author's note — this is my first time writing for Off Campus, let me know if you'd like to see more <3
"Baby," Garrett practically croons when he sees you, leaning his elbows on the railing of the staircase. "Where've you been?"
You try and fail the urge to let your eyes travel downwards, the trail of hair from his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants, the ridges of muscles very much evident, especially because he isn't wearing a shirt.
"Studying," you reply, in a duh tone of voice, taking the steps one at a time to reach him. He winds his arms around your waist, fingers splaying on the exposed skin of your abdomen, brushing your hip bone.
You melt at the soft touch, and he leans down to press a kiss to the tip of your earlobe. "Do you have no shirts?" You tease quietly, letting out a soft gasp when his kiss grows fervent. "... I should buy you some."
Your boyfriend lets out a little scoff, tugging you closer to his front. "I have enough shirts, honey," he breathes, lips moving up to the underside of your jaw. "C'mon," he coaxes, pulling away much to your chagrin; to you letting out a soft, irritated whine. "Upstairs. Don't you wanna get comfy?"
How can you possibly resist, especially when his hands are on you, and he's using that tone, which begs to be listened to? You let out a little hum of affirmation.
Garrett grins, the corners of his lips tugging up in what looks to be a mix of amusement and pleasure at your easy obedience. "Good girl," he murmurs, fingers slipping off your waist, only to intertwine with your loose ones by your side. "Up," he says in the softest voice possible.
You blink up at him through your lashes. He tilts his head at you, resembling a bit of a golden retriever with those brown eyes fixed on you, solely on you. You're warm under his attention.
"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to stare, baby?" Garrett says softly, a teasing chide to his words.
It's your turn to let out a scoff now, mirroring his, and his eyebrows soften in appreciation of the soft sound from your lips. "You're my boyfriend, I think I'm allowed to admire you."
His grin widens. "Oh, is that what you're doing? Admiring me?"
"Mhm."
"Huh," Garrett murmurs, lifting his free hand to cup your cheek, watching the way you melt in real time with adoring eyes. "When did you get so smooth?"
You smile prettily up at him, your best smile, and his breath catches in his throat. "Learned from the best."
"Did you?" he brushes your cheek with a calloused thumb, so gentle it makes something in your heart splinter and crack in two.
"Come on, sweetheart," he gentles his voice even further, giving your cheek a gentle pat. "Let's take a nap. You look exhausted."
You frown up at him, lips jutting out in a pout. "That's so mean, do I not look pretty?"
Garrett curls his arms around you, picking you up with an ease that still surprises you. Your legs naturally wind around his waist, head lolling forward to find rest on his shoulder. "You always look pretty, baby," he hums, kissing the side of your head. "My gorgeous girl, hm?"
Letting out a pleased sound of acknowledgement, you let Garrett climb the rest of the stairs and make his way down the hallway. You pass Dean's room on the way, and the door is wide open.
You don't bother lifting your head from Garrett's shoulder, you're already sure what's going on in there. Your boyfriend wrinkles his nose above you. "Dean, how many fucking times! Close the door, yeah?"
Dean lets out a sound to the affirmative, but makes no move to get up from where he's got a pretty girl perched on top of him.
Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out an annoyed sigh, shifting you on his hip to close the door with one hand. "Idiot," he mutters under his breath. He hitches you higher against his chest, and you go willingly, boneless and warm under his affections.
The floorboards creak under Garrett's weight as he moves to cover the distance from Dean's room to his. "Tired, sweetheart?" He asks, voice soft again, a low rumble to the timbre of his words.
"No," you mumble against his neck, pressing your nose against the space between his jaw and shoulder.
He lets out a laugh, opening his door with his foot, shifting you in his arms a little so he can flop onto his bed, back against the headrest, with you in his lap. "You're lying."
"Am not."
"Are too," he grins, watching you peer up at him with half-lidded, obviously sleepy eyes. "You're barely awake, pretty."
You let out an annoyed whine, hands finding home on his chest. "I'm awake, thank you very much. And I want a kiss."
Garrett's smile widens. "Do you now?"
"Don't be a jerk," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. "I'm allowed to ask for a kiss."
"You are," he hums, tugging you closer, one big hand lifting from your waist for your neck, brushing idly at the tender skin of your jaw. "You do have to say please, though, honey. Manners."
Groaning frustratedly, you add, "please can I have kiss?"
Your boyfriend smiles, thumbing at your cheekbone. "You can, baby," he murmurs, leaning down to meet you halfway. Your hand slides up to the nape of his neck, thumbing at the baby hairs there, and he sighs against your mouth, deepening the kiss.
It's lazy, the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere, and doesn't need to, either. His tongue brushes your lower lip, seeking entry, and you open for him. He tastes like mint, the gum he's always chewing.
"Garrett," you breathe when he pulls away for a second to get air.
"Shh." His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft spot below your ear. "Just relax, sweetheart."
i would love any good plot you can write with john logan 🙈
I've never been a fan of Logan while reading the books (not hating him either!), but show Logan is a vibe
—
Your car hated late November nights. Especially when a light layer of snow dusted the road.
‘’Come on, come on,’’ you said, coaxing the engine to start as you turned the key.
Snow was sprinkled on the windshield and the air biting, making you regret taking your car out tonight. You should have stayed in your dorm instead of having dinner at your parents’. But you were craving your mom’s butter chicken and her apple crumble, which she happened to be making tonight.
The engine coughed again — weak, stubborn, like it was thinking about it.
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel.
‘’Please,’’ you muttered, softer now, less like a command and more like a plea.
The dashboard lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the sound of the starter fading into nothing but a tired click.
Silence.
‘’Fuck.’’
Giving up, you leaned your head back against the seat, staring at the fog creeping up the windshield. It wasn’t supposed to snow until next week. But with all the climatic changes, mother nature was very unpredictable.
Your phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Mom: I hope John likes the apple crisp. Bring him over next time xx Mom
A defeated sign left your lips as you thought of your boyfriend. You didn’t want to call him for help, but it seemed like the only option. Unless you wanted to walk back to campus.
He answered at the first ring.
‘’Hey, babe,’’ Logan's voice came through the phone, warm and slightly muffled by the sound of the boys in the background.
‘’Hey,’’ you said, the guilt of bothering him on a Sunday night making you bite your lip. ‘’Are you busy? I’m sort of stuck outside campus… My car won’t start.’’
There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a laugh, light and distracted.
‘’Where are you?’’
More background noise accompanied by someone yelling something you couldn’t make out.
‘’Right on Route 12,’’ you said, rubbing your cold hands together. ‘’Near the old gas station.’’
The line crackled slightly as another burst of noise erupted in the background —Dean’s loud cackle followed by Tucker yelling about plates.
‘’I’m on my way. Stay in the car and lock the doors, okay?’’
Fifteen minutes later, Logan pulled up behind you. The truck’s headlights cut through the dark like twin beacons, illuminating your car in sharp relief. Logan jumped out fast, wearing a lumberjack style jacket with his hockey sweatpants peeking beneath.
He knocked on your window gently, not trying to scare you, and you opened your door. ‘’I’m sorry for calling you. I didn’t—’’
Logan stole a kiss and tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear. ‘’I’d rather you call me than some pervert mechanic you don’t know. Especially at night.’’ He went in for another kiss, then moved to the hood of your car. ‘’Pop the hood and start the car for me, will you?’’
‘’Can I drop something in your car first? It’s still warm from the heater and I don’t want him to freeze off.’’ You reached for your beanie in the passenger seat, leaving a confused Logan staring at you.
Before he could ask any questions, there was a small meow as you cradled the knitted headwear against you.
‘’What was that?’’ Logan asked, playing the denial car as he recognized the meowing sound.
A smile curled on your lips, presenting the orange little kitten with green eyes that was hiding inside your beanie. ‘’Meet your new daddy.’’
Logan choked. ‘’Dadd— Where did you get that?’’
‘’On the side of the road. I saved him, Logan. Poor little thing would never have survived the night.’’
The kitten meowed again, this time looking at Logan. He wasn’t older than a few weeks. His chin was white and his fur was fluffy from the static of the knit he was buried in for the last forty minutes.
Logan stared at him for a long second, then at you. ‘’You’re insane,’’ he said, but there was no real bite to it.
‘’Compassionate,’’ you corrected, adjusting the kitten so it wouldn’t slip. ‘’There’s a difference.’’
The kitten meowed again, as if backing you up. Logan exhaled through his nose, defeated, and reached out to gently tap the kitten’s head with his finger. ‘’You can’t just pick up every strays you see. You know animals are not permitted at the dorms, right?’’
At the beginning of the school year, a reminder had been sent to everyone after some idiot brought a fucking tarantula to their dorm and it escaped. A girl woke up with it crawling on her leg and the whole building had to be evacuated.
But this was not a tarantula. It was a kitten.
You tilted your head, watching him the way you always did when you knew you were about to win. ‘’About that… Can you keep it at the hockey house? Until Tuesday. I only have a morning class so I’ll take him to my parents after.’’
Logan let out a long sigh, but his hand was still lightly stroking the kitten’s head like he didn’t even realize he’d started. ‘’I don’t know…’’
You pouted, giving him your best sad eyes. ‘’Please, baby.’’
His eyes flicked to yours, and the resistance cracked just enough to show what he already decided. ‘’Fine. But only until Tuesday.’’ He carefully took the kitten from your hands like it was something fragile, taking a closer look. The kitten immediately curled against his hoodie, like it belonged there.
You smiled, leaning in a little closer to him. ‘’That’s your daddy, little kitten’’
Logan shot you a look. ‘’Don’t start.’’
══════════════════
Off Campus taglist: @f1rewhiskey @formula1-motogpfan @schinug @skyesthebomb
━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k
tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited
part one \ part two \ part three
You should have been asleep.
Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.
You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly.
You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.
Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead.
Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt.
The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles.
The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this.
The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly.
You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.
He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.
“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.
You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.
A beat of silence passed.
“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”
That finally dragged your attention toward him.
You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly.
You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.
“I’m sorry.”
"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly.
"I was not loud."
"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."
"That is offensive."
“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.
Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.
“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”
You snorted softly.
“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”
He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.
Then another.
Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.
Your fingers paused over the keyboard.
“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”
You ignored him on purpose.
It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it.
Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked.
He sighed dramatically.
“Baby.”
“Logan.”
His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.
Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.
He knew it too.
“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”
“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.
His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”
The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.
You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His entire face changed.
It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.
With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.
This version belonged only to you.
Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”
“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”
“Logan.”
But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.
“You are the worst,” you informed him.
“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.
Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.
Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett.
Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you.
Especially hockey culture.
You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly.
You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"
"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates.
Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny.
Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.
This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.
I missed you.
Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress.
Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.
Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.
