just.listen

Don't think, or judge. Just listen. -Sarah Dessen Just a girl who reads too much, loves music, and dogs(especially mini schnauzers).Technically an adult, but don't feel like it. Blood type: Caffeine Positive. Multi-fandom blog. Hate-free, not entirely spoiler-free.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

For the Valko requests, I would love to see some cute family fluff between MC, Valko, his cousins, grandma, and his sister (I think he had a sister in his lore, correct me if I am wrong), because I want to see how MC would get along with Valko's family. 🐺

𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄

synopsis: when valko brings you home for the first time, he warns you about everything: his grandmother’s food, his sister’s stare, his cousin’s stories, the family jokes that always cut too close. he forgets to warn you that love in his house is not gentle or quiet, but loud, practical, mercilessly observant, and served warm at the kitchen table. cw/tw: valko x reader. very soft domestic fluff. light family teasing. read here: ao3 ⋅ tumblr

Valko lost his nerve three steps from the door.

It was a small death, but you saw it happen; the brave lift of his chin, the twitch in his jaw, the small, tragic collapse of his entire face when a crash came from inside the house.

His hand tightened around yours.

“Dobro,” he said.

Another crash.

From inside, and older woman called, “If that's my good plate, I will put someone in the ground before supper.”

Valko closed his eyes. You turned toward him.

He opened one eyes. “She loves plates.”

“More than people?”

“Depends on the people.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and relief moved through him all at once, softening his shoulders, loosening the frightened line of his mouth. He'd been nervous all morning. Badly nervous. Valko, who could grin with blood on his teeth and make danger look like a door he'd simply forgotten to knock on, had spent the whole walk here giving you warnings no sane person could have prepared for.

Do not let Mika read your palm. He makes things up and then believes them.

Do not compliment Baba's curtains unless you want curtains.

Do not say you're full.

And, most importantly, if anyone mentions the soup incident, Valko had said, grave as a condemned man, they're lying.

You had asked what the soup incident was.

He had started to walk faster.

Now he stood before the old wooden door with your fingers caught in his, trying to look calm and producing, somehow, the exact expression of a wolf about to be bathed.

“Valko,” you said softly.

“Yes?”

“You're shaking.”

“I'm not shaking.”

“You are.”

“I’m containing myself.”

“From what?”

“Hereditary embarrassment.”

The door flew open.

A girl about his age stood on the other side, dark-eyed and grinning, with flour on her cheek and murder in her posture. She took one look at Valko’s hand around yours, then lifted her gaze to his face with the slow delight of someone finding a knife exactly where she had hoped one would be.

A slow smile cut across her face.

“Oh,” she smirked. “So this is why you changed your shirt twice.”

Valko made a sound. Small, wounded, entirely unlike a wolf.

“I changed once.”

“You changed twice. The first shirt was the blue one. The second was the one that made you look like you were going to court. This...This is the third.”

His ears went red.

The woman held out her hand to you. “Milena. His sister.”

“Unfortunately,” Valko added.

“Fortunately. Without me, you'd still think soap is optional in winter.”

“It isn't optional.”

“Because of me.”

You took Milena's hand. Her grip was warm, firm, and full of judgement she hadn't yet decided to use.

Behind her, the house breathed out heat. Bread, onions, some in old wood, something sweet cooling on a counter. There were voices everywhere, layered and crossing. One person laughing while another complained, a child humming under a table, chairs scraping, a kettle whistling like a bird losing patience.

Milena stepped aside. “Come in before Baba starts saying we were raised by wolves.”

Valko muttered, “We were.”

She looked at him. “And still, some of us learned manners.”

You crossed the threshold. The house was smaller than the noise made it seem, or maybe the noise had simply learned to fill every corner. Framed photographs climbed the walls in crooked rows. Herbs hung drying above the kitchen window. Nothing matched, and yet everything looked touched, mended, argued over... kept.

Valko leaned close as he helped you out of your coat.

“Last chance,” he whispered. “We can run.”

You looked past him to where an old woman stood near the stove, hands folded over her apron, watching you with bright, wolfish eyes.

