meep

📍ptmc break room || mid-twenties, she/her || bucky blog

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

MEEP! ────۶ৎ──── mid-twenties, she/her

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[hucklerabbot-and-rock]

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

under your skin

summary: 10 things you hate love about frank langdon

pairing: fem!reader x frank langdon 

warnings/tags: abby and kids do not exist in this universe, enemies to lovers!!, frank is a bit of a dick in this (but in a hot way), mention and description of a patient death and the events of pittfest, mysoginistic interns!, reader gets black out drunk in this, swearing, fluff, angst, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!

notes: i love the concept of this fic sm, I haven't written enemies to lovers in a hot minute

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

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one.

Frank Langdon was arrogant.

Every doctor and surgeon had a little bit of an ego, sure. It was practically a job requirement.

But Frank Langdon had somehow mastered the ability of getting under your skin in a way no one else did, possessing a particular kind of arrogance that crawled in and nested there.

The kind that smirked at you across lecture halls.

The kind that leaned too close over your shoulder during labs.

The kind that always, somehow, knew exactly which buttons to press.

It had started in med school.

You’d been paired together for a semester-long assignment during your second year, a fact that had nearly made you consider dropping out on principle alone.

"I graduated summa cum laude, you know."

Frank said it casually, leaning back in his chair like the statement was an objective fact rather than an insufferable introduction.

"That's nice."

You didn’t look up from your textbook spread across the library table between you. Highlighting and neatly scribbled notes littered the pages in organised colour-coded sections. Frank’s side of the table, meanwhile, looked like a tornado had swept through it.

His brow furrowed slightly.

"Oh yeah? What were you, valedictorian or something?" He drawled.

"Actually yes." You answered smoothly, flicking over the page. "I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."

He blinked, staring at you for a moment before he let out a low whistle.

"Geez, alright Ace."

You finally glanced up at him at that, irritation pulling at your brow.

"Don't call me that."

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

And judging by the way his lips twitched, Frank knew instantly he’d struck gold.

The nickname stuck.

It followed you through the rest of med school like a disease. Across lecture halls and internships and far too many crowded house parties.

Sometimes it was murmured under his breath when you answered a question before everyone else. Sometimes it was tossed across a room with an infuriating grin. Sometimes, rarely, it softened into something almost fond when the two of you were the last ones left in the library the night before an exam.

And like the nickname, you couldn’t seem to shake Frank Langdon either.

You thought graduation would finally free you from him.

And for a short, glorious period of time, it did.

Until the two of you matched at PTMC. Both in the emergency department.

"Long time no see Ace."

You looked up from the chart in your hands and felt genuine despair shoot through you.

"You have to be fucking kidding me."

Frank’s grin widened immediately, blue eyes bright with something dangerously close to delight.

You felt like you were right back at med school, the two of you instantly competing over everything. In particular, the attention of Dr Robby, who seemed to have decided that one of you could be his favourite, he just annoyingly refused to pick who.

And as your residency dragged on, Frank Langdon's arrogance never waned. He never got a humbling that you so desperately hoped for.

If anything, it only got worse.

Because -

two.

Frank Langdon was good.

Like, really good.

The kind of good that made senior attendings pause to watch him work. The kind that made nurses trust him instinctively during traumas. The kind that made you grit your teeth every time he pulled off something impressive with that smug look still plastered across his face.

Which only made his arrogance more unbearable.

Because the asshole actually had the skill to back it up.

"Did you hear about Langdon's intubation today?"

You barely glanced up from your chart as Samira fell into step beside you.

"No, but I'm sure he'll find a way to tell everyone himself before the end of the shift."

Samira ignored the jab entirely, completely unphased due to the volume of them she'd heard over the years.

"There was so much swelling you literally couldn't see anything."

You paused, your pen stilling against the chart. "So what, you're saying he did it blind?"

"Completely." Samira nodded. "Robby said he did it perfectly too."

A reluctant pulse of admiration twisted in your chest before you shoved it back down where it belonged with a small huff.

"Nice."

The word came out clipped.

You dropped the chart onto the counter and headed toward the break room before Samira could catch the grimace on your face.

Hour ten of your shift was always when the headaches started.

Like clockwork, tension coiled up the back of your neck and settled at the base of your skull. The fluorescent lighting suddenly became too bright. The overlapping conversations too loud.

You shut the break room door behind you with a quiet exhale and reached for the medicine cabinet.

The door opened again just as your fingers closed around the Advil.

"You hear about my intubation today Ace?"

You rolled your eyes automatically before even turning around as you shut the medicine cabinet.

“I did.”

You grabbed a mug from the cupboard, acutely aware of his gaze following you across the small room.

“Nice work.”

The words were stiff, rolled unnaturally off your tongue, said with an attempt at forced casualness which instead resembled something pained.

Frank blinked.

Then slowly, his mouth curved into a grin.

“Wow.”

You finally looked over at him at that.

He was leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, scrubs stretched tight over his forearms, a smirk present on his face.

“Was that a compliment I just heard? Are you feeling ok?”

This time you rolled your eyes openly as you threw the Advil down your throat.

“I’m mature enough to acknowledge when a peer does something impressive, Langdon.”

His brows lifted slightly. “A peer? Is that all I am to you after all these years?"

He placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Describing you as a peer is my way of being nice.”

You could see that a laugh was threatening to spill from his lips.

You turned toward the sink before your own expression betray you. You rinsed the mug beneath lukewarm water, missing the way his eyes tracked down your figure.

“Or maybe you just don’t want to admit that you’re jealous I practically performed a miracle.”

You let out a humourless laugh.

“Don’t worry, I perform miracles too.”

You set the mug down harder than necessary before glancing back at him.

“I just don't feel the need to announce it to anyone that will listen."

You saw his jaw tick slightly, indicating that you’d finally penetrated his thick ego shield.

“You’re a real ball of sunshine today Ace.”

You smiled sarcastically. “Only for you Langdon.”

three.

Frank Langdon loved to rest his arms on things.

Whether it was one arm leant lazily against the nursing station, both folded across his chest when he was thinking, or both braced on either side of your monitor as he loomed over you while you dictated.

His arms were always….there.

It was irritating and more importantly, it was distracting.

Like right now, as a team of you prepped a trauma patient for transport to the OR.

Frank stood on the other side of the gurney, his gloved hands curled around the metal rails as he leant forward. His forearms flexed as he adjusted his grip, the veins there straining, just visible in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Your gaze lingered, traitorous and immediate, tracking the movement of his hands as he tightened his hold on the bed frame. Your eyes ghosted upwards at the shift of muscle beneath fabric, his biceps straining slightly with the motion.

A flurry of images hit you.

His arms around your waist.

His arms flexed as he held his weight above you, steady and controlled, while he-

“Think she’ll make it?”

His voice cut through your thoughts cleanly.

You blinked, snapping your head up too fast.

He was already looking at you, with that infuriating, calm focus fixed directly on your face like you were the only thing in the room that required dissecting.

His tongue brushed briefly over his lower lip. A habit you first observed in med school and had never successfully un-noticed since.

You despised how your body reacted to it.

You turned away too quickly, hiding your burning face under the guise of discarding your gloves into the bin.

“50/50.” You answered, praying your voice was even as you spoke.

You shook your head slightly as you tried to shake yourself out of whatever this was.

You could not find Frank Langdon attractive.

That was not an option. Not a consideration. Not a thing your brain was allowed to do.

You wanted to slap yourself.

“I’m thinking more 70/30.” You heard him remark.

And just like that, mercifully, the fantasy collapsed.

four.

Sometimes, it felt like Frank Langdon could read your mind.

“Incoming trauma, two minutes out.” Dana announced in the middle of the pitt, red phone pressed to her ear. “MVA involving a single car and a motorcycle. The rider’s in a bad way.”

“What’s free?” Robby asked.

“Trauma one.”

You glanced up at Robby as he called out your last name.

“-and Langdon, with me.”

Frank didn’t answer - he was already following you.

You were already scrubbing in as the ambulance bay doors burst open. The gurney rattled violently over the polished floors.

“What have we got?” Robby asked.

“Rider unhelmeted. Found unconscious on scene. Hypotensive en route, tachycardic. GCS eight.” The paramedic answered as they wheeled the patient into the bay.

The room shifted and swelled around you - fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of equipment, the controlled chaos snapping into place like muscle memory.

“C-spine?” Robby asked.

“Immobilised.”

The patient was a young man. Early twenties. Dirt and road rash smeared across his face and chest, chest rising unevenly beneath cut fabric and exposed skin.

“Alright, transfer in three, two-“

Everyone moved together, sliding the patient onto the bed in one practiced motion.

“Airway appears patent but compromised.”

You leaned forward, placing your stethoscope on his chest.

“Reduced breathing sounds on the left.”

Frank was already there on the opposite side, his hands steady as he moved his fingers across the rib cage.

“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said. “Likely pneumothorax.”

“Pulse-ox is dropping.” Perlah announced. “Eighty-eight and falling.”

“Alright get ready to intubate.” Robby ordered.

“Wait.”

The word left your mouth before you could second-guess it.

Every head turned slightly.

You leaned closer, eyes moving over the monitor, then the uneven rise of his chest, the subtle shift in breathing effort.

“He’s compensating.” You said. “This isn’t primary airway failure yet. If we intubate now without addressing the thoracic injury he'll drop further.”

“Ace is right.” Langdon agreed. “We should do needle decompression first.”

“Left second intercostal space, midclavicular line.” You added. “If it’s tension physiology, that’s what’s driving the instability.”

Everyone turned to Robby, waiting for his call.

The smallest of nods, the slightest flicker of approval.

“You heard them.”

You moved instantly, prepping the site, antiseptic swab snapping across skin, fingers precise as you located the rib landmarks through trauma and swelling.

Frank held the patient steady as the needle went in.

The hiss came instantly.

The patient’s chest expanded easier this time.

“Stats stabilising.” Perlah confirmed.

“Better.” Frank observed.

You exhaled through your nose, already shifting focus. “We still need definitive imaging. He’s not out of the woods, we’re likely dealing with associated haemothorax or pulmonary contusion.”

“Agreed.”

Frank didn’t look at you when he said it.

But somehow, the two of you were entirely in sync anyway.

“Chest tube tray.” Robby ordered. “Let’s move.”

The rest of the procedure blurred into controlled motion - scalpel, incision, blunt dissection, the familiar gravity that settled over a trauma room when everyone locked into the same rhythm.

And through all of it, Frank moved instep with you.

When you moved, he made space like it was instinct. When you reached for instruments, they were already halfway to your hand. When you spoke, he didn’t interrupt - he simply factored your words into the next step.

It was infuriating how seamless it felt, dangerous how easy it was.

“Tube’s in.” Frank said finally.

“Bilateral breath sounds confirmed.” You spoke.

A beat.

Then Robby stepped back, stripping his gloves off.

“Good call both of you.”

You looked up as he pushed open the swinging doors.

“You aren’t staying?”

He gestured between you and Frank.

“I know when I’m not needed.”

Your eyes met Frank’s briefly.

A smile flickered between you before either of you could stop it.

-

The ambulance bay was quieter than the pitt, but not by much. The afternoon sun glared off the cracked bitumen, the distant echo of monitors still lingered in your ears like a phantom rhythm.

You rolled your shoulders back, trying to shake off the adrenaline that always persistently lingered after a trauma.

“Good work in there.”

You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Robby.

“Thanks.”

Silence stretched between the two of you.

His gaze shifted between you and the doors leading back inside.

“You know.” He said slowly after a moment. “You and Langdon work well together.”

You scoffed lightly. “When we’re not at each others throats, you mean.”

Robby’s eyes twinkled with amusement, dipping his chin down to conceal it. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

You exhaled, leaning back against the brick wall.

“Yeah." You admitted. "We do.”

It came out quieter than you intended.

You knew immediately that Robby noticed.

“But if you ever tell him I said that, I’ll deny it completely.”

Robby’s mouth twitched.

“Noted.”

“And, I’ll tell everyone about the time I caught you nearly in tears over a cockroach in the break room.”

Robby turned to you. “It had wings.” He said flatly.

"You still screamed like a little girl.”

five.

Frank Langdon could be thoughtful, when he wanted to be.

It was never loud. Never performative. It didn’t announce itself the way everything else about him did. No smug commentary, no pointed remarks, no expectation of recognition.

It was quieter than that, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You saw it in fragments over time, tucked into the spaces between the chaos.

The way his voice would soften when he spoke to patients. Or the way he’d comfort them when he thought no one else was listening.

You’d seen him pay for taxi fares out of his own pocket. You’d seen him quietly remove hospital cafeteria food from a patient's tray and replace it with sandwiches from the deli over the road.

None of it fit easily with the version of Frank Langdon that lived in your head.

And that was the problem.

Because the longer you worked with him, the more difficult it became to keep those versions separate.

You were on hour nine of a shift.

School holidays had transformed the ER into something louder, hotter, more chaotic than usual. The kind of chaos that didn’t spike cleanly, but accumulated in layers until the entire department felt stretched too thin.

The air carried a constant noise of beeping monitors, overlapping voices, crying kids, the scrape of gurney wheels against linoleum.

Like usual, your shoulders had started to tighten without permission, creeping up to your ears no matter how many times you tried to square them.

A slow, familiar clamp at the base of your neck. The kind that crept upward until it turned into something debilitating behind your eyes.

You half-heartedly tried to do your physio exercises in the breakroom before eventually giving up and opening the fridge instead, reaching automatically in for the Red Bull you knew was stashed behind someone’s abandoned lunch bag.

You paused.

A ziplock bag sat neatly on top of your lunchbox.

A plain glazed donut stared back at you through the plastic, alongside two Advil.

You stared at it.

You’d heard that upstairs had sent their usual trolley of unethical donuts down earlier. You’d been drowning in back to back traumas, only resurfacing long after all of the plain glazed, your favourite, were gone.

Or so you'd thought.

You looked over your shoulder. Was this meant for you? Surely not. Someone must have just accidentally chucked it on top of your lunchbox.

Your stomach grumbled.

Although, it looked intentionally placed. Maybe you could eat it and if the owner came asking for it later you could just-

You turned slightly at the sound of your name to see Perlah standing in the doorway.

“Robby’s looking for you.”

You hesitated only briefly before placing the bag back into the fridge, all thoughts of the donut dissolving as you heard the trauma code ring out over the loud speaker.

An hour later, the headache had settled in fully.

You leaned against the desk, elbows planted either side of the computer as pain pulsed behind your eyes. The words on the screen blurred at the edges.

You blinked rapidly, rubbing at your temples as you tried to massage some of the thrumming away.

“You need to take your Advil earlier.”

The voice came from above you.

You looked up to see Langdon towering over you.

“What?”

He slid something towards you.

The donut and Advil now sat on a napkin, a cup of water beside it.

"Your shoulders always start tightening around hour nine." He said. "Which means the headache peaks around now because you never take the Advil early enough."

You stared at him for a moment, then your eyes flickered down to the napkin.

"What's the donut for?"

His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.

"Increased blood sugar helps stabilise headaches." He answered smoothly. "And you haven't eaten lunch today."

You surveyed the donut suspiciously.

“Jesus Christ I haven’t poisoned it.” He huffed as he nudged it closer to you.

“Eat.”

You hesitated for a moment.

"...Fine." You relented as you pulled it in front of your keyboard.

"...thank you."

His eyes lifted sharply at that.

"Don't thank me. This is entirely for my own benefit."

You frowned.

"When you've got a headache you're somehow even more annoying than usual."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"You're welcome."

He was already stepping away before you could respond.

You stared down at the donut for a second longer, your stomach tightening hopefully at the smell of sugar.

What you didn’t see was Frank lingering at the end of the corridor just long enough to make sure you actually took the Advil.

Just long enough to watch you finally take a bite, observing the small act of compliance like it mattered more than it should.

You didn’t know that he’d had to almost physically fight Donnie for the last plain glazed donut because he knew they were your favourite.

You didn't know that he'd been buying the double strength Advil and sneaking it into the medicine cabinet for the last six months because he'd noticed your headaches getting worse.

What you did know, was that it was irritating when he did shit like this without explanation.

Because it reminded you that there was more under all of the bolstering and ego. Something softer, something complex.

Something that made you want to peel him apart layer by layer just to understand what lived underneath.

Even when you absolutely shouldn’t.

six.

You couldn’t escape Frank Langdon’s eyes.

It wasn’t just that he looked at you often, it was the timing of it. You would glance up from a chart, be mid-sentence in a handover, reach for a new pair of gloves, and there he would be. Already looking. Already watching.

Those piercing blue irises never seemed to settle on you for long, but they always found you again. It was infuriatingly precise. Like some internal compass had been set to your presence without your permission.

“Are you going to knock off drinks tonight?”

The voice pulled you back into the present. You blinked, realising you’d been staring blankly at your tablet for long enough that the screen had dimmed.

Holland was leaning against the edge of your desk, casual in a way that was unique to interns, half confident, half desperate for approval.

“Oh uh, I don’t know. Maybe.” You said half heartedly.

“Oh c’mon doc, it’ll be fun.” Holland’s grin widened as he studied you, searching for a crack in your resistance. “Especially if you’re there.”

You huffed a small laugh.

“Nice try Holland, but this one here likes to be in bed by 9pm.” McKay smirked as she walked behind you.

Your brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with that?“

“Nothing, if you’re like 80.” Holland shot back, making you roll your eyes.

“I do go out.”

McKay let out a snort that was entirely unconvinced. “Sure you do.”

You straightened slightly, feigning offence. “I just like to keep my work and personal life seperate, so I can avoid doing things like oh I don't know..." You trailed off, pretending to ponder.

"Falling off a table in front of my coworkers in the middle of a drunken rendition of Mamma Mia?" You suggested, raising a brow pointedly at McKay.

McKay flipped you off cheerfully without even slowing down.

Holland, undeterred, was still hovering like a persistent shadow over your desk.

“So… is that a yes?”

“You interns are nothing if not persistent.” You grumbled.

“I prefer passionate.”

You studied him for a moment.

“If you leave me alone to let me finish my charting, I’ll consider it.”

“I’m taking that as a yes.” Holland grinned, tapping the table once triumphantly, like the matter was closed. “See you tonight doc.”

You exhaled through your nose in reluctant amusement as he finally backed away.

Only then did you look up properly.

And, like you always seemed to do, your eyes met Langdon's from across the room.

Something unreadable flickered across his face - too fast to catch, too controlled to decode. It vanished before you could even decide whether you had imagined it.

-

Later, you found yourself alone with him in the trauma bay.

You were halfway through de-scrubbing when his voice cut through the sterile hum.

“Didn’t realise you had a thing for interns.” Langdon remarked as he yanked off his gloves, the latex snapping softly against his wrist.

You glanced over at him as you united your gown.

“Huh?”

“Holland.” He clarified, like it should have been obvious.

You frowned. “What about him?”

“He was flirting with you.”

You scoffed immediately. “No he wasn’t.”

Langdon stopped mid-movement, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“There’s no way you’re that oblivious.” He said flatly.

Your brow knitted. “I’m not oblivious.”

“You are if you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How does he look at me?”

“Like-“ Langdon cut himself off. His jaw tightened once before he looked away.

“Never mind.” He muttered, scrunching his gloves into a ball and lobbing it into the trashcan with practiced aim.

“Well if he’s flirting with me, maybe I can wrangle a free drink out of him.” You said lightly.

Frank stilled. Not dramatically, but enough for you to notice the tension settling across his shoulders. The brief curl of his fingers before he forced them open again.

You weren’t sure what reaction you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you got.

When he looked back at you, his expression had hardened slightly around the edges.

“So you’re going tonight?”

You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I might.”

He shook his head slightly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He pushed open the glass doors, holding it open for you to pass through first. “Just thought I’d be free of you in a few hours.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stepped past him.

“Don’t worry." You shot back, "I’ll make sure to sit at the opposite end of the table.”

-

The bar the pitt crew frequented was already too crowded for your liking by the time you arrived.

It was loud in a way that pressed against your skin. The kind of place where conversation blurred into overlapping noise and every surface felt slightly sticky.

You’d been nursing a wine for the better part of an hour, perched on the edge of the booth, perfectly content listening to everyone else talk.

"I'll be back." You murmured to Samira beside you, sliding your unfinished glass toward her.

"Don't get lost." She teased.

You threaded your way through the crowd toward the bathroom, shoulders brushing strangers, the air growing hotter the further you moved from your group.

“I can’t believe she’s here.”

“Who?”

You froze when you heard the sound of your last name.

It wasn’t spoken loudly, but it cut through the noise anyway.

“I know, Holland actually managed to convince her.”

You slowed instinctively.

A cluster of interns stood near the bar, half-leaning into each other, already loosened by alcohol and confidence. All oblivious to the fact you were only a few feet away.

“It wasn’t hard, just had to smile at her and call her doc.”

A few of them laughed.

“She definitely has cat lady energy."

"In all fairness." Someone else said. "She is hot. Just way too fucking uptight."

"Seriously." Another voice added. “You can tell she’s never relaxed a day in her life."

The laughter swelled again.

The words landed like barbs in your chest.

The air felt suddenly too thin, too sharp. Your fingers curled instinctively around nothing.

“Holland, honestly, do everyone a favour and take care of her tonight so maybe she chills the fuck out next shift-"

You turned before you could hear the rest, not sure if you'd be able to bear hearing more.

Heat burned behind your eyes as you pushed through the crowd, swallowing the emotion down so aggressively it turned sharp inside your chest. You rerouted, diverting your course to the bathroom back to your table.

There were plenty of other doctors at PTMC who had sacrificed their social lives for this job. Robby and Langdon were self professed life long bachelors because of their obsession with work. But the difference was, they were men.

By the time you reached the booth again, anger had replaced humiliation almost entirely.

As you approached your table, Samira glanced up at you.

"Hey, you ok?" She asked.

"Never better." You answered smoothly, sliding back into the booth as you let the anger spark into something different.

You gestured to the bar.

"Want to get wasted?"

-

What neither you or the interns had realised was that Frank had been standing further down the bar waiting to order. And he had heard every word.

"Hey."

The interns turned.

Frank stood there holding two untouched beers, expression unreadable.

“Maybe be careful of how you talk about your seniors.” Frank said, too calmly for it to be genuine.

Holland, who’d already had one too many, snorted.

“Come on man, you of all people know what she’s like.”

Frank’s jaw ticked.

“I know that she’s a brilliant doctor who deserves your respect."

"Respect?" Holland laughed. "We all see the way you talk to her." Holland continued, the alcohol flowing through his veins hindering his ability to realise that he was walking into a death trap.

Frank stepped forward just enough that the space between them shifted.

"Don't ever try and conflate your working relationship with what her and I have." He spoke evenly, his voice lowering just enough.

A hush descended over the interns.

"And from now on I suggest you watch your fucking mouth." He continued, his eyes moving from Holland to flit over the group. "Because if I hear any of you breath another bad word about her, I'll personally ensure that none of you make it through this internship."

No one dared to speak or move.

"Are we clear?”

Holland swallowed. “Crystal.”

-

You had never been one to hold your alcohol well, and tonight was no exception.

Three shots and four drinks in and your vision was blurring at the edges. You and Samira had managed to convince Dana and a few of the other nurses to join in, the group of you giggling and slurring like a bunch of underage teenagers.

And still, every so often, despite the bodies and the noise and the light, Frank's eyes would find yours.

You had no idea what time it was when you stumbled out of the bar.

The night air hit your face like relief and exhaustion all at once. You dropped onto a bench without fully deciding to, legs slightly unsteady, head tipping back toward the night sky. The music from the bar seeped out into the quiet street, carried by the faint breeze.

You could hear foot steps approaching.

You didn't need to look to know who it was.

"How's your night going?"

You blinked slowly up at him.

"Was going great until about two seconds ago."

Frank studied you carefully. "How much have you had to drink?"

"You tell me." You squinted.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he sat beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth that radiated off his body.

"I'll answer for you." You continued, hiccupping as you folded your arms over your chest. "Not enough."

"You should have some water."

You let out a fake a gasp. "Is Frank Langdon worried about me?"

Despite himself, a small smile tugged at his mouth. "Worried about dealing with you hungover tomorrow? Definitely."

That pulled a laugh out of you. "Don't worry." You said as you leant back. "I've got the next two days off so you'll get a break from me."

He didn't answer you as you looked back up at the sky, your eyes settling on the full moon hanging above the two of you.

Instead, he watched you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was trying to place something unspoken.

"Do you think I'm uptight?" You blurted out.

Frank's brows jerked upward.

"Is that a trick question?"

The teasing disappeared immediately when he saw your expression shift.

"Maybe I should just go adopt some cats and embrace it." You mumbled, barely audible as you hugged your arms around yourself.

"Hey." He said, making you look up at him.

"So what if you're uptight?" Frank asked. "It means you care. Means you don't half-ass things."

A pause.

"Because uptight implies...I don't know.." You let out a small sigh as you glanced down at your hands. "That I'm boring or annoying, or both."

"You're definitely not boring." He said immediately.

"But yes." He added after a beat. "You are definitely annoying."

That loosened a real laugh from you this time.

Frank watched it happen carefully, something softer flickering across his face.

"But I like that about you." He added quietly, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

You shot him an incredulous look. "Sure you do."

"I do." He insisted.

"Uh huh." Your lips pursed in amusement. "Don't pretend like you wouldn't give me a personality transplant if you could."

"I wouldn't." This time he sounded firmer, too focused on proving you wrong to realise that he was giving away too much.

"I wouldn't change anything about you." He repeated, his eyes locking onto yours.

"I like you. Just as you are."

The words hung between you for a moment.

You stared at him as your body suddenly completely still.

And then the espresso martinis and tequila shots reminded you that they were still swirling around in your stomach, causing a wave of nausea to rip through you.

The colour drained from your face as the alcohol, the heat, the exhaustion - everything surged through you at once.

Frank noticed it instantly.

"Come on, let's get you home."

-

The walk up to your apartment was a blur of stairs, half-coherent instructions, and Frank’s hand steadying you at your elbow whenever you swayed too far.

By the time he guided you inside, you were well beyond the point of being able to remember anything.

Too drunk to notice the way Frank's eyes trained on the interior of your apartment, gaze lingering on family photos, books, decorations, anything that provided him a glimpse of who you were outside of work.

He got you into bed, moving around your space with a familiarity that made it feel like he'd been here a hundred times before.

You watched as he placed a glass of water and a packet of painkillers on your bedside table.

Then he paused.

Your pink bedspread was patterned with tiny cherries.

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth.

"Try not to vomit all over your fancy bedspread." He remarked.

You looked up at him blearily.

There was something dangerously fond in his voice now.

You watched him hover for a moment, like he was trying to convince himself to leave.

"Thank you."

A smile, small and private, broke through.

"Don't mention it Ace."

He turned to leave when your hand caught his forearm lightly.

He stopped immediately.

"Hey." You whispered.

"What's wrong?" He asked, already shifting back toward you instinctively.

You studied him for a long moment, as if something about his face had changed shape in the quiet. Frank suddenly became aware that your hand was still on his arm.

"Your eyes have a little green in them."

Frank froze.

The words had been spoken so softly he almost thought he imagined them.

He swallowed, glancing down at the floor as he tried to reconcile the emotions flooding his nervous system, tried to formulate a response.

But when he looked at you again, you were already gone - head tilted slightly, lashes fluttered close, breath even, asleep mid-thought.

He stayed there for a moment longer than he should have.

Then he left quietly, closing the door behind him like he was afraid to disturb whatever had just changed between the two of you.

seven.

Frank Langdon could make you laugh like no one else could.

It wasn’t just the words he said. Like everything else, it was the timing of them.

The way he seemed to sense the exact moment your thoughts started tipping somewhere too heavy and quietly redirected them before you could sink too far into yourself, like he refused to let it stay there too long.

Ever since that night out at the bar, things had shifted between the two of you.

Not dramatically. Not in any way anyone else would have been able to point at and name.

But there had been a change in the space between interactions. Less friction. Less sharpness for the sake of it. The edges of your usual back-and-forth softened into something that almost resembled ease - like both of you had, without discussion, agreed to stop pressing on eachother’s bruises.

You couldn’t remember much from that night. Couldn't even remember how you'd gotten home. You only had fragments to analyse - warmth, noise, Frank’s voice close enough to feel like it belonged somewhere under your skin.

"I like you. Just as you are."

That part, unfortunately, you remembered perfectly.

The words had settled somewhere deep and stubborn inside you, resurfacing at the worst possible moments. Mid-shift. Mid-sentence. In the brief seconds before sleep when your brain stopped pretending it wasn’t still at work.

And now, weeks later, you were still carrying them around like something you hadn’t figured out how to put down.

The unspoken truce between you and Frank held anyway.

Sharper jabs were replaced with quieter ones, almost always softened with half-hearted eye rolls and almost-smiles neither of you acknowledged.

If anyone else noticed it, they didn't say it out loud, careful not to disrupt whatever delicate peace treaty had been formed.

You’d been having a good shift, until hour eleven.

Your patient, a young woman with a soft, girlish face that made her look even younger. She’d come in complaining of vague chest discomfort with a documented history of anxiety. No other significant past medical history. Stable vitals on arrival.

She'd been sweet, telling you all about how she had finally worked up the courage to book flights to Italy for the summer.

Then she crashed.

Chest compressions were already underway when you arrived, the rhythm of them loud and brutal in the confined space. Someone was bagging her. Someone else was calling out time intervals.

"Epi’s in." Jesse confirmed.

You were already moving, hands automatically checking rhythm on the monitor, eyes scanning for anything reversible.

Nothing.

Still PEA.

"Again." You said, voice steady in a way you didn’t feel as you swapped in for compressions.

The bedframe rattled faintly beneath the force of it.

Time stretched in that strange, distorted way it always did during arrest, both too fast and painfully slow at once.

You all paused again, stepping away to look at the monitor for another rhythm check.

"Call it."

Robby's voice cut through the room.

"We can still try-" You began.

"You've been going for twenty minutes." Robby voice stayed calm, firm. "Call it."

The room shifted like it always did when a resuscitation failed. That invisible collective acknowledgment that the line had been reached.

You reluctantly moved your hands away from the patients chest, your gaze lingering on her glassy eyes that would never blink again.

You felt your chest tighten.

You glanced down at your watch. "Time of death, 5:17pm."

Your voice remained clinical despite the way your throat had started closing around the words.

Silence settled over the room.

The monitors still beeped softly in the background, almost offensively alive compared to everything else.

"Does she have next of kin listed?"

Robby glanced down at your hands that had started to tremor slightly. Something soft flickered across his face.

"I'll do it."

You shook your head before he even finished the sentence.

"No." Your voice tightened slightly. "She was my patient. I can do it."

A pause.

Robby studied you for a second longer than necessary, then nodded once.

"Ok."

The room began to reset around you, people stepping back, lowering their voices, the clinical transition from emergency to aftermath already beginning.

But your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

-

The wind up on the roof of PTMC was colder than expected. Sharp against your skin, grounding in a way that almost hurt.

You sat curled against the wall with your knees tucked to your chest, staring at your shaking hands.

“Heard you had a rough one.”

You turned your head.

Frank was standing a few steps away, hands tucked into his pockets.

“She was only 19.” You murmured, shaking your head. “I just had to tell her parents that their daughter isn’t coming home.”

You turned your head away as he sat down beside you, wiping at your face quickly before he could fully register it.

“I’m sorry.”

"I should have checked for a PE risk or a structural issue or-"

"She presented exactly like most young patients with anxiety do. None of us would have done anything differently." Frank interrupted gently.

You inhaled sharply. "But if I'd just-"

"Ace."

Your nickname, said like that, cut through the spiral before it could finish building.

You looked at him.

His gaze dropped briefly to your hands.

Then, slower, like he was deciding rather than acting, he reached forward and wrapped his hands around yours.

"This wasn't your fault."

The warmth of him grounded you instantly in a way that felt deeply unfair.

You swallowed hard and nodded once.

"I don't know how Robby and Dana are still here." You admitted quietly. "How they just keep... showing up."

Frank raised a brow. "Have you met them? They're both completely unhinged."

Despite yourself, a small sound escaped you - half laugh, half broken exhale.

"I didn't realise unhinged was an official medical diagnosis."

"It is according to me.” He nodded solemnly. “Right alongside basketcase and whacko."

That got another laugh out of you, sharper this time. More real.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he was checking whether it had actually worked.

You looked down then.

His hands were still around yours.

"I’m scared to know what you'd diagnose me with." You said after a moment, voice steadier now.

A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

"You're your own medical condition entirely." He answered before pausing as he tried to think of the best way to describe it.

"Ace-itis."

That made you laugh again, properly this time, breath catching slightly at the end, the heaviness in your chest loosening just enough for you to breathe deeper.

Frank watched it happen like it mattered more than it should.

When the laughter faded, the silence between you felt strangely easy.

After a moment, he shifted slightly but didn’t let go of your hands.

“You want to go get a drink or something?”

The question was casual, but it didn't feel like it.

You blinked at him once, processing it slowly through the fog of adrenaline and exhaustion.

A joke rose automatically to your tongue, something defensive, something sharp, but you swallowed it as you studied him.

“Only if the first rounds on you.”

He smiled faintly.

“After the day you’ve had, I’ll even get the second.”

eight.

Frank Langdon could also make you cry in a way no one else could.

Because when he turned on you, it felt like being shut out of something you hadn’t realised you were standing inside of, something that you suddenly didn't want to leave.

It was the day of Pittfest.

It was also the day for new interns and residents, which meant a whole slate of fresh faces trying too hard while the rest of the ER oscillated between mentorship and survival mode.

The halls were louder than usual. Too many voices overlapping, too many unfamiliar footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors.

And through all of it, there was Frank.

You noticed it within the first hour.

Something was off.

He moved like his body was running half a step ahead of everything - conversations, people, decisions. His voice came too quickly, clipped at the edges. His attention snapped between patients and staff with an intensity that didn’t feel controlled so much as driven. Like his nervous system had been turned up too high and forgotten how to come back down.

His pupils were slightly too wide under the fluorescent light, sweat gathered faintly at the back of his neck despite the air conditioning.

And worst of all - his arrogance, usually carefully calibrated, was unfiltered.

Loud.

You caught yourself watching him repeatedly throughout the shift.

Each time, you told yourself you were imagining it.

Then another hour passed.

Then another.

Eventually, you found yourself avoiding him entirely, because something about the way he looked today made you think of a system running too hot right before it failed.

You just hoped that whatever was going on with him would settle and he wouldn’t sweep up too many people in his chaos.

That hope lasted until you heard raised voices coming from trauma two.

You were already moving before you consciously decided to.

Even from the doorway, you could tell the atmosphere was off. A room holding its breath in the wrong place.

Frank was at the centre of it.