You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”
“For you? Yeah.”
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.
One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.
The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.
Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.
The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.
Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.
Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.
The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.
Garrett stepped inside.
For one horrible second, nobody moved.
His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.
The silence turned suffocating.
You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.
Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.
You in Logan’s jersey.
Logan sitting on your bed.
His practice bag on your floor.
Your flushed face.
The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.
You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"
"G—"
"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you.
Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough.
Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."
Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players.
"G, listen, man—"
"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face.
"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"
"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"
The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to.
It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore.
Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."
You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast.
Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."
You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed.
Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat.
"You care about her?"
Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."
The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent.
And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.
You could see it happen in real time.
His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.
“What happens after a bad game?”
“Garrett—”
“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”
Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”
“Garrett!”
The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.
Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.
Beside you, Logan had gone very still.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.
Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.
One more sentence.
That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything.
“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening.
“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?”
The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.
That look.
Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.
“Fuck you, Garrett!”
“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.
“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father.
Your chest hurt.
You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.
Enough to understand.
“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”
“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”
Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”
“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.
Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.
Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.
“Get out!”
The shout echoed off the walls.
Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.
The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.
Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again.
Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”
He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.
The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.
Or this one.
The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.
“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”
“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.
Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.
Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.
Logan’s eyes widened instantly.
The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.
For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.
The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.
The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.
Shock because he understood what you were doing.
Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”
“Baby—”
“No!”
Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too.
The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.
Logan stared at it for half a second.
Then at you.
You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.
Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”
Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think.
It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.
At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor.
A/N: another fic i've had written for months! so excited to finally be sharing these and to have a growing audience for them! thanks to everyone who has been liking and sharing my dean fics, it means so much and it's great to have a little motivation to get back into writing. more off-campus content to come! <3
summary: you overhear a conversation from dean's friend's that you weren't exactly meant to hear
word count: ~2.8k
warnings: MDNI 18+ talks of sex, descriptions of sexual acts (not full on smut but describing past experiences), insecure reader, asshole friends, comparing new relationship to past ex
Dean was out late since he had a game with the Hurricanes, but he told you that you could stay in his room at the guys’ place until he got back. You had dinner by yourself, deciding on McDonald’s since the rest of the guys were out of the house, though once you settle in bed, two hours before Dean is expected to be home, you hear the door open.
Loud voices fill the downstairs space, and you partly want to venture down there to see what the guys are up to, but also don’t want to intrude on their boys night. However, eventually, when your glass of water runs dry, you decide to head down for some more, but before you can even get to the second stair and descend, you hear your name.
“Is (Y/N) here?” You can tell it’s Logan by the teasing tone in the question, he is always messing with you and Dean about how much you’re over here.
“I dunno,” Tucker responds, his speech slurred due to the amount of drinks he’s had. You knew they were going to Malone’s to celebrate a friend’s birthday, but you didn’t expect them back this early.
“She’s always here,” Logan replies matter-of-factly. “It’s like she’s…monitoring him.” That phrase throws you off, your body freezing in fear. What could he possibly mean?
“Yeah, I can see it,” Garrett cuts into the conversation. “Like she doesn’t trust him or something. She must think him being alone tempts him too much so she’s always with him.”
“But she also doesn’t give him anything in return,” Tucker adds. “He told me they haven’t fucked in like, two weeks. I don’t know how the guy does it.”
You are very aware of the fact that your libidios don’t exactly match, and it’s not something you’ve brought up just yet. He’s assured you that it’s no hurry, he’s got a hand and a toy for a reason, but it still makes you feel guilty. And this whole conversation makes you wonder what he tells them.
“Dude yeah,” Logan agrees. “He told me the same. I’m like…are we talking about the same Dean that was fucking every night? I mean him and Allie would go at it like rabbits whenever they’d see each other.”
Upon hearing that name, your entire body tenses up. They brought up his ex-girlfriend in comparison to you. Your worst fear in a relationship.
“i miss Allie, she was so good for him,” Garrett says, a reminiscent tone to his voice. Your chin rests on your knees, tears welling up in your eyes, the phrase repeating over and over in your head.
“She so was. Their personalities fit so well together.”
“Uh huh, they could match each other’s energies. Now, it’s like (Y/N) is an energy vampire, sucking the life out of him.”
“I mean she’s not doing much sucking.” A chorus of laughter stings your ears as they continue to poke fun and question your ability to make their friend happy.
Unfortunately for you, your mind starts to wander. Does Dean think that way as well? Does he miss his ex because she was able to match his sexual desires? Were they more compatible than you and him? Insecurities rise in your body, and suddenly, you forget about the fact that you needed water.
Instead, you quietly trudge back to your boyfriend’s room and gather everything you’ve kept in here over the past few months into your duffle bag, prepared to leave the second he gets back from the game.
Although when he returns, finding his roommates passed out drunk on the couches, he also finds you asleep on his bed, above the covers, slightly shivering due to the chill in the air. He notices that you’re no longer wearing his hoodie, which is neatly folded on the chair at his desk.
His eyebrows furrow in confusion and his green eyes follow the duffle bag sitting open, containing some articles of clothing he has seen placed neatly in the drawer of his dresser that he designated as yours.
“Baby?” He shakes you awake a little, but you don’t budge one bit. He decides to then take a quick moment to check all the places he knew you kept your stuff; your drawer is empty, your toiletries including your toothbrush and toothpaste are gone, and your t-shirts that were hanging up in a small section of his closet were missing.
A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he takes a seat on the bed, though something catches his eye. A neatly folded piece of paper on his desk. Standing back up, he takes a couple steps and picks it up, carefully unfolding it with his calloused fingers.
His green eyes scan over the words that were written in your handwriting, and he can’t help the scoff that escapes him.
“Oh, hi Dean,” you finally awake, having been rattled from the force that he rose off the bed from. Slowly, he turns towards you, holding the note between his fingers.
“You wanna explain this?” He questions, a hurtful and almost betrayed bite to his voice. Swallowing thickly, you remember what you had written in your emotional flurry, and instantly regret it instead of talking to him. “You’re not seriously wanting to break up, are you?”
Silence hangs between the two of you and it’s horrifically awkward. You aren’t sure what to say or do, the damage already having been done.
“I…I don’t want to, but I was…”
“You were what? All of a sudden unhappy in this relationship and decided to make that decision without me?” Your heart aches in your chest, realizing the severity of what you had done. “What the fuck is going on, (Y/N)?”
Dean takes a seat with you again, the note fluttering beside him, quickly forgotten once his eyes set on you. He doesn’t want to hear it from a handwritten note, he wants to hear it from your mouth.
“I was just thinking that maybe we aren’t right for each other,” you shrug. “I mean, you have girls still fawning over you, waiting to have their moment with you, I hate to think I’m holding you back because I have issues.”
“You think you’re holding me back?” He appears hurt by your assumption, and because of that, you’re unable to properly form a response. “Holding me back from what exactly?”
“Sex. I hate to think that you fuck me every couple weeks when I’m in the mood and get stuck with your hand the rest of the time because I have little to no libido. You don’t deserve that, you deserve someone like Al-”
Dean’s eyes immediately widen upon your slip-up, even though you stopped before you could say the whole name. He knows exactly what you mean. A scoff escapes his lips, completely flabbergasted that you would even say such a thing.
“You’re really comparing yourself to my ex? I thought I told you many times, we’re nothing anymore.”
“You did, and I trust you, b-”
“So then why are you so worried about what you’re like and comparing to what she’s like, hm?” When you don’t respond, he pushes for an answer. “What’s got you worried, (Y/N)?”
“Your friends,” you choke out, averting your eyes away from him. You hate to be the person to throw his friends under the bus to him, but he wants the truth, so he’s going to get it.
“What makes you say that?”
“I overheard them talking about me. Saying that the only sucking I’m doing is sucking your energy, also saying how they liked her better than me, how you were better with her, how I’m over here all the time because I have to monitor you so you don’t get tempted to sleep with someone else because we don’t have sex that much.”
Confusion and anger flash in his eyes, and he has to stop himself from racing downstairs and pounding his friends’ faces in.
“They said all that?” You nod to his question, too afraid of your voice breaking to speak. Dean is so outraged, wondering what led his friends to say such awful things about you, that he doesn’t even notice the tears silently streaming down your cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to leave before you got back, but they were still up and I-I didn’t want to face them, but then I-”
“Hey, hey, shhh,” he coos, immediately bringing you into his arms, holding you close to his strong chest. You choke back a sob as your tears soak his grey long sleeve shirt, though you barely register what’s even happening. “I’ll have a talk with them in the morning. I’m not gonna stand by and let them say shit like that about you. Did they know you could hear them?”
“No, I was getting ready to head downstairs, but then I heard my name, so I stopped.”
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, holding you even tighter in his grip. “I’m so sorry, baby. But please, don’t let their words get between us, okay? I need you to talk to me instead of running away.”
His request holds nothing but admiration and reassurance, no judgement whatsoever. He knows things haven’t been easy for you, and that communication has been a weak aspect on your side of things.
“Does it really bother you that we don’t…have sex very often?”
“Of course it doesn’t. I’ve told you that so many times.”
“But they said you and Allie-“
“Fuck what they said! They know nothing! Yeah, I used to have a very active sex life, but your safety and wellness is more important to me than anything. I may not understand what it’s like to just…not want to have sex but I respect it. Like I’ve told you, I have a hand and I have a toy. I would never, ever, cheat on you because of something like that.”
His words are spoken with a strong and confident tone, leaving no space for you to even interpret his words wrong. He’s told you the same thing previous times, there’s nothing that would change his mind or lead him to doing something that he would regret.
Even when he gets drunk now, the last thing he thinks about is sex. It’s you. How he wants to be cradled in your arms, his friends have stated how he never shuts up about you when he’s hammered. So much so, that they keep a framed photo of you to appease him; which makes their confessions earlier tonight even more confusing to you.
Overall, these factors have confirmed to you that Dean isn’t that type of guy anymore, and he’s adapted to your own personal way of things.
The Life of Dean has changed because of you.
“I know your mind is still going crazy, baby, but I promise you. Our relationship is different, but it’s a good different. I like that when you are finally in the mood, it’s like…mind-blowing.” You chuckle softly at his words and hide your face in your hands.
“Hey, no hiding on me,” he adds. “I mean it. When I first tasted your pussy, I-“
“Okay, Dean!” You giggle, your face now bright red and blushing, the smile on Dean’s face as wide as ever.
“Trust me, every time it happens, I just…black out afterwards. Most intense orgasms ever,” he adds on. “Plus, that one day that you let me go down on you when you weren’t up for it. I’ll never forget that.”
Your face now feels like it’s on fire from the way he’s talking. He’s right, one day, he begged and begged to go down on you, and despite you telling him that you weren’t in the mood for sex or to come, he insisted that he wanted to do so for his own pleasure.
