.
DCRunner00: Thatâs probably the best possible answer you couldâve given. DCRunner00: So whatâs your worst personality trait? I feel like thatâs more interesting than hobbies.
That answer comes a little too easily.
You: Workaholic. You? DCRunner00: I get bored easily. DCRunner00: Which usually means I either start running or annoying people for entertainment. You: Sounds like a public safety issue. DCRunner00: Depends who you ask. DCRunner00: You should probably get some sleep, Workaholic. Itâs late.
You glance over at Leia as she rolls onto her side, stretching her front legs, and only then do you realise you were actually smiling at your screen.
You shake your head, typing quickly.
You: Yeah, I should. You: Night, Running Man.
Then you shut your laptop before he can send another message.
TUESDAY 9:50AM
âMorgan, youâre with me at district court this afternoon,â Hotch says, closing the file in front of him. âThe defence attorneyâs pushing back on the Richardson testimony, so weâll need to review our timeline before the hearing.â
Heâs wearing a grey suit today.
You can never think straight when heâs wearing a grey suit.
Morgan sighs dramatically. âNothing says excitement like four hours in a courthouse basement.â
Hotch ignores him completely.
âJJ, I want the media requests filtered through Straussâs office before lunch. Reid, finish the geographic overlays from the Fairfax case and send them to Rossi when youâre done.â
He glances once around the table.
âIf anything urgent comes in, youâll be notified. Otherwise, continue using this downtime to catch up on reports.â
Then he gathers the files into a neat stack and stands, turning toward the door.
The rest of the room starts moving slowly. Morgan mutters something to JJ about the court hearing, Prentiss turns to Reid, asking something about a case you donât quite catch, and Garcia is already explaining something on her laptop to Rossi, whoâs watching the screen with quiet concentration.
Which leaves you to shamelessly stare at your bossâ ass as he walks out of the room.
âYou should probably blink.â
Your head snaps toward Reid, frown already forming. âIâll blink when I want to blink.â
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, and you know heâs fighting the urge to launch into some deeply unwanted psychoanalysis of your behaviourâbut thankfully, the rest of the team is still too close for him to risk it.
Eventually, everyone starts filing out of the conference room and back into the bullpen. You end up being the last to leave, behind Reid and Garcia who are chatting animatedly about some new phone app theyâre both obsessed with.
Youâre just about to pass Hotchâs office door whenâyou hear your name.
You turn your head, and he gestures for you to come in.
Reid glances briefly over his shoulder, an irritatingly knowing look on his face as you turn and step into Hotchâs office.
You clear your throat, stopping a few feet from the desk. âSir?â
âHow late were you here last night?â he asks.
You lift a shoulder. âAbout ten.â
His jaw shifts as he leans back in his chair. âThatâs late.â
âMorgan said you needed them done by the morning.â
âI didnât mean first thing,â he says, smoothing the end of his tie. âYou couldâve finished the rest before lunch.â
You blink. âOh.â
His gaze holds yours for a second too long.
âYou donât need to stay late to impress me.â
Your eyes widen slightly before you force out a small, awkward laugh. âOhâuhâgood to know.â
He glances briefly at the navy-blue cashmere sweater still folded neatly on the chest of drawers.
âStill,â he says, lower this time. âI appreciated it. The files, and⊠everything else.â
Your breath catches softly in your throat.
âAnytime, sir,â you manage.
He nods once, then drops his gaze back to the paperwork on his desk.
You donât need any more of a dismissal than that, so you turn quickly and step out, pulling the door shut behind you. He prefers it closed, even if he wonât admit it because he doesnât want the team to think heâs shutting them out. Heâs just more comfortable in privateâit helps him focus.
By the time you get back to your desk, everyone else is already settled and working quietly. Not even Reid glances up or offers a teasing remark.
You drop into your chair and wriggle your mouse, grabbing your phone while you wait for the screen to wake up.
Two new messages from DCRunner00.
DCRunner00: Running Man? DCRunner00: Great book. Slightly concerning nickname, though.
You canât help yourself, so you type out a quick reply.
You: Better than âWorkaholicâ. You: You read Stephen King?
âHey, you busy?â
You glance over at Reid. âArenât we all?â
He tilts his head. âYouâre on your phone.â
âI could be working.â
âAre you?â
âNo.â
âGood,â he says, shuffling the files on his desk. âHotch wants us to prep the full geographic and timeline package for the Fairfax files in case it turns into an active investigation.â
You sigh, already pushing back from your desk. âAnd by âusâ you mean...?â
âI could use your help.â
âFine,â you mutter, setting your phone down.
He scoots over as you roll your chair toward his desk, settling in beside him. The files are all laid out, including your victimology report with Rossiâs few annotations. There are crime scene reports, autopsy summaries, witness statements, geographic overlays, and mapsâeverything needed to justify escalating the case into a full BAU investigation.
âWhere do you want to start?â
âIâm trying to rebuild the geographic timeline digitally,â he says, âbut half the field reports were logged out of sequence and now the movement patterns donât align.â
You nod. âOkay, walk me through where it stops making sense.â
Three hours later, you feel like your eyeballs are bleeding. Youâve read the same witness statement at least twenty times now, but with every pass it only makes less sense. How could Annabelle Hutton possibly be placed in two different counties less than forty minutes apart?
âItâs physically impossible,â you mutter, rubbing your eyes.
Reid hums quietly beside you. âNot necessarily.â
You stare at him. âCare to elaborate?â
âWell, depending on traffic conditions, inaccurate timestamp reporting, and the reliability of eyewitness memory retention, there are at least four scenarios where the timeline could still technically work.â
You sigh, leaning back in your chair and staring up at the ceiling. âIf you know so much, then why canât you figure this out?â
He still doesnât turn away from his screen. âI will. Eventually.â
You groan softly, dragging both hands down your face just as a familiar voice cuts through the quiet bullpen.
âNo, listen to me carefully.â
Both you and Reid glance up automatically.
Hotch is walking slowly past the desks with his phone pressed to his ear, expression calm but impossibly stern in a way that immediately makes heat crawl beneath your skin.
âYou donât need to explain the problem again,â he says evenly. âYou need to tell me how youâre fixing it.â
He pauses briefly beside Reidâs desk, listening.
âThen prioritise the transfer first,â he says. âIf the paperwork isnât filed before opposing counsel reviews discovery, the timeline becomes vulnerable and the entire testimony gets picked apart.â
He rests a hand on the partition between the desks, gaze fixed somewhere distant as he listens to the person on the other end.
âNo,â he says after a moment, voice lower now. âIâm not asking you to stay late. Iâm telling you this needs to be finished tonight.â
Your stomach flips.
This absolutely should not be as hot as it is.
âGood,â he says calmly into the phone, straightening again. âCall me when itâs done.â
Then he keeps walking, cutting through the bullpen before turning sharply toward his office.
You stare after him, the thought slipping out before you can stop it. âDo you think he talks you through it?â
âProbably,â Reid says, turning back to his screen. âHigh-control personalities usually prefer maintaining verbal direction in intimate situations because it reinforces predictability and compliance dynamics.â
You go still. You hadnât actually expected an answer.
âSomeone like Hotch would probably place a pretty high psychological value on responsiveness,â Reid continues. âThe immediate compliance aspect reinforces authority, which means verbal direction would likely become part of the overall intimacy dynamic rather than just communication.â
Your face heats.
âEspecially because heâs not impulsive enough to rely on unpredictability. Heâd want constant awareness of how the other person is responding emotionally and physically, so talking them through things would help maintain control of the situation while also reinforcing trust.â
Oh my God.
âAnd honestly,â Reid goes on, âpeople with highly structured leadership personalities usually develop pretty strong positive associations with obedience because it confirms stability, attentiveness, emotional investmentââ He pauses briefly. âWhich means heâd probably find it disproportionately attractive when someone follows instructions immediately or responds well to praise because it validates both the authority dynamic and the emotional trust beneath it, so statistically speaking heâdââ
He stops.
Then slowly turns toward you.
â...I crossed a social boundary somewhere in there, didnât I?â
You nod slowly, your voice coming out unnaturally high. âJust a couple.â
He sighs, dropping his chin slightly as he turns back to his screen.
You huff out a breathless laugh and lean back in your chair again. You need a minute to recover from that, because now youâre hot all over and the only thing you can think about is your boss hovering over you, praising you in that low, steady voice while his hand settles around your throatâ
Fortunately, it doesnât take Reid long to start rambling about geographic overlays again. You do your best to focus on what heâs saying, but after another hour of scrutinising the timeline inconsistencies, you decide you need an actual break.
You grab your phone and your jacket and head out of the office, sending a quick text to the team chat asking if anyone else would like a coffee from the cafe down the road. Itâs a thousand times better than break room coffee.
When you step out of the elevator on the ground floor, you bring up your messages with DCRunner00. Youâre not sure why, because normally you only check your profile when you feel like you need to keep up the act, but something about this guy keeps making you want to reply.
DCRunner00: Iâve read a few. DCRunner00: What does a workaholic do for fun?
You type your reply as you step out of the building.
You: Work, mostly. You: And sleep.
By the time you return to the office with a tray of four coffees, you have two new messagesâbut you canât reply to them until you set the tray down at your desk.
âThanks, pretty girl,â Morgan says as he takes one, flashing you a grin.
You smile back. âAnything for you, gorgeous.â
Then you pull your phone out of your pocket and bring up the message thread.
DCRunner00: Whatâs your schedule even like? DCRunner00: You strike me as an âanswers emails at midnightâ type of person. You: Nah. Thatâs my boss. You: My schedule is chaos, though.
âThanks,â Reid says as he takes his coffee, leaving only two.
You set your phone down and take the last two coffees out of the tray, leaving one at your desk before taking the other to Hotchâs office. You can see through the window that heâs not on the phoneâfor onceâso you knock twice on the slightly ajar door before stepping inside.
He glances up, his brows pulling together slightly. âI didnât ask for coffee.â
âI know,â you say quickly. âBut itâs almost three, and you always need another coffee around three, and I figured you probably didnât answer the team message because you still feel bad about me staying so late last night, which you shouldnât, by the way.â
He straightens, brows drawing tighter.
âAnd I know youâve got court with Morgan this afternoon, and youâre going to try to leave early, but someoneâs definitely going to call at the last second and derail that plan, so youâll only have enough time to get to the courthouseânot enough time to stop for coffee.â
You set the cup down in front of him.
âSo,â you tilt your head, âcoffee.â
He leans back in his chair, studying you for a second.
âThatâs some pretty solid profiling, Agent.â
Your face heats instantly.
âWell,â you say, backing slowly toward the door, âmaybe now you owe me two.â
The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly, but itâs enough for the butterflies in your stomach to explode. You canât help but grin as you turn away, slipping quickly out the door before your lungs forget how to work entirely.
You spend the rest of the day at Reidâs desk, finishing the case package for the Fairfax files and complaining about unreliable witnesses. Hotch and Morgan head off to court just after three, announcing to the rest of the team that they wonât be back. JJ is the first to head home again around five, followed by Prentiss, then Rossiâthen you and Reid finally decide to call it a day just after six.
Which is also when you finally check your messages again.
DCRunner00: Chaos how?
You type a quick reply while you wait for your carâs AC to warm up.
You: Long hours. You: Weird hours. You: And a deeply unhealthy relationship with caffeine.
Then you tuck your phone away and head out of the parking garage.
Leia is already yowling by the time you step through your apartment door. Sheâs always hungry, even though she has an automatic feeder for dry foodâbut apparently that isnât good enough. She prefers the wet stuff.
You quickly peel open a packet of fishy-smelling chicken jelly sludge and drop it into her bowl before washing your hands and moving into your bedroom. You flip the ensuite light on and start the shower, pulling your phone out of your pocket while you wait for the water to warm.
DCRunner00: Ah. So youâre one of those people. You: Rude.
He replies almost immediately.
DCRunner00: Accurate, though? You: Unfortunately.
You drop your phone on the bed and start undressing.
Ping!
DCRunner00: What do you actually do?
You hesitate. Itâs not like you can just say youâre in the FBI. Contrary to what some people might think, real FBI agents canât just go around bragging about their highly classified work status. Itâs dangerous.
You: Mostly admin. You: Governmental stuff.
You toss your phone back onto the bed and turn into the steamy ensuite. You shower quickly, dry off, run product through your damp hair, then pull on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before heading back out into the kitchen.
Youâre not in the mood to cook tonight, so you grab a protein bar out of the cupboard and start boiling the kettle while you check your phone for what feels like the hundredth time.
DCRunner00: Sounds boring. DCRunner00: Do you get days off, though?
You drop a teabag into your mug before typing out a reply.
You: Sort of. You: But if my boss calls, I answer.
He replies instantly again.
DCRunner00: Iâm starting to think you secretly enjoy being overworked. You: I think Iâd get bored otherwise.
You pour the boiling water into your mug and watch his next reply pop up.
DCRunner00: That sounds suspiciously unhealthy. You: Probably. What about you? What do you do?
You tuck your phone into your pocket, then grab your tea and protein bar and head to the couch. Thereâs nothing youâre really interested in watchingâsince you donât usually have the time to keep up with any showsâso you turn on the nightly news before grabbing your laptop and pulling up a new browser.
Heâs already replied by the time you log in.
DCRunner00: Run. DCRunner00: Read. DCRunner00: Annoy people professionally. You: That sounds made up.
You open your protein bar.
DCRunner00: It mostly is. DCRunner00: So your boss actually calls you outside work hours?
You hesitate at the sudden redirection. Most men on dating apps prefer talking about themselves. Their jobs, hobbies, gym routines, childhood dogsâwhatever makes them seem interestingâbut this guy seems far more interested in observing than being observed.
You type out a vague response.
You: Sometimes. You: Occupational hazard, I guess. DCRunner00: And you always answer? You: Pretty much. You: Heâd only call if it mattered.
His next reply takes almost two minutes to come through.
DCRunner00: Hm. DCRunner00: Iâm starting to think your boss gets more attention than I do.
You almost choke on your tea.
Thatâs... weird.
Maybe you have mentioned your boss a little more than strictly necessary, but heâs the one asking all the questions about your job. Itâs a little hard not to mention your boss when your life practically revolves around himâin more ways than you care to admit.
You: Jealous already, Running Man? DCRunner00: Should I be?
You sit up straighter, suddenly a little nauseous.
You: I think youâre spending too much time talking to strangers online. DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: You still replied, though.
âOkay,â you say, startling Leia who was half-asleep on the other end of the couch. âThatâs enough.â
You: Iâm going to sleep. You: Try not to spiral while Iâm gone.
His last message pops up just before you shut your laptop.
DCRunner00: No promises.
WEDNESDAY 8:10AM
âCome on,â you mutter, mashing the elevator button for the doors to close.
Youâre a whole thirty minutes earlier than usual this morning. You didnât even make a coffee in your travel mug before running out the door. You just woke up, brushed your teeth, checked your messagesâand decided you needed to talk to Garcia immediately.
âHeyâwoah.â Reid steps out of your way as you rush into the bullpen. âYouâre early.â
You drop your bag on your desk and quickly shrug off your jacket.
âIs Garcia in yet?â
He frowns slightly. âI think so. Why?â
You pull your laptop out of your bag.
âI justâI need her.â
Youâre already walking away before he can press any further, moving back through the bullpen with your laptop hugged against your chest. Youâre just about to round the corner toward the elevators whenâ
âHeyââ Hotch stops short just as you nearly run into him. âSlow down. You alright?â
His hand is hovering near your waistânot quite touching, but close enough for you to feel its warmth.
You blink up at him. âSorry. Yeah. Uhâtotally fine. Just going to see Garcia about... a case.â
His brows pull together slightly.
âAlright, well, Garciaâs not going anywhere,â he says evenly. âTake a breath.â
You nod slowly, already stepping around him.
âRight,â you mutter. âBreathing. Got it. Sorry, sir.â
You can almost swear you see the corner of his mouth liftâbut then the elevator dings behind you, and you have to hurry to slip through the doors before they slide shut.
It feels like an eternity before they finally open again, but once they do you practically sprint down the hall to Garciaâs lair and burst through the door without warning.
She startles so hard she nearly drops her coffee. âSweet mother of encryption, knock first!â
âSorry,â you say, breathless. âI need you.â
âWell, obviously,â she mutters, checking her shirt for any spills. âIâm the backbone of this entire operation.â
You drop down into the spare chair and open your laptop, setting it on her desk.
âYou cannot judge me for what Iâm about to show you.â
She glances up, brows lifting. âOh. So this is serious?â
You grimace. âI donât know.â
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSlightly less reassuring than I was hoping for. Tell me whatâs happened.â
You take a deep breath, then let it out in a rush.
âYou remember the dating profile you set up for me?â
She nods.
âAlright, so, I wonât lie, I havenât really met anyone on there yet, but I check the messages occasionally. When Iâve got time, you know? And I donât have a whole lot of ongoing conversations, but this one guy sent me something that was kind of funny, so I responded, and the conversation was pretty normal for the most part. I couldnât reply all that quickly, but he didnât seem to mind.â
You shift awkwardly, scooting your chair closer to her desk.
âNothing really felt out of place untilâwell, he wouldnât talk about himself much, which is strange because most people on dating apps are usually more interested in presenting themselves than gathering information. He kept asking questions about my job, actually. Not that my job is on my profile, but he was really curious about my schedule, orâI guessâlack of schedule.â
You wince.
âSo now that I think about it, that was probably the second sign something might be off. Or maybe he just wanted to meet up, I donât know.â
You hesitate.
âBut then he sent me this message at like... two a.m.â
She squints at the screen.
DCRunner00: Bet you answer your boss faster than you answer anyone else.
âMmm. Nope. Donât love that,â she says, shaking her head. âThat is not a normal amount of emotional investment for a stranger.â
You sink back in your chair. âThatâs what I thought.â
She starts scrolling back through the messages.
âHave you told Hotch?â
âNope.â
She glances at you from the corner of her eye. âYou answered way too fast for that to be a normal response.â
âBecause the answer is no,â you say firmly, leaning forward again.
âMm-hm.â She keeps scrolling. âOkay, well... technically this could still be nothing. He could just be some lonely basement cryptid with Wi-Fi and poor social skills.â
You groan, dragging both hands over your face.
âYou do mention Hotch kind of a lot.â
Your head snaps up. âHeâs my boss.â
Garcia gives you a long look.
âOkay,â she says slowly. âSure.â
âGarcia.â
âIâm just saying, if a man talked about a woman this much online, weâd all be making faces.â
You point at the screen. âFocus.â
âRight. Yes. Creepy internet man. Sorry.â
Her expression settles into something more focused as she turns back toward her array of monitors.
âOkay. Hereâs what weâre going to do. Donât block him yet.â
You sigh. âI donât love that idea.â
âNeither do I, babycakes, but if heâs routing through the website normally, I might be able to pull connection data if we keep him talking long enough.â
You frown. âIn English?â
She gives you another look. âTimestamps, login patterns, regional pings, possible VPN usage, device signatures if he slips upâbasic digital stalking fun.â
âOh, of course,â you say sarcastically. âNormal stuff.â
âFor me, it is normal.â She points toward the laptop. âNow reply to him. Something casual. I want to see if he responds immediately again.â
Your fingers hover over the keys for a second before you type out your reply.
You: I thought I told you not to spiral.
He replies so fast that even Garcia flinches.
DCRunner00: Relax. It was a joke. DCRunner00: Mostly.
She stares at the screen. âOkay, I officially donât like him.â
You lean back in your chair again, nausea twisting low in your gut. âI feel sick.â
Garciaâs expression softens slightly. âMaybe you should tellââ
âNo.â
She sighs quietly. âOkay. Fine. Can you keep replying from your phone?â
You nod.
âGood. Donât overdo it, just enough to keep him engaged.â Her fingers start flying across the keyboard. âIâll work my magic down here and call you if I find anything.â
You push yourself out of the chair, clutching your phone a little tighter.
âYouâre the best, Pen.â
âI know.â She waves a hand without looking away from her screens. âNow go pretend to be emotionally stable upstairs.â
By the time you get back to your desk, almost everyone is already in the conference room ready for the morning briefing. You drop your phone beside your keyboardâtoo anxious to have it with you during the meetingâthen quickly unpack your things and grab a notebook before making your way up.
Reid nods at you from his usual seat, gesturing to the empty one beside him.
âHey,â you mutter as you drop down next to him.
His brows pull together. âEverything alright?â
You nod. âYeah. Fine. Iâll explain later.â
Hotch keeps the morning briefing quick. He goes over yesterdayâs court hearing, outlines the Fairfax briefing package in case it escalates into an active investigation, then gets JJ to run through the highest priority consultation requests.
You spend most of it toying with a loose thread on the cuff of your blouse. Youâre pretty sure itâs the first briefing in years where you havenât spent at least part of it staring at Hotch instead of your notesâand when the room finally relaxes and everyone starts to filter out, Reid turns to you.
âOkay, now Iâm concerned,â he says.
You glance at him. âWhy?â
âYou didnât look at Hotch once during that entire meeting.â
You roll your eyes. âSpenceââ
âSomething must be seriously wrong.â
You let out a long exhale, glancing briefly around the almost empty room. Only Morgan and Rossi are left, halfway to the door, deep in discussion about something that happened at the court hearing yesterday afternoon.
âOkay,â you say quietly, turning back to Reid. âIâm having some... trouble, I guess, with a guy.â
His brows shoot up. âA guyââ
âOnline,â you add quickly.
He tilts his head. âIâm confused again.â
You sigh. âRemember that dating profile Garcia set up for me?â
âYou mean the profile you allowed Garcia to create as part of your increasingly unsustainable performative dating strategy?â
You glare at him. âYes. That one.â
âThen yes, I remember it very clearly.â
âWell,â you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose, âI had this guy message me a couple days ago. It was normal at first but now itâs gotten... weird. So, Iâm getting Garcia to look into it.â
His forehead creases. âHave you toldââ
âNo.â
âMaybe you shouldââ
âI said no.â
âAlright.â He raises both hands in surrender. âOkay. Iâm dropping it. Itâs justâŠâ
You narrow your eyes at him.
âWell, statistically speaking, the majority of uncomfortable online interactions donât escalate into actual stalking behaviour. Most people displaying premature emotional fixation online are socially isolated rather than violent.â
You lift a brow, waiting for the punchline.
âHowever,â he adds, âcyberstalking offenders also tend to develop parasocial attachments disproportionately quickly because the perceived emotional intimacy bypasses a lot of normal social barriers, which means escalation patterns can become highly personalised in a very short period of time.â
You stare at him.
âIn cases where the fixation becomes grievance-oriented, the offender is usually highly organised rather than impulsive, so the behaviour tends to be significantly more deliberate and psychologically targeted.â
He pauses, frowning faintly.
âThat was supposed to be reassuring.â
ââŠThanks, Reid,â you mutter, turning away from him slowly. âNow I feel so much better.â
When you get back to your desk, you decide itâs time to reply again. You grab your phone and bring up the messages, taking a minute to think about what to typeâknowing Garcia will be seeing the conversation too.
You type out the only mildly casual response you can think of.
You: Youâre weird.
He replies just as fast as usual.
DCRunner00: You disappear a lot. You: Workaholic, remember. You: I told you my schedule was chaos.
Youâre about to turn your phone over on your desk when a different notification pops upâfrom Garcia.
Garcia: If this is your version of flirting, baby girl, I think I just figured out why youâre still single.
You snort softly, typing out a quick reply.
You: Trust me, thatâs not the reason. Garcia: So there IS a reason? You: Shh. Iâm working. Garcia: Boo!
You huff another quiet laugh as you turn your phone over, nudging it toward the edge of your desk in the hopes that you might be able to focus on work rather than creepy internet man for at least a few hours.
It doesnât work.
Barely half an hour later, you lift your phone to check for another notificationâbut thereâs nothing there. You pull up the message thread again and scroll up, checking the timestamps to see if heâs ever gone quiet on you beforeâbut he hasnât. Not really. So you type another message.
You: You went quiet. Should I be concerned?
Itâs a calculated move. If heâs paying attention to response patternsâand at this point youâre pretty sure he isâthen following up first helps maintain the illusion that nothing has changed. No sudden distance. No obvious discomfort. No reason for him to think youâre pulling away.
If he is dangerous, the last thing you want is for him to feel rejected.
An hour later, Rossi drops a legal pad onto your desk, asking you to take another look at a witness timeline that doesnât feel rightâwhich keeps you occupied for a good forty-five minutes. Then Morgan leans over the partition between your desks, asking if you can translate Reid into English. That takes up another hour of your day, and by the time you grab your first afternoon coffee, youâve got three notifications.
One is a missed call from Garcia. The other two are from creepy internet man.
DCRunner00: Depends. Are you worried about me? DCRunner00: Blue looks good on you, by the way.
Your stomach drops. âOh my God.â
You immediately call Garcia back.
She answers on half a ring. âAre you wearing blue?â
âYou saw me this morning.â
âI canât remember,â she says. âAre you?â
You drag a hand through your hair. âYes.â
âHoly shit,â she whispers. âYouâve got to tellââ
âNo.â
âAre you insane?â
âMaybe, butââ You squeeze your eyes shut for a second. âOkay, justâhear me out. Blue is a statistically safe guess. Itâs a neutral professional colour with high frequency in workplace attire, especially in government buildings.â
Garcia goes quiet for a second.
âAnd does this unsub know you work in a government building?â
âDonât call him that,â you snap. âAndâwell, kind of. I didnât tell him exactly, but I said... government adjacent.â
âI swear to God,â she mutters, âif I have to identify your body next week, Iâm going to kill you.â
You press your free hand against your forehead.
âYou wonât,â you say firmly. âAlright? Weâre getting ahead of ourselves.â
Garcia scoffs loudly.
âSeriously,â you insist. âIt could still be nothing. A weird coincidence, maybe an awkward guy with boundary issues and too much free time. We deal with actual predators every day. I can handle a few creepy messages.â
The line goes quiet againâthen she sighs.
âWhy are you so against telling Hotch?â
âBecause I donât want to bother him,â you say quickly. âWeâve got a quiet week, he finally seems slightly less stressed, and I donât want to cause a whole fuss over something that might turn out to be nothing.â
She sighs again, louder this time. âFine. I wonât go to Hotch.â
Your shoulders sag. âThank you.â
âOn one condition,â she adds. âIâm sleeping over tonight.â
You nearly choke. âWhat?â
âNon-negotiable.â
âPenelope, thatâs insane.â
âNo,â Garcia says firmly, âwhatâs insane is you trying to casually explain away potential stalking behaviour while actively refusing to inform your unit chief.â
âHe is not stalking me,â you protest, keeping your voice low.
âMm-hm.â
âYouâre overreacting.â
âAnd yet,â Garcia says, âif you die, I become morally complicit because I knew about creepy internet man and failed to intervene.â
You frown. ââŠMorally complicit?â
âAccessory to murder-adjacent,â she corrects. âAnd my guilty conscience requires eight hours of sleep minimum, so congratulations. Weâre having a slumber party.â
You let out a long sigh. âOkay. Fine.â
She hums, satisfied.
âI need to reply to him again.â
âWell, donât ask me,â she mutters. âYouâre the one whoâs apparently fluent in creepy internet freak.â
You laugh despite yourself. âThanks, Pen.â
âMm-hm. And just so weâre clear, tonight we are watching wholesome romantic comedies and eating enough sugar to kill a Victorian child.â
âI was actually thinking psychological thriller marathon.â
âAbsolutely not.â
You smile faintly, leaning back in your chair. âFine. Romantic comedies it is.â
âGood,â Garcia says firmly. âNow hang up before I change my mind and march upstairs to Hotchâs office myself.â
You roll your eyes as you hang up, then open the message thread again. You donât have to think too hard about what to type. You donât want to escalate or accuse him, but you need him to stay engaged. You want him to explain himself to see how he reframes the behaviour.
You: Lucky guess.
The next few hours slip by in a strange blur of routine tasks and fragmented conversations.
