dr jack abbot x senior resident!reader
description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, simp!abbot, level headed reader (derogatory), mutual pining, munch!abbot if u squint
I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
Your eyes opened slow, blurry at first, the room coming together in pieces as you lifted your head from the pillow. For a second, it felt like any other morning—quiet, warm, like a new start.
Last night. The doorway. The way he’d looked at you. The way you’d finally stopped pretending.
Your breath caught slightly as it all came rushing back—his hands, your hands, the way everything had unraveled so fast it almost didn’t feel real.
The laughter after. The way you both melted from something professional to something comfortable. And then… not stopping there.
At some point, the kitchen getting water had turned into his bedroom–which is where you were now. You sat up abruptly, the motion sharper than you intended as reality fully settled in with the morning light creeping through the windows.
“Shit,” you whispered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.
The sheet slipped slightly with the movement, a rush of cold air brushing over your skin, which, to your surprise, was completely bare. Your cheeks heated instantly at the way his sheets were soft against your naked skin.
You grabbed it quickly, pulling it up and around yourself as your heart started to pick up for entirely different reasons now.
Slowly, you glanced beside you.
Still asleep on his back, one arm thrown loosely across the bed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm like none of this had shaken him the way it was currently shaking you.
Your gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have.
Because he looked different like this. Soft, vulnerable, and disgustingly domestic.
A version of him you weren’t supposed to see—and definitely weren’t supposed to wake up next to.
Your stomach flipped, not entirely from panic. But not entirely from anything else, either. You slowly slid back under the sheet, propping yourself up on your elbow as you stared at him.
Any longer and this was going to cross into creep territory.
You reached out–and poked him.
He stirred slightly, brow twitching—but didn’t wake.
And again—until his eyes finally cracked open.
The second they did, they landed on you. And stayed there.
You tried—really tried—to ignore the way his pupils blew out almost instantly.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep, lower in that way that sent a very familiar feeling down your spine.
“Um… morning,” you echoed, suddenly very aware of everything again.
His gaze dipped down, brief, but not subtle. They flickered to the sheet, to what was now hidden but previously on full display for him.
“No,” he groaned immediately, dragging a hand over his tired face.
Your brows shot up. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“My eyes have been open for ten seconds,” he muttered, voice muffled, “and I can already see the gears turning in your head.”
You stared at him for a beat.
Then, flatly, “We had sex last night.”
He didn’t even blink as his head turned toward you again. “We did.”
“Like…on purpose,” you added.
You narrowed your eyes. “Abbot.”
He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the pillow, a slow, lazy smirk pulling at his mouth like he was entirely too pleased with himself.
“Three times, if my count’s right.”
“Mmm.” His eyes flicked back up to yours, half-lidded now. “Yes, sweetheart?”
You felt that newly appointed pet name low in your stomach, and you knew he could tell. Especially considering you’d spent a significant portion of last night reacting to that exact tone, that exact name, like it had been designed to unravel you.
That only made the smirk worse.
You stared at him for a second longer, like maybe if you looked hard enough, he’d suddenly match your level of panic.
He didn’t. Not even a little.
Which is how you knew you were about to spiral alone.
“We broke every rule ever,” you said abruptly, sitting up straighter, sheet clutched tighter around you like that could demand any semblance of professionalism.
Jack didn’t move. He didn’t even look remotely alarmed. Just stayed right where he was, head resting comfortably on the arm behind his head. You were doing a fantastic job of keeping your eyes on his and not the protruding vein in his bicep.
“Did we?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
You blinked at him. “Did we?” You mocked.
He shrugged slightly against the pillow. “Feels like a lot of rules. Hard to keep track.”
“Jack,” you snapped, dragging a hand through your hair. “You’re my attending.”
“And you’re very aware of that, apparently,” he said, glancing at you with the amused look you’d unfortunately grown so fond of.
You gaped at him for a second, in disbelief. “We—” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, like the motion alone would convey the magnitude of the situation, “—last night—multiple times—”
“Oh, I remember,” he cut in calmly.
“Oh my God,” you muttered, dropping your face into your hand. “This is a disaster.”