One of the new interns, Trinity, stood across from him, her body rigid, eyes wide. You had a brief thought that she resembled a frightened lamb.

Frank’s voice cut through everything.

“-stupid or arrogant, you need to realise that you are a beginner.” His voice was loud and unforgiving.

“Which means your job is to shut up, listen, and learn, because so far today the only thing you have been successful at is proving repeatedly that you know nothing.”

Trinity’s eyes widened slightly when she spotted you over his shoulder. You couldn’t decide if it was a silent plea or a warning.

Frank turned slightly at that movement.

For one brief second, his expression faltered when he saw you, like seeing you had been pulled back into himself.

Then immediately it hardened again, too fast to hold onto.

You swallowed, attempting to regain your composure as you glanced between them.

“Santos.” Your voice was level as you tilted your head towards the exit. “Dr McKay needs help in Room 4.”

Relief crossed Trinity’s face so quickly it was almost painful.

She nodded once, eyes darting between the two of you before escaping the room like she’d been given permission to breathe again.

The moment she left, the air changed again.

You turned back to Frank slowly, taking a few steps toward him so you were fully enveloped by the room.

He was still standing there, hands half-curled at his sides, like he’d been interrupted mid-impact and didn’t know what to do with the energy still in him.

“What the fuck was that?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“What the fuck was what?”

His tone made you bristle.

“Don’t do that.” You said sharply. “Don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what you just did was completely out of line.”

“Have you worked with her yet?” He shot back, words tumbling out too fast. “She’s arrogant and-and completely incapable of-“

“It doesn’t matter.” You interrupted. “That is not how we talk to rookies. Actually, it’s not how we talk to anyone.”

Frank scoffed, sharp and humourless.

“Didn’t realise you were the tone police.”

The agitation radiating off him made you instinctively want to step back.

Your gaze sharpened.

“What is going on with you today?” You demanded. “You’re all twitchy and acting completely fucking manic-“

You stopped when you caught it.

Because you saw it properly now you were up close. His pupils were too dilated, not situational, not lighting, not stress.

Something else.

Something your brain immediately started assembling pieces around before you could stop it.

Sweats at his hairline, restless movement in his jaw, the uneven pacing of his breath.

And then the memory surfaced - uninvited, unwelcome.

Back pain from when he’d helped his parents move. Been too cheap to hire movers, he’d joked.

A prescription.

You remembered him mentioning it offhand weeks ago - something about weaning off them, something about not needing them anymore.

The realization hit so hard it almost made you feel sick.

You went still.

Frank noticed immediately.

Something defensive shifted across his posture like he’d followed your thoughts to their conclusion before you even spoke.

“Frank.” You said slowly.

Your voice softened involuntarily. Careful in a way that didn’t match the argument anymore. Weeks of quiet moments and softened edges bleeding into the argument without permission.

“Are you having withdrawals?”

There was a beat of silence.

Something flickered across his face.

Not denial first, not anger.

Something closer to pain, mixed with a semblance of something like surprise, maybe at the sound of his first name leaving your lips, or being caught, you weren’t certain.

And then it vanished.

“What?” He said, voice sharp enough to cut, “are you seriously trying to ask me if I’m a drug addict?”

“No, I-“ You started immediately, stepping forward again.

But he was already unraveling faster than you could catch.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Bitterness curled through every word now. “Get your competition shipped off to rehab so you can be the only golden child of the ER.”

Your breath caught painfully.

“That’s not fair.”

"Isn't it?" He studied you for a moment, his eyes intense and unblinking. "This place isyour whole life, it makes sense that you'd be dying to have Robby's attention all to yourself."

The words, slung like arrows, found their mark with deadly accuracy. They penetrated your thick skin, embedding themselves somewhere deep behind your rib cage.

Not because they were true, but because they were thrown like they were, like they were designed to hurt you.

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t know what has gotten into you.” You said quietly, voice shaking now despite your efforts. “But I seriously suggest you stop talking before you say something you can’t take back.”

For a moment something in him wavered. A crack.

Like he could suddenly see you again instead of whatever he was fighting.

Your bottom lip was quivering now.

For a second, he looked horrified by it.

And then his expression closed again, like a door slamming shut.

“Don’t worry.” He said flatly, void of any emotion as he stalked past you. “I was just leaving.”

You stood there frozen for a few seconds before the tears finally came, sliding down your face in hot, fat tracks.

Anger crashed through you almost instantly afterward.

Not just at Frank, but at yourself.

Because you hadn’t cried when you heard interns say horrible things about you, hadn’t cried when you’d lost a patient. You’d been on the brink, but never quite fallen off the ledge.

But somehow, Frank Langdon was the one to push you off it.

And that terrified you more than anything.

Because it meant you’d let him get under your skin in a way that you never thought he would. And now, you didn’t know if you could ever scrub yourself clean of him.

nine.

Frank Langdon left without saying goodbye.

You stood in the descrubbing bay long after your gloves had been peeled off and discarded, staring at nothing in particular. The curtain that separated you from the trauma bay still fluttered slightly, like the room itself hadn’t settled yet.

You didn’t want to move. Didn't want to pull back the curtain and see the blood soaked floor beyond it.

Because if you did, it would become real in a different way. Not just something you survived, but something that stayed.

A dull headache pulsed steadily behind your eyes. Your shoulders ached with tension. Your body felt disconnected somehow, like part of you was still moving even though you’d stopped minutes ago.

Your mind was struggling to process what you'd just witnessed. How many people you saved. How many you didn't.

You swallowed hard against the tightness in your throat.

For one strange second, you genuinely thought you might pass out.

The curtain shifted. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Sorry.”

The voice was quiet and all too familiar.

Your stomach dropped before you even turned.

Blue eyes met yours.

Frank stood in the doorway, still in scrubs. Hair slightly dishevelled. Exhaustion carved into his face in ways that you were sure mirrored yours.

The mass casualty had left no room to think about him as anything other than another set of hands beside you. But now, standing here with him again, every emotion you’d shoved aside came flooding violently back.

“What do you want, Langdon?”

Your voice came out flatter than intended as you turned away again, like movement alone might protect you from whatever this conversation was about to become.

"I came to apologise... about earlier." He said quietly. "That was fucked up."

"Yeah. It was." You said.

A humourless breath escaped you.

"Although now it feels kind of trivial after-" You stopped yourself before your brain could drift back toward everything you’d all just witnessed.

You turned back properly then - freezing when you saw the raw emotion on his face.

"I'm really sorry."

This time, you weren’t entirely sure he was only talking about the argument anymore.

You took a step towards him.

"What happened Frank?" You asked quietly.

His jaw tightened.

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

"I fucked up Ace." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly, like it cost him something to say it out loud.

"Really badly."

Your expression softened before you could stop it, and that seemed to break something in him further.

"I think I need help." The confession came out barely above a whisper as tears pooled in the corner of his eyes.

You took a step toward him instinctively.

"Ok." You said immediately, nodding slowly. "Ok. We can get you help."

"Jesus-" He cut himself off, squeezing his eyes shut for a second like he was trying to physically reset himself. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you... like you pity me."

"Jesus Christ Langdon, I don't pity you I-" You stopped yourself, breath catching slightly as you realised what you were about to say.

"I care about you."

The honesty of it startled even you.

Frank went still.

"You do?" He asked.

There was no teasing in his voice now. No arrogance. Only something small and uncertain underneath it that made your chest ache unexpectedly.

"Yeah." You said, softer now. "Even though it pains me to admit it."

That got the smallest flicker of something, his eyes never leaving your face.

"Which is why we're going to figure this out." You continued, stepping closer again without thinking about it. "Whatever this is, we can sort it out, we can-"

You never got to finish your sentence.

Because Frank Langdon kissed you.

It was sudden - like something inside him had snapped beneath the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

You froze completely at first. Hands half-raised, breath caught, brain refusing to process the shift from conversation to collision.

Frank pulled back abruptly, eyes wide, mouth parted.

“I- oh my god." He breathed heavily. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I-”

You grabbed the front of his scrubs and pulled him back down before he could finish.

The second kiss wasn’t hesitant.

It was years of tension collapsing all at once into something sharp and immediate and impossible to take back.

Frank made a quiet sound against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were kissing him back.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back. His breathing uneven, chest rising too fast.

"I'm sorry." He shook his head as he took a step away from you, like he needed the physical distance to stop himself. "I can't- I can't do this."

"Frank-"

But he was already gone.

You didn't see him again after that.

Not in passing, not in corridors, not in all the strange little spaces where the two of you had somehow built an entire relationship out of arguments and eye contact and timing.

You found out a week later from Dana that Frank had admitted himself into a treatment program that same night.

And then he disappeared from your life for ten months.

ten.

The thing you hated the most about Frank Langdon was that you didn't hate him.

Not even a little bit, not even at all.

You’d known it long before you admitted it to yourself. But that moment - that kiss- had made it undeniable in a way you couldn’t pretend to ignore anymore.

And that was the problem.

Because hatred would’ve been easier than this constant, aching awareness of him existing somewhere just beyond your reach.

Fourth of July shifts were universally hated at PTMC.

Too hot, too loud, too many fire-work related disasters waiting to happen.

You could already feel a faint film of sweat start to coat the back of your neck as you opened your locker that morning.

Footsteps approached behind you.

You peered around the locker door out of habit, ready to say good morning to whichever poor colleague was stuck with you on this shift.

Your brain short circuited.

Frank Langdon stood there.

Cap on. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Like he belonged somewhere casual, somewhere outside of this building entirely.

Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life for ten months without a word.

You stared at him for a moment.

Then he opened his mouth, your name formed silently on his lips.

You slammed your door shut with finality, then walked straight past him without saying a word.

Your pulse roared in your ears, your heart bashed against your ribcage.

You knew he’d be coming back, you knew you would have to see him again eventually - you just didn’t think it would be today.

You didn’t think it would hurt this much either.

-

The shift was unbearable in the quietest possible way.

Every time you turned a corner, you expected him to be there. Every time you reached for a chart, you expected his voice behind you.

Every time someone called your name, your body reacted before your brain caught up - a stupid, pathetic flicker of hope you immediately hated yourself for.

And then there were the moments he was there.

Hands steady, voice controlled, face carefully neutral in the way only Frank Langdon could manage when he was actively trying not to look at you.

Even then, you could feel his eyes on you wherever you moved.

It made your skin feel too tight.

By hour four, you had already done two traumas with him. Your body slipped back into your old rhythm together so naturally it made you feel sick.

By hour eight, your scrubs were starting to cling to you in a way that felt suffocating.

By hour ten, your tension headache had made itself home again.

By hour fourteen, you thought you might scream if you stayed in the same room as him any longer.

The stairwell was empty when you found it.

Quiet in the way hospital spaces rarely were - concrete walls absorbing sound instead of reflecting it. The air was cooler here, industrial and slightly damp, smelling faintly of disinfectant and metal.

You pressed your back against the wall and closed your eyes for half a second.

Just one breath.

Just one moment where you didn’t have to think about him.

Your eyes snapped open when you heard the door open.

Frank stood in front of you, his chest rose and fell slightly faster than usual, like he’d decided to follow you on impulse and was only now catching up with the consequences.

You straightened immediately.

"I just want to talk." He spoke, taking a step toward you slowly like you were a wild animal he didn't want to spook.

"There's nothing to talk about Langdon."

He paused. "You know that's not true Ace."

"Don't call me that."

Your voice came out sharper than you intended.

His expression flickered.

“Please Ace just-"

"I said stop." You cut him off again, stepping back slightly without meaning to. "You don’t get to call me that anymore. Not after-"

You stopped.

The words jammed in your throat.

Because saying it out loud meant making it real in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

"Not after what?" He asked quietly.

Something in your restraint finally cracked, frustration pouring out of you.

"I wrote to you in rehab." You said, voice tightening. "Even after everything, I wrote to you. And you didn't write back."

Pain flashed openly across Frank's face.

"I'm sorry."

You shook your head.

"You kissed me Langdon. And then you disappeared without a word and then you just - just appear without any warning, like nothing happened." Your voice grew louder as you spoke, trembling despite your best efforts.

"I didn't want you to get caught up in any of this."

"That wasn't your call to make." You snapped back. "I can make my own decisions."

"You don't think that I know that?" He answered, his own tone sharpening. "There's more to this then my addiction."

"I know."

Frank's eyes flared in surprise.

You exhaled shakily.

"Robby and Santos have been glaring at you all day. And I saw the way he looked at you last year before you left.” Your jaw clenched. “It doesn't take a genius to figure it out."

Frank watched you for a moment, his surprise morphing into one of disbelief.

"And you're saying what? You wouldn't have exiled me too?”

"No. I would have been there for you, if you'd given me the chance to."

His expression faltered as he shook his head slightly.

"What?" You challenged, taking a step towards him. "You don't believe me?"

"You hate me." He countered.

You stared at him, then let out a breath somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief.

"Jesus Langdon, I don't hate you.” You snapped. “And that's precisely the problem."

A pause.

He took a step closer.

"I didn't plan on kissing you like that."

You swallowed as you looked at him, all your frustration seeping out of you.

"Then why did you?" You murmured.

For a moment he didn't answer.

"Because I don't hate you either."

This time when he looked at you, there was something different. Like he wasn’t looking at you as competition, or a colleague, but something more exposed than either of you had ever allowed before.

"You're all I thought about in rehab."

Your heart stuttered violently.

Frank laughed softly under his breath, humourless.

"You're all I've thought about since med school, really."

"That can't be-"

"It is." He cut in gently. His eyes dropped briefly toward the floor.

“Ever since you sat across from me with your colour coded textbooks and looked at me like you wanted to kill me.” A small smile tugged briefly at his mouth.

Your breath caught.

“That's probably why I was always such a dick to you.” He glanced back up. “Because it was the only time you ever really looked at me."

The stairwell felt too small suddenly. Too warm, too honest, too vulnerable.

"It's always been you Ace.” His voice softened. “I just didn’t know what to do about it.”

You swallowed hard.

"You left." You said quietly.

"I know." He said immediately. No defence. No excuse. Just truth.

“I panicked. I wasn't thinking straight."

A beat.

"And I’ve regretted it every day since."

He took another step towards you.

"The kiss, or you leaving?” You whispered.

His eyes heals yours steadily.

"You know which one."

Now he was close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. Close enough that you could see the small flecks of green scattered through his eyes.

"I don't think I can keep pretending that I don't want you anymore." He admitted.

Silence hung between the two of you.

"Say something." He said quietly. "Please."

The space between you was nothing and everything at once.

"Frank.." You breathed out.

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to pretend anymore either."

Frank swallowed, his eyes flickering down to your mouth.

"I'd really like to kiss you again.”

Whatever restraint you still had left finally broke.

You fisted his scrubs in between your fingers, guiding him down to your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t careful this time.

It wasn’t confused.

It was real in a way that almost hurt.

Like years of wanting each other had finally run out of places to hide.

Frank’s hand came up immediately to cradle your jaw, anchoring you there like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

You pulled him closer against you, one hand threading through his hair. You felt your back hit the wall, a small breath escaping your mouth at the impact.

The stairwell door creaked somewhere nearby.

You both broke apart instantly.

You turned, but there was no one there.

Frank looked back at you, breathing unevenly now, a grin slowly pulling at his mouth.

"You know what I just realised?”

"Oh god.” Your fingers scraped lightly against the back of his neck. “What?”

“I never got to tell you I performed a closed cervical reduction like thirty minutes ago.”

Your eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Completely." His smile grew as he ghosted his thumb over your jaw. "Guess that's two miracles I've performed today."

You snorted despite yourself. "That was terrible, even for you."

"I know." He smirked as he leant forward, his mouth hovering over yours. "You love it though Ace."

Your smile widened helplessly as you rolled your eyes.

"Just shut up and kiss me Langdon."

-

Robby glanced over his glasses to see Abbot making his way towards him, his face slack like he was trying to process something.

“Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?” Robby asked.

“Because I’m traumatised.”

“I think we all are.”

“No.” Abbot shook his head gravely. “Somehow this was worse than anything I’ve seen in here.”

Robby raised a brow as Abbot shuddered.

“I just caught your two protégées making out in the stairwell.”

“Huh.”

Robby glancing down casually at his watch.

“Well I'll give them credit."

Abbot's eyes narrowed. "For what?”

Robby shrugged as he turned back to his screen.

"They lasted longer than I thought they would.”

As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍

[utterlyvanya]

Gold or Silver?

Pairing: Jack Abbot x nurse!reader

Wc: 7k

Description: Alexa, play ‘manchild’ by Sabrina. Or, 3 times Jack notices the incompetency of your new boyfriend and gets annoyed, and 1 time he does something about it. 

Tags/warnings: big age gap (r is in 20's and abbot is 50), "ive got tattoos older than you" gets said, yes he has tats bcos i said so, size diff, mentions of concussion, medical inaccuracies (idk shit), (1) allusion to reader having a choking kink (💀), r has a used to have a massive crush on him, made ellis a lesbian bcos ofc, abbot life's goal is to make fun of r's bf, flirting (so much), bit of yearner!jack & dom!jack vibes, gets dialogue heavy at the end, angsty fights & confessions, suggestive themes, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, i use loads of em dashes (dont even compare me to chatgpt bcos im better), pet names: kid, kiddo, sweetheart

Note: tysm for the love on my first ff, it means the world to me. Writing something longer made me lose all objectivity, and I genuinely cannot tell if it's good or great or whatever. Please give me feedback (PERSONALLY). Again, I tried to keep r neutral but you might see mentions of r having hair.

Enjoy. This is for the ones with a competency kink. And for the ones who def wanted him to call you “kid.” and the ones who love silver foxes (get checked) (ur girl incl)

1

“I told him not to take me here,” you mutter to Jack, who's checking for tenderness in your neck, his thick fingers pressing against the side, while you try not to think of his hands on your neck in a very different context.

“Let him. Something the boy can do right, hm?”

After checking for initial symptoms — making you walk in a straight line, and balancing yourself on a single foot, you're subjugated to the very hands-on physical examination. You're suddenly wondering how other patients remain composed when Dr. Abbot touches them like this.

Well, usually, attending physicians don't do a history check or a physical exam, but this one does. For you. Probably because you're his staff.

Focus. 

You clock into the reality, realizing the dig he made at your “boy.”

“Yeah, she didn't wanna come, I kinda dragged her here. I was like, ‘babe, it may just be a light concussion but you're a nurse, not a doctor’ so, like, thanks, doc. We needed the big guns,” proudly speaks Noah standing against the wall, checking time on his phone for the 5th time since you've been in this room.

Jack's jaw tightens and he shoots him a look so dirty, Noah actually takes a step back.

“Watch it, kid, if it wasn't for nurses, American healthcare would be even fuckin’ worse.”

Abbot looks back at you, and raises an eyebrow as if to say “really? him?”

You should speak up in your boyfriend's defense, something — anything — to wipe that perceptive look on Jack's face, the smugness he isn't trying hard enough to hide. You might as well be in your birthday suit right now, for how bare you feel. How bare you always feel in his presence.

God knows how much you'd actually like to be — no, you have a boyfriend. A perfectly handsome, competent, and a caring one.

Handsome. Not rugged.

Competent. Doubtful.

Caring. Well, caring enough.

“Doctor Abbot…” you begin, voice stripped raw, breath coming uneasy, when his index brushes right over your thrumming pulse.

“Focus on the examination. Tsk, thought we taught you better here. Well, I at least did. Don't you agree, nurse?” 

The air leaves your mouth in a little puff, leaving your throat dry, your lips soon following. You need a glass of —

“Need some water? You've been here a while,” Jack asks, tone becoming gravelly and intimate, eyebrows drawing closer seeing how pale you look.

He immediately turns to Noah — hands leaving your neck — without waiting for a response from you. His voice takes on its normal cadence. “Hey, son, grab her a bottle, would you? Vending machine is at the end of the corridor. Thanks.”

His ‘Thanks’ comes out in a slow drawl that makes you squirm in your seat. 

Your attending has not even fully turned back to you yet, when your partner speaks up, “Uh, bottle of what?”

“A Pinot Noir, perhaps. Which one do you prefer?” His eyes find yours again, brows raising in deep amusement. Is he getting a kick out of humiliating your boyfriend — and by extension, you?

“Uh…” noah looks utterly confused. You feel almost bad for him. Almost. 

“Water, son. Get your girl a bottle.” Noah makes a move to leave, complying immediately to the doctor. Has he ever even listened to you so quickly? God, men are such dicksuckers for each-other.

“A chapstick while you're at it, maybe,” Jack mutters, trying to keep the humour out of his voice. Noah stops in his tracks again, clearly deaf to the sarcasm.

Jack huffs. “Just go.”

You honestly don't understand why he dislikes Noah so much. You've only been dating him for 3 weeks.

Well.

Noah did try to make a “romantic” gesture by coming to pick you up from your shift. Except, he arrived an hour early as a “surprise” and cribbed because you couldn't leave early. And he did just undervalue your job as a nurse. And…of course, an hour ago, he accidentally hit you your head with a football while he was showing attempting a trick.

As Noah leaves, Jack lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't worry, I'll get you a chapstick,” he says, staring shamelessly at your trembling bottom-lip before making a slow way up again.

“Penlight. Incoming.”

You've barely had time to react when a sudden light shone in your eyes. Your face instinctively tries to move back, only to be stopped by a feather-light touch on your jaw. Jack's finger retracts as soon as it comes, leaving you starved for more. More than just the pad of his index.

You hold still for him, letting him sway the torch alternatively between your eyes. When the light is kept back with a soft clink, there are no more distractions as he stands up straight again.

The creases in his scrubs only increase when he folds his arms over his chest.

Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him. Don't objectify him.

Fuck it. Too late for that. 

“So…” the man begins.

“So.” You mutter, your gaze trying to find something interesting on the floor.

“Nick seems like a good guy.”

“Noah.”

“Right. We should thank Nick for bringing you here right on time. Wouldn't wanna lose one of our best nurses.”

You scoff at his words. Your feet are moving in a slow back and forth rhythm, your eyes fixated on them.

“Let's not say things we don't mean for good staff satisfaction scores.”

“If you're trying to insult me by implying I care about that shit, good job. I'm slightly more offended than the time you implied I am too old for karaoke." He's slightly rocking himself back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Didn't imply, actually. I think I was pretty direct.”

A huff of laughter leaves his lips. You don't want huffs or sarcastic laughs. You want his full belly-laugh. His happy laugh that you've only seen Robby drag out of him.

“I don't care about staff satisfaction scores,” he lightly shakes his head for a moment.

“Yes, you just sai —”

“Only care about yours.”

That makes you look up at him again with widened eyes and parted lips. Little shit, off-handedly throwing around words that gives you butterflies.

Dead butterflies, of course, just like your affections on him. Former crush. Yes.

You quickly regain your senses to retort.

“Satisfaction with your services? If so, thank you for checking me for a concussion.” The formality in your words completely betray the flush creeping up your cheeks.

“Of course, what else?” You hate the way he says your last name. The way it rolls off his tongue. The way it reeks of intent, and not casualty.

The sharp noise of metal rings dragging across a rod brings you out of your trance. Nic — Noah emerges from behind the privacy curtain, a bottle of water clutched in his right hand, and a simmering cup of black coffee in left. “Got you choices, babe.”

You smile thankfully at him, perhaps more grateful for the distraction. You extend your hand, your pointer gesturing at the water. You don't feel the same electricity when Noah's fingers brush against yours in the hand-off.

Jack takes a step back. He nods at you. “Rest. Hydrate. You know it.”

"Mhm, no big brain activity, limited screen time, don't avoid if symptoms worsen."

"Impressive. How does a civvie like you know the drill?" he asks, eyes widening in mock-surprise.

"Oh, I'm very smart. Could've easily been a nurse at your hospital," you can't help but smile.

"Shame. I'm sure you would've been terrific."

He nods at your boyfriend next, “Nick.”

“Uh, it's actually Noa —” but Jack's right hand has already caught the edge of the curtain, swiftly pulling it out of his way, and disappearing shortly after. 

“She prefers lattes, by the way.”

2

Bzzzzzzz 

“Doctor Ellis, I didn't know you allowed your staff to bring phones in a trauma bay. I would've brought mine to play some music while we inserted a chest tube inside this man.”

Ellis only grunts, too focused on work at hand.

Your cheeks heat at Doctor Garcia's comment, feeling the loud buzz against your thigh for the nth time today. 

“I'm sorry — ” you had only just begun when Dr. Abbot's voice cut in, deadpan and dry.

“Yolanda, you listen to music?”

“Doesn't everyone?”

“Yeah, well, normal people do. Why?”

Garcia's sharp glare to the attending does nothing to his demeanor. His hands — controlled, precise, and so fucking practiced — don't stop for even a fraction of a second. 

“Not everyone can have eccentric hobbies like nude yoga, Dr. Rabbit.”

Nude yoga? Nude? You force your mind to not conjure up an image of that. Especially not with your attending — who you have used to have a schoolgirl crush on — as the main character. Or, you'll be the one on the operation table instead of observing, breaking out in hives.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Garcia,” you complete.

“Apologise to the man on the table; It's not my life on line. No matter how much I wish whenever I work with you boy scouts.” You always cringe at the bluntness in her tone, but it's worse when directly aimed at you.

“Easy, Garcia,” Jack commanded, tone instantly gaining its authority, pausing a moment to shoot her a look. Yolanda doesn't deter, and two of your most-respected, highly-competent seniors seem to engage in a silent eye-conversation. It ends with a twitch of Garcia's lips as she glances at you, and your attending muttering, “shut it.”

Huh, Strange. 

***

The biohazard bin shuts with a snap, and you rub your clammy hands, trying to get the feel of rubber gloves off them. Trauma bays are always stress-inducing, no matter —

Bzzzzzzzzz.

You're about to kill someone tonight. It's gonna be your boyfriend. And you're gonna enjoy it. And you're gonna go online, talk about it, and watch a number of supportive women tell you, “I support your rights, but also your wrongs. You go, bitch.”

The constant vibration against your thigh, the baby crying in pedes, and looking like a fool in a trauma bay…you heave a sigh. Has the ED always been so bright? It's like the lights are directly in your eyes.

You hate loud. So much.

You un-pocket your phone, letting it unlock before you start typing furiously, your mouth instinctively murmuring everything you're typing. Your feet carry you forward, muscle memory taking you to a quiet corner, where you can peacefully argue. And bang your head against the wall, if you're lucky. But you're not sure if there's a staff discount at The Pitt. And frankly, you're already struggling with rent and groceries.

Look at you being fiscally responsible. 

“Fuck, sorry,” leaves your mouth as soon as you accidentally collide with someone. A single calloused palm settles on your hip, steadying you. 

Your lips part to say something, but no words come out. It seems the entirety of blood in your body has rushed towards your hip to greet Dr. Abbot's hand, before it retracts.

“Been apologising a lot today. Forgot your training or have you rejoined pre-school?” His body moves to your front, effectively blocking the view of rapid-paced staff, and people in wheelchairs and gurneys. 

“Just…one rookie mistake after another.” Your body sags sideways, taking support of the wall. As if on instinct, his posture mirrors yours, his entire side leaning against the wall as well. You deposit your phone back in your pocket.

“For what it's worth, you started out not too long ago. You are, technically, still a rookie,” he speaks. 

In this slow corner, the lights seem dimmer and noise quieter. Your shoulders drop just a bit. You're not sure if it's the location or him. Your bet is on location.

You wonder how you must look to the others, a junior nurse and the person with the most seniority on this floor, tucked away in a hushed hallway. What would they think of you? Certainly not co-workers.

Your lips curl in a tired, soft smile. “Trying to make me feel better again, sir?”

“Trying to tell you trauma surgeons have a permanent stick up their ass. Shen and I have bets on whether she lives in an ice castle or a secluded cave.”

Your smile grows bigger, and his eyes crinkle. “It's not just her. In fact, I admire women with a mean mouth.”

“Only women?”

“Men already are. I can't think of any situations where they'd need to be more mean.”

“I can think of a few,” his voice dips even lower, rocks coated in honey. Your eyes find the fluttering pulse on his throat, and travel up his face, to find his gaze fixated on your lips. He looks up again. Slowly. Not in a rush. 

In this low-lit corner and his head tilted down to adjust to your height, his curls — salt and pepper and presumably soft — brushed his forehead, creating shadows across his face. 

You clear your throat, trying to erase some of the tension. “It's Noah. You met him the other day, if you haven't forgotten."

“Oh, I tried.” 

You click your jaw, “He's a nice guy, sir.”

“Uh-huh. Is he blowing up your phone? What's wrong?” His brows furrow in concern, and you find his worry comforting. You're about to open your mouth to explain —

“Did he forget his Roblox password?”

You slightly shake your head, looking down at his shoes. “You…Dr. Abbot,” you trail off, looking up at him again to see the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes wide as if he's seriously expecting an answer.

“How do you even know what that is? And no, that's not it. He…sprained his ankle, hewasdoingaparkourjump,” you mumble the last part as quickly as you can, cheeks heating and eyes wandering.

Jack pauses, expression caught somewhere between humour and exasperation, “Wow, didn't know your boy was still in middle school. Tell me, were you trying to find a boyfriend or a son?”

You throw your head back, a light groan escaping your mouth. While you rub your eyes, you feel your attending move. After a second, he has a bottle of water in his hand.

You give him a look of gratitude and hold your fingers out. But before passing it to you, he twists off the cap with ease. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy the sight of his biceps straining against his scrub top.

You empty almost half the bottle, throat working the liquid down, flushed under the heavy gaze of the man standing in front of you who is currently shamelessly oggling your neck. He's quick to take the bottle off your hands once you're done.

You mutter a quiet “Thanks.” He holds out his free hand forward. You shoot him a confused look, your fingers come up, hovering centimeters away from his palm.

Does he want you to hold…?

“Your phone, nurse.”

Your eyes blink, realisation creeping with a smudge of cringe, “Oh, that makes more sense. Yeah.” But the embarrassment is quick to vanish when you think about what he said.

“What? No. I feel naked without my phone on me.”

His eyes drop to your chest the moment the word “naked” leaves your mouth. You're not sure you've stopped blushing in the last 2 minutes.

“You're not a teenager.”

“Well, I love my phone like one,” you defensively say, standing up straighter. Your right hand moves towards your pocket to protect your mobile.

Abbot rumbles your last name like a warning, his husky voice settling low in your belly, and your traitorous hand is fishing the phone out without a conscious thought.

Before you can even hand it to him, he slightly bends, prying it out of your fingers.

“Now, I feel like a teenager,” you pout.

He uses her corner of your phone to tap against your nose, “Then don't make me go all authoritative on you again, kid.”

With that, he pockets your phone and walks away. You watch him twist the cap off the bottle again and drink directly from the mouth of it. The mouth you just had your own lips wrapped around.

Kid. 

You need a chair. 

3

“Okay, instead of using this job as an excuse for a sad dating life, how about you guys just admit…y'all got no game,” Mateo knocks back the last sip of his drink, making this very, very bold claim.

“First of all, nobody was talking about dating life. We were talking about sex. Forget dates, when was the last time any of you got laid?” Ellis asks, using her glass to gesture vaguely around the table, a few droplets falling on the wood.

Your shift was hell. Well, everyone's was. Really, every shift is hell, so this one was no different. The only thing was that today, everyone decided to grab a drink. Not in the nearest park, no. Instead, they're all here, the nearest bar that's open at a time when a person should be doing a morning walk, not shots.

You're tucked between Mateo on your left and Jack on your right, in a worn-out brown leather booth, with Shen and Ellis across the table.

“I don't feel comfortable talking about the personal details of my married life with my colleagues,” replied Shen, sadly nodding his head.

Jack's voice, raspy from his whiskey, cuts in, “Oh, shut it, Shen.”

“I'd say 6 weeks since we slept together,” Shen gave up quickly. A series of sympathetic groans and nods went around the table.

Mateo juts his chin towards Ellis, raising his brows. “Hooked up with someone last week. Left before she woke up,” replied the woman.

“Didn't know you were a player, doc,” laughs your fellow nurse, before his head turns to you. “And you? Come on, we're the youngest and hottest, we gotta rub it in their faces. Besides, you have, uh, what's his name...”

You laugh nervously, tracing the rim of your glass with your index. While everyone’s lazy and heavy-lidded all around, you feel Abbot's fervent gaze burning a hole into the side of your head.

“Noah. And hate to disappoint, but it's been some while,” you admit. Not being able to hold back any longer, you finally turn your head to the right. Not taking his eyes off you, your attending takes a long sip of his whiskey.

“How much is a while?”

This is inappropriate. Your attending physician shouldn't be asking you this, you're sure of it. But nobody but you looks alarmed.

“I would say…none of your business, doc,” you softly murmur, the liquid courage making your tongue sharper.

“And what about you Dr. Abbot?” Mateo jumps in again.

It's your turn to look at Jack with the same intense gaze. He doesn't take his eyes off you, “been a while for me too,” he mutters so low, like he's only referring to you.

You lose. You lose the staring contest and let your eyes fall back to your glass. Thank god, you have some of your drink still left. 

“Why, is it…old man stuff?” Mateo asks, and your eyes widen at his question. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your laugh. Ellis's rich chuckle fills the quiet bar. You finally bring your cup to your lips.

“I'm an attending, Mateo. We're always at the very top of our performance. Here to serve well. In or out of trauma bays.”

Your drink goes down the wrong pipe, and you break out into a violent cough. Why would he say it like that? You're pretty sure you look like a tomato.

You feel a strong hand on your back, beginning to rub small circles through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Easy,” Jack whispers into your right ear. 

Is nobody watching this?

You look around to see Shen, Ellis, and Mateo have deeply engrossed themselves in a completely different conversation. You wonder for a second if it's intentional.

His heavy hand stops rubbing, instead patting the small of your back softly and rhythmically. Your coughs start dying down, and you wipe the underside of your watery eyes with your knuckle.

“Have trouble swallowing, kiddo?” His voice is right next to your ear, every breath rustling a tiny bit of your hair. 

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Think I need some air, sir,” you mutter, voice dried. You feel floaty, and it has nothing to do with alcohol.

Jack rises from his seat with a low grunt, “Think we're gonna step outside for a moment,” he announces.

You quickly follow suit and walk out after him before you can see anyone's expressions. You're pretty sure you hear Shen's giggle.

***

You welcome the morning chill that greets your face as soon as you step out, double doors falling shut behind you. You close your eyes, tilting your head upwards, and take a deep breath, easing the night's tension out of your body.

“Hot date yesterday?” You're quickly brought back to reality, turning sideways. Abbot has his hands in pocket and hair ruffled from the wind.

“Oh, uh, yes. How'd you guess?”

“You clocked in yesterday wearing something…different.” His eyes drop to your chest, before lingering on your lips, and then meeting your eyes again.

Your cheeks burn. You didn't realise he saw you in your fancy clothes. It was bad enough that you were running late, and worse that you didn't get to change before clocking in with your date outfit still on.