Eventually, after setting some ground rules and such, you let him eat you out while you played around on your phone, the sounds of his moans turning you on, but your mind too clouded to reach an orgasm.
But he didn’t care, he was paying no attention to you. He was in his own little world, mouth covered in your arousal, eyes shut, occasionally fluttering open to meet your smiling face. Not once did he stop to take a breath, drowning in the smell and taste of you, both things that you had been highly insecure about leading up to that point.
He was down there for about thirty minutes before he finally exploded in his shorts, grinding against the bed and making a mess of himself. You hadn’t even realized he had done so until he lays there between your legs, spent, and awkwardly adjusts himself.
That’s when he sits up, revealing the large amount of cum seeping through the grey shorts of his, since he had forgone boxers. That sight alone was enough for you to pull him back down to your pussy and make you orgasm three times in a row.
“I need you to understand that sex isn’t just about fucking. It’s about sharing a moment with one another in each other’s pleasure. And to me, that means all the times that you give me a handjob or blowjob even when you want nothing in return, it’s me fingering you because that’s all you have the energy for, it’s dry humping one another when we’re too lazy to get undressed, the thigh riding, all of it. I don’t need penatrative sex every single night, despite what my friends say. I did it because it was fun, sure, but I’m in a committed relationship now. Priorities change, and that means adapting and making compromises.”
His little speech has brought tears to your eyes, and yet another blush to your cheek. All of a sudden, his friends words and your insecurities that had risen from them disappear, and Dean is the only one that matters.
“I’m sorry I doubted you on that,” you murmur, feeling upset with yourself for writing such an impulsive letter and not talking to him about all of this. He grins softly and presses a kiss to your cheek.
“It’s alright, baby girl. I can’t imagine how tough it was hearing that. And trust me, I’m still going to give them shit for it in the morning. Maybe a good punch or two as well.” You share a short laugh, knowing full well that he’s not going to hurt his friends.
However there’s an inkling in your mind that says that he’s not kidding at all.
“Just know that they’re wrong. They can think they know what’s best for me, but I’m the only one who can judge that. You and her are very different, and that’s what I like. I don’t want the same that I had with her, there’s a reason we split up. With you, things have been so beautiful and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’ve learned so much from you and it’s made me see things in a different light. You’ve opened up a more domestic side to me and I love it.”
“Domesticated Dean, huh? That wasn’t a thing before?”
He smiles widely and pulls you into his arms, adjusting your bodies so you now lay under the covers, seeing as it was nearing ten o’clock and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed with you after a long day.
“It wasn’t, but I like who I am when I’m with you.” For some reason that single comment makes your heart soar in your chest. The fact that he’s admitting that you make him a better person, a better version of himself, is one of the highest compliments to ever receive, and it definitely doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I love you,” you whisper into his neck, placing a couple kisses there to seal the words.
“I love you too, sweetheart. I wouldn’t trade you for the world, you’re mine and I’m yours. No one can break that apart.” He kisses you sweetly, cradling your face with his rather large hand. After he breaks away, he sits up to reach across the covers, grabbing the note that you had written in the heat of the moment.
“And this?” he says as he rips the note to shreds, tossing the pieces into the trash can near his bed, “is not happening. I’m not letting my friends rip you away from me over this, got it?”
“Yeah,” you grin up at him, glad that he isn’t too hurt or upset over the fact that you had even written such a thing.
“It’s behind us, alright? Next time, I want you to come straight to me if something happens, especially if something happens with them.”
“Will do, Mr. Di Laurentis.” A blush takes over his features and he kisses you passionately once more. The two of you get comfortable in his bed, a heavy sigh escaping him as his muscles finally start to relax.
“Get some rest, okay? I’m not going anywhere. Unless I wake up before you, then I’ll be downstairs kicking my roommates asses.”
Jack doesn't realise he's in love because loving you is a second nature to him
By the time anyone noticed it, it was already far too late for Jack Abbot.
Not that he knew that.
That was the problem.
Jack didn’t realize he was in love with you because loving you had quietly become as automatic as breathing.
It lived in the unconscious things.
The instinctive things.
The things he did before his brain had time to catch up.
Like carrying an extra coffee onto the floor every single shift because you always forgot breakfast when you were running late.
Like automatically checking the trauma board for your name before he checked his own assignments.
Like knowing the exact look on your face that meant you were overwhelmed versus irritated versus one badly phrased sentence away from crying in the medication room.
He just… knew you.
The same way he knew how to intubate.
The same way he knew the sound of a crashing patient monitor.
Effortless. Embedded.
Natural.
So when people started looking at him strangely whenever you were mentioned, Jack genuinely had no idea why.
“You are disgustingly obvious,” Dana informed him one night.
Jack didn’t even glance up from his charting.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You just gave her your sandwich.”
“She forgot to eat.”
Dana stared at him.
“And yesterday you drove across town at two in the morning because she texted that her car wouldn’t start.”
“She was stranded.”
“And last week you threatened a resident for making her cry.”
Jack finally looked up.
“I did not threaten him.”
“You told him you’d ‘rearrange his skeletal structure.’”
“He was being a dick.”
Dana leaned back in her chair.
“That’s my point.”
Jack frowned.
“You’re acting like this means something.”
“It does mean something.”
“What?”
Dana blinked slowly.
Then she laughed under her breath like she couldn’t believe he was serious.
“Oh my God,” she muttered. “You actually don’t know.”
Know what?
But before Jack could ask, a trauma alert came in overhead, and the conversation died there.
He didn’t think about it again.
Mostly because he didn’t have time to.
The Pitt devoured time whole.
Twelve-hour shifts became fourteen. Fourteen became sixteen. The emergency department pulsed constantly — blood, chaos, noise, grief.
And through all of it, you were simply… there.
At his side.
Always.
Somehow, somewhere along the way, the two of you had become inseparable without ever discussing it.
You walked into work together most afternoons after meeting at the coffee cart outside the hospital.
You took breaks together when you could manage them.
You gravitated toward each other during difficult cases without conscious thought.
If one of you disappeared for too long, the other immediately noticed.
It became so normal that Jack stopped registering it as unusual.
Until one night when someone else pointed it out.
“You two married or something?”
Jack looked up from washing blood off his hands.
The paramedic grinned.
“You act like an old couple.”
Jack snorted.
“We do not.”
The paramedic raised an eyebrow.
At that exact moment, you walked into the trauma bay looking exhausted.
Without even looking at you, Jack reached for the sports drink sitting beside him and held it out automatically.
“You’ve got a migraine,” he said.
You took it immediately.
“How did you know that?”
“You squint when you’re getting one.”
You blinked at him.
The paramedic stared openly now.
Jack finally noticed the silence.
“What?”
The paramedic burst out laughing.
“You are so gone, man.”
Jack frowned again.
Gone where?
The problem was that Jack hadn't had the time to compare this feeling to anything else.
To his dead wife.
He’d dated people before. After.
Casual things. Brief things.
Relationships that eventually fizzled because the ED consumed too much of him.
Because he wasn't interested enough.
But none of those had felt like this.
Nothing had ever settled into his bones so completely.
Loving you wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t fireworks or obsession or cinematic longing.
It was quieter.
Steadier.
You existed in every corner of his life so naturally that he stopped seeing the edges of it.
Of course he remembered your coffee order.
Of course he knew your favorite hoodie was the faded green one because you wore it when you felt emotionally wrecked.
Of course he noticed when you were forcing smiles.
Of course he saved you the cherry-flavored candies from the staff room because they were your favorite.
That wasn’t love.
That was just… you.
Then you got hurt.
Not critically.
Not life-threatening.
But enough.
An ambulance arrival went sideways during a violent intake. A patient lashed out mid-restraint and caught you hard across the face.
The crack of your head hitting the rail made the entire trauma bay freeze.
Jack’s stomach dropped so violently it physically hurt.
You stumbled backward, dazed.
And Jack—
Jack lost his mind.
“Hey!” he snapped, grabbing the patient’s wrist with terrifying force while security rushed in.
Everything after that blurred.
Security swarming.
Shouting.
Dana taking over.
Someone pulling Jack back because he looked about two seconds away from committing a felony in the middle of the emergency department.
All Jack could focus on was you.
Blood trickling from your temple.
Your unfocused eyes.
The shaky way you said, “I’m okay.”
You were not okay.
Jack marched you straight into an exam room himself.
“I’m fine,” you insisted again.
“You got hit in the head.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You could have a concussion.”
You sighed.
“Jack—”
“No.”
The sharpness in his voice startled both of you.
Jack dragged a hand down his face immediately.
Then softer:
“No. Just… let me check you over first.”
You went quiet after that.
Jack’s hands were careful as he examined you.
Too careful.
His fingers trembled slightly when he brushed your hair away from the cut near your temple.
And because you knew him so well, you noticed instantly.
“Hey,” you said gently.
Jack didn’t answer.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His jaw clenched.
You watched him for another moment before realization slowly dawned across your face.
Oh.
Oh.
Jack was scared.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Scared.
For you.
The realization settled heavily in your chest because suddenly a thousand tiny moments over the past year rearranged themselves into something startlingly obvious.
The late-night check-in texts.
The constant hovering during bad shifts.
The way his entire mood shifted depending on yours.
The unconscious touching.
The protectiveness.
The tenderness.
God.
Jack was in love with you.
And somehow he didn’t even know it.
You almost smiled despite the pounding ache in your head.
“Jack.”
“What?”
“You care about me a lot.”
His expression immediately softened in confusion, like the statement itself was strange.
“Obviously.”
Your heart did a painful little flip.
“Why obviously?”
Now he looked even more confused.
“Because you’re you.”
Like that explained everything.
To him, apparently, it did.
You stared at him.
Jack stared back.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly.
“What?”
You laughed softly.
“Nothing.”
But the truth sat warm and aching inside your ribs afterward.
Jack loved you with the terrifying sincerity of someone who didn’t realize love was what he was doing.
After that, you started noticing everything.
And once you noticed it, you couldn’t stop.
The way Jack always unconsciously moved closer to you in crowded rooms.
The way he immediately looked for you after difficult cases.
The way exhaustion never stopped him from answering your calls.
The way he trusted you differently than everyone else.
One night, around four in the morning, you found him asleep at the staff station.
Head pillowed on folded arms.
Completely dead to the world.
You smiled despite yourself.
Jack almost never slept during shifts.
Carefully, you draped your hoodie over his shoulders.
The second the fabric touched him, his hand shot out blindly and caught your wrist.
Your breath caught.
Jack blinked awake slowly.
Then immediately relaxed when he saw you.
“There you are,” he mumbled sleepily.
Not hello.
Not what time is it.
There you are.
Like he’d been looking for you even unconscious.