“Too late,” you whispered back. “I think she heard you.”

“I hear everything,” the old woman said.

Valko went still.

Milena smiled into her shoulder.

The old woman crossed the kitchen with the slow authority of someone who had ruled this house before any of them had teeth. She was small, broad in the shoulders, silver-haired, with flour on her wrist and no softness wasted in her face. The softness, you realised, was elsewhere. In the bread covered by a towel, in the chair pulled out before you reached it, in the way Valko lowered his head without being asked when she came close.

“Baba,” he said, and for the first time that day, his voice lost its jokes.

She, of course, ignored him.

Instead, she took your face between both hands.

Her palms smelled of rosemary, yeast, and soap. Her thumbs rested beneath your cheekbones, and for one strange second the whole house seemed to lean closer. The cousins, the kettle, the old boards, even Valko, holding his breath beside you.

“So,” Baba Vesna said. “You are the reason he forgets to eat.”

“I eat,” Valko protested.

Teta Marika appeared by the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “You came here last week, opened the pantry, stared at a sack of potatoes for six minutes, then said, ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’”

“That was taken out of context.”

“What was the context?” you asked, because love had made you brave and terrible.

Valko looked betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

A boy leaning backwards on his chair nearly lost balance from laughing, another cousin caught the chair by its back without looking up from peeling an apple.

Baba Vesna patted your cheek once and released you. “Sit, dušo. Eat something before my family embarrass me properly.”

Valko gave a strangled laugh. “Before?”

No one listened to him.

You were placed at the long wooden table as if the decision had been made before you arrived. A bowl appeared, then bread, then butter, then a small plate of pickled vegetables. Teta Marika, Valko's aunt, kissed the air beside your cheeks and took the small gift you had brought. Mika announced that he already knew your favourite colour from Valko’s face. Luka told him that was the stupidest sentence ever spoken in the kitchen, which Mika accepted as praise. The little one beneath the table emerged, solemn and bread-dusted, and introduced himself as Niko.

“Are you going to marry him?” Niko asked.

Valko walked directly into the side of a chair.

The whole kitchen paused. You pressed your lips together.

Milena leaned against the doorway, radiant with cruelty. “Careful, Niko. Val only has two knees.”

“Niko,” Teta Marika turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand. “We ask guests if they want juice first.”

Niko nodded, absorbing this etiquette with grave importance. “Do you want juice before you marry him?”

Valko covered his face with both hands. You bit down on your smile so hard it almost hurt. This wasn't what you had expected.

Some foolish, frightened part of you had imagined a den in the old sense. Teeth, watchful eyes, a family arranged around blood and law, waiting to decide whether your bones could be allowed near theirs. Valko had never spoken of them casually. Whenever he said home, something tender and embarrassed moved through him, as though the word itself had fingers and knew exactly where to touch.

Now you sat beneath a crooked lamp while his grandmother tore bread with her hands and put the first piece on your plate.

“Eat,” Baba Vesna said.

You obeyed.

The bread was warm enough to steam between your fingers. The crust cracked softly, butter melted into it in golden lines. Across the table, Valko watched you take the first bite as if your mouth held judgment from heaven.

You chewed. Swallowed.

“It’s delicious.”

Baba Vesna clicked her tongue. “Of course it is wonderful. I made it.”

Mika leaned towards you. “He talked about you after the market yesterday.”

Valko’s hand hit the table. “No.”

“Yes, you did” Luka said sticking his tongue out.

“No.”

“You said, and I quote, 'she chooses fruit with such care'.”

The table went quiet for half a breath, your hand stilled around the bread. Valko looked at Luka as if betrayal had entered the room wearing his cousin’s face.

“That was private.”

“You said it in the kitchen.”

“That makes it private.”

Milena sat across from you and rested her chin in her hand. “He also said you have kind hands.”

Valko’s mouth opened, nothing came out. Your heart did something foolish inside your chest.

The teasing had worked him bright and flustered, but beneath it, something softer trembled. He was embarrassed, yes. Horribly, so. Beautifully, so. Yet the thing underneath was more dangerous than shame. This was exposure. A curtain pulled open in a room he had spent so long keeping dim.