“Yeah. Noah took me to dinner. I just signed a new lease. I'm moving out of my current dumphole to another dumphole, but it's nearer to work. So.”

“Congratulations, glad to have you close.”

“Thanks, sir.”

A comfortable silence falls over for a minute before he speaks again, “was the place nice and quiet?”

“Hm?”

“Where he took you. Nick.”

“Ah. No. It's kinda trendy right now, so, super loud…” you trail off with a sigh. Jack keeps looking at you, as if wanting you to say more, as if finally expecting you to spill the truth out: Noah doesn't know you.

“Hm. Didn't peg you for a gold person, either.”

“What?”

He gestures with his chin towards your neck, where a sliver of chain is peeking out from under your shirt. A new one, gold colored, gifted by your boyfriend yesterday.

“I'm an anything person, really.”

Jack doesn't say anything, only waits. And this time, it works.

“Well, silver, if I had to pick. I like silver,” you speak, your voice bordering on a whisper.

Jack finally stops looking at you, and with that, you finally breathe. He casts his gaze towards the sky.

“I know.”

He says your name.

Your first name that he rarely says. Your heart stutters. Every bit of fresh air you inhaled seems to leave your lungs all at once. Instead, a family of butterflies — so fucking alive — have swarmed in there, rendering you speechless.

Please say my name again.

“I know, kid.”

“I'm not a kid, Jack.” For a second, you watch his eyes get darker. He takes a step closer to you. Then another. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. Suddenly, he turns his back to you. One of his hands peeks from his side, and tugs at the lower back of his shirt, pushing it down by an inch or two.

You stand confused, until you notice faint black ink — now visible — just below his neck. You suck in a sharp breath.

By the time Jack turns towards you again, you're barely holding yourself up. He leans forward, his nose only inches away from yours.

“I've got tattoos older than you,” he breathes, “kiddo.”

Your knees turn to jelly. A sharp heat travels straight into your belly, increasing the buzz between your legs. Your lips part, teeth sinking into your plush lower lip.

You can only numbly turn your body towards the door as he holds it open for you. There's not a hint of teasing or smugness in his expression. There is something else, though. 

Desperation.

You walk in through the gate, mind already trying to think of a reason to break up with Noah. Unfortunately, or fortunately, it finds plenty.

+1

“Oh, honey, just take this right now. The doctor has told your mom the rest. You're gonna be just fine!” You give your brightest smile to the 6 year-old girl, looking all sad and tiny on the gurney.

You stand up straight again, your back protesting. For someone still “young”, you definitely have an old-person back.

The mom gives you a thankful smile that still doesn't hide her tiredness, “Thank you so much.”

“She's gonna be alright, mom.” You flash one last smile and turn to pull the privacy curtain. When you step out, you see Lena, your charge nurse, and Jack in a conversation at the charge nurse station.

Lena calls out to you, “All done in there, hun?” You nod and give a thumbs-up. You expect your attending to say something, a joke, or even glance at you, but he doesn't.

Your heart sinks. After the morning at the bar, you went home and planned how to break-up with your boyfriend. On the other hand, Jack apparently went home and came up with, “10 ways on how I will ignore my co-worker who I occasionally flirt with on purpose.” 

For the past week, there have been no lingering looks, no cornering you to check in, and no making fun of you.

No point in dwelling. You start going on about your usual business, entering through another curtain, all while the back of your mind still calculates how to leave Noah.

You had prepared your speech and your reasons. But then, Noah lost his job the same day you were planning to have the talk. And 2 days later, he was leaving to visit his parents in California. Shouldn't you just wait until after the trip? It will be so much easier. 

Yes, you're definitely delaying it because it makes sense, and not because you're scared that Noah will absolutely take it the wrong way. He's been miserable lately as is, and while you were trying to be sympathetic, you couldn't find it in yourself.

Noah had always been unobservant and insensitive to your needs, not doing anything till he's told. All while, he expected it all from you — emotional support, moral support, and now, financial support. You saw nothing wrong with being “needy” but didn't you deserve the same treatment from him?

As you leave another exam room, still conflicted, you see Lena waving you over, the telephone receiver pressed against her ear. You quickly walk over.

Lena brings down the handset, palming the mouthpiece so the other person can't hear. “Sweets, it's your boyfriend, he's all panicking over something. Do you wanna take this, or should I make an excuse?”

The color from your face drains. This is humiliating, Noah calling at your work because he can't take care of himself. You quickly un-pocket your phone, tapping the screen awake.

9 missed calls from Noah.

“Uh, I'll take it. Thank you, Lena. Sorry too.” She gives you a sympathetic smile and hands you the handset.

“Noah, you can't be calling me at work.” You whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Babe, did you think I wanted to? I called your phone like 3 times, but you didn't pick it up. It feels like you're ignoring me.”

“It's because I am ignoring you. I am at a fucking hospital, working the emergency department,” your voice is straining with the effort to keep it low.

“Oh, I knew you'd throw your job in my face because I'm unemployed. You're a nurse, not a doctor, babe. See, I remember things.”

You take a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of my house. The locksmith will come by in the morning. Can you swing by and drop your keys? You know, I lost my license recently, and my ankle is still not good enough to take the subway.”

“No.”

“Jesus, I'm stranded, just be a good girlfriend for once.”

That sends you over the edge. You put the telephone down with more than necessary force, cringing when a few people turn to look at you.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, tears of frustration welling up in your eyes.

“You okay, kid?” Lena asks sweetly, coming to stand closer to you. You're only able to nod at her. If you open your mouth, your voice will break. When your charge nurse finally steps away, you clear your throat, and blink back your tears. 

When you look up with clear eyes, there's Dr. Abbot standing about 20 feet away from you, in a conversation with a nurse that he's not listening to. Because he's looking directly at you.

You quickly move your head, “Lena, mind if I take 5?”

“Take 10, hun.” You flash her a grateful smile and start walking towards the supply closet.

You twist the doorknob and walk into what must be a 6×6 feet room, and close the door behind you. Your phone is still in your hand, clutched tightly enough to be used as a weapon. You open Noah's chat.

This isn't working out. When the locksmith figures out your door, pack my things in a box and leave them outside my door. Have fun folding your own bedsheets. I'm changing my Netflix password!

Your thumb hovers over the send button. Is the message too unkind? Too cruel for you? You drop the phone in your pocket, with the text still sitting there.

You force yourself to take deep breaths, pressing the heel of your hands against your eyes, turning around to face the organized racks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuc —”

The door slams open, and then shuts behind you, making you jump around, your hands falling to your chest.

“Jesus, Jack.”

“Did you forget your manners?” His voice comes out stern, low enough to drop the temperature of the room.

Your hands fall to your side. You're not in the mood for this. You don't want him in here, no matter how quickly your body is gaining color in his presence.

“What do you want, sir?” your question comes out breathless.

“You know, we pay you to work, not to hide in supply closets when you have fights with your childish boyfriend.”

“I asked Lena first, and I should be out in 5.”

“A patient can need you in 1,” he deadpans.

“Good thing there's Mateo and a bunch of fucking nurses already out there! I'm not the only one, sir,” you frantically wave your hands around, voice rising in pitch.

“Yeah, you're the only one yelling at your attending,” he leans back against the door, looking like he's enjoying a goddamn show. His calm pisses you off even more.

In your frazzled state, the true words spill out before you can filter them.

“Yes, my attending who has spent the last couple of days icing me out, keeping his distance, like I broke into his house and stole his leg.”

He's eyeing your motioning hands cutting through the air. You must look like the crazy one, while he stands there all frickin’ composed, his lips twitching.

“That's dark. And I'm your attending, nurse, as you mentioned. I'm not your boyfriend,” he shakes his head slowly like he's talking to a dog.

“I know that. Do you?”

“Oh, I know I'm not Nick,” he snickers.

“FOR THE LAST —” your voice booms throughout the small room before you stop yourself. You pinch your nose, chest heaving up and down.

Deep breaths. In and out. You're not the only two people in the hospital, no matter how much it feels like that.

Nurse, there's people that are dying.

“For the last time, his name is Noah,” you calmly say, voice shaking with the effort of controlling your pitch.

“Right, sorry. I just forgot because he forgot to fill his name out on your discharge papers when he brought you in. It's okay, children make mistakes like that all the time. Even when the forms are very easy to navigate, and the font size is very large,” Jack mocks, laughing sardonically. 

“Why do you care so much?” 

“Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I care about all my staff.”

Sweetheart.

“You're killing me.” 

“Trauma bay 1 is empty,” he deadpans, shrugging his shoulders. 

A humorless laugh escapes you. Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

“Staff. Is that what I am? Then why do you look at me differently than you look at others? Why do you catch me in the hallways? Why are you always seeking me out? Why have you not walked out of this —”

You flinch at the sudden motion, hand moving towards your temple where something just knocked against it. You look down, where a box maybe twice the size of your hand, lies on the ground.

The rack behind you is still vibrating from when your right arm collided with it 2 seconds ago. You shouldn't have been waving your arms around so much.

“Ow,” you mutter, the heel of your impacted hand rubbing your temple, and eyes downcasted at the box, looking at it like it personally wronged you. Which it did.

Jack quickly moves towards you, his left hand shooting up to take hold of your fingers that are kneading your head — same fingers that smashed against the rack — and brings your conjoined hands down.

“Careful. Are you hurt?” With only inches between you, he bends his head down to examine where you took the hit. His free palm brushes your hair back gently, and you shiver at the touch of his warm skin.

Trapped between your torsos, your hands are still joined, his thumb stroking against your knuckles to soothe any pain you felt on the impact.

“I asked you something, kid.” 

You've lost your voice. You look from your connected fingers to his eyes. 

And, oh.

His eyes have softened, looking at you with concern. This man sees lacerations, head traumas, hematomas, and fractures every single day. You've never seen him look this worried, and all for a pathetic clash that didn't even leave a bruise behind.

He switches positions with you, and suddenly, his back faces the shaky rack, his form protectively towering over yours. All of your body protests when he moves back, his hands dropping to his own sides.

“You can continue yelling at me now.”

In and out. Deep breath.

“Why have you not walked out of this room yet? And why have you kept me at an arm's distance?” you say but your voice is anything but loud, it's small and quiet, breaking at the end.

“As I said —”

“Stop, stop, stop. Stop, Dr. Abbot, and don't lie to me.” You instinctively take a step forward, closing all the distance again.

A pause.

“I really thought you were gonna break up with him. That morning, I thought you finally regained your senses, and were gonna cut off the dead weight,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

“Jac —”

“Shut up and let me speak. I thought you were gonna end it with him, and you would come to the next shift looking happy and bright again. Just like you used to before you let that boy date you. You.”

His eyes are boring into yours, and he looks breathless and affected, so opposite to how he was just a minute ago.

“Me? What about me?”

He laughs humourlessly, “let's not fish for compliments. You know what you are. And if you don't, it makes me wonder what kind of limpdicks you have been with.”

You suck in a sharp breath, at a loss of words. Your cheeks burn, and your heart does a backflip. 

He thinks that?

Jack turns around, so his back is facing you. Both his hands brush his hair back, and you can see the expansion and contraction of his back as he takes deep breaths.

“What if I had broken up? Nothing would've changed. It's not like you would've done anything. You would've continued to eye-fuck me across gurneys, and flash a smile once a day,” you speak up, voice rising in pitch again.

He turns back sharply, walking even closer to you, his chest colliding with yours.

“Oh, you know it's more complicated than that,” he retorts, eyes narrowing.

“What? You're my senior, you're older —”

He says your name. Low. Authoritative. You feel a traitorous sensation between your thighs.

“I'm not just older, I am old. Period. And I know just how old I am, because I feel it everyday when I strap my leg, and wake up with a new pain every day."

You don't know how to respond. Your gaze falls to his lips, and before you know what you're doing, you're withdrawing your phone from your pocket.

You take a tiny step back to make space, and tap your screen awake. It directly opens to Noah's chat, your message still sitting there in the type box.

You turn your screen towards Jack. His eyes move back and forth, reading your draft. When his eyes meet you again, they're intense, frantic, and what do you know…excited.

“Why haven't you sent it?”

“Because he's already going through a lot. He doesn't have a job, or a car, or…okay, I get it.”

Jack's fingers come up to grab your chin, holding it up. He looks like he's just had a shot of espresso and topped it off with another 3.

“Do it. Do it right now, in front of me, or you'll chicken out. He lost his job, his car, the next thing he loses is you. The one that's worth the most.”

With his breathless voice, taking the edge of desperation as every second ticks, you know you've lost. You bite your bottom lip.

His thumb moves from your chin, to your lower lip, freeing it from your teeth, “don't worry yourself over him.”

Deep breath. In and out.

You slowly look down at your screen, your thumb hovering over the little arrow. 

Send. 

You put the mobile back in your pocket and look up at Jack with hope, like a kid waiting for approval. Jack flashes you the biggest smile you've ever seen on him. 

You did that. You.

“You did so good, sweetheart,” his thumb strokes your cheekbone, and you can't help but lean into his palm. You're high watching him smile, a similar one takes form on your lips.

He's so beautiful. He's the most beautiful man you've ever seen. He should be on TV, winning Emmy's for his grin.

But then you falter, “My…my minutes are up.”

“You can take another 5,” his face leans closer, and the tip of your nose kisses his.

“Patient might need me in 1,” you helplessly whisper, your breaths mingling.

“Well, consider me a patient, then. Your patient.”

You gulp. Your knees are growing weaker by the second and you can't stop staring at his soft lips. You let out a little pathetic whimper before lifting your chin, brushing your lips against his softly.

Fuck.

Your heart tries to escape your ribcage, palm operating with a brain of its own and landing right over his heart. His fluttering, excited, nervous heartbeat greets you, and your lips curve upwards.

Just as you try to move your lips against his —

“Not like this,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You let out an entirely pathetic whine, forehead crashing against his neck with a soft thunk. Your affectionate graze on his sternum turns into a punch — also, pathetic — and it makes him chuckle. 

“How, then?” your mutter into his neck.

His arm comes around your waist, holding you up for him so you can let your weight go. His arm tightens as soon as he feels you melt. 

“When I'll get you all the silver jewelry in the world,” he breathily replies in your ear.

“That's a lot.”

“What can I say? I like paying for things.”

His free fingers travel to the back of your neck, deftly working the hook of your golden chain with a single hand. You catch as the necklace falls down your chest, reluctantly taking your face out from his neck.

Note to self: Ask him what perfume he uses later. 

“One hand, wow.” 

“A lot of things I can unhook with one hand.”

He captures your wrist that you've held against his chest — index hatefully scratching, trying to harm him for not kissing you — and brings it to his lips.

He doesn't break eye-contact when he kisses the inside of your wrist. Then the middle of your palms, and finally the tips of your fingers.

You're grateful for his arm around your middle, otherwise you'd be on the floor, shrieking and screaming.

“Don't want to see that on you again,” he points with his chin towards your fist with the necklace inside it.

“Yes, doctor.”

He nods, heat swimming in his gaze. He finally extracts his arm from around your midriff, using it to pull out your phone from your pants and swiftly slipping it in his. 

“No more worrying, hm? In return…” He empties his other pocket, taking out a set of keys. He brings your palm down from his face and puts them in it.

“Sit in my car at the end of the shift. You know which one. Turn the heating on, and wait for me,” he raises his eyebrows, awaiting confirmation.

“Yes, okay,” you gulp, closing your other fist as well. One holds your past, another, your future. Or, so you hope.

“Yes, what?” he asks, already side-stepping you and moving towards the door.

“Yes, doctor”

“Good girl,” he shoots you a wink, the door falling shut behind him.

Look at that, your 10 minutes are up.

I enjoyed writing this sm, and i hope you lovely people do too. again, feel free to glaze me in asks, comments, and dms. likes and reblogs appreciated much <3 i also need to know if yall blushed reading this, if yes, WHEN

[amnatreal]

Near The Knuckle (Masterlist)

(Brendon Park x Reader) (ONGOING)

The man in the boxing class is the same Park. Key differences, ones you're not ashamed to say caught your breath at first sight, were the soft frizzy waves of his hair, the gentle lift of his brows while listening to Magnus, and that one specific heel bounce right before the class started.  You don't think he's been new to anything in years by the look in his eyes. His gaze swept over your face, then scanned over it again, blinked then nodded, "Brendon Park." Right as your mouth was about to let out the words I know, you realized he doesn't. He couldn't recognize you.

Part 1

Part 2 (Coming soon!)

an: Here's a list to help navigation. This series will be more chronological than my other works, as in it can't be read as one-shots. Content warning will be added into each chapter. Please comment or send me an ask to be added to the taglist. Happy reading! xoxo

[snoopysupe]

⭑.ᐟ Park the Shark’s To Do List

please help select the order of pilates princess!reader’s agenda for park to get her number back—he’s willing to do anything! send the number from the to do list and the most popular ones will be written. (5 days of things to do).

1. pilates class @ 7am — tomorrow!!

2. build-a-bouquet @ 2pm

3. charm bracelet making workshop @ 3pm

4. pottery! @ 6pm

5. watch the sunrise @ ???

6. friendship bracelet and love island night @ 8pm

7. herb garden creation @ 9am

8. farmers market @ 11am

this is purely just for funsies cause i thoroughly enjoy writing the grumpy x sunshine dynamic. divider credit: @sssilverblessings

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

Obsessed

[abbotsnurse]

shawn in red

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

Are we kidding

[langdonfogtea]

We Sat In The Back

part: i. ii.

pairing: brendon park x fem!reader

summary: It began in a lecture hall—in the back row of a Bioethics lecture, where you both learned about each other in silence. It began with understanding, then solidarity, and finally love. (Part 2)

w.c: 7.3k

warnings: college au, light angst, SLOW BURN, fluff, cute, emery walsh makes an appearance!!!, very brief hint of dyslexic!brendon, BEFORE PARK THE SHARK, grammatical errors, some college inaccuracies, very early 2000ish vibes, no physical descriptions of reader

a/n: i lied IM A BAJILLION DAYS LATE! Anyways, hope you guys think this is cute! I had to pause and take a breath bc of how I off track I was getting while writing this chapter multiple times. Also: reblogs, likes, comments, asks are appreciated!

The entire week after that moment, it was awkward between you two. The routine hadn’t changed. You still sat in the same back row in the same seat. He would sit next to you next two classes the same week after that Monday. But it was still awkward. The tension hadn’t disappeared.

But today. He was late.

You glanced at the clock and it was 8:58am—class starts at 9am on the dot. Brendon always arrived at 8:50am. He’s never been late by almost 10 minutes. Not once in the last three weeks.

Where was he? Was he sick? Did he have to miss—

And right when the clock tower striked right at nine, he slipped into the lecture room as soon as the professor sat down her things. He turned his head and his eyes swept across the room to his seat next to you.

And then he made his way up the stairs but sat in an empty seat on the middle.

Nowhere near the back row. Nowhere near you.

He didn’t look back at you and he didn’t even do his usual greeting: his nod. He sat there in his seat and just kept his eyes forward. His notebook wasn’t open like he normally had it.

You stared at the back of his head. The audacity. Was he avoiding you?

You wondered if you were imagining things. That the reason for his lateness was because of practice taking longer than usual. But that didn’t explain why he didn’t look you, didn’t give you with the same greeting he always gave you since you’ve met him.

Your grip tightened around your pen. For a strange reason, you felt irritated by that. Not because your feelings were hurt. It was because he was acting like he was the only one embarrassed by what happened. As if he hadn’t spent the past weeks observing you only to point out your worst habit.

As if he didn’t hesitate too. As if he hadn’t spent days hunched over a textbook, learning and trying to understand the material because he had something to prove. As if the notes written on the margins of his textbook didn’t prove the same insecurities that he exposed about you.

He hesitated every time the professor called on him to answer a question, made himself appear smaller than what he was despite having spent the previous night reading the chapter until the backs of his eyes burnt. Because he didn’t want to be wrong in front of students. To give them a reason to believe he didn’t belong.

So yes, you were irritated by this—by his audacity.

You looked at the empty seat beside him. Then at the student next to you. Then back at him again. Then at the professor who was taking some pages out of her briefcase, organizing them.

A reasonable person would just stay in there seat, wait until the end of class to interact with him. But right now, you didn’t feel like being a reasonable person.

Before you could talk yourself out of it and to really think about it, you gathered your things and you stood. Immediately, doubt crept in. Maybe this was a terrible idea. Were people staring at you?

Maybe you should just sit back down. You still have time. You could save yourself from some embarrassment.

Instead, you walked down the stairs with your things in your hands until you made it to his row. You squeezed through the students, muttering quiet and polite apologies until you stood directly next to him. Brendon noticed and you watched the way his body stiffened. The way his eyes had widened for a fraction of a second. As if he didn’t expect you to come down and meet him halfway.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you slid into the empty seat beside him and opened your notebook after setting your bag down.

Brendon stayed motionless and rigid. He kept his gaze forward, straight to the professor. As if keeping still would make this better.

Then after a moment, you spoke.

“You know,”

Through the corner of his eyes, Brendon’s jaw clenched. “What?”

“You hesitate too.”

It’s silent again. Save for the sound of chalk hitting the board as the professor began her lecture about the ethics of animal research.

Then slowly, the tips of his ears began to turn pink. Again.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and finally opened his notebook.

You noticed it. Of course you did. But you didn’t say anything. You looked back down at the blank page of your notes and smiled faintly to yourself. For the rest of class, neither of you spoke and kept your attentions to the professor and the chalk board.

Or you both at least pretended to.

The professor continued her lecture on the ethics of animal research, chalk tapping rhythmically against the board as she wrote definitions and arguments. Neither of you looked at each other again. But both also didn’t pull away from each other.

Just sat next to each other like diligent students despite having your minds flood with thoughts and feelings about this interaction. About one another.

Then, as time passed—

The clock tower outside of the building chimed loudly. It was eleven o’clock. The end of class.

Your professor paused her writing and sighed, having looked almost disappointed to stop her rhythm. She set the tiny piece of chalk down and dusted her hands together.

“And remember everyone,” She announced as students immediately reached for their things. “Next week is your first official exam on the chapters we’ve covered, so make sure you study. It’s 60% of your grade!”

A collective amount of students groaned out loud.

“See you next week!” The professor dismissed.

The moment the professor gave everyone the dismissal, students gathered their bags. Rows emptied quickly and some students turned to each other naturally. Discussions of making plans didn’t go unheard to both of you.

But Brendon didn’t move. He sat in his chair, stiff and painfully awkward. You didn’t move either. You just slowly closed your notebook shut and clicked the end of your pen.

Exam day was in four days. It was enough time to study. It was enough time to panic.

Your eyes drifted across the lecture hall and observed your peers. Some of them had already created their own groups, made friends. Plans were being made between them.

Unlike you. Unlike Brendon.

You could hear them talking, discussing when they should all meet at the library. Or at the coffee shop across campus. The nearest bookstore. That new trendy cafe, you’d been wanting to go to.

They were little plans. Insignificant ones that was purely academic. Small things. But somehow felt big—important. Locations just to study, to lean on each other and suffer together from the woes of an upcoming exam.

Something that you haven’t gotten a chance to experience yet. You didn’t know anyone. You only knew Brendon but you couldn’t exactly call him your friend. Yet.

Then you spoke before you could overthink it.

“…do you want to study?” Swallowing, you turn to look at him. You gripped the pen you had been holding tightly awaiting his response that you’re sure would be a rejection.

Brendon snapped his head at you. And for a second— he looked startled. Like he hadn’t expected your offer at all. Like he spent all of class preparing for distance and not once considered you’d invite him to study with you.

Not after last week. Not after accidentally exposing one of your major insecurities. And not after he purposefully tried to avoid you today.

“Study?” He repeated.

You nodded. “For the exam..”

You slowly looked down at your notebook, thumbing the raised corner. Then quietly before you could stop yourself and shut your mouth—

“I know you’re smart.”

His eyebrows shifted slightly. You decided that you should continue what you were saying before you lost your nerve.

“And your notes really seem like… you’d be good at explaining things.”

That made something in his expression shift slightly. His eyes had widen and his lips parted. It wasn’t quite surprise. Nor was it disbelief. Just something in between.

Like nobody had ever told him something like that before. Or maybe they had.

And maybe he just didn’t believe them.

Suddenly, you felt embarrassed. Because maybe you shouldn’t have said that. Maybe that was too forward. Just a weird thing to say to someone that wasn’t your friend. And by his silence, maybe you REALLY shouldn’t have said anything.

You’ll just suffer studying alone—

“Uh, nevermind. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s cool—“

Immediately, he lifted his head. “No!”

His response was fast. Too fast for his own liking. Loud too. Like he was desperate. Did he sound desperate— His ears immediately turned pink and so he clenched his jaw. Because why was he suddenly feeling warm at the worst possible time?

Then much more quieter—

“I mean—“ he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “…yeah.”

He paused and his eyes shifted elsewhere down to the black and white pattern of his composition notebook. Then back to you.

“Okay.”

Your eyes widened and then your face broke into happiness. Then his stomach did something strange—it felt strange as observed the smile on your face. It was wide but soft. Like you were genuinely happy by his response.

“We can figure out a day and time when you’re free?”

Brendon stared at your smile longer than he should, wanted. Then he looked away. “…Today?”

You blinked. “What?”

His fingers played with the straps of his duffel bag. “I have practice until six today.”

He looked at you again. “No classes after if you wanna…”

Your eyes widened in understanding. You nodded quickly. “Oh! Okay.. six forty-five at the library then?”

He nodded.

You both packed your things. Your stuff in your bag. His in his duffel bag. He just shoved it in like he couldn’t be bothered to do it neatly. You stood up first and Brendon followed but moved aside automatically for you. Like he always did. Letting you get out first before he him.

You walked toward the aisle but there was still something you wanted to discuss. The one thing that bothered you the most today. So you turned around and you hesitated because Brendon was looking at you. Looking down at you specifically, waiting patiently.

“Can we also—“

The words practically died on the tip of your tongue. His eyes. You noticed his eyes. They were blue. They were clear and really pre—

You averted your gaze. Why did you notice that? You shouldn’t have noticed that. Those thoughts shouldn’t have been in your brain at all! You exhaled and you muttered.

You almost didn’t say it.

“Can we go back to sitting in the back row?”

Silence.

Then a soft exhale that resembled almost a laugh. You looked up and Brendon’s mouth had twitched up. Barely. Like he was trying his hardest not to smile. But it definitely was one.

“Yeah,” He said. “We can do that.”

Despite the fact that your last interaction with happened for less than five minutes, Brendon found himself thinking about it for the rest of the day.

It was ridiculous. Nothing had happened. You asked him to study and he agreed.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead he found himself replaying the conversation during the rest of his classes. Then during practice.. During drills. While walking back to the locker room. While showering.

He didn’t understand why. Was it because you wanted to spend time with him outside of class?

The thought made him uncomfortable. His stomach twisted in a way he didn’t know how to explain. He just knew it was uncomfortable.

That was somehow worse. Because it was nothing. It meant nothing.

You invited him to study because neither of you had a group. You sat next to each other every lecture. And at this point, you were both acquaintances. Studying together was practical. Logical and normal. Two students that weren’t trying to fail their first exam together. That’s it.

The explanation should have satisfied him. But it didn’t. Because why did he remember the way your eyes lit up just from him giving you a simple yes?

You were his classmate.

He scowled at the floor of the locker room as he shoved his shirt on.

The locker room was never quiet. It was loud in the way that athletes are. Showering, laughing, metal lockers slamming shut, and unnecessary animal noises. Brendon continued on with his routine that he always did after practice. Helmet in locker, his cleats aligned on the base of the locker. Around him, the team were laughing and enjoying their moment with each other.

Something he rarely participated in because he’d leave immediately after practiced to go study. Because football proved to be much easier than being a student. And football made much more sense than the Kreb cycle.

Being a college student meant that learning and studying never stopped. There was always another chapter. Another lecture. Another set of notes he had to create.

Another concept he thought he had understood until he looked at it again on a quiz and realized he actually didn’t. That he wasted hours retaining nothing.

So everytime his teammates invited him to their random excursions, he rejected them. He slowly realized that he was probably the one player who spent the most time studying.

And it was enough for them to never let him forget.

“Jesus Christ, Park.” Kevin, wide receiver groaned. “You fuckin’ nerd!”

Dylan, a line backer, threw a towel at his face with a disappointed face that became common every single time he spoke to Brendon. Inviting him and getting rejected immediately after had become a routine at this point.

“You know the NFL doesn’t give a shit if you get straight A’s, right?”

“Seriously,” Kevin added around a mouthful of a protein bar. “C’s get degrees, dude. I’m on track to graduating, trust.”

Brendon scowled with his back turned to them and hung his jersey inside his locker. Realistically speaking, they weren’t entirely wrong. The NFL would probably take him if he had a 1.5 GPA. They didn’t care as long as he continued being a good player.

But he cared. For himself. For his parents.

And regardless how he felt about school, he still wanted to try. Because if he didn’t, he didn’t know or trust what it would mean for him. Or worse—what it would say about him.

So he studied. He trained hard. He said no to parties. He turned down invitations. Missed out on the things people would later call the best years of their lives.

And every single time that he felt the isolation in his quiet dorm, he told himself the same thing over and over again.

It’s discipline. Not loneliness.

He checked his watch. It’s six twenty-five. Almost time for him to meet you at the library.

“I got to go. I’m meetin’ someone.” The words are out of his mouth before even thought about them. Kevin and Dylan shared a look.

“Someone?” Kevin repeated.

“Bro,” Dylan laughed. “Who the hell is someone?”

Brendon paused and he turned to look at them.

“A classmate.”

“A classmate,” Kevin echoed suspiciously.

Brendon’s jaw clenched. “Yes, a classmate and we are just studying.”

Six twenty-eight. Brendon pursed his lips, impatiently.

“We?” Dylan asked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Yes, we.”

They all stood there collectively for a brief moment of silence. Something inside Brendon regretted even saying anything, for mentioning his plans for the first time since he met them.

“Is it a girl?” Kevin asked, leaning against the lockers.

“I’m not doing this.” Brendon glared.

“It’s definitely a girl.” Dylan nodded.

“I’m not having this conversation with you idiots.”

Dylan and Kevin are staring at him, observing him with knowing smiles. Of all his teammates, they were the only ones Brendon could really tolerate outside of practice. They had spent enough time with him to realize that this was entirely uncharacteristic of him.

And this was different. Brendon Park didn’t make plans with people. He also didn’t rush out of conversations.

He also certainly never checked his watch every thirty seconds.

“Is she pretty?”

“I’m leaving.”

Immediately, Brendon grabbed his duffel bag. He definitely wasn’t having that conversation with these two. Were you pretty? Of co— No! No, he wasn’t answering that.

“That’s not a no!” Kevin called out as he rushed out of the locker room.

“Yeah,” Dylan yelled. “And for ask her number, man!”

It doesn’t take long before Brendon is out of the door. Before he nearly slams it shut when he catches glimpses of the chatter between his teammates.

“Bro,”

There’s a pause.

“I think Park’s got a crush.”

The chorus of laughter that followed made Brendon walk away a little faster.

The coffee shop sat just across from the library. Normally, Brendon would’ve walked right past by it. But right now, he found himself standing in line behind a couple of students while staring at the menu behind the baristas. His eyebrows slowly furrowed as he read every single option.

There’s entirely too many to choose from. Different styles of coffee that he was completely unfamiliar with. Even tea.

Lattes. Cappuccinos. Frappuccinos. Macchiatos. Mocha. Americano. Espresso. Earl grey. Chai. The menu felt endless with all these different options. Some of them were vaguely familiar. Maybe because a good amount of students seemed to be ordering the same ones.

His gaze drifted further down. Flavored coffee options. Hazelnut. Vanilla. Caramel. Sugar-free. Coffee should not be this complicated.

He wasn’t much of a coffee drinker. Most mornings he survived off of preworkout and occasionally the stale coffee from the athletic department left out for players. When he did drink coffee, he took it with a dash of milk.

Lately, he’d been mixing protein powder into it. It tasted terrible though. But it was efficient. An easy way to hit his protein goal.

He exhaled through his nose sharply, sighing. He didn’t even know why he was bothering with this.

You invited him to study. Buying you a drink seemed to be the polite thing to do. That was it.

At least, that was what he was telling himself. The issue was that he didn’t know you enough to know what you’d like. Did you even drink coffee?

Maybe you preferred tea. Maybe you hated coffee. Maybe you were the type of person who liked your coffee with enough sugar that it’d pass off as dessert.

He had no clue. That realization was strangely frustrating. Because despite having sat next to you for a few weeks, despite noticing your habits and picking up on the new ones every week, despite knowing exactly what your handwriting looked like—

He didn’t know if you even liked coffee.

“Next.”

Brendon blinked. The barista looked at him expectantly. He immediately realized that everyone behind him in line was waiting. Waiting for him to order.

Right. His order. Your coffee. The whole entire reason he was even here. His eyes darted to the many options on the menu.

Hazelnut sounded safe. Vanilla too. What if you were allergic to hazelnut?

Maybe both mixed together. Was that even a thing? Could he even order that? He didn’t know.

“Uh…”

The barista smiled at him politely and waited patiently, staring at him. They’re probably annoyed. He’s stalling and making the line bigger, making their job even harder—

“I’ll take a vanilla latte– medium.”

The barista nodded. “Anything else?”

He hesitated and briefly scanned the menu again.

“…A medium hazelnut latte too.” Brendon paused. “Please. For ‘Brendon’ is fine.”

The words are out of his mouth before he could stop them. The cashier smiled and wrote down his name on two cups.

Immediately, he regretted everything.

Right on the dot of seven, he finds you inside of the library near the entrance. You were already there waiting. Unsurprisingly. He slowed down his stride slightly as he approached you, the coffees shifted in his hands. He called out your name behind you and you turned around with a confused look before your face softened into a smile upon realizing it was him.

That did something annoying his chest. He lifted both coffees towards you like he was presenting evidence of a case.

“Here uh…” Brendon started. “These are for you.”

You stared at the two cups in his hands. Two different flavors. Vanilla and hazelnut.

“…Why are there two?”

Brendon coughed awkwardly and his ears started turning pink immediately.

“For you?” He said.

“For me? Both of them?” You laughed. “Brendon, what?”

He sighed. “There were too many options.”

That somehow explained absolutely nothing. You blinked at him confused.

He shifted awkwardly and he let out another sigh. This time much more quieter.

“I didn’t know what you’d like.”

You raised your eyebrows. “So you bought me two?”

“It seemed easier.” He said.

“You know,” You laughed. “You could’ve just asked.”

He stood there silently for a second before his eyebrows furrowed. “No, I couldn’t.”

You blinked. “Why not?”

“I don’t have your number to ask.”