He finally shifted then, propping himself up slightly on one elbow, the sheet barely moving as he looked at you more directly.
“You seem very certain of that.”
“Because it is,” you insisted, peeking at him through your fingers. “There are, like, …policies. Ethics. Rules about this exact scenario.”
“Mm?” you echoed. “That’s your response?”
He studied you for a second, quieter now. Less teasing. Not entirely serious—but not dismissive either.
“You regret it?” he asked.
The question landed differently. He wasn’t teasing, no, you knew that tone of his. This was…direct. No bullshit.
Your mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
Because that wasn’t the problem.
“No,” you admitted finally, softer now. “That’s not the issue here.”
“That doesn’t mean this isn’t a mess,” you shot back, regaining momentum. “We still have to go back. To the ED. To real life. To pretending like we didn’t just—” you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “This is complicated.”
He didn’t argue with that. Which, usually, would be a win for you. But now, you wanted him to argue with you more than you ever had before.
Instead, he just watched you for a second longer, like he was granting you the gift of spiraling about sleeping with your attending uninterrupted.
Then, once you were silent for a moment longer, “We’re still in quarantine.”
“That’s it?” you asked. “That’s your big plan?”
“For now?” he said simply. “Yeah.”
You let out a disbelieving huff, shaking your head as you dropped back against the pillow.
You turned your head to look at him again, ready to keep arguing—and stopped in your tracks.
Because he was still watching you.
With that painfully, infuriatingly, annoyingly amused look that both boiled your blood and stopped your heart.
“You’ve been so adamant about not crossing a line,” You continued. “And then we cross it, and you’re just…chill. About breaking rules,”
“Because now I’ve tasted the line, and I’m forced to take a different stance.”
"That's not…" You started, but the words died somewhere between your brain and your mouth.
Because he was looking at you differently now. Something darker in his eyes, something...hungrier.
"Not what?" he prompted, voice dropping lower as he shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.
You swallowed hard. "That's not fair."
"No," you managed, though it came out weaker than you intended. "You can't just say things like that."
"Like what?" he asked, and there was that rasp again. The one you only heard sometimes, when he lowered his voice in a way that made your pulse spike. You were starting to think he did it on purpose. "The truth?"
"You want me to pretend I didn't spend half the night learning exactly what makes you fall apart?" he continued, closer now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. "That I don't know what you sound like when you—"
"Enough," you cut in, breath catching.
His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, eyes locked on yours. "And I will."
Your heart was hammering now. Because you should stop—write last night off as temporary insanity, the inevitable result of nine days cooped up with a coworker who, under any normal circumstance, wouldn’t have even made your top ten list of preferred roommates.
You absolutely should, the voice in your head spoke. The one who usually stopped you from making any bad decisions. This was already complicated enough without adding more to the pile of things you'd have to rationalize later.
But then his thumb traced your lower lip, the way he’d done last night in the kitchen, and every logical thought you'd been clinging to scattered like smoke.
"I—" you started. “Ah, fuck,”
Jack made a low sound against your mouth—something between a groan and a laugh—before his hand slid into your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you as he kissed you back with the kind of intensity that made your entire body melt.
The sheet slipped. You didn't care. There wasn’t an inch he hadn’t explored at some point last night, between the guest room, the kitchen, this bed, the floor–
His other hand found your waist, fingers splaying across bare skin as he pulled you closer, and suddenly you were shifting, rustling under sheets until you were straddling him, coverage forgotten entirely as his hands mapped every inch of you like he was committing it to memory.
"Still a disaster?" he murmured against your mouth, breathless, smirking now.
"Shut up," you shot back, nipping at his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss.
One thing about you and Jack Abbot–when he challenged you, you rose to that challenge.
Your hands found his chest, nails dragging lightly as you kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, until he was the one groaning, hips shifting beneath you in a way that sent heat pooling low in your body.
"Fuck," he muttered, head falling back against the pillow as your mouth moved to his jaw, his neck, finding the spot just below his ear that made his grip on you tighten. "You're going to kill me."
His pupils were still blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your palms as you sat up fully, still straddling him. The shift in position made you both groan—him from the sight of you above him, you from the way he was already hard under you.