He had spoken of you here.

At this table. In this warm, loud house. To these people who teased him because they knew what he looked like with no armour on. He had brought you home long before he ever brought your body through the door.

Baba Vesna filled your bowl with soup.

“He was always like this,” she said.

“Baba, please.”

“He was a strange child,” she said.

Valko groaned. “Please.”

“A sweet child,” Teta Marika corrected.

“A dramatic child,” Luka said.

“A biting child,” Milena added.

Valko pointed at her. “You bit first.”

“You looked biteable.”

“You see what I mean?” Valko turned to you with helpless outrage. “This is what I survived.”

There was love in it, the kind that had been cooked too long and reduced into something strong enough to stain. They spoke to him as if they had known every version of him and chosen, again and again, to keep putting food in front of whichever one came home.

You looked at him while he argued with Mika about whether a stolen spoon counted as a childhood trauma.

He caught you looking. For a moment, the noise thinned.

There he was.

Valko with his hair refusing every law of decency. Valko trying so hard to survive his own family and failing beautifully. His eyes met yours with a nervous brightness that made you want to reach across the table and be cruel to every fear that had ever found him.

Then Niko pointed his spoon at you.

“Are you keeping him?”

The kitchen stopped.

Valko made a tiny sound into his bowl.

Milena closed her eyes as if praying for patience and finding none. “Niko.”

“What? Mika said maybe she is keeping him.”

His gaze dropped to the table, to the bread by his hand, to the small old cuts in the wood. The blush still clung to him, but it had changed into something quieter now. Hope, perhaps. Or terror wearing hope’s coat.

You could have laughed. Everyone would have let you. It would have been easy to throw the question back into the room like a toy and watch them tear it apart.

Instead, beneath the table, you found Valko’s hand.

His fingers closed around yours at once.

“I’d like to,” you said.

The house held itself still for half a breath.

Then Baba Vesna nodded, once, as if some old contract had been signed in soup and honey.

“Good,” she said. “He is difficult, but warm.”

Valko bowed his head.

His shoulders shook.

At first you thought he was upset. Then you realised he was laughing, quietly, helplessly, with one hand over his mouth and the other holding yours under the table like he meant to keep it there until winter.

Mika groaned. “Ah, look at him. Finished. Completely finished.”

Milena reached for the pickles. “Good. He needed finishing.”

Teta Marika smiled into her tea. “Eat more, zlato. You will need strength.”

“For Valko?” you asked.

“For all of us.”

Dinner became less a meal than a storm with chairs.

Bowls moved, hands reached, stories climbed over one another and died unfinished because someone remembered a better accusation. Luka asked you practical questions in a calm voice: where you liked to walk, whether Valko had shown you the old river path, whether he still pretended not to like sweet things. Mika tried to read your palm and declared that you were fated to own a troublesome dog.

“That's just Valko,” Milena said.

“I am not a dog.”

“True,” Luka said. “Dogs listen.”

Valko began quietly placing the best pieces of food on your plate.

A soft carrot, the inside of the bread, a dumpling he pretended to move away from himself and somehow abandoned beside your spoon. He was not subtle. He had never been subtle. He was a wolf trying to hide a whole deer behind a napkin.

You noticed on the fourth offering.

His family noticed on the first.

Baba Vesna said nothing until Valko tried to give you the last honey cake. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him over her tea.

“Ah,” she said.

Valko froze.

It was one syllable. It landed like a bell.

“What?” he said.

“No, no.” She waved him off. “Continue. Starve for romance. Very noble.”

Mika threw his head back.

You picked up the honey cake before Valko could die at the table and broke it in two, placing half on his plate. “There,” you said. “No starving.”

He looked at the cake.

Then he looked at you.

His expression opened in a way that made the room, somehow, feel too small for your heart. It opened with that unguarded, bewildered softness he sometimes gave you when kindness arrived before he had prepared himself to receive it.

Milena saw it.

Her teasing quieted.