Your eyes widened. Then for a second, neither of you spoke. Brendon seemed to register what he said so he turned his gaze to look to the side. Heat crept up to your cheeks before you could stop it. Before you could prevent the one thought that followed either.

He’s cute. Like really, really cute. Stupidly cute.

You then pressed your lips together to stop yourself from smiling.

“Most people would’ve just asked me in class.” You pointed out.

He paused. Then, to your horror, he looked genuinely upset. With himself. “Oh…”

“Yeah, oh.” You teased. That almost earned you a scowl before he stopped himself, just pursing his lips. A pout. He was pouting!

“I didn’t think of that, okay.” He sighed. His shoulders dropped like he was sulking.

“So you bought me two coffees?” You tilted your head, grinning.

He glared at you. “I was trying to be considerate.”

“You do know you sound kind of ridiculous right now, right?”

“Well, I didn’t know whether or not you liked vanilla.”

“Brendon.” You tried, giggling at this plain adorable awkwardness he exuded.

“Or hazelnut.”

“Brendon.”

“What if you were allergic?”

That especially made you laugh harder. For some reason, despite being the butt of the joke and for his own ridiculousness, he found himself softly smiling at you.

“Fine, I’ll take both. But—“ You paused, looking at him. You lift a cup to him, the hazelnut one. “You gotta try them with me.”

He looked at you quizzically. “…what?”

“Or is Brendon Park is scared of a little cooties?” You teased. “Aren’t you the big, bad quarterback?”

That made Brendon’s expression shift immediately. Not angry. Like his brain stopped working momentarily because you wanted to share a drink with him. It felt strangely intimate sharing the same cup.

“I’m not scared of cooties.” He scowled.

You slightly lean towards him with a smirk. “Prove it.”

He looked at you silently. He should decline. He shouldn’t feed into whatever this was. Those were precisely for you. But the childish side of him that you somehow were able to you poke, refused to backdown. Especially not over something as ridiculous as cooties.

Instead, he grabbed the cup from your hand. His fingers brushed against yours for one single second. He didn’t think about it.

“…This is ridiculous.” He muttered under his breath. He even brings it up to his mouth before taking a sip. It’s sweet and milky with a hint of a nutty flavor. It’s not terrible. It’s frankly good. It beats the athletic department’s coffee for sure. Then he hands it back to you.

“Satisfied?”

You hummed softly. “Very satisfied actually.”

After that, both of you found yourselves in an empty study room. It was smaller compared to the other rooms available. The space was enough just for two to three people. One table with three chairs.

He ended up choosing the chair across from you. You opened your textbook first along with your notebook. He followed closely behind, just a little slower and more unsure of himself.

During the first thirty minutes you both tried to study, going over a chapter he admitted to having trouble understanding. You went through it together, explaining the terms and concepts on the parts that Brendon got stuck on. Every now and then, he’d ask a question. Then you’d answer and he would just nod and move on.

If you struggled with a chapter or part that he understood well, then he’d do the same as best he could. But you understand his explanations quite well.

It worked for a while.

Then you both started getting side tracked. Like your brains couldn’t handle just staying focused on the material in front of you. He’d reread the lines of the chapter more than once, letting his eyes just drift back over to sentences again. Every so often, he’d pause at certain words and squint his eyes at them before moving. Like he was trying to make the letters focus.

You didn’t think much of it at first. You noticed it like the other small habits he had and assumed he couldn’t focus like you. You’d pause your note taking and then you would start looking around the room. Maybe a small break would do you both good.

Then you glanced at him. “Did you like the vanilla or hazelnut one?”

He looked at you and then at the two cups in front of you both. “Hm…”

He tasted both a couple of times. Yet he still enjoyed the hazelnut more.

“Hazelnut.” He said. “It’s less sweet.”

You hummed and nodded. “I liked the vanilla one more.”

“Noted.” He said before looking back down at his notes. Like he hadn’t just admitted to filing that information to use later. Again, you feel warmth flooding your cheeks.

It’s silent again and for some reason your brain really couldn’t concentrate. You feel talkative. You want to get to know the quiet and awkward man across from you. You look at him again, staring at him while he’s trying to read the chapter in front of him.

“So…” you start. “Are you this intense in general?”

Brendon didn’t look at you. His gaze is just trained on a specific paragraph that he isn’t actually reading.

“…intense?” He blinked, furrowing his eyebrows. Then he leaned back into his chair with his pen clicking on his notes, like he was genuinely thinking about your answer.

“Yeah,” You nodded.

He looked at you, finally and crossed his arms against his chest. Almost like he was offended. “What’s intense about me?”

You huffed. “I mean, what isn’t intense about you?”

Brendon’s mouth twitched. Then a smirk formed—small and controlled. He’s amused by your opinion of him.

“I don’t know,” You started, gesturing loosely towards him. “You’re just always serious. You look inconvenienced whenever someone talks to you.”

Then he tilts his head at you with a singular, dark brow raised. He was looking at you as if that was the most inaccurate thing he’d ever heard.

“I don’t look inconvenienced.” He defended. “I’m just slightly perturbed.”

You stare at him with a deadpan look. “That’s basically the same thing.”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s worse.”

He shifted his body towards you with his arms still crossed, leaning more into his chair. Betraying him again, his mouth twitched. He looked even more amused, more expressive than you’ve ever seen him.

“You’re exaggerating.” He added.

“I’m not.” You scowled.

“You are.”

“I literally sit next to you in class.” You pointed out. “You look like someone is personally wasting your time just by existing.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t bother to defend himself or deny that fact at all. Questioning if he should even argue back. Then, very calmly—

“Am I supposed to look like I’m enjoying the conversation when someone talks to me?”

“Actually, yes.” You huffed. “I’m the only one you talk to and you look like I’m the one bothering you when you’re the one who initiated the conversation first!”

He’s watching you silently. The smirk is still there—slightly wider but still controlled.

“Maybe you are.” He countered.

You blink. “What?”

Then his eyes flickered to your lips, then back to his notes. “You’re pretty distracting.”

He said it casually. Like it was an observation. But the way he looked at you, told you something else.

“Oh…”

Your stomach flutters at the realization and your brain short circuited.

Flirting—he was flirting with you. The thought came too fast before you could deny it, play it off in your head. Because literally hours ago, he was avoiding you and barely looking at you. And now, he was saying things like that. You look at him incredulously but you don’t say anything. He was still reading his notes like nothing had changed. Like nothing he said had an impact.

Your expression made the corners of his mouth twitch. It’s not a smirk. You don’t know what it is.

You just know he looks pleased. Pleased with himself for making you react this way.

“Whatever.” You scowl at him before turning back down to your notes. He let out a quiet breath that almost resembled a laugh. You should be annoyed by his audacity. But you aren’t. You just sit and try to focus on studying.

Another fifteen minutes passed of silence, and Brendon couldn’t concentrate. This study session feels like an excuse to get to know you. It’s a reasonable excuse especially when you’re both struggling to stay concentrated.

“What’s your major again? He asked curiously.

You paused your writing and you look at him in surprise. “Oh, I’m trying to get into the nursing program.”

He hummed and nodded. It seemed fitting for you in a way.

“What about you?” You asked.

He paused. He isn’t sure if he should share that with you. If you’d be surprised by it. If you’d laugh at him.

“Biochem.”

He said simply. Careful, almost. You noticed his hesitation easily but you didn’t point it out. You just say:

“Oh, cool!” You chirped. “You need to take organic chemistry for it, huh?”

He nodded, slowly.

You smiled like that confirmed something important. “We should take it together since we’ll probably take it at the same time.”

Then you added, “So we can suffer together.”

Brendon blinked. “…together?”

“Mhm,” You nodded. “I think we’re both gonna have to take the same classes for the first two years, at least. So might as well right?”

He looked at his notes as he processed the information. You still wanted to be around him even after this class ended.

“Can we even take them together? At the same time?” Brendon asked.

“Depends if we get lucky.” You shrugged. “Classes fill up quickly. But…”

You leaned on your palm and looked at him with a smile. “We can still help each other out either way.”

He sat his forearm down and his fingers fumbled with his pen. He had a pensive look on his face as he thought about taking the same classes with you. It’d be worth it, he supposed. It’d be easier.

“…Okay.” He agreed. “I guess we can do that. It’d be easier.”

You beamed at him. You’re satisfied. More than satisfied actually. You’re relieved you at least have someone to suffer with. Someone you can make plans with even if they’re purely academic. But still, having some form of solidarity feels nice.

It doesn’t take long eventually for you two realize that you stopped studying a long time ago. It doesn’t happen suddenly. Just gradually.

Eventually the questions became more personal. Less trying to make it academic and pretending that you both wanted to continue studying.

Brendon would ask a question. Then you would too. Normal things. Easy ones. The kind of questions that are meant to break the ice but really, people don’t realize end up being personal until much later.

You would find out that he’s from a small town where everyone knew each other and news traveled quickly.

Your home life was similar. You both were raised in a single-parent household.

Music came up in the same way everything else did. Quickly and easily. His current fixation had been Dr. Dre and Nirvana but he was okay with any genre. You admitted that you used to argue religiously about boy bands like *NSYNC and Backstreet Boys with your friends as if it was serious business. He surprised you that he preferred LFO more to the other two.

“I grew up with girl cousins.” He admitted reluctantly. “It wasn’t much of a choice so… I’m aware how serious these opinions get.”

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and opened his mouth before closing it again. As if he wasn’t sure if he should say this. Then like it was the most obvious conclusion to the world.

“JC should be way more popular than Justin, by the way.”

You gasped.

He used to play everything—baseball, basketball, swimming, football—whatever was available for the season before things became permanent, more structured, more serious and scheduled. Where football became a permanent fixture in his life.

You told him about cheerleading, late in high school. Not that it played a major part of your life or that it defined you—just something you wanted to try and ended up enjoying.

When you shared parts of your life, he listened. He sat there silently, watching you as he carefully absorbed everything you said. Admittedly, you found yourself talking and sharing a little more than you meant to.

It felt easy. Talking to him and just by being around him.

And when he shared, you just took everything in. You didn’t react strongly when he mentioned he was on a scholarship for football. You just nodded, like it made sense, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You’re smart.” You said simply. “It’s a good opportunity.”

He looked at you and his mouth twitched before it morphed into something small. A smile. It existed for a few seconds before it disappeared. If only you really knew that he was moments of rejecting the offer. Of settling for his small town and sticking with construction. That it was his dad that convinced him to just try

The library around you got even more quieter without either of you realizing it. The presence of other students grew thinner as they began to leave one-by-one. The lights grew dimmer outside of the your study room.

Neither of you noticed. Just kept the conversation flowing. Smiling and just enjoying each other’s presence without meaning anything.

It isn’t until a loud knock on the door interrupts you midway. The librarian’s head peeked inside, already halfway into her announcement. “Library is closing in ten minutes, guys.”

Both of you look up at the same time to look at the clock on the ceiling. You both blinked at the time.

Almost 10:30pm.

“I didn’t even realize we’ve been here that long.” You muttered.

“So much for studying…” Brendon sighed.

Your lips twitch up slightly but you don’t say anything. It’s silent in the room now. Brendon gathered his things slower than necessary. He’s not rushed, just steady like he was trying to extend the moment— the time between you two. You zipped your back pack up and looked at him. “Ready?”

He nodded once. “Yeah…”

He stopped when he saw you struggling to put the pink strap on your shoulder, your fingers fumbling with and you wincing slightly at the weight of it. He’d seen what you put in your back pack. Two textbooks and couple of thick notebooks.

Before you walked away, he reached for the strap and he tugged lightly on it.

“It’s heavy.” he said.

“It’s okay, I can carry it.” You insisted. “It’s not that heavy!”

He didn’t say anything. He just looked at you and the backpack unconvinced. He didn’t let go, just left his hand clinging onto the strap. Before he ultimately decided.

Then he took it off of your shoulder completely. Put it on his and looked at you expectantly, gesturing to the open door he held for you.

“Brendon,” you argued. “It’s not—“

“Necessary, yes I know.” He said.

It’s almost comical how tiny your pink backpack looked on his broad shoulder. You reached for it as best you could before he turned his body to dodge you.

“Seriously, I can carry it!”

He looked at you like he was mildly entertained by your determination to carry it.

“I know,” he said, lips tugging slightly upward. “I got it though.”

You scowl at him. “You’re annoying.”

He doesn’t say anything just walks out of the room after you. Your backpack still hanging in his hand as he followed you.

It doesn’t take long before you both are out of the library, walking side by side. There’s a few students walking around with shared exhausted and burnt out expressions. You’re walking in the direction of your dorms and you realized that Brendon is just following you.

You glance at him, “do you even know where I’m going?”

He looked down at you like the answer was obvious. “The dorms?”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Yeah…”

“Freshman dorms are in the same area.” He pointed out.

“Oh..” You respond dumbly.

“Yeah, oh.” He repeated under his breath.

There was the faintest edge of amusement in his voice when he said that. He was teasing you in the same way you teased him earlier.

You shot him a glare. “I liked you when you didn’t talk back.”

He didn’t respond back right away, just walked beside with your pink backpack in his hand. But after a second, he let out a quiet laugh anyway.

It was a nice sound, you thought—unexpected in a way that you snapped your head to look at him.

He’s smiling. It’s still small but anyone would be able to tell that he was smiling if they paid close attention. You did.

“You can walk ahead if you want to, by the way.” You said softly. “I know you’re probably tired.”

He doesn’t look at you and just keeps his gaze trained forward. He is tired but a big part of him doesn’t want this to end. Whatever this was. He’s enjoying himself more than he should.

“I know.” He said.

Then he looked at you again. The headlights of passing cars drive across the street between you—highlighting his eyes in a way that made them look sharper and clearer, prettier than they really should at this time of day.

You look back at him. Fully aware of how intense he was staring at you.

“I want to.” He added.

His response had been simple. No explanation to back it up. Just that he had wanted to.

It doesn’t take long for you two to reach the building of your dorm. He followed you down the hallway without asking where to go. Still carried your backpack. When you reached your door, you turned to him.

“This is my dorm.” You said softly.

He stopped beside you and looked at the door, then back at you. He nodded as he shifted the strap of your backpack until he finally held it out toward you.

You grabbed it and you reached for your keys.

“Thank you, Brendon.” You smiled softly. “I-I had a lot of fun tonight.”

The corner of his lips on one side lifted upwards. “Me too.”

It’s awkward but in a cute way, you supposed. Just two students who had spent the entire evening together in a library, getting to know each other.

“…Want to study again tomorrow?” Brendon asked carefully. Like he was checking if he hadn’t misread the entire night.

“Of course!” You asked enthusiastically. “Same time?”

“Yeah..” He nodded.

There’s another wave of silence. Both you not wanting to rush into whatever this was into ending.

Then you both smiled—small, matching in a way neither you acknowledged. Had wanted to acknowledge.

“Goodnight Brendon.”

“Yeah, goodnight.” He cleared his throat and he stepped away watching you turn to unlock your door. He wants to ask something.

You give him one last smile as you stepped into your room, shutting the door behind you and hearing it click. You could feel it—the staring from your roommate who had heard the interaction.

It’s silent in your roommate and before either of you even saying anything— there’s a knock on your door. It’s hesitant. It’s heavy.

And you know it’s Brendon.

You freeze slightly and you twist the door knob you hadn’t let go of, opening it again. He’s still there but he’s rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Staring at his feet. He was nervous, you mused.

“…I forgot to ask something.” Brendon muttered.

“Huh?”

He tilts his head up to look at you for a second before turning to look at the wall next to your dorm. Like, it was suddenly more interesting than you.

“Your number.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t get to ask for it

“Oh.”

He shuffled awkwardly. His gaze turned back to you with seemingly more confidence.

“So I can ask about the coffee.” He added quickly, clearing his throat like that explained everything well.

You stared at him for a second. Then you smiled—small, deliberate, trying to make it less obvious.

“The coffee, right.” You laughed quietly. “Here—“

You quickly grab a bright purple post-it note and a pen from your desk, quickly jotting down your number on it. You place the pen down and you hand him the post-it note.

“Get me one cup this time, okay?”

“Noted.” He nodded. He carefully grabbed the piece of paper from you. He’s well aware how he’s treating it. As if it was a national treasure.

“I’ll get it right this time, don’t worry.”

And for some reason, you believed him.

He waved at you before turning down the ball, tucking the post-it in the pocket of his sweats. You stayed at your door a second longer than necessary, watching him disappear around the corner.

You close the door behind you with a sigh of relief but you begin taking off your shoes before you heard a cough in the room. You freeze halfway through taking off your shoe and you look up.

“Girl,” Your roommate Emery Walsh started, looking at you expectantly. “Spill.”

You blushed. “W-What? There’s nothing to spill, Em!”

She stared at you as if she didn’t believe you. Then she sighed.

“Mmhm, right.” She paused and looked at the clock next to her. “So you didn’t just walk in at basically 11pm with a man that looks like he lifts weights for fun.”

“Brendon was just being nice! We were studying!” Your face immediately felt warm.

“You were studying.” She repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“Studying what?” She snorted. “His abs?”

“Oh my god—no!” You snapped, scowling. “He’s just my classmate.”

“A classmate.” Emery repeated.

You nodded quickly. You knew she’d start again if you weren’t quick to answer.

“Okay.”

You both didn’t say anything else. You let out a quiet sigh of relief before you began undressing yourself into your pajamas. She just watched you silently, observing you with a knowing smile.

Then she started:

“So,” She began. “Did you guys use protection or—“

“OH MY GOD,” You screeched, grabbing a pillow before smacking her rather aggressively with it. “No! We didn’t do anything except for studying!!”

She’s giggling and squealing loudly as the pillow smacked straight in the face.

“Okay! Okay!” She grinned. “Relax.”

You scowled at her and dropped the pillow back down on the bed. She was still giggling under her breath. Then softly but no less insufferably:

“…you’d still tell me if he was good at least, right—“

You threw the pillow at her and to your dismay, she caught it without looking and laughed even harder.

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

Holy shit this was sooooooooo everything

[deathreverse]

APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — Pt. 8

SUMMARY: Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest.

WARNINGS: swearing, phoebe borderline disowning her dad, mentions of toxic men and weaponized incompetence. smut; kissing, teasing, swearing, dirty talk, slight praise kink, masturbation, oral (both receiving), face sitting.

A/N: okay i'll be so real, i've struggled with writing this series atm as we're so close to the end. after lots of back and forth and debating, i have decided to keep part 10 as the finale of this story and i am very upset by it :(( thank u for being patient with waiting for an update, life has been super busy but it is here!

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

WORD COUNT: 7.1k

PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

If there’s one thing in life that makes you angry, it’s deadbeat fathers and weaponized incompetence. Naturally, you received your share of a lifetime of such with Phoebe’s father, as did Bella with Florence’s. 

However, you learnt your lesson from past mistakes. Listened to the Universe when it silently told you it was time to walk away and break a cycle before it began. 

Bella, unfortunately, has not taken the same approach. 

“I just don’t get it! Why is that you manage to find someone as wonderful and sexy as Jack, and I’m stuck here settling for barely average dick and men with the personality of a fucking sponge? Which is ironic because they don’t absorb anything other than my fucking happiness and spark.”

Your lips roll between your teeth to hide both your amusement and annoyance on the matter. 

“Because I wasn’t looking for anything when I met Jack. I love you, Bella, but you’re on Tinder like, all the time. You settle too easily.” 

Her footsteps pause abruptly, forcing yours to do the same. And when you slowly turn to sneak a glance at her, she’s glaring at you through squinted eyes. 

“Would it hurt you to lie to me, just once in your life?” 

You snort, reaching to loop your arm around hers and effectively drag her across the concrete playground of the girls preschool. 

“Yes, actually, it would. Because I love you and I want only what’s best for you. And unfortunately, you do not share the same sentiment about yourself. 

Bella leans her arm over to pinch your bicep. “I do want what’s best for me.”

“Then maybe you should stop settling.” You muse. 

She rolls her eyes, throwing her head back and the jewellery that decorates her wrists jingles when she throws an arm in the air, the other still hooked around yours. 

“It’s not my fault I seem to only attract douchebags.” Her argument is half fair. She does seem to attract the incompetent men who ask her on a date but can’t afford to pay. Or the ones that still live with their mom at thirty and can’t hold down a job for longer than six weeks. 

But, Bella also entertains those types of men. Gives them the time of day even after they let her down. Not to psychoanalyze your best friend, but you’re almost certain it stems from her father leaving when she was a child. 

The thought has an idea occurring. 

“What about dating someone…older?”

She turns her head to lazily grin at you as you both stop just a few feet outside the doors to the girls classroom. 

“Older like Jack?” She lowers her voice as other parents begin to drift across the playground, searching for their children’s respective classes. “What, you looking for a third?”

You slap her shoulder at the tease, gnaw down on your bottom lip to hide the inappropriate amusement. Her head rolls back in a laugh, hooks her arm around yours tighter. 

“I’m not opposed to someone older. But I haven’t been lucky enough to stumble across someone hot and old like you have.”

You don’t bother hiding your grin this time, or the flush in your cheeks. “He is pretty hot, isn’t he.” 

She rolls her eyes fondly. “He’s obviously doing something right. I’ve never seen you this…glowy over a guy before.”

You shrug, bashfulness overtaking you just briefly. Because Jack is doing more than just something right. He’s considerate, compassionate, patient and kind. He’s funny—so fucking funny—and flirty and cheeky and intelligent in the sexiest way you’ve ever seen. 

More than that, he’s competent, capable. And he listens to learn, not to reply. He problem solves instead of festering in a negative situation. He’s masculine in every healthy way; like your personal repair man who comes over to fix leaky faucets and helps paint new furniture on your balcony that you’ve haggled from Marketplace. 

And the sex…Jesus fucking Christ. 

It’s always so intimate and sensual. Never rushed, no. It’s explorative and exciting. He takes his time to learn your body, notices what you like and what you love. 

And he’s vocal. Talks you through it with praise and encouragement, something you’ve never experienced before him. 

“I’m not glowy.”

Bella scoffs. “Yes, you are. I mean you’ve always been carefree but since meeting him—what, four months ago?—you’re…I don’t know, it’s like your soul has been let free or something.”

A laugh tumbles out of you. “Okay, Shakespeare.”

The doors to the girls’ class swing open before Bella can offer a defensive retort, and Phoebe and Florence come bolting toward you in quick skips and fits of giggles. 

You try not to focus on Bella’s words and observation; try not to admit that she’s right. Because in the four months of dating Jack, you’ve never felt so alive. Not when you were a teenager and sneaking out to smoke joints in the field with your friends, not when you finally left Tom.

You felt alive when you gave birth to Phoebe, when you heard her cries for the first time and felt her body against yours. But it’s a different feeling of liveliness. It’s when a new part of you awakens, when your life shifts from living for yourself to living for another. 

But, Jack…yeah, he makes you feel alive. Not just in the dates he takes you on, or the ones he works harder to plan so Phoebe can join, but in the way that he’s never once tried to snuff out your light, never once complained or grimaced at your weird and wacky personality. 

Maybe Bella is right. He does make your soul feel free. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Mom, Jack’s eating the cheese again!”

Your head whips round to the island where both Jack and Phoebe huddle close together, decorating their pizzas to their liking. The former holds an expression of dramatic betrayal while the latter bursts into the dirtiest laugh you think you’ve ever heard from her. 

“You ate some first!” Jack argues, feigning offence and crossing broad, freckled arms across his toned chest. 

Phoebe’s head rolls back in laughter and you watch when Jack quickly untangles his arms to place a hand at her back, steadying her from falling off the stool with the force of her giggles. 

You watch the scene in amusement, a warmth in your chest that you’re finally starting to grow accustomed to when it comes to the devilish duo. 

“Yeah, but I’m just a kid, so I’m allowed.”

Jack turns to you with raised brows, struggling to hide his amusement when he jabs a thumb in Pheebs’ direction as if to say get a load of this.

It was, of course, Jack’s idea to have pizza night. You didn’t put up much of a fight when he suggested it to you after a rough week of drafting, planning and heavy deadlines. 

And when you then proposed it to Phoebe, she had agreed the second you’d mentioned Jack's name; before you even had the chance to tell her what the plans were. 

From the moment Jack walked in an hour ago, she hasn't left his side. Encouraged him to take off his prosthetic by shoving the crutches against his good leg, tucked it away neatly beside the couch when he did as she requested. 

Then she dragged him to the kitchen island where they’ve been for the last forty-five minutes; kneading dough and cutting pieces of meat and vegetables for their pizzas. 

And you’ve watched from across the island, with something both heavy and freeing in your chest. Felt your eyes prickle with tears at every synchronized laugh that fell out of them. 

Phoebe forces Jack to cut peppers into shapes of flower stems and petals, uses little pieces of corn to centre them and cheese scattered only on the bottom half, because according to Phoebe, grass doesn’t have to just be green. 

You decorate your pizza in a similar fashion, using meat as the petals and veggies for the stems and leaves, while Jack creates a bullseye effect with rings of each topping—much to Pheebs’ disgust. 

“Mommy, can we play SingStar while the pizza’s cooking?” She asks, tone sickly sweet as she dries her hands and Jack cleans down the surfaces. 

Like usual, she seems to get what she wants. 

At first, Jack manages to escape the song delegations, entirely evading his turn to duet or sing at all by finding anything else that momentarily needs his attention. 

“I need to check on the pizzas.”

“I’m just going to grab us all a drink.”

“But it’s so much fun listening to you and Mommy!” 

Until you’ve finally had enough. 

“Jack, it’s your turn to sing with Pheebs. I need to finish dinner.” 

Before he can offer to do it instead, you’re shoving the wired microphone into his chest with a feline grin as he glares playfully down at you. 

“Give it your all or she’ll be pissed. Phoebe doesn’t do half-hearted things. It’s a full performance or your head on a stick.” 

Jack's already well aware of the fact. He’s watched you both prance around the living room for the past fifteen minutes, screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs while completing a fully-fledged dance choreography. 

He’s tried his best to put it off—not because he doesn’t want to join in, but because watching his two girls laugh and dance and sing and scream… he doesn’t want to intrude on something that is yours. 

But Phoebe screeches excitedly when she reaches for Jack’s hand and drags him into the middle of the rug as soon as his prosthetic is clipped back on, the coffee table shoved across the room to make space. 

If he’s going to do karaoke, he’s going to do it properly. Phoebe has standards, and Jack’s not the type of man to disappoint. 

The TV screen blinks briefly as Phoebe presses play and a rhythm of drums and something higher begins to sound through the speakers, the words “Ain’t It Fun by Paramore” flashing across the screen. 

While Jack misses the first verse, sings too fast or too slow, unable to catch the tempo and rhythm of lyrics he’s never heard before, Phoebe kills it. Hips jutting with enough sass of a sixteen-year-old, not missing a single word or beat. 

You can’t help but watch through tears of laughter, a sharp ache forming in your sides from the force of it. And by the time it gets to the final round of the chorus, Jack finds himself jumping around the living room with Pheebs—still singing off key and out of tempo, but he copies her dancing the best way he can.

Her infectious laughter bounces off the walls, and when Jack imitates Phoebe by wiggling his hips, the sound of yours is joining hers. He catches your gaze through a wide grin and sparkling eyes, shoots you a wink that does something to your insides. 

The whole thing feels normal, right. Like the sound of Jack’s laughter and the stability of his presence is exactly what’s been missing in your home and hearts. 

He’s tapping out at the end of the duet, saved by you declaring dinner is ready when Pheebs tries to pester him for just one more song. 

Dinner goes down a similar way; giggles and jokes, talking about Phoebe’s week at school and some crazy (but child friendly) stories from Jack’s shifts recently. Your apartment has never felt so full of life and love. 

You’re briefly taken back to when you were a teenager. Riddled with anger and upset and resentment for the world, but sitting at the table and eating with your mom and dad… talking about your day, laughing at stupid things. 

They always had a way of taking that pain away, even if just for a few moments. Because they made you feel loved, feel wanted. 

This feels a bit like that. Family time. Something Phoebe has only ever experienced with you and her grandparents at their house. 

By the time you’ve finished your pizzas, Jack insists on cleaning up while you bathe Phoebe. She splashes and plays for twenty minutes, uses her bath crayons to draw pictures on the porcelain tub before scrubbing them away and getting into some pyjamas. 

When you return to the living room, the lights are off and the sun is setting from outside the balcony windows. The kitchen is spotless where Jack stands, opening a box of microwave popcorn and The Little Vampire already ready on the TV.

Two steaming mugs of tea sit on the coffee table alongside a smaller mug filled with warm milk and a little plate of cookies. You’re too busy smiling to yourself at the little set up that you almost miss Phoebe scolding and judging Jack. 

“That’s not how my grandpa makes it. His popcorn is crazy.” 

You blink over to the kitchen as you sit on the couch, watching Jack’s brows raise as he slides the popcorn into the microwave. He doesn’t question it, he’s learnt not to question some of the things that Phoebe says. 

But despite her disapproval, she watches through the glass as the paper bag expands and rotates, giggles when she’s startled by the popping until Jack’s pinching the pouch with two fingers and pouring the snack into a bowl. 

Phoebe nestles herself between you and Jack when they join you on the couch, squished between your right thigh and Jack’s left; a thin blanket draped over the three of you while the bowl of popcorn rests in her lap. 

Her eyes dart to the balcony doors and back to the television, like she’s noticing something but too worried to speak up. It causes a frown to pull between your brows as you follow her line of sight. 

But there’s nothing but darkness out on the balcony; the golden light of the lamp and flickers of the TV reflecting on the glass. 

“You okay, Diva? You keep looking outside.” You probe softly. 

You feel her stiffen, just enough for it to feed the concern rushing through you and to grab Jack’s attention. He looks down at her, then at you, his own brows furrowing at her change in body language. 

“It’s night time.” She mutters, but there’s a disappointed lull in her voice. 

You blink, that concern morphing into gentle amusement and lean down at your side to kiss the top of her head. “That’s okay, baby. It’s movie night, you can stay up later.” 

Your confirmation doesn’t do much to shake her tenseness. “But night time means Jack has to go home soon.”

Jack’s eyes snap to meet yours, his lips parted and a softness overtakes him at the realization. She’s sad because she doesn’t want him to go. He leans a hand down to playfully pinch at her purple painted toenails that peek out from the blanket.

“S’okay. I’ll stay for the movie.” Jack coos her, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough.

Even ten minutes later, when The Little Vampire plays on the screen, she’s still tense. 

“Mommy?”

You hum, eyes falling from the TV back to the side of her face. 

“Can Jack have a sleepover tonight?” 

Her request makes you pause, has Jack slowly turning his head to look at you with apprehension. Of all the things Phoebe could have asked, this is not one you could have anticipated. 

Jack…a sleepover. 

Your lips part as you stare at him, trying to silently read what he thinks of it. But before you can consider the question—consider what it would mean for Jack to spend the night while Phoebe is here, he’s talking. 

“But Sally would be all on her own.” He tries gently, looking back down at your daughter as he speaks in a gentle tone. 

His quick answer shouldn’t disappoint you, but it does. Because you’re not sure if you really have an issue with him spending the night; with Phoebe waking up to him in the apartment. 

You’ve slowly been allowing them to spend more time together over the last month, their bond only blossoming into something unbreakable. 

And it’s not like Jack doesn’t already have spare clothes here. On the odd nights that Phoebe is at your moms or at Tom’s and it’s Jack’s night off, he’ll stay here or you’ll stay at his. 

Worry begins to worm its way into your mind. Is that why he doesn’t want to this time? Because it’s not just you he’ll be waking up to, but Phoebe as well?

Jack's been nothing but reassuring, allowing you to run this relationship at your pace… is this where it becomes too much for him? 

“But Sally is all alone when you work at night time.” Phoebe’s counter is one that Jack absolutely cannot argue. 

You have to purse your lips to stifle a laugh when Jack peeks at you. “Alright, that’s fair. But it’s up to Mommy.”

There’s that silent question in his eye when you meet his gaze. Asking if you’re okay with him staying, promising that he understands if you’re not. It’s absolutely ridiculous how quickly you can worry and then become so reassured with him. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and move your head just a fraction—but it’s enough for Jack to see that as permission. Not exactly hesitant, but slow and subtle enough for him to understand the weight of the decision.

As if he didn’t already. 

“Guess I’m having a sleepover then, kid.” 

Probably not the best thing to tell a four-year-old when it’s already well past her bedtime, but the joy on her face… it’s worth it. Jack seems to think so, too. Lets her lay across his lap with her head on his thighs and her calves dangling off yours. 

In Phoebe’s defense, she spends the rest of the movie relatively silent. She stopped reaching for the popcorn about thirty minutes ago, around the time when you relented to the anxious thoughts in your head and curled into Jack's side with your head resting on his shoulder. 

The whole evening feels far too domestic. Too natural, too comfortable. With Jack’s fingers sunken into Phoebe’s hair, scratching gently and soothingly at her scalp. 

You’re only briefly disturbed from your thoughts when Jack shifts subtly, when a soft huff of quiet laughter falls from him. 

“Baby,” he whispers, and you hum, shifting your head enough to look up at him. 

“She’s asleep. Can you get me my leg?” 

It takes you a moment before you move, to comprehend that the reason he’s asking for his leg is because he wants to put her to bed. You nod, humming again, heart warm and fuzzy. You reach for Jack’s leg down the side of the couch, slip from your seat as slowly as you can to not startle Pheebs. 

And Jack stares at you with both shock and reverence when you sit on your heels on the carpet before him, and slowly ease the blanket up to expose his thigh and attach his prosthetic. Something he has never considered or allowed anyone else to do before.

But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t stop you. He finds himself basking in your soft and caring touch, allowing himself to be vulnerable in this moment with you, with Phoebe. With the girls that feel far too much like family these days. 

He shoves down the overwhelming adoration and very meticulously scoops Phoebe into his arms, coddling her head into her chest as she continues to snore quietly. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit to be able to stand without aid of his hands, and though you can see that brief struggle, you don’t offer to help. 

You won’t offend him like that. 

Instead, you gently reach out to brush the hair from Phoebe’s face and bend just enough to plant a tender kiss to her cheek. 

“Night, Diva. I love you,” you whisper. 

When you straighten, Jack beams at you, leaning his head slightly over Phoebe’s frame to meet your lips in a ghost of a kiss. You watch him carry Phoebe down the hall after he pulls away until he disappears into her bedroom.

Jack can’t help but feel a bit shaky as he lowers Phoebe into her bed, as he tugs the duvet over her little frame, as she reaches instinctively for his arm when he tries to pull away. 

Because to be trusted so wholly by you both, to be so accepted and wanted and cherished… Jack never thought this life would ever be possible for him. And yet, here he is, falling for a family that already has each other, and being treated as if he always belonged with them. 

“Jack?” Phoebe’s sleep-laced voice rasps for him. 