At about three oâclock, Prentiss drops a file on your desk and asks if you can double-check a victim timeline while sheâs stuck on the phone with Chicago. Then Rossi calls you into his office to sanity-check a profile theory heâs working through out loudâwhich means fifteen minutes of listening to him argue with himself while you sit there trying not to focus on Hotchâs voice through the wall.
When you finally get back to your desk, Reid spends twenty minutes walking you through a probability model nobody asked for but everyone somehow ends up listening to anyway. He only stops when Hotch appears, carrying a stack of files from the Richardson case he wants Morgan to look over before he signs them offâand for the first time in God knows how long, you donât stare shamelessly at his ass as he walks out of the bullpen.
By six p.m., JJ and Rossi are gone, Prentiss is helping Morgan with the Richardson files, and Reid is building a tiny tower out of paperclips while he reads over a file Rossi dropped on his desk before he left.
At exactly six-fifteen, your desk phone rings.
âHello?â
âPack your things, baby girl. Your government-issued sleepover is about to begin.â
You snort softly. âAlright. Iâll see you soon.â
You hang up the phone and start clearing your desk, organising paperwork into piles and packing away stationery while you wait for your computer to shut down.
âSee who soon?â Reid asks.
You glance at him. âGarcia.â
He tilts his head.
âSheâs staying over tonight.â
His brows lift. âBecause of your stalkââ
âGirlâs night,â you interrupt, eyes widening. âThatâs all.â
His gaze narrows. âShould I be worried?â
You scoff. âAbout me? Never.â
You slide your arms into your jacket then finally pick up your phone, finding two new notifications from creepy internet man waiting for you.
âReally?â Reid asks, turning his chair to face you. âBecause youâve spent most of the day staring at your phone like itâs a bomb, you spent most of Rossiâs profile discussion peeling the label off your water bottle instead of contributing, and you reorganised the same stack of paperwork three separate times.â
You pause mid-motion.
âAlso,â he continues, âyou usually correct Morgan when he misquotes case statistics and today you let him do it twice, which honestly might be the most concerningââ
âOkay!â you cut in quickly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âGood talk. Love the observational skills. Bye.â
He doesnât say anything else as you walk away, murmuring goodbyes to Morgan and Prentiss as you pass, but you can still feel him watching you. Youâre just about to press the button for the elevator whenâ
âAgent.â
You stop automatically, turning to find Hotch with a file tucked under one arm and that signature frown etched between his brows. Only this time it isnât frustrated or disapprovingâitâs curious.
You force a small smile. âSir.â
His eyes move over your face briefly. âYou alright?â
You nod once. âOf course.â
He takes a step forward, his voice dropping lower. âYou sure?â
Your breath catches.
Heâs close now. Too close. You have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. You can smell his cologne, feel his warmth, count the beauty marks dotted across his cheek.
âYouâve seemed distracted today,â he says.
You swallow hard. âUhâno. No. Sorry, I justâI didnât get much sleep last night.â
His brows draw a little tighter, and he opens his mouth as if heâs about to say something elseâpress harder, maybeâbut then seems to think better of it.
âAlright,â he murmurs. âGet some rest tonight.â
Then he nods once and steps back, his jaw tightening for just a second before he turns away.
You donât move immediately. You canât. Your mind is reeling, your pulse is still hammering, and your breath is caught somewhere between your ribs while your lungs try to remember how to work.
âHello?â Garcia calls from behind you. âI cannot hold these doors forever, babycakes.â
You shake your head. âShit. Sorry.â
You turn and hurry into the elevator, slipping in beside her just before the doors slide shut.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Thenâ
âSo, that thing you said earlier about there being a reason youâre still singleâŠâ
You shut your eyes. âPenelope.â
âIâm just saying,â she continues lightly, âunless I hallucinated whatever just happened in that hallway, Iâm starting to develop theories.â
You ignore her, watching the numbers on the elevator slowly descend like counting down the days you have before the entire team figures out your secret. Because if this guy really is a creep, if you do have to tell Hotch, then itâs only a matter of time before the BAU are dissecting your dating life and realising what a ruse it really is.
And you know better than anyone that once these profilers start looking too closely at something, they rarely stop until theyâve pulled it apart completely.
The second you step through the door to your apartment, Garcia rushes past you to sweep the place. Leia startles almost immediately, running from the couch to your bedroom while Garcia complains about the fact that Leia is the only cat sheâs ever met that doesnât like her.
âLeia hates everyone,â you tell her, kicking your shoes off by the door. âEven me.â
Garcia just rolls her eyes, continuing from room to room to check the window locks and balcony doors.
Once sheâs satisfied that everything is secure, she sets her laptop up on your kitchen counter and starts running a program that looks like hieroglyphics to you.
âHave you seen his latest messages?â she asks.
You shake your head, setting your phone on the counter. âNo.â
She opens your laptop and logs into the dating siteâbecause apparently she knows your password now.
DCRunner00: Maybe. DCRunner00: Or maybe youâre just easier to read than you think.
You type out the first response you can think of, not wanting to seem like youâre overanalysing this.
You: Or maybe Iâm just not trying so hard to be mysterious.
Garcia then spends the next ten minutes trying to explain her process to you in terms that almost make sense. So far sheâs managed to narrow him down to a general region through login patterns and routing behaviour, but she still canât lock onto a direct IP address. Not because she canâtâapparently that part would actually be pretty easyâbut because doing it properly would mean running requests through systems that leave a trail. And right now, this definitely isnât an official investigation.
âThe second I start pulling the fun federal strings,â Garcia says, typing furiously, âthereâs paperwork, access logs, oversight, and approximately twelve thousand ways for this to become a whole thing.â
You lean against the counter. âWe donât want that.â
âNot yet.â Her expression sharpens slightly. âAlso, if creepy internet man is more sophisticated than he seems, thereâs always a chance heâs monitoring for targeted tracing attempts. If he realises someoneâs looking too closely at him before we know who he is, he could disappear completely.â
Your stomach twists. âOr escalate.â
You spend the next couple of hours keeping creepy internet man engaged while Garcia rambles tech jargon that makes less sense the longer the night wears on. At some point, you order pizza, then you migrate to the couch, and eventually you both end up sitting through the credits of Two Weeks Notice while waiting for one last reply in the hopes that he might finally answer something about himself.
DCRunner00: Refreshing DCRunner00: Most people hide too much. You: Depends what theyâre trying to hide. DCRunner00: What are you trying to hide? You: Besides the fact that Iâm exhausted? Nothing. DCRunner00: You seem distracted tonight. You: Long day. DCRunner00: I noticed. You: How was yours?
You wait until almost midnight before finally deciding to call it a night.
Garcia checks all the windows and doors again while you brush your teeth and change into pyjamas. When you step back out of your bedroom to say goodnight, Garcia is trying her hardest to lure Leia onto the couch with her, but Leia is very stubbornly curled up beneath the TV unit.
âNight, Pen,â you murmur, rubbing your eyes. âThanks again... for everything.â
âNight, gorgeous,â she calls, peering over the back of the couch. âWake me up if you hear literally anything suspicious. Or if Leia finally decides itâs my time.â
You laugh softly, blinking slowly as you turn back into your room and fall face first into bed.
THURSDAY 6:45AM
Youâre not sure whether to be relieved or concerned when you wake up to no new messages from creepy internet man. He hasnât gone quiet for this long beforeâbut if he is just a normal, slightly awkward guy with boundary issues and an internet connection, well... itâs not that hard to believe he might just be sleeping.
Garcia is already up making coffee by the time you step out of your room, trying to bribe Leia out from under the couch with a tube of tuna paste.
The second she sees you, she jumps up and launches into another long-winded explanation about login activity and movement patterns across different access points. Apparently, creepy internet man logged in from three different geographical locations over the course of a few hours last nightâwhich is normal, right? That means he was out doing normal human things, not just lurking in his motherâs basement, stalking women online.
Garcia isnât entirely convinced that him moving locations is enough to get him off the hook as the BAUâs next unsub, but it at least shuts her up until youâre both back at the office.
âHey,â Reid says as soon as you walk into the bullpen. âYou havenât been murdered.â
You frown slightly. âGood morning to you too, Spence.â
Morgan glances up from the file on his desk. âUhâwhy are we getting murdered?â
Reid gestures vaguely in your direction. âBecause sheâs potentially being cyberstalked by aââ
âOh, wow, look at the time,â you interrupt, glaring at Reid. âWouldnât it be such a shame if we all started minding our own business right about now.â
Prentiss turns in her chair, brows raised. âCyberstalked?â
âNobody is cyberstalking anybody,â you say as you drop into your chair. âAnd nobodyâs getting murderedâbut great start to the morning, everyone. Love the energy. Now leave me alone.â
Morgan chuckles quietly. âDamn. Thought you said you got laid last weekend.â
Your hands slip off the desk as you try to pull yourself closer.
âTechnically,â Reid says, âshe only implied it by refusing to answer Garciaâs question during Monday morningâs briefing.â
âAh.â Morgan leans back in his chair. âI knew this was a drought issue.â
You scowl at him. âA drought issue?â
âStatistically speaking,â Reid adds, âpeople experiencing prolonged romantic or sexual dissatisfaction often display lower frustration tolerance and increased agitation in familiar social environments.â
Morgan looks at him. âMan, just say she needs to get laid.â
âOh my God,â you snap. âI do not need to get laid. I am having a completely normal amount of sex already, thank you very muchâand frankly I think itâs deeply inappropriate that youâre all this invested in whether or not Iâm orgasming regularly.â
Reid tilts his head. âYouâre having sex?â
Morganâs brows shoot up, Prentiss chokes on her coffee, and you open your mouth to fire back at him whenâ
Someone clears their throat behind you.
Heat crawls violently up your neckâbut you donât turn around. You canât.
âBriefing room. Five minutes,â Hotch says, his voice dangerously even. âJJâs got an update on the custodial interview with Wallace.â
Morgan presses a fist against his mouth, tryingâand failingâto smother the strangled sound of laughter.
Very slowly, you turn in your chair.
Hotch is standing at the edge of the bullpen with a coffee in one hand and a file in the other. His expression is almost perfectly composed, but thereâs something dangerous lurking beneath itâsomething suspiciously close to amusement in the tightness of his mouth.
âBe right there, sir,â you blurt, lifting two fingers to your forehead in the most ill-timed attempt at a salute the FBI has ever seen.
Hotch just looks at you, the muscle in his jaw jumping once before he turns away.
You want to die.
The second his office door clicks shut behind him, Morgan drops his fist and smacks his palm flat against the desk with a choked laugh.
âOh, you are never recovering from that,â Prentiss mutters, smirking behind her coffee cup.
Morgan leans back in his chair, grinning. âBaby girl, that was painful to watch.â
You drop your head into your hands.
âYou somehow escalated the situation at every possible opportunity,â Reid says thoughtfully.
âI hate you all,â you mumble into your palms.
You spend the next half hour with your nose buried in your notebook, avoiding eye contact with the entire team while JJ explains the month-long back-and-forth that it took to finally get approval for the Wallace interview.
Apparently, the prison is limiting the interview to a single hour and reserving the right to terminate it early if the inmate becomes uncooperativeâwhich Rossi thinks is less about policy and more about Wallace trying to dictate the terms of the interaction.
Itâs not ideal, especially considering you were the one who convinced Hotch to push for the interview before Wallace is transferred to death row. His case was one of the first you ever studied during the BAU training programme, and there isnât much you wouldnât give to pick the sociopathâs brains. One hour with him feels dangerously shortâthat is, assuming Hotch actually picks you to be in the interview with him.
âWe donât have enough time to waste managing personalities in the room,â Hotch says, gathering the files in front of him. âIâll decide on a second agent and send out the interview schedule later today.â
Chairs start scraping back almost immediately, files and notebooks snapping shut as everyone gathers their things and starts filtering out of the roomâbut you donât move. You stay firmly planted in your seat, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek while you debate whether to follow Hotch into his office and ask to be part of the interview. You donât even have to be asking the questions, you just want to be there. You were the one pushing for it in the first place.
But then your brain very helpfully reminds you that Aaron Hotchner heard you say the word orgasming less than an hour ago and suddenly, being on death row yourself feels infinitely preferable to making eye contact with your unit chief.
âYou alright?â Reid asks, lingering beside you.
You sigh heavily, finally closing your notebook. âYep. Just thinking about how Iâll probably have to fake my own death and change my name after this morning.â
He shrugs. âHotch probably isnât even thinking about it anymore.â
You glance up at him hopefully.
âMorgan definitely is, though.â
You roll your eyes, letting out another resigned sigh as you stand up and follow him out of the briefing room.
The rest of the morning manages to pass without incident. You stay chained to your desk, reviewing reports and processing any files that come your way while very deliberately not glancing up any time Hotch steps out of his office. At around eleven, Morgan and JJ head out to the cafe down the street and come back with coffees for the whole team. Then thereâs a printer jam that gives the rest of the office a rare glimpse at just how angry Emily Prentiss can get when frustrated.
It isnât until just before midday that you finally get up to go to the bathroom, and when you return to your desk, thereâs one new notification in your inbox.
From: Aaron Hotchner Subject: Wallace Interview Youâre with me next Thursday. We leave at 0700.
Your stomach flips.
âWow,â Reid says, suddenly standing right beside your desk. âHe picked you pretty quickly.â
You shoot him a warning look. âSpence.â
âIâm just saying, he usually deliberates longer.â
You glance back at the screen, rereading the first five words that make your pulse skip a little faster.
âYou and Hotch do work unusually well together in confined conversational environments,â Reid adds.
You turn back to him, frowning.
He tilts his head. âThat sounded more suggestive than I intended.â
You open your mouth to tell him how deeply unhelpful heâs being when your phone buzzes twice against your deskâlike it does several times a day, but something about it feels different this time. Wrong.
You reach for it slowly, your stomach twisting tighter as you turn it over.
Two new notifications from creepy internet man. The first since last night.
You open the message threadâand your stomach drops.
DCRunner00: [Image attachment] DCRunner00: Did you and your friend have fun last night?
The image is of your apartment building. Itâs grainy, slightly crooked, clearly taken from somewhere across the streetâbut your living room windows are unmistakable. Warm light glowing through the glass. The blurred silhouette of someone inside.
Ice floods your bloodstream.
You stop breathing.
âIs that... your apartment?â Reid asks, leaning over your shoulder.
You donât answer him. You canât.
The bullpen dissolves into white noise around you.
Untilâ
âIâm done!â Garciaâs voice cuts through the static. âI canât do this anymore!â
Sheâs marching right toward you, your laptopâthat sheâd still been monitoringâtucked under one arm.
Reid gasps. âWait. Is thatââ
Morgan straightens in his chair. âWhatâs happening?â
âHotchâs office,â Garcia says, her expression dangerously stern as she stops beside your desk. âNow.â
You nod slowly, your shoes almost slipping against the carpet as you push your chair back. Reid steps aside just enough to let you stand, but before he can get too far, you reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist, silently dragging him with you as you follow Garcia back through the bullpen.
Hotch glances up the second Garcia pushes open his office door.
âWhatâs going on?â
His tone is calm, automatic, already slipping into that low, calculated cadence he uses when heâs trying to talk someone down from the ledge. His gaze moves from her to youâand something in his expression shifts. Hardens. That muscle in his jaw ticking just once before he turns back to Garcia.
âWhat happened?â he asks, sharper now.
Garcia crosses the room quickly, opening your laptop and sitting it on his desk while you hover uselessly in the doorway with Reid still caught in your grip.
Hotch glances at the screen, his eyes flicking through the messages.
Then he looks back upâright at youâand something unreadable settles across his face. Something dangerous.
âWho sent this?â
Garcia spends the next five minutes explaining the entire situation at hyper speed while you just... stand there, leaning slightly against Reid like the whole world has tilted on its axis.
Itâs funny how you can spend years building a career around finding bad people. Thinking like them. Predicting them. Profiling them. But the moment something happens to youâsomething realâthatâs when all the theory suddenly stops feeling theoretical. And maybe itâs because you know exactly what people like this are capable of, or how quickly situations like this can escalate once someone decides theyâre emotionally invested in you.
Or maybe itâs just the horrifying realisation that some part of you knew where this was heading all along. And you still didnât do anything about it until now. Not until you put yourselfâand your friendâin danger.
âGet everyone in the briefing room,â Hotch says the second Garcia finishes. âNow.â
Garcia nods once before slipping back out the door, and only then do you finally let go of Reidâs wristâmaking a mental note to apologise later for the excessive physical contact.
Hotchâs eyes drop down briefly, following the movement almost automatically. Something tightens in his expression for half a second before his attention snaps back to the laptop still open in front of him.
âReid,â he says. âPrint the entire message history and document everything. Full timeline, screenshots, attachmentsâall of it. I want copies ready for the team in ten.â
You swallow hard. âTheâthe entire message history?â
âYes,â Hotch says simply. âEvery message.â
Could this day get any worse?
Fifteen minutes later, youâre back in the briefing room with the entire team flipping through printed copies of your dating profile and messages. It almost feels like an out-of-body experience. Like one of those mortifying dreams where you watch everything unfold from above without any real ability to stop it.
âOkay,â Prentiss says. âWhere do we start?â
âVictimology,â Morgan answers immediatelyâthen he glances at you. âSorry, baby girl.â
You wave him off. âReidâs been profiling me all week. Go for it.â
Thereâs a quiet ripple of laughter around the table, but Hotch barely blinks. Heâs sitting on the opposite side, between Prentiss and JJ, with his arms folded tightly across his chest and gaze fixed on the copies spread out in front of him like heâs trying very hard not to look directly at you.
âWe need to be careful building a victimology this early,â he says evenly. âEspecially considering how well we know the victim. Personal familiarity creates bias.â
Reid tilts his head. âNormally, yes. But stalking crimes are often highly individualised.â He starts flipping through the printed messages as he talks. âStatistically speaking, stalking victims are usually targeted for a very specific reason. The motivation is generally rooted in either resentment, fixation, revenge, or romantic obsession.â
You grimace. âFantastic.â
âMost victims also know their stalkers,â Reid continues. âApproximately seventy-five percent of stalking cases involve some form of prior relationship or perceived emotional connection.â
âOkay,â JJ says carefully, looking toward you. âIs there anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge against you? Someone you arrested, rejected, testified againstâanything like that?â
You snort quietly. âDoes every criminal Iâve ever interviewed count?â
The room goes still for half a second.
âWait,â Prentiss says, sitting forward slightly. âActually, that makes sense.â
Hotchâs eyes flick up as Prentiss pushes one of the printouts into the middle of the table, tapping the page.
âThis escalation happened fast. Less than a week. Thatâs not somebody slowly building emotional trust from scratchâthatâs somebody who already came into this interaction emotionally invested.â
âOr angry,â Morgan adds.
âExactly,â Prentiss says. âHe doesnât lash out until she has Garcia over. Thatâs jealousy. Possessiveness.â
You sink lower in your chair.
âAnd he starts reacting every time she brings up her boss,â Rossi says, flipping through the printouts. âThatâs territorial behaviour. Heâs fixating on a prominent male figure in her life.â
âNot the only one fixating on him,â Reid murmurs beside you.
You elbow him immediately.
âOw.â
Hotch glances up sharply. âSomething to add, Reid?â
Reid straightens. âUhâno. No, I think Rossi covered it.â
Hotchâs eyes narrow slightly, like he knows thereâs something heâs missing, but he lets it go.
âGarcia,â he says instead, âtell me you found something useful.â
âOh, I found things,â Garcia says immediately, the rapid clacking of her keyboard echoing loudly through the conference room speaker. âDeeply unsettling things. Our creepy little internet goblin has been very busy.â
Prentiss frowns slightly, mouthing âinternet goblinâ across the table to JJ.
âOkay, soâprofile was created nine days ago using a burner email and a VPN bouncing between three different states, which normally would make me want to set my computer on fire, but our boy got sloppy.â
Hotch leans forward slightly. âHow sloppy?â
âSloppy enough that one login pinged off a public Wi-Fi network less than six blocks from her apartment last night,â she says. âAnd before anybody asks, yes, Iâm already pulling traffic cams.â
Hotch nods once, already shifting into command mode.
âMorgan, Prentissâstart canvassing within a ten-block radius of her apartment. Garcia will feed you anything useful from the traffic cams. JJ, coordinate with local PD and see if thereâve been any complaints of suspicious activity in the area. Peeping, prowlers, stalking complaintsâanything that fits this escalation pattern. Rossi, start pulling names from old cases. Anybody with a history of fixation, stalking behaviour, or inappropriate attachment to investigators. Garcia, keep digging and keep me posted.â
Everyone starts moving immediately, papers shuffling and chairs scraping back as the room shifts into motion.
âI want to help,â you say suddenly. âThis is my mess, let me fix it.â
âYou can help,â he says evenly, âby going home, locking your doors, and staying there until we know exactly what weâre dealing with.â
You open your mouth to argue.
âI mean it,â he adds, voice low.
âIâll take her,â Reid offers immediately.
âNo,â Hotch says, gathering the printouts into one neat pile. âYou go with Morgan and Prentiss.â
Then his eyes flick up, meeting yours.
âIâm taking her home.â
The next hour is one of the strangest of your life.
Hotch tells you to take your laptop back down to Garcia, whoâs already in full FBI investigation modeâher screens covered in maps, metadata, CCTV stills, and enlarged screenshots of your own dating profile staring back at you in horrifying definition. When you finally make it back to your desk, Rossi spends twenty straight minutes walking you through every violent offender youâve interviewed in the last three years, forcing you to revisit dozens of interactions youâd long since filed away as routine.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morgan drops a schematic of your apartment building onto your desk and starts questioning you about entrances, exits, blind spots, and security cameras while Reid quietly replaces the coffee you forgot existed an hour ago. It isnât until Morgan leaves and JJ immediately takes his place beside you that you realise nobody has let you out of their sight for more than a few minutes at a time.
Then, finally, Hotch steps out of his officeâfiles in one hand and his go-bag in the other, like he fully intends on staying the night if necessary.
âReady?â he asks, stopping beside your desk.
You stare at the go-bag for one long, deeply horrified second.
âYep,â you manage, voice tight as you slowly push out of your chair.
Hotch drives. You donât even try to argue. You just sit in the passenger seat with your knees pressed together and your heart beating out of your chest. Itâs not like you havenât been in the car with him before. You have, plenty of times. This just feels... different.
Neither of you speak until he cuts the engine in the parking garage of your building, and you have to try very hard not to dwell on the fact that he hadnât asked for directions the whole way here.
âWait,â he mutters before climbing out of the car.
He grabs his bag from the back, then moves around the car and opens your door.
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to unbuckle your seatbeltâyour hands are shaking and your pulse is still pounding hard enough to make you dizzyâbut once you finally do, you slip out of the car and lead him toward the fire stairs.
He never leaves more than a foot of distance between you. Never checks his phone. Never glances down. He stays glued to your side like a real protection detail. And thanks to your avid and wildly inappropriate imagination, youâve already mentally written an entire bodyguard romance plot starring Aaron Hotchner and yours truly by the time you finally reach your apartment door.
âIâuhâwasnât really expecting company,â you say as you push the door open. âSorry.â
The second you step inside, Leia leaps off the couch with a loud, rumbling trillâprobably wondering why youâre home before dark for the first time in years.
Hotch pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. âYou have a cat.â
You glance back at him as you kick your shoes off and nudge them out of the way. âIs that really the most surprising thing youâve learned about me today?â
He watches Leia for another second before glancing back at you. âItâs unexpected.â
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart skips when he quietly toes off his shoes beside the door without even asking. Like he already expects to stay awhile.
Leia chirrups again as she pads through the living room toward you, no doubt about to demand an early dinnerâuntil she catches sight of Hotch and abruptly stops short. Her ears flicker, her tail waving from side to side as she assesses the new man in her apartment.
Hotch crouches slightly, holding one hand out toward her.
âOh, she doesnât really like people,â you say quickly. âSo donât take it personally if sheââ
Leia immediately walks straight up to him. She sniffs his hand once before pressing directly into his palm with a loud purr rumbling through her entire body.
Your eyes go wide.
Traitor.
Hotchâs mouth twitches faintly as Leia leans harder into his hand.
Oh my God. Are you jealous of your cat right now?
He gives Leia one final scratch behind the ears before straightening, the softness in his expression fading almost immediately as he slips back into work mode. He scans the apartment briefly before setting the files down on your tiny dining table and shrugging his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair.
You stand there for a second longer than you probably should, watching him move through your apartment with the same calm focus he brings to crime scenes and briefing rooms and interrogation tables. He checks the windows, the balcony doors, glances brieflyâthank Godâinto your bedroom, then double-checks the locks on the front door.
The whole thing feels weirdly surreal. Youâve imagined Aaron Hotchner inside your apartment a thousand times in a thousand different waysâjust not like this. And nothing you imagined could have possibly prepared you for the reality of it. The way everything feels so much smaller. Warmer. More exposed.
Every object in every room suddenly feels mortifyingly personal.
If he lingers long enough in your kitchen, heâs going to notice the unusually empty trash can and realise you survive almost entirely on caffeine and convenience. If he looks too closely at your bookshelf, heâs going to find an unhealthy collection of romance novels with more trigger warnings than plot points. And if he looks into your bedroom again and turns his head just a little more to the right, heâs going to see your vibrator sitting on the nightstandâand then youâll actually have to fake your own death.
Because youâve spent years carefully curating a version of yourself that keeps people from looking too closely. Flirty. Casual. Detached enough to joke about bad dates and hookups and sex without anybody ever realising that none of it means anything. Itâs easier that way. Easier to let everyone assume your attention is scattered in every direction instead of fixed very specifically on the one person you absolutely cannot have.
But this?
This feels dangerously close to being found out.
The next couple of hours pass in strange, uneven waves of normalcy and low-grade psychological torture.
Hotch sits at your tiny dining table without complaint, dwarfing it as he hunches over files and asks careful questions about your routines, your neighbours, and whether anyone in the building has seemed overly interested in you recently. His phone rings a lot, which isnât unusual, and every time he answers it you spend almost the entire conversation staring unashamed at the way his shirt pulls tight across his back when he reaches for another printout.
Which is wildly inappropriate considering the circumstances, but you canât really help it. Youâre strung out, on edge, and, as Morgan so helpfully pointed out this morning, severely under-fucked.
And Leia, unfortunatelyâbut not unsurprisinglyâremains no help whatsoever.
By seven oâclock sheâs fully abandoned you in favour of draping herself across Hotchâs lap while he reviews new data from Garcia, completely oblivious to the fact that you havenât been able to breathe normally since he walked through the door.
âAre you hungry?â you ask eventually, moving back into the kitchen as if you have anything in there to offer.
Hotch glances up from his laptop, one hand resting absently against Leiaâs back while she purrs in his lap.
âIâm fine.â
You lean a hip against the kitchen counter, folding your arms tightly across your chest. âAny updates?â
He glances back down at his screen. âGarcia narrowed the traffic footage down to three vehicles that stayed in the area longer than they should haveâMorgan and Prentiss are running the plates now. And Rossiâs pulling relatives connected to your previous cases. Family members who attended trials, sentencing hearings, interviews. Anyone who mightâve had access to your name outside the official reports.â
You nod slowly, silence settling again for a moment before you exhale sharply.
âAre you sure sitting here doing absolutely nothing is really the best use of me right now?â
His eyes flick back up, that signature Hotchner scowl set between his brows.
âYou think this is nothing?â
His voice stays calm, but thereâs something firmer underneath it now.
âYouâve spent the last four days being threatened, surveilled, and followed by someone we still havenât identified,â he says. âMorgan, Prentiss, and Reid are out chasing leads because somebody targeted you. Rossiâs pulling case files because somebody targeted you. Garciaâs been at her desk for six straight hours because somebody targeted you.â
His jaw tightens slightly.
âMy job right now is making sure nothing happens to you,â he says quietly. âLet me do that.â
Your breath catches, something warm and uncomfortably familiar twisting in your chest as Aaron Hotchner just sits there watching you like he hasnât said anything unusual at all.
Which, to him, maybe he hasnât.