For a moment, she only watched him with something old and protective in her face.

Then she stood. “Come help me with plates.”

Valko blinked. “Me?”

“Her.” Milena pointed at you.

Valko frowned. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That's not a reason.”

“It has worked on you for years.”

You rose before he could protest again. Milena took two plates from the table and handed you none of them, which told you at once that this had nothing to do with helping.

She led you down a narrow hallway lined with photographs.

Behind you, Valko’s voice rose. “Do not interrogate her.”

The hallway smelled faintly of beeswax and dried herbs. The noise of the kitchen softened behind you, still there, still golden, but now wrapped in walls. Milena stopped by a window overlooking the yard and leaned her hip against the sill.

For the first time all evening, she let the smile leave her face.

“He likes you,” she said.

You smiled gently. “I got that impression.”

“No.” Her eyes flicked towards the kitchen. “He likes people easily. He likes old men who tell bad stories, stray cats that scratch him, children who throw rocks at windows because they want attention. Valko is built stupid that way.”

A laugh escaped you.

Milena folded her arms.

“He brings things home,” she continued. “Broken things, angry things. Things he thinks no one else will be gentle with.” Her gaze moved towards the kitchen, where Valko’s voice lifted in protest. “He does not bring people home.”

Your throat tightened.

From the kitchen, Valko shouted, “It wasn't soup. It was stew.”

Mika shouted back, “Stew cannot make a grown man cry.”

“I was overwhelmed by flavour.”

Milena closed her eyes for one second. “Bože, give me strength.”

You laughed softly.

She looked at you again, sharper now.

“He was nervous all week,” she said. “Changed his shirt three times. Asked me if the house smelled too much like onions. Asked Luka if his laugh was strange. Asked Baba if she could please not tell the story about the goat.”

“The goat?”

“Later.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “Maybe never.”

You glanced back towards the kitchen.

He had asked if his laugh was strange.

Something in you ached with such tenderness that it almost felt like anger.

You looked down.

“He didn’t need to worry,”

“He is clumsy with precious things,” she said. “Because he thinks his hands are only good for breaking them, even when he is careful. Especially then.”

“So be kind,” she said. “Or be cruel quickly. He will survive either, but I prefer to know which one I’m dealing with.”

There it was.

The knife under the table. The love with its teeth intact. You didn't resent her for it, you thought, strangely, that you liked her more for it.

“I’m not here to hurt him,”

“Most people aren’t, at first.”

“Milena.”

Milena’s gaze narrowed.

“I don’t know what I’m doing with him,” you admitted.

“With any of this,” you continued. “He makes everything feel…” You searched for the word and hated every pretty one that came. Fated. Wild. Tender. All too polished for the mess he made of your heart. “He makes everything feel like I’ve been walking past a door my whole life, and he is the idiot who opened it with his shoulder.”

Milena stared at you.

Then she laughed once, sharp and startled.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re gone too.”

You looked down, caught.

She seemed satisfied. “Good.”

“Is that approval?”

“That is me deciding not to be difficult.”

“You were being difficult?”

“Dušo,” she said, and now her smile had teeth in it, “I was being polite.”

When you returned to the kitchen, Valko was waiting near the doorway as if he had tried to remain seated and failed.

His eyes moved from you to Milena. “What did you say to her?”

Milena walked past him. “That you were adopted.”

“I’m not.”

“Emotionally, you're a wet dog we found in the rain.”

He watched her go, wounded on principle, then turned to you with genuine concern. “What did she actually say?”

You reached up and brushed flour from his sleeve. “That you’re warm.”

“That was Baba.”

“Family consensus.”

His mouth twitched. “You are enjoying this.”

“I am.”

“You were supposed to be intimidated.”

“By Mika?”

“By the bloodline. The history. The general atmosphere of teeth.”

“Mika told me my palm says I’ll own a dog.”

Valko sighed.

You reached up and plucked the dish towel from his shoulder. “You have flour on your sleeve.”