"Jesus," he breathed, hands rough as they slid up your thighs. "Look at you."
You didn't answer, just kept your eyes on his as you reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him, watching his jaw clench as you positioned yourself.
"Shi—" he started, but whatever he was going to say died the moment you sank down onto him.
You took him slowly, letting the drops of precum allow you to slide around him, inch by inch. Taking him in until you were seated fully in his lap, both of you breathing hard, adjusting to the tight, encompassing fit.
"Fuck," Jack groaned, head pressing back into the pillow, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck, you feel—"
You rolled your hips slowly, cutting off whatever he was going to say, and his whole body tensed beneath you.
"What was that?" you asked, voice breathless. "Couldn't hear you."
His eyes snapped open, narrowed and focused as they locked on yours. Your lips had a mind of their own as they slid into a smirk, enjoying the sight of the high and mighty Jack Abbot so speechless under your touch.
"You're enjoying this," he managed, though his voice was strained.
"Very much," you confirmed, rising up slowly before sinking back down, setting a rhythm that had both of you breathing slightly more strained.
The angle was perfect—deep, intense, hitting exactly where you needed him—and you could feel the tension coiling tighter with every movement.
Jack's hands roamed everywhere—your thighs, your waist, up to cup your tits as you rode him, his thumbs brushing over sensitive skin that made your back arch further.
"God, look at you," he muttered your name, almost like spoken in prayer. "Taking what you want."
"You said—" you gritted your teeth as you ground down harder, "—to make you shut up."
"Not complaining, sweetheart," he groaned, hips bucking up to meet you now, matching your rhythm. "Fuck, not complaining at all."
You braced your hands on his chest, nails digging into his clavicles as you moved faster, chasing the burn in your thighs. Your hair swept over your shoulder, falling into his face as he twisted his fist around the strands, pulling tightly.
You hissed, spiteful of the way he still tried to regain control. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, followed by ragged breathing and broken moans.
"That's it," Jack encouraged, voice rough, one hand sliding down to where you were joined, thumb finding you soaked and swollen. "Take it. Take everything."
The added sensation made you cry out, your movements becoming more desperate, less controlled.
"I know," he said, watching you with an intensity that made everything in your vision explode. You hated when he watched you perform–now you decided you’d die if he looked away. "I can feel you. So fucking tight. You're close, aren't you?"
You couldn't form words anymore. You could only manage to nod, riding him harder, faster, chasing that sweet release.
"Then come," he commanded, thumb circling with a calculated pressure. "Come on me. Let me feel you."
And you did—shattering with a sharp cry of his name, body clenching around him as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Jack groaned low and deep, hips jerking up as you pulsed around him, his own control fracturing.
"Fuck, I'm—" he warned, but you didn't stop, didn't slow, riding him through it until he came with a broken curse, fingers holding you tight enough to leave marks as he spilled inside you.
You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you trembling, gasping for air. His arms came around you immediately, holding you close as you both came down.
"Okay," he said after a long moment, voice wrecked. "You're definitely going to kill me."
You huffed a breathless laugh against his neck. "Worth it?"
Not wanting to overstay your very obvious welcome in Jack’s bedroom, you retreated to your room after cleaning off.
You let yourself take a long, pensive shower, the events of the last twelve hours playing like a movie reel in your brain. Every look, every word, every moment where things could’ve stopped—but never did.
By the time you stepped out, skin warm and hair damp, you didn’t feel better but… steadier. Aware in a way that made your chest feel tight. Like you couldn’t hide under the covers or in the darkness anymore.
You dressed slowly, choosing something simple, something that felt neutral enough to pass as normal. Like that might help reestablish some kind of baseline.
Because your lips were still swollen from how hard he kissed you. Your collarbone still reddened from where he ground his teeth last night when he had you pressed beneath him. Your goosebumped skin from just the thought of his face between your legs on his bedroom carpet.
There was no dancing around it. You had to face him, and more importantly, reality.
The house was quiet when you made your way downstairs, late morning light spilling through the windows in a way that felt almost too calm for your liking. You paused just outside the kitchen, hand hovering for a second like you could still choose to avoid this.