Something inside you melted completely.
“You fell asleep,” you whispered.
“Mm.”
“You need actual rest.”
He made a vague noise of disagreement and tightened his grip slightly on your wrist before his eyes drifted shut again.
Still holding onto you.
You stood there for nearly five full minutes just staring at him.
Hopelessly.
Because how were you supposed to survive this?
How were you supposed to survive being loved this gently by a man too oblivious to understand his own heart?
The answer came unexpectedly.
As most important things did.
It was raining hard outside the hospital, turning the windows into smeared gray watercolor.
The shift had been brutal.
Three deaths in six hours.
Everyone looked wrecked.
Jack found you sitting alone in the stairwell afterward.
Your eyes were red.
Not crying currently.
But recently enough.
Without a word, he sat beside you.
Close enough that your knees touched.
Neither of you spoke for a while.
Then:
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You shrugged.
“Just tired.”
Jack studied you for a long moment.
Then he reached over and took your hand.
Simple as that.
Like it was instinct.
Your breath caught slightly.
Jack didn’t even seem aware he’d done it.
His thumb moved slowly across your knuckles.
Grounding you.
Comforting you.
Loving you.
Second nature.
You looked at him carefully.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you do all this?”
He frowned.
“All what?”
“This.” You gestured weakly between you. “The taking care of me. The always showing up.”
Jack looked genuinely puzzled.
“Because I care about you.”
“I know.”
“Okay…”
“But why?”
His confusion deepened.
Like the question itself made no sense.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Your chest ached.
“Jack.”
Finally, finally, something shifted in his expression.
A tiny crack of understanding.
He looked at your joined hands.
Then at you.
Then back again.
And you literally watched realization hit him in real time.
It was almost frightening.
His entire body went still.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
You swallowed.
“Yeah.”
Jack stared at you like the world had just tilted sideways beneath his feet.
“Oh,” he repeated, softer this time.
You couldn’t help it.
You started laughing a little.
Not mockingly.
Just fondly.
Because this brilliant man had stitched you into every part of his life so completely that he hadn’t even noticed he was in love with you.
Jack scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Dana’s going to kill me.”
You laughed harder.
“She definitely knows already.”
“Oh my God.”
“She definitely talks about it with everyone.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“It’s a little adorable.”
Jack groaned softly.
Then looked at you again.
And the humor faded from his expression piece by piece, replaced by something achingly vulnerable.
“I really didn’t know,” he admitted quietly.
“I know.”
“I just…” He shook his head slightly. “You became part of everything so fast.”
Emotion climbed thickly into your throat.
“You became part of everything for me too.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours carefully.
Like he was still trying to understand this new shape of reality.
Then, very softly:
“Are you in love with me too?”
You smiled.
“So painfully.”
The look on his face nearly destroyed you.
Relief.
Wonder.
Joy so intense it almost looked fragile.
Then Jack kissed you.
Like he’d been doing it forever.
Like he’d always belonged there.
One hand cupped your jaw carefully while the other stayed wrapped around yours.
Warm.
Steady.
Certain.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathless, Jack rested his forehead against yours and laughed quietly to himself.
“What?” you whispered.
“I can’t believe I didn’t realize sooner.”
You smiled softly.
“Well,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his knuckles, “loving me was never something you had to think about.”
Jack’s expression broke open completely then.
Tender enough to ruin you.
He kissed you again.
And this time, he kissed you like someone finally coming home.
Pairing: Garrett Graham x Professor!Daughter!Reader
Summary: Garrett Graham, Briar’s star hockey player, breaks every rule he’s ever had when he falls hard for his strict literature professor’s daughter.
Garrett Graham had rules. Simple ones. Keep your head in the game. Don’t fuck around with girls who complicate shit. And never, ever, get involved with anything that could torpedo his shot at the NHL.
But rules were for the locker room. Not for the moment he walked into Professor Langley’s Advanced Lit seminar on a rainy Thursday and saw her.
You.
You were sitting in the front row like you belonged there, legs crossed under a short plaid skirt, a notebook already open, pen tapping absently against your lip. Your hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands loose like you’d given up fighting them halfway through the day. When Professor Langley—tall, stern, tweed-jacketed—walked in and immediately said, “Everyone, this is my daughter, visiting for the semester. She’s auditing. Be nice,” Garrett felt the floor tilt.
Your eyes met his for half a second. You smiled. Polite. Curious. Completely unaware that you’d just become the most dangerous distraction on campus.
Garrett dropped into his usual seat near the back, heart hammering harder than it did before a championship game.
Fuck.
The first real conversation happened two weeks later.
Garrett was in the library at 11 p.m., half-dead from practice, trying to finish a paper on The Great Gatsby that he’d been avoiding like the plague. You were three tables away, surrounded by highlighters and open books, earbuds in, nodding along to whatever you were listening to.
When the library lights flickered in warning—closing soon, you glanced up, caught him staring, and pulled one earbud out.
“Garrett Graham, right?” Your voice was softer than he expected. Warm. “Hockey guy. My dad complains about you missing deadlines more than he complains about the Bruins.”
Garrett grinned despite himself. “That sounds about right. You here to rat me out?”
You laughed, low and genuine. “Nah. I’m here because my apartment’s too quiet and I needed caffeine and bad decisions.” You held up a half-empty iced coffee like evidence. “Also, Gatsby’s kind of an asshole, but I can’t stop reading.”
“Same,” he admitted, sliding into the chair across from you before he could think better of it. “Daisy’s worse, though.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Most jocks don’t read Fitzgerald for fun.”
“Most professors’ daughters don’t sit in the back of the library looking like they’re plotting a heist.”
You smirked. “Touché.”
That night you talked for forty minutes until security kicked you both out. You argued about whether Nick Carraway was reliable, about hockey versus literature, about how your dad once made you read Moby Dick at age twelve as “character building.” Garrett walked you to your car even though it was pouring, hoodie pulled over his head, laughing when you cursed at the rain ruining your notes.
He went home and jerked off in the shower thinking about the way your wet shirt had clung to your chest. Then he felt like an asshole.
It became a thing.
You started showing up at the same library table. Sometimes you brought snacks. Sometimes he brought coffee. You teased him about his messy handwriting. He teased you about the color-coded notes that looked like a NASA control room. You told him about growing up with a literature professor dad and how every dinner was a debate, how you’d moved away for undergrad but came back this semester because your mom was sick and someone needed to be close.
Garrett told you about the pressure. The draft. The way his father still called him weekly to remind him not to “fuck it up like he did.” He’d never told anyone that shit, not even his boys on the team.
One night, after a brutal loss, he found you waiting outside the rink in a Briar hoodie two sizes too big. You didn’t say anything about the game. Just handed him a hot chocolate and said, “Walk with me.”
You ended up at the pond behind campus, sitting on the cold bench while the moon cut silver across the ice. Your shoulder pressed against his. He could smell your shampoo, something citrusy and clean.
“I hate losing,” he muttered.
“I know.” Your hand found his, tentative. “But you’re still Garrett fucking Graham. Even when you lose, you’re still… you.”
He turned his head. Your faces were inches apart. Breath visible in the cold. For a second he thought about kissing you. Really thought about it, about how soft your mouth looked, how your eyes had gone dark and wide.
Instead he squeezed your hand and walked you home.
The tension built like a storm.
You started coming to games. Sitting in the stands with a scarf and a Briar hat, cheering like you’d been doing it your whole life. After one particularly ugly win, the team went to Malone’s. You showed up because Logan texted you (traitor), and suddenly you were squeezed into the booth between Garrett and Tuck, laughing at their stupid stories.
“Shut up,” Garrett muttered, but his hand had found your knee under the table. You didn’t move it away.
Later, when the bar was loud and warm and everyone was half-drunk, you leaned into his side. “My dad would kill you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t care.”
Garrett’s heart slammed against his ribs. He looked down at you, at the way your lips parted just slightly, and he was gone. Completely, stupidly gone.
He kissed you outside in the freezing parking lot, pressed you against his truck, hands in your hair, tongue sliding against yours like he’d been starving for it. You made this soft, surprised sound that went straight to his dick. When you tugged his jacket closer, he groaned into your mouth.
“Fuck, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for weeks.”
You smiled, breathless. “Then stop talking and do something about it.”
He didn’t take you home that night. Too risky, your dad lived ten minutes from campus. Instead he drove to the team house, snuck you up the back stairs while the boys were still at the bar, and locked his bedroom door.
The second the lock clicked you were on him. Hands under his shirt, mapping the ridges of his abs, the V that disappeared into his jeans. Garrett walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you both tumbled down, laughing into each other’s mouths.
He took his time undressing you. Reverent. Kissing every inch he uncovered—collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the soft skin under your ribs. When he pulled your panties down and saw how wet you already were, he cursed.
“Jesus Christ. Look at you.”
You were flushed, breathing hard, eyes glassy. “Garrett… please.”
He ate you out like a man possessed. Slow, filthy licks, two fingers curling inside you while his tongue worked your clit. You came with your thighs clamped around his head, biting your own wrist to stay quiet. He didn’t stop until you were shaking.
Then he was inside you.
Raw and bare. He knew he should grab a condom but the thought of anything between you felt wrong. You didn’t stop him. Just wrapped your legs around his waist and whispered, “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”
Garrett fucked you deep and steady, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust dragged a moan out of you. The bed creaked. Your nails raked down his back.
“Look at me,” he growled when your eyes fluttered shut. “Want to see you when you come on my cock.”
You did. Eyes locked on his, lips parted, crying out his name as you clenched around him. He followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside you with a groan that sounded like it hurt.
Afterward he held you against his chest, fingers stroking your spine. Neither of you spoke for a long time.
“I’m fucked,” he finally whispered.
You laughed softly. “Yeah. Me too.”
The secret lasted three weeks.
Stolen moments in his truck. Quickies in empty classrooms after hours. Late nights where he’d sneak into your apartment when your dad was at a conference. You’d ride him slow on your tiny couch, whispering dirty things in his ear while he gripped your ass and tried not to come too fast.
You were addictive. The way you quoted poetry while he was balls-deep inside you. The way you wore his jersey to bed. The way you looked at him like he was more than hockey, more than the next big draft pick.
But secrets on a small campus don’t stay secrets.
Your dad found out on a Wednesday.
Garrett was in Langley’s office for a paper extension when the professor’s phone buzzed. A text. From you.
Running late. Garrett’s coming over for dinner tonight. Be nice.
Langley stared at the screen. Then at Garrett.
The silence was lethal.
“You’re seeing my daughter.”
It wasn’t a question.
Garrett didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”
Langley removed his glasses slowly. “She’s not some puck bunny, Graham. She’s brilliant. She’s going to grad school. She doesn’t need a distraction who’ll be gone to some NHL city in six months.”