Heâs just doing his job. Looking out for his team. Heâs not here because he wants to be. Heâs here because someone threatened one of his agents.
Thatâs all.
You clear your throat, pushing away from the counter before the silence stretches too long. âIâmâuhâIâm just going to shower quickly. If thatâs alright.â
He nods once. âWant me to clear theââ
âNo,â you say immediately. âGod, no. No. Itâs fine. Totally fine.â
His brows pull together slightly, confusion flickering briefly across his face before you turn and hurry into your bedroom, shutting the door a little harder than necessary behind you.
Then you take the longest shower known to mankind. You stand beneath the scalding spray for at least ten minutes before even touching anything. Then you scrub, exfoliate, shave, condition, rinse twice, and stand there for just a little longer before finally gathering the courage to step out. All the while trying desperately not to think about the fact that your unit chief is only two thin walls away while youâre dripping wet and completely naked.
You rummage through your dresser until you find an oversized sweater that isnât totally threadbare and a clean pair of pyjama shorts. Technically, theyâre just striped flannel pants you cut into shorts, but at least theyâre not as short as the rest of your pyjama collection that definitely needs replacing.
If only you actually had time for things like shopping... and emotional stability.
âNo, wait for Morgan before you approach,â Hotch says as you step quietly back into the living room, phone pressed against his ear while he paces slowly beside the dining table. âIf the registrationâs fake, I donât want you making contact until we know exactly whoâs inside.â
He pauses, expression sharpening slightly.
âAlright. Keep me updated.â
He lowers the phone slowly before looking over at you for the first time since you re-emergedâand for half a second, he visibly loses his train of thought. Itâs only tiny. Barely there. Just a brief pause before his expression shutters back into place.
âGarcia tracked one of the vehicles from the traffic footage to a motel outside Arlington,â he says, glancing back down at the files scattered across the table. âThe driverâs been masking his activity through multiple VPNs, so she couldnât pull a clean trace from the motel Wi-Fi, but only one room in the motel was actively using the network.â
Your stomach tightens.
âThe name on the reservation was fake,â he continues, âbut the room was paid for using a credit card belonging to Daniel Mercer.â
The name hits you immediately.
âEthan Mercerâs brother,â you say quietly.
Hotch nods. âRossi confirmed it about twenty minutes ago. Morgan and Prentiss are waiting for local PD before they move in.â
You nod slowly, your pulse fluttering anxiously in your throat as you move toward the kitchen. Not because you actually need anything in there, but because standing still feels almost impossible right now.
âEthan barely spoke during the trial,â you murmur, folding your arms as you lean back against the counter. âI donât think I ever even met his brother.â
âYou wouldnât need to,â Hotch says, already gathering the files into a neat pile. âPeople build attachments to investigators without ever interacting directly. Especially when theyâre looking for someone to blame.â
Your skin prickles. âYou really think itâs him?â
âIt fits,â Hotch replies evenly. âEstablished emotional investment, personal motive, no prior record. Which explains the inconsistency. The escalation without follow-through. The long gaps between contact attempts. He knows enough to be cautious, but not enough to stay controlled.â
He straightens, turning back toward youâand for the briefest second, his eyes drop to your bare legs before snapping back up to your face almost immediately.
He clears his throat. âThis probably isnât something heâs done before. But his brother has.â
The apartment falls quiet again after that. Hotch returns to collecting files while you stare absently toward the dark balcony doors, your pulse still refusing to settle beneath your skin.
âWell,â you mutter eventually, gripping the edge of the counter to hoist yourself up. âOn the bright side, I still think Iâve dated worse.â
The joke leaves your lips lightly enough, the same way they always doâeasy, detached, halfway between genuine and ironic so nobody ever pauses long enough to look too closely.
Except this time Hotch does pause.
âWhy do you do that?â
You frown. âDo what?â
âDeflect.â He straightens again, one hand still holding a stack of printouts. âEvery time something gets too serious, you make a joke. Or you flirt. Or you say something just inappropriate enough to throw people off balance.â
You lift a shoulder. âMaybe Iâm just charming.â
âNo.â His eyes narrow slightly, brows pulling together. âNo, because it changes depending on the situation.â
Your pulse stutters.
âWith Morgan itâs competitive,â he continues, setting the papers back on the table. âYou tease him because he pushes back and it keeps conversations superficial. Garcia gets exaggerated stories because she responds emotionally instead of analytically. Half the things you say to Reid are specifically designed to make him flustered enough to stop examining what you actually mean.â
âWow,â you murmur, shifting your weight against the countertop. âStarting to feel a little attacked here.â
But Hotch doesnât seem to hear you.
âThe dating profile doesnât fit,â he says, almost to himself. âNeither does the apartment.â
Your stomach twists as his gaze moves briefly across the room. The bookshelves. The carefully organised clutter. Leia now curled up asleep on the couch.
âYou project someone impulsive. Social. Sexually confident. But nothing in here supports that.â His eyes flick back toward you again. âYou live like someone who protects their space carefully. Even the cat.â
âLeave Leia out of this.â
âShe doesnât like strangers.â
âShe likes you.â
The words slip out too quickly, and something in his expression shifts.
âYou keep people at a distance,â he continues slowly, close enough now that you can hear the quiet rasp beneath his voice. âEven the team. You let people think they know you because it keeps them from looking closer.â He hesitates, brow furrowing. âExcept Reid.â
Your fingers tighten instinctively around the edge of the counter.
âYou trust him,â Hotch says. âNot just socially. Behaviourally. You anchor yourself to him when youâre stressed. Physical proximity. Eye contact. Redirecting conversations through him.â He pauses, watching you carefully now. âAnd earlier you said heâd been profiling you all week.â
Oh God.
âWhich means Reid already noticed the pattern.â
He goes quiet for a moment, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as he looks back over the last few monthsâyearsâin real time. You can practically see it happening behind his eyes. Every interaction. Every joke. Every look you thought youâd hidden quickly enough.
âYou track me.â
The words come quieter now. Less certain. Like heâs still realising them.
âYou know my routines,â he continues slowly. âYou anticipate questions before I ask them. You look up when you hear my office door open even when you canât see me.â He steps closer again. âYou know when I need coffee before I do. You watch my reactions before anyone else in the room.â
Your breath stutters.
And Hotch notices immediately.
His expression shifts slightly as his eyes flick across your face, your posture, your hands still locked around the edge of the counter hard enough that your knuckles have gone pale beneath the kitchen lights.
âYour breathing changes when I get too close to you,â he says quietly.
He takes another slow step forward, close enough now that you have to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him.
âYou stop fidgeting,â he continues. âYou go completely still.â His gaze drops briefly to your hands before lifting again. âLike youâre afraid movement alone is going to give you away.â
Your heart is beating so hard now youâre half-convinced he can hear it.
âYou lose verbal fluency,â he says, voice lower now. âYou trip over words you normally wouldnât. Your pupils dilate. Your heart rate increases. And every single time I get close to noticing itââ
His eyes lock onto yours.
âYou redirect.â
You can barely breathe now.
Heâs standing right in front of you, close enough that the heat rolling off him sinks straight into your skin, close enough that one more step would put him between your knees where youâre perched on the counter.
And somehow the worst part is that he still sounds calm. Thoughtful. Like Aaron Hotchner is profiling you with the same careful focus heâd bring to an unsubâexcept this time the thing heâs slowly uncovering is the fact that youâve been hopelessly in love with him this entire time.
You swallow hard, your gaze catching just briefly on his mouth before you drag it back up to his eyes, pulse hammering so hard you can barely think straight.
âFigured it out yet, Agent Hotchner?â you ask softly.
He goes still for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as his eyes drop to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
The apartment suddenly feels oppressively quiet.
His throat shifts slightly.
And thenâ
His phone rings.
He steps back immediately, his expression shuttering back into something careful and unreadable.
âHotchner,â he says, pressing his phone against his ear.
You donât hear much after that. Not really. You recognise Morganâs muffled voice, but you canât quite hear what heâs saying. Not while Hotch slowly paces your living room. You catch fragments of the conversation. Questions. Short answers. The low, steady cadence of his voice slipping effortlessly back into work mode while your own nervous system continues actively collapsing in on itself.
Because holy fuck.
Holy fuck.
What the hell just happened?
âThey got him.â
Your head snaps up. âThey what?â
Hotch moves back to the dining table and starts gathering his things.
âIt was him. Daniel Mercer,â he says. âMorgan and Prentiss found him in the motel room with multiple burner phones, printed screenshots from the dating profile, and enough surveillance material to establish intent.â
âOh.â
âLocal PD recovered notebooks too,â he continues. âNames, schedules, work addresses. Everyone connected to Ethan Mercerâs conviction. Judges, prosecutors, witnesses. You were first because you were the arresting agent.â
A cold shiver slips down your spine.
âGarcia also confirmed the motel Wi-Fi matched the same VPN chain used to access the dating profile,â Hotch adds. âOnce Mercer realised the Bureau was involved, the direct contact stopped. After that he shifted to surveillance. Morgan said the room was covered in trial material. Photos. Notes. Newspaper clippings. Heâd been building the grievance for months.â
He pauses, then looks at you.
âBut they got him.â
âGood,â you say quietly.
Hotch nods once before turning back to the dining table, slipping his laptop into his bag with careful efficiency before gathering every file and printout into one neat pile.
âLocal PD will hold Mercer overnight until federal transport clears,â he says, sliding the papers into his bag. âGarciaâs already started coordinating with the U.S. Attorneyâs Office. Youâll need to give an additional statement tomorrow regarding the dating profile.â
You nod. âOkay.â
Hotch reaches for his jacket, draping it over one arm.
âThereâll still be additional officers patrolling the area tonight,â he says. âAnd if you donât want to be alone, I can have Reid or Garcia stay here.â
âIâll be fine,â you mutter, glancing down at the kitchen tiles. âYou can stop babysitting me now.â
Hotch stills.
Then slowly, deliberately, sets his jacket on the table.
âBabysitting?â he repeats.
âYou know what I mean.â
He steps toward you, brows drawn. âI donât think I do.â
âYou solved the case,â you mutter, heat crawling up the back of your neck. âYou profiled me. Thoroughly. So congratulations, I guess. You figured out the whole sad little secret, the weird avoidance issues, the entire personality disorder cocktailââ You let out a short, humourless laugh. âYou can go back to pretending none of this ever happened now.â
He closes the distance between you before you even fully realise heâs moving, stopping directly in front of the counter again. Exactly where heâd been when you asked him if heâd figured it out. Close enough that you can feel his warmth. Close enough that you can see the day-old shadow of stubble lining his jaw.
âYouâre being deliberately provocative now because youâre embarrassed,â he says. âBut embarrassment isnât actually your primary response here.â
His gaze drops to your mouth again, and your pulse stumbles.
âIf it was,â he adds quietly, âyou wouldnât still be looking at me like that.â
Your breath catches in your throat.
You want to say something. Anything. Another joke. Another deflection. Something sharp enough to cut through the tension in the air and stop him looking at you like this. Exposing you like this.
But you canât.
All you can do is stare at him. At the steady intensity in his eyes. At the way his tie has loosened slightly over the course of the night. At the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the white shirt youâve spent an embarrassing number of years picturing on your bedroom floor.
You swallow hard, and he notices. Of course he does.
Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer. Less guarded.
His hand comes up beneath your jaw, his thumb pressing gently into your chin as he pulls you closer. You fall forward without hesitation, and he leans in, dark eyes still searching yours as if he isnât entirely sure he has permission yet.
Then he kisses you.
Itâs not rushed. Not messy. If anything, the first press of his mouth against yours feels almost unbearably controlled, like heâs still holding himself back even now.
But the restraint doesnât last long.
Your hand catches his tie, tugging him closer, and something rough slips from the back of his throat as he steps in, his hips slotting between your thighs. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt your head back exactly as far as he wants it.
Your lips part against his with a broken sound, and he deepens it slowly, his tongue moving against yours like he has all the time in the world. Tasting you. Learning you. Mapping every small sound and ragged exhale with the same focused intensity he brings to everythingâand somehow thatâs what undoes you the most. Not urgency. Attention.
His breath mingles with yours, hot and uneven, and when his teeth catch your bottom lip itâs deliberate, measuredâa sharp little spark shooting straight through your spine. Your hips roll toward him without permission, and his answering groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating beneath your palm and making you ache everywhere youâve been starving for him.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you properly again. His hand still tangled in your hair. Thumb dragging once across your jaw. His eyes move over your face with the same intensity he uses in every debrief, every case, every crisis, except right now you are the thing heâs making sure of.
Like he needs to be absolutely certain this is real.
âAaronââ
âBedroom,â he says immediately, voice low and rough enough to send heat crashing straight through you. âNow.â
FRIDAY 6:15AM
Your alarm blares somewhere beside the bed, startling you awake hard enough that your heart immediately starts pounding. You reach for it blindly, determined to silence it before it wakesâ
Oh God.
The second your hand hits the snooze button, you freeze.
Your heart is beating faster now, your pulse thrumming in your throat as you turn slowlyâso slowlyâtoward the other side of the bed, where Aaron fucking Hotchner stirs sleepily.
Your stomach swoops.
You slept with your boss last night.
With a shallow, shaky breath, you carefully start to move. His arm is heavy at your waist, but you manage to slip out from underneath it without fully waking him. You shove the covers off and shiver at the sudden exposure, leaning over the side of the bed to find your discarded sweater. You pull it over your head before quietly padding toward the ensuite, refusing to glance back at your very hot, very naked unit chief still tangled in your sheets.
You only just make it around the other side of the bed before something tugs at the back of your sweater. You stop, glancing back to find Hotch half-awake, eyes half-lidded with one hand caught at the hem of your sweater.
âDo you really get up this early?â he asks, voice rough with sleep.
âYeah,â you murmur. âMost days.â
His brows pull together slightly. âWhy?â
You let out a small, breathless laugh. âBecause my boss is kind of a hard ass about punctuality.â
Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face.
âSounds like a terrible boss,â he murmurs.
Then he tugs on your sweater againâhard enough this time that you let out a startled laugh as you stumble backward onto the mattress and into him. He catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist before you can even fully recover, pulling you back against the warmth of his chest.
âYeah,â you murmur, laughing softly as his mouth brushes beneath your ear. âHeâs awful. Very demanding.â
He hums, breath warm against your skin.
âHeâs really hot, though,â you add, smiling despite yourself. âSo I like having time to put in a little effort, you know? Hope he notices.â
âOh, he notices.â
Your stomach flips. âReally?â
âMhm.â
His arm tightens around your waist. âHe notices the skirts.â
Heat floods your face. âAaronââ
âHe notices the tights.â His mouth brushes against the nape of your neck. âThe ones with the seam up the back.â
âOh my God.â
You try to turn your face into the pillow, but he just holds you tighter, pressing his lips firm against your neck.
âAnd the red bra,â he murmurs.
Your breath catches.
âNoticed that so much I had to wait until everyone left the conference room before I could get up.â
You let out a strangled sound, squirming in his arms, but itâs no use. His chest vibrates against your back, something suspiciously close to laughter.
âMy washing machine broke that week,â you whine. âIt wasnât my fault.â
âMm, sure.â
You twist around immediately. âIâm not lying.â
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he doesnât quite believe you, but before you can protest againâhe kisses you. Warm, slow, sleep-soft. His mouth moves against yours almost lazily, his hand tightening slightly at your waist when a pathetic little whimper slips out before you can stop it.
âCareful,â you murmur, breathless against his mouth. âDonât want to be late.â
You feel his lips curve.
âGood thing Iâm the boss.â
10:35AM
You made it to work well on time. Even after three orgasms, a shower, and an awkward attempt at a âWhat Now?â conversationâthat ended in the aforementioned third orgasm. Because fortunately for your rapidly fraying nervous system, Hotch hadnât even hesitated when youâd finally asked what happens next. In fact, heâd answered a little too quickly.
The first thing heâd asked was whether youâd be comfortable keeping things quiet for a while. Not because heâs worried about the team finding outâhe trusts them. Trusts you. The concern is Strauss, and the Bureau, and keeping you in the BAU while he figures out exactly how much trouble the two of you have just created for yourselves. At some point heâd even started muttering about reporting structures and supervisory chains, half-thinking out loud while pulling on his tie. Something about possibly moving your reporting line over to Rossi. Something else about needing to review the Bureauâs fraternisation policies before making any moves.
That was when you kissed himâeffectively, and very quickly, kicking off round three.
Because heâd clearly been thinking about this for a while, which means Aaron Hotchner has been noticing a lot more than just short skirts and inappropriately coloured underwear. It means that the second he decided to kiss you in your apartment last night, heâd already known exactly what he was getting himself into.
âAlright, gorgeous,â Morgan says, startling you as he raps a knuckle against your desk. âTheyâll be ready for you downstairs in ten.â
You glance up at him, brows drawnâand it takes an embarrassingly long second for you to figure out what heâs talking about.
âOh.â You blink. âRight. Yeah, Iâll head down soon. Thanks.â
Prentiss looks over from her desk. âYou gonna be okay?â
You lift a shoulder. âSure. Whatâs another case report?â
Morgan frowns, dropping into his chair. âItâs not exactly every day youâre the victim, baby girl.â
âYeah, but nothing really happened.â
Morgan and Prentiss both stare at you.
âBecause of the team,â you add quickly. âYou guys caught him before he actually did anything. So... you know, nothing bad happened.â You plaster on a smile that feels reasonably convincing. âThanks for that, by the way.â
Prentiss narrows her eyes, but before she can say anything else, Reid appears.
âYouâre in a remarkably good mood for someone who was being actively cyberstalked twelve hours ago,â he says, stirring his second coffee of the day.
You turn back to your screen, trying to ignore the heat creeping into your cheeks. âMaybe I just have a newfound appreciation for life.â
Reid studies you for a moment, clearly unconvincedâbut he doesnât push. He just moves slowly back toward his desk, setting his coffee down with unnecessary care while the rest of the team turn away, finally deciding to mind their own business.
You force your attention back to the report in front of you, determined to at least look productive for the next ten minutesâwhen a familiar voice cuts through your concentration.
âRossiâs taking Wallace with you next week,â Hotch says, setting the file down on your desk.
You blink up at him. âI thought you were leading the interview.â
âI was.â
Something in his expression tightens briefly before he lowers his voice.
âWallace has a long history of using sex, intimidation, and emotional targeting to destabilise people during interviews,â he says. âEspecially women.â
You frown. âHotch, Iââ
âAnd if he says something to you in that room,â he continues evenly, âor looks at you the wrong way, I need to know the agent sitting beside you is still capable of thinking objectively.â
Your stomach flips as his eyes meet yoursâsteady, intense, devastatingly honest.
âRight now,â he says quietly, âIâm not sure thatâs me.â
Then heâs gone. Moving through the bullpen back toward his office like he hasnât just set your pulse racing and your head spinning. You watch after him for a moment before shaking your head, glancing back at your computer screen as if youâd been focused on it at all in the first place.
ââŠHuh.â
You turn toward the sound and find Reid staring at you again. Not rudely. Just watching with the same focused curiosity heâd been wearing since your suspiciously cheerful comment about cyberstalking.
He tilts his head.
Thenâ
âOh my God.â
You close your eyes. âSpencer⊠donât.â
© 2026 geminiwritten
HYUNJIN & FELIX 'THUNDEROUS' @ GOV BALL
Hey Lix, why not just take it all off yeah? [screams erupt]
HYUNJIN ⊠@ GOV BALL 2026
HYUNJIN ⊠"ITEM" @ GOV BALL 2026
HYUNJIN 'LALALALA' @ GOV BALL
oh hey sorry Iâve been distant latelyâŠ. Iâve been really busy having a brain that is bad
hyunjin on bubble: im in a good mood
In your 20s, you'll feel like you're losing the race. It's important to understand that there is no race.
đđ§ đšđđ đđš đđĄđ đ§đąđ đĄđ đŹđĄđąđđ â đŁ.đ.
summary: the inside of your mind has always been an anxious place. you once thought no one could understand exactly how you feel. but when you start working the night shift, your attending makes it look easy.
pairing: anxious, intern!reader x jack abbot
word count: 24.1k
warnings/tags: anxious/night shift/intern reader, attending jack, descriptions of ptsd/anxiety from pittfest, as much medical jargon/scenarios as i could fit in, power imbalance relationship (and the associated guilt!), yellow mug mentions galore! descriptions of being creeped out by an uncomfortable patient, as much slowburn as i could try, smut - oral (f receiving), cute first time with jack things. unprotected sex, jack likes overstimulating you, lots of gratuitous praise kink, they really are a couple of idiots in love. one (1) emma x joy mention because i adore them. robby would not behave like this towards anxious reader, but for the sake of fiction, i suppose...
ao3 link
based off of the night shift reader blurbs
thank you to my amazing beta reader @attheheartofmylove without whom i'm certain this would have never been finished âĄ
though you didnât really understand it at first, you now know clearly, that the attendings have their own favorites.
theyâre all cut from the same clothâhigh achieving, independent, confident. they rattle off the answers to complex questions and are caught up on the latest literature and theyâre the ideal resident, each in their own way.
you are not one of them. you think robby tolerates your slowness and your occasional confusion and profoundly apparent lack of confidence because itâs been a couple months since the pittfest shooting, and he feels bad.Â
it makes sense from the outside, you suppose. you are just an intern. you thought the whole point of this year was to adapt and understand and try to figure out where you fit in within the food chain that is the hospital hierarchy.Â
day to day it depends on the senior resident youâre assigned to. you try, really hard, to stay caught up, to not let your mind wander, to have the right answer and make diagnoses as quickly as you can.
you think maybe thereâs just something wrong with you. it hadnât always been like this. you were getting better.Â
and then everything happened and its felt like one step forward, two steps backward ever since.
robby is the one that finally caves and approaches you. he must have gotten enough complaints, or he must be fed up with your zoning out and freezing up, because he pulls you aside for a chat at eight in the morning.
âhow do you feel about switching to the night shift for a little?âÂ
his idea, as heâd explained it to you, was that maybe being on the night shift would help your skills to grow. that the pace and the little extra time in between patients and dr. abbotâs tutelage might help you get more adjusted to the environment.Â
i am adjusting, you want to argue, iâm trying my best. but your best is not enough when it comes to life and death.Â
you know where your faults lie. slow to get to the answer, slow to move without thinking. even your muscle memory is slowâyou feel like youâre always waiting for someone to tell you what to do, before you start doing it, just to make sure youâre not doing the wrong thing.Â
it hurts your chest to think about it. youâd matched emergency medicine wide-eyed and excited. itâs hard to think about when you enjoyed the hustle and bustle, thought it was exhilarating to be in trauma rooms instead of terrifying, when you were excited to help people with their bad days and stopping them from getting any worse.
itâs you now that has the perpetual bad day. coated in embarrassment and anxiety, worried sick that youâre not doing good enough, that youâre going to be on the chopping block if you donât get it together.
and then the rush of gurneys and yelling brings you back to the chaos of pittfest in an instant, and you think dealing with the triage patientsâ burns and sutures is all the commotion you can handle for now.Â
on your last day shift for the foreseeable future, you tell dana that youâll see her at sign-offs tomorrow night.Â
âyou sure youâre doing okay, kid?â she asks, and you feel her concern like itâs something visible hanging in the air.Â
youâre not doing okay. you donât know the last time you felt okay.Â
but youâre also not a nutcase. you donât need any rumors at work that youâre not cut out for thisâyou donât need to feel that burden weighing down on you, not on top of the others that are already there. you donât think you could handle it, donât think your own brain would let you process it. you might be close to giving up if that happens.
you snap out of it when dana repeats your name.
âiâm okay,â you lie, âjust not sure about this sleep schedule. i need to set up my black-out curtains,â you say with a forced laugh, hoping she canât see right through you.Â
dana looks back at you a little quizzically, like sheâs trying to figure out the real meaning behind your words, but she gets called away before she can finish her assessment.
âjust let me know if you need something, okay?âÂ
âi will,â you lie again. it sucksâyou donât like lying to dana. sheâs everyoneâs work-mom and you know she actually cares.
maybe you donât fully understand it yourself. you want to tell someone how you feel, but you donât want to put your burden on her shoulders either, not when she already has so much going on, so much to worry about.Â
itâd be unfair, you conclude as you head out for your walk to the bus-stop.Â
itâd be unfair to put the task of helping you and listening to you and fixing you to someone elseâs already long to-do list.Â
and as you go to sleep that night, trying to stay up as late as you can to sleep in as much as you can, you thinkâand maybe hope a little bit tooâthat robby is right. maybe night shift is what you need.
đà§
âsheâs not doing that good,â robby admits, his eyes following you as you handle your triage sign-offs with parker. he turns back to jack. âsheâs anxious. a little slow, but iâm not saying that-â
whatever robby is saying to him briefly fades into background noise. jackâs eyes go to where robby was lookingâwatching you for a moment.
he knows who you are. he knows your name, knows youâre an intern. he knows robby is mildly concerned about you, knows that he set you up in triage and chairs because you were having trouble with the trauma cases.Â
jack knows that itâs not rightâan intern needs to experience what it feels like to be in the thick of it. thereâs no short-cuts when you become a second year and third year and beyondâyou have to know how to conduct yourself. itâs a non-negotiable part of the residency program, itâs how their program creates competent residents and good doctors.
he follows you with his eyes again. you blink fast and play with your necklace while explaining the last of your cases.Â
he knows youâre going through the pertinent history, the acute presentation, your assessment and treatment plans and whatâs left to monitor for continuity of care.
itâs not what youâre saying. itâs how you say it. you look like your heart is racing, like someoneâs about to cut your tether to the hospital if you say the wrong thing. like youâre waiting for someone to stop you and tell you that youâve messed up.
even from the across the room he can tell somethingâs wrong. he feels something strange move around his brain and make its way into his chest. he dismisses it immediatelyâmaybe itâs because he hadnât noticed the issues youâve been having himself. jack thinks heâs usually pretty good at that sort of thing.
when parker moves on to the next patient and cassie takes over, jack is still looking at you. your shoulders, which seem to be perpetually up by your ears, relax a little. you let go of your necklace and take a deep breath.
âjack?â robbyâs voice says, and he doesnât hear it until robby repeats himself.
âyeah?â jack answers, turning back to face robby.Â
âso, what dâyou think? does it sound like a good plan?â
âwhat plan?â
âhave her come to night shift for a little while. show her the ropes. work her way back up. sounds good?â
honestly, jack canât tell if it does sound good or not. on one hand, thereâs less residents working on the night shift. thereâs not as much cherry-picking, and everyone has to lend their hand equally. you would get to see everything youâve been missing out on during the day shift.Â
heâs sure that parker could guide you well. jack thinks for a moment that taking on another responsibility wouldnât be a good idea, but watching your sullen expression as you finish sign outs, like youâre counting down the seconds until you can leave, he thinks itâd be better to get you help now, rather than delaying the inevitable.
jack almost snorts. heâs one to talk.Â
he concludes that maybe this might be a good idea given that youâre only an intern and you still have so much to learn and youâre much too young to be stuck in this feeling forever. your sad expression lingers in his head even after youâve walked back to the lockers.
maybe, just maybe, jack could help with that.
when he looks up at robby to respond, heâs half way across the room.
âthanks a lot, brother,â robby half-shouts, and this time, jack does groan.Â
well after the day shift has left, he tries to think about the best plan of approach. he has to tell parker, obviously, since some of the responsibility will fall on her too. heâll tell john the next time he sees him.Â
he could start you slow. a step-up from chairs triage, starting with some urgent cases and working your way up.Â
if too many people is the problem, youâll be good as gold after a few shifts. he thinks about the rest of the plan, how he can get you started on incoming traumas and maybe if thereâs something you can read to work on a step-by-step approach, if thatâs where the issue liesâhe doesnât know since robby didnât tell him anything elseâbut he gets distracted all at once.
your sad, pretty face hasnât left his mind since robby pointed you out. jack canât tell exactly why, but it feels unfair, almost. unfair to you that this is what youâre going through during your first year as a doctor.Â
jack understands the nerves. he would expect you to be nervous, everyone is. itâs the fact that itâs not followed by excited. nervous and excited.Â
nervous and excited and gaining confidence, all things you should be feeling.Â
itâs the combination you have instead that worries him. nervous and anxious and sad and pensive.Â
and well, if thatâs what youâre going through, maybe he can help you after all.