Then you exhaled and stepped in anyway.
He stood at the counter with his back half-turned, coffee maker still dripping behind him, one hand wrapped loosely around a mug. He looked… put together. Not in his usual professional way, but in that same controlled, grounded way he always did—like nothing ever managed to knock him off balance.
Your footsteps made him glance over, and there it was again—that flicker of awareness that he always looked at you with. Like your presence was always on his mind.
“Hey,” he said, voice easy.
“Hi,” you returned, a little more carefully as you moved further into the room.
There was a pause—not awkward, but not easy either. Like you were both feeling out the shape of something new without naming it yet.
He turned back to the counter, grabbing another mug without asking and pouring coffee into it like it was routine. Like you’d spent hundreds of mornings coming into the kitchen, freshly showered and awaiting coffee he made using milk bought just for you.
“Coffee?” he asked, holding it out.
You nodded, stepping closer to take it. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Your fingers brushed his for half a second when you took the mug, and while the contact was brief, it was loaded. Those fingers knew you intimately now, and like it or not, there was no going back to when they didn’t.
You pulled your hand back a little too quickly, wrapping both hands around the cup instead, grounding yourself in the heat.
If he noticed, he didn’t call it out. He simply leaned back against the counter next to you, taking a sip of his own coffee, watching you in that quiet, assessing way that always made you feel like he was seeing more than you wanted him to.
You let out a small breath, staring down into your cup for a second before speaking.
“This is… weird,” you admitted.
The corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a reaction. “A little.”
You glanced up at him, incredulous. “A little?”
“Things are different now,” he said, like that was a sufficient answer. “It’s going to take a second to adjust to that,”
You shook your head, a soft exhale leaving you as you leaned your hip lightly against the island. “You’re taking this way too well.”
“I’m taking it as it is,” he replied, not defensive, just matter-of-fact.
“And what is it?” you pressed, meeting his gaze.
This time, the pause stretched longer.
He held your eyes, something more serious settling in now, the earlier ease giving way to something heavier. “Something we’ll figure out.”
You nodded slowly, even if your stomach still hadn’t quite settled since you woke up.
Because it wasn’t just what happened that had you thrown off. It was how easily it had happened. Sure, it had been nine days of tension and peeling back layers–but when it came down to it, you both caved in what felt like seconds.
He swallowed the sip of coffee he’d just taken, buying himself a second. “Pardon?”
“Last night,” you clarified, forcing your voice to stay even. “You said you’d been wanting this for a very long time.”
Something in his posture shifted. He took a deep inhale, deliberate, like he knew this answer mattered.
Then he set his mug down gently, the soft clink of ceramic against marble sounding way louder than it should have in the quiet kitchen.
“You want the honest answer?” he asked.
You huffed lightly. “Is there another option?”
“Yeah,” he said, a short breath of amusement leaving him. “When Robby and HR inevitably ask, I’ve wanted this since you quarantined at my house and we discovered there’s more to our emergency department tension than just competitive medicine practice.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
“And the honest answer?” you pressed.
This time, he didn’t deflect.
He just looked at you—really looked at you—in that steady, unflinching way that he used when he was about to say something he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear.
“From the second you walked into PTMC.”
The words landed heavy. You felt your grip falter, the mug nearly slipping before you caught it, fingers tightening instinctively around it.
“That’s not funny,” you said quietly, though there wasn’t any real humor in your voice.
Your eyes searched his, like maybe you’d find some version of exaggeration there. Something that made it less… intense.
But there wasn’t anything like that.
His voice held nothing but certainty. And something else underneath it—something that had been there all along, whether you’d noticed it or not.
“You didn’t even know me,” you said, softer now, almost like a case you were trying to make sense of, so you needed to verbalize all the information you had.
“Didn’t need to,” he replied, just as quietly. “I knew enough.”
You let out a small breath, shaking your head slightly, more to ground yourself than anything else.
“God,” you murmured. “And you just… what? Sat on that for three years?”
His jaw ticked, just once.
“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”
You stared at him, something in your chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with panic this time.