He looked down, surprised, as if his own body had been making decisions without him. Then he looked back at you, and the kitchen noise faded once more, though this time it was only the two of you making the world small.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The question was casual enough for anyone else to miss the tremor underneath. You heard it. The naked, waiting part. You thought of his hand shaking outside the door. Baba Vesna taking your face between her palms, of bread steaming in your fingers, of honey cake divided in two, of Milena saying he doesn't bring people home.

“I’m all right,” you said. “Are you?”

Valko smiled too quickly. “I’m alive.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

His smile softened.

For once, he did not joke immediately. It cost him something. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, reaching for mischief and finding courage instead.

“I wanted them to like you,” he said. “I wanted you to like them.”

“I do”

“I wanted…” He stopped, then laughed under his breath. “I don’t know. Something stupid.”

He looked towards the kitchen, where his family had resumed their noise without mercy. Mika was accusing Luka of stealing the larger piece of cake. Baba Vesna had taken down a tin from the highest shelf, probably containing either biscuits or secrets.

“Valko, stop hiding her. I have photographs.”

Horror returned to his face with magnificent speed.

“No.”

“Yes,”

“No photographs.”

“Naked baby photos,” Mika added.

Valko went pale. “You do not have those.”

Teta Marika’s voice drifted after him, serene and deadly. “We have everything.”

He grabbed your hand. “We’re leaving.”

You let him pull you three steps before Baba Vesna appeared in the doorway holding a small album to her chest.

“Sit,” she said.

Valko sat.

It was remarkable how quickly a wolf could become a grandson.

For the next hour, they showed you the evidence of his life.

Valko missing two front teeth and glaring at the camera as though betrayed by dentistry. Valko asleep under the table with one hand buried in a dog’s fur. Valko at thirteen, all elbows and outrage, holding a fish half his size while crying because he had to put it back.

There was Valko covered in mud, Valko wearing a paper crown, Valko with Milena’s arm hooked around his neck while he pretended to hate her and leaned into her anyway. Valko standing beside Baba Vesna in the garden, holding a basket of tomatoes like he had been entrusted with the fate of nations.

Each photograph was another small door.

You had known him in pieces: the grin, the hunger, the awkward tenderness, the jokes he threw like branches over deep water. Here was the rest of him. Here was the child who had survived becoming himself because these hands had fed him, scolded him, dragged him upright, and remembered his softness when he tried to outgrow it.

At some point, while everyone argued over whether the goat incident happened before or after the soup incident, Valko bent close to you.

“You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured.

You turned a page.

A tiny Valko stared up from the album, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Yes,” you said. “I do.”

He stared at you.

Then, very briefly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder.

It lasted only a second. A shy, exhausted surrender. No one commented on it, though you knew every person in the room saw. That seemed to be another house rule. They would mock the wound, yes, but they protected the pulse.

Later, when the cups were cleared and the album returned to its shelf of holy embarrassments, you stepped outside for air.

The yard was cold, dark and soft around the edges. Herbs grew beneath the window, yhe old trees leaned towards the house as if listening. Behind you, the kitchen glowed gold, laughter pressing against the glass.

Valko followed after a moment, closing the door carefully behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him. “For what?”'

“The interrogation. The photographs. Mika. The marriage question. The soup litigation.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Milena.”

“I like Milena.”

“That means she behaved.”

“She said she was being polite.”

He winced. “Then she liked you.”

You leaned back against the porch railing, and he stood in front of you with his hands in his pockets, rocking once on his heels like he wanted to come closer and had forgotten the law of his own body.

Through the window, you could see Baba Vesna pretending to wipe the table while watching you both with shameless interest. You lifted a hand and waved.

She waved back.

Valko turned, saw her, and groaned. “For the love of...Baba.”

“She loves you.”

“That's her usual excuse for crimes.”

“It’s a good one.”

He looked back at you, and the teasing left him slowly, piece by piece. Out here, with the house at his back, he seemed caught between the wild thing and the loved thing. The wolf and the boy in the paper crown. The man who had brought you to the threshold with shaking hands and still tried to joke like fear could be made harmless if he gave it a funny name.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Which part?”

“When Niko asked if you were keeping me.”