đà§
jack doesnât know how much robbyâs told you. he keeps it simple on your first shift of nightsâtells you that youâll be working on the remainder of the patients from the morning and then jumping on the most urgent of the chairs alongside parker until you feel (or he decides) that youâre ready to handle it solo.Â
jack doesnât know what he expects from you, if anything.Â
itâs a colder night than usual, and you wear a cream-colored underscrub with the sleeves pulled over your hands. he notices a jacket on the chair behind you, baby pink. and just before he approached you, you set down a yellow water bottle.
but when he meets your eyes, the words go out the window.Â
sad and pretty. you look at him with your full attention, like looking away would get you in trouble. you nod to everything he says, even though he knows you must be getting anxious at his words. you try to hide it well, but your handsâchewed nails, he noticesâgo to your necklace right away.
huh, jack thinks. so thatâs your tell.Â
and just before he leaves, heading out to finish up with robbyâs patients from sign-outs, you speak to jack abbot for the first time.
âiâm sorry,â you say quietly. âsorry you have to do all this for me.âÂ
jack swallows. youâre incredibly beautiful, and almost devastatingly sad. how can he respond to thatâhe hasnât done anything, not yet at least. he showed up for work like any other day. he gives you an assignment like he would any other resident. thereâs nothing to be sorry about, but you still are, and he thinks that he really needs to understand why.Â
jack dwells on it for half a heartbeat, trying to figure out what to say, but you smileâhalf heartedlyâand turn around to go find your next patient.
oh no.Â
đà§
the night shift is, like robby had told you, a little better for you. it hasnât even really slowed down yet, but thereâs something about the environment that just feels a little more digestible to you.
maybe itâs those things that you were trying so hard to buryâhow your feelings of incompetence increase even further when the 4th years on their rotations seem to move faster than you, seem to have the answer quicker than you.Â
maybe itâs extra worse because when you were doing your audition hereâyou had been that student. ever-eager, trying to prove your worth to whichever resident youâd been assigned to that day. you went home and studied rosenâs emergency medicine textbook and listened to case-report podcasts on your commute to the hospital. you answered questions quickly and you didnât let it show when you got tired and you did everything right, just to end up worse than when you started.
you canât wrap your head around it. thereâs something deeper going on with youâbubbling beneath the surface of your skin, trying hard to rip through and make its way out. youâve been suppressing it ever since that night, watching how everyone around you made their way back to normal, wondering why youâre the only one thatâs lagging behind.Â
or maybe theyâre not back to normal. but itâs obvious to you that everyone is better at hiding it than you are.Â
case in pointâyouâre the only one that robby shipped off to the night shift.Â
you guess you need to earn your stripes back. the first mission towards that goal is convincing jack abbot that youâre not a complete dud.Â
maybe the thing thatâs been setting you off so much lately is that you have no idea whatâs going to come in from those two doors. you can distinctly remember a few short months ago where that feeling was exciting, almost exhilarating. you were seeing something new every single day, the pages of your textbooks coming alive in patients that you finally got to treat, instead of waiting and watching and observing.Â
thatâs why working out of chairs feels so much safer. the list is endlessâsprains and allergic reactions and lots of sutures. it was, at the very least, predictable.Â
you smile at your patientâa little girl who was playing with scissors instead of finishing a school project, despite, youâre sure, the many times her mom told her to not do that. mom is heavily pregnant and watches you suture her hand, near tears herself even though the little girl is taking it like a champ.Â
âall done,â you hum, wondering if you can go find a lollipop somewhere for her. âyou did great.âÂ
you look up at mom, offering her a tissue for her tears before explaining the rest of the steps. youâre about to find the written suture care instructions just incase, when parker pokes her head in.
âincoming, five minutes. weâre up. meet you out there.â sheâs gone before you can even say anything. you spend two of those five minutes making sure the mom gets the instruction paper she needs, and then you walk towards the ambulance bay.
parker is already gowned and gloved up, and dr. abbot is pulling the yellow material on, and you can even faintly make out the outline of his arms under it.Â
standing there, it hits you all at once. your feet feel frozen to the ground. the ambulance is maybe sixty seconds away, and you can hear the sirens, and in the craziness of the day shift, the noise didnât stand out as much as it does now.Â
it almost sounds multiplied. like thereâs a dozen sirens going off. you canât fathom that your brain is making it up, so there must be some sort of crazy trauma with tons of patients and absolutely no time for you to shut down. you can almost hear itâthe noise will fill the space soon. screaming and crying and that sound that tires make when the person driving slams the brakes too fast.
you are not ready for that. you thought dr. abbot said something about working your way up, slowly, that youâd deal with the lower tier cases before jumping back into incoming traumas. maybe youâd misheard himâyouâd felt so embarrassed that he even had to have this conversation with you to begin with, and he was looking at you so earnestly.
he was probably wondering what was wrong with you. youâre asking yourself that question every day.
dr. abbot takes a few steps towards you, and for some reason, you take a step backwards. as if the extra foot of space would protect you from whatâs about to happen.Â
the part of your brain thatâs always reminding you about how you need to get it together has momentarily gone silent. where is it, when you really need it, like right now? the part that reminds you that youâve done this before and that this used to be something that excited you and that the person coming in that ambulance is counting on you to help save their life? where did it go?
you donât know how you must look to him. a mess, probably. appearing like way more work than he signed up for. you should apologize again, maybe, like that might help your situation. you are on his night-shift for the foreseeable future.Â
âum, dr. abbot, i-â your heart is pounding in your chest.
âthatâs okay,â he says, taking a step closer, shrinking the space between the two of you. the sound of the siren gets louder and louderâ
but heâs not very far from you. looking up at him, you see hazel eyes that are focused on you. his hair is actually curlyâyou hadnât noticed before.
âi-i thought that-â
âyouâre fine, kid. youâre not jumping on any traumas until youâre ready. why donât you go find bridget and get started on something to present to dr. ellis?âÂ
your relief must be visible to himâyour shoulders sink down, your heart slows down a little, and you blink like youâve just been rebooted.Â
âokay,â you start. âiâm sorry, i-â
âstop apologizing,â jack says, walking towards parker, towards the trauma, snapping gloves over his hands. he stops for a moment. âtake a deep breath. come find me if you need me.âÂ
âokay. i will.âÂ
itâs like your feet need a minute to thaw before you can move. you stand there, processing what dr. abbot just said and your own feelings and why you locked up at the very sound of an incoming trauma for a little longer, as if you wonât spend the rest of your shift and all night and all day tomorrow thinking about it.
and you donât catch itâbut jack looks back at you before he steps outside. stuck for a moment, your fingers going to your necklace, before you turn around. and he turns around too.
đà§
your next patient is a man who just flew back from england earlier today. his calf aches and his chest hurts. he tells you how heâs been worried sick since he got back home, and heâs never usually like that.
must be nice, you think, scrambling to find parker once her and dr. abbot leave the trauma room. their patient is going up to surgery and you see dr. walsh in the room.
you feel better once parkerâs in the room with you, and then you think about how messed up that is. you should feel perfectly confident with or without someone beside you. you shouldnât require a babysitter, and maybe you need to make your next goal figuring out how to gain some of that confidence back, butâ
âso, walk me through it. whatâs next?â parker asks, her gaze going towards the monitor to evaluate his stats.
âdopper ultrasound of the lower extremity. uh, CTPA, order a d-dimer. monitor stats to see if we need supplemental oxygen.â
âgood. and?â she asks, and you blank for a moment.
âand?â you repeat. you donât know why your brain does this. hurry up, you think, he could die while youâre waiting to figure out what else he needs. âand, um-âÂ
through the glass, you see dr. abbot walking by. he glances in, locking eyes with you for a second, and then he walks away, like heâs not worried about whatâs happening in the room.Â
âand we start him on anticoagulants after the imaging.â
âgood,â parker says, nodding. she explains the next steps to the patient, and one of the night-shift nurses whose name you donât know yet gets the bedside ultrasound ready. âhm.. letâs see. how about virchowâs triad?â
you shake the ultrasound gel bottle and warn the patient that itâs a little cold.Â
âvenous stasis, hypercoagulability, and endothelial injury.âÂ
âgood job,â she states, and you appreciate the comment, just because itâs been a while since youâve heard it. while you work the probe up, she monitors the screen with you. ânow, what are we looking for?â
âa darkened area, where the veins donât compress. no flow on the doppler.â
âuh-huh. bingo. see that?âÂ
âyeah,â you breathe. âi do.â
itâs a small thing, but handling the case with parker feels good. youâd already been taught times to never assume what the diagnosis is, even if everything is pointing in that direction. coming up with the answerâthe correct answerâfeels good.Â
thereâs nothing wrong with wrapping up ankles and stitching up lacs. but you feel a step closer to whatever goal it is that youâre trying to achieve.
the patient heads off to get a ct scan and you and parker go back out to find the next case.Â
while you walk back to central, she brings it up. itâs inevitable, and you should have thought ahead.
âsoâŠâ she starts, and you swallow. âi didnât know about the thing with the incoming traumas.â
âi, um,â you blink, heart rate increasing again. you feel your hand going to your pendant, moving it around your fingers. âiâm working on it.â
âthatâs okay,â parker says, reassuringly. âwell, you did great in there.â
âthank you,â you breathe. âiâm not sure what they told you-â
âdonât worry. abbot told me afterwards. no traumas until youâre ready, i got it.â
âhe said that?âÂ
âyou can ask him yourself,â parker says, her eyes going to somewhere behind you. you turn around to see dr. abbot walking towards the two of you.Â
âhowâs the patient?â he asks, though heâs looking at you.Â
âgood. um, heâs up in ct right now. weâll start anticoagulants once we get the results. he was stable, though.âÂ
âgood, good. whoâs next?âÂ
âworking on that right now,â parker replies. she turns to you next. âiâll come find you.â
you nod, turning back to face dr. abbot. your eyes go to his badge for a moment, clipped to the pocket on his scrub top. jack. itâs hard to think of him like that when heâs only ever been dr. abbot to you, the shoulders you see from behind swaying as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, talking to robby at seven pm or the camo backpack walking out at seven am.Â
you zone out for a moment, but dr. abbot snaps you back into it.
âyou doinâ okay so far, kid?âÂ
you wish you werenât the person that everyone had to ask that question to. the embarrassment alone is enough to make you want to work even harder to get back to day shift, to get back to the level you were at before.
âiâm okay,â you respond after a pause. your heart rate hasnât slowed down. âi, i-iâm sorry about earlier. i donât know why-â
âi told you to stop apologizing,â jack repeats, and it comes out a little sterner than he wanted. but it gets your attention. you look up at him, blinking quickly.Â
âdr. abbot-â
âthese things don't change overnight. youâŠyou canât expect yourself to get back to normal in a day.â
you go quiet, contemplating his words. without even meaning to, you feel your waterline brim with hot tears.Â
âi feel like everyone else did,â you admit quietly. âiâm so behind. i feel like iâll never catch up.â
you take a deep breath, and then you widen your eyes. these are things that youâve never even admitted to yourself, never given your brain enough time to mull and mope on. and now theyâre pouring out in front of your attending, a man youâve had maybe three conversations with, most of which were today.Â
âiâm so-â
âstop,â dr. abbot says firmly. âno apologies. youâre not behind in anything. thinking like that is only going to make you feel worse. you donât have to say anything, just nod if you understand.âÂ
you feel your head nodding before you even realize youâre doing it.
âbefore you leave night shift, youâll be caught up in whatever you feel like youâre behind in. okay?â you nod again. âgood. iâm sure dr. ellis has a case for you, if youâre ready.âÂ
you release a breath you didnât realize you were holding in. your hands fall to your side. your heart slows down a little. you start walking towards parker but then you pause, turning back again.
âdr. abbot?âÂ
âyeah, kid?â
âthank you.âÂ
you smile at him againâthat quick half-smile, and youâre gone before he can even try to stare.Â
đà§
your first night shift is, overall, a success. you donât jump on any crazy incoming traumas, though you help treat a man who took a spill down some stairs around midnight that came in via ambulance. you mostly attend to the rest of the people in chairs, switching off between the lacs and dislocations to the more urgent cases as they come in.Â
itâs almost four before you know itâand during one of the lulls, you go to the empty break room and make yourself a cup of tea. you try to get as much of your charting done before you see the next person and before your tea gets coldâthe longer it takes you, the longer dr. abbot has to wait before he can review them, and the longer he has to stay after the shift ends.
you started yawning because you donât think your body has adjusted yet, or even will adjust for the next few weeks. mid-yawn, stretching your arms, you had looked around and saw that dr. abbot was already looking in your direction.Â
you turned quickly and went back to the charts. god knows youâve already embarrassed yourself in front of him enough today.
despite whatever you think and assume, it seems like he can almost read your mind. you start feeling anxious when you notice everyone coming in for the day shift, going to the lockers and preparing to come back out.Â
itâs your first time doing sign-offs for night shift. itâs clear to you that everyone knows thereâs something wrong with you, and thatâs why you made the switch. even if they donât know, theyâre about to find out.Â
but before you can think too much about it, dr. abbot comes up to you. itâs quick, just in passing before he goes to robby, no doubt to tell him how you did.Â
you feel doubly embarrassed that youâre even a topic of conversation for your two attendings.
jack abbot tells you you did great, kid. see you tonight, and walks towards robby. and the hand that was coming to play with your necklace falls to your side. when you do sign-offs, you forget to be nervous.Â
for once, you think you had a some-what decent shift. and you know what, or rather who, is responsible for that.
but this is just one shift. you have a lifetime of them ahead of you. you need to take it day by day, hope for progress with each passing one.Â
(when you go home and shower and then crawl into bed, with your gray curtains completely shut, despite the fact that light pours through regardless, and a sleep mask that you bought during medical school, you think, for the first time in ages, that youâre not dreading going to work tomorrow. itâs not dread. itâs not excitement either. itâs something in between, something that makes you want to get up in the afternoon because you know whatâs waiting for you in the evening. or ratherâwho is waiting for you in the evening. someone kind and patient and who understands you without needing to say anything at all. and then, you fall asleep.)
đà§
youâre back under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital before you know it. you elected to leave your house early todayâyou couldnât sleep past two and you had time to do everything you wanted and then some.Â
you made yourself a big lunch. you tidied up your apartment, put in a load of laundry. you paid bills and scheduled a dentist appointment that you can actually go to now. even with all of that, you still had enough time to leave early and buy yourself an iced chai before your shift.
you take sips of it while working on your charts once you find a moment to sit down. itâs mostly melted ice and milk now, but still, youâll take any caffeine you can get.Â
youâre mid-yawn, covering your mouth when he walks over and stands behind the computer screen.Â
âoh,â you say, putting your hand down. âsorry, dr. abbot.â
âwhat did i say about apologizing to me?â his voice is gruff, but he has a teasing lilt to it.Â
you wonder if he talks to all his residents like this.
âsorry,â you say inadvertently, and then you freeze, realizing what you did. âyou know what i mean.â
and then dr. abbot laughs.
you canât help the smile that takes over your face. his laugh seems contagious to you, and you start laughing before you can help it.
staring at his smile, you realize that you canât remember the last time you had laughed in the hospital. it always felt like there just wasnât any time during the day, with so many people to take care of, with so many conversations happening that you didnât realize where you could even fit in.
it doesnât really feel that way now.
âso,â dr. abbot starts, and you focus all your attention on him.Â
you wonder if heâs going to want to talk about itâyour freeze-ups and whatever blanks robby didnât fill in for him. he must be curious, at least, why you needed the change so quickly, so out of nowhere. at least, thatâs what you think, because surely, youâd be curious too if someoneâ
â-howâd you sleep last night?âÂ
you stare at him. the thoughts circling your brain shut up mid-sentence.Â
âum, good?â you answer, tentative. as if you could possibly be giving him the wrong answer. âhow about you?â you ask, brightening up a little, pleased that you can have a real conversation not only about a patient with someone at work.
âuh, fine,â he answers, his eyebrows furrowed like heâs a little confused. âi just meant, i know the first shift on nights is hard. hard to fall asleep during the day.â
âoh.â you want to smack your ipad against your forehead. âoh, yeah, definitely. i mean it was hard, but it was fine. i fell asleep eventually. and then i-i woke up and i couldnât go back to sleep. so i left early to-âÂ
your eyes flick down towards your melty chai. the plastic cupâs left a ring of condensation on the station where you were typing up your notes. dana would have your ass if she saw water on the counterâ
jeez. your mind is bouncing around at a mile a minute. what were you even talking about?
you look at dr. abbot blankly, and he looks like heâs suppressing a laugh, like your behavior is entirely amusing to him.Â
â-iâm gonna⊠stop talking now.â stupid. stupid stupid stupid. you have one coworker who kind of gets you and he happens to be your new attending and you canât stop looking like a fool in front of him and heâs staring at you with these hazel eyesâ
âdonât stop on my account,â he laughs with a quiet laugh, and you feel your face burn. but you can tell heâs not laughing at you, something youâve forced yourself be able to discern quickly. heâs laughing with you, or rather because of you. âiâll, uh, let you finish your charts.â
âthank you,â you reply, a little too quickly. you just need a moment alone, maybe, like that could fix the things that are wrong with you. âsor-â you close your mouth before the word can come out.Â
the look that dr. abbot gives you is a new one. youâve seen a couple so far, notably the one by the ambulance bay and the one at sign-offs this morning.
this one is almost approving. like heâs pleased youâre listening to what he says. pleased that youâre doing what he tells you.
âtry the black-out shades. those are really helpful.â
âoh, really? i-i will,â you lie between your teeth. the black-out curtains you ordered are sitting in a discombobulated mess by your window. you had tried putting them up for all of fifteen minutes before giving up and going to bed with your quilt pulled over your head.Â
âyeah. i canât sleep without âem.âÂ
âgood. thatâs good. i will,â you get out before he walks away. you release a breath and finish the rest of your chai before throwing it away.
đà§
your shift is going just like the one from yesterday. maybe even slightly betterânow that your apparent inabilities have already been broadcasted to the team, you donât have to explain yourself or try to work up some twisted excuse as to why you canât assist on traumas.
you take care of three fracturesâtwo scaphoids and one pinky toe. you suture up a few different lacs and correctly diagnose a hot appy which gets sent up to surgery.
and right now youâre with a mrs. wilson, a sweet older woman who fell at her house. her daughter drove her in and you take her back almost immediately, getting her a ct and waiting for her bloodwork.
sheâs got a small cut on her forehead from the spill that youâre using dermabond to repair when parker stops by.
âwhatâd we got here?â she asks you, and you rattle off the case information. âdo you use a blood thinner, maâam?â
âi never forget to take my eliquis,â she responds, and you smile brightly at her.
âthatâs great, mrs. wilson.â you turn to parker. âher daughter just ran to get a coffee. uh, history checks out, head ctâs negative. labs are all normal. sheâs on an anti-hypertensive. i think it was orthostatic.â
âagreed. whatâs next?â
â-whatâs next is that you need to get me that gentlemanâs phone number,â mrs. wilson interjects. sheâs staring past the open curtain towards central, and you move your eyes almost involuntarily to see whatâor rather whoâsheâs looking at.Â
you blink quickly. your mouth feels a little dry.
parker turns to look too, turning back with a laugh.Â
âthatâs our attending,â she says. âiâm sure heâll be around to check on you shortly.â
âno, dear, i need his phone number-â she starts again, locking eyes with you. âunless, of course, heâs married-âÂ
you blink faster.
oh my god. mrs. wilson has just made you realize that youâre a complete idiot.Â
you turn your head again to stare at him, waiting five seconds before he picks up an ipad with his left hand. dr. abbot has a black wedding ring that heâs been wearing this entire time. and here you are, staring at him and falling asleep thinking about him and looking forward to the night shift because heâs making your life somewhat easier, easier than itâs felt in months and months, andâ
âi-iâm so sorry, mrs. wilson,â you stammer, a little too quickly. you can feel parkerâs eyes move to you. âi think is he married.âÂ
the news seems like a hit to the both of you.
âaw,â she starts. âmy daughter. sheâs divorced. iâve been trying to set her up for months, but, well, all the good ones are always taken, yâknow, i told herââ
âactually,â parker says quietly. âheâs not. but, mrs. wilson, right now, we need to focus on your-â
your eyes go a little wide. it takes all your strength and willpower not to zone out again while parker discusses the next steps in patient care with mrs. wilson.Â
her daughter comes back with that cup of coffee while you explain how to take care of the wound at home. and you hate yourselfâhateâbecause you find yourself looking at her, groaning internally because sheâs very pretty and very nice to you.Â
and you file away the new information youâve learned to a small, hidden part of your brain. dr. abbot is not married, but he wears a wedding band anyways. and then you go see your next patient.
đà§
you think youâre beginning to find a rhythm. itâs hard, but with each passing day, it feels like itâs getting easier.Â
(you bury thoughts of your attending deep inside your head and then you close the door and lock it up with chains, placing a mental do not open sign in front of it. it might be working.)
your focus should be on your medical education. youâre almost positive thatâs the only thing dr. abbot is concerned with, anyways.Â
at least, you think thatâs the only thing heâs concerned with.
you groan as bridget hands you the ipad detailing the information of the next case. fifty-three year old man, chief complaint of priapism.Â
âreally?â you sigh, and she shoots you a sympathetic look.Â
you think youâve been doing better. you havenât worked up to the level of severe incoming traumas just yet, and you know youâd be useless if there was a few back to back, but youâre trying your best for now. the night shift doesnât have as many of those incidents as the day shift, so youâve begun collecting back your confidence in bits and pieces.
this doesnât phase you. you celebrate the small victory, that you can handle the urgent chairs cases alone, that youâre not stuck in that familiar pattern you had been only a short week ago.Â
(you try not to dwell on the reason why youâve escaped the pattern.)
your only concern for the patient youâre about to see is what heâs taken and how much he took. you know the procedure, having assisted once with cassie, what seems like forever ago. the order is nerve block, aspiration, irrigation, and then injection.
youâre thinking about where you saw john last. youâll have to report to him and then both of you will have to do the procedure. youâre going to have to track him downâitâs getting to that part of the night where heâs on the hunt for a snack, once his coffee runs out.
you pull back the curtain and smile politely at your patient.
that might have been your first mistake. you introduce yourself, and while you confirm his name and date of birth, the only thing you can think is sleazy. this guy looks sleazy.
thereâs a reason why heâs in the emergency room with priapism at two in the morning, and you donât think you want to know why, though youâre about to find out.
and a little while later, across the room, jack is looking for you. itâs become his latest bad habitâhe likes to have eyes on you, like heâs worried youâll slip away if heâs not careful enough.Â
(he does need to be careful, he thinks. itâs been a week of watching you get more and more comfortable around him. a week of watching you take on new, different cases and do your sign-offs without seeming frightened of the task. itâs been a good feeling. maybe, too much of a good feelingâ)
âbridget?â he asks, approaching central. âhave you seen my intern?â
his intern. the word comes out like a freudian slip. itâs supposed to be the intern.Â
if she notices, she doesnât say anything. though, jack thinks sheâs looking at him a bit more oddly than usual.Â
âpriapism in bed ten,â bridget says. âi think sheâs getting the history beforeâoh, speak of the devil.âÂ
he turns around and youâre approaching him.
whatever part of jack abbot understands you, whateverâs inside of him that always seem to know whatâs going on with you and how to fix it, and whatever compels him to care so much about you even though youâve only been here for a short while, gets triggered on high alert when he sees your expression.
he doesnât even say thanks to bridget before walking up to you, meeting you half-way.Â
you look uncomfortable. and jack has never seen you look like this before. itâs written all over your face and your body language. you donât touch your necklace like when youâre anxious. no, youâre wringing your hands, rubbing your arms like youâre reminding yourself theyâre still there.
âwhatâs the matter, kid?â he asks, and you look incredibly apologetic. he wishes you wouldnât look at him like that. it makes him want to take care of you forever.Â
whatever precautions he was thinking about taking because maybe heâs getting a little too worried about you and a little too pleased with your progress goes out the window.
âum, i need help with my patient,â you start. âiâm sorry, i-i-â
jack is too much in his head about you. his hand hovers over your back, leading you to an empty corner against a wall. it doesnât look all that professional, though thereâs barely any eyes that are paying attention to the two of you.Â
heâs got a patient up in ct heâs waiting on for results. two people to discharge. and john is out there manning the front lines by himself for a few minutes.
but nothing else seems to matter when you need his help.Â
âwhatâs wrong?â he repeats, and something in his chest starts to churn uncomfortably. like a hand squeezing his heart at the speed that yours must be going right now, undoubtedly.Â
he wishes he could pick up your hand and feel your pulse, but he canât. he knows he canât. his fingers still twitch at the thought, though.
âum, my priapism patient is being really creepy. i-i donât feel uncomfortable going back unless you come with me, maybe? or-or john. i know youâre busy, i-â
âwhat did he say?â
âum, dr. abbot-â
âwhat did he say?âÂ
your eyes go a little big.Â
âhe said something about⊠heâll stay awake for the procedure if itâs me doing it, andâŠâ
âand?â jack is beginning to see red.
â-and he wonât need the procedure if i would just help him out-â Â
jack has always been pretty decent at handling his temper, especially in the hospital. people are scared, people are frightened, people are worried about their life and limb and say things they donât always mean. he keeps it under check because he knows better.
most of the time.Â
his hand turns into a fist while heâs talking to you. your eyes flick towards it before you go back to meeting his gaze.Â
âdr. abbot?â you say quietly, blinking fast.Â
âwhy donât you go find bridget and find a new case to work on?â jack sounds surprisingly calm.Â
you should have expected itâof course, heâs calm. heâs your attending, after all, all-knowing and knows how to keep his cool in a situation like this much better than you do.
you couldnât even handle it yourself. you ran to get help as soon as you felt uncomfortable. a different intern might have been able to handle it. youâre not sure how exactly, but you know someone else could have figured it out, someone smarter than you. a different intern might not have needed helpâ
âare you sure, i-â
âiâm sure, kid. go ahead.â dr. abbot pauses for a moment, like heâs assessing you too. you want to shirk under his gaze. âif you need a break you can go sit down for a little-â
âno,â you interrupt, fiddling with your necklace, âi donât need a break.â
you do need a break. that guy was so, so creepy. you need to go sit down and watch videos of cats playing with yarn and eat something before you can go see someone else. but thatâs not how this job works, you donât just get a break becauseâ
âwhy donât you go find a protein bar and iâll come get you?â
âno, dr. abbot, i-â
âfind something to eat. break room,â he says, and you want to protest, feel the words almost coming out, but before you can, â-now.âÂ
he walks away, leaving you in the corner, blinking stupidly at his back as you watch him go. you donât know what it isâit seems like he can just read your mind, like your thoughts are out on display for him all the time.Â
you donât think you like it.Â
you decide to be a good intern and listen to your attending.Â
you head to the break room and nibble on a granola bar thatâs been in your jacket pocket for god knows how long. you pick up your yellow mug with the intention of making a cup of coffee, but you canât stop pacing.
you just need to work on getting faster. thinking quicker on your feet. if you could figure out what to say, instead of freezing up and running away, you could probably solve half of your problems yourself, without needing help.
and you canât stop thinking about what dr. abbot said.
not even exactly what he said, but more of how he said it. like he wants you to listen to him, like heâs not going to let up until you do. like you deserve snack breaks and time to sit down and recollect your thoughts after a bad encounter.Â
you donât deserve that. a better intern wouldnât need those things. a better intern would be out running head first into traumas, coming up with miraculous saves and not being too scared to answer questions and not feel their heart rate spiking every time theyâre too close to the ambulance bay.
because on the night of the pittfest shooting, that had been where youâ
âhey,â bridget says, and you look up quickly, snapped out of your thoughts. âi got a midnight fall two minutes away, and i canât find anyone. are youâ?âÂ
âyes,â you reply, setting your empty mug down onto the table a little too hard. âiâll be right there.â
you leave it as it is, shoving the granola bar back into your pocket. you forget for a moment that dr. abbot told you to stay put, but you certainly canât ignore the patient to follow his instructions.