The words landed like checks into the boards. Garrett felt every one.
“I’m not going to hurt her,” he said quietly. “I love her.”
The admission shocked him as much as it did Langley. But it was true. He’d fallen so hard he didn’t even remember the fall.
Langley studied him for a long moment. “Prove it.”
That night at dinner was the most awkward hour of Garrett’s life.
You sat beside him, thigh pressed to his under the table for courage. Your mom—sweet, sharp-eyed—kept the conversation going. Your dad grilled him about everything from his GPA to his future plans. Garrett answered honestly. No bullshit.
After dessert, when your parents went to the kitchen, you dragged him onto the back porch.
“He’s not going to kill you,” you whispered, hands on his chest.
“He might.”
You kissed him softly. “I love you too, you know. I didn’t say it back earlier.”
Garrett’s chest cracked open. He pulled you in, kissing you deeper, tasting the pie on your tongue and the future on your lips.
Spring came.
Garrett’s team made it to the Frozen Four. You were there in the stands for every game, screaming his name. When they won the championship, he skated straight to the boards, pulled you down for a kiss in front of twenty thousand people and the ESPN cameras.
Your dad was in the family section. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t look murderous either.
Later, in the hotel room, Garrett stripped you out of your Briar gear and made love to you slow and sweet. No rush. Just skin and breath and the certainty that this was real.
“I’m getting drafted,” he murmured against your neck. “But wherever I go, I want you with me. Grad school. Long distance. Whatever it takes. I’m not doing this without you.”
You cupped his face, eyes shining. “I’m in, Graham. All the way.”
Two years later, Garrett was playing for the Bruins. You were in grad school in Boston, living in a tiny apartment that smelled like books and his cologne. Your dad still gave him shit at family dinners, but there was respect there now.
Garrett proposed on the ice after a home game. Same spot where he’d first kissed you in front of the world. He dropped to one knee in full gear, ring box in his gloved hand.
You said yes before he even got the question out.
Later that night, tangled in sheets, sweaty and laughing, he kissed the ring on your finger and whispered, “Told you I’d prove it.”
You smiled, the same smile that had ruined him in that lecture hall years ago.
Summary: Four times Frank realizes he loves you and the first time he finally says it.
Warnings: divorced!Frank, S2 Frank, new-ish relationship, mentions of Frank’s back pain and addiction, some cursing, a couple uses of y/n, kissing and crying.
Word Count: 2.5K
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the gif below does not belong to me
The first time – When you helped get rid of his back pain after a shift
Today was definitely one of the easier shifts Frank had had since he came back to work but he’d had the worst back pain in months almost the whole time. And it didn’t help that today had become one of those days where he wanted to relapse, just to get a taste of that relief again but he ignored these thoughts the best he could, wanting to stay strong for you and his kids. At least he’d be home with you soon and able to soak in his bathtub until the water went cold.
When he entered his apartment, he finally took his backpack off and left it by the door, leaving his shoes next to it. “Baby?” he called out, expecting you to already be laying in his bed.
“I’m in here!” you said, prompting him to walk toward his bedroom and find you waiting for him snuggled up in his bed with your overnight bag on the floor next to you, just as he had expected. He was more than grateful that he’d asked you to spend the night tonight. He really didn’t want to get into an empty bed tonight considering the amount of pain he was in.
He fondly smiled at you the second his eyes landed on your face, “Hey, pretty girl. I missed you today.” he replied, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you onto his lap while he sat down, sighing at the small bit of relief it gave him.
You slowly rubbed his back and leaned your head on his shoulder, easing a little bit more of that tension, “I missed you too. Is your back giving you a hard time?” you replied with a kiss to his cheek.
A confused look took over his face, “How could you tell?” he asked, causing you to cup his face in your hand and intertwine your fingers in his hair and he instantly leaned into your touch.
“Your shoulders get really tense, I’m surprised you can still hear with how high you’re holding them,” you answered and he chuckled a little. “Let me make you feel better.”, already reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and he nodded.
You’d given him a few massages before but they only ever temporarily relieved his pain, but you didn’t need to know that. Unbeknownst to him, you had noticed and wanted to do anything you could to get better. So you’d started teaching yourself and practicing on your friends in secret.
He pressed his lips to yours and instantly deepened it, interrupting your thoughts and your actions. Your cheeks blushed and your heart pounded, “What’s on your mind, pretty girl? Hmm? Tell me.” he said in between kisses, his voice lower than it was just seconds ago and his large hands now resting on your hips, making butterflies appear in your stomach.
You shook your head, “Don’t worry about it, Frankie. Just lay on your stomach for me, okay?” you replied, slowly pulling away from his lips.
A suspicious look filled his eyes, “Okay.” he replied, letting you take his shirt off and discard it on the floor before he obeyed your request.
You sat down on his butt and rested your full weight on him, knowing he’d complain if you didn’t. You then grabbed the bottle of lotion you kept on the bedside table closest to you, put a few pumps onto the palm of your hand and spread the product to your other hand. You started at his lower back and slowly went higher, making sure to pay attention to the areas that gave him the most pain with what you’d learned in mind.
He let out a loud groan at the feeling of you using the new techniques you’d learned on him, “Fuck, that feels so good. Where’d you learn that?” he muttered, briefly peaking at you over his shoulder.
You grinned at the praise, “I’ve been teaching myself how to give better massages for when your pain’s really bad.” you informed him and he practically melted in your hands.
That’s when it hit him, he loved you. But he feared telling you this and being too much this early since you’d only been together for a few moments so he vowed to keep this to himself until the right time came along. Or until he couldn’t bear to hold himself back anymore.
—-------------------------------------------
The second time – When he forgot to pack himself lunch after spending the night at your apartment
Frank’s stomach grumbled as he sat down for what felt like the millionth time today to complete another chart, wishing he’d remembered to drop by the corner store near the hospital to get himself something for lunch but your touch was simply too addicting and he couldn’t bring himself to part from you until he absolutely had to.
“Hey, Langdon! Your girls here!” Dana called out to him and his eyes quickly darted up from the computer screen to meet yours.
His face lit up instantly and he swiftly stood to greet you, his arms already wrapping around you once you were close enough, “Hey, what’re you doing here? You never visit.” he asked with a quick kiss to the top of your head, guiding you to the break room and away from prying eyes.
You softly smiled at him, “Well you usually forget to pack yourself anything for lunch whenever you spend the night at my place and I missed you so I thought I’d bring you something.” you explained, looking more than excited to be able to spend at least thirty minutes with him until you had to go back to your respective jobs.
Frank almost said ‘I love you’ right then and there but he caught himself before it was too late. Instead, he tucked a piece of your hair behind your cheek and quietly said, “I’m so lucky, I don’t deserve you.”, only wanting you to hear him. You really had him wrapped around your finger and he couldn’t be happier.
You shook your head, “Yes, you do. Now sit down and eat before you pass out.” you commanded, your bossiness eliciting a chuckle from him.
He held his hands up in surrender, “Okay, whatever you say.” he replied and sat down across from you like you’d wanted him to.
The two of you ate together and talked while Frank rested his hand on your thigh, almost making you not care where you were, until a nurse you now recognized to be Donnie suddenly poked his head into the room. “Oh, hey, (y/n). Langdon, we need you in trauma one, it’s really bad.” he rapidly explained before he disappeared in the direction of the room.
Frank frowned at you, “I’ll make it up to you tonight, I swear.” he swiftly said, intertwining his fingers with yours for just a second.
Your hand soon reclaimed its spot on his cheek, “Go, I can wait.” you replied and a relieved smile rolled out across his lips.
“See you later.” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before he ran out of the room, leaving you blushing and smiling like an idiot.
—-------------------------------------------
The third time – When he was late to celebrating your sixth month anniversary
As Frank changed back into the clothes he’d arrived in this morning after a difficult case that lasted for hours after his shift ended, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d forgotten something. He walked through everything he’d done tonight when it hit him, he’d gotten so caught up in work that he forgot that he was supposed to take you out for your anniversary tonight and hadn’t even remembered to give you a heads up that he was going to be late.
He felt like such an idiot, he’d done everything he could to make sure things went well with you and he didn’t fuck up and he couldn’t even remember to send you a text.
His heart broke when he finally took his phone out of his pocket and looked at the texts you’d sent him over the past few hours.
8:00 p.m.
(y/n): Hey, is everything okay? Our reservation is soon, I don’t wanna miss it. :(
8:30 p.m.
(y/n): If you’re busy with work you could’ve just said that instead of making it look like I’m getting stood up. But I guess I kinda am.
8:50 p.m.
(y/n): Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I understand how important your job is, I just wish you could’ve given me a headsup. I’m gonna head over to your place to wait. <3
His thumbs practically flew across the screen at the speed of light as he texted you back, feeling desperate to make things better.
10:33 p.m.
Frank: You have nothing to apologize for. You’re right, I should’ve said something and I’m sorry. But I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get home. <3
He wanted to add an ‘I love you’ at the end of his text but again, he held himself back. He just fucked up by forgetting your date and the last thing he wanted to do was possibly make things worse by saying ‘I love you’ for the first time too early and not to your face.
As soon as his phone was back in his pocket, he ran out of the Pitt towards his car and basically sped back to his apartment, feeling grateful that he hadn’t managed to get pulled over. And when he entered his apartment, his eyes immediately began to search for you and before long, they found you asleep on his couch in a dress he hadn’t gotten to see you wear yet.
Seeing you like this broke his heart all over again, you’d gotten all dolled up for him and fell asleep on his couch because he didn’t remember to tell you he was going to be late. He really was a fucking idiot.
He dropped his things by the door and walked up to the couch, slowly crouching beside you and ignoring the mild back pain the action caused. He softly stroked your cheek with his thumb, admiring the makeup you’d put on for your date tonight, your blush accidentally transferring onto his skin. You looked so gorgeous and yet again, he found himself feeling like he didn’t deserve you.
“(y/n)?” he quietly said a few times, hoping to gently wake you up instead of startling you awake.
Your eyes slowly fluttered open, “You’re home.” you simply said with a sleepy smile, not seeming nearly as angry as Frank had expected you to be.
He frowned at you, tears already filling his eyes. He didn’t used to be this emotional of a man but facing his problems and becoming sober had changed him. “I am so sorry, baby. We just got super busy and I should’ve told you. Please forgive me.” he made known and you frowned back at him, taking one of his hands in yours.
“I forgive you.” you said matter of factly, like it wasn’t up for debate.
Frank raised his eyebrows, “What? Really?” he replied.
You nodded, “Really, I could never be mad at you. Well, not for long,” you answered and he tackled you in a hug, making you giggle. “Frank! My makeup!”, not wanting to get it all over his clothes or mess it up.