He lowers with a quiet grunt to sit on the edge of her little bed, reaches for her even smaller hand that she’s reaching to hold. 

“I’m here kid. Go back to sleep.” He coos. 

Phoebe shifts to lay on her side, tugs her stuffed crocodile to her chest. “Can you sing to me?”

His brow quirks in the darkness of her room, only the faint golden glow of her space-themed night-light illuminating the space. 

“Sure. What do you want me to sing?” He whispers. 

“The Smiths.” She whispers back. 

Jack smiles, hums. “Any specific request?” 

Phoebe doesn’t even think about it, like she knew the song she wanted before she even awoke. “Please, Please, Please song.”

“Let Me Get What I Want?” Jack finishes for her and even in sleep, she manages to beam at him. 

“Yeah, it’s Mommy’s favorite.” 

Jack’s heart thunders in his chest at the thought of it, of how soul-crushing the song is if you really listen. So he doesn’t argue, doesn’t offer something else. 

Jack softly begins to sing, reaches out to brush the hair from her face. She watches him with sleep-ridden eyes as he softly sings to her; verse after verse. 

And when her eyes start to flutter, Jack’s thumb reaches to slowly trace the path from between her brows down the slope of her nose—over and over until her breathing evens out and her body relaxes. 

“So for once in my life, let me get what I want… Lord knows it would be the first time.” His low voice whispers, gently guiding her down a path of gentle dreams and peaceful rest. 

The song, the words… the fact that she wanted him to sing that one only… 

Jack can feel himself choking up at the weight of it. At how heavy and vulnerable it feels for him. Because it doesn’t feel like singing a lullaby. It feels like a loud admittance whispered into a safe and treasured moment. 

He schools himself before his emotions can get the better of him, and gently brushes the last bits of hair from Phoebe’s face before standing with a groan concealed behind gritted teeth. 

Before he can get two steps away from the bed, he’s met the onslaught of toys that are scattered across her bedroom floor. Something he missed when he carried her to bed initially. 

It’s with quiet and somewhat practised ease that Jack very silently begins to tidy up so she doesn’t trip in the night if she awakes. Books are slid back on the case, clothes are thrown into the hamper, Lego blocks are placed beside the tub that usually carries them.

And the action figures, he begins to line them up back beside her dresser when he notices. Not just one doll that’s not quite right, but three. His hands are trembling when he picks them up, when he clutches them in an unsteady hold. 

It’s with blurry vision when he carries them with him out into the hall, toward where you’re folding the blankets on the couch, refluffing the cushions. 

You hear the soft pads of his footsteps approach and freeze when you see the disbelieving, broken look on his face. You don’t even notice what he’s carrying in his hands when you move quickly to reach for him; your worry begins to spiral. 

He speaks before you can. 

“Did you know she’s been amputating her dolls?”

Jack’s voice is thick with emotion, breaking slightly when he utters a truth you’re only just learning for yourself.

“What?” Your voice comes out as a whisper when you finally look down to Jack’s hands. 

Three dolls—Superman, Spiderman, and The Hulk—all missing a leg from the knee down. Just like Jack. 

It feels like you’ve been punched in your chest, like you can’t quite swallow a breath big enough to fill your lungs. Your eyes burn, vision begins to distort as you blink at the dolls and then back at Jack. 

It’s all over his face when he looks at you; the longing, the vulnerability, the thought that he is not deserving of this. Of her. 

“She really does love you, you know.”

He nods, sniffling until a smile begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “I know,” he rasps. “I love her, too.”

The heaviness of the fact sits thick between you. The truth hidden between the lines—what he’s saying includes what he isn’t. 

But he doesn’t have to, you don’t have to. 

It makes your heart swell and ache, nonetheless. Makes Jack’s try to burst against his ribcage. He doesn’t show it, tries not to, anyway. He gently drops the action figures onto the coffee table and uses his empty hands to reach for your waist. 

You step closer, your palms resting on the hardness of his chest beneath the cotton t-shirt. He leans in close enough to kiss you, but lets the tip of his nose brush yours instead, allowing himself this moment to recenter. 

You give it to him, don’t ask for more, don’t push him away. 

“I’m gonna run back to the apartment quickly to check on Sally. Why don’t you have a bubble bath, hm?”

You know he’s changing the subject, that whatever just happened with him and Phoebe hit too close for him to be comfortable to talk about it right now. 

So you hum, reach up to press a kiss to his mouth—his short stubble scratching at your soft skin. 

“M’kay. Take my key.”

It’s twenty minutes later when you hear him returning. Soft footsteps padding down the hall—stopping briefly outside Phoebe’s door before continuing into your bedroom. 

You’re lounging in a hot bubble bath when he slowly eases into the bathroom, leaning against the doorway. His hair is damp, clothes changed into checkered pyjama pants and a gray t-shirt. Arms fold across a broad chest and he grins at the sight of you soaped up. 

You quirk a brow at him, ignore the flame that burns beneath the skin of your cheeks. 

“You showered when you checked on Sally?”

He hums, moving closer to sit on the lid of the toilet. 

“Yeah, you don’t have a chair.” He explains in a low voice, hand reaching down to dip his fingers into the hot water, finding your knee and gently tracing patterns on the warm skin. 

You don’t comment on the lack of a shower-chair in your apartment, but you do make a mental note to get one ordered in the morning. 

“You know, you can always bring her here, and I’m more than happy to Sally-sit when you’re working.” It’s not the first time you’ve offered and you doubt it’ll be the last. But Jack always argues the same thing—

“I don’t think you or Pheebs would appreciate her pissing everywhere to mark her territory.” 

And as always, it gets a bark of laughter from you. 

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, there was once a time when Phoebe pissed everywhere.” 

Jack grins, leans down to press a kiss to your mouth. “But Diva is infinitely cuter than Sally.” 

You roll yourself with fond adoration and reach up to press another kiss to him. The angle causes the water to slosh in the tub and the bubbles to disperse—momentarily exposing your chest to the cool air of the bathroom.

The change in temperature causes your nipples to pebble at the same time Jack pulls back to look at you. His expression shifts, something darker passing across his eyes as the corner of his mouth curls in the form of a smirk. 

You flush under his gaze, despite how often he’s seen you bare in the past month. It doesn’t matter that his hands have touched your skin more times than you can count now, that he’s already mapped out your body with his hands and mouth—that he’s committed it to memory, along with what makes you squirm and writhe and moan.

“Are you getting out or staying in?” Jack’s voice is low and deep when he speaks, a tone that sends shivers down your spine despite the heat of the water. 

Because you’ve grown to learn what that tone usually means. 

“I’m getting out,” you reply a bit too breathlessly than you mean to. 

With his eyes still on yours, Jack’s hand skims from your knee and down your shin, skipping your foot to reach for the plug where he pushes it down and it pops back up. 

Water swirls at the base of the drain, the tub slowly emptying. Jack reaches to his right for a fluffy cotton towel that hangs on the rail, unfolds it with skilled hands and holds it open wide—a silent invitation for you to step out of the porcelain and into his arms. 

Water sloshes when you stand, drips down the expanse of your body and suds of soap still cling to your skin. He wraps the cotton around you the moment you step out, tucks it over your chest, and guides you through the threshold of your en-suite and into your bedroom. 

The lights are dim, only the small lamp on your nightstand barely able to illuminate the space. It sets a golden hue over your skin and his, blankets the room in familiar intimacy.

“Do you want pyjamas?”

You shake your head, eyes remaining on him through it all. The towel was pointless, really, because the moment Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed, you’re unravelling it from your body and letting it drop to the ground with a quiet thud. 

Jack’s gaze roves over your body in hungry appreciation, his muscles tensing as he shifts and admires you silently. And you let him. The nerves of allowing him to see you so bare dwindled away some time three weeks ago, after he’d spent hours and hours cherishing you, admiring you, reassuring you and proving to you how utterly, devastatingly beautiful you are.

You don’t cower, don’t curl your body into itself. You don’t try to hide your cesarean scar, nor the stretchmarks that adore the podgier skin of your lower stomach. You don’t shy away when his gaze slides over the dips in your hips, the slightly uneven swell of your breasts where the left is just a pinch bigger than the right. 

You let Jack admire, because you’ve never felt safer or more adored than when you’re under his gaze like this. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His words are whispered to you like a prayer. 

Maybe that’s what gives you the confidence to move a step closer between his thighs, to slowly sink down to your knees. Jack exhales shakily when you do, when your palms slide up his clothed thighs.

It’s silent when he relents and lifts his hips to lower his pyjama pants down to his thighs, silent when you hook your fingers into the waistband to pull them off his legs completely. 

For a moment, you don’t allow yourself to look at him, keep your gaze focused on his prosthetic. You press a gentle kiss just above his knee when your fingers reach the clips to unfasten the metal. Another shaky exhale falls from him when you remove it, gently placing it against the foot of the bed. 

Only then, when you know he’s comfortable, do you return your attention to where it’s needed. 

Long and hard, thick and eager. Jack’s cock stands excitedly as he leans back on his hands to watch, already fisting the sheets in anticipation. 

It’s not like you haven’t done this for him before, because you have; a few times. But Jack usually argues that he needs to get you off first, that your pleasure is more important than his. You’re overwhelmingly pleased that he’s not arguing with you on it tonight. 

But overall, tonight is different. He can’t coax orgasm after orgasm from you when Phoebe is only down the hall. He can’t make you cry and moan as loudly as he likes. So he settles for this—clenching his jaw and fisting the sheets. 

You wrap your hand around him slowly, the movement almost making him jolt. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you slowly begin to pump him in your palm, leaning close enough to press hot open-mouthed kisses to his ruddy tip. 

“Fuck, baby,” Jack whimpers breathlessly. 

His eyes are on you when you look up at him through your lashes, dark and blown with lust and arousal. You hum, swirling your tongue around his head before suckling him into your mouth. 

Your lips stretch around him as he fills you, only able to take barely half of his length as you fist the rest of him. Your cheeks hollow and you can feel your cunt fluttering at the taste of him. 

With your eyes still on him, you sneak your spare hand between your thighs—a motion that Jack clocks immediately—and begin to glide your middle finger through your soaked slit. 

“Jesus Christ… you’re so fucking sexy.” The praise has you oozing onto your finger, has you whimpering around his cock. It sends shocks of vibrations through his body, forcing him to fist the sheets harder when you take him deeper. 

Jack watches with hooded eyes as you begin to bob your head on his cock, as he feels his tip prod at the back of your tight throat. Your eyes sting with tears at the intrusion but you don’t stop, keep your gaze locked on him even as your brows begin to furrow. 

“Good girl, baby. Doing so good.” 

The praise makes you work faster, has you rubbing tight motions on your clit as you choke on his cock. Jack’s guttural groan and breathless whimper has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, salty drops of pre-cum coating your tongue. 

His hips begin to move, respectful of what you can handle but enough to encourage you to take more. His chest is heaving with every breath, knuckles white around the handfuls of your sheets. 

And when your hand abandons his cock to tenderly massage his balls, when your mouth opens around him and your tongue strokes the underside of his length as he hits the back of your throat, Jack loses it. 

“Fuck. Ah, shit…so good, baby. Oh, fuck me…yeah, just like that.” His voice is wrecked, whimpering in that higher octave that you’ve associated with a brewing release. 

The sound of it spurs you on as you slip two fingers into your dripping cunt, curling as quick as Jack’s usually do in an attempt to get you to his level. You choke around the thickness of him, moans and whimpers suffocated by his cock.

It’s enough to spur him over the edge, to have him spluttering out, “I can’t—honey, I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck, oh fuck,” and with a choked cry of your own, you’re suctioning your lips again—just around his head—and he’s spilling onto your tongue. 

Your own orgasm crashes into you at the same time, cunt convulsing around your fingers and body shuddering in the same way Jack’s does. His hands give out from holding him up, his back crashing into the mattress as you slowly slide him out of your mouth and swallow down his release. 

Jack can’t catch his breath. With an arm thrown over his eyes and his hard cock glistening and resting against his thigh, you finally manage to heave a breath of your own. 

Tears stain your cheeks as you stand, as you crawl beside him on the bed. Before you can say a word, Jack’s blindly reaching for you. A strong hand wrapping around your arm and dragging you over to straddle his chest.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Jack moves his arm from his face to hold your hips, when he looks at you like he’s only just getting started. 

He squeezes your hips once, dragging you up his chest until your sopping cunt hovers over his face. “C’mon, baby. Let me clean you up.” 

Neither of you question how natural it is. To have fooled around like usual, with Pheebs sleeping down the hall. Because it feels too normal. Like you’re two parents stealing moments of intimacy when you can. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Laughter is the first thing you hear when you stir from your slumber. 

Two sets of it. One young and high pitched, the other older and deeper. Your arm reaches across the bed in search of Jack who’s no longer there. His side of the bed is cold, sheets still rumpled. 

You blink at the light that filters in through the curtains in your bedroom, eyes catching the alarm clock on your nightstand. 

10 a.m.

Music greets your ears next as you slowly sit up, Michael Jackson blaring from the kitchen. A grin stretches across your sleepy face and you stretch beneath the sheets—still bare, but your body feels lighter after two orgasms and a good night's sleep. 

Dressing in the first pair of pyjamas in the drawer, you follow the sound of happiness down the hall and find the source of the noise in the kitchen, where you’re momentarily stunned.

Phoebe sits on the island, a bowl between her legs as she mixes pancake batter within an inch of her life. Jack stands in front of her, gently easing flour into the mix and playfully flicking some at Phoebe’s face just to hear her laugh again. 

You can’t hide your grin and clear your throat to make your presence known. They both turn to you, rosy cheeked and still slightly sleep ridden. 

“Morning, Mommy.” Their greeting is synchronized, like this is a normal, every day occurrence. 

The kitchen is a mess, the music is too loud, there’s flour and batter in Phoebe’s hair but you can’t bring yourself to care when Jack approaches you with a steaming mug of coffee. 

You take it from him with a bashful grin, and he almost closes the distance between you when he catches himself, realizes that he’s in front of Phoebe and unsure of the boundaries in place when it comes to this—the morning after. 

But you soothe that concern when you reach across the coffee to gently press your lips against his, eyes fluttering closed as he reaches an arm around your waist. 

“Morning,” he whispers against your lips as you whisper it back, pulling away to return to Phoebe and the pancake batter. 

Your eyes skim over the island; pencils and paper litter half of the counter, drawings and practised writing. 

Phoebe leans over to kiss your cheek and reaches for a piece of paper she’s particularly proud of and shoves it in your face. 

“Look! Jack was helping me practice writing.” She beams at you in excitement and pride and when you look down at the paper, your eyes sting with tears. 

M O M in big bulky letters, uneven where jack has dotted the outline for the letters and Pheebs has joined them with shaky lines. You’re too busy staring at the masterpiece that is definitely going to be framed to notice Jack watching you with a fervent softness. 

“This is beautiful, Diva. You are so clever.” 

She ignores the praise when she turns back to Jack, noticing the way he’s watching you. 

“Did you sleep in my mom’s bed last night?”

The question has you choking on your coffee and Jack almost dropping the bowl of pancake batter. You splutter out a string of coughs, steadying the mug on the counter for a moment so you can smack at your chest for come relief. 

“Um, yeah. Jack did.” You answer through another cough, casting a cautious glance over her head at him. 

The confirmation has the girl grinning something dangerous when she looks from you to Jack again. Like she’s purposely posing the questions to him instead of you. 

“So you really are boyfriend and girlfriend.” It’s not a question, she words it like a statement. As if she’s been working hard to get you both to this point. 

You suppose she has, really. If it wasn’t for your meddling child, you’re unsure if you and Jack would be here now. 

“Yeah, Diva,” Jack laughs. “You okay with that?” 

She seems to appreciate the thought of him checking, but doesn’t need to consider it before she nods with resoluteness and sprinkles chocolate chips into the mix in Jack’s hand. 

“Jack is nice and funny,” she says out loud. It causes him to grin wide, to meet your gaze briefly again over the top of her head. 

“Thanks, kid. You’re nice and funny, too.”

She hums. “But Tom is an ass.” 

The room falls silent as the music continues to play. You and Jack still, eyes wide and staring at each other. He has to look away, to turn his back to you both and busy himself at the sink to hide both his shock and amusement. 

You blink at your daughter, moving around the island to face her. “Pheebs—what? One, ass is a bad word, we don’t say that. And two…Tom? You don’t call him that, he’s your dad.”

Phoebe huffs, her shoulders dropping at the scolding and she places the half empty bag of chocolate chips back on the counter.

“I don’t want to call him Dad,” she mutters, keeping her gaze down at her fingers. “I like Jack better. Jack’s nice, and he plays with me. And he makes you happy. Tom is mean to you. He says mean things about Jack, Mommy. It makes me sad and angry.”

Jack feels his heart ache and crack at the watery tone of Phoebe’s voice, of the truth she’s admitting that should never have reached her ears. He can feel bile rise up his throat, his hands scrubbing the dishes a bit too forcefully. 

All you can do is stare at Phoebe in shock, feel your heart ache at how brazen Tom has been to belittle you and Jack in front of her. 

You swallow down the lump in your throat and reach for her hand. “Well, I will talk to your dad about that, okay?” You try to keep your voice calm and smooth, but you’re bubbling with anger beneath the skin. 

“Tom.” Phoebe corrects you, and it’s clear that she’s not going to drop this. 

You purse your lips, heart twisting and breaking at the thought of what’s unfolding in her clever little mind. 

“Tom.” You agree.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

ahhh ok so what did we think of jack's cheeky blowjob and the fact that phoebe is now calling her dad TOM :((( there is a lot to happen in the next two chapters so buckle tf up!! again, thank you SO much for your guys' continuous and unwavering support on this series, sending you all big fat smooches!!

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

tag list:

@gennywennypenny / @thefemininemystiquee / @mrsjgbuck / @linnyalou / @rathatosy 

@averyhotchner / @blackirisesinthesunlight / @vicky066 / @amacphet / @gaypoetsblog 

@littlewolfbird / @woodxtock / @myescapefromthislife / @freakedtfout4 / @whatyagottado 

@kaitieskidmore97 / @what-the-jams / @ryannnleigh / @freshouttheslammmer / @theaskeeps

@whimsilverhand / @yiiiikesmish / @kacananda / @solastasims / @stardustdd 

@cestmoijola / @xh444 / @venus584 / @celestialceremonials / @jordz34

@milflover-72 / @melissa66orion / @peaches-and-sunshine / @profoundbelieverpeach / @maya-j0y

@unsaidjaelinrose / @deathbyvexs / @4ria790 / @jayjay-218 / @slipfastrry 

@novamiss / @themarvelousbee / @stardustworlds / @magi999 / @sarahhxx03 

@memeorydotcom / @laughsandlivia / @1dhoe93 / @cerberus101 / @moonjellyfishie

[snoopysupe]

SOFT CENTER — Brendon ‘The Shark’ Park 

summary: you think about all the times brendon park has been good to you whilst others question if he could ever partake in a relationship. (wc: 2.3k)

pairing: brendon ‘the shark’ park / pitt!f!reader

content: fluff. secret relationship with the pitt’s shark. grumpy x sunshine duo. pilates princess!reader?? 100% park the shark ooc because i didn’t watch all of the season & he’s on for all of 1 minute lmao.

dedicating this draft to @novatheory for dragging me by the collar back into the pitt obsession

“Do you think he ever feels anything other than bitter resentment?” 

You peered over the monitor you had been using to compete in the catch up with Santos on your charting—something Dr. Al-Hashimi took great pride in addressing from time to time. Whitaker and Javadi had their elbows leant against the work station, whilst Santos pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets from the mild distraction caused by her peers. 

(Safe to say, you were winning the catch up game. Well, until your interest had piqued too.) 

Fingers paused on the keyboard, you awaited the conversation to strike up against after a pregnant pause. 

Whitaker hummed, “I think he just stares at a wall when he goes home.” 

Who were they talking about? You craned your neck to look into Trauma One, where—from your seated position—you could only make out a green fleece and rounded shoulders. 

“Dr. Robby?” You dove into the discussion head first. Three sets of eyes turned to the sound of your voice, and you managed to return the blank look on their faces. “Are you talking about Dr. Robby?”

It would make sense. You weren’t partial to the knowledge that Dr. Robby could hold an immense amount of resentment, and spend his spare time boring his eyes into the blank slate of a bedroom wall. There was a great depth of sadness behind those brown eyes and weathered features that would wrinkle in amusement any time you spoke.

Dr. Robby liked you. A breath of fresh air in an all-too-consuming atmosphere that often felt like the walls were closing in with no exit in sight. In spite of this, you weren’t immune to his wrath of a bad day and unaddressed mental health problems that he struggled to pin down. 

However, it didn’t entirely make sense for the three musketeers loitering at the work station, to be putting negative connotations on their nuanced Chief Attending; that often gave them the benefit of the doubt. 

Santos rubbed at her forehead, speaking lowly, “No. They’re talking about Park the Shark.” 

Now, that was a name that made you forget about the looming deadline of your charting. 

Park the Shark. The rather foreboding entity that bestowed his abrasive presence within the ED when he was called down from Orthopaedics to leer over a case. Broad shouldered with sharp facial features and an attitude that would silence a room rather than liven it up. Some would assign him to the adjective: arrogant. 

If you were playing the same crossword, you much preferred the noun: boyfriend. 

(Something that wasn’t common knowledge to the hub of gossip in the PTMC.)

Your smile grew wickedly. Nothing quite like hearing your boyfriend of five months and ten days catching strays whilst inspecting a broken femoral bone alongside Dr. Robby. 

“Oh—” You started, standing from your spot to join Whitaker and Javadi with your half drunken coffee in one hand. You nudged Whitaker to move up, “—I’m sure he’s a kitten beneath all of that mean facade.” 

“Coming from the person who always gives people the benefit of the doubt?” Javadi laid her eyes on you with a playful smile, “Yeah. Your opinion is invalid. Look where that landed you last time.” 

Javadi was referring to the dicey situation you landed yourself in with a flighty forty-year old man with a bad burn and enough pills in his bloodstream to hallucinate that you were a six-foot threat holding a knife designed for his jugular. You had taken the case with a pep in your step, and a broad smile—because you wanted to help. The same friendly smile and dash of naivety that got wiped clean off your face when the man lunged at you with the intention to block your windpipes on a more permanent basis. 

It took Donnie, Robby and Jesse—with a couple of fists to the back from Dana—to pry the guy off of you. 

You scrunched your nose up at the memory. “Low-blow, Dr. J.” You took a sip from your straw, eyes trained on the large surface area of your boyfriend’s back as he manoeuvred around the patient. 

Javadi spoke again, “Can you imagine him in a relationship?” 

Yes. Yes, you could! 

By all means, Brendon Park was nothing short of a grouch. Low-browed, body made up of ninety-nine percent brood, loathing things such as, his time being wasted, small talk; or long queues in traffic and in the stores on his rare day off.

The other one percent, though? All made for loving you.

When it came to you, Park the Shark—as he had been so graciously titled in the Pitt—was all softened edges and lack of authority in contrast to his razor-sharp reputation in the workplace. When Brendon Park was around you, doors would magically open, the caffeine addiction wouldn’t come with a small dent in your chequing account, and if you suddenly found the inspiration to invest in a herb garden at 9AM? Brendon Park conjured up a green-thumb and made it happen. 

He would press a soft kiss to the back of your hand at stoplights, power through four episodes back-to-back of Love Island, despite finding it the most mind numbing piece of garbage that was ever thrown on TV. He would find the right angles for semi-planned candid photos for your Instagram feed, with zero means of protest. He would sweat through a Pilates class after some light teasing from you, that someone with his stature couldn’t possibly make it through an entire session. (He did, but he wasn’t far from quitting.) One time, in between sharing a bad takeaway and a movie that you had pleaded to watch, Brendon tried out your LED face-mask that you had bought on a whim. 

Just because you asked him to. 

Let’s not even address what had happened behind a closed curtain and the aggressor of your attack, when Park had found out upstairs. 

Which, funnily enough, had been the pinnacle moment in where you began to realise how deep Park’s feelings ran for you.

1.) Because what business did an OR surgeon have with a man under the influence of narcotics and a bad burn on his forearm? And 2.) Because it hadn’t always been smooth sailing seas to the heart of the Shark hunting the shallow waters of the ER.

“You’re like a cockroach.” Park had stated with a yank of his latex glove. He had been brought down with Garcia, and quickly realised that he was surrounded by incompetent butchers, which only furthered his impatience when you approached him with the sunniest disposition and a mouthful of conversation for him.

It seemed that you were the only person in the entirety of the PTMC that would rush to the opportunity to speak to the infamous, Park the Shark. Your consistency was a little vexing, because Park didn’t exude the whole ‘please talk to me!’ vibe, in fact, the only other thing than work that he put effort into; was being closed off. 

(Didn’t mean he shut off the ability to recognise a visually astounding resident.) 

You placed a hand to your chest in faux-flattery, “Thank you, Park.” 

“It wasn’t a compliment.” 

Despite wanting to project a healthy amount of space between him and you, Park still made sure to hold the door open by his foot until you sauntered past him. You flashed him a mischievous grin in passing, “The symbolism of a cockroach is that they’re resilient. They thrive even in the most extreme environments.” 

With his palm held beneath the dispenser, Park didn’t spare you as much as a glance as he scoffed, rubbing the spit of sanitiser up to his wrists before stalking over to the stairs to retreat back into the confines of the OR. 

You had watched him go, calling out to him before he disappeared, “I’ll be ready with more animal facts for whenever you’re needed down here!” 

And, you did exactly that. 

Any snippet caught of Park the Shark lurking in the murky waters of the ED with a hardened expression and little time for pleasantries, you were there with useless facts on a vast array of animals. It started off vague, and then you thought it would be fitting to only present shark facts to the local grump. 

The first fact had been met with a brief look up and down in utter silence. The second time, you had matched his strides toward Trauma Two and uttered that capybaras made great companions to alligators which earned you a shake of the head, and a slight curl of his lip—something you would have missed, if you hadn’t been inspecting his facial expressions. The third, fourth and fifth time, Brendon Park could be considered a hypocrite. No apparent time for small talk, but now, he would find himself slowing his walk whenever you giddily rounded the work station to do your fair share of sugar talking. 

A man of few words spoke a great deal when it came to his actions. 

So, when Park the Shark idled up next to you with his hands braced against the edge of the countertop, and a thunderous face; anyone might have presumed you were about to receive an earful. 

(You hoped not. This was the day that, just hours prior, a patient had you in a chokehold.) 

“Female sharks have evolved to have skin that is three times thicker than male sharks.” Park uttered the fact to you, whilst his eyes softened remarkably under the intrusive lighting overhead. 

You blinked, not expecting him to partake in your adolescent game. “I—Uh…”

“All good?” He interjected. 

“Yeah…Yeah, I’m good.” You swallowed, cringing when the reminder of the assault struck a sharp pain down your throat. You smiled meekly.   

Park gave a curt nod, “It’s been dealt with.” And, then he knocked his knuckles against the surface top and parted through the sea of nurses and patients. 

You were left utterly bedazzled. 

Dana Evans, who stood close by and had no intentions of minding her business when she witnessed the lonesome Shark prowling about her ED, swimming up to one of the fresh-faced residents with all the suaveness he could muster from his cold exterior; simply let out an impressed chuckle, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder to give it a quick squeeze. 

You tilted your chin up to stare at the mother figure of the Pitt. 

“You did it, kid.” Her accent thick as she spoke into your ear, “You’ve caught a shark.” 

The charge nurse was then subjected to a tight-lip and a nonchalant shrug if anyone—like Perlah or Princess—queried Park the Shark’s regular attendance in the ED, even when he was not required. She turned a blind eye to the coffees delivered under your name with a cryptic note that had been left for your deciphering only. And, when you adorned a cute little shark pin on your badge…well, Dana Evans bit her tongue and diverted her attention to what mattered.

The only thing Dana had commented on was that, against all stereotypes of the big bad boyfriend and bubbly girlfriend, she had become privy to the knowledge that Brendon Park liked his luminous green matcha and you liked your black coffee; this was after she had caught you sneaking a kiss with the intimidating OR figure before your shift started, both grappling onto your drinks of choice from the local coffee shop a few blocks down the road. 

It was also the first time Dana had ever seen a smile on Park’s face. (Something she thought about for the rest of her shift, because clearly, you were doing something right to soften that concrete shell of his.) 

So, as a collective, Brendon Park exceeded all expectations for a man who severely lacked the traits of a social butterfly. He was a man that proved that being mean to the world never encroached into the space of when it came to loving his girl. 

And, you were being loved right.

With all this thought about having a magnitude of gratitude for the hostile OR surgeon that made enough space for you and your bizarre animal facts to slot into his life, you watched as Park peeled the latex gloves from his hands and exited the room that Dr. Robby remained in for a few moments more. His hand—as everyone’s routinely did—came to the sanitiser dispenser; eyes scoping the chaotic scenes of the Pitt until he managed to find you amongst the other residents. 

No animal facts today, big guy. 

You took a sip of your coffee. 

Park tilted his chin at you when he began to rub the sanitiser into the callus of his hands. There was not a singular hint of a smile, but from the intensity of his stare, you could presume his thoughts were far from the means of child friendly.

(Neither of you had the desire to catch a HR case with Glorida Underwood. So, the PDA of it all stayed within the confines of the PTMC car park, or either of your apartments.)

“He’s looking right at us.” Javadi muttered under her breath, body turned to face Whitaker—who was quick to busy himself with his watch—and you from the side to prevent the obvious staring you had all been doing. 

Park began to wade through the ED, eyes set on you as he made his way back to the stairs—because he didn’t have time for elevators. You spoke to him through the subtlety of facial expressions, and he exchanged yours for a brief wink which made your skin prickle with heat.

He disappeared to the staircase, and your phone brightened up in your scrub pockets. 

Sharky (4:26pm): You’re beautiful. Love Island tonight. 

Yeah. You thought. Who could ever tame a shark like that?  

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

10 people you'd like to get to know — .ᐟ

thank you so much to one of my FAV writers @deathreverse for the tag ! finally doing this lmfao

last song: cigarette smoke by olivia rodrigo (this song DESTROYS ME)

currently watching: love island :P and summer house

current obsession: coloring!!! my mental health needs it lol i love the cocowyo books

currently reading: rites of the starling -- sequel to shield of sparrows which was FIRE

currently working on: i want to write for park the shark bc i am OBSESSED w him rn, so plotting rn. if anyone has good recs send em my way

currently wearing: a blue sweater and sweats

last google search: rites of the starling LMFAO bc i couldnt remember the name of the sequel #real

favorite flower: tulips <3

sorry if anyone has already been tagged and done this!! @tw1sters @rorysdead @thehawkeyes @callmefatherr @voidsagent @errricaparrrker @romantic-insomniac @moodyabbott @abbotly @abbotitts

[thelightofday]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 — b. park ᥫ᭡

summary: an accident with a familiar, brooding ortho surgeon has you exploring an unlikely connection.

contents: 18+ minors DNI fm reader, no use of y/n, power imbalance (nurse reader/attending ortho surgeon), unspecified age gap, mentions of head trauma/concussions/medical procedures, jack abbot using pet names, swearing, drinking, oral (f/m receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, reader has a praise kink, use of the pet name ‘bunny’, slight choking, reader is fairly nondescript besides mentions of having long-ish hair. nasty and self indulgent bc i need that big mean man!!

wc: 7.6k

dividers by @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼

a/n— this is not yet proofread, please excuse any typos pls!

You were almost certain this wasn’t the right hallway.

Realization crept in somewhere between the identical looking beige walls and the third “Authorized Personnel Only” sign you’d passed in the last two minutes. Everything looked the same. Same floors, same lights. Directional signs all ran together, and suddenly your head was spinning.

You’d been working at PTMC for right at a year, but venturing out of the ED was rare. Each time you had to do it ended up the same— an extra ten minutes added onto whatever trip you were taking because you got lost. You were far more familiar with small, rural hospitals.

Your ID badge bounced lightly against your chest with every hurried step, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek. A familiar nervous habit. It didn’t help that it was nearing four in the morning and the familar buzz of caffeine in your system from the energy drink you’d chugged thirty minutes prior had you moving a little faster than normal. You were jittery and starting to panic a little and oh! Familar double doors came into view and you immediately thanked your lucky stars you hadn’t had to ask anyone for help to get back to the ED, shoulders dropping as you visibly relaxed.

Picking up your pace, you nervously tugged at your badge reel. Surely Abbot was about to send out a search party for you if you didn’t return in the next five minutes.

Hurrying through the wooden double doors, you turned down yet another corridor, finally familiar with where you were. Your eyes fell to your feet for just a moment. Only one more door until—

WHAM!

You’d been walking too fast to hear the click of the handle, or register the large stairwell door swinging open.

You only feel the sudden, stinging impact of metal meeting your head, followed by a delightfully ungraceful stumble backward that somehow manages to be both dramatic and deeply humiliating. You’re on your ass in less than a second, your right hand flying to your face as a string of profanities spew from your chapped lips.

“Jesus Christ.” A familar voice mumbles, and then he’s on his knees next to you, tugging to pull your hand away from your face to check for bleeding. “You alright?” He asks, voice tense. Park.

Certainly there were other people you’d have rather hit you with a large metal door than him. But it wasn’t everyday that something brought the six-foot-something ortho surgeon to his knees.

You blink hard, trying to orient yourself through the pain, your ears suddenly ringing. “Do I look alright?” You hiss, snatching your wrist from him, hot tears suddenly threatening to fall. You manage to meet his eyes, his expression emotionless as usual. Lacking any visible concern or regret.

“You look like you’re about to pass out, actually.” He replies sarcastically, gripping a shoulder to steady you as you sway a little. And admittedly, you are a little more dizzy than you’d like to be because this could definitely be a concussion or intracranial hemorrhage or—

“Hey.” Park’s voice cuts through your racing internal monologue and fuck you’re annoyed. He’s painfully aware of the panic in your squinted eyes and the way you’re growing paler, cheeks burning red from embarrassment. “Can you stand up? You need to get checked out.”

“Yes, I can stand up.” The words come out harsher than you mean them to, and as big and bad as you sound, your actions unfortunately don’t hold their end of the bargain. You’re slow to fully stand, clumsily swaying as you smack a hand against the wall for leverage. And there’s the nausea.

“Alright, up you go.” Park huffs, sweeping you into his arms in a quick motion, surprisingly not earning any protest from you— only a pained sound. “Don’t even think about vomiting on me.” He says quickly, carrying you with ease through the short corridor until a door opens and you’re met with the familiar sounds of the ED.

You slump against his broad chest, the beaming fluorescent lights only making you feel sicker. That and the strong smell of antiseptic.

Park is desensitized to the looks of fear he usually gets when he marches into the ED for a consult. But these— the ones he receives when he enters with a nurse in his arms.. were very different.