The question came lightly, too lightly. A feather laid over a blade.

You reached for him.

This time, Valko did not hesitate. He came into your space at once, as if pulled by a string tied somewhere behind his ribs. His hands settled at your waist, careful at first, then warmer when you didn't move away.

“I meant it,”

His eyes searched yours.

“For tonight?”

“For longer than that.”

He didn't kiss you immediately. Somehow, that made it worse. He stood there and let the answer enter him, slowly, like someone opening the door to a room he had been told was empty and finding it lit.

Inside, Mika yelled, “Are they kissing?”

Valko dropped his forehead to your shoulder.

“Leave them. He is finally being normal.”

You laughed.

He looked at you then, and the last of his embarrassment broke open into something bright, something almost boyish

“Welcome home,” he said, very softly.

You touched his cheek.

Behind him, the old house breathed and creaked and held its golden noise. Inside, his family waited with tea, teeth, stories, and a place at the table already made yours.

“Welcome home, Valko.”

© 2026, xxsyluslittlecrowxx. dividers by @uzmacchiato

[kirimaruchize]

Doggo may bite 🤣

[snoozer-crow]

"sweetheart," sylus murmurs, exhaling softly as he traces lazy kisses down your neck, his lips grazing your skin as he pulls you close against his chest. his breath caresses your throat, causing a tiny whimper to escape your lips as you shiver, your grip on his shirt tightening just a fraction.

his hulking frame bows as he snakes his arms around you and presses his palms flat to your back, urging you to curve further into him. no matter how close you get, it's never enough. he always needs you just a little bit closer.

he hums, the low vibration resonating through your heart, causing it to stutter. his breath shudders slightly, not out of arousal, but of desperate possessiveness. "you're so small, so small..." his sigh feels hot against the crook of your neck, like the air that escapes an oven while it's on. his grasp tightens.

"you don't understand how much i need you. how i long to curl around you and keep you warm forever. my treasure. mine."

you nod, dizzy with something you can't quite wrap your head around as you bask in his affection. you nuzzle your face into his sweater, closing your eyes and reveling in the scope of his desire. he inhales you and clutches you tight as if you're the air he breathes, the blood in his veins.

"wanna be yours forever," you confess, and a low rumble escapes his chest as he fists his hands in your shirt, one you borrowed from him. "i love you."

"my darling," his voice is a whisper as he finally settles, wrapped around you as tightly as possible. "i love you too. more than you'll ever know."

[mwphisto]

Now that he’s out of my system…

Sleepy sex with Sylus in the middle of the night. You wake up warm all over, assuming it’s because of the literal furnace of a man beside you only to discover it’s him but even better. Sylus is having a wet dream, brows pinched and jaw slack as his chest heaves in an unsteady rhythm. One you recognize all too well, the only other dead giveaway is the visible bulge in the sheets over his groin.

You watch him for a little bit, memorize the way his face twitches and his hips roll up against the bedding. Searching for relief, searching for you. His own subconscious trying to recreate the physical pleasure his mind is conjuring. It makes your stomach flutter, heat surging straight between your thighs as you wonder what he could be dreaming about. What he could possibly be doing to you in his dreams, or what you could be doing to him. Either way, he looks so adorable and needy.

Not able to contain yourself, nor let him suffer for much longer. So you snuggle in closer, running your hand down the planes of his stomach and under the waistband of his boxers to wrap around his hard on. Gasping with him as he bucks into your hold, your nose nuzzling his pulse. Jerking him slowly while kissing on his neck, muttering sweet nothings as you try so carefully not to wake him.

It’s no use, Sylus is too sharp even in sleep. Just as he’s about to cum, those crimson eyes flutter open and a hand shoots over the covers to stop you. “Wait…” thick and groggy, you can feel your panties stick to your cunt as you squirm, peering up at him in the dark. “… I need to cum inside of you. It’s the only way.” You could die happy.

That’s how you end up cradled in his arms, faces nuzzling the other, cock buried so deep inside of your warmth it’s hard to decipher where one begins and the other ends. Sylus somehow has staved off his orgasm in favor of rocking slowly, letting the pleasure melt his mind and body into the mattress. Letting it consume him, letting you consume him in his entirety. Everything he has to offer.