He pressed a kiss to your lips then your neck, “God, what did I ever do to deserve you? You’re perfect.” he said between gritted teeth before diving back in and latching his lips onto your neck while you arched into his touch.
That’s when it hit him again, he’d just accidentally stood you up and you were barely mad at all. If he’d done this to Abby, it would’ve ended in an hours long screaming match but you, you’d just fallen asleep on his couch and forgiven him the second he apologized. And if he was being honest, he didn’t know how much longer he was going to make it without telling you he loved you.
—-------------------------------------------
The fourth time – When he finally said it at your friends wedding
Frank’s eyes never left you the entire night, he just couldn’t bear to not have his eyes on your beautiful face or possibly miss one of your smiles, as the two of you danced the night away. He twirled you around, adoring the laugh that left your lips and how you looked like you didn’t want to be anywhere else.
After the divorce, he never thought he’d get to love someone and be loved like this ever again. He just didn’t feel deserving of it, he’d fucked up too badly. Then you waltzed into his life and completely changed his mind.
You furrowed your eyebrows at him while the music transitioned into a slower song, your hands back to resting on his broad shoulders and his on your waist. “What’s on your mind?” you asked and he lightly rested his forehead on yours, swaying your bodies back and forth together as one.
He pulled his head up a moment later and his eyes gazed down into yours, a love-sick look filling them, “I love you…so fucking much. It’s been torture trying to hold myself back the past couple months ‘cause I didn’t wanna say it too soon,” he said and tears almost instantly pricked at yours eyes. He furrowed his eyebrows with worry and wiped your tears away, “Hey, what’s wrong?”, feeling terrified that he was right and he’d said it too soon.
You shook your head, “Nothing, these are happy tears, I promise. I love you too, Frank. More than I have the words for. I always have and I always will.” you admitted, prompting him to let out a relieved breath as tears filled his own eyes but you wiped them away just as they started to fall.
He shook his head, his eyes no longer meeting yours, “I don’t deserve you.” he muttered through his tears, these words seemingly permanent in his mind.
You cupped his face in your hands and slowly guided him to meet your gaze again, “Yes, you do. Frank, you make me the happiest woman in the world and I love you more than anything else. You are all I could ever want and need.” you said and that’s when the dam fully broke.
He sniffled, discretely wiped his uncontrollable tears away, guided you off of the dance floor and into the hallway, not wanting to embarrass himself. He raked a hand through his hair, “It’s just after I fucked up with Abby, I never thought I’d deserve to be loved like that again and then you came into my life and just put me back together. God, I love you so fucking much.” he told you in the midst of his tears and crashed his lips into yours.
When you pulled away, you looked up into his blue eyes and wiped his tears away once more, “I will always love you, no matter what happens.” you assured him and he nodded.
“Good,” he simply said. “‘Cause I want you by my side for the rest of my life. I never wanna live without you.”
summary: what is supposed to be the happiest day of your lives leaves jack in complete frustration. you assure him that you love him just the way he is and that he isn’t any less for needing to take a break.
cw: loss of a limb and how it affects someone even years later, insecurities (jack), just lots of angst but so much fluff and comfort too!! wedding day troubles
wc: 1.7k
a/n: almost made myself cry when I came up with this idea
now playing: Coming Up Roses – Harry Styles
Dressed in white silk and delicate lace, you were grinning ear to ear. You had practiced your soft smile in the mirror a million times, wanting to look gracious and delicate in your wedding photos. But now that the vows have been exchanged and you’ve danced yourselves into the night, the happiness practically spilled out of you.
Jack’s face almost mirrored yours—just with tiny differences. While the moisture dampening your hairline stemmed from your carefree twirling on the dancefloor, sometimes in your husband’s arms, other times surrounded by your friends and family, sweat pearled down his temples from pure exhaustion.
The light that lit up in his eyes when you walked down the altar has dimmed a little with every passing hour, just as the muscles in his jaw had grown tighter.
You were worried, but you haven’t had the chance to truly ask him, not when you were constantly fenced in by relatives wanting to congratulate you.
The relief that had flooded Jack’s eyes when you sat together at the center of the banquet during the speeches had long died down. He was fighting through the exhaustion and nerves and anxiety—he didn’t want to let you down.
One of his aunts, or maybe a cousin—you weren’t sure—was talking to you when Jack came up to you. He was limping a little, his mouth clamped tight, but when your eyes met his, he smiled.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he muttered.
He pulled you into his side and planted a tender kiss in your hair, then glanced at you. Just as his lips parted to say something to you, the DJ’s voice echoed through the speakers.
“May we ask Mr. and Mrs. Abbot to return to the dancefloor now? We’re oh-so-desperate to see them back here.”
Just for a second, Jack’s face fell. And you saw it.
All eyes immediately snapped to the two of you, big smiles all around. Everyone seemed so utterly happy, but you didn’t care about them. You only cared about Jack.
“We don’t have to, Jack,” you mumble, low enough that only he caught it. “We can take a break.”
If you had one wish guaranteed, you’d ask the universe for Jack to never look at you again the way he did in that second.
Embarrassment flushed his face, and something in his eyes broke. You knew his stubbornness, having been on the receiving side of his pride a million times, but you didn’t expect him to be like this, not today.
“No, baby, let’s go dance,” he replied and took your hand.
He pulled you into the middle of the dance floor, waiting for the music to start. Not once did his eyes catch yours.
The song that began to play was slow, with violins and gentle piano notes filling the air. Jack’s hand snaked around your waist, pulling you close enough that you could feel his breath ghost over your cheek as he peered past you, anywhere but at you.
You smelled the sweat on his skin, the tell-tale sign of his utter exhaustion. As he started guiding you over the floor, his breath catching any time his right leg hit the ground, you tried to lead. Tried to make him slow down, tried to get him to lean onto you, tried anything to make it a little easier for him. But Jack was stubborn. He had worked 12, 15, hell, 24-hour shifts on his prosthetic; he had done the physical therapy—he wasn’t going to skip a single dance with you, not on your day. Not when today was the day he was meant to prove that he was worthy of you.
“Honey,” you whispered, desperation tinting your voice, “It’s okay. We can… we can sit this one out. Have… have some more cake.”
This time, his gaze bore into you, determination burning in his eyes.
“No, sweetheart. I want to dance with my wife. I don’t need a break,” he rasped.
You briefly loosened your hand from its spot on his shoulder to wipe the dampness from his brow. Jack practically flinched away.
“I mean it,” he muttered. “I can do it. Just… dance with me, baby. Please.”
So you kept dancing, ignoring the sound of your heart breaking for him with every step he took, every wince he suppressed.
You couldn’t wait for the song to end.
But once it did, the next one played. And then the next one.
You saw the light dwindling in Jack’s eyes, his soft grunts turning into pained whines. The moon had long taken over the sun’s spot in the sky, surrounded by dark blues.
As Jack continued to bite his tongue instead of giving in, the pain growing more and more obvious, you decided to put an end to this.
“I’m so thirsty,” you declared, loud enough for the couples around you to hear it. “And my feet hurt sooo bad. These damn heels.”
Jack gave you a look—a mix of shame and relief.
“You sure, baby?” he asked. “I… I don’t want you getting bored.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” you replied. “Let’s have some more champagne.”
You pulled him to the bar, basically forcing him onto the chair. All the guests were dancing, distracted. As the barkeeper passed you two glasses of champagne and then moved to the other side to “give the newly-weds some privacy”, you gave Jack a sharp glance.
“Take it off,” you muttered.
Jack shook his head immediately. “No. Not here, not today.”
“Honey,” you murmured. “Please. You’re hurting. No… no one’s gonna say anything. Everyone here loves you. I love you, with two legs or with one.”
He shook his head again, lips pressed together in a tight line.
“I don’t need to take it off. I won’t.”
For a moment, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Anger bubbled up in you like venom, but you refused to let it boil over. Jack wasn’t being unreasonable for the fun of it—he was behaving like this out of fear.
Then you said, “You’re coming with me. Right now.”
Even as he began to protest, your fingers enclosed his, and you pulled him out of the large hall, heading towards one of the smaller rooms used for storage. Your body pressed into his, making him lean on you a bit.
“Sweetheart, I- I can do it—” Jack insisted again, but you didn’t let him finish.
You forced him onto the floor and kneeled down in front of him. The tulle of your skirt got in your way, making you cry out in frustration.
“Jesus,” you hissed, then pressed down the force of the dress.
Your shaky hands were quick to start cuffing Jack’s pant leg.
“Maybe you can do it,” you acknowledged angrily, “But I can’t. I can’t keep watching you grit your teeth through the pain. It hurts me to see you like this.”
With quick, practiced ease, you loosened the prosthetic and leaned it against the wall next to him.
Jack gasped, both from shock and relief. He had never seen you like this.
“Baby…” he began, then lowered his head. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” you answered immediately. “Not for this. Not with me.”
You sat in silence for a while.
Once the anger in your veins had eased, you moved to sit next to Jack. He hesitated before he slowly lowered his head to rest on your shoulder. You felt the tension leave both your bodies instantaneously.
“Why would you do this to yourself?” you asked softly. “Why… why didn’t you… just take a break?”
Jack sighed so deeply you felt his entire chest deflate.
“I… it’s embarrassing,” he muttered.
You took his hand between yours and squeezed insistently.
“You don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s only me and you,” you whispered.
“It’s our wedding day,” he murmured. “I… I’m your husband now. I’m supposed to take care of you and keep you safe and—”
“We’re supposed to keep each other safe,” you interrupted.
His fingers played with yours as he stared straight ahead. The sun-kissed skin of his arms stood out against the white of your dress.
“I just want to be good enough for you. I want to—I want to deserve you,” he said quietly then.
His words tugged at your heartstrings so forcefully that you were afraid it would shatter.
“Jesus, Jack,” you whispered, “Why would you… You are good enough for me—fuck, you’re more than good enough. You’re a great man, the only man I could ever want. Whether you have two legs or one, it—it doesn’t matter to me. I love you for you. And if you need to take a break, I’ll be sitting right there next to you.”
Jack chuckled wetly, the sound sending goosebumps down your arms. You cupped his face and turned it towards you. A single tear ran down his cheek.
“Oh, honey,” you gasped. You pressed your forehead against his, the proximity almost allowing you to taste the salt on his face. His skin felt hot against yours.
“I don’t know how I got so lucky with you,” he mumbled.
“Just shut up,” you replied, but there was no bite to it.
“No, I mean it,” he insisted. “I… you kinda got the short straw with me. I work nights, and I carry a goddamn boatload of baggage with me. The leg—that’s just the fucking cherry on top. When I… when I proposed, I couldn’t believe that you said yes to this… this fucking mess.”