(something inside of you feels uncomfortable at the idea of not complying, though.)
you walk by the closed curtain where the creepy patient was currently residing. you can make out two pairs of shoes, one being dr. abbot and the other being john, you assume, and the sounds coming from behind the curtain almost make you stop in your tracks.Â
your mind wants to dwell on it for a little longer, but luckily, this time you donât have a choice but to focus on your new patient, who is also fifty-three and tripped on a dog toy, courtesy of his new puppy, while trying to open the door to let her out.Â
youâre pleased with yourself at being able to run through the entire thing with a few watchful eyes. bridget leaves to find parker while you order your head ct and x-rays, though you donât think thereâs anything serious going on.Â
the thoughts are momentarily subsidedâlike each achievement can temporarily ease the burden they leave on your brain. the constant voice echoing that reminds you of how you should be doing better stays quiet while the patient smiles at you and thanks you for your help.Â
and you even end up eating the other half of your granola bar a little later, sitting at your station and working on notes until youâre needed next. you drink water to distract yourself from your tiredness, being thrown off your usual routine today.Â
john ends up finding you first.Â
âwell,â he says, leaning on the other side of the counter. he buries his head in his hands for a moment and then stretches. âthat was fun.â
âi heard,â you reply, pausing and taking a breath. âi, um, iâm sorry that i didnât-â
âno biggie,â he interrupts, before you can finish the entire apology. âthat guy was a weirdo. better me than you.â
you swallow uncomfortably.Â
âthank you.â
âi only have abbot to thank. he said weâre going to conveniently lower his pain meds and i said i was extremely in-â
you laugh, and then feel bad for doing so. while you try to come to terms with what john just told you, your head feels like itâs ringing a little bit. he didnât have to do that, you think, feeling guilty about the patientâs pain. and then you remember the slimy way heâd spoken to you and suddenly you want to find jack abbot and give him aâ
âso, you hold down the fort for us?â john asks, rustling through one of the drawers until he finds what heâs looking forâa packet of poptarts.Â
âuh, i tried,â you say with a small smile. âincoming who tripped over his dogâs toy. i think itâs a broken tailbone. dr. ellis is waiting on the ct, and then i thought iâd catch up on my charts, so..â
âyeah, good idea. donât wanna leave those until seven. abbot will-â
âi will, what?â you turn your head to look at where his voice came from, but you falter as soon as you see it.
your yellow mug. in your attendingâs hands.
if johnâs confused, he doesnât say anything. they keep talking and you hear laughter, see dr. abbotâs smile as he jokes around with john. your head feels like itâs ringing even louder, if possible.Â
well, itâs not like youâd announced it was your mug, or anything. people in the hospital share stuff like that all the time. thereâs other communal mugs too, youâve seen them. you just usually keep it tucked away, but you left it on that table, and maybe he thoughtâ
dr. abbot turns towards you and he puts the mug down next to your keyboard. you stare at his freckled forearm for a moment too long.
âi thought i told you to take a break,â he says, and your mind goes empty.
your gaze flicks between the cup of coffee, that somehow looks exactly like the cup you make every night, and your attending, who is staring at you.
âiâŠi did take a break,â you finally get out, quietly. you finally tear your eyes away from your mug to look at him.
dr. abbot has incredibly pretty hazel eyes.
âitâs okay if you need a moment. that would have been a lot for anyone.â
âi⊠yeah, i guess so.âÂ
he shakes his head, blinking at you.Â
ânot a guess. i know it was. did you eat something, at least?â
âyes,â you answer, suddenly breathless. âbut there was just a patient, so i-â
âyeah,â john pipes up, and the two of you break the seemingly endless, prolonged eye contact. oh my god, you think. johnâs been there the whole time, watching as you gape like an idiot. âparkerâs with the slip and fall now. and young padawan here handled it all by herself.â
you feel like your chest is going to explode from the emotions swarming around inside. dr. abbot smiles at you, meeting your eyes againâ
âgood job, kid. drink your coffee.âÂ
âthanks, dr. abbot.âÂ
he walks away, towards the trauma room where parker is. you have to force yourself to remember that heâs your attending, not just some guy whoâs been sweet to you for the hell of it. his whole job is making you better at this. your chest still feels warm and fuzzy and you have to ground yourself, worried youâd float away with your thoughts if you donât.
his job is to check on you, all of you. youâre not special just becauseâ
âhuh,â john says, peering over the counter and at the yellow mug resting by your hands. âheâs never made me coffee before.â
the coffee becomes a regular occurrence. each shift, around a quarter past one, your mug is delivered to you by your attending, no matter where you might be at the moment.
he leaves it at the desk where you type your notes. he hands it to you when youâre coming out from behind a curtain, telling you to sit down and drink it before it gets cold.
and before you can reply, almost as soon as thank you leaves your mouth, heâs off, walking in the other direction and going to help someone else.
parker and john have noticed. theyâd be idiots not to. (one thing you know for certain is that you are the only idiot on the night shift.)
you try to brush it off mentally, almost like if you admitted it, if you said it out loud or even thought about it for too long, the walls would come crashing in around you.Â
you have so much on your plate as it is. youâve just started getting better at this, having a better grip on your emotions, not spiraling every time you donât know the answer to a question or getting nervous when someone looks at you for instructions.
you push it aside and decide itâs because you feel comfortable with your coworkers. not that you hadnât beforeâbut the fear of failure was so much more jarring with the day shift. the night shift seems decidedly more calm. thereâs less people, so less opportunities to embarrass yourself. everyoneâs been nothing but kind so far.Â
you feel supported and encouraged. and when dr. abbot tells you that youâve done a good job you feel every nerve in your body tingle with joy. and when you drink the coffee he made you, it tastes better than any cup youâve ever made yourself.Â
you used to have a countdown until your next day off, mentally ticking off the shifts, waiting for minutes and seconds to pass until you had a day of freedom, but nowâ
whatever jack abbot has done to you, it makes you want to work every day of the week.Â
and much to your displeasure, thatâs not how the schedule works.
đà§
when jack comes in at six forty-five, he thinks itâs a little weird. something feels off. parker shows up at six-fifty. shen at seven on the dot with his iced coffee.
and you are usually here at six-forty, five minutes before him. youâve usually put your jacket on that chair you always sit at and have your ridiculously bright water bottle perched under the counter, waiting to be pulled out when you start your midnight charting session.Â
his eyes linger on your empty seat during sign-offs. he thinks heâs not being very obvious, untilâ
âeven interns have days off, you know,â parker says, and john nods in agreement. jack hears the familiar noise of ice moving as john shakes his drink.
âactually, two. tonight and tomorrow night. golden weekend for the intern,â he replies, shaking his head. âwhere was mine when-â
parker and john continue chatting, but it fades into background noise. he doesnât even realize theyâre poking fun at him, that it must be obvious that heâs searching for you, even on your day off.
heâs your attending. he should really know about things like that. but you hadnât brought it up last night, not even when heâd brought you your usual cup at two in the morning, right when he goes to get another cup of coffeeâa little behind schedule this time.Â
you had smiled at him. sleepy. tired. thanked him sweetly like you always do.
youâd made sure all your notes were submitted and reviewed before seven, regardless of how much you yawn while finishing them.Â
and you are currently out celebrating your first few days off since youâve started the night shift. you must be happy, he thinks, with two nights off in a row, and that too on a weekend. you must be celebrating all the small victories youâve achieved, all the patients youâve saved. heâd make you celebrate double for every patient you helped that came in on an ambulance, because even though the two of you havenât talked about, itâs clear as day to him thatâ
youâre celebrating right now. and he feels oddly unhappy about it, because heâs not there with you.Â
and a few hours later, his head perks up at bridget, telling him to get ready for an incoming. female, twenties, alcohol poisoning. not very far from here, that bar just a few blocks away.
and by the time jack walks up with parker, the ambulance is already there, unloading the patient. heâs just pulling on his gloves, about to ask what do we got? when he hears itâ
your voice.
his stomach drops. his feet move even faster, and then he braces himself, getting ready to see you on the gurney.
âyou canât escape this place, can you?â parker shouts, over the blare of the sirens. you take the paramedicâs hand to help you get off the rig.Â
âi guess not. gcs nine, i think. sorry, i had a couple drinks too,â you say apologetically, like you should be chastised for drinking on your day off, as if you should have been aware this would happen.Â
for a moment, you look back at the ambulance, blinking fast, chewing on your cheek, rubbing your arms. jack almost misses your expressionâbut heâs relieved you didnât catch him staring at you again. all your attention focuses onto your friend once you walk into the hospital.
the girl on the gurney looks delirious and tired. her head is rolled to the side and jackâs almost positive her eyes are closed.Â
âso this is where you work?â another voice pipes up from behind you. another girl, someone your age, he assumes, walks behind you, staring around. when her eyes go towards the fluorescent lights, she winces and looks down. âjeez. thatâs bright.â
jackâs first question in these cases is always how much did she have? and he looks up at you to get the answerâyouâre still saying something to parker, filling her in on whatever happened on the rigâand then he locks eyes with you.
parkerâs placing orders and setting up fluids when jack realizes he shouldnât have done that. itâs the first time heâs ever seen you out of scrubs, and he canât stop staring.
your hair is done up all pretty, a little mussed up from all the commotion. your eyelids are glittery and your lips are shiny. youâre wearing a short skirt and he realizes heâs never seen the skin of your thighs beforeâ
his eyes go up, following your exposed thighs to the skirt thatâs going to plague him, all the way up past your shirt, to your fingers that are playing with your necklace. and then you two lock eyes again.Â
âi donât know how much she took,â you say, chewing your cheek, like you want to say iâm sorry, but you know better. âwe turned around for five minutes and she was downing shots-â
âthatâs okay, kid-â
âwell, i didnât think sheâd take all of the shots,â your other friend interjects, covering the light with her hand to protect her eyes. âwe were supposed to be celebrating you, not her-â
âitâs okay-â
âit is so not okay,â your friend argues, and he feels an overwhelming amount of gratitude for her.Â
because itâs not okay.Â
itâs one of your two days off during the chaos of your intern year. you work the night shift now, which means you canât just go out for drinks with friends anymore, because your schedule doesnât work like that.Â
and from everything he knows about you, he knows you donât do things like this very much anyways, even when you were on days. he shouldnât be annoyed, but he is, annoyed that your golden weekend was ruined. annoyed that you somehow ended up back in the hospital. annoyed thatâ
well, heâs not annoyed about that part. the fact that he gets to see you after he spent most of the last four hours grumbling internally about how you werenât there certainly doesnât hurt.Â
the outfit youâre wearingâhe canât dream of being annoyed by that. the way you squeeze your friendâs hand and keep checking her vitals even though she ruined your night out. the way your other hand doesnât leave your necklace.
all things he canât be annoyed about.
bridget pokes her head in.Â
âthought that was you,â she says, and you look towards her, turning your worried expression into a smile quickly.Â
âwhat can i say? canât go a night without my favorite charge nurse.â you stay smiling but shift on your feet, on what he assumes are uncomfortable, pretty shoes.Â
âoh, iâm gonna tell dana you said that.â bridgetâs eyes glances towards your friend, and then towards jack. heâs still staring. âyou want me to bring you some scrubs?â she asks, facing you again.
âoh, no, thatâs okay. weâll just wait in here until she wakes up. thank you, though.â you turn towards your friend again.
and jack doesnât need anyone to tell him that youâre nervous. that you feel bad. that youâre embarrassed that youâre here, that you couldnât take care of your friend.Â
âsure,â bridget replies, and then she looks at jack again. thereâs something in her expression he canât quite understand. âgot another one pulling up in three minutes. let me know if you need anything.â
âsure. iâm coming,â jack says, though he wishes, momentarily, that he didnât have to leave the room. he walks around the bed, next to where you are, and your eyes stay on him. âsheâll be fine, kid. you did everything right. and iâm not sure how much closer you can get to handling an incoming trauma than that, so-â
you interrupt him with a laugh and a smile. a winning combination in his eyes.
âthank you,â you say quietly.Â
âweâll be back after to check on her. you should get some rest if you can.â
âyeah,â you reply. âiâll try.â
your eyes turn back to your friend, and he slides the door to step out, and just as heâs about to close it, he hears itâ
âso,â your friend starts quietly, still shielding her eyes. âwhich one is jack?â
âoh my god, shh-â
he smiles the entire way to the ambulance bay.
by the time he makes his way back to the curtain where theyâve moved your friend for monitoring, heâs seen three and a half extra patients, not including the incoming he originally got called away for.Â
itâs well past two, and jack feels a certain⊠displeasure bubbling inside of him. it started the moment heâd realized you would be stuck here all night on your day off, and hasnât subsided since john had made a joke about giving you some scrubs and giving you a few of the overflowing patients.
the displeasure rears its ugly head, and turns into something worse, something he canât describe, when he pulls back the curtain.
(yes, heâs supposed to be checking in on your friendâthe patientâbut it was really an excuse to see you. he tries to deny it, tries to reason with his subconscious that he spends every other shift making sure youâre okay, so tonight doesnât feel any different. heâs not sure if heâs winning that argument.)
your other friend is asleep in the chair. the patient is still knocked out, snoring now, with stable vitals.
and youâre standing, looking between the monitor and your friend while you yawn and rub your eyes.Â
you turn at the noise and smile instinctively, fingers going to your necklace right away.
âhey kid,â he says quietly. he gestures with his hand, motioning for you to follow him, and you do, quietly closing the curtain behind you.
âhowâs it goinâ in there?â
âoh, uh, good. they both fell asleep, but, i guess it is late for them.â
âbut not for us. congrats, youâre a real night shifter now.â
you smile and laugh. you are tired, he knows, because he can tell. youâre supposed to be asleep now too, back in your own bed, without any alarms to wake you tomorrow morning.
you should be doing whatever it is people your age do on their days off. he wouldnât have any idea about any of that. youâve mentioned some stuff and heâs overheard others in passingâsomething about the public library and a coffee shop and those heated workout classes that sound like a nightmareâ
âdr. abbot?â you question, saying his name quietly like you feel bad for interrupting his train of thought.
âyeah. sorry, uh, just wanted to come check on you-â you smile again, a little wider, before he realizes what he just said. âuh, you and the patient. but it seems all good, for now.âÂ
âyes. yeah, itâs fine. i can monitor, too. iâm basically sober now.â your eyes travelâdarting from him to your shoes quickly.
âdonât let shen hear you. an hour ago he wanted you on the floor.â
you laughâwhich jack has come to realize is his new favorite sound.
âno, he just hates suturing. iâll be back before he knows it.âÂ
âsorry this happened on your day off,â jack says, and without meaning to, he moves his head, trying to catch your eyes. you look up slowly, locking gazes.
âthatâs okay,â you say, sounding much too close to a default, rehearsed answer.Â
heâs positive that you wonât give your friend a hard time about this tomorrow. that youâll neglect to mention how you paced for two hours and didnât sleep or sit down until you were sure sheâs okay.
displeasure turns into anger at the very idea that someone might take advantage of all of your sweetness, all of your caring and your anxious nature that doesnât let you admit that itâs not okay.
itâs not okay, certainly not when heâs seen you freeze up when you take one step too close to the ambulance bay. how you try to hide how you really feel when you hear the sirens pulling up. why, even a few weeks in, heâs still easing you in to the noise and the chaos as much as he can.
âitâs not okay,â he says firmly, eyes latched onto yours.Â
you blink fast, tears suddenly welling up at his words. thatâs silly, you think, crying over your attendingâs words. heâs just trying to make you feel better, like he always does. in that moment, standing in front of jack abbot, you realize that he doesnât really have to try.Â
he does make you feel better.
âitâs just that sound,â you admit quietly. you feel embarrassed but you canât find the energy to care, not in your tired, barely-tipsy state. âthe sirens. every time i get too close i feel like itâs that night all over again. itâs stupid, i know-â
âitâs not stupid.â
âno one else that works here feels like that. no one else lets it interfere with their work. itâs just me that-â
âitâs not just you. i promise itâs not. and thereâs nothing wrong with needing to talk to somebody about it.âÂ
something in his chest burns and shifts, like lava seeping through his veins. youâre so young to be feeling this wayâlike youâre all alone in the world, with no one who can understand what youâre going through.
how can he show you that he knows? that he understands, probably better than anyone else in this hospital? that you should talk to him, not here, not even today, not in scrubs under bright lights too close to the source of your worry.Â
somewhere else, somewhere quiet, where he could explain to you all the reasons why itâs okay to feel what youâre feeling. talk to you about how great youâve been doing. show you that you wonât feel like this foreverâand that he knows because he didnât either.Â
itâs an entirely unprofessional thought that lingers for much too long. in a few months, youâll be back on the day shift and this will all be a distant, faded memory. a few months after that youâll be a second year resident and maybe heâll see you on nights again.
but right now youâre an intern that he has no business thinking so much about. yet, stillâ
âhow do you always know?â you ask, blinking at him. your wet eyes gnaw at him. he knows heâll be thinking about them long after youâve finally gone home.
âknow what?â
âwhat iâm thinking. how i feel. before i say anything.â
âi know a little something about how youâre feeling, kid.â
âreally?â you breathe.
âyeah. that, and you have a tell.â
âi do?â
âyour necklace. itâs a wonder that thing hasnât fallen off yet.â Â
you smile and he smiles too, and heâs thinking about what he could say next, when your friend says your name from behind the curtain.Â
âgo ahead,â jack says, before you can think about apologizing for cutting the conversation short. you step towards the curtain and he turns to walk away, when he hears you.
âdr. abbot?âÂ
âyeah, kid?â
âthank you.â
âyouâre welcome.â
đà§
just like you said, youâre back at work before you know it. monday evening at seven pm, youâre greeted by parker and john, who ask you how your friend is doing and joke about your brief interlude at the hospital this weekend.
and you tell them the truthâthat sheâs doing fine now, and has mostly learned her lesson about back to back shots past a certain age.Â
what you donât fess up to is how thoughts of your last conversation with jack have kept you completely preoccupied through the rest of the weekend. they donât need the details of that, though you feel like youâre suddenly hiding something.Â
you donât like that feeling, either. hiding something usually means youâre doing something wrong, which can have brutal consequences if youâre not careful. and you donât know if what youâre doing is wrong or not, though your moral guide is usually much sharper than this.Â
the truth is that jack abbot makes your head spin.Â
you feel suddenly breathless when he turns towards you to quietly ask you a questionâusually revealing that he already knows something about you that youâve been trying so hard to keep hidden. youâre close to lightheaded when he brings you your daily coffee. you get dizzy when you think about someone seeing, someone noticing whatâs going on between you and the attending.
because that is wrong. you canât justify that. attending-intern relationships are strictly frowned uponâyou know this because they made you sit through a seminar at orientation with all the other first-years.
you also know this because youâre not that much of an idiot. youâve watched the steamy doctor tv-shows. youâve even lived it these last few months, when you overhear nurses gossiping about some resident upstairs who fell for the married attending.
john and ellis are still talking about something you canât pay attention to when your heart starts racing. you think of how it might feel to be the intern that everyoneâs talking about, for everyone to know that you have feelings for jackâ
shit, you think. his name is dr. abbot. dr. abbot, your attending, not jack, the guy who seems to know you better than you know yourself.Â
dr. abbot, dr. abbot, dr. abbotâ
you conclude that youâd have to find a new job. you remember how overwhelming and scary the process had been to find this job, but you think there could be nothing worse than leaving right now.
youâd just began making progress againâthe good kind, that makes you excited over small victories, and has you less and less nervous with each shift that you complete. co-residents that you feel comfortable with, that you can approach with questions easily. nurses that you can make silly jokes with.Â
you feel like more and more of yourself is coming back with each night shift.
(you have to ignore why exactly that is, just to stomach the thought.)
you canât possibly mess it up now, you decide, taking the ipad from parker and visiting your first patient of the evening for an evaluation of a burn.Â
you repeat it to yourself while you debride the woundâyou canât mess this up when you finally have something to lose. you remind yourself of it when you finish up with the patient, trying to find john instead of dr. abbot to report back to.Â
you almost zone out to your thoughts while bridget asks you about your friend from this weekend when she comes to help you with the discharge papers.
and you keep it going for as long as you can, doubling down even more when you hear gossipy chatter coming from somewhere behind you as you try to type up your charts during a brief lull.
you can barely deal with everyone knowing that you couldnât handle the day shift anymore, much less the fact that youâre falling in love with yourâ
âhey, kid,â he says, and you look up so quickly that you feel your head rush. âyou okay?â
the strength that was holding what little resolve you had melts down like ice cream in the sun. jack abbot, six hours into a busy shift, checking in on you during whatâs likely his first opportunity all night to sit down.
âiâm okay,â you reply quietly, trying to move your eyes back to your computer. âjust working on these notes. do you have a patient for me?âÂ
you try to change the topic, hoping heâll do that thing he always does, read your mind before youâve even fully spelled out the thought yourself.Â
we canât be something that people gossip about at two am, we canât, we canât, i canâtâ
ânot yet.âÂ
jack leans against the counter, forearms set up right near the edge of your monitor. your eyes move between the screen and his arms quickly. if you look for too long youâll start staring at his freckles, and you definitely donât want that.
âi just wanted to ask, uh, how-â
âoh,â you breathe, interrupting him, even though you know you shouldnât. you know what heâs about to ask. âsheâs fine now. feeling a lot better. i talked to her this morning, soâŠâ you drift off and blink at him, trying to regain your focus.
itâs just so hard when heâs around you.
âoh. thatâs good,â jack says, with a small smile that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. âbut i was going to ask how youâre doing?âÂ
you think that you must look like a confused fish right nowâyour mouth parts, your eyes widen, and you keep staring at him until you snap out of it. jack smiles like somethingâs funny about this, like itâs amusing that he turns your brain into a puddle of nothing with a few simple words.
you keep blinking, while a million thoughts run through your head. youâre so hardwired to worry about other people that you didnât, for a moment, assume that jack was going to ask about you.Â
and youâre so afraid of your own anxiety and the thought that you might be doing something to make your own life harder, that you spent a whole half-shift away from the one person that seems to have a knack for finding your off-switch.
âuh⊠kid?â jack questions, tilting his head in a mix of confusion and concern.Â
âyeah?â you reply, the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. itâs getting louder with each passing second.
âhow are you doing?âÂ
you breathe out and the sounds of the emergency department return all at once. monitors and the ceaseless chatter and even your foot tapping against the floor.
âiâm okay,â you answer, and for once, youâre being truthful. âreally.â
âgood,â jack replies, and for a moment, you stare up at him, wondering if heâll say anything else.
the truth is that jack doesnât need so many words to understand you. he stays like that for a moment, watching your shy smile and deciding that this time, he does believe you.
why you thought heâd be asking about your friend is beyond him. jack knows you took care of her even after youâd left the hospital that night. he has no doubts about that, not with the way you care and worry so deeply.
for a moment he lets his mind drift off and wonder how it might feel to be on the receiving side of it.Â
âuh⊠dr. abbot?â you question hesitantly.
âyes?â
âi just wanted to say-â
âhey, abbot, just got a call about a multi-car pile up on the bridge. three incomings, five minutes out-â the shout comes from half way across the room. both of your heads turn immediately towards the nurse. you watch as john and parker move quickly on their feet towards the ambulance bay, and you even steady your hand on the counter, rising on your feet instinctively.Â
jack says something back and turns to look at you. he takes a step closer.
âyou donât have to help if youâre not ready,â he says, locking eyes with yours again.Â
the truth is you donât know if youâll ever be completely ready.
but you feel compelled to follow him, to help him for once, help the others, instead of being the one relying on help and strategic timing and praying for one less ambulance.Â
âi-iâm ready,â you say, and once your feet start moving, they donât stop. you follow jack to the ambulance bay, pulling out a yellow gown and blue gloves for yourself.Â
if parker and john are surprised, they donât say anything. they head outside first and while you quickly tug on the gown, you feel him standing behind you. jack ties the strings behind your neck and waist. warmth radiates from his touch and would make you a little feverish if you werenât so anxiously awaiting the incoming.
you half expect him to say something about it being okay if you need to leave or tap out, because you know, even now, what he must think of you. youâre still figuring out your trauma skills and this is the equivalent of being thrown into the deep end, and stillâ
every time you think you know what jack abbot is going to say to you, you end up surprised.
âif you need something, just let me know, okay?â jack says quietly, and you find yourself nodding.Â
he doesnât seem like heâs doubting your abilities. he doesnât seem like heâs worried that youâll run out in the middle of the trauma or freeze up to the point that youâre politely asked to leave, like you had during the day shift.
it seems like, to the best of your discernment, that jack believes in you. he thinks you can do this and you donât want to prove him wrong.Â
you and jack follow parker and john outside, and as the sound of the ambulance sirens gets nearer, your hand creeps towards your neck. but when jack meets your eyes again, you feel it fall somewhere by your side.Â
it must be silly, the way it feels around him. the noise of the sirens is dimmed. the voice in your head quiets down enough for you to hear and process your own thoughts.Â
thatâs exactly what happens. you end up on opposite sides of the patient, a woman who looks only a few years older than you. so far sheâs got broken ribs from the airbag and a fractured leg. your job is on the e-fast, and you go through the views, glancing up at jack and parker for confirmation while you state your findings.Â
you shift over to the other lung when you see it on the monitor, a black area that makes you stop in your tracks.
âthereâs a huge hemothorax on the left-â you start, adjusting your probe to get a clearer view.Â
âshe can thank the airbag for that,â john comments. someone had read the vitals out just a few minutes ago, and you find yourself wondering how sheâs still stable with this much fluid in her chest. a nurse pokes her head into the room, telling them that parker needs help, and john leaves, telling jack heâs got it.Â
the thought comes up and around your head quicklyâyou donât know everything. another one, more quietlyâleave it to the real adults, youâre just an intern.Â
but today is not the day to listen.Â
because youâre not afraid of being wrong around him. because thereâs no punishment for you if you say the wrong thing. thereâs no one coming to drag you away. just the soft hazel of jackâs reassuring gaze on you.
âi think we need to intubate, because-â youâre interrupted by the blare of the monitor. another nurse reads off the vitals, her oxygen tanking quickly, and you watch as they bring the ambu bag to her face.