“What the fuck?” Abbot calls, slinging his stethoscope around his neck as he rushes over to Park. “What happened?”

“She walked into the door I was opening— smacked her head pretty hard.” Park grumbles, clearly unamused. He’s still cradling you, his expression almost cracking when you sniffle, clearly in a lot of pain.

“What the hell, hun?” Abbot taps your leg but you avoid his eyes, stuck somewhere between pure embarrassment and searing pain. “Let’s get her to a room.”

So, Park follows, avoiding the many eyes on him as he carries you with ease through the bustling ED.

As soon as you’re sat on the stretcher, you whine. “I feel sick.”

“Okay, okay.” Jack’s voice is soothing as he reaches for a emesis bag, handing it to you quickly before he snaps a pair of gloves on. Your heavy eyes meet his own as he leans over you, fingers prodding at the growing bump on your forehead. “She lose consciousness?” He asks Park who’s leaned against a nearby wall looking annoyingly nonchalant as he mumbles a quick ‘nope’.

Jack reaches for his penlight, retrieving it from his shirt pocket in a quick motion. “Let’s see those eyes, sweets.” The nickname settles deep in your stomach, nearly making you smile a little. You wince at the bright light, following his instruction as he raises a finger and urges you to follow it with your eyes. He shakes his head after, dropping the light back into his pocket as he looks at you. “Pupils are a little sluggish. I don’t like that.” He clicks his tongue. “Let’s get you a head CT, yeah? Make sure nothing is happening that we can’t see.”

You groan, letting your head fall back onto the stretcher, and regretting it immediately when pain shoots through your skull.

“I’m gonna handle this consult real quick.” Park speaks up, starting for the door. “Let me know how she does.”

Jack nods, sitting on the edge of the stretcher as the monotone surgeon exits the room. He glances over his shoulder to make sure Park is gone, then back at you with a goofy look on his face.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see him walk into my ED with one of my nurses in his arms.” Jack chuckles, and you muster a weak laugh that turns into more of a whimper.

“I hate him.”

Jack smiles. “He means well. And I don’t think you hate him.. You don’t look at him like you hate him...”

“Jack, don’t.” You huff. “He seemed more inconvenienced than worried.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just Park.” Jack pats your shoulder, sympathetic.

The next few hours blur together. Between the steady pounding in your head and the way you keep replaying the painfully embarrassing accident in your head, it’s hard to focus on anything. It’s nearing shift change when your head CT results finally return, and thankfully Abbot says you’re all clear. No fractures, no bleeding, no swelling. Just a gnarly bruise forming on the right side of your forehead— and on your ego too, probably.

All is well for a while. You’re accepting the day off tomorrow that Jack mentions you’ll have out of precaution. The embarrassment eventually starts to ease, along with the pain. You’re waiting to be discharged, curled up on the stretcher when you hear footsteps. Heavy footsteps. You almost flinch because you know it’s Park. It’s almost as if he sensed your moment of peace and had set out determined to ruin it.

You meet his eyes, and when he doesn’t talk you give him a look that says ‘I’m waiting’..

He steps closer, letting the door close. “CT clear?”

“Yeah.” You mutter, turning towards him a little. “Thankfully you didn’t give me a brain bleed.”

You notice the way his jaw clenches. “I could’ve left you on the floor you know. Walked away.” He seethes. “I’m not responsible for you not watching where you’re going.”

Rolling your eyes, you fake a smile. “Thank you for saving me in my time of need Dr. Park.”

“Everytime I’ve seen you down here you’ve always been so cheerful. Interesting to see your true colors now.” He nods, returning the sarcastic smile. And you think it’s the first time you’ve seen any sort of expression besides a blank stare from him.

You let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m just having a bad night.”

“And you’re taking it out on me?” He asks, leaning up against the wall.

“Coming from the person who is constantly a dick during consults.” You retort.

Thankfully, Abbot entering the room ends your playful pissing match. He’s holding a few papers, and raises a brow at the sight of the two of you clearly having some sort of moment. “Right— you ready to go?”

You start to slowly sit up. “Dying to.”

“Well, you two be safe and I’ll be texting you to check in.” Jack says, pointing a finger at you.

You blink. “You two?”

“Park is taking you home right? He offered.” Jack smiles a little. “Surely you didn’t think I’d let you drive with a possible concussion, sweets.”

Something bubbles up in your chest. It’s not anger, but rather something you can’t exactly put your finger on. You close your eyes for a second, looking up at Park next with furrowed brows. He shrugs. “You were too busy fussing at me— I didn’t get the chance to mention it.”

“I can take an uber.” You protest, shaking your head.

“Let me take you home.” He sounds annoyed, but then again— that seems to be his normal. “It’s the least I can do since apparently I intentionally hit you with the door, right?”

And you unfortunately laugh a little at that. The sound eats Park alive, and he’s suddenly mentally cursing himself at the feeling. He’d always seen you. Noticed you more than the other nurses or residents. Not only were you clearly quite a bit younger than him, but you were bubbly— a stark contrast to himself. You seemed fearless, and maybe that alone intrigued him a little. Though, having only spoken to you a handful of times, he didn’t truly know you. And he didn’t expect that to change.

So, at the sight of you climbing into his SUV, he’s interested. Observant. You take in your surroundings, straight faced as your eyes rake over the spotless interior of his Porsche Cayenne. He hands you his phone without a word, clearly wanting you to put in your address.

You glance at him after, smiling a little when you hand it back to him. “This is somehow exactly what I pictured you driving.”

“Yeah?” He looks both ways as he turns a corner in the parking garage.

“Mhm.” You hum, eyeing his side profile before you turn your gaze forward.

“How are you feeling now?” He eyes you for a second next, and you’re genuinely surprised the typically cold surgeon is making small talk. You’d pictured a silent drive, uncomfortable even. But then again, he was probably just asking questions out of pity.

“Better.” You confirm, voice soft. “Head still hurts a little but that’s to be expected I guess.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you weren’t paying attention and I opened the door fast.” Park says, and is he smirking a little?

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You’re such an ass.”

“So they say.” He half-smiles, long fingers moving to flip the turn signal. Your eyes shamelessly rake along his hands. His livelihood. Large and thick. Prominent veins on top. You blink, averting your eyes back to the road yet again and leaning your head on the headrest.

“Thank you for driving me.” You speak up, following a few moments of silence, your apartment building coming into view.

“Where should I park?” He asks, slowing the car. Your hands are busy gathering your belongings, and you don’t even look his way when you mutter “You can just stop at the front, I’ll get out there.”

“Where should I park for a few hours, genius.” He corrects, meeting your eyes.

You shoot him a confused look. “Hours?”

“I’m not leaving you alone with a concussion.”

“Possible concussion.” You correct, just wanting to be in your bed already. “I probably don’t even have one and I’m fine. You don’t have to stay. Plus I have very nosey roommates.”

“Abbot told me not to leave you alone.” Park stares at you blankly, convinced he’s going to win this. He’s pulled the car to the curb now, one hand still on the steering wheel.

Fucking Jack Abbot— he absolutely did this shit on purpose.

You sigh, exasperated. “I’ll be fine.”

“Either you let me stay, or you go pack a bag and you come stay with me.” He commands, and you’re about to bust a fucking blood vessel.

“Okay, okay.” You huff. “You can’t stay here. We don’t have an extra bed and someone’s crashing on our couch for the weekend.”

“So go pack a bag.” He says simply, shooing you. “Do I need to walk you up?”

“I’ve got it.” You grumble, carefully climbing out of the car and hoisting your bag over your shoulder, trying not to slam the door even though you’d love to right now.

It isn’t until you’re in the elevator that you fish your phone from your pocket, cursing into the empty space as you type a message to none other than Abbot.

You: Why did you tell this man not to let me stay alone!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I HATE YOUUUU

He replies almost immediately.

Jack: Well that’s easy. Because you don’t need to stay alone 🙂

You: I think I’m gonna block you 🤭

Jack: Have fun sweets!

It was well past seven in the morning now, and closing in on seventeen hours that you’d been awake. Not to mention the head trauma. You had minimal energy left and you weren’t gonna spend it arguing with Park. You’d get a few hours of sleep and then he’d take you to pick up your car. It seemed manageable.

And so, you watched with sleepy eyes a half hour later as his black SUV pulled into the driveway of a large brick house, nestled in a quaint neighborhood outside of the city. You could tell he was just as tired, both of you silent as he parked in the garage.

You followed him in without a word, watching him toss his keys in a nearby basket. His home was modern, but cozy. Exquisitely neat. Nothing looked out of place. It even smelled clean. You glanced around, impressed.

“I’ll show you the guest bedroom.” Park said lowly, words laced with exhaustion.

You nodded simply, following him up a flight of stairs.

“Bathroom is here.” He pointed, still walking. “There’s clean towels on the rack and some of my sister’s products in the cabinet you can use if you want or need to. Spare toothbrush in the drawer— Oh, and Tylenol too. If you need anything else just let me know. And if you don’t feel good, call me.” As he finishes, he swings open the door to a large spare room.

“Thank you.” You smile politely, offering him a small nod.

He acknowledges you with a hum, heading down the hallway, itching to get out of his scrubs.

You decide on a quick shower, hoping the steaming water will relax your aching muscles. And then, you’re crawling into cool linen sheets, sighing at the feeling of the soft mattress. It’s not your bed, but boy is it doing the job. Such a good job in fact, that you don’t even recall drifting off.

When you come to hours later, the sound of distant thunder greets you, gloomy skies allowing a slight darkness to fall over the room, rain tapping softly against a nearby window. Then, you smell coffee. You stretch a little, wincing when your forehead brushes against the pillow, a reminder of what you’re sure has turned into a nasty bruise. Your bare feet meet the cool hardwood as you stand up, tugging on some leggings before heading to the bathroom.

Crossing the hallway, you immediately head for a mirror, and audibly groan when you flick the light on and catch a glimpse of your head. Bruised indeed. A nasty purple and yellow bruise at that, one that thankfully wasn’t too large but was absolutely noticeable. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you begin to pad down the stairs. And there was Park, looking much more presentable than yourself, on the couch with some sort of medical journal because ofcourse he reads those. A pair of dark glasses perched on his perfect nose. He looked edible. So painfully domestic.

You can’t help the nervousness that blooms in you when he looks up, eyes following you as you walk towards the opposite end of the sectional he’s seated on.

“Sleep good?” He asks, eyes locking onto your bruise.

“Feel like I just woke up from a coma.” You chuckle. “So yeah.”

“Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurred vision?” He inquires next, sitting his book down.

“No, Dr. Park.” You hum, tone dripping with sarcasm. “I feel fine. Just sore.”

“Fair enough.” He nods, moving to stand up from the couch. “I’m gonna cook dinner. You okay with pasta?”

You just look at him for a moment. “And when are you going to take my back to my car?”

“It’s about to storm pretty heavy. Staying another hour or two won’t kill you, you know?” He looks back before he disappears into the kitchen. You huff, moving to follow him.

“I feel like I’m overstaying my welcome.” You say as you breach the doorway, voice wary. His kitchen is beautiful, one you could only dream of cooking in. Gorgeous marble countertops and dark cabinets. Sparkling appliances.

He plants his large hands on the kitchen counter, looking at you with that look he frequently sports at the hospital. One that typically strikes fear in people. “You are not overstaying your welcome, nor are you bothering me in any way. So can you let me be nice to you?”

You nearly physically recoil. “Not used to you being nice, but I guess I’ll take it.”

He nearly smiles a little at your reply, eyes softening. You can’t help the way your eyes float along his sharp features, then along the broad expanse of his clothed back when he turns toward the refrigerator.

“Glass of wine?” He offers.

“Will that help my alleged concussion?”

You hear him chuckle as he retrieves two crystal stemless wine glasses from a nearby cabinet. “You claim you don’t have one, so why do you ask?”

Darn him for being just as much of a smartass as you are and darn you for enjoying it.

You bite at your lip a little, fighting a smile as you watch him place a glass of red wine before you. Settling onto a barstool, you pull the glass closer, humming a quick ‘thank you’.

“You cook often?” And now you’re the one fueling the small talk.

“I try to.” He says, shuffling around to gather ingredients from the fridge, then a pan and some utensils. “It’s one of the few things that keep me sane.”

You laugh a little, taking a swig of the wine, playfully swirling the glass afterward. “And what are the others?”

“Mmm, the gym.” He starts. “Running. Reading. Hitting people with doors…”

And you’re giggling, the sound making something twist deep inside him. He switches on the stove, turning to lean on the counter and watch you afterward. He drinks you in. Your slightly messy hair that dances along your shoulders. Oversized teeshirt, clearly worn for sleep only. Gnarly bruise on your forehead that somehow you make look good. It’s different here. Out of scrubs. Out of a bustling hospital. He’s never gotten the chance to truly look at you, and he’s starting to hate the way you fit in so effortlessly in his kitchen. In his house.

“I like seeing you like this.” You admit sheepishly, a playful smile tugging at your lips. Almost as if you’d read his mind.

He blinks, crossing his arms. “Like what?”

“Not so mean.” You chuckle. “Relaxed. Making jokes. Trying not to smile even though you want to.”

“Maybe I like everyone thinking I’m mean.” He teases in return.

You lick your lips after taking another swig, and he can’t help but notice. “Seems like you’re just misunderstood.”

Park shrugs, smiling a little as he turns back to the stove, trying to silently convince himself that you aren’t having any effect on him. Because fuck, you’re cute. You’re clever and funny and so easy to talk to.

You keep talking, feeding your want to know more about the mysterious surgeon. And it doesn’t stop there. The conversation flows through dinner and beyond. When you’re watching him wash dishes (ones he wouldn’t let you help with because you’re a guest..) and when you take to the couch afterward. When he learns you’re afraid of storms because you jump at a crack of thunder, despite how loose you feel from the wine.

Before you know it, it’s totally dark outside and you’re still talking. The bottle of wine is long gone, and you’re purely giddy. It had been too long since you’d opened up to someone the way you did with him. Your roommates weren’t much for talking, usually retreating to their rooms as soon as they arrrived. To be fair, you’d met them in a ‘searching for Pittsburgh roommates’ group on Facebook and nobody bothered to really get to know each other. You’d spent so much time alone recently that you were shocked how euphoric it felt to simply hang out with someone. Park the Shark of all people, at that. The two of you were an unlikely combo, yet surprisingly had a lot in common.

Once you’d covered work, college, family, siblings, hobbies, etcetera— you retreat to the bathroom, slightly buzzed and accepting the fact that Park hadn’t mentioned anything else about taking you home. Likely due to the storm and he obviously wasn’t going to drink and drive now.

So, when you return to the living room to all the lights dimmed and the sounds of hockey flowing from the tv, you sit closer to him without a second thought. After all, your view was better there— or atleast you told yourself that. He doesn’t mention it, but he notices the way you’ve inched closer, sprawled out next to him now, reaching for a nearby throw blanket.

And for the first time in a while, he’s truly content.

Content enough to fall asleep apparently. The long hours of shift work that frequently rotate are a pain, and Park has mastered the art of falling asleep just about anywhere. But he can’t remember the last time he fell asleep infront of the tv. When he opens his eyes he starts to stretch, mind in a sleepy haze. The TV is still playing Pens highlights, even though the game is long over. Rain is still falling outside. And you— you’re curled up next to him, head resting on his leg. Chest rising and falling every few seconds, mouth partially open. He blinks, just watching you for a moment, reaching a hand out without thinking to push some hair from your face. That alone makes you stir. You’ve always been a light sleeper.

You twitch, breathing in as your eyes blink open. It registers quickly, the way your head is resting on the soft material of his sweatpants. Sucking in a breath, you move to start sitting up, hand flying to where your head is aching. Likely from where you’d been laying on your bruise.

“You okay?” Park asks, sitting up and adjusting his shirt.

“Yeah.” You breathe. “Sorry, I don’t remember falling asleep.”

“Stop apologizing.” He chastises. “I don’t either.”

Tapping at his phone, his eyes are met with the time. 1:47.

“Want to get in bed?” He doesn’t mean the way it sounds like an invitation.

You rub your legs together, still cozy beneath the blanket. “I’m comfy.” You groan. It’s a weak protest, but not a lie. You can’t help the way you shamelessly itch to lean back into him, and for once you don’t fight yourself. Without a word he lifts his arm, accepting your presence as you curl into his side. He kicks his feet up and leans his head back, something happening in his chest at the feel of you pressed against him. Fuck.

Letting out a long relaxed breath, you look up at him, eyes meeting his jawline and neck, then locking with his own when he moves to look down at you. Your stomach flips, heat ripping through you at the proximity of his face to yours. Then his eyes flicker down to your lips, and that’s when you know. You know he wants to kiss you. Everything feels heavier, especially the way his hand rests on your back, fingers starting to trace over the soft fabric of your teeshirt.

Neither of you dare speak a word, eyes saying everything that needs to be said. Park watches your tongue peek out to wet your lips, and he immediately starts to move in, giving you ample time to pull away even though he’s sure you won’t. And when you grab at his shirt, moving in a little yourself, he seals the deal.

Your lips meet, pressing firmly together, neither of you in any rush. Just taking in the feeling. Inching closer, you don’t dare pull away. His hand moves to slide against your jaw, holding firm as your lips leisurely move with his. When his tongue slides against yours you can’t help the way your thighs press together. You let out a small whine into his mouth, one that does not go unnoticed. Infact, the oh so pretty sound starts playing on a loop in Park’s head and he’s a goner.

He hadn’t dreamt of stopping until you moved to climb into his lap. Raising a hand, he pulls back to look at you.

“We shouldn’t.” He says softly, his rational side taking over.

But then, you’re pressing a kiss to his jaw. Then another. One leg sliding along his lap as you climb onto him.

“But do you want to?” You breathe.

He swallows. “You know I want to.”

“So yeah, we probably shouldn’t— but what if we want to?” You say softly, pressing yet another feather soft kiss to the spot right blow his ear. He groans a little, moving a hand to gently grab at the back of your neck and pull your lips back to his.

The way you move together is effortless, but growing increasingly messy. Teeth starting to clash. Tongues fighting. And when you roll your hips against his, the noise he lets out against your lips is sinful. Breaking apart, he runs his hands through the hair on the side of your head.

“You’re trouble.” His voice is deep, taunting. “Grinding against me all needy, huh?” Lips dancing along your ear as he speaks. Chills roll over you, heart fluttering. You move your hips against his lap again, relishing in the way his hands fly to your sides, your lips meeting yet again. The feeling of him hard beneath you only spurs you on, whimpering into his mouth when your clothed core slides directly over the length of him through his sweats.

“Shit.” He spits, deep voice floating around you. “You’re determined, huh?”

“Maybe I wanna torture you a little.” You purr, forehead pressing to his, careful to avoid your bruise. “As payback.”

“This isn’t the same kind of pain, baby.” He chuckles. “You should be focused on your head injury, not me.”

“Can you stop being responsible Park for twenty minutes?” You look at him, that sweet little smile doing a number on him.

“Which Park do you want right now then?” He teases, shifting beneath you, painfully hard.

“The one that fucks me.”

He’s nearly choking at your words, tangling his hand in your hair and yanking your head back in response. “Used to getting what you want, aren’t you? Stubborn little fucking brat.”

You mewl at his harsh words, eyes fluttering when he drags his teeth along your throat, hot lips leaving wet kisses along the sensitive skin. He’s so much stronger and bigger, hands ghosting wherever they touch, keeping you right where he wants you. Watching you as you helplessly grind over him again. He grips your hair tighter. “Use your words or we’re done here.”

“Want you, please.”

“Want me how?”

You sigh at the feeling of his lips on your pulse point. “Want you to touch me.”

“M’ already touching you, baby.” He reminds you, so fucking annoying.

You grunt, frustrated, and he releases his tight grip on your hair. Returning to his waiting gaze, your eyes are soft, lips plush and swollen from his kiss. “Want you to make me cum.” You say next, voice timid. “Please.”

He pushes some hair behind your ear. “Yeah?” His tone is laced with faux pity, almost mocking. Hips steady as you continue to rock against him, your breaths unsteady.

“I think you can cum like this.” He counters, grip tight on your waist. Neither of you had yet to shed any clothing, and you didn’t mind. He was right, the friction was delicious. “Think you can, baby? Think you can cum from rubbing that pussy against me?”

You clench around nothing, heat bubbling in your chest as you whine. “Just want you.” And you’re begging so pretty, calm little voice filling his ears, thick with want. Before you can form a coherent thought, you’re being lifted. Park’s hands cradle the underside of your thighs, letting you wrap your legs around him as he starts to venture toward the stairs. Your arms snake around his neck, giggling a little as he stumbles around a table.

Moments later when you’re being gently sat on the edge of his bed, you can’t help but glance around at his room. Neat and spacious. Black out curtains. Dark comforter beneath you. It’s so him. His familiar scent dances around you, your eyes floating up to watch him yank at his shirt.

“Lay back.” He instructs with ease, so used to being in charge. Spitting commands and watching everyone obey. You want to playfully object just to see where it gets you, but you listen instead, and his long fingers are gripping at the waistband of your leggings. He makes quick work of dragging them off, sighing in defeat at the sight of your simple grey panties, the obvious dark patch of wetness on the crotch mocking him.

“You wet from just a little teasing, bunny?” Between the tone of his voice and the pet name that came out of nowhere, you think you might actually pass out. He taps at your knee, urging you to spread your legs. Warm hands slide along your thighs and you watch him settle onto his knees on the floor, yanking you with ease until your ass is right at the edge of his bed. The look in his eyes is sharp enough to kill, eyes cloudy with pure lust. Jaw tight in concentration as he runs a finger along the damp crotch of your panties. You hiss and whine at the contact, hips raising to chase his touch.

“Please.” You whimper, begging. “Want your mouth.”

“There she is.” He praises, satisfied with your communication. It takes no further persuasion, and he’s working to drag your panties down your legs, revealing you to him fully.

“Fucking perfect pussy.” He growls, pressing a kiss to your pubic bone. “Pretty little thing. You’re so pretty.”

“Park.” You plea, barely able to stay up on your elbows to watch his motions. Body weak with need.

“Brendon.” He corrects immediately, hot tongue flattening to lick a thick stripe up your pussy, and your head falls back. The sound that leaves you goes straight to his cock. So do the ones after it. He’s skilled in more ways than one, clearly. Experienced. You’re blissed out from his mouth alone, fingers gripping at the comforter beneath you. He watches your every movement, working with delicate precision, and it’s been so long that you’re embarrassingly close already. He can sense it by your breathing and movements, deciding to push his middle finger into you with ease. One finger shortly turns into two and your mouth is hanging open, eyes closed. When you start to squirm, he holds you down by your waist, mouth still working and two fingers plunging deep, curling up to hit the spot that nearly has you in tears.

“Ohmygodddd.” You mewl, reaching to claw at his forearm that’s pinning your hips to the bed, but he moves it to intertwine your fingers. It’s thoughtful, the way he tends to you. “S’ so good Bren.” The words leave you in a choked sob and his response is a long, deep hum against your pussy— and you’re done. Breath hitching, you wiggle a little, legs starting to shake as you helplessly dangle over the edge and he knows. Somehow he can read you. Sense exactly what you need. His fingers curl once more, oh so deep, and you’re crashing beneath him, a high pitched squeal leaving you and he’s totally entranced. Working like a starved man and not daring to stop as he drinks in the way you look when you fall apart. All by his doing. He swears it’s the hottest thing he’s ever witnessed, actually.

And when you’re trying to push him away because it’s all too much, he presses a sweet kiss to the inside of your thigh before he moves to stand up. You watch him in awe, and if you weren’t completely at his mercy before you definitely are now.

He laughs at little at your blissed out face as you eye him. “What?” He asks.

“I hate you.” You murmur. And it’s a lie, you both know it. A playful lie you’re just throwing around because how fucking dare he be so good at everything. Good looking and polite and considerate and talented. It’s not fair. Nothing about it is fair.

“You don’t hate me.” He smiles— a true smile as he starts to work at his sweatpants. You don’t try to tease any further, and he watches as you move to kneel infront of him, your hands moving to stop his. Then you continue his work, yanking at the stretchy material and leaving him in his dark briefs. You nearly salivate at the outline of his hard length through the material. That’s gonna hurt. The thought is there and gone, because you’re tugging them down next, eyes meeting his thick cock. He watches intently, teeth gnawing at the inside of his bottom lip as your much smaller hand wraps around the base of him. You press a kiss to the underside of the tip, eyes locked on his as you lick a stripe up the side teasingly.

He shakes his head a little because you’ve got him right where you want him and he knows it. When you take him into your mouth he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest and only spurring you on. You wanted to make him do it over and over again. A large hand brushes over the side of your face as you take him to your limit, starting to gag against him. “You’re so fucking good.” He breathes, moving to tangle his fingers into your hair again. Holding your hair up, he lets you work at your own pace, one that has him weak in the knees and muttering curses.

You’re relentless, taking him slow and deep until tears are brimming in your eyes and spit is starting to trickle down your chin. It’s a fucking sight. And he’s committed it to his memory forever, though a mental picture would never do the real thing justice. He pulls you off, admiring the string of spit that draws from your mouth that still connects you to his cock.

Up until now, you’d been pleasantly surprised at how soft he was being. The Park you’d shamelessly thought about more than a few times was far from a gentle lover. Though, your thoughts are interrupted by a rough manhandle that nearly has you squealing. He tosses you back onto the center of his bed, watching you bounce a little— and when he crawls over you next, he’s making quick work of your teeshirt that he wasn’t exactly sure why he hadn’t taken off of you yet.

The sight of your tits has his head spinning. Every part of you he’s gotten to see is perfect to him. He works his palm against one before pinching at the pebbled nipple. You writhe beneath him, so whiny. “Want you to fuck me, Bren.”

“You’re fucking bad.” He moves to growl in your ear, kissing at the lobe. “Dirty little fucking mouth on you. Took my cock so well, didn’t you?”

You nod a little, suddenly bashful at his praise. Pulling his face to yours, you kiss him. It’s rushed and messy, but you don’t mind a bit. Your manicured nails move to claw at Park’s biceps, and he hums against your mouth at the contact. When he pulls away, he just looks at you for a second, totally bare beneath him. Before you realize, he’s leaning down to your forehead to press a soft kiss to the dark purple bruise there.

Then, he’s adjusting himself between your legs, smacking the length of himself teasingly against your wetness. You just watch, gnawing at your lip when he lines up at your entrance. “Please be gentle.” You mumble out quickly, already wincing in preparation. His brain short circuits for half a second, and he silently curses himself for being too drunk on you to reach for a condom, but he trusts you and god— he wants to feel it all without any barrier.

“M’ not gonna hurt you, baby.” He promises. “You can take it.”

He starts to push in, aided by how soaked you were for him. You’re gripping at his arms, tense and eyes clamped shut at the stretch. He lowers himself, pressing his lips to your cheek. “That’s it, let me in.” You pulse around him at his words, leaning into his touch. He peppers your cheek and jaw with kisses as he continues to push in, slowly coming to a stop when he’s fully inside. It’s so fucking much you think you might just fall apart right then and there. Deep. Full.

“Mmm— there we go.” He coos, moving up again to admire the way you wrap around him when he slowly pulls out almost fully and then sheathes himself back inside.

You squirm, moans and whimpers flowing freely. “Fuckfuckfuck, s’ so big.”

“Yeah?” He presses his palms to the backside of your thighs, urging them higher until your knees are nearly up against your chest. “Taking it so well. I knew you would.” When he starts truly fucking into you, you’re a whining mess, fingers tangling into his comforter for leverage. He watches your hair scatter around you, painting the prettiest picture of you beneath him.

“Talk to me, baby.” He mumbles, urging you yet again to use your words but you’re so fucked out already you can hardly think.

“Feels so fucking good.” You cry, voice sounding pathetic.

“Yeah it does, bunny. You feel so good. Such a good fucking girl for me. Taking me like this.”

You never want him to stop talking. He speaks so eloquently. Fucking filthy and you’re obsessed.

His hips rock into yours at a devastating pace, a large hand reaching up to hold your throat. He presses gently, experimental almost, not enough to fully constrict your airway. Your eyes are lidded, blinking slow and he notices the tears in your eyes. He moves his hand to soothe against your cheek, worried for only a second until you offer him a weak smile to ease the concern on his face. And something about you feeling so good that you’re about to cry nearly makes him explode.

He lets go of your legs, feeling the warmth of your skin when you wrap them around his waist. Moving to kiss you, his hips continue to smack against you, the sounds of your wetness putting on a show. Your nails dig pretty little crescent moons into his large biceps, and you clench around him as you start to shatter. “Gonna cum on my cock, sweet baby? Huh?”

Your eyes nearly roll back in your head, his pace quickening when you nod, clinging to him. “Bren—”

“I know, bunny. I know.” He coos, smoothing your hair back. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock.”

You arch against him, body feeling like it’s suddenly shattered into a million tiny pieces. Hot tears rolling down the side of your face as you let out a long, broken whine. Vision blurring and hands clawing.

“There it is.” He drawls his words out, tone full of praise and admiration as he continues to slam into you, chasing his own high that’s burning through the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, Good fucking girl.”

You’re wrecked, absolutely spent as you cling to him, pulling him in for a long kiss, tongues thrashing.

“Where—” He starts to mumble, the rhythm of his thrusts growing messy.

You cut him off immediately, whimpering against his lips. “Inside.” You breathe. “Inside please, I’m on the pill.”

He groans, letting you hold him as he offers one more particularly hard thrust before he stills, fully burying himself deep inside, the warmth of him filling you. The sound he makes is otherworldly, a broken sounding growl. “Fuck, baby.” He whispers, staying buried in you as you both fight for air.

He lays there for a moment, skin sticking to your own. Breathing ragged. Then he presses one more sweet kiss to your lips before he slowly removes himself, exhaustion filling him as he heads for the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a damp rag. And he cleans you softly, the sight of it tugging at your heart. It’s so simple but it means so much.

“Go pee.” He nudges you next, the command swimming around your head.

With weak knees, you ease up and follow him into the bathroom.

You freshen up alongside him, neither of you speaking but rather finding comfort in each others presence alone.

And when you’re wrapped up in him again moments later, legs brushing along his as you settle beneath the cool sheets, you’re smiling. Smiling up at him, as sweet as honey.

“You alright?” He checks, hoping your head wasn’t bothering you again.

“I’m fine.” You assure him. “In fact, I think you healed me.”

“Oh, whatever.” He chuckles, pulling you closer.

It’s four days later when you see Park again. This time though, he’s marching into the ED for a consult. You were standing at the nurses station, and manage to spare him a quick glance before he disappears into Trauma 2. You’d spoken everyday, mostly by text. He’d promised to cook you dinner tonight, as it was the last day of a 3 day stretch. A proper date, he called it. He’d brought up a fancy steakhouse downtown, but you’d much rather watch him cook and share a glass of wine in his kitchen. Just be alone with him. He gladly agreed, assuring you that the day would go by quickly. That however, had not been the case.

The ED had been slammed, and though that usually makes for a quick day, maybe the anticipation eating at you had turned it into the opposite.

You speak briefly to Dana about the patient in South 16 that you’d just finished up suturing, and when you turn to round the counter again to check on another patient, you’re face to face with Park.

He’s sporting his typical intimidating demeanor, but you see right through it. For the sake of the rumor mill you know the ED can be, you offer him only a quick casual smile. “How’s your head?” He asks, voice low. And ofcourse, his extended presence has already conjured a few questioning glances.

“It’s fine.” You squeak. “Bruise looks more nasty than ever, though.” His eyes meet the mark, and it’s definitely gnarly. Yellowing and splotchy. But that’s normal for healing.

“It’ll get better.” He hums, his lips threatening to turn up into a smile but he fights it. One hand reaches up to tug playfully at the end of your messy braid, and then he’s turning to head back toward the elevators, leaving you biting your lip— cheeks rosy.

You blink, snapping back to reality and noticing far too many eyes on you as you start to walk towards your next patient in Central 14. Heart pounding in your chest as you scurry out of sight.

Dana stands still, having seen the entire exchange, and she’s nearly shook to her core. Surely not… She hadn’t worked with you much, as you were usually on nights, but she would’ve heard about this right? The infamous, brooding Park— and a sweet little ED nurse?

Robby slaps a hand against her shoulder, making her jump a little.

“I might be mistaken.” He starts, eyeing Dana. “But I think someone tamed the Shark.”

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

the pitt ── .✦

series .ᐟ

⤷ quarantined - dr jack abbot x senior resident! reader, 18+ complete - 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.

one - shots .ᐟ

⤷ gotta stop - situationship!jack abbot x nurse!reader, 18+ - no matter how hard you try, you can't quit jack abbot

coming soon .ᐟ

⤷ hey, bartender - dr. jack abbot x bartender!reader, 18+ - dr. jack abbot spent his nights off in the same dive, on the same stool, talking with the same bartender.

animal kingdom ── .✦

coming soon .ᐟ

⤷ the brother rule - pope cody x bartender!reader, 18+ -deran had one rule for those tending bar: don't sleep with his brother. he just didn't specify which one.

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

gave her a little facelift and added some works i've been fantasizing about since starting quarantined hehe >:)

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

gotta stop

situationship!jack abbot x nurse!reader

summary - no matter how hard you try, you can’t quit jack abbot.

wc - 12.4k (SORRY IM USED TO WRITING SERIES FR)

warnings/tags - MDNI, toxic jack, toxic reader, reader is described as female, angst, good friend ellis, probable inaccuracies for nurse duties, jealous jack, avoidant reader, avoidant jack, unprotected p in v, reader does something so toxic for jack, resolution at the end

a/n -- inspired by the song 'stop' by bella kay -- ok i had a real fun time with this one. This is for all my baddies who have been in a situationship beforeeeee shit is not for the weak! This went on for a while and possibly lost the plot toward the end but idk yall let me know what you think I’m still new to one-shots hehe

masterlist

The lights in the PTMC were giving you a headache.

Bright, fluorescent, and just harsh enough to remind you that you hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep this afternoon. And now an incoming GSW was exactly what you needed to get the adrenaline pumping again.

You’d always loved the night shift. There was something about working while most of the city slept, even though the world outside never really stopped moving. 

Sure, it didn’t leave much room for a social life beyond the friends you’d made in the ED, and your version of nightlife looked a lot different from most young, single people your age.

Not that you minded.

You’d traded clubs for dive bars sometime in your mid-twenties anyway.

These days, your idea of unwinding was nursing a strong cocktail in a dimly lit booth, the kind of place with sticky floors and questionable music. Sometimes with your favorite coworkers. Sometimes alone.

And afterward?

Well.

A little stress relief never hurt anybody.

“Where’d you go just now?”