Mmmmm Sylus <3

[mwphisto]

You couldn’t quite figure out how you got into this position. 18+

One moment you were flooring it down the streets of the N109 Zone in one of Sylus’ many vintage cars. The next, every item on his mahogany desk was strewn across the floor. Your back — bare and prickling from the chill — pressed into the smooth surface.

Only your black polished leather heals remained on your body. The red bottoms faced the ceiling, slung over the broad expanse of Sylus’ shoulders and trembling with every devastating blow of his hips.

They sat upon his shoulders as if they belonged there, as if they were always meant to remain right there. Sylus surely seemed to think so, with the iron clad grip he had on your claves. Pressing his body weight further down into your own, listening to the satisfying creak of sturdy wood as he pounds you into its surface.

“S-s-Sylus!” He’s fucking you beyond dumb, your jaw so slack that you’d feel some level of embarrassment if you harbored any sense of shame around him. “You looked too perfect tonight.” Though, you couldn’t help but believe there was more of a motive behind this animalistic hunger. “Too many eyes were on you.”

He hits deep, driving that little bit of information home as stars explode through your vision. You barely register the pain of your head knocking against the desk. A garbled cry of his name leaving your lips as your nails dig into his skin, wherever you’re capable of reaching.

You’re so close to cumming, the wet slapping emitting between your bodies is more than enough to signify it. “Don’t even h-have to try to make me jealous, hmm?” He shifts, putting a knee up on the desk for better leverage to nearly fold you in half. “Just gotta look as beautiful as you a-always do… someone will look… their desires are so loud…”

You don’t restrain yourself as a harsh slap lands on your ass, nearly screaming as your entire body throbs with the need for release. Jealousy pushed him to this point and you didn’t even have to do anything… how cute. “S-Sy m’gonna…”

The desk is physically rocking with the force of his hips, and you barely have the strength to worry about it collapsing beneath you. All you can focus on is the never ending drag of his cock between your slick walls. The toe curling pleasure you desperately want to last forever, teetering right on the brink of euphoria.

“Cum for me. Only for me.“

[mariasont]

ANDROMEDA ⋆˚࿔

the girls keep trying to set you up on vacation. that is, until they find the senior attending in your bed and realize why you keep shutting them down

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: jack abbot x reader WARNINGS: fem!reader, sunshine reader, reader has breasts, reader and jack are naked in bed together!, kissing, light possessiveness, secret relationship, very soft jack abbot PROMPT: here! WC: 1.1k

Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed. 

And yes, maybe that would sound more profound if you had a wider frame of reference.

What you do have to compare him to amounts to a few teenage makeouts under splintered bleachers, some smattering of questionable judgment calls at frat parties, and then essentially nothing once medical school dragged your life into an alley and shot it dead.

Still. Even a limited sample can yield a clear, uncontestable result, and the result is Jack. 

Jack, whose kisses arrive so confidently, like he has never once doubted where his mouth belongs, golden and fizzing, like champagne left to bloom in the heat of summer while your whole body hitches in open-mouthed amazement just to feel it.

Even now, even when the cool air whispers in through the balcony door and skims over your legs beneath tangled sheets, raising goosebumps in delicate lines along your thighs. 

Jack notices instantly, the faintest smile warning against your lips as he shifts closer, chasing off the chill and dimming everything else until he is all you know.

When he kisses you again, it’s slower, lush and lazy, every nerve in you waking and stretching toward him, and when he pulls back, it’s only far enough that his lips barely graze the corner of your mouth.

Waiting, poised, always right there if you need more.

And you always seem to need more.

“C’mon,” he urges, his voice raspy from sleep, infused with a smugness you’d like to resent — because he knows he’s won this round. “Tell me again how much better I am than everyone else.”

You laugh before he can kiss it back out of you, a warm burst of affection filling in the little space between you.