âgood call,â jack says to you. âcâmon, kid. you up for it?â
you nod.Â
youâve intubated beforeâa few trauma patients and the dummy in the skills lab pop into your mind immediatelyâbut this seems a little different. you position the scope into the patientâs mouth while the nurse pulls the et tube from a drawer for you.
and itâs almost like muscle memory. the patientâs head is tilted back, you move the tongue, and just as youâre holding the tube in your hand, scope heavy in your other one, getting ready to insert it, you freeze.
it seems like an eternity. the tube in your hand is moving in slow-motion, but your mind locks up. thereâs a million thoughts in a secondâstarting and ending with the last time you intubated someone.Â
it was a young girl from pittfest and though youâd thought she was stable, she wasnât. youâd also thought you could do it, but just like then, youâd frozen up for a moment. that day, luckily, mel had been walking by and helped you. luckily, they got her up to surgery in time.
but it wasnât because of you. you had almost failed her.
and youâd thought that some other day youâd be alone, without anyone to help, and youâd have to figure it out by yourself, and youâd fail.Â
youâd fail yourself. fail your patient. let that poor girl die or get irreparable brain damage from hypoxia because you werenât fast enough.Â
they tell you that in emergency medicine, the difference between life and death is a matter of seconds.Â
and this does take a secondâone, maybe twoâto think and process. to debateâflight or fight? which one will you step up to today?
and then one glance at jack standing next to you, looking at you intently, but not with concern, not with fear or worry, but rather something closer to trust. waiting for you to keep going. the safety net that he provides feels like a catch-all that could protect you through anything and everything.
you extend the neck further until youâve got a straight shot down to the vocal cords. the tube glides in and by the time you secure the bag and check the end-tidal, the surgery team in rolling in to pick up where you and jack left off.Â
another head pokes inâbridget, telling jack that john and parker need him, and he looks back at you quickly.
he says good job, kid, and leaves, and you stay there, a little stunned at yourself, filling in the gaps for the surgeons, answering questions and watching as they work quickly, seeing where you can help.
in that moment, thereâs no time to overanalyze everything. you work as quickly as you can to do the best you can for your patient. you donât stop to think that youâre doing the wrong thing, that judgemental eyes will cast down on you if you take an extra second to think about your answer.
it comes back like a soreness, the good kind, like a muscle youâve been neglecting to train.Â
by the time sheâs been wheeled up to surgery, you take a breath and slump your shoulders. one of the nurses is on the phone, calling the patientâs emergency contact number, but you ask if you can do it instead.Â
you call her parents, leaning against the wall while you tell them that she was in an accident and was brought to ptmc, and that she has a few broken bones, one of which punctured her lung. you tell them that the team was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery, and the relief in their voice, and the feeling that you helped contribute to saving her, gives you a rush unequal to anything youâve ever felt.
itâs almost strange, feeling adrenaline rush through you and causing this sort of reaction. usually itâs coated in anxiety, sticking to every thought inside of you, resulting in thoughts that you try to shove down and away.
today itâs a high. one that will likely only last a little while longerâthereâs head lacs and chest pains waiting to be seen, and they donât care that you were saving that girlâs life, just that you took so long to see them, and youâll have to calm your beating heart when you start stitching people up, but for nowâ
for now, you want to find jack and thank him for believing in you.Â
there were three gurneys that came from the accident on the bridge. your patient is wheeled upstairs, another gurney is parked by the nearest curtain, with the night shift nurse practitioner whose name you still donât know suturing their wound.Â
and the last gurney is in the other trauma room, parallel to the one youâd been in. you peak in, but whatever excitement had been in your body dissipates as quickly as it had seeped in.Â
jack is doing compressions, covered in a sheen of sweat you can see from the window. but from the way john and parker look at each other, there was no reason to keep going.Â
you step away from the glass, wanting to give them privacy. itâs entirely unfairâyou get to feel good about your save, only for the universe to take that feeling away from jack and john and parker.Â
itâs almost an hour later that you see him. parker had come by and youâd given her the update on your next two patients.
âso, how was it? back on traumas?â she asks, and you smile, but wish you hadnât.
âreminded me why iâm doing this,â you answer sincerely. âiâm sorry about your patient, though. can i do anything?â
âno, but thanks. his family should be here soon.â
âdo you want me to-â
ânah, donât worry. weâll work on these discharges. abbot will want to speak to them himself.âÂ
you swallow uncomfortably.
âyeah, of course.â you pause, tiptoeing the line between professional and self-serving. âdo you know where he is?â
âif i had to guess, the roof.â
âw-why would he be on the roof?â
âuh,â parker starts, trailing off. you look at her with a quizzical expression, but before she can meet your eye, sheâs looking somewhere in the distance behind you. her face changes tooâinto an expression of surprise. âto get some air. but forget i said that. heâs over there. and i think heâs looking for you.âÂ
âme? uh-â parker doesnât wait for your answer, taking off towards the curtains.
when you turn around, jack is walking towards you with your yellow mug in his hand.
âoh. thank you, dr. abbot,â you say, as he sets down the cup.Â
jack is mostly a mystery to you. you know him through bits and pieces, you think, through how he treats you and how he is with the others. he makes silly, stupid jokes and always reminds the residents to eat when they can. heâll take over any trauma if itâs getting to be too much for one of you.Â
and he never fails to make you the perfect cup of coffee. sweet and much too delicious for regular hospital brew, though he has managed to perfect it. it canât even compare to the cups you used to make hurriedly in between one and two during the day shift.Â
youâre sure that this cup will prove to be no different. you take a sip, feeling the warmth rush all over you, and when you meet jackâs eyes, you know itâll turn from warm to hot, like always. his stare is as intense as they come, right now during the lull between patients and in the trauma rooms like you were earlier.Â
intense. in a way that you have gotten way too familiar with.
but when you look up to meet his eyes, they donât seem that way.Â
jack looks, maybe for the first time, the closest youâve ever seen to sad.Â
and itâs heartbreaking. for someone that you know through bits and pieces, it pulls at your heartstrings immediately. thereâs no smirking smile, no reminder for you to sit and drink your coffee and work on your notes or take a break.Â
you donât actually remember when or where youâd heard it. something about your attendingsârobby and abbotâand the roof and getting some air after a bad patient. you hadnât understood it at the time, mostly confused, thinking if they needed air, they should go out to the ambulance bay. thereâs a tiny bench by the side of the wall, hidden from plain sight, and when you used to go and sit there and cover your ears, you should have understood what they meant about the roof.
but he didnât go to the roof today. he went to make you a cup of coffee instead.
something hot and smoldering burns inside your chest at the thought. you want to say something, say the perfect thing, the thing that makes him feel better and makes him laugh and makes the horrible, aching feeling of losing a patient go away, even if itâs just for a few heartbeats.
but youâve never been good at that sort of thing. thatâs jackâs job.
âyouâre not okay, are you?âÂ
the words come out softly. too soft to be spoken to your battle-hardened attending. thereâs just the two of you by the desks at central, everyone else running around or looking for a caffeine fix. but suddenly, it feels like the entire hospital is empty.
âdonât worry about me, kid,â jack replies quietly, and you feel your heart sink. âiâll be fine.âÂ
he wonât be fine. this is the sort of pain that gnaws at you for a while, keeps working until itâs through the skin and down to the bone. jack will move on and treat fifteen other patients before sunrise but when he goes home, heâll think about the one he couldnât save.
thatâs always how it is. you know it firsthand.Â
and maybe for the first time, you think thereâs not that many differences between you and jack abbot.
and heâwell, he always takes care of you. always. in the room with the trauma. with the patient who harassed you. with your own emotions that are always battling against you.Â
maybe itâs your turn to prove to him, show him that you can take care of him tooâ
jack turns to leave, about to pick up his hand from where it rests near your cup, but you move faster than he does, putting your hand over his. he turns back around slowly.
âkid, i-â
âi know,â you say quickly, not wanting him to finish his sentence. âi know. but i canât just let you be sad all by yourself. you never let me be sad by myself.â
âiâm not sad,â jack starts, taking a step back towards you. your hand burns where you touch his rough, warm skin. âiâm⊠i donât have a word for what i am.â
how silly, you think to yourself, that a few hours ago you were worried about you and jack abbot becoming hospital gossip. it seems so small and inconsequential now, when you look into his pensive, pretty hazel eyes.Â
youâre holding your attendingâs hands while you talk about the patient he lost. this isnât just hospital gossip, itâd be front page news if one of the blabbermouths saw the two of you. but itâs so hard to care.
so hard to even think about that when you know what heâs feeling. hard to process that your all-knowing, all-seeing attending, who can discern your feelings from across the room, might be going through something just like you right now.Â
that you might be the only person here today that could help him through this. that you might be the reason he didnât go to the roof.
âitâs okay,â you say, supplying words that heâs told you before. âyou donât have to know what it is. i donât either, sometimes. but, youâre not alone. whatever youâre feeling. i feel it too.âÂ
âyou donât have to,â he says, with a sad, quiet laugh. âyou did great tonight. you saved your patient.â
âbut i want to.â the words slip out before you can stop them.Â
âkid, i-â you interrupt him before he can finish.
âitâs not about being happy or sad. youâve helped me every single time i needed it. why canât i help you when you need it?â
jack pauses, his intense gaze boring into your eyes. then he looks down at your yellow mug, and looks back at where your hands are touching each other.
âyou already did.âÂ
âbecause you didnât go to the roof?â you ask, biting your cheek.Â
it might be too bold, but you feel like you have to know, feel like thereâs an answer thatâll make your head spin.Â
and jack thinks it too, keeping the thought in his grip tightly.Â
something about how when jack feels like this, he doesnât want to go to the roof for air.Â
he goes and does the one thing that gives him an excuse to see you.Â
you, with the uncanny ability to make him think twice about his feelings. you, that heâs looked at for weeks, and wondered why you doubt yourself, why you feel like this, like he used to, when heâs there to help you through it. and so caught up in those emotions, he forgot that at the core of all of this, is the way you think about everyone and everything in this hospital.
think about what others are feeling, what others are thinking. what theyâre doing and why theyâre doing it. the overthinking intern that he wanted to coax into trusting your gut and calming your fears, while almost forgetting that itâs also your biggest strength.
you can see through jack in an instant. you see the worry and the pain underneathâthe urge to take care of everyone stemming from a need to fix what he can, to make sure that the things he does have control over are taken care of. how uncertain it can feel when the things you thought you had control over fail you. when a patient doesnât come back even though you did everything you could.
âbecause i didnât go to the roof,â jack replies.Â
âif itâs worth anything,â you start quietly, eyes fixed on your overlapping hands, âiâm glad you didnât. i⊠i donât know what iâd do if you went to the roof.âÂ
âyouâd figure it out, kid.â
âmaybe,â you reply, reflecting his sad smile back at him. your hand feels like itâs holding his a little tighter. âbut i sure donât want to find out.â
you use your other hand to take another drink, setting the cup closer to him. jack picks it up and takes a sip.
and he turns and leaves, going towards the viewing room and waiting for the familyâa wife and two young kids. you stay there and finish your notes.Â
and until seven am, the two of you donât stop thinking about each other.
đà§
robby finds jack at six-fifty am on a wednesday morning. the shift was no different than any other, though he has a harder time remembering the patients and the traumas now than he ever has before.
jack skims through his memories and picks up a few easilyâthe cup of coffee he made you at midnight. the way you took a sip and then offered him one. he drank it, even though itâs insanely sweet compared to the way he takes hisâjust plain black. he remembers bringing you a protein bar at three, your sweet smile followed by a yawn, and the faded purple of your underscrub today.
âjack?â robby asks, and he blinks.Â
âuh, yeah? sorry. lost my train of thought.â
âno problem,â robby says, more confused than suspicious. âwas your shift okay?â
itâs a harmless question which also carries the weight of a freight train. okay is relative these days, jack thinks, because thereâs a bias forcing him to think heâs okay, even when heâs not.
or ratherâmaking him think he will be okay, even if heâs not right now. you sit next to him for thirty seconds and talk to him in a soft, gentle voice like no one else should be allowed to hear what the two of you are saying.
and then you smile at him with reassurance, something youâve had to work on since he got you here. itâll be okay. weâll be okay.Â
âit was okay,â jack answers. âwhatâs up?â he stretches his neck, trying to see where youâve gone off to. you had helped him with the last incoming car accident at six, who is currently stable and waiting in trauma two for surgery. you had done the e-fast, intubated, found a pouch of free fluid and two broken ribs.
and he found himself smiling on the way out, telling you good job, teasing you without meaning to. you feel warm and donât say anything but you donât stop smiling either.
youâre smiling now, talking to king and kwon about your sign-offs.Â
it wasnât even that long ago, he thinks, maybe yesterday or the day before. joy had come up to him around seven, groaning as she handed him the tablet he was searching for.
âget me out of here,â joy had said, and jack had looked at her with his usual, confused expression. her gaze is focused somewhere across the room, and when he looks to see what sheâs looking at, jack finds himself smiling.
you. youâre talking to the new nurseâemma, he thinksâsmiling and laughing with her. the two of you were wearing the same flower-patterned underscrub.
âwhat?â jack asks, and joy tears her eyes away from the two of you (mostly emma, he surmises), before groaning again.
âdr. bambi and nurse thumper. i didnât realize i was working at the woodland animal clinic.âÂ
he turns back to look at you, finding himself agreeing with that assessment. dr. bambi canât be the worst nickname heâs thought secretly in his head before. the others arenât nearly work-appropriate.
âbe nice,â jack says, though he knows joy doesnât mean it like that. he beats around the bushâthe two of them are two idiots in a pod, staring at that coworker theyâre not supposed to be staring at.
ânow those two could have saved bambiâs mother, iâm sure.â
jack snorts. even looking at you now, the memory feels fresh. dr. bambiâ
robby clears his throat.
âuh, well, iâve been thinking maybe itâs time to bring her back to days. whatâd you say?â
jack whips his head back.
âwhat? she just got here-â
âitâs been almost a month. and it seems like sheâs doing great. i mean, iâm noticing a big change. havenât you?â
fuck.Â
something in jack stirs, a sad, ugly thing that rears its head. he wants to lie, instantly, for purely selfish reasons. to keep you by his side a little longer, to protect the little bubble the two of you work inside of. a bubble made of late night coffee and early morning smiles and taking care of each other without really trying that hard.Â
itâs always been easy for him, he thinks, to try and take care of you. heâs only just begun to realize that it might be easy for you too, to take care of him.Â
and heâs selfish, he wants to keep you there forever. if not just for himâ
he wants you where he can see you, can reassure you, can make sure you donât go back to that place he just snuck you out ofâfull of doubt and fear and anxiety.Â
but it is for him, at the same time. you push away thoughts that he once felt he could never escape from. teaching you a new procedure or complimenting your work gives him a rush unequal to anything elseâyour grateful smile is just one part of it.
he has been beating around the bush with it, taking his time, trying to protect you, protect this, whatever this is, not rushing things and regretting anything.
but nowâ
he canât lie.Â
lying would mean⊠saying that youâre not ready to leave. that you havenât improved, that there hasnât been any changes. that youâre not incredibly smart and competent, that you just needed a little push and a little encouragement and the safe space that jack abbotâs night shift team seems to provide you.
lying would hurt you. impact your education. if you found out that he said those things, things that he didnât even believe, well, he might not be able to forgive himself.
he stares at robby, head swirling between the two ideas, wondering how, if at all, he can get out of this conversation. he briefly considers telling robby heâll tell him later but right now heâs going upstairs, but robbyâll just follow him.
and youâwell, youâll follow him too.
âyeah. big change,â jack says, the words feeling painful to get out.Â
get it together. sheâs your intern. this is a good thing.Â
right?Â
âal-right, then. maybe starting up at the end of the week? friday morning? i can go talk to her before-â
âno, uh, iâll talk to her. i got it,â jack says, and robbyâs expression is more suspicion than confusion now, but he doesnât notice.
and you feel it before you hear itâthe noise of thunder outside, the strike of lightning. youâve already had one car accident today because of the wet, slippery roads and heavy rain, and youâre sure itâll only be worse as the day goes on.
youâre grateful again for the night shift, because now you get to go home and fall asleep to the rain.
(fall asleep and dream, because all youâve been doing recently is dreaming. about your attending, about his kind words and actions and big hands that make your yellow mug look so incredibly small.)
you say goodbye to parker and john, watching as they disappear with their umbrellas to the parking garage. you usually walk to the bus stop, but you stand by the door, waiting for him.
for jack. itâs something of an unspoken routineâyou wait for the other. he walks towards his car, and you walk towards the street, and you donât say anything besides get some rest, dr. abbot, and he replies with, you too, kid.Â
and thatâs itâbut itâs after every single night. and youâve always been a creature of habit, so you wait, thinking heâs running a bit late.Â
you stare at the rainâtoo heavy to brave it without any backup. you look through your bag for your umbrella, but itâs nowhere to be found. it would be obviousâitâs yellow, like your mug.
you must have left it at home.Â
you unlock your phone, trying to find the rideshare app, scrolling whenâ
âhey, kid.â
âoh,â you breathe, your heart thudding in your chest, turning to face him. âhi.â
âi need to talk to you about something. itâs-â jackâs eyes flick towards your screen for a moment. âwhatâs that?â
âi, uh⊠forgot my umbrella,â you admit sheepishly. âand i didnât want to get soaked walking to the bus stop, so-â
âyou forgot your umbrella?â he questions, raising an eyebrow.Â
you think a few weeks ago your face would burn at the line of questioning. silly mistake from a silly intern. now you know that everything jack says to you has an automatic layer of concern on top of it.Â
it still makes your face burn a little bit, though.
âwell, i-i didnât realize it would be raining when we left.â
we. you shouldnât have said thatâitâs not even really the truth. you and jack leaving together every shift is not a promised thing.Â
itâs just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself.Â
you hope he doesnât notice, and you start chewing on your cheek at the idea that may he doesâof course he doesâyour hand coming to toy with your necklace when he responds.
âi can bring you home, kid,â he says, his hazel eyes staring at you with a different kind of intensity than youâre used to.Â
he looks almost⊠wistful.Â
you try to dismiss the thoughtâwhy would jack be wistful about driving you home? youâd be a filthy liar if you hadnât imagined what it might be like to sit in the passenger seat of his truck, to listen to the music he likes, to watch his arms and hands while heâ
âthatâs okay, dr. abbot,â you respond before you completely give yourself away. âi can just call the-â
jack sighs, smiling a little, like heâs trying to hide it from you. but itâs not what his smile is usually likeâsweet and amused like heâs watching a fawn walk on legs for the first time and resisting the urge to swoop in and help.Â
itâs something you canât quite place.
âcâmon. truckâs over here,â he says, and you drop the challenge immediately. you follow him out, through the door that you never go through, the one that you watch him disappear past every day when you leave for the bus stop.Â
and stupid as it is, when you walk towards the passenger side of his truck, you notice that heâs following you instead of going to the driverâs side.
âoh. um, do you-?â you get out, a little confused.Â
jack steps in front of you, opening the door.Â
âoh. thank you.â
âyouâre welcome, kid,â he says. you take a seat and he shuts the door, pausing for a moment outside the window while you put your seatbelt on. you meet his eyes through the glass for half of a heartbeat before he walks away.
when he takes his seat and puts on his seatbelt, you realize youâre terrible at this.
âare you okay?â you ask, staring at him.
itâs gloomy outside and the sky is painted in gray and white, the heavy rain making everything a little damp and slow. including your brain.Â
but you canât help it. something seems off about jack today and you need to know what before it drives you crazy.Â
normally, you imagine youâd be beside yourself at the idea of sitting in his truck and soaking in the feeling of knowing that heâd drive you home even when itâs out of his way, but you canât think of that when thereâs something heâs not telling you.
âiâm fine, kid,â he says, and you donât believe him for one second.
you decide to be bold.
you take your hand and put it over his, and he turns to look at you. you think this is what it feels like to melt. jackâs eyes reveal whatever he doesnât want to tell you, and you feel your heart start to beat faster.
âwhat is it? itâs okay. you can tell me,â you say, starting to get nervous.Â
his skin feels warm where youâre touching it, realizing this is twice in a week that youâve held jack abbotâs hands in your own.Â
the thought is⊠grounding. like thereâs nothing that could be so bad as long as you have him with you to help you get through it. you think stupidly that you could do anything if you had him with you.Â
you had already done everything with him beside you.Â
âkid, iâŠâ jack trails off, and your fingers twitch, rising for a moment, as though perhaps youâve done the wrong thing.
oh god. had you completely misread thisâwas this something else entirely?Â
you thought being in his car meant you were a step closer to whatever it is that you want to be, whatever it is that the two of you wonât put into words or even coherent thoughts. itâs just the semblance of hope that hangs in the air, that maybe, somehow, someday, this might be more than just an attending and his intern.Â
had you misjudged him this badly? the thought lingers for a second, and you pick up your hand, bringing it back to your lap like a child who just got scolded for doing something wrong.
âiâm so sorry, i-â
âno, no, itâs not that,â jack starts, staring at you with those eyes again. he looks away, running a hand through his messy curls, and you watch, your heart dropping into your stomach. the light catches on his wedding ring.
âitâs okay. i-i can just walk home. we, um, we shouldnât, if you donât want to-â
âno, kid, itâs not that.â jack keeps his eyes focused on the dashboard, his hand tightening around the wheel. you watch the veins of his arms tense up. ârobby, uh⊠robby wants you back on the day shift. i was trying to figure out how to tell you inside.â
oh.Â
you swallow uncomfortably, not sure if this is better or worse. your mind starts to spin, creating two alternating scenarios that start to fight with each other. robby wants you back on the day shift. youâve finally done what you set out to do in the first place, earned your way back, gotten better at this job the way youâve always wanted toâ
but itâs only because of jack. his gentle guiding. the way he doesnât stop believing in you even when youâre having a severe deficiency in that area. the way he makes you coffee that tastes perfect every time. the way he knows when youâre feeling anxious before you can even processâ
âhey,â he says, and you blink, looking up at him. âwhatâre you thinking?â
âi⊠do you think i should go back?â
âi-,â he pauses, taking a breath. âi think youâre ready to. youâve been doing great these last couple of shifts. itâs not about what i think though. itâs about how you feel.â
and the way jack says it, with so much sincerity that itâs practically dripping from him, makes your heart thud around in your chest. the blood rushes to your ears at the thoughtâno more night shift.
no more sleeping in until the afternoon. scheduling appointments during the day and not missing them when the day shift runs over. actually having time to finish your charting instead of staying behind until eight pm to catch up.
no more jack abbot.
the realization hits you squarely in the chest, getting hard to breathe like walls are closing in around you. itâs not that serious but it is that serious. you even try to justify it internally while jack looks at you with what can only be described as pure concern in his eyes.
youâre just scaredâno more jack means having to face your shifts alone. the safety net would be gone, and itâs just as wellâitâs not like you could have relied on him forever. robbyâs a different type of mentor. heâs not going to walk you through your freeze-ups or notice when youâre playing with your necklace that it means you need a break.Â
no, robby couldnât do any of that. nor, you think, is it his responsibility. his job is to run the emergency department and make sure that everyone inside is running too.
everything that has happened in the last month has been something specialâsomething born of jackâs desire to take care of you, for whatever reason he had decided on.Â
you hadnât asked and he hadnât pushed, it had just come together the way it did. and it was nothing short of perfect.
and now, itâs over.
âyeah, of course,â you reply, hoping your face doesnât completely give you away.Â
you take a deep breath and then release it, holding your hands firmly to your side. you donât want to make it any easier for him to see through your lie.
âkid, you can take some time to think about it. itâs not an easy decision,â he says, and you turn your head to look at him, tearing your gaze away from your lap.
heâs got his elbow angled, leaning against the steering wheel. the tight, dark shirt he wears looks like itâs a size too small in the dim light of his car. or maybe you just feel that way because his arms look ready to tear right out of the fabric. his curls are mussed up where he ran his fingers through them, but the silver still reflects brightly.
and worst of allâhis stupid eyes and his stupid smile. looking at you like they always doâfilled with concern, like thereâs nothing more important than making sure youâre okay.Â
youâve denied it long enough, but now, with the very real possibility that thisâwhatever this isâis coming to an end, the thought doesnât seem to leave you as easily as it has on other days.Â
âwell i had to go back eventually, right?â you finally say, locking eyes with him again.Â
âyeah, kid. i guess so.â jack looks like heâs about to say something else, but you suppose he decides not to. he puts on his seatbelt instead, his hand moving to the gear stick. âcâmon kid. letâs get you home.â
đà§
you tell jack your address, and just like you expected, he already knows where it is. you have to remind yourself that heâs been living in pittsburgh for most of your life, that the street signs and neighborhood names arenât just words you throw around.Â
heâs probably got a memory in every street corner. a memory, you think sadly and a little selfishly, with his wife who isnât here anymore.Â
youâre not the person whoâs supposed to be seated in this passenger seat. youâre just the intern heâs a little too nice to at work.
and soon, youâll be known as that girl who went back to the day shift.
you watch the black of his ring on his hand as he grips the steering wheel. he puts his arm around the headrest of your seat while he backs up, and heâs on the road after. you stare out the window, listening to the harsh, loud raindrops as they hit the roof of his truck.Â
his car is just what you expected. clean, though not in the way that would scare you off if he was a stranger. it feels weird to think, but his truck is almost⊠homey. thereâs pieces of mail laying the console between the two of you. receipts tucked into the sun visor. dog tags, maybe intertwined with a necklace, hang from his rearview mirror.
and it smells like him.Â
you close your eyes for a moment, trying to soak it in. itâs your first and last time being in this car, being with him, if youâre really going to start the day shift again.Â
his truck has a cd player, something you might have commented on if it wasnât for your current state of mind.Â
youâre too sad to think of something funny to say, so instead you lean against the headrest, listen to his beatles album, and watch the city waking up for the day.Â
itâs four, maybe five songs before jack says something.
âweâre almost there, kid. are you-â he stops himself, trailing off. âare you okay?â
âiâm okay,â you lie. âjust thinking about it, i guess. itâll be a big change. i was just getting used to the night shift, i think.â
it goes unsaidâi was just getting used to you.
âyouâve already seen it during the day. a lot longer than you did nights. it wonât take that long.â
âyeah. youâre right.â
âi think, uhâŠâ your head perks up at his words, wondering if heâll say what you think heâs about to say. âi think youâll be just fine.â
âthanks, dr. abbot.âÂ
when the car slows down, the rain sounds louder. jack pulls into the lot of your apartment complex, putting his truck into park.Â
youâre about to turn towards him, thinking of what you can say to make this feel different. to make it easier, but nothing comes to mind.
youâll settle for whatever half-assed goodbye leaves your lips, when the heavy rain turns into a torrential downpour.Â
âoh god,â you say, without even realizing it. the rain is hitting his windshield so quickly that you canât even see the brick of your building in front of you. âcan you drive home in this?âÂ
you turn towards jack, expecting him to be concerned about the shift in the weather. an annoying drizzle into the pittsburgh version of a monsoon. but when you look, heâs not looking outside. his eyes are on you.
âiâll be fine.â
âmaybe-â you start, a sudden surge of boldness overcoming your anxiety, for once, âyou should wait it out. t-to be safe.â
âuh, kid, i-â
âyou live across town, donât you? i donât think thatâs safe. last thing you wanna do is end up back in the pitt at eight am.âÂ
he chuckles at that, and you feel satisfaction bloom inside of you.
âum, i can make us tea, if you want?â
âoh,â jack says. âi was just going to wait it out in here.â
âoh,â you echo, feeling your entire face burn with heat. âsorry, sorry, i-â
âdonât apologize,â he interrupts. âi could⊠go for tea.â
âreally?â you question, not sure if heâs trying to play into it to protect your embarrassed feelings from entering into utter humiliation.Â
âyeah, kid. i⊠love tea.â
(jack abbot does not love tea. he doesnât even drink tea. the only thing he knows about tea is from when he makes you a cup of hot water on days where youâre too wired to have a cup of coffee. you keep little packets of the stuff with you and itâs always a new, odd color when he glances into your yellow mug.)
you end up on either side of your kitchen counter with jack abbot, tea lover. youâre both soaked, despite running to the door of your complex. his curls drip water onto the granite of the countertop, his shirt clinging to him as though itâs a second skin.
you feel cold. youâre in your damp underscrub, your scrub top thrown into your hamper. you bring him a towel for his hair and try to dry yours, before giving up entirely.Â
the only thing that might make you feel better is a long, hot shower once jack abbot leaves your apartment.Â
whenever that might be. in fifteen minutes, the rain hasnât let up even once. you can hear it hitting the windows, the gusts of wind that sound scary, even from a few floors up.
you rub your arms as the kettle begins to whistle quietly. mugs, you tell yourself, opening your cupboard. you glance back to see jack drying his hair, his arms flexed as he stretches, and you look back to your significantly less interesting dishware with a dry mouth.
you put two mugs on the countertop, opening the drawer of your tea packet options.
âum, do you know what kind you want? i have a bunch,â you say, and he looks at you blankly.
fuck. maybe he shouldnât have lied about the tea. heâs about to get caught red-handed, when you interject again.
âi have chamomile. itâs caffeine free, if thatâs okay?â you ask politely, and he swallows hard, nodding.