The sound of a tablet scraping across the main desk of the Pitt pulled you from whatever mental vacation you’d been taking.

You blinked twice and looked up to find Dr. Ellis standing across from you, peering down slightly as you practically slumped against the desk. Papers were scattered in front of you, charts half-finished, and your collection of glitter pens lay in disarray from when you’d knocked over the holder while chasing a naked patient down the hallway an hour ago.

“Oh, you know.” You waved a hand vaguely. “My happy place.”

The sarcasm was obvious—a reference to the self-care seminar Robby had forced every nurse to attend last month.

You waved yourself off, changing the subject. “What’s the ETA on the GSW?”

“Rerouted to Westbridge. We may actually get a chance to—”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

Shen appeared beside you, leaning onto the desk with an iced coffee in hand.

“You gonna put a coaster under that Pink Drink?” you asked, nodding toward the condensation already racing down the side of the plastic cup. “Or you gonna let it sweat all over someone’s x-rays?” 

Shen scoffed.

“I’ve told you before. It’s only pink because of the limited-edition strawberry syrup.”

He said it like you were somehow the ridiculous one.

“As long as it’s not the Sabrina Carpenter drink anymore, I don’t give two shits what’s in it.”

Ellis shot you a look of agreement. “I cannot listen to the chorus of Espresso one more time for at least six months.”

“But it’s the song of the summer!”

“It was the song of the summer. Two years ago, Shen.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed a coaster and slid it beneath his cup since he seemed entirely uninterested in doing it himself.

Shen muttered something under his breath about being “culturally underappreciated” before taking a giant slurp from his iced coffee.

“See?” Ellis said, watching him intently. “This is why we can’t have nice things.

“No, lack of public funding is why we can’t have nice things.” 

“You seem slightly more aggressive than usual. What’s up?”

“Other than the fact that I slept maybe three hours earlier?” You rubbed your forehead, keeping your eyes trained on the double doors like if you stayed vigilant enough, gurneys and EMTs would simply stop coming through them. “Existential dread. The naked patient practically assaulting me earlier. The parent who claimed I was indoctrinating their child into Buddhism—a religion I do not practice.”

She whistled.

“Been a minute, huh?”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Since what?”

“Since you’ve seen him.”

Your face twisted into something that could only be described as a mixture of surprise and disdain.

Shen’s eyes darted between you two, leaning in slightly closer to you in anticipation as his mouth was somehow still wrapped around the orange and pink straw. 

“Am I supposed to know who you’re talking about?”

“Oh, come on. Every time you show up here in a foul mood, it’s been at least a week since you and him met up. You’re practically a billboard with ‘needs to get laid’ written across it in bright red font.”

“I am not that readable.”

Shen decided this was a good time to join in, adding, “Earlier, you told Whitaker he should consider putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign for tiny elves to live in his hair.”

You frowned, eyes still fixed on the double doors as your fingers fidgeted with your badge.

“Okay, and was I wrong? He needs a curl routine. I’ve been telling him that for a year now. It’s not a good look for us.”

She offered you an amused smile, the kind she always did. Parker Ellis was probably your favorite doctor in the department—always willing to help despite half of it falling outside her responsibilities, always ready with advice when you needed it. You knew she didn’t hand that out to everyone, which only made you appreciate it more.

And Shen was…well, he was Shen. You got a laugh out of him every so often. 

You didn’t typically make a habit of getting close with the doctors, as they tended to be in and out of a hospital most of the time. The other nurses were more your speed, but something about the doctors of the night shift—

“Hey, we all need ways to relieve stress when we work in a place like this. I take edibles. Shen plays a concerning amount of Minecraft. You choose to indulge in a toxic situationship with a guy who only calls you when he wants to get his rocks off.”

“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”

“Shen’s Minecraft addiction is pathetic.” 

“The fuck?” Shen scrunched his face at the stray comment, but Ellis only continued. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, failing miserably at suppressing your laughter as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead briefly against his shoulder.

She pointed a finger at you. “—You’re a consenting adult. As long as nobody’s getting hurt, who cares if all you and this dude see each other for is sex?”

Your stomach tightened a little at that.

Her question didn’t exactly sit well because—

She added, “Plus, from what you’ve told me, it’s pretty damn good.” 

A throat cleared beside you.

You were a nurse in an emergency department. It didn’t exactly say it in the job posting, but “know the vibes of every doctor who works here and find a way to cohesively fit into the team so you can make their lives easier because that’ll actually make your life easier” might as well have been in the fine print. At least, that’s what Dana told you on your first day.

So you knew how different residents operated. You knew how the interns behaved. And you definitely knew how attendings liked to, well, attend.

And this particular attending usually cleared his throat when he found you chatting at the desk with doctors that weren’t him.

You straightened, your expression tightening—not at all like a kid caught talking in class—as your eyes met his.

Dr. Jack Abbot had a particular habit of appearing whenever you were having a perfectly pleasant conversation with another doctor.

It was one of the more irritating things about him.

You’d noticed it months ago.

The second he caught you leaning against a desk with Shen, laughing at something Ellis said, or discussing anything not directly related to patient care, he’d suddenly remember a task that needed doing. A chart that needed updating. A patient that needed medication. An ortho consult that should’ve been paged five minutes ago.

Always work-related.

And always suspiciously timed.

You knew how attendings operated. You knew which ones were strict, which ones were laid back, which ones expected perfection and which ones expected effort.

Jack wasn’t actually hard on you.

The annoying part was that he seemed to save this particular brand of impatience exclusively for moments when you were talking to somebody else.

Which bothered you more than you’d ever admit out loud because you were good at your job.

Your patient satisfaction scores were always high. You stayed late when people needed help. Even Gloria had thrown the occasional “good work” your way, which was practically a standing ovation.

So every time he acted like you were one conversation away from bringing the entire department to its knees, it got under your skin.

“Are we almost through with the social hour,” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets, “or can we get some morphine to bed three sometime tonight?”

Right on schedule.

You glanced at the clock—you’d been standing there for approximately forty-five seconds.

“No, we’re through,” you offered him a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Good.” He nodded once, now turning to Shen. “You’re needed in Peds.” 

He stepped past Ellis, whose eyes tracked him before flicking back to you. Shen trailed behind, a mischievous look on his face. She let out a small huff of laughter, then glanced after him again.

Until she looked at you, which, your facial expression could only be described as someone who had just had their parade rained on, set on fire, and then clinically assessed by Jack Abbot

“Yeah…maybe call dude up and see if you can find some time,” she said. “Because you’re wound tighter than wire around a coil.”

“I can relieve stress without sacrificing my self-respect, Ellis.”

“Can you?”

You scoffed, clutching a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense.

“I don’t need some man to help me relax—especially not one who’s as emotionally constipated as this guy is.”

You gathered your pens quickly and messily, stress and dishonesty practically radiating off you in waves. Ellis watched with a knowing look as you shoved a blue glitter pen into the pocket of your scrubs. One sleeve of your baby pink undershirt was pushed halfway up your arm, the other hanging past your wrist.

You were a mess.

“You can’t quit him, can you?” she asked bluntly.

Your head jerked up, strands of hair falling across your cheeks.

“I can stop whenever I want.”

The rest of the shift didn’t get any kinder.

It never did.

A patient screamed at you because the wait time “felt like a violation of human rights,” which, according to him, apparently included triage priority and two actively coding traumas that had rolled in back-to-back.

Another tried to leave against medical advice with an IV still in, insisting you were “controlling the narrative of his body autonomy,” which you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t already three coffees deep and running on pure spite.

The coffee was its own horror story.

Burnt, lukewarm, and somehow still sour, like it had given up on being coffee halfway through its existence. You drank it anyway.

By the time the worst of the chaos finally slowed, your scrubs felt like they had absorbed the entire shift—bloodless but heavy, like your exhaustion had physical weight. Your head ached in that dull, persistent way that made every overhead announcement sound like it was being shouted directly inside your eardrums.

You charted on autopilot. Answered pages. Signed off on things you barely remembered reading.

And all the while, there was that steady hum underneath everything.

Not the monitors beeping or the coding alarms.

You.

Something restless in your chest that wouldn’t settle no matter how much you moved, no matter how much you did, no matter how many people you helped.

When you finally clocked out, the morning air hit you like a kind of mercy.

It was quiet. Empty enough to feel almost unreal after the controlled chaos of the ED. You liked how walking out of a shift into a brand new day felt like a fresh start.

You sat in your car for a moment before starting it.

Hands on the wheel. Forehead leaning briefly against it. Eyes closed.

The silence should’ve helped—but it didn’t. Because now there was nothing to distract you from your own thoughts.

From the shift replaying in fragments—flourescent lights, Ellis’s teasing, Jack’s annoyed glance across the desk, the way your body always seemed to register him before your mind caught up.

And worse than that.

The way your mind kept circling back to the same thing, over and over, like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The way his eyes flicked between your chin on Shen’s shoulder, the sharpness in his stare when he’d paused—just for a second too long—before speaking. 

The way it shouldn’t have meant anything. 

And the worst part was how quickly he’d buried it again, like nothing had happened at all. 

You exhaled slowly, started the car, and just drove.

Traffic lights sliding over your windshield in slow, rhythmic pulses. Red. Green. Red again. The city moving around you like it didn’t know or care what kind of night shift you’d had.

Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind didn’t.

It kept drifting back to relief.

To something that would make the tightness in your chest loosen for even a little while.

And the more you tried not to think about it, the more obvious it became what your body was already deciding for you.

You didn’t end up at home.

You didn’t even hesitate when you pulled into his building.

You just sat there for a second in the driver’s seat, engine ticking softly as it cooled, staring up at the familiar windows.

Then you got out.

Second guessed your decision. 

You walked up anyway.

Because you could tell yourself a lot of things.

That it was just stress.

That it was just habit.

But your hand was already lifting before you could talk yourself out of it.

And then you were knocking on Jack Abbot’s door.

Like he was expecting you, he swung the door open with a familiarity that always managed to piss you off.

You hated being expected. It meant you weren’t as convincing as you thought every time you swore it was the last time.

“Back so soon?” he asked.

There were two voices in your head.

The first was logical. The one that listed consequences and self-respect and the long, boring, very healthy path of walking away.

The second was louder.

And a hell of a lot faster.

“Shut up,” you said.

And then your lips were on his.

There was no hesitation from him.

His hand came up to your jaw like it had done this before, like it knew exactly where you’d break and where you wouldn’t. The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely registered it.

Not when he was already pulling you closer.

Not when the shift started dissolving at the edges the way it always did the second he touched you.

You told yourself, distantly, that you’d meant to stop.

That you’d been serious this time.

That you were still someone who made decisions and followed through on them.

But that version of you didn’t stand a chance in his apartment.

“What did I tell you about sitting around and talking on shift?” His voice was low against your mouth. 

Your hands found his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't entirely sure. The fabric of his shirt was soft under your palms, warm from his body, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath it. Steady. Unhurried.

Like he had all the time in the world.

“I told you,” You glared up at him defiantly. “I’d stop when you admitted why it bothers you so much,” 

He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, and the impact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the collision. His knee slid between your thighs, and you made a sound that would've embarrassed you if you had any dignity left to spare.

You didn't.

Not here. Not with him.

“It doesn’t bother me,” 

His lips moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your breath hitch. 

“You’re such a liar,” You tilted your head without thinking, giving him access, and felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.

Smug bastard.

"Guessing this is the last time?" he murmured, changing the subject like he always did, rough in a way that shouldn't have worked as well as it did.

Your eyes snapped open.

The audacity.

"Keep opening your mouth," you said, breathless but sharp, "and I'll walk out."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was infuriating. Amused. Knowing. Like he could see straight through every lie you'd ever told yourself about this.

About him.

"We both know you won't."

Your jaw tightened.

Because he was right, and you both knew it, and that made it so much worse.

You should've said something cutting. Should've shoved him back and proven him wrong just to wipe that look off his face.

Instead, you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Angrier, maybe. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as some distant part of your brain screamed at you to stop. To leave. To have even a shred of self-respect.

But his hands were on your waist now, thumbs pressing into your hips through the thin fabric of your scrubs, and every coherent thought you'd had dissolved under the weight of it.

This was what you'd come here for.

Not conversation. Not comfort.

Just this—the way he touched you like he'd memorized every place that made you fall apart. The way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The way everything else faded into background noise.

His mouth moved back to your neck, and you felt his teeth graze your pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make you gasp.

"You're terrible at this," he said against your skin.

"At what?"

"Pretending you don't want to be here."

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make a point.

"You're terrible at shutting up."

He laughed—low and quiet and far too pleased with himself—and the sound vibrated through you in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.

His hands moved lower, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your scrub top, and the contact of his skin against yours sent a shiver up your spine. Warm. Rough in places. Familiar in a way that made your chest threaten to explode.

You'd told yourself you wouldn't do this again.

You'd meant it, too. 

At least in the moment.

But here you were, pressed against his entryway wall at six in the morning, letting him unravel you piece by piece like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Because it was for him.

That was the problem.

He pulled back just enough to look at you again, and there was something in his expression that you couldn't quite read. Something that looked almost like concern, if you didn't know better.

"Long shift?" he asked.

You let out a breathless laugh. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you care."

His jaw tightened, just slightly, and for a second you thought he might actually say something real. Something that wasn't wrapped in sarcasm or deflection.

But then his mouth was on yours again, and the moment passed.

Maybe that was better.

Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in it as you kissed him back with everything you had left. All the frustration and exhaustion and restless energy that had been building under your skin for hours—and since the last time a week ago—poured into it.

He made a sound low in his throat, and his grip on your hips tightened.

You were going to regret this.

You always did.

But right now, with his body pressed against yours and his hands pulling you closer, you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Not when this was the only thing that made the tightness in your chest loosen. The only thing that made you feel like you could breathe.

Even if it was temporary.

Even if it was a lie.

His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, and you arched into the touch without thinking. Your back pressed harder against the wall, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that you were still wearing your work shoes.

That you hadn't even made it past the entryway.

That this was exactly how it always went.

But then his mouth found that spot just below your ear, and every rational thought you'd ever had scattered like smoke.

"Bedroom," you managed, though it came out more like a plea than a command.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face was devastating.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."

And then his hand was in yours, and he was leading you deeper into the apartment.

Into the same mistake you'd made a dozen times before.

The one you'd probably make a dozen more times.

You were going insane, to say the least. 

After that last time, you once again swore you could stop, and when Jack Abbot laughed in your face, you swore that spite would carry you through. 

That was three weeks ago. 

Your body was practically screaming at you for release. 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried—you had your own methods of relief at home, in various sizes and shapes, but he might as well have put a curse on you. He plagued your mind, your thoughts, and now, even your damn fantasies. You couldn’t even get past closing your eyes with your head on the pillow without hearing his voice in your ear. 

“Are you listening?” 

“No,” You admitted. 

Ellis smirked. “Wow, that was easy.” 

“I gotta stop,” You said, more so to yourself. “I need to get past this guy, this can’t be healthy.” 

“I mean, I could’ve told you that a year ago,” 

“See? Even that is embarrassing—doing this for an entire year.” 

“How did it even start, anyway?”

Her question was one you often asked yourself.

You were literally there, and somehow it was still remarkable that any of this had managed to happen in the first place.

It had started on one of those rare nights when you didn’t have work. Even rarer, you didn’t have a shift the next day either. So you joined a few of your ED friends for their weekly gathering at the pub down the street from the PTMC.

He was there too.

Before you’d ever spoken to Jack Abbot, you’d noticed him.

You noticed everything about him, actually.

The commanding presence that never felt overbearing. The quiet charm. The way people naturally gravitated toward him without him seeming to ask for their attention.

Then you started working together.

And assisting Jack was easy in a way that shouldn’t have mattered. The two of you seemed to fall into a rhythm almost immediately, anticipating what the other needed before it was said aloud. You worked well with plenty of doctors, but with him it felt different. Smoother.

Natural.

The night at the pub passed slowly, conversations drifting from work gossip to stories about patients to the kind of personal details people only share after a drink or two. You got to know some of the day-shift staff in a way you never really could during a chaotic handoff.

Then, little by little, people started peeling off.

Heading home to partners, spouses, kids, pets.

Eventually, it was just you and Jack left at the table—and neither of you had anyone waiting at home.

So the conversation kept going.

And going.

Until the bartender started flashing the lights for last call.

You could admit now that the alcohol wasn’t the only reason you agreed when he suggested moving the party to his place.

That began a bad habit of spending nights off together at his apartment, which turned into you following him home from work twice a week. Until it was happening every day. 

Until—

“I’m calling psych,” Ellis said abruptly. “Dude has you dissociating.”

“Can you cut me some slack?” you groaned. “My sleep score on this stupid Oura ring is averaging like a 42, and no amount of Dunkin from Shen is helping. In fact, it’s probably making it worse.”

“I told you that ring is full of shit.”

“Probably,” you admitted, “but there’s no doubt this whole…situation has tanked my ability to sleep.”

“You know what?” Ellis leaned in slightly, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I’ve got a friend who’s recently single. Maybe I can set you two up.”

You ignored the immediate flicker of alarm in your chest—the automatic warning your brain always set off at the mere suggestion of entertaining any man who wasn’t the night shift attending.

“I don’t know,” you said instead, fingers fidgeting with your badge—the stupid tell he’d pointed out once.

The second Ellis said it, something in you tightened.

A sharp, instinctive recoil you didn’t get a vote in.

Like your body had heard the suggestion and decided, absolutely not.

It made no sense, really. It was just a date. Just an option sitting harmlessly on the desk between you.

“You know,” you added lightly, like it didn’t matter, like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of your own pulse, “I’m… probably just not in a dating place right now.”

Her head tilted in that knowing way. “Not in a dating place.”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Night shift keeps me way too busy—”

“Yet you have time to get in that man’s bed?”

The words hit before you could stop them from hitting. Your brain didn’t even get a chance to form a response—

—Because, conveniently, Crus appeared like a lifeline in scrubs, walking up with a chart for Ellis to sign, as if he’d been sent by the universe specifically to rescue you from this conversation.

Your face lit up at the sudden exit.

“I totally forgot Crus put a pot of coffee on earlier. I’m gonna go try it!”

And before anyone could stop you, you were already backing away from the desk.

Fast.

A little too fast.

“No, I didn’t—” He started.

“Thanks, Crusy!”

You were gone before she could finish.

Crus blinked, looking between you and Ellis as you disappeared down the hall. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”

Ellis didn’t even look up from the chart.

“Avoidant attachment.”

Your eyes squeezed shut in relief as you slipped into the break room, the door still in your hand behind your back as you exhaled slowly.

Then the illusion cracked, and you heard a low chuckle cut through the silence.

You didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t need to.

“Mid-shift pick-me-up?”

You scowled in the direction of his voice, finally letting your eyes open. Jack was standing between you and the whirring coffee pot, one arm lazily leaning on the back of a chair like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just fucked your entire attempt at emotional escape.

“Is there any more?” you asked, because you could be strong. You could be level-headed around him. 

“I’m makin’ some,” he said. “Someone drank all of it.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking down over you in that quiet, habitual way he had. Not obvious—never obvious. Just enough to feel. 

“Someone tired.”

“Hm,” you hummed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that you, in fact, were not getting any sleep.

“Been a while,” he added after a beat.

His gaze lifted again, slower this time, like he was taking inventory. Like he needed to memorize you again after any stretch of absence.

“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms as you stepped further into the room. “That was the last time.”

“Sure it was.”

Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was the disbelief. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d tried—unsuccessfully—to get yourself over the finish line this morning three separate times before you finally gave up on hearing his voice in your head.

Either way, something in you snapped.

You walked closer, eyes locked on his, mouth set in a thin, controlled line.

“I meant it that night,” you said, tipping your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m done.”

“Are you?”

“Yep. I even have a date.”

Something flashed in his eyes—quick, unreadable—but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by something sharper. More challenging.

“A date.”

“Ellis’ friend. She’s setting it up.”

“And when is this ‘date’?”

You hated the way he said it.

Like it wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t solid yet. Like it didn’t deserve space in the same room as him. 

And sure, okay, it wasn’t. 

But it still made your jaw tighten.

“What do you care?”

“So I can be available,” he said evenly, “for when you inevitably come by after.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“Well that’s presumptuous.”

“Is it?” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You almost choked on the speed at which you snapped back.

“That—that was because we had just had that mass casualty that fucked me up and you know that.”

“I also know,” he said, voice calmer now, almost tired in the way he said it, “that you tend to try to date other people.”

A beat.

“And somehow,” he added, eyes still on you, “you still end up here.”

“I can assure you, Dr. Abbot,” you said, smiling softly—mocking, sweet—using his title the way he’d told you to in public. “I can, in fact, date other people.”

He bent down slowly, bringing himself to your level. Close enough that the space between you stopped feeling like space at all.

“I’d love to see you try.”

And that’s how you ended up at a bar.

Sitting across from Ellis’ friend.

Ordering drinks. Making polite conversation. Nodding at the right moments. Smiling at the right times.

You did everything you were supposed to do.

You even laughed once or twice.

Ellis’ friend was nice. Normal. Stable in the way that should’ve felt like relief.

He didn’t have a traumatic past, or carefully measured words that felt like something else was always hiding underneath them. No guarded edges. No unreadable silences that made you feel like you were constantly trying to translate him.

And yet, every time your phone buzzed against the table, your attention flicked to it before you could stop yourself.

Every time the door opened behind him, something in your chest tightened on instinct.

And every time it wasn’t him, you hated yourself a little more for noticing.

This was what you wanted, right?

Distance.

Options.

Proof.

A life that didn’t orbit a man who barely admitted you mattered outside of four walls and a locked door.

But instead, you just kept thinking about how quiet your apartment would be after this. How loud your thoughts would be.

And how unfair it was that even here—on a date you’d insisted you could handle—you still felt like you were waiting for something else.

Ellis’ friend excused himself to use the restroom, giving your brain a brief opening—just enough quiet to pull you back to a night you hadn’t fully unpacked.

A night you almost told Ellis about.

It had been somewhere in the middle of it all—those weeks where “indulging” had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a routine.

You remember stopping at his front door, scrubs wrinkled from where they’d been tossed somewhere on his bedroom floor, hair slightly mussed, still carrying the aftermath of him in the most intoxicating way.

You’d turned to him in the doorway, eyes lifting to his.

That expectant look you wore sometimes. The one that, for some reason, seemed to scare him more than anything else.

“Hey,” you started carefully. “What do we say if people ask, you know…”

“We don’t say anything.”

His voice hadn’t been soft.

It hadn’t been cruel either.

Just certain.

You blinked. “Right, but… like, what is it?”

A shift.

Barely there, but you saw it. The way he opened the door a little wider. His mouth parted, like he was going to explain it. Clarify it. Do something that would either help you or hurt you.

And you couldn’t stand the idea of either.

So you stopped him.

“Sorry,” you laughed quickly, even though something in your chest was already starting to cave in on itself. “Right. Yeah. Obviously this is nothing—you’re the attending. I just meant like, so no one at work mentions it. And you don’t get in trouble. I mean, you’re not technically my superior anyway, so we’re probably fine. And now I’m rambling. I’m gonna go.”

“Hey, I—”

“No, Dr. Abbot, you really don’t need to say anything. We’re good.”

A beat.

“You can… uh. Call me Jack. Here, anyway.”

It should’ve meant something.

And it almost did.

But his usual composure was slightly off, like he was trying to catch up to the moment and not entirely succeeding.

You just nodded. “Sure,” you said softly, already stepping back. “Anyway… see you at work.”

And then you left.

With your pride carefully, quietly, and completely dismantled.

What you didn’t say out loud—what you never said out loud—was that those weeks had started to feel like something you could accidentally get used to.

Sleeping over on nights off. Coffee in the morning. His apartment slowly becoming familiar to you. 

And you were naïve enough, back then, to think that familiarity might mean you were building something.

Not just…falling into it alone.

And of course you were—what did you expect? That sleeping with the night-shift attending would somehow evolve into anything other than an inevitable fizzling out?

You had a habit of falling too hard in places you didn’t belong.

And this was just another version of that.

After that night, you both pulled back. 

Careful, deliberate distance.

At work, you moved around each other like opposing currents in the same hallway—efficient, professional, slightly off in rhythm. Enough acknowledgment to function, not enough to blur anything further. Contact reduced to necessity. Words clipped. 

Waiting, almost.

For something to shift.

For someone to say something that neither of you were willing to be first to say.

Until you broke first.

And after that, the pattern settled in: you’d show up at his place after hard shifts, or on days off when your mind wouldn’t quiet down. You’d get exactly what you knew he was willing to give—nothing more, nothing less.

And then you’d leave.

You’d swear it was the last.

Until it wasn’t.

“Ready to go?” Ellis’ friend asked as he returned to the table.

You nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave before your brain wandered any further down memory lane.

“Yeah. Early shift tomorrow.”

It was a lie.

A small one, but a useful one.

The check was paid and a few minutes later you found yourself in the passenger seat of his car. You’d Ubered to the bar, assuming you’d just call one home afterward.

Back when you’d thought you’d actually be paying attention to this date. But how could you refuse a free ride home? 

The drive was pleasant. He was pleasant. That seemed to be the problem—nothing was wrong. No red flags. No awkward silences. No glaring incompatibilities.

Just an overwhelming absence of whatever stupid thing—or person—your brain seemed determined to chase.

Streetlights blurred past outside the window.

You stared at them.

Half-listening as he talked about something involving his neighbor and a broken sprinkler system.

“Alright,” he said eventually, slowing at a red light. “Where am I taking you?”

You answered without thinking.

“Fourth and Mercer.”

The words left your mouth automatically.

Like muscle memory.

Like reciting your own address.

Then you froze.

Because Fourth and Mercer wasn’t your address.

It was Jack’s.

The realization hit about half a second too late.

For a moment, you just stared out the windshield.

Then you laughed.

Once.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You rubbed a hand over your face.

The normal response would be to correct yourself.

Give him your actual address. Go home. Take off your makeup. Get some sleep.

Maybe unpack whatever psychological damage had just caused you to instinctively send a date to another man’s apartment.

Instead, you found yourself shaking your head.

“Actually…” You looked back out the window. “Yeah. That’s right.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to launch yourself out of the moving vehicle.

Because what the fuck was wrong with you?

Seriously.

What kind of person goes on a date with one man, accidentally gives another man’s address, realizes what they’ve done, and then decides to commit to it?

Apparently you.

You, who had spent the last month insisting you were done.

You, who had spent the last week avoiding him in the hospital whenever possible.

You, who had sat across from a perfectly attractive, emotionally available man for two hours only to subconsciously recite Jack Abbot’s address like it was your own.

Insane.

Clinically insane.

Potentially diagnosable.

If Ellis found out about this, she’d never let you hear the end of it.

Hell, if you found out someone else had done this, you’d tell them to seek professional help immediately.

And yet, the thought of seeing Jack—

You shoved that one away immediately.

Nope.

You were not about to sit here and unpack whatever deeply concerning emotional implications were hidden inside the fact that his address lived in your head rent-free.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

Maybe it was muscle memory.

Maybe your brain had been permanently damaged by night shift.

All plausible explanations.

Far more plausible than the alternative.

True delusion and toxicity drove you out of the car.

You offered your date a small wave through the passenger window, ignoring the increasingly bewildered expression on his face, before shutting the door and turning toward the building.

If he had questions, he was kind enough not to ask them.

Which was good.

Because you didn’t have answers.

Your feet carried you up the familiar steps before your brain could mount any meaningful objection. Through the front entrance. Down the hallway. To a door you could probably locate blindfolded at this point.

The realization should’ve horrified you.

Instead, it barely registered.

You knocked once.

And the door swung open almost immediately.

"Don't."

The word came out sharp. A warning.

To him. Maybe to yourself.

But Jack just stood there in the doorway—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt, hands in his pockets—and that look on his face that said he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

Smug didn't even begin to cover it.

You should've turned around.

Should've walked away.

Instead, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you.

Your mouth found his before either of you could say another word, and the kiss was immediate. Desperate. All teeth and urgency and the kind of need that made rational thought impossible.

He didn't hesitate.

His hands were on you instantly—one sliding to your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he walked you backward until your spine hit the entryway wall with a dull thud.

This was the pattern.

The same one you'd fallen into a dozen times before.

You never made it all the way inside.

Not at first.

Something about the threshold—the space between leaving and staying—always unraveled you both.

His mouth moved against yours with the kind of confidence that made your knees weak, his body pressing into you until there was no space left between you. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his lips.

"Even had him drop you off, huh?"

The words were low. Amused. Spoken directly against your mouth between kisses.

Your stomach dropped.

Because of course he knew.

Of course he'd been watching from the window. Of course he'd seen you get out of another man's car and walk straight to his door like you had no other choice.

"Jack—"

"Shh." His thumb brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth found the corner of yours. Then your cheek. Then just below your ear. "It's okay."

It wasn't okay.

Nothing about this was okay.

You'd just come from a date with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who didn't make you feel like you were constantly drowning.

And yet here you were, pinned against an entryway wall, heart racing, breath coming in short gasps as Jack's hands roamed over you like he owned every inch.

The worst part?

You wanted him to.

God, you hated yourself for it.

Hated how easily you melted under his touch. How your body responded before your brain could catch up. How the shame of it all only seemed to make you want him more.

His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hem of your dress, and you bit down on your lip to keep from making a sound.

"So eager to see me," he murmured against your neck, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. "Couldn't even wait to get inside."

Your hands fisted in his shirt as he kicked the door shut, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to push him away.

"What a good girl, always coming back to me."

The words hit you like a physical thing.

Your breath caught. Heat flooded your face—and lower—and you wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to fuck off, wanted to do anything other than stand there and let him see exactly what those words did to you.

But you couldn't.

Because he knew.

He always knew.

His mouth found yours again, slower this time, more deliberate, and his hand finally slipped beneath the fabric of your dress. Fingers trailing up your thigh with maddening patience.

You made a sound—something between a whimper and a protest—and he smiled against your lips.

"That's it," he said quietly. "Just like that."

You were going to hell.

Or maybe you were already there.

Because the only thing worse than how much you wanted this—wanted him—was how much he knew it.

How easily he could unravel you with a look, a touch, a handful of words that made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Even if it was the last place you should've gone.

His hands moved to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and he hiked your dress up in one smooth motion. The fabric bunched around your waist as he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around him.

The wall was cold against your back. Unforgiving.

He wasn't.

Or maybe he was—just in a different way. Unforgiving in the way he kept you circling the same drain, always one step short of whatever this was actually becoming. Always dancing right up to the edge of it, like neither of you could decide who was supposed to fall first.

His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his other hand worked between you, pushing aside fabric, finding exactly what he wanted with the kind of precision that made your head spin.

"Jack—"

"Yeah," His voice was low, thick with desire. "Right here, sweetheart."

And then he was inside you.

The stretch, the fullness, the way your body yielded to him so easily—it was too much and not enough all at once. Your head fell back against the wall, a broken sound escaping your throat as he held you there, pinned between him and the plaster.

He didn't move. Not yet.

Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed against your temple, his breath hot against your ear.

"Tell me," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this."

Your nails dug into his shoulders.

"Jack—"

"Say it." His hips shifted slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "Tell me you don't need this."

You couldn't.

The words wouldn't come.

Because they'd be a lie, and you both knew it.

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before driving back in with enough force to make you cry out. The sound echoed in the narrow entryway, shameless and desperate.

"That's what I thought," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

He set a rhythm then—slow, deliberate, controlled. Each thrust calculated to pull sounds from you that you didn't want to make. Each movement designed to remind you exactly who was in charge here.

"You can't get enough of this, can you?" His hand tightened on your thigh, holding you open for him. "Can't stay away."

"Don't—" The word came out as a whimper.

"Don't what?" He punctuated the question with a particularly deep thrust that had your vision blurring. "Don't tell the truth? Don't make you admit it?"

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough that it should've hurt, but he just groaned and moved faster.

"Say it," he demanded, his mouth against your jaw. "Tell me you need this."

"I—" You couldn't finish. Couldn't force the words past the shame and the pleasure tangled so tightly together you couldn't separate them anymore.

He slowed. Almost stopped.

"Say it, or I stop."

"No—" The protest was immediate, desperate. "Please—"

"Please what?"

You swore you hated him.

Hated how easily he could reduce you to this—begging, pleading, completely at his mercy.

"I need it," you gasped out, the admission burning in your throat. "I need—fuck—I need you."

The smile you felt against your skin was pure victory.

"There she is," he murmured, his pace picking up again. "My good girl. So honest when I'm inside you.

The wall dug into your spine with each thrust. Your leg was starting to shake where it was wrapped around him. Everything was too much—the angle, the intensity, the way he looked at you like he'd won something.

Because he had.

"You came straight here," he continued, his voice rough now, control starting to fray at the edges. "Didn't even go home first. Just needed me that badly."

"Yes—" The word broke on a moan.

"Even after your little date. Even after trying so hard to move on."

"Jack—please—"

"Please what? Make you come? Make you forget about him?" His hand slid between you, finding exactly where you needed him. "Make you remember who you belong to?"

You shattered.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation. Your body clenched around him, trembling, and you heard yourself crying out his name like a prayer or a curse—you couldn't tell which anymore.

He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.

He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.

Your leg was still wrapped around him. His hand still gripped your thigh. The wall was still cold against your back, but his body was warm—solid—and for just a second, you let yourself stay there.

Before reality could catch up.

Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and his hand moved to your face. Thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache. Mimicking a softness he once showed you, way back before this all got entangled in the way these things did. 

"Stay."

The word hung between you.

You blinked. "What?"

"Stay over." His voice was quieter now. "Tonight."

Your heart did something complicated.

Because he'd never asked that before—at least, not since that morning. Not since you'd tried to define this thing and shut it down and he let you walk away pretending it didn't matter.

You stared at him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you what this meant.

But his expression was unreadable.

Guarded.

Same as always.

"I—" You started to pull away, to put distance between you, but his hand on your waist kept you there. "I should go."

"How?" he asked simply. "Your date dropped you off, remember?"

The logic of it hit you like cold water.

Right.

You'd given Jack's address. You'd gotten out of the car here. You didn't have your own car. You'd have to call an Uber, and it was late, and—

"I can call a ride," you said, even though the words felt hollow.

"You could."

He didn't move.

Didn't push.

Just waited.

And somehow that was worse.

Because you couldn't tell if he actually wanted you to stay or if he was just Jack Abbot, night shift attending, solving a problem. Couldn't tell if this was something or if you were reading into it the way you always did—seeing meaning where there wasn't any.

"Jack—"

"It's late," he said. "You're here. Just stay."

Your throat tightened.

"Why?"

The question came out smaller than you meant it to.

He looked at you for a long moment.

Then his hand dropped from your face, and he stepped back, giving you space. Letting your leg slide down until you were standing on your own again.

"Because I'm asking you to."