“Stop it,” you pleaded. “Jack, I’m so serious right now. I don’t wanna hear any more of this. I said yes because you asking me, getting down on your knee—it meant the world to me. I knew what I was getting into. And I’d do it all over again. A million times. There’s no… no parallel universe where I wouldn’t kill to be your wife.”
Jack was quiet for a while. You could almost see the way his brain worked to make space for your words.
“You really mean that?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” you replied. “I love you.”
Through the walls of the room, you heard the music play on, but neither one of you cared to return to your party. Jack kissed your knuckles one by one and exhaled.
“It’s only me and you, right?”
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☆ find my masterlist here ☆
♡ synopsis: after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
♡ content: jealous!jack, jack treats you to dinner on the roof, buys you flowers, spoils you with attention etc, fingering, dacryphilia (kinda), pet names, teasing, flirting
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty!
With forearms planted atop the back of the office chair you occupy, Santos peers over your shoulder as you swipe left.
And left.
And left.
And—
"Oh, he's cute," she remarks.
Looking up from the rolling computer cart Jack stands at, he eyes the two of you from over the rim of his glasses.
Pushing the phone back in her direction for a closer look, you half turn toward her with a raised brow.
"I was talking about the dog," Trinity explains.
You roll your eyes, then swipe again.
"Honestly, you'd have a better time picking up a guy from Chairs than Tinder. Least that way you can test him for drugs and STDs before taking him home like a stray." After drumming her hands against the back of your seat, she steps away.
"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.
Your head jerks up.
Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.
You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.
"Look at me," he commands.
You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.
Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"
You nod before dropping your chin in shame.
"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.
You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.
"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."
Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.
Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."
A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.
The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."
You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.
Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.
"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.
"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"
He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."
Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."
You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"
"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."
He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.
You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.
Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.
It sends a shiver up your spine.
Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."
You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.
Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.
You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.
He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."
Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"
Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.
Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.
A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.
You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.
"Pin?" He questions while studying you.
You busy yourself with charting. "Never."
He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."
The moment you glance up, the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.
"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.
"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.
Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"
He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."
Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.
"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"
You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."
Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."
He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.
"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.
You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.
Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.
You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.
He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.
And then he begins to swipe.
"W-what're you doing?"
"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"
"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"
He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"
"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"
He rolls his eyes. "Got it."
Swipe, swipe, swipe.
You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"
He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."
You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?
With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."
You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.
It's none of his concern, anyway.
He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."
Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."
His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."
Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.
"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."
He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.
It's like you're trying to set him off.
Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Robinavitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...
He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.
He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.
He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"
With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"
Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.
"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.
It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.
He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.
"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.
A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"
Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.
"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.
Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."
Your eyes flit to his.
Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"
You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.
"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."
You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."
You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."
Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."
A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.
He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"
You shake your head.
He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.
Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.
On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.
You truly have no understanding of his decision.
There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.
The list goes on.
Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?
You dislike the thought.
It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.
It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.
Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.
"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."
And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."
Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.
You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.
It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.
Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.
But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.
When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.
He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.
Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; its blooms sprouting in every direction.
You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."
"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."
Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.
Meet me where I made you mine. — J
You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."
"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"
Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."
"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"
Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.
Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.
Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.
He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"
Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"
He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."
You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.
"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"
"I haven't," you blurt out.
He quiets.
"You... You never asked me."
He raises a silver brow.
"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."
He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."
Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."
He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."
You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."
He grins. "Too late."
Your eyes flit to his.
"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."
"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.
"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"
You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.
You nod. "Yes, I think so."
He chuckles. "Good."
Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."
You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.
It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.
The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.
He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.
The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.
He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.
So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.
Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.
And being the first to put hands on you...?
It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."
You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.
As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.
Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.
By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.
So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.
You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.
Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.
You find that you're just fine with that fact. Especially at night when he holds your naked body close to his—his arms wrapped tightly around you—and as you drift off to sleep, he whispers how he's never letting you go now that he's found you.
SUMMARY: When an angry patient attacks you at work, you do everything in your power to hide how bad it is from Jack. Unfortunately for you, his dog, Buddy, knows best, and is quick to alert him to how bad things are as soon as he gets home.
NOTES: Aggressive patient, physical injury, Jack has a retired military dog, the dog is very protective of reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
a/n — technically a part two to dog’s best friend, but can absolutely be read as a standalone !
“I just need you to stay seated for a second, alright?” you say, voice soft, even, the same tone you use with every difficult situation, steady and careful without ever sounding condescending.
The patient doesn’t like it. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the sharp turn of her head, the flicker of something reactive and unpredictable behind her eyes.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not,” you reassure gently, hands visible, posture open. “I’m just trying to help you, ma’am.”
The metal tray is already in her hand before you fully register it.
“Hey!”. It’s Samira’s voice, a sharp warning from somewhere behind you, but it comes a second too late.
The patient swings. Not hard enough to seriously injure on its own. But combined with the shove that comes with it, it’s enough. The impact glances off your shoulder, but the force of the push sends you stumbling backwards, your foot catching awkwardly on the edge of the trolley behind you.
There’s a split second where you try to correct it. Your balance almost rights itself. Then, your heel slips.
You go down hard.
Your hip hits first, the shock of it jolting up your side before your shoulder follows, and then your head clips the edge of the cabinet behind you with a dull, sickening crack that makes your vision flare white.
The world tilts. Sound distorts.
You suck in a breath too fast and it catches halfway, your ribs protesting sharply as pain blooms deep along your side, spreading outwards in a way that feels heavy and wrong.
“Shit!”
“Hold her back!”
“Move!”
Hands are on you immediately. Too many. Too fast.
“Don’t move,” Dana says firmly, already crouched at your side, one hand braced against your shoulder to keep you grounded.
“I’m fine,” you manage automatically, even as your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. “I just slipped—”
“You didn’t slip,” Samira cuts in, sharper than usual, already scanning you quickly. “She shoved you.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.
Your body protests instantly. A sharp, deep pain lances through your ribs and your breath hitches before you can stop it.
Dana presses you back down without hesitation.
“No, you’re not getting up yet.”
“I’m okay,” you insist, though your hand has already moved instinctively to your side, fingers pressing there like you can contain the ache if you just hold it still.
“Yeah,” Langdon mutters, crouching on your other side, one brow raised. “You look fantastic.”
You glare weakly. “I am—”
“You’re wincing,” Mel says gently from behind them. “Just stay down a second.”
Across the bay, Robby steps in, taking in the scene quickly, his expression tightening slightly as he looks between you and the now-restrained patient.
“What happened?”
“They got knocked,” Dana says, not taking her eyes off you. “Hit their head on the way down.”
“I’m fine,” you say again, the words automatic now, like muscle memory.
Robby’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than you’d like. Assessing. Weighing.
Then, “Get them checked,” he says. “No arguments.”
You open your mouth to argue anyway. Close it again.
The check is quick. Too quick.
Vitals steady. Pupils reactive. A few questions you answer without thinking, even as your head still feels slightly off and your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply.
“Probably just bruised,” Langdon says, though there’s hesitation there. “Keep an eye on it.”
“I will,” you say.
You go back to work. Of course you do. It’s slower now. More careful. Every movement measured so you don’t aggravate the pain blooming along your side, every breath kept shallow enough to avoid the sharpest edge of it.
You don’t let anyone make a fuss. You don’t give them the chance.
By the time shift change creeps in, you’re running on stubbornness more than anything else.
Your body feels heavy. Your head dull. Your ribs worse. But you’re still standing. That counts for something.
You see Jack the second he walks in.
It’s instinct, the way something in you softens at the sight of him, even through the ache, even through the exhaustion.
He sees you just as quickly, and immediately, his expression changes. “What happened?”
No hello. No lead-in. Just that.
You blink. Too slow. “…nothing.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline.
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”
You huff a small breath, trying for normal. “I’m not lying. I just got knocked a bit. It’s fine.”
“Knocked how?”
“Patient,” you say quickly. “It happens.”
His jaw tightens. “You hit your head.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
Jack steps closer, his hand coming up instinctively, hovering for a second before brushing lightly near your temple, careful.
You flinch. Just slightly. Jack notices anyway.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”
“I am,” you insist, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing, Jack. Just a bruise.”
“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”
“I’m just tired.”
“That’s not what this is.”
You don’t let him push further. You can’t, because if you stop holding it together now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to start again.
“I promise I’m okay,” you say, gentler now, stepping into his space, your hand brushing his arm. “I’m just going to go home, sleep it off.”
Jack searches your face. Longer than you’re comfortable with. “…yeah?”
You nod. “I promise.”
You kiss him before he can argue again. Soft. Quick. A distraction more than anything.
“I’ll text you,” you add.
He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go.
You don’t realise how much you’ve been holding in until you get home.
The door shuts behind you. Your bag slips from your shoulder. Everything collapses.
The pain hits first. Sharp. Deep. Your ribs screaming the second you stop forcing yourself to breathe carefully around it. Your head throbbing dully where it connected earlier. Your whole body suddenly too aware of itself.
Then the tears. They come fast. Uncontrolled. Your hands come up to your face as your shoulders shake, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it.
“It hurts,” you whisper, voice cracking.
Soft paws hit the floor behind you. Buddy is there instantly.
No hesitation. No distance. Just straight to you, pressing in close, whining low as his nose nudges at your hands, your face, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.
“Hey, Buddy…” Your voice wobbles as you drop one hand to him, fingers tangling in his fur. “I’m okay,” you murmur, even as you cry. “I’m okay—”
He doesn’t believe you. He licks at your cheek, catching tears, pressing closer until you sink down with him, your body folding as he crowds in, solid and warm and there.
Buddy doesn’t leave your side once. Not when you get up slowly. Not when you change. Not when you ease yourself into bed with a quiet, pained breath.
He jumps up beside you without hesitation. Circles once. Then presses himself along your back, heavy and grounding, his head resting near your shoulder like he’s keeping watch.
You fall asleep like that. Hurting. Exhausted. But not alone.
Jack knows something is wrong before he even gets the door fully open.
It isn’t logical at first. There’s no noise, no obvious sign of anything being off, but the second the latch clicks and the door gives, the silence hits him wrong, too heavy, too still, like something’s settled where it shouldn’t.
Then, there’s movement. Fast. Low.
A sharp bark that cuts straight through the quiet.
Buddy is there instantly, planted between Jack and the hallway like a barrier, body rigid, ears forward, a low, warning growl vibrating through his chest in a way Jack has never heard directed at him before.
“Hey, Buddy…” Jack stills, hands lifting slightly in reflex, not defensive, just careful. “Buddy.”
The dog doesn’t move.
If anything, he braces harder, stance widening, blocking the path to the bedroom completely like he’s guarding something.
Another bark. Sharper this time. Urgent.
Jack’s chest tightens. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice dropping instinctively, steady, controlled. “Talk to me, what’s going on?”