âsounds good.âÂ
you put the packets into the mug and pour hot water over them. jack glances around your apartment. the entire place is a testimony to you. itâs organized but comfortable, filled with clean clutter and warm colors. thereâs a candle youâve almost completely burned through on the countertop next to him, and enough books to fill a library on different shelves in your living room.
you hand him the mug and he canât help but smileâ
itâs yellow, a carbon copy of the one at the hospital. in your hands is a third duplicate, as you swish around the tea bag. he copies your motions.
âso,â he starts, a little stupidly, because heâs unsure of where the sentence is leading. âchamomile.â
âyeah,â you breathe. âthey say chamomile is good for anxiety, soâŠâ
thereâs something else, a suppressed thought that you wonât let out hiding beneath the surface. jackâs determined to get it out before he leaves.Â
when you take a small sip, he does too. the drink isnât half badâhe prefers the taste of black coffee, even if itâs decaf, but jack supposes he could get used to this too.
the second thought fills him quicklyâthere is no getting used to this.Â
this is about to end. this is the final act, the goodbye.
âkid, i-â
âno,â you interrupt, a little out of character. âdonât. i, um⊠this is hard enough for me as it is. i donât do good with change. in fact, the only reason i even did good with this change is because of-â
you donât finish your sentence.
âi just wanted to tell you that-â jack starts, but you donât let him.
âi donât think i wanna leave night shift,â you blurt out.
oh.Â
âthatâs okay,â jack says, his voice trying to stay calm and steady. something burns inside of him though, smolders at your confession. it echoes hisâi donât want you to leave night shift.Â
âis it?â you ask, picking up your mug to take another drink. âbecause iâm pretty sure iâm not allowed to make calls like that. i mean, if robby wants me back, i have to go back, right?â your voice sounds pained, something he really, really doesnât like.Â
jack takes his cup into his hand and moves a little closer to your side of the island. your mug looks comically small in his hands here too.
âif youâre not ready, then iâll talk to robby. heâll understand,â jack says. the liquid is still too hot to drink, but he does anyways, just to give him something to focus on besides your pretty, sad expression and wistful eyes.
âthatâs the thing,â you finally confess, tears building up before you can stop them. âi am ready to go back. i just donât want to.â
âkid,â jack breathes. âdonât cry. please, donât cry-â
âi-i was trying to not think about it. about you. but itâs so hard,â you say, those tears that are much too familiar to him streaming down your cheeks. itâs no fairâyouâre even pretty when you cry. âiâve never felt like this before. it-it canât be that wrong, can it?â
âitâs not wrong,â he says, taking a step to bridge the distance between the two of you. he puts his hand over yours, and your skin feels like itâs burning where the two of you touch.
jack swallows when your big, teary eyes turn to look at him again.Â
âi⊠i havenât felt like this in a long, long time,â he admits, and you watch him with careful anticipation. âi just⊠itâs wrong but itâs not. when he asked me if youâre ready to come back, i almost lied. just so i could keep you with me a little longer-â
you donât wait for jack to finish this time. you lean up to find his lips before your fear can stop you.Â
jackâs lips are soft, and his grown out scruff is scratchy against your soft skin. itâs hard to care, though, when heâs kissing you.
jack abbot is kissing you.Â
âoh my god,â you breathe against jackâs mouth, and he pulls away for a moment, his hands coming to cup the side of your face gently.
âwhatâs wrong?â he asks in that light, calm tone that drives you crazy. itâs barely above a whisper, his hazel eyes shining down on you. youâre so close that you can even make out the specks of brownâ
you answer with another kiss, pressing your lips together again. your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands leave your face, wandering down to hold you firmly by your waist. his fingers sneak underneath the wet fabric of your shirt until he grips the bare skin of your hips.Â
you moan into the kiss. the feeling of jackâs hands on you is close to unreal. itâs everything you thought it would be and more, feeling how hot his mouth is, how deeply he kisses you. you donât think youâre breathing but itâs hard to care, exactly.
you yelp into his mouth when you feel his hands on the globes of your ass. he hoists you up, placing you onto the countertop, your legs wrapping around his while he keeps kissing you.Â
your hands pull eagerly wherever you canânamely, his stupidly tight shirt. the two of you detach for a second, just to get the stupid thing off, which takes a moment since itâs melded onto his chest.
but once itâs off, you feel your body go a little weak and limp. jackâs shoulders seem even broader like this, his chest somehow wider, his arms somehow bigger. you can make out the veins that youâre always admiring in the shitty hospital fluorescents, where they start all the way to where they end.Â
it takes all of your power to not start tracing them.
youâre snapped out of the thought when you hear jackâs low, rumbling laugh and the way his chest vibrates with it.
âyouâre laughing at me?â you ask, a little dumbly.Â
âyouâre cute like this,â he says, leaning in close again, his shirt discarded on the ground. you bring the palm of your hand flat against his bare chest, soaking in how his skin feels against yours.
âcute like what?â you ask, but you donât get an answer. jack leans in for another burning kiss, and your mind goes empty.
you grip his shoulder, finally feeling the muscles under your hand. they tense and flex as he keeps kissing you, and as he moves his mouth down to your neck, your nails leave little crescent shaped indents on his frecked skin.
thatâs the other thingâhe has so many freckles. theyâre all over, hundreds more than you had expected. he must have spent all of his life shirtless in the sun, or something, you think, before it dissipates.Â
jack works his way to your collarbone, pressing a warm kiss there, over the metal of your necklace, and then another right on top of the pendant.Â
you sigh, your fingers tangling themselves in his wet hair. you donât pull, rather enjoying the sensation of the strands while you follow his head wherever it leads.Â
he doesnât go any further. you hold back a whine, letting go to lift your shirt off, when jack stops your hands from moving.
âwhat is it?â you ask impatiently. your lips are swollen and your eyes are blinking quickly at him. jack brings his fingers to your jaw, holding you in place gently.
âare you sure about this, kid?â you nod eagerly. âwe can stop whenever you want. we donât have to rush this-â
âstop talking,â you breathe, crashing your lips against his again. youâve waited so long to do thisâto kiss your attending, to be left breathless and flushed by him, that stopping it to talk seems so stupid.
jackâs hands go back to your hips as he keeps kissing you, swallowing your soft moans and whimpers as he explores your skin. finally he holds you in his grip, lifting you off the countertop while your legs tighten around his waist.
he carries you, leading into the open door of your bedroom, a yellow-walled room with gray curtains. he sets you gently on the bed, hovering over you, still not pulling away.
jackâs mouth is hot on yours, and you sigh into him, your hands resting on his chest again.
âjack,â you whimper, as you feel his hands tease around the hem of your shirt.Â
âeasy, sweetheart. lift up for me,â he instructs quietly, and you comply. he peels off your underscrub and then your bra, working down until your scrub bottoms are the next thing to go.Â
youâre bare in front of him, just in your panties that you had no idea he would be seeing. you would have made a wiser choice, maybe, if you knew this was even your last shift with him, just in case, butâ
âjesus christ, kid,â jack breathes, and you feel your stomach flip into a jumping jack over and over again. âyouâre perfect.â
âstop talking,â you repeat, leaning up to catch jackâs mouth again. this time, his hands wander everywhere, exploring the miles of smooth skin heâs revealed, feeling as your body trembles under his touch.Â
youâre sensitive everywhere, he can tell, and he wonders how to explain to you that he needs to take his time with you. you donât seem particularly patient right now.
he pulls away again.
âjack,â you whine, but he doesnât pay attention this time. he starts kissing down the soft skin of your chest, working down until heâs at your stomach. he wants to take his timeâtease your perfect, peaked nipples until youâre crying, kiss you all over until heâs memorized the taste of your damp skin.Â
you wonât let him right now, he knows, but the thought still lingers. heâll have to choose his battles with you, and this is not one he wants to fight right now.
instead, he moves your hands into place for you, just like he knew youâd like. he arranges you until youâre squeezing your tits, fingers playing with your nipples while he stares at you.
open mouthed, gasping from pleasure, while he watches. and then, once heâs finally ready to look away, he rubs his nose against your clothed clit.
âjackâ!â you cry out, thrashing up against him. he keeps one hand on your stomach to hold you down, his eyes glancing up to tell you not to stop, to keep going, like he told you.Â
you comply, going back to teasing your sensitive nipples while he thinks about what heâs going to do to you.Â
he places an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, lapping at the wet spot thatâs already formed there. youâll cringe with heated shame, he knows, but he inhales deeply, soaking in the scent of your wetness.Â
thereâs a thin piece of cotton separating him from what he really wants. he should really just slide it off, but it seems like too much work now, right when heâs got you exactly where he wants you.Â
you look down to see jack ripping your panties, tearing the fabric into two pieces, letting it fall somewhere on the floor of your bedroom.
âyouâre doing so good, sweetheart.âÂ
your head thuds against your pillow while you moan into the air.
âjack,â you beg, your legs beginning to shake. âplease, jack, i-â
he doesnât let you finish. jack dives in to lap against your leaking cunt, licking his way up and down until your moans fill the room.Â
your entire body spasms when you feel his mouth tighten around your clit.Â
âoh my god,â you cry out, fingers leaving your nipples to weave into jackâs hair. you keep them there, pulling his hair while you buck up against his tongue, feeling his nose nudge against your most sensitive partsâ
until he stops.
âjack?â you breathe, your throat dry and scratchy. âwhat-â
he moves up slightly, just to take your hands out of his hair, and put them back on your chest, covering your tits again.
âoh,â you whisper. âiâm sorry, jack, i-â
âkeep teasing your nipples for me,â he says, and your entire body feels like youâve been lit on fire.Â
your attending is saying those words to you, an hour after the night shift got out.
itâs something out of your wildest dreams, jackâs head between your legs, licking at your cunt like a starved man, his thick fingersâthe very ones that youâve watched insert chest tubes and plug bullet holes and save livesâare prodding at your cunt.
itâs hard to think about when he plunges two wide fingers into your leaking hole. you moan so loud that youâre sure your neighbor can hear you, before your exhausted, horny brain supplies you with the fact that no oneâs home right now.
everyoneâs at work. another perk of the night shift.
you listen to jack, teasing your nipples until sparks of electricity are coursing through your entire body. jack thrusts his fingers in and out, timing it with the way he laps the flat of his tongue over your clit, teasing you and giving you everything you want at the same time. that familiar hot, burning coil tightens in your belly, feeling even stronger when you feel jackâs brute strength keeping your legs pried open.
no matter how hard you tried, you wouldnât be able to overcome him and the thought is enough to make you cum instantly, though you resist.
itâs not until you feel itâfeel him talking to you, or rather to your cunt, that you begin to truly lose control.
his lips vibrate around your clit, the words coming out low and soft. the obscene squelch of his fingers fucking you fills the room, and you think this is the wettest youâve ever beenâand he hasnât even been inside of you yet.
âcâmon, kid. be a good girl for me. like you always are,â jack says, repeating the words until you feel the ground beneath to slip out from under you.
âoh god, jack, please, please can i come, please-â
âcome on, sweetheart. come for me, come on,â jack encourages you, and everything goes white.Â
that tense feeling in your stomach tightens, and then gives out completely, snapping until the white-hot sensation rushes through your whole body.Â
and all you can think the entire time is that itâs jack abbot making you feel like this. the thought makes you sink into your bed, eyes fluttering shut, fingers going lax against his hair.
you feel boneless and tired when jack greets you with another soft kiss.
âhi,â you whisper.
âhi, kid,â he breathes. you smile before you can help it.
your eyes dip lower, looking at the waist of his scrubs. you can see the tent where heâs hard underneath, and your hands start to wander there, but jack stops you. he catches your wrist.
âwhat happened?â you ask, staring back at his pretty eyes.
âitâs okay. we donât have to do anything-â
âbut i want to,â you whine, looking determined. âdonât tell me after all of that youâre going to leave me hanging-â
he shuts you up this time, pressing a searing kiss to your swollen mouth. whatever you were saying turns into a sweet moan, one that he gladly swallows.
he listens intently, keen on remembering these noises forever. your hands stay pressed against his chest, your fingertips digging in around his pec.
when he pulls away to let you breathe, you sigh with contentment.Â
jack sits up, smiling at your wide, eager eyes as you stare at his every movement. he sets his feet against the rug of your bedroom floor, his hands moving down to pull on the hard shell of his prosthesis, tugging until itâs fully removed.
you slide closer to him, leaning against his back, your arms resting against his as you watch intensely.
âcan i help?â you ask, your eyes moving to meet his, and jack releases a rush of airâa breath he didnât realize he was holding in.
âno, kid, i got it,â he says, turning back once he takes off the liner. his pants are next, his hands fiddling with the belt and the zipper.
you smile eagerly, excitedly, but he notices it againâyour fingers playing with that necklace again.
now he knows what that necklace feels like against his lips.
âare you sure about this?â he asks again.
in another world, maybe youâd think itâs because jackâs having doubts. but in this one, you know he doesnât. heâs trying to make sure that you donât.Â
âare you sure?â you repeat, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth and biting. jack hovers carefully over you, and you slink down into your sheets, until the two of you are lined up, bodies melting into each other.
âi havenât done this in a while, kid,â he says, and you bite your cheek to hold back a laugh.
âthatâs okay,â you whisper. âiâll be gentle.â
you and jack both laugh, the quiet sound filling the space of your apartment. it feels unrealâjack hovering over you, his skin against yours, feeling the soft breath of his laugh against your neck.
you lean up, pressing a kiss to his nose.Â
âyou donât know how long iâve thought about this,â you admit in the form of a whisper. the confession feels bold, especially for you, but it seems like thereâs no better time for him to know.
maybe, you think selfishly, if you tell him heâll move. do something, anything, than tease you like this, without even trying to.
the thought is striking. jack abbot is too good at taking care of you.
âyeah, kid?â jack says gruffly, and you feel your body shudder under him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking gently, and then roughly, and itâs all you can do not to moan out loudâ
âyeah,â you breathe, continuing on. âi couldnât decide how it would be. gentle or-â
âalways gentle,â he interjects. the words are in the form of a moan. that feeling returns to your stomach, hot and tight and winding up again. âalways gentle with youââ
jack prods the thick head of his dick to the entrance of your cunt, moving it slightly up and down to collect your wetness. your eyes snap shut, mouth falling open at the sensationâunlike anything youâve ever felt before.
of course it is, you think dumbly. how could anything, any stupid toy or your own fingers compare to this?Â
you suck in a breath and it turns into a cry, one that comes out as jackâs name, as he pushes in just barely. even the tip stretches you open, a delicious, gentle burn that washes over your entire body. you feel it all over, your toes curlingâ
âjack, please, please-â you moan, not realizing that you had started begging.Â
he thrusts the full length of his dick into you, and your moan turns into a scream. you hold onto his arms like theyâre a lifeline, your eyes snapping shut.
your ears are still ringing from when he made you cum all over his tongue. this doesnât help matters. jack is speaking to you, saying quiet things that youâre sure would make you lose your mind, but you canât hear it right now.
all you can think about is the stretch of him. itâs unlike anything youâve ever felt before, and stupidly, you wonder how you were ever satisfied by his thick fingers.Â
he thrusts in and out, his hips brushing against yours with every turn. itâs all too muchâthe fullness and the way you feel him in your stomach and your chest and all over, your skin burning as his pace increases.Â
jack leans down to give you another kiss, hot and wet, and you finally hear whatever heâs been sayingâ
âyouâre perfect,â he says, the words a stuttered, pleasured grunt. âyouâre perfect for me-â
your eyes shut tightly, soaking in the words. you didnât even have to tell him, you think dumbly, he just knew.Â
isnât that what heâs always like? somehow, he always knows. whether in the hospital or your apartment or inside your very mind, at the core of your beingâjack abbot knows.
you meet his mouth halfway, lips colliding as hot tears stream down your face. itâs all too muchâthe emotions that are lingering behind every word, how jack stretches you out, how heâs ruined you for anyone or anything else.
you donât let him pull away from the kiss, demanding more while the pace of his hips gets faster and faster. the noise is just as obscene as you imaginedâfilling your room, the sound of your wetness and the scent of you and him combined in the air.Â
you pulse around him when he pulls awayâmurmuring more words of praise for you, making your stomach tighten and your cunt clench around him.Â
jack moves a little and you whineâheâs suddenly too far away for a kiss. but you can only linger on the thought for half a second, before you feel his rough fingers tracing circles on your overly sensitive clit again.
your legs jerk up, trying to kick against him, thrashing as much as you can from the position. jackâs body weight still holds you down, while he fucks in and out of you, his eyes singularly focused on where the two of you are combined.
âoh, jackâ!â you cry out, the sensation of his fingers and his thickness suddenly too much.Â
âcome on, sweetheart. be good for me,â jack says, and thatâs all it seems to take.
he doesnât stop even for a moment, working you through it while your entire body tries to jolt up.
it explodes through you, a match lighting a flame that leads to a brilliant, hot blaze that burns through you. itâs almost painful, how sensitive your entire body feels, your cries and moans reduced to a throaty breath, panting while you try to regain your senses.
the senses remind you that jackâs still fucking you, your sensitive cunt spasming around him, clamping down in a way that you didnât know was possible.Â
âjack,â you repeat, the noise coming out as hiccup and a moan in one. he leans over you, bringing your lips together again. âjack, please-â
you beg, though you donât know what youâre begging for. but just like always, you donât have to say it for jack to know what youâre thinking.
your nails dig into flesh of his back and you feel itâjackâs hips start to stutter, and he buries his face in your neck. he says your name and over and over again, until it doesnât even sound like a word anymore, and thenâ
âplease, jack,â you beg. âi want to feel it-â
jack moans into your ear, his hips finally snapping almost painfully against yours, until you feel his body tremble. he finishes, hot spurts of cum filling you, making your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation.Â
you canât help but giggle when you feel jackâs body weight sink on top of you. itâs only a moment before he moves, but you think you could have stayed like that forever.Â
he shifts the both of you until youâre nestled comfortably next to him, his thick arm wrapped around you, your eyes shutting again as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever.
âi think it stopped raining,â jack says, and you sigh against him.
âcan you stay?â you look up to meet his eyes. he doesnât give you an answer just yet, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to your lips instead. you smile at him and he smiles back.
you lean your head against his chest.
âof course i can.â
âjack?â you ask quietly a few moments later, from your place in his arms.Â
âyeah, kid?â
âdo i still have to go back to the day shift?â
âno, kid. donât worry about it right now.â
âokay,â you agree quietly. âjack?â
âyeah, sweetheart?â
âcan you help me put up the black-out curtains?â
thanks for reading! âĄ
âiâm always on my own
fake boyfriend! jack x eldest daughter! reader
âKnow I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back I'm always on my own.â -All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual âparents berating their kids for their decisionsâ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. iâm normal and can be trusted with noah kahanâs discography. fic has been crossposted on ao3 and is linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist | ao3
âYour familyâs in town?â
Youâre at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where heâs getting them is one of the worldâs strangest unsolved mysteries.Â
You canât see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.Â
âYeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how itâs such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.â
âDinner circuit?â
You wave a hand. âItâs actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that theyâre here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time theyâre at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.â
âYikes,â The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, âAnd the whole successful doctor thing doesnât work on them? It got my parents off my back.â
You shake your head. âIâm the only doctor in the family, but they thought I shouldâve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.â
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. âThereâs money in emergency medicine. Eventually.âÂ
âThereâs money in all medicine eventually,â You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. âIâm sure if I'd picked general surgery they wouldâve found a problem with that too.â
âSo your fucked, basically.â
Your eyes slip shut again. âYep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way wonât get my mom off my back.â
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. âBest of luck with that. Youâre the only intern the night shift has got, so weâd rather you donât off yourself via poisoned wine.âÂ
âI wouldnât do poison. Iâd choke on bread so theyâd have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.â
âJesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but thatâs brutal.â
You shrug. âNot as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.â
He gapes. âWhat reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?â
âI told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.â
âThatâsâŠâ Shen trails off, flabbergasted, ââŠWow. Now I'm worried youâre going to kill one of them.â
âWay too much effort. They arenât worth the jail time.â
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. âWell, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please donât call me. I canât afford to be implicated.â
âYou saying I canât hide a body myself?â
âIâm saying I canât hide a body.â
âWhoâs hiding bodies?â Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.Â
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. âSheâs killing her parents later today.âÂ
You roll your eyes. âIâm not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and donât bring up any trigger topics, Iâll be fine.â
Jack snorts. âYouâre describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.â
âDr. Intern?â Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift, âThereâs a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says sheâs your mom.â
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. âItâs six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.â
Someone behind you says âHoly shit,â but youâre already gone. As youâre speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that youâd only had a chance to skim andâ fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.Â
âMom?âÂ
âThere you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that thereâs nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldnât let me. Something about a security issue?â
âItâs not safe. Weâve had incidents in the pastââ
She waves a hand, dismissing you. âIâm your mother. Honestly, I wouldnât have had to come down here if youâd just respond to my texts.âÂ
âIâve told you mom, Iâm really busy here and I donât get very much time to look at my phoneââ
âYour brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,â She sighs, then continues on, âDid you get time off this week for dinner?â
You frown. âI thought we were having lunch.â
âWell, I figured since weâre all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effortââ
âItâs fine, mom,â You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, âI can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?â
âItâs this Friday and Saturday.â
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.Â
âCan I help you, maâam?âÂ
Jack.Â
Jack fucking Abbot.Â
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.Â
âIâm trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Donât tell me youâre security.â
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says âDOCTORâ on it, so your momâs just being bitchy. Figures.Â
Jackâs hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.Â
âIâm Dr. Abbot,â He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, âIâm an attending here at the ED.â
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.Â
âYou work with my daughter?â
âYes maâam. Sheâs the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.â
Your lips twitch at his words. Heâs joking. Testing your motherâ youâre the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, sheâll pick up on his joke.Â
She doesnât. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.Â
âWell thatâs good to hear. Weâre very proud of her.â
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.Â
âIf youâll excuse us, I need her working on patients.â
âOh yes, of course,â Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. âI didnât realize she was so important and busy here.â
You would if youâd ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.Â
Jackâs thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.Â
âIâll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?â
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.Â
âNo rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.â
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your momâs turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.Â
The second the doors close behind you and youâre enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.Â
âI,â You start, âAm so sorry. I never thought sheâd show up here, I got the flight times mixed upââ
âHey,â Jackâs voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, âNone of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.â
âI know. I know. Still, Iâm sorry. She can be⊠difficult.â
He snorts. âUnderstatement of the year. But seriously. Donât worry about it. If I didnât want to get involved with her, I wouldnât have swooped in there.â
You huff a laugh. âMy hero. Iâm pretty sure if youâd introduced yourself as my boyfriend she wouldâve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.â
âAre those desired outcomes?â
âMostly.â
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. âMight be worth a shot, then.â
Itâs a very well kept secret that youâve harbored an embarrassing, âthink about him while youâre falling asleep at nightâ crush on Jack.Â
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
âYeah, right,â You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jackâs gaze is too intense, âCould even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.â
âYou could.â
âWipe out my entire family?â
âTake me to dinner with you.â
Jackâs body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. Thereâs no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like heâs serious.Â
âAre you joking?â
He canât really be serious. Heâs probably just fucking with you. He wouldnât actuallyâ
âNo.â
You run a hand over your hair. âYeah, sure, laugh it up, hahaââ
âIâll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.â
What. The. Fuck.Â
âNo.â You gape, incredulous.Â
âNo?â He raises an eyebrow.Â
âNo, I meanâ fuck. Dr. Abbotââ
âJack.âÂ
You purse your lips. âJack. You canât just⊠pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.â
âWhy not?â
âWhy not?â You sputter, âFor one, we hardly know each otherââ
âYouâve been working here for three months. Weâre hardly strangers.â
âYouâre my boss, your way older than me, youâreââ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like âyouâre ridiculously fucking hot and I havenât washed my socks in monthsâ, âIt wouldnât even be believable. How would we even have met?â
âIn the ED, obviously.â
âHow long have we been together?â
âMonth and a half.â
âWhy are we even dating?â
âBecause youâre a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.â
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.Â
âHave you⊠thought about this?âÂ
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. âWould it work?â
âAre you rich?âÂ
Thereâs that devilish, pants dropping smile.Â
âIâm a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. Iâm comfortable.â
You worry your lip between your teeth. âI still canât⊠I appreciate the offer, but I canât subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.â
âBut you do?â
âTheyâre my family.âÂ
Jack doesnât respond, but he doesnât move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isnât coding somewhere.Â
You sigh. âWhy would you even offer, anyway?âÂ
âYou need help, and Iâm in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesnât involve people dying or getting shot at.â
âSo you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?â
âBeats drinking beer in the park.â
You canât say yes. Itâs crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.Â
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldnât be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.Â
âSo. Weâve been dating for a month and a half?â
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. âI asked you out, of course.â
âFlowers?â
âNaturally.â
âYou pay?âÂ
âFor every meal.â
âWhatâs my favorite color?â
âNavy blue. Mine?âÂ
You roll your eyes. âBlack. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?â
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.Â
âWill she really be that upset about it?â
âProbably not, but sheâll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but heâs easier to placate than my mom is.â
Jack hums thoughtfully. âWhenâs the lunch today?â
âTwelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.â
âHow about this,â He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, âLets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and Iâll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?â
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.Â
âDeal.â
â
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.Â
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, heâs as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.Â
Youâre standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just donât want to fucking go.Â
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.Â
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, heâs here and youâre not ready, god heâs going to be so upset you have to make him wait itâs so rudeâ
âHi!â You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. Itâs a thin line between the two, âIâm almost ready, Iâm so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I wonât take too long to finish up. Sorry.â
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old methodâ hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.Â
âWoah, easy girl. Nobodyâs mad at you. We have time, remember?â
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.Â
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. âI know, but that was so weâd have time to plan and itâs rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I canât get my makeup to look rightââ
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause heâs just standing in the hallway and youâre rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why canât your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
âFirst of all,â Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, âYou look beautiful.â
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what heâs doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?Â
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. Itâs your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.Â
âSecondly, we donât have to do this if you donât want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, Iâll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.â
You crack a wobbly smile. âNot even to Nurse Evans?â
âSheâd probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.âÂ
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. âI couldnât even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one thereâll be hell to pay.â
âYou could swap me with someone else?â
âDo you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?â
âTouchĂ©.âÂ
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.Â
âIâm sorry. Iâm not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.â
âI ainât judging, sweetheart,â Jack soothes, âBesides. Weâre ER doctors. Weâre all a little neurotic.â
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity youâre trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.Â
âIâll just. Finish up. Sorry again.â
âIâm gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorryâs. Youâre gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.â
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesnât critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.Â
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.Â
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. âDo you want a shot, Jack?â
âYouâre aware that Iâm fifty?â
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
âJust thought Iâd offer,â You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, âSometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.â
Heâs leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. âIt was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. Iâm more of a whiskey man, anyways.â
âIâll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.â
Jack raises an eyebrow. âYou act like weâre going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.â
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. âSorry. I just donât want you to be unprepared, because theyâre not always bad but when theyâre bad theyâre bad, you know? And I just donât want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just donâtââ
âDo you always ramble when youâre worried?â Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
âUm. No? I donât know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.â
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.Â
âWe got this, okay? Iâm not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, Iâll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and weâre being called in.â
âWonât my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?â
Jack shrugs. âItâs the city. Something horrible is always happening here.â
He holds the front door open for you when youâve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as youâre sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.Â
âYou smell good.âÂ
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.Â
âOh,â You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, âUhâ Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.âÂ
You manage to squeak out another awkward âThanksâ before hastily locking the door, hoping he canât tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.Â
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.Â
(âWhat should I say if she asks if weâve slept together?â
âDo you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?â
âFair point.â)
By the time you arrive, youâve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. Itâs one of the hottest things youâve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldnât be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.Â
At least, thatâs what he says.Â
âI want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. Iâll meet you there.â
You canât help but smile at his efforts. âAnd what will you be doing while Iâm sneaking out?â
âSinging your praises, of course.â
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you âIn case theyâre still watching,â) and loop your arm through Jackâs, you feel⊠almost capable.Â
The lunch is going to suck. Thatâs a given. But Jack assured you heâs seen worse (âProbably done worse, sweetheart,â) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid âand fucking huge, how are his biceps that bigâ under your arm, and his presence is steadying.Â
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried youâd be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but thereâs no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.Â
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.Â
Youâve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:Â
âYouâve got this, baby. And if you donât, I do.â
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.Â
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jackâs grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how⊠possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.Â
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. âHoney, weâve talked about you being on time to these things. You canât be late to important familyââ
You watch in real time as your motherâs gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.Â
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isnât going down too well.Â
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.Â
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.Â
âI believe weâve met before, but Iâll introduce myself again. Iâm Dr. Jack Abbot.â
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like youâve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she canât afford in the first place.Â
âYouâre my daughterâs plus one?â
Jack nods. âHer boyfriend, yes.â
Your brotherâs gape. Your dadâs glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.Â
âHoney,â Your mother says, gaze darting to you, âYou didnât sayââ
âI didnât want you to meet him at the hospital,â You tell her, hoping the lie doesnât come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, âThe lobby of the hospital isnât the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.â
Your mother purses her lips. âWhy the last minute addition? If youâd told me that he was coming before today, it wouldâve been easier to make the reservation.â
Jack is quicker to respond than you. âThatâs my fault, actually. I didnât think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.â
You have to try hard not to smile at Jackâs not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.Â
âYes, well. My daughter doesnât always stress the importance of these things.âÂ
Jackâs grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your motherâs gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. âIâm starving.â
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.Â
âHowâd I do?â
You elbow him in the side. âWeâll discuss your performance after this is over.â
âLooking forward to it.âÂ
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your moneyâs on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.Â
To his credit, Jack doesnât cause a scene, but he doesnât back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:Â
âDo you really wanna do this right now?â
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.Â
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you donât bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. Heâs never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew theyâd ask and appropriately prepared him for.Â
âSo. Dr. Abbotââ
âJust Jack is fine.â
ââHow long have the two of you been dating?â
âA month and a half.â
âWhyâd you start dating?â
You take a generous gulp of your wine.Â
âBecause your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.â
âDo you think sheâs pretty?â One of your brothers chimes in.Â
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. âIâd have to be blind and stupid if I didnât.â
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.Â
Thatâs going in the mental folder.Â
âHave you always wanted to be a doctor?â
âPretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.â
âWhyâd you leave?âÂ
âHonorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.â
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.Â
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the âgot a limb chopped offâ bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before weâre in the clear.Â
âMr. Abbotââ
âEither Doctor or Jack works.âÂ
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.Â
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. Youâve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.Â
But Jack isnât his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.Â
This no doubt infuriates your father. Heâs always hated it when he couldnât tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.Â
âJack,â Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, âYouâre a smart man, yeah? Havenât you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?âÂ
Yikes. Questioning Jackâs competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. Itâs really hot.Â
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.Â
âWar doesnât really lend to longevity. Iâve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.âÂ
For a moment, it doesnât feel fake. Thereâs raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.Â
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, heâs passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesnât bring up any argument-starting topics, doesnât rise to bait when itâs thrown his way.Â
Heâs perfect.Â
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesnât even look.Â
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your fatherâs attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. Itâs probably the third time sheâs actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since itâs positive, youâll let it slide.Â
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jackâs hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and youâre being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.Â
âWow,â You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. âI think thatâs the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. Youâre really good at this.â
Jack doesnât respond though. Doesnât make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and heâs staring straight ahead.Â
âJack?âÂ
âThey didnât even talk to you.â
You blink.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didnât even ask you any questions.â
You snort. âTrust me, itâs better that way.â
He hasnât started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He canât be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
âYou ordered a salad.â He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.Â
âSo? It wasnât too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I wouldâve looked at something cheaper, I donât know why salads are so expensiveââ
âPlease donât apologize for ordering a salad,â Jack says, voice pained, âEspecially because I know you hate salads.â
Oh.Â
âHow do you know that?â
âI overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.â
Your cheeks heat. âI never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.â
âYou hardly ate anything during lunch.â
âMy family tends to have that effect on my appetite.â
Jack does not look placated. He doesnât take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.Â
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
ââŠMel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?âÂ
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(Itâs not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
âOf course I remember.âÂ
There isnât much to say after that. Youâre not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error youâve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that youâre still present.Â
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesnât.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesnât look at your phone.Â
Jack just keeps looking at you.Â
Heâll look over, eyes darting over your face like heâs looking for something, and then heâll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.Â
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.Â
âYouâre so much more than them.âÂ
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.Â
âWhat?â
âYour family,â Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part âYour parents. I hated watching you⊠disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.âÂ
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.Â
âListen,â You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, âThank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shiftsââ
âNo.â
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.Â
An old habit.Â
Something flashes across his face âgone before you can decipher itâ and he noticeably forces himself calmer. Â
âI wouldnât be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.âÂ
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. âI really canât ask you toââ
âItâs a good thing youâre not asking me then.âÂ
âJackââ
âPlease.â
Youâre stunned silent at the rawness in his toneâ the pain.Â
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.Â
âI donât know how you do it,â He continues, jaw working, âI can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.â
You shrug uselessly. âIs there another option?âÂ
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes heâd followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you thatâs made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.Â
âIâll walk you to your door.âÂ
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. Thereâs no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.Â
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where youâre getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.Â
(As an ED resident, youâve seen child abuse cases. Youâve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes. Â
You know your family isnât great. But there arenât any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you havenât done something wrong, but you feel like you have because heâs upset so maybe you can make it better?Â
âYou have that look on your face.â
You frown. âWhat look?âÂ
âThe âIâm gonna apologize for something stupidâ look.â
âI wasnât going to.â
âYou were thinking about it,â Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
âItâs freaky when you do that.â
âDo what?â
âYou always know what Iâm thinking.â
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.Â
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: âWhy are you upset?âÂ
âBecause your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I canât.âÂ
âOh.âÂ
Itâs not that bad. It canât be that bad. Youâve seen bad. This isnât it. Itâs hard, but itâs not bad.Â
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.Â
Jack nods towards your door. âWe can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.â
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.Â
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your âquickly approachingâ shift, you linger.Â
âHow am I supposed to repay you for all of this?âÂ
The question thatâs been burning a hole in your pocket since he said Iâll do it.Â
He just shakes his head. Like itâs simple. Easy. âThis isnât something I want repayment for. Now go. Youâre no good to me as a zombie.âÂ
âIâll just have some of Shenâs Dunkin.â
âHe doesnât share that shit. Besides, heâs off tomorrow.â
âMaybe Iâllââ
âSleep,â He points at your door, âNow.âÂ
You smile at his insistence. Heâs sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.Â
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.Â
âGoodnight.â
He gives you a little smile of his own.Â
âGoodnight.â
â
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesnât talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, heâs going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he wonât be around to take care of you.Â
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.Â
âThis really isnât a good timeââ
âRobby,â Jack starts, âThey didnât even fucking talk to her.âÂ
âJesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.â
âThey justâŠâ Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, ââŠIgnored her. They talked over her, didnât ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.â
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robbyâs moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.Â
âShe fight back at all?â
âNo. Just⊠grinned and beared it. It was fuckinâ unsettling, man. Iâve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMTâs who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.âÂ
âChrist.â
âShe flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.â
âFuck. Do you thinkââ
âI donât know. Maybe when she was younger. They donât live in state, so if they are, sheâs safe.âÂ
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. âGod. I donât know what to do, Robby. It doesnât seem like sheâs got⊠anybody. She didnât even understand why I was upset. She doesnât get why that would be upsetting.âÂ
âSheâs friends with Mel and Santos, right?âÂ
âAnd Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. Iâve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. Sheâs just been doing everything on her own.â
Jack can picture Robby nodding. âWeâve done our fair share of that.â
âYeah, and look where that got us. I canât just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.âÂ
âThat bad?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.Â
âSheâs always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, weâre all fucked up, but watching it happenâŠâ
âItâs different.âÂ
âYou could say that,â Jack sighs, âShe soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.â
âYou lost me on that last one.âÂ
âIt doesnât⊠Sheâs not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.âÂ
âIs there a difference?â
âThere is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.â
âAre you sure you want to get involved?â
âBit late for that.â
âYou could pull back.â
âFuck no, I canât. Then Iâd be kicking the puppy.â
âShe is a grown woman.â
âWho happens to look like a kicked puppy.â
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.Â
âYou finally realize how ridiculous you sound?â
Jack grunts. âIâm not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.â
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. âThatâs an answer in it of itself, and you know that.âÂ
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.Â
âI donât know, Robby. Itâs justâŠâ
âWorse than you expected?â
âYeah.â
âCome on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?â
âFuck no.â
âExactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and heâs only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. Iâm not a betting man, but if I were, Iâd bet money that heâs moved onto his third during this conversation.âÂ
âI save lives too.â
âYou wonât save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.â
âI would never fall asleep behind the wheel.â
âThatâs what they all say.âÂ
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.Â
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he canât stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he wonât be able to let it go.
â
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jackâs car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.Â
Itâs jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if youâre being honest.Â
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, youâre convinced youâve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:Â
âDid you and Jack go on a date yesterday?âÂ
And:Â
âWhatâs Jack like on a date?âÂ
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you donât answer it or any of itâs variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
Youâre not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. Thatâs conveniently nowhere near him.Â
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, whoâs pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you sheâs there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and heâs never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.Â
(ââŠI like layering scents.â
âItâs nice. Suits you.â)
Itâs all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but itâs oddly difficult. Youâve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, itâs the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you wonât access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled âFor: Jack Abbotâ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.Â
But you canât. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, thereâs a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.Â
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.Â
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesnât require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack wouldâve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isnât the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So itâs something else.Â
Itâs how they treat you.Â
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, youâd also probably be upset too.Â
But this feels different. Jackâs reaction is different. Jack is different.Â
Itâs just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You donât even live in the same state anymore. Itâs not a big deal.Â
âWhy are you hiding from me in a supply closet?âÂ
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
âIâm not hiding from you.â
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. âThis is the third time youâve been here in two hours.â
âSo? I just want to be⊠on top of things. Iâm a productive person.âÂ
âYou are,â He amends, âBut all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.â
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. âThings are just⊠weird, okay? I donât know how youâre being so normal about all this?â
He raises an eyebrow. âNormal how?â
âYou seemed pretty upset yesterday. Youâre acting like nothingâs changed, butââ
âNothing has changed.â
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.Â
You canât exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you canât quite bring yourself to agree eitherâ because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers youâve had in years isn't just nothing.Â
Itâs everything. And you, for one, canât just pretend that it didnât happen.Â
âHey,â He calls your name softly, âWhatâs on your mind? Whatâs bugging you?âÂ
âNothing.â
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so itâs just the two of you alone. âLiar.â
He doesnât probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like theyâre looking for an answer. An answer youâre too hesitant to give.Â
âIâm just worried.âÂ
âYou? Worried? No.âÂ
You cut him a glare, âThereâs a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.â
âSure,â Jack dips his head, âBut thatâs not what youâre really worried about.â
âAnd how do you know that?â
âBecause that doesnât address the fact that youâre avoiding me.â
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.Â
âWhy do you care?âÂ
The question thatâs been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just canât seem to get rid of. The puzzle you canât figure out; the tune you canât place.Â
Youâre a logic driven person. You like knowing how things worksâ why they work. Why things do the things they do.Â
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.Â
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.Â
âWhy do I care about what?â
âThis,â You gesture vaguely to the air, âMe. I donât buy that you just didnât have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People donât just⊠do that. Youâre really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, weâre just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just donât get why youâre so okay with being miserable just for my sake. Iâm not that important. These stupid lunches arenât that important.âÂ
Itâs a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man youâre harboring feelings for.Â
He doesnât respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isnât taking so much weight.Â
âYou are important. Youâre important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not âruining my week.â If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.â
âBut why?âÂ
âJesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didnât you?âÂ
You snort. âGuilty as charged.âÂ
Now itâs his turn to sigh.Â
âYou⊠seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.â
You frown. âIt is.âÂ
âIt isnât. At least it shouldnât be, but I donât think anyone ever told you that.âÂ
You scoff. âSo this is about my family.âÂ
He shrugs. âAmongst other things.â
âTheyâre not that bad.â
âThey are.âÂ
âOther people have it worse.â
âItâs not a competition.âÂ
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. âWhy is this such a big deal to you?âÂ
âBecause itâs a big deal to you.âÂ
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, youâre convinced theyâd all be looking at you.Â
Itâs Jack who speaks first though.Â
âI can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when itâs hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. Youâre selfless and kind and I donât think very many people give that back to you.âÂ
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you âsmile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, thereâs nothing to cry about.â It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you donât know what else to do. Thereâs no pre-written protocol for something like this.
âI still donât really get it.â You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. âWeâll work on it.âÂ
âWe will?âÂ
âSure,â He shrugs, âAlready started anyways.âÂ
âIf youâre sure.âÂ
âIâm sure,â He opens the door, âNow get back out there. And bring the gloves too.â
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where youâd left it and following him out.Â
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesnât hover, but doesnât pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesnât bother him.Â
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because itâs something heâs doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiverâ something that hit the nail right on the head.Â
âHey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.âÂ
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry youâre feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. Itâs great but itâs also difficult, because thereâs a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then thereâs the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that youâre completely capable of doing things yourself.Â
That probably wouldnât even work. Heâd just say something infuriating and sexy, like âI know, but I want to do this for you.âÂ
He would. He totally would.Â
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.Â
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
â
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in⊠years.Â
The lunches are fine, but the part youâve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. Heâll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.Â
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jackâs never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but youâre never allowed to order anything that isnât a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since youâre the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.Â
Itâs as frustrating as it is hot.Â
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty goodâ as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jackâs presence is⊠steadying, even when heâs not physically there. Heâs always present in some wayâ whether itâs little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you werenât previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what youâll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes heâs there in your head; in little things heâs told or taught you that you remember in the moment.Â
Itâs nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke withâ someone who hasnât looked down on you for the the way you turned out.Â
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.Â
At least, two peach bellinis in, thatâs what it feels like.Â
âHonestly,â Your mother puffs, âI donât understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.âÂ
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.Â
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.Â
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.Â
âI have the next three days off, mom. Weâll be able to do dinners instead.â
Your mother, however, only scoffs. âThatâs no good to anyone now. Weâve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."Â
âIâm a doctor, mom. It doesnât get more respectable than that.âÂ
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.Â
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.Â
âYou work in the emergency department, dear. Thatâs hardly stable, and stable is respectable,â Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, âNo offense, Jack.âÂ
He smiles thinly. âNone taken.âÂ
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.Â
So you keep drinking your belliniâs and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.Â
âHave you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?âÂ
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. Thatâs a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.Â
âI have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. Iâve moved on.âÂ
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. âYou could teach her a thing or two about moving on.âÂ
Your blood runs cold.Â
Jack sets his glass down. âAnd what do you mean by that?â
Itâs your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasnât enough.Â
âIâm surprised she hasnât told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. Sheâs had exactly one boyfriend before youâ what was his name honey?â
âChristopher,â You answer hollowly, stomach churning.Â
Your dad snaps his fingers. âThatâs it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a partyâ finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!â
Your family laughs, but Jack doesnât.Â
âWhereâs the funny part, in all this?â
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. âWhen she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.âÂ
Your dad nods in agreement. âWe had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.â
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.Â
âHe cheated on me with my best friend.âÂ
At that, your mother frowns. âThatâs not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didnât know you were still together.âÂ
âI wasnât distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.âÂ
Your brother rolls his eyes. âMed school was all you talked about. Itâs not like you were putting out.â
Your mother snaps her fingers once. âThat is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.âÂ
âCome on, mom. Itâs true. Everyone knowsââ
âSorry to interrupt,â Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, âBut the hospital just texted. Thereâs an emergency, and weâre needed, so we have to go.âÂ
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.Â
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and youâre sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) youâre both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.Â
By the time you get to the car, you realize that youâre about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.Â
âJack,â You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, âI think Iâm too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?âÂ
âThere is no emergency,â He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, âI made it up. I figured youâd be okay with ducking out of there.âÂ
âOh. That was nice of you.âÂ
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. âTold you I would handle things.â
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. âI hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where itâs okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didnât even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didnât fuck up my score.âÂ
âThatâs my girl.âÂ
âChristopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. Iâm so glad I donât live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause theyâre my family, but everything is just so much easier when theyâre not around.âÂ
âYouâre allowed to hate them, you know.âÂ
âI know,â You say, fiddling with a hangnail. âI know I probably should.âÂ
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. âI always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day theyâll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know itâs stupid.â
âItâs not stupid.âÂ
You frown. âItâs not? It kinda seems stupid. Youâd think by now I would know better.âÂ
âNo,â Jack eases the car out of the parking space, âWeâre biologically wired to love our families. Itâs the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain canât compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just⊠donât. Not in any of the right ways.âÂ
You blow air through your lips. âI think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.â
Shit, that sounds so whiny. âBut it turns out it wasnât so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and Iâm pretty sure Iâm friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. Sheâs cool.âÂ
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light youâre currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his faceâ a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. Itâs the only evidence that heâs not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isnât illuminated the same.Â
âAnd what about me?âÂ
Oh. Well. Thatâs a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. âI donât know what to think about you.âÂ
âOh really?âÂ
âMmm. Nope.âÂ
âHow come?âÂ
"You're soââ You gesture vaguely, âConfusing. I canât figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think Iâm wrong.âÂ
âYou think youâre wrong?â
âStill canât figure you out.âÂ
âAnd how can I show you that I mean it?âÂ
Thatâs. Hmm.
âI donât know. I think what youâre doing is working,â You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding youâre too tired to care, âIt helps that youâre really hot.âÂ
His lips twitch. âOh, does it now?âÂ
âMhm. Youâve got this whole⊠capable thing about you. Itâs hot. Competency is in.â
âIf you say so.âÂ
âI do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. Youâre soâŠâ
âCompetent?âÂ
âThatâs the word.â
If heâs at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didnât show it.Â
âYou should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.âÂ
âAre you like Bob the Builder?â
âIâm a doctor, so no.âÂ
âYouâre kind of like Bob the Builder.âÂ
âWhatever you say,â He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, âBefore I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didnât even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.â
âAre you gonna be mad at me if I say no?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
âThen yes.âÂ
âYou sure? I wasnât lying.âÂ
âI know. But I like your cooking.â
You spend the drive to Jackâs continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. âFor any alcohol excursions.âÂ
Itâs freaky how prepared he is for every situation.Â
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when youâve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.Â
His gigantic apartment.Â
âWoah,â You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, âI didnât know they made apartments this size.âÂ
âIts not that big.âÂ
âI think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.âÂ
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and heâs immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when youâre sober.Â
âOne, itâs not that big, and two, thatâs what you get for renting a studio apartment.â
âLike you could afford better when you were an intern.âÂ
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. âIf you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.â
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
âOnly if you donât mind.âÂ
âI wouldn't have offered if I wasnât. Stay there.âÂ
Jackâs only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. âYou can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. Iâm gonna change too, and then Iâll heat up the food.âÂ
Jack shows you the bathroom (you donât bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, thatâs for when youâre significantly more drunk than you are now and when youâre not in his fancy-ass apartment.)Â
Because heâs a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, heâs already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and heâs a man. Theyâre an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.Â
âLooking at the sparkles.âÂ
âOookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?â
âYou made vodka pasta?âÂ
He shrugs. âYou said you liked it.âÂ
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. âThe pasta, please.âÂ
Suddenly exhausted now that youâre in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But youâre not going to fall asleep. Youâre not.Â
âDonât fall asleep. You need to eat something first.âÂ
âMâ not fallinâ asleep.âÂ
âMhm. Sure.âÂ
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
âWhatâreâyouâ making?â
âJust a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.âÂ
âOh. How come?âÂ
âBecause I donât want you to throw up.âÂ
âI promise I wonât throw up on your furniture. I donât usually throw up when Iâm hungover.âÂ
âYou drink often?âÂ
âNo,â Your head lulls to the side, âIâm too busy. Iâm actually not-so-secretly very boring. I donât really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.âÂ
âThought you went to that thing with King and Santos?âÂ
âYeah, but that was âcause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didnât want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.âÂ
âI see.âÂ
âYeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.â
âReally?âÂ
âYeah,â You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, âMakes me feel better when youâre around.âÂ
âIâll keep that in mind.âÂ
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.Â
âSorry I couldnât finish it,â You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, âI feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.âÂ
âIt wasnât that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. Iâll send it home with you.âÂ
âMhm.â You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.Â
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.Â
âCome on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, donât you?â
âNo,â You shake your head, âI wanna sleep right here. Itâs comfortable.â
âIt wonât be when you wake up.â
You whine, curling away from him.Â
He just puffs another little laugh. âYou can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You canât sleep on the kitchen island.â
âWhy not?â You finally lift your head, âAnd why is your bed an option?â
âOne,â He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, âBecause the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, Iâm not letting you sleep on the couch.â
âWhy? Is your couch uncomfortable?â
âNo,â He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, âItâs just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.â
âI like sleeping on couches.â
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, âIâm sure you do. But youâre still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.âÂ
You prop your head on your hand. âWho said Iâm even staying here tonight?â
Jack closes the fridge. âDo you want to? Because I donât care either way. We both have tomorrow off.â
âItâd be weird to wake up here.â
âWhy?â
âBecause youâre my boss.â
âAnd Iâm faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure weâre past coworkers.âÂ
âWhat would we even do in the morning?âÂ
âSleep.â
âI donât want to kick you out of your bed. Iâll sleep on the couch.âÂ
âYouâre my guestââÂ
âYouâre already doing so much for me,â You blurt, stomach clenching, âIâ You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?âÂ
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.Â
âOnly because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isnât uncomfortable. Iâll help you make it up.âÂ
Jackâs apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopherâs room at his parentâs house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucketâ âJust in case those belliniâs donât love you back.âÂ
The sight of it all is almost too much. Itâs just so much care. All of it. The fact that heâs helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasnât judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets andâ
âYou okay there?âÂ
âMhm,â You hum, âJust thinkinâ.âÂ
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jackâs middle and burying your face in his chest.Â
âThank you,â You say, voice muffled by the fabric, âFor doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.âÂ
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact âa line you were previously too scared to crossâ but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because youâre never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.Â
Jackâs hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.Â
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
âI will always,â He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, âLook out for you, baby. Iâm always gonna be right here.â
His arms tighten around you, drawing you inâ closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you canât help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.Â
âYou smell good.â You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.Â
âDo I?â
âYeah. Good. Like man.âÂ
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. âThank you sweetheart.âÂ
âWhy do you call me sweetheart?âÂ
âBecause youâre a sweetheart.âÂ
âI am?âÂ
âDonât play dumb now,â He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so youâre forced to look at him, âYou know you are.âÂ
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, âI donât know. I was just making sure.âÂ
âMhm.â He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jackâs eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.Â
Itâs possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.Â
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.Â
âOkay,â He huffs, taking a step back, âTime for bed. Get going.âÂ
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.Â
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.Â
He waits until youâve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to âWake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.â Itâs a very Jack thing to say.Â
Youâre out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.Â
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.Â
â
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you thatâs sheâs sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesnât want to unless youâre ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, itâs time for the next annual lunch circuit.Â
Youâre a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. âSo it can feel like a real family dinner.â While you know that there isnât any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way youâre cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.Â
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then heâd gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that youâre having dinner at his place.Â
âJack,â Youâd gaped at him, âItâs fine. My apartment isnât that small, and you donât have to help move the furniture if you donât want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really donât think you want to host my family.âÂ
âSweetheart, itâs just logic. Youâve seen my place.â
âOkay. No need to rub it in.âÂ
Heâd just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. âCome on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.âÂ
âDo you have a death wish?â You hiss, âThatâs asking for torture.âÂ
Jack had just shrugged. âWould having it at my place be easier for you?âÂ
â...Yes?âÂ
âThen weâll do it there. Youâre off in a bit, right?âÂ
Youâd nodded.Â
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. âThatâs my spare key. Iâll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. Iâll be home soon.âÂ
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.Â
The line between real and fake has become so blurred youâre not sure if it ever was there to begin with.Â
Heâs started calling you sweetheart more and more oftenâ sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie youâre selling. Is it still a lie if it doesnât feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you canât help but pace the length of Jackâs kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (âIâm not wearing slacks in my own home, and Iâm not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.â) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.Â
âTake your shoes off if youâre going to pace. Youâre gonna give yourself blisters.âÂ
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.Â
âThings have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think sheâs just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that sheâs upset about?â
Jack begins preparing the wine âyour mother only likes redâ for decanting. âI think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldnât be able to hide it.âÂ
âTrue. But what if?â
âIâm not going to help you spiral.âÂ
âWhy not?â You whine.Â
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. âShoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.âÂ
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.Â
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.Â
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.Â
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyoneâs flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.Â
Pretty soon itâs all just⊠over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesnât matter, and then itâs just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.Â
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
Youâve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom. Â
âWhy donât you go and change, huh?â
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. âBut I want to help you clean up.âÂ
âYou can,â He soothes, âAfter you change.â
âButââ
âHey,â He interrupts, âNo. Youâve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. Iâll wait for you.âÂ
Jack keeps his word. Heâs leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your ânow bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with youâ face.Â
He looks up when the door opens. âBetter?âÂ
âYeah. Thanks.âÂ
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesnât push for conversation.Â
Cleaning up doesnât take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesnât want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there arenât any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.Â
It canât just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
âSo,â You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, âThatâs it then.âÂ
âSo it is.âÂ
âGuess I owe you big time, huh?âÂ
âIâve already told you I donât care about that.âÂ
âRight,â You look down at your lap, âYeah. Sorry.âÂ
You lapse into silence.Â
Jack sighs. âSweetheartââ
âWas it fake to you?â You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, âWere youâ did you mean it?â
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.Â
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping thereâs answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, heâs grinning.Â
âWhat do you think?âÂ
âI donât know.âÂ
He dips his head once. âYes you do. Youâre a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.âÂ
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like youâre liable to somehow float away if you donât dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.Â
âWhat if Iâm wrong?âÂ
âYou wonât be.â
A scoff escapes your lips, âYou canât know for sure.âÂ
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.Â
âYou do.âÂ
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jackâs gaze on you.Â
âI thinkâŠâ You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, âI think you might like me.âÂ
âYou think,â He drawls, âI might.âÂ
âI donât want to be wrong!â You cry.Â
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.Â
âCome here.âÂ
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain youâd walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.Â
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
âSoo,â You start, still hesitant, âYou do like me.âÂ
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something youâre starting to recognize as fond. âYes.â
âMore than a little?âÂ
âYes.âÂ
âAnd you werenât faking anything. You were serious about theâ You know.âÂ
âUse your words.âÂ
âThe flirting.â You clarify, ears burning.Â
âAll correct,â He nods, âThough I would have said it differently.âÂ
You frown. âAnd how would you have put it?âÂ
âI would have said,â He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, âThat you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.âÂ
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.Â
You frown.Â
Wait.Â
âHave you known I liked you this whole time?âÂ
Jack snorts. âOverheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.â
Heâs known since the second week?
âOh my god.âÂ
âDonât worry, I didnât tell anyone. Except Robby. Heâs been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.â
âOh my god.â
âI thought it was cute,â He smoothes a hand over your hair, âYou were so much more nervous back then. Youâve come a long way.âÂ
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jackâs having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.Â
âCan you take a compliment?âÂ
âNo.âÂ
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. âWeâll try again later.âÂ
âAm Iâ Can I stay here tonight then?âÂ
âOf course,â he murmurs, âMy one condition is that youâre not sleeping on the couch.â
âFine,â You sigh, long and drawn out, âI suppose we can share.âÂ
âHow kind of you to share my bed with me.âÂ
âI have been told Iâm kind.âÂ
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.Â
Itâs just like your dream.Â
Only this time, itâs real. And Jack is kissing you back.Â
And youâre not alone anymore.Â