Because that changed things–not the fact that something had happened between you. But the fact of how long it had been building before it ever did.
And suddenly, last night didn’t feel impulsive anymore.
“I think you knew,” he continued, quieter now. “And up until a few days ago, I thought it was one-sided.”
“I didn’t know,” you shook your head, the denial coming instinctively. “And up until a few days ago, I thought I hated you.”
The admission wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even bitter.
Your expression softened before you could stop it, something in your chest pulling tighter in a way you hadn’t expected. Because he didn’t sound hurt saying it. He didn’t sound surprised.
He sounded like he’d made peace with it a long time ago. Like he’d not only decided that you hated him, but accepted it.
“I just don’t understand,” you said, head tilting as you studied him. “In the ED, it always felt like you disapproved of everything I did. Every other resident could do no wrong, but me…”
Jack went still at that. He didn’t become dismissive. He just looked…guilty.
“I was hard on you,” he admitted. “Harder than I should’ve been.”
“That’s an understatement,” you muttered.
“I know,” he repeated, steadier this time.
You crossed your arms slightly, still watching him. “Why?”
This one felt heavier. Because whatever answer you expected, it wasn’t what he actually said.
“Because I couldn’t afford not to be.”
Your brows pulled together. “What does that even mean?”
His gaze met yours, direct now. No hint of deflection left.
“It means,” he said slowly, “I couldn’t risk letting how I felt about you bleed into how I worked with you.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’d said that morning. For a moment, your head spun. Years of wondering why, feeling like you weren’t enough, and now, you were getting the answer.
“I knew if I gave you even an inch,” he continued, quieter now, “it wouldn’t look like I was pushing you because you were good. It would look like I was going easy on you because I—”
He cut himself off briefly, jaw tightening.
“Because I had a bias,” he finished.
You just stared at him. Your mind scrambled trying to catch up.
“So your solution was to… what? Overcorrect?” you asked.
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even look the least bit sorry about it either.
“I held you to a higher standard than everyone else,” he said. “Because I trusted you could meet it. And because I needed to make damn sure no one could ever question why you were doing well.”
“That doesn’t make it feel any better,” you said, softer now.
“I know it doesn’t,” he replied. “It wasn’t supposed to.”
That… stung. But not in the way it used to. Not in the way you’d walk out of a shift wound tight and frustrated, replaying every interaction, trying to figure out why the one person who was supposed to back you never seemed to.
But now you understood what had been sitting underneath it.
“You made me think you didn’t like me,” you said, a laugh almost escaping you at how juvenile you sounded.
“I was trying very hard not to,” he admitted.
That knocked the breath out of you a little. Trying, not succeeding.
“I was really happy to move to the night shift,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I actually respected you. I’d heard good things about you around the ED. I was… excited to work under you.”
His expression shifted at that. Like he was realizing in real time the impact his armor had on you. The armor he thought was protecting you.
“And because I may have had a teeny crush on you,” you added quickly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hid slightly behind your mug.
A breath of a laugh left him, quieter now, like relief slipping through the cracks. He set his mug down and leaned in just slightly, closing the space between you.
“Yeah?” he murmured. “That so?”
“I got over it pretty quickly,” you said, trying for casual.
“Mm,” he countered immediately, a faint smirk returning. “I don’t think you did.”
You lifted a brow. “Oh, please. You think very highly of yourself.”
“Do I?” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I catch you looking at me all the time.”
“In disgust,” you shot back without missing a beat.
“That doesn’t sound like disgust,” he said mildly. “Especially if you think about me when you’re fucking other people.”
That earned a sharp look from you—heat rising instantly to your face despite yourself. “I’ll never forgive Santos,”
His mouth quirked. “You should thank her.”
“Because that’s when I knew this was going to be an… eventful quarantine.”
“I’ve waited years,” He lowered his head toward you, mouth dipping to your ear. “Couple more days wasn’t going to kill me,”
You giggled, letting him place your coffee mug on the counter while he lifted you onto it. Your legs dangled off the edge as he stepped between them, his hands settling on your waist.
"But I'm glad you didn't make me wait any longer,"