That was it.

No explanation. No declaration. No answer to the question you were really asking.

Just that.

You wanted to leave.

Wanted to walk out the door and prove to yourself—and to him—that you could.

But your feet didn't move.

And he knew it.

He always knew.

"Okay,"

It started small.

It was always small things with him—never enough to point at, never enough to accuse, never enough to justify the way it started messing with your head.

But you noticed everything anyway.

The way he paused—just briefly—before walking away from your station, like he was deciding whether or not to say something that wasn’t strictly necessary.

He never used to hesitate.

That was new.

And it made you hyper-aware of everything else.

He didn’t lean into the sarcasm as much when Shen made some comment that would’ve normally earned a dry remark from him. He didn’t linger in the doorway of trauma bays the way he used to, but he also didn’t leave as quickly either—like he was calibrating your distance instead of defaulting to it.

Even his silence felt different.

Intentional.

And it was fucking with you.

Because if you were being honest—if you were being brutally honest—you had built a system around the predictability of him.

Cold when he needed to be. Detached when he wanted to be. Clear lines, clear roles, clear nothing-you-could-misinterpret.

It had been easier that way.

Safer.

Even if it drove you insane.

But now?

Now there were these almost-imperceptible deviations in the pattern.

Like he was…paying attention in a way that wasn’t strictly required.

And you hated that your brain immediately started translating it into something dangerous.

Hope, maybe.

Or worse—meaning.

You were charting at the nurse’s station when he appeared behind you, not speaking right away. Just there. Close enough that you registered him before you turned.

“Can I see bed six’s labs?” he asked finally.

Normal.

Professional.

Except he didn’t leave immediately after you handed them over.

He looked at them.

Then at you.

Then back at the chart like he was stalling for time that didn’t exist.

“You didn’t get coffee,” he said.

You blinked once. “I did. Earlier.”

A pause.

“I meant since then.”

There it was again.

That thing.

That quiet attention that didn’t match the version of him you had built your rules around.

“I’ve been busy,” you said carefully.

“I know.”

You turned back to your chart like it was suddenly fascinating, because looking at him for too long felt like stepping too close to something you’d been actively trying not to name.

“You’re being weird today,” you muttered.

A beat.

“I’m not.”

You almost laughed at that.

Because if this was him not being weird, then you didn’t know what reality you were in anymore.

He finally took a step back, but not before his eyes flicked over you once more—quick, practiced, familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten without permission.

“You should eat something,” he said.

Then he walked off.

And you sat there for a second too long, staring at the space he’d just occupied, wondering when exactly “professional concern” started feeling indistinguishable from something else entirely.

Your mind thought back to that mass casualty that happened six months ago—the day that the PTMC turned dark. 

All hands on deck. Every hallway filled. Every monitor screaming for attention it didn’t have time to get. Voices overlapping until they stopped sounding like words and started sounding like pressure.

You remembered moving on autopilot.

Remembered the way your body kept going even when your brain started lagging behind it.

Remembered the moment you couldn’t take it anymore.

The stairwell had been quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not peaceful—just empty. Like the building had forgotten how to breathe.

You don’t even remember deciding to go there.

Sinking down on the step with your head in your hands while everything you’d held together for the last hour finally split open without asking your permission.

You weren’t sobbing like in movies. It was worse than that—it was silent. Like your body was trying to process too much at once and failing in real time.

You heard the door before you saw him.

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t do any of the things people do when they’re trying to create distance from something they don’t know how to fix.

He just came down the steps and sat beside you.

Close enough that your shoulders touched.

And then closer.

Until there wasn’t really space between you at all.

His hand didn’t hesitate when it found your back. Slow, steady pressure like he was anchoring something that kept trying to drift away.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that.

Minutes. Hours. Something outside of time entirely.

At some point, you stopped shaking.

At some point, your breathing stopped feeling like it belonged to someone else.

And at some point, you became aware of the fact that he hadn’t moved—hadn’t checked his watch. Hadn’t said a single word about needing to go back.

Just stayed.

Like leaving wasn’t an option he was considering.

When you finally pulled back, it was gradual. Reluctant. Like stepping out of water that had been keeping you alive.

You didn’t look at him at first.

Neither did he speak.

You wiped your face, exhaled once, and nodded like that was enough to reset the universe.

“Back to it?” you had said.

A pause.

Then, like nothing had happened at all:

“Yeah.”

And spent the next six months acting like something inside that stairwell hadn’t quietly rearranged itself without either of you acknowledging it.

And now, here he was, rearranging everything again.

Not in any dramatic way. Not in a way you could point to and accuse him of meaning something.

Just the damn small things.

Restocking your glitter pens without being asked. Answering patients with a clipped patience when they got too loud with you, stepping in before you even had to react. Sliding a chart back into your station that you hadn’t realized you left open, like he was quietly tidying up the edges of your shift when you weren’t looking.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

That was the rule.

That was always the rule.

But your brain kept betraying you anyway.

Because it felt like that day in the stairwell.

And now, watching him move through the department like that again—steady, controlled, too observant for his own good—you couldn’t help the thought that crept in at the edges.

That maybe this wasn’t nothing to him either.

That maybe it had never been.

And that was the thought you needed to stay away from. 

So you needed to do something drastic. 

You were halfway through your coffee when the break room door opened hard enough to make you look up immediately.

Not in alarm—just recognition.

Jack stood in the doorway for a second too long, not stepping fully in right away. His attention went straight to you, skipping over everything else in the room like it wasn’t relevant.

“Why is Robby asking me about switching you to days?”

You set your cup down slowly.

Not because you were rattled.

Because you were trying to decide how much of this conversation you were willing to have before your shift even started.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably because it has to go through you. Staffing, scheduling, whatever.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

That was the first sign this wasn’t just about paperwork.

“It doesn’t go through me like that,” he said after a beat.

You nodded once, like that detail didn’t matter much. “Okay.”

That seemed to irritate him more than anything else so far. He stepped fully into the room now, letting the door fall shut behind him.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said.

You leaned back slightly against the counter, keeping your posture loose on purpose.

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

A pause.

His jaw tightened briefly before settling again.

“You’re changing your schedule at this hospital,” he said, more controlled now. “And I’m only hearing about it through Robby.”

“It’s not finalized yet,” you said. “It’s just a request.”

“That’s not the point.”

You watched him for a second.

He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t raising his voice. Wasn’t doing anything obvious.

But there was something contained in the way he stood there that you were starting to recognize too well.

Like he was holding himself in place more than he was standing.

“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” you said.

“It’s not a problem,” he answered too quickly.

Then stopped.

Corrected himself, slower this time.

“It’s just…unexpected.”

You hummed slightly, almost thoughtful.

“Since when do you care what shift I work?”

His eyes flicked to yours at that, steady but sharper now.

“I don’t,” he said.

It didn’t land convincingly.

Not even close.

You didn’t push it—instead, you let the silence sit there for a moment, thickening.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“You won’t be around as much.”

It came out like a practical observation, but it didn’t sit like one.

You looked down at your coffee for a second before answering.

“I’ll still be here,” you said. “Just different hours.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He shifted his weight slightly, then stilled again like he’d caught himself mid-movement.

“You don’t work days,” he said.

It wasn’t a correction.

Something closer to resistance.

You glanced up again. “That’s not really a rule.”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

Another pause.

This one was longer.

He looked like he was considering something he didn’t like the shape of.

Something quieter.

Something he was actively not letting develop into words.

“You’ll be harder to find,” he said finally.

You frowned slightly.

“I’m not disappearing.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

But he didn’t elaborate.

And that was the problem.

Because the things he didn’t say were starting to feel louder than the things he did.

You straightened a little, watching him now instead of your coffee.

“You’re acting like this is a bigger deal than it is,” you said carefully.

A beat.

“I’m not,” he replied.

It was immediate again.

Too immediate.

Then, quieter, like he was correcting something internal more than responding to you, “I just want to understand why now.”

You held his gaze for a moment.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was challenging your decision.

It felt like he was trying not to lose something he wasn’t allowed to call his.

“I’m tired,” you said simply. “That’s it.”

He nodded once, but it wasn’t satisfied.

Just contained.

Like he’d accepted the answer without believing it fully.

The silence stretched again—long enough that it started to feel like a decision neither of you were saying out loud.

Finally, he looked away first.

“Do what you need to do,” he said, quieter than before.

And then he stayed there a moment longer anyway.

Like leaving first would make it real.

Like not saying anything else was the closest he could get to asking you not to go.

You didn't go home after your shift.

You went to his place instead.

The drive was short enough that you didn't have time to second-guess it, which was probably the only reason you actually showed up. By the time you were standing outside his door, your scrubs still on, your bag still slung over one shoulder, the momentum was the only thing keeping you upright.

You knocked once.

Not politely.

Hard enough that it wasn't a question.

The door opened after a few seconds, and Jack stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking like he'd just gotten home himself. His hair was still damp from a shower.

He didn't look surprised.

That was the first thing that pissed you off.

"We need to talk," you said.

He stepped back without a word, holding the door open.

You walked in, dropped your bag by the entrance, and turned to face him before he'd even closed the door fully.

"Why didn't you fight me on it?"

He shut the door carefully, then looked at you.

"On what?"

"Don't do that," you said. "The schedule change. You stood there earlier like it mattered, and then you just—let it go."

He exhaled slowly, like he was buying time.

"You said you were tired.”

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one you gave me."

You stared at him.

He wasn't deflecting exactly—it was more like he was staying behind something. Some line he'd drawn for himself that you couldn't see but kept running into.

"You do this," you said, quieter now but no less sharp. "You act like it matters. And then the second I push, you back off like it was never a thing to begin with."

"I'm not backing off."

"Then what are you doing?"

He didn't answer right away.

You took a step closer.

"You’ve been checking on me during shifts," you said. "You ask when my dates are. You ask when I’ve eaten. You don't do that with anyone else."

"You don't know that."

"I do," you said flatly. "Everyone knows that."

His eyes flicked away briefly, then back.

"So what?" he said, and there was an edge to it now. "You want me to stop?"

"No," you said. "I want you to admit what it is."

Silence.

He shifted his weight slightly, and you saw it—the crack forming.

Small, but there.

"It doesn't have to be anything," he said finally.

You laughed, short and humorless.

"Bullshit."

"It's not—"

"Then why don't you see other people?"

That landed.

You saw it in the way his expression stilled, like you'd just said something he wasn't ready to hear out loud.

"I don't—"

"You don't," you interrupted. "I know you don't. You haven't since this started."

He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see him deciding how much to give.

Not enough.

Never enough.

"That's not your business," he said quietly.

"It is if you're going to act like I'm yours without actually saying it."

His jaw tightened again, sharper this time.

"I never said you were mine."

"You didn't have to."

Another pause.

Longer.

Heavier.

He turned slightly, like he was going to move away, then stopped himself.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was lower now. Rougher.

"The truth," you said. "Just once."

He looked at you then—really looked—and for a second you thought he might actually do it.

Might actually let whatever he'd been holding back finally break through.

But then he shook his head, just barely.

"It's not that simple."

"It is," you said. "You're just making it complicated because you're scared."

"I'm not—"

"You are," you cut in. "You're terrified that if you call this what it is, it'll mean something. And if it means something, you'll have to actually do something about it."

He didn't deny it.

That was answer enough.

You stepped closer again, close enough now that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had curled slightly at his sides like he was holding himself back.

"Why do you think I asked for the schedule change?" you said, quieter now.

He looked at you, and something shifted in his expression.

Something wary.

"I don't know," he said.

"Because I can't keep doing this," you said. "I can't keep waiting for you to figure out what you want while you act like I'm the only person in the room."

His throat worked briefly, like he was swallowing something down.

"I'm not asking you to wait."

"You don't have to ask," you said. "I've been doing it anyway."

That hit him.

You saw it in the way his eyes closed briefly, in the way his breath came out just a little too controlled.

When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.

"I don't want you on days," he said.

It came out rough.

Unfiltered.

Like he'd finally let something slip that he'd been holding onto too tightly.

You stared at him.

"Then say the rest of it."

He didn't move. Didn't speak.

Just stood there, close enough to touch, looking at you like he was trying to decide whether letting you in would break him or save him.

"I can't," he said finally.

And it sounded like the most honest thing he'd said all night.

You held his gaze for another moment, then stepped back.

"Then I'm switching to days," you said.

He flinched.

Barely—but you saw it.

"And if you want me to stay," you continued, "you're going to have to give me a reason that isn't just showing up and acting like I'm supposed to know what this is without you ever saying it."

You picked up your bag.

Turned toward the door.

His voice stopped you before you reached it.

"Don't go."

You looked back.

He was still standing in the same spot, but something in him had shifted.

Something raw.

"Not yet," he added, quieter.

You waited.

He didn't say anything else.

But he didn't look away either.

"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."

His voice came out rougher than before, like the words were scraping their way out.

You stayed where you were, hand still on your bag.

"I don't know how to—" Another pause. His jaw worked briefly. "How to be with someone. Not like this. Not in a way that—that means something."

He looked down, then forced himself to look back up.

"I've never—" He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. "I've never had to name it before. Never wanted to. Because if I don't name it, then it's just—it's just there. It exists without me having to—"

He stopped again.

You could see him fighting for the next words.

"Without me having to risk it," he finished quietly.

The silence stretched.

You didn't move.

Didn't help him.

He needed to get through this on his own.

"I'm terrified," he said, and it came out almost angry. Not at you. At himself. "I'm terrified that if I call this what it is, if I say it out loud, then it becomes something I can lose. And I—"

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"I can't lose you."

It was barely above a whisper.

"That's why I didn't fight you on the schedule," he continued, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "Because fighting you would've meant admitting why I wanted you to stay on nights. And I couldn't—I couldn't say that. Couldn't say that I needed you there. That I needed to know where you were, that I could find you, that you were—"

He stopped himself.

Breathed.

"That you were mine," he said finally. "Even though I had no right to think that."

You felt something shift in your chest.

"All of it," he said. "The checking on you, the showing up, keeping you close—it was because I didn't know how else to keep you. I didn't know how to just—to just be with you like a normal person. So I did it like this instead. Like I could have you without actually having to say I wanted you."

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"But you matter too much," he said, quieter now. "You matter too much for me to keep doing that. And I don't—I've never had that before. Never had someone matter so much that not having them felt like—"

He didn't finish.

Couldn't finish. 

"I don't know how to do this," he repeated, and this time it sounded like a confession and a plea at the same time. "But I don't want you on days. I don't want you anywhere I can't find you. And I know that's—I know that's not fair, but it's the truth."

He looked at you then, fully.

Unguarded.

"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever this is. I just—I don't know how to do it without ruining it."

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then shook your head slowly.

"Then why," you said, voice tight but controlled, "did you say it was nothing?"

He blinked.

"What?"

"Months ago," you said. "When we—when this started. You said it was nothing. You agreed it was nothing."

His jaw tightened.

"I didn't say—"

"You did," you cut him off. "You stood there and you let me say it was casual, that it didn't mean anything, and you agreed."

"I didn't get to say what it was," he said, and there was an edge to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration turned inward. "I didn't—I didn't know how to say what it was."

You felt your chest tighten.

"So you just let me decide for both of us?"

"You already had decided," he shot back, quieter but sharper. "You said it first. You called it nothing before I even had a chance to figure out what the hell I was supposed to call it."

That landed harder than you expected.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

"It was easier," he continued, voice dropping. "It was easier to just—to go along with what you said. Because at least that way I didn't have to try and fail to explain something I didn't have words for."

He looked away briefly, then forced himself to look back.

"You named it," he said. "And I let you. Because I didn't know how to name it differently. And I was terrified that if I tried, I'd say the wrong thing and you'd leave."

The silence between you felt heavier now.

Different.

"So you just—what?" you said quietly. "You just let me carry that? Let me think that's all it was?"

"Yes," he said, and it sounded like an admission of guilt. "I did."

Another pause.

"Because it was easier than risking you," he added, barely audible.

You exhaled slowly, something unraveling in your chest that you hadn't realized was wound so tight.

"That's not fair," you said.

"I know.”

He didn't move. Didn't try to defend himself further.

Just stood there, letting you see exactly how much of a coward he'd been.

"You should've said something."

"I know."

But this time, he moved.

Finally.

He crossed the space between you in three steps, and then his hands were on you—one sliding around your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your head as he pulled you against him.

The contact hit you like a shock.

Solid. Warm. Real.

His arms tightened around you, and you felt something in your chest crack open—something you'd been holding closed for so long you'd forgotten it was even there.

You didn't pull away.

Couldn't.

Your hands came up automatically, fisting in his shirt, and you pressed your face against his shoulder as everything you'd been carrying suddenly became too heavy to hold on your own.

He held you tighter.

Like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice rough against your hair. "I'm sorry I made you carry that alone."

You felt your throat tighten.

"I've been in love with you," you said, and it came out muffled against his shoulder. Quieter than you meant it to. "For a year."

His breath caught.

You felt it—the way his chest stuttered against yours, the way his grip on you shifted, became more deliberate.

More certain.

"I know," he said softly.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his hand slid from the back of your head to cup your face instead, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.

His eyes were darker now. Softer.

"I know," he repeated, "because I've been in love with you too."

The words landed between you like something fragile and vital all at once.

You stared at him.

"The whole time?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

"The whole time," he confirmed, and his voice cracked slightly on it. "I just—I didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to be someone who could say it."

Your eyes burned.

"You're saying it now."

"I'm saying it now," he agreed quietly.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of a year's worth of unnamed things finally settling into place.

"Don't switch to days," he said, and it wasn't a command. It was a request. Vulnerable. Raw. "Please. Just…stay with me."

You opened your eyes.

He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

Like maybe you always had been.

"I'm not leaving," you said finally.

His exhale was shaky with relief.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay."

He kissed your forehead, then pulled you back against him, and you let yourself sink into it—into him—for the first time without wondering if you were allowed to.

"I love you," he said quietly, like he was testing the words out. Seeing how they felt.

You felt them settle into your chest, warm and certain.

"I love you too," you said back.

And this time, when he held you, it didn't feel like he was trying to keep you coming.

It felt like he was finally letting you in.

[urfavoritewritersfavoritewriter]

jack abbot x shy!sensitive!reader texts

a/n: lowkey flopping rn #myb

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

guys WHAT is it about smau’s that just flutter my heart

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

quarantined

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 (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining

A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. It’s fun and it’s my fanfic I’ll cry if i want to and u know you’d quarantine in abbot’s house too if given the chance

AS OF 4/9/26 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

exposure || day 1 || day 2 || day 3 || day 4 || day 5 || day 6 || day 7 || day 8 || day 9 (12am) || day 9 || day 10 || day 11 || day 12 || day 13 || day 14 ||

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

This series is now COMPLETE!!! I could cry rn. I had a fuckin blast writing this and reading all the comments and reblogs <3 the support was truly unmatched and I’ll genuinely miss this duo so much :’) thank you to everyone who stopped to like, comment, and reblog you mean THE WORLDDDD<3

[itslowkeyatthenightshift]

quarantined - day 14 (the end)

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.

wc: 3.1k

tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, finally they come to their senses, return to the PTMC, blatantly ignoring HR, Dana supremacy.

series masterlist

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

A/N: i want to take this moment to extend such a big THANK YOU to all of the readers of this story. I have had the most fun writing this and could not have continued it without your support. MUCH LOVE XX

As if your bodies knew, you had already started to get reaccustomed to night shift hours.

You and Jack had stayed up practically the entire night. Between making up for a day spent carefully navigating feelings that had finally been spoken aloud and losing track of time talking in the dark, neither of you had been particularly interested in sleeping.

By the time exhaustion finally won, sunlight had already begun creeping through the blinds.

You’d fallen asleep sometime around seven in the morning, tangled together beneath the sheets, and hadn’t resurfaced until nearly three in the afternoon.

You stirred softly.

For a moment, you weren’t entirely awake. Just floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness, warm and comfortable enough that you didn’t particularly care which side you landed on.

Then memory slowly caught up.

Jack.

A small smile pulled at your mouth before you even opened your eyes.

The last time you’d gone to sleep at seven in the morning and woken up in the afternoon had been the first day of quarantine.

Back when you’d been sick, miserable, and convinced you were spending two weeks trapped with the most frustrating man in Pennsylvania.

The memory almost made you laugh.

How quickly things changed.

No—not quickly.

That wasn’t fair.

The last two weeks had changed quickly.

The rest of it had been happening for years.

You shifted slightly, blinking your eyes open against the muted afternoon light filtering through the bedroom.

Jack was still asleep.

That alone was unusual enough to earn a longer look.

His arm remained draped across your waist, face relaxed against the pillow in a way you rarely got to witness. The sharp edges he carried through the hospital weren’t here. The attending physician, the veteran, the man who always seemed to have a plan for everything—none of them existed in moments like this.

Just Jack. Your Jack. 

You studied him for a second before catching yourself.

A second turned into five.

Then ten.

God, you were becoming one of those people.

The realization should have embarrassed you.

Instead, it made you smile.

As if sensing the attention, he stirred slightly.

His brow furrowed before one eye cracked open.

Immediately finding you.

“You’re staring at me.”

His voice was rough from sleep.

You smiled innocently. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re literally on top of me.”

You glanced down.

Unfortunately, he had a point.

At some point during the night—or morning, technically—you’d migrated until you were half draped across him.

“Coincidence.”

“Mm.”

His eyes closed again.

You waited.

Then waited some more.

“That’s it?” you asked.

One eye reopened.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” You propped your chin on his chest. “A grand speech about how beautiful I look in the afternoon.”

“You do.”

The answer came so fast you nearly choked.

Jack looked entirely unbothered.

You, meanwhile, felt your face heat immediately. “Oh.”

A faint smirk appeared without him even opening his eyes.

“Got you.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re annoying.”

“I’ve been told.”

His arm tightened briefly around your waist, pulling you slightly closer.

“Has it really been fourteen days?” he continued, his free hand coming up to scrub over his face.

“Does it feel longer?”

He thought about it for a moment.

“Yes and no.”

You hummed. “I know what you mean. It feels like it was yesterday and also five years ago at the same time.”

“Yeah.”

A quiet settled between you.

“And now it’s time to go back,” you said.

The words hung heavier than you intended.

Jack’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling.

“Not sure what I’m gonna do without you here.”

Your head tilted toward him.

“Well, I mean, I can always come over after shifts.”

“Mmm.”

The sound was thoughtful.

“I don’t think it’s enough.”

Your brows shot up.

“What?” You pushed yourself up onto an elbow. “What, you want me to move in?”

That earned a snort.

“Whoa. Slow your roll there, buddy.” His hand landed on your hip, steadying you as he looked up with a grin. “I barely know you.”

You swatted his chest.

“Besides,” you said, rolling your eyes, “I can barely afford to pay Santos rent, let alone you and this giant house.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, “don’t offend me with the prospect of you paying your way on anything here.”

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You really are eighty.”

He groaned immediately.

“Here we go.”

“No, seriously. That was the most old-man thing you’ve ever said.”

“I am literally forty-six.”

“Exactly.”

“That’s not old.”

“It is when you’re offering to financially support women.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I wasn’t offering to financially support you.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was not.”

“You basically just told me I could squat here indefinitely.”

“That’s a gross mischaracterization of what happened.”

You laughed as he pulled you back down against him.

“Admit it. You’d have a heart attack if I tried to hand you money.”

“I’d survive.”

“Barely.”

His chest shook beneath your cheek with a laugh.

“Maybe.” 

“How the fuck do we proceed?” You sighed again. “You’re the attending. Attend.” 

He scoffed. “We proceed like any normal people would do in this scenario.” 

You glanced up at him expectantly. 

“You move in here permanently, we carpool to and from work, and eventually…” You hung onto his words, and he knew it. “…get a dog.” 

You couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “A dog.” 

“A dog.” 

“We work in the emergency room, you idiot. The fuck are we going to do with a dog?” 

“Have a lazy dog.” 

“You’re insane.” 

“That’s what my shrink says anyway.” 

You turned fully onto your side, tucking your hands beneath your cheek.

Noticing the shift in your expression, Jack mirrored you almost immediately, rolling onto his side so you were facing each other.

“Seriously,” you said. “When we clock in today at six o’clock, what do we do?”

“What do you want to do?”

You groaned.

You knew why he was doing it. After years of being your attending, years of holding authority over you, he was making a point to let you steer this.

It was thoughtful.

It was respectful.

It was also incredibly annoying.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

Jack studied you for a moment before nodding.

“Okay.”

“We have two options,” he continued. “We face PTMC head on and basically confirm what everyone with functioning eyesight has apparently suspected for years.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“Or?”

“Or we keep it to ourselves.”

His voice remained easy.

Steady.

Like either outcome genuinely sat fine with him.

“I’m good either way, sweetheart.”

You believed him.

If you wanted to walk into the ED holding his hand, he’d do it.

If you wanted to pretend absolutely nothing had happened for a while, he’d do that too.

Neither option seemed to threaten him.

You, meanwhile, felt like your stomach was performing acrobatics.

“You’re being suspiciously calm about this.”

“I’m a calm person.”

You gave him a look.

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not.”

“Jack.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Six months ago, you nearly argued with a cardiologist because he used the phrase ‘heart vibes.’”

His expression remained completely neutral.

“He was wrong.”

You barked out a laugh.

“He was trying to explain something to a patient.”

“He was explaining it poorly.”

The familiar banter softened the tension for a moment.

Just enough—before reality drifted back in.

“Robby’s going to know immediately.”

He nodded. “Robby already knows.”

“That’s fair.”

“Santos definitely knows.”

You buried your face in the pillow. “Oh, she knows.”

“She knew before we did.”

The thought made you groan louder.

Jack’s smile widened. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think we’re putting too much pressure on one shift.”

You looked back up at him.

His expression had softened again.

“Nothing actually changes tonight,” he said. “We show up. We do our jobs. We save lives.”

His hand found yours beneath the sheets.

Easy.

Natural.

“Then we go home.”

Home.

As though there wasn’t any question where either of you would be going afterward.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“We don’t have to solve the rest of our lives before six o’clock.”

You stared at him for a moment.

Then sighed.

“That’s annoyingly reasonable.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“It sounded like one.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shen’s definitely going to know.” 

“Shen’s been asking me for years.” 

“What if I quit tonight? Then we don’t have to tell HR—” 

“No one is quitting.” 

Jack walked beside you like it was any other day.

No hesitation. No visible shift in posture. No performative adjustment to account for the fact that, technically, everything between you had changed in the span of fourteen days. 

Just calm, steady movement through the automatic doors like he belonged exactly where he was going.

Like you did too.

Everyone was already gathered in the center of the floor the way they always were at shift change—half-circle clusters around the board, voices overlapping in that familiar controlled chaos of PTMC handoff. Day shift finishing up last-minute updates, night shift filtering in, everyone half-listening while still trying to catch their own assignments.

The second you stepped onto the main floor, it happened.

Conversations tapered off mid-sentence. Mel paused with her pen hovering above the paper. Whitaker literally stopped walking, frozen halfway between trauma bay three and the board. Even Dana looked up from the desk with slow, deliberate recognition, as though bracing for something dramatic to unfold.

Silence that didn’t feel accidental.

It felt collective.

Like everyone knew something had changed.

Everyone was just waiting to see how it would announce itself.

Your stomach tightened immediately.

Jack didn’t slow down.

He adjusted his ID badge slightly and kept walking toward the board like nothing in the world was out of place.

Then, without even looking away from the updates being scribbled up front, he spoke.

“Are we going to stand around,” he said evenly, “or are we going to fill me in on what I’ve missed?”

That did it.

The illusion of restraint broke instantly.

A few people glanced at each other. Someone coughed awkwardly. An intern snapped back into motion a little too fast, shuffling forward with a chart like they’d been personally called out.

The tension in the room shifted from frozen anticipation to frantic professionalism in seconds.

Just like that, he had taken the room back.

Jack Abbot, attending physician.

Nothing more.

Robby cleared his throat, insulated cup in one hand and tablet tucked into his other. “Welcome back you two, you’ve been missed,” 

You stood slightly behind Jack for half a beat longer than you meant to.

Because you could feel it.

Every eye that had been waiting for confirmation was now actively searching for you instead.

And you suddenly became very interested in the floor.

From your peripheral vision, you caught movement.

Santos.

She leaned against the counter near the desk like she had been waiting for this exact moment since the beginning of time itself. Her arms were crossed, expression already sharpened into something far too entertained.

Her eyes flicked to Jack first.

Then to you.

And stayed there.

You felt your entire face heat up on instinct.

Absolutely not. You knew Santos had an effect on you that got you to sing like a canary, and you would not be doing this now. Or here. 

You dropped your gaze harder into the chart in front of you like it contained the secrets of the universe.

Jack, meanwhile, was already in full attending mode—calmly asking about a trauma admit, redirecting a resident, scanning the board like the last fourteen days had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience.

Professional. Unbothered. Infuriatingly normal.

Santos, however, was still looking at you.

You could feel it.

You risked a quick glance up.

Bad idea.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

A silent, devastatingly smug: Oh. So that’s what happened in quarantine.

You immediately looked back down at the chart.

“Okay,” Jack said, closing a chart with finality. “Let’s move. Who’s covering north—”

His words cut off mid-sentence.

His attention snagged on something past the nurse’s bay, gaze sharpening in a way that made the shift in the room immediate. You followed his line of sight.

The security office.

More specifically, the whiteboard inside it.

You saw it instantly.

Dozens of brightly colored sticky notes layered over one another in chaotic, deliberate organization—the unmistakable sign of a PTMC floor wager. Something that had clearly escalated far beyond anyone’s attempt to make it subtle.

Your stomach dropped.

A few people shifted uncomfortably. The air in the room changed again, this time from anticipation to something closer to collective regret.

Because now everyone knew exactly what was about to happen.

Jack didn’t say anything at first.

He just walked.

Slowly.

He didn’t rush. Just controlled, purposeful movement toward the office like he had all the time in the world to dismantle whatever he was about to find inside.

The room watched him go.

And then watched harder when he stepped inside.

You couldn’t see him for a few seconds, but you could feel it—whatever he was reading in there. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable, punctuated only by the low hum of monitors and the distant beeping of a patient you weren’t currently thinking about.

Then he stepped back out.

With something in his hand—a bucket.

Full.

And judging by the weight of it in his grip, absolutely not small change.

He looked at it once.

Then at the group.

“The hell is this?” he asked.

His voice had dropped into that controlled attending tone that meant someone was about to have a very bad time.

“I told ‘em to take it down numerous times,” Robby said casually from the side, taking a sip of his coffee like this was the least surprising development of his week.

Jack didn’t look at him.

“Take it down. Now.”

One of the security guys opened his mouth like he might argue.

Jack cut him off immediately.

“Don’t. This is not only unprofessional, it’s a violation of hospital policy. And if Gloria saw this, she’d have a heart attack before I finished the explanation.”

A beat.

“I said take it down. Now.”

Silence.

Then movement.

Immediate, slightly panicked compliance.

Around you, the group shifted uncomfortably, the earlier tension now replaced with the very real consequences of getting caught turning your personal life into a full-scale betting pool.

People glanced between you and Jack now with renewed intensity, like the stakes had somehow doubled.

Santos, of course, looked like she was enjoying every second of it.

You refused to look at her.

Jack walked back toward the board, still holding the bucket like it personally offended him. He set it down with a dull thud that made at least one resident flinch.

Then he finally spoke again.

“I’ll be keeping this. Are we done entertaining ourselves,” he said flatly, “or can we get back to doing our jobs?”

That snapped everyone back into motion.

You felt your insides warm at the way he’d just single-handedly shut down half the floor’s curiosity without even acknowledging what they were really trying to do. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for show. It was just Jack, doing what Jack did—drawing a hard line and refusing to let anyone turn it into entertainment.

You watched him for a moment longer as he moved through the night shift handoff, already back in control of the room. 

Like none of it had touched him.

A throat beside you cleared. 

Santos.

You didn’t even notice her approaching until she was already beside you. Denim jacket already on. Work bag slung over her shoulder. Expression determined in that way that meant she was absolutely not letting this go.

Here goes nothing.

“Hey,” you breathed.

“Been a long two weeks, huh?”

You let out a quiet sigh.

“Do we have to do this here?”

She raised a brow.

“Seeing as you’ve dodged most of my calls, yeah, I’d like to.”

Fair.

You leaned slightly against the counter, lowering your voice.

“If I tell you it’s because I was in fact very busy discussing the future of our relationship, will you drop it?”

There was a beat.

Santos blinked at you.

Like her brain had to reboot to process the sentence you’d just delivered with full sincerity.

“…Yeah?” she said finally, slower now. “Shit, I actually was only about, like, eighty percent sure you two would come out of this in a fucking relationship.”

You let out a breath that turned into a laugh despite yourself.

“How much did you bet, Trinity?”

She hesitated.

Which was answer enough.

“Doesn’t even matter,” she said quickly, pointing vaguely toward the floor. “Your damn boyfriend took the prize pot so I guess we all lost.”

Your head snapped slightly to the side at that.

The mention of ‘boyfriend’.

The word still hit you like you were some lovestruck teenager remembering her crush liked her back.

You followed her gesture instinctively.

Jack was across the floor near Robby, speaking in low, clipped tones as they reviewed something on a tablet. Fully in attending mode again. 

Like it was just another Tuesday.

You exhaled slowly.

“I can’t believe you people were betting on us,” you muttered.

Santos scoffed.

“Oh, please. It was the most entertaining thing that’s happened on this floor in months.”

“That is deeply concerning for patient care.”

“But deeply relevant to morale.”

You shook your head, but your mouth was still betraying you with a smile.

Across the room, Jack glanced up briefly.

Not long.

Just enough.

His eyes found yours instinctively.

Like it was second nature now.

He held it for a beat.

Then, he winked at you. 

A quick, stolen moment—barely there if you weren’t looking for it. A subtle lift at the corner of his mouth, almost imperceptible.

A reminder that he was here. That he had your back. That none of this—the eyes, the whispers, the poorly hidden questions—was going to shake what had already been decided between the two of you.

Then he turned back to Robby as if nothing in the world had shifted at all.

You blinked once, caught between the absurdity of it and the warmth that followed it too quickly for you to properly process.

Across the floor, Dana moved past the edge of the group.

She was in her street clothes now. And in her hands—

The bucket.

Full of money.

She looked far too pleased with herself as she carried it like some kind of hard-won trophy, chin lifted just slightly as she made her way toward the exit.

Your brows knitted together.

Your attention snapped back toward Trinity.

“Uh,” you said slowly, still watching Dana disappear toward the doors, “what did Dana bet?”

Trinity followed your line of sight, squinting like she was trying to remember.

Then she let out a low laugh. “Oh,” she said, like it suddenly clicked into place.

 “She bet that it started the day you started working here.”

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