Buddy huffs, pacing a tight step forward, then back, torn between holding his ground and needing Jack to follow.
It clicks immediately. Not aggression. Protection.
Jack’s stomach drops. “…where is she?”
Buddy barks again. Turns. Looks back. Then looks at him.
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’m coming.”
Buddy doesn’t fully relax, but he shifts just enough to allow it, moving ahead of him down the hall, glancing back every few steps like he’s making sure Jack is still there. Still following. Still paying attention.
The bedroom door is half open. The light is off.
Jack pushes it gently. “Sweetheart?”
No answer.
His chest tightens further as he steps inside.
You’re there. Curled on your side, exactly where he expects you to be, and somehow still wrong. Too still. Too tense even in sleep, your body drawn in slightly like you’re protecting something.
“Hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer.
Buddy is already at the side of the bed, whining low, tail flicking anxiously, nose nudging lightly at your arm.
You don’t wake straight away.
Jack reaches you in two steps, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering for just a second before resting lightly on your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You stir at that. Just slightly. A small sound leaving you, somewhere between a breath and a soft groan as you shift without meaning to.
The movement pulls a reaction out of you immediately. A sharp inhale. A wince. Your hand tightening instinctively at your side.
Jack stills. “There it is,” he murmurs quietly.
Your eyes open slowly, heavy with sleep, disoriented for a second before they land on him.
“…Jack?” Your voice is rough. Small.
“Hey,” Jack exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for just a second before it’s replaced with something more focused. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Buddy immediately pushes closer the second you’re awake, nose nudging your cheek, then your shoulder, then settling half across you like he’s making sure you stay put.
“What…” you start, blinking. “What time is it?”
“Too early for you to pretend you’re fine,” he replies gently.
You try to smile. It doesn’t quite work.
“I am fine.”
Jack doesn’t even entertain that.
“Mhm,” he hums, eyes already scanning you properly now, taking in the way you’re holding yourself, the tightness in your posture, the faint shadow of bruising starting to show along your side where your shirt has shifted. “What actually happened?”
“Nothing,” you say automatically. Too quickly.
His gaze flicks up to yours. Flat. Unimpressed.
“Try again.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. It’s enough.
“A patient knocked me,” you admit finally, quieter now. “It’s not a big deal.”
Jack’s jaw tightens immediately. “Knocked you how? You can’t just leave it at that, baby.”
“I fell,” you say. “It’s just a bruise.”
Buddy lets out a soft, unhappy whine. Jack glances at him briefly, then back at you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t seem to think so either.”
You huff a weak breath. “He’s dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Jack repeats. “Funny. So are you.”
You try to push yourself up. Bad idea. The movement pulls a sharp, involuntary sound out of you before you can stop it, your hand flying back to your ribs as pain flares hot and immediate.
Jack’s hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can even properly lose balance.
“Hey, easy, easy.”
“I’m fine,” you insist again, breath uneven now.
“No, you’re not,” Jack says, still calm but firmer now, his other hand coming up to gently guide you back down against the pillows. “Lie back.”
You don’t argue this time. You don’t have the energy.
Buddy shifts with you immediately, repositioning so he’s still pressed against your side, careful, oddly careful for his size, like he knows exactly where not to put weight.
Jack notices. Files it away.
“Where?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering just above your ribs. “Show me.”
You hesitate. Then, slowly, you move your hand just enough to indicate the worst of it. His touch is light when it comes, fingers pressing gently along the area, assessing. You flinch. Harder this time.
“Shit, okay,” Jack murmurs, more to himself than you. “Yeah, that’s not nothing.”
“It’s just bruised,” you say weakly.
“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not.”
You look at him. A flicker of worry finally breaking through everything else.
“It’s not broken. I got checked out. Ask Robby.” He doesn’t answer straight away. Which is answer enough. “Jack, please.”
“Hey,” he says softly, immediately, his hand coming up to your face instead, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears are starting to gather again. “Don’t get upset about it. Not your fault.”
“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” you admit, voice cracking slightly. “It wasn’t that bad at work, I just—”
“You came home and cried,” he says quietly.
You freeze. “How did you—”
He glances at Buddy. Buddy, who is currently pressed against you like a guard dog with a personal vendetta.
“Right,” you mutter weakly.
Jack’s expression softens. A lot. “You should’ve told me,” he says, not accusing, just honest.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.
He huffs a quiet breath. Too late for that. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he says gently.
Your throat tightens. “I know.”
There’s a pause. Soft. Then, “Alright,” he says, shifting slightly. “We’re going to fix you up, okay?”
You blink. “We?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me and him. You know we can’t leave him out of anything.”
Buddy lifts his head slightly at that, like he’s been formally acknowledged.
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
Jack doesn’t rush you. That’s the first thing you notice. Even with the tension sitting tight in his shoulders, even with the way his eyes keep flicking back to your ribs like he’s already running through worst-case scenarios in his head, he keeps everything slow. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt or break or both.
“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting off the bed briefly. “Stay there.”
You don’t have the energy to do anything else. Buddy does. The second Jack steps away, Buddy’s head lifts, ears pricking forward, a low, suspicious rumble building in his chest again like he’s not entirely convinced this is still safe.
“Hey,” Jack says without looking at him, already grabbing what he needs. “Pack it in.”
Buddy huffs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax. You reach down weakly, fingers brushing through his fur.
“It’s okay, Buddy,” you murmur softly. “He’s helping.”
Buddy’s attention flicks to you immediately. That’s all that matters.
Jack comes back with a small kit, nothing dramatic, just basics, but it’s the way he carries it that tells you everything. Familiar. Practised. Focused.
He sits beside you again, closer this time. Close enough that your knees brush when he shifts.
“Can I?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering near the hem of your shirt.
You nod.
He moves carefully. Slowly lifting the fabric just enough to expose your side. The bruise is worse than either of you expected. Dark already. Spreading. Angry under the skin, the kind of deep, blooming discolouration that makes your stomach twist just looking at it.
“Fuck,” Jack exhales quietly. Not surprised. Not pleased either.
“It looks worse than it feels,” you say automatically.
It’s a lie. A weak one.
Jack glances at you. Doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t need to.
“Does it hurt to breathe?” he asks instead.
“A bit.”
“How much is a bit?”
You hesitate. “More than a bit.”
He nods slightly, like he expected that. “Any sharp pain when you move?”
“Yes.”
“Dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“A little.”
He takes that in, nodding with a frown. Then his hand comes back to your side, touch light, deliberate, pressing just enough to assess without making it worse. You tense immediately. A sharp inhale slipping out before you can stop it.
“Sorry, honey,” he murmurs, instantly easing off.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, even as your eyes sting again.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”
That lands. Heavier than anything else has. Your lip wobbles slightly before you can stop it. You look away.
“I really thought it was fine,” you admit, voice small now. “At work it didn’t feel this bad.”
“Adrenaline,” he says simply.
You huff a weak breath. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Hey.”
You look back at Jack. His hand comes up to your face again, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears have started slipping free again without you realising.
“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “It looks bad, but you’re okay.”
“I feel stupid,” you whisper.
His expression tightens. Not at you. At the word.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“I should’ve just stopped. Let them check it properly. Told you—”
“You got through your shift,” he cuts in gently. “That’s what you were focused on.”
“That doesn’t make it smart.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “But it makes it understandable. I know what you’re like.”
You swallow. Your chest tightens.
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” you say, barely above a whisper now.
“You don’t get to decide that it’s not a big deal,” he replies, not harsh, just steady. “Not when it’s you.”
You don’t argue. You can’t.
Buddy shifts slightly, pushing his head more firmly into your lap like he’s trying to insert himself into the conversation. You let your hand fall to him automatically, fingers threading through his fur.
Jack watches it for a second. Then, “Alright,” he says, softer now. “We’re going to assume bad bruising, maybe a cracked rib. No heroics for a few days.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Okay. I can live with that.”
“I’ll grab some ice,” he adds.
Buddy immediately lifts his head again. Watching. Tracking. Jack pauses. Looks at him.
“I’m coming back,” he says dryly.
Buddy blinks. Considers it. Then settles again, barely. You laugh softly despite yourself. It hurts. You do it anyway.
By the time Jack comes back, you’re more settled. Not better, but calmer.
He helps you adjust carefully, guiding you so you’re propped slightly, a pillow tucked behind your back to keep pressure off your ribs. Every movement is slow. Considered. His hands never far from you.
“Gonna be cold, sorry,” he warns quietly, pressing the ice pack gently against your side.
You flinch. Then relax. “That’s actually nice,” you admit after a second.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Usually is.”
The quiet settles again. Different now. Softer.
You’re watching Jack without meaning to.
The focus in his expression. The care in every movement. The way he keeps checking in without making it obvious.
“You’re not mad?” you ask after a while.
He looks up. Brows drawing together slightly. “Mad?”
“That I didn’t tell you.”
There’s a pause. Then, “No,” he says.
You blink. “Really?”
“I mean, I’m not thrilled,” he adds honestly. “But I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”
That eases something in your chest. You didn’t even realise it was there.
“I just didn’t want to worry you,” you repeat softly.
“You don’t get to make that call,” he says again, gentler this time. “You tell me, I worry. That’s the deal.”
Your lips twitch slightly. “That’s not a very fair deal.”
“No,” he agrees. “Works for me, though.”
You laugh quietly. It pulls at your ribs. You wince.
His hand is there instantly. “Easy.”
“I’m okay,” you murmur. “Stop being funny.”
“I know. I’ll try,” he says.
Buddy shifts again, this time climbing more deliberately across the bed until he wedges himself firmly between you and Jack, his body pressed along your side, his head settling heavily across your lap like he’s decided his position is now permanent.
Jack stares at him. “Really?”
Buddy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. You smile softly, your hand resting automatically on Buddy’s head.
“He’s just making sure I’m okay.”
“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “I can see that.”
There’s a pause. Then, carefully, deliberately, Jack shifts closer anyway. Working around the dog rather than moving him. His arm slides gently behind your back, pulling you just slightly closer so you’re supported without putting pressure on your ribs.
Buddy allows it. Barely.
You melt into it. Exhaustion catching up all over again now that everything else has settled. Your head tips lightly against Jack’s shoulder. Your hand still resting on Buddy.
“I’m really tired,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” Jack murmurs softly. “I know.”
Your eyes slip closed. Between them, you’re completely boxed in, warmth at your back, solid weight at your front, hands anchoring you in place like nothing is going to let you fall apart again.
“Stay,” you whisper, barely conscious now.
Jack’s arm tightens slightly around you. “I’ve got you.”
Buddy huffs softly. Settling deeper. And for the first time since it happened, you actually relax. Sleep comes easy after that.
All three of you tangled together in the quiet.
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