“Such an ego trip,” you mutter softly. “But, unfortunately for literally every other man on earth, you are kind of ruining the curve here, Dr. Abbot.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling anyway. “See, that confidence really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is —especially since you spent all last night watching Victoria and Samira scout alternatives for me.”

His fingers tense slightly against your waist, pulling you that much closer as his brows lift with genuine offense. “Should I have been worried?”

“Maybe a little,” you tease, unable to help yourself. “They were getting ambitious by the end there.”

He exhales, voice husky and low. “Let them get ambitious. They’ll just have to get used to being disappointed.”

You cant your head to the side and let your lips skim the sharp, firm line of his jaw, feeling the small catch in his breath as it happens.

That tiny lovely moment that reminds you all that swagger is something wonderfully human, something you can touch and affect and undo a little.

“They just don’t know the position’s already been monopolized.” 

“And it’s a position I’m extremely attached to, baby.” His lips twitch as his thumb keeps tracing small circles into your skin. “Although,” he murmurs, “there are a few other positions I’m equally invested in exploring with you.”

“Cheeky.”

The accusation loses most of its force when you can feel the tips of your ears burning.

You don’t wait for him to answer. That would only give him room to keep going, and he is very good at that, good at pressing exactly where you are weakest until you dissolve on contact. 

So you put a hand to him instead and guide him back, trading positions until his shoulders are against the mattress and he is looking up from the pillows.

He lets you do it without a fight (the only way you could manage it), only smiling as he runs his hands along your naked sides in long idle strokes until his palms settle against the valet of your chest.

After that you have to look away. Or rather, down. It’s easier to fold yourself against him than to hold his gaze when it gets like that, open and intent and almost too knowing.

Better to focus on the terrain of him. The freckles and beauty marks and scattered dark points across his skin that your fingers can follow and reorder into something legible. A constellation, naturally. Andromeda before they put her back up in the night sky where everyone could stare and nobody could touch. 

A sudden knock at the door jolts both of you apart, but you barely make it half an inch away from Jack before the door swings open anyway, accompanied by a voice you would recognize in any state of consciousness. 

“Babe, please tell me you’re awake, because we’ve all been dying to hear if you liked that guy from last night. Also, we found his Instagram and —” Victoria’s voice dies on the spot.

You make a tiny, strangled sound of pure horror.

Thankfully, Jack reacts for you, rolling you back into the mattress and yanking the sheet up over your head like that is somehow going to undo the last ten seconds instead of simply turning you into a very obvious person-shaped lump.

Which also doesn’t solve the larger issue, namely that there is a very naked senior attending what is meant to be your bed, in your room.

So much for plausible deniability.

“Oh,” Victoria says. Then, apparently finding that insufficiently expansive: “oh my god.” Beneath the sheet your face goes so hot it feels chemical. “Wow. This is —” She breaks off. You can practically hear the competing impulses at work: decorum on one side, unrestrained glee on the other. “I mean, congratulations, but also wow.”

Jack does not even have the decency to sound flustered. “Thanks.”

You sigh. At this point you’re not sure there’s really anything left to do but surrender gracefully to the smoking ruin of your secret. 

“Would you believe he’s just here for a really, really thorough rounds update?” you ask, peeking out from the sheets with what you feel is a very convincing amount of innocence. 

“On vacation?” she asks flatly. “Wow. Healthcare workers are getting more and more dedicated.”

Jack settles further back against the pillows. “Patient care never stops.”

Victoria presses her lips together tightly. It’s obvious she is fighting for her life not to laugh, and maybe not even fighting that hard.

“Right. Message received. I’m gonna give you two your privacy. Samira owes me forty bucks, so I need to go collect on that anyway.”

She slams the door shut behind her. 

You drop the sheet at last and look up at the ceiling, momentarily unable to imagine a more useful direction in which to direct your face.

“So,” you say, sitting up and giving Jack what you mean to be a stern glare, “I think the secret aspect of this relationship may be over.” 

He glances at you. “Did we even have a secret, really?”

“Maybe for like, a week.”

He kisses you again. The thesis remains intact. Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed, and now, apparently, that is no longer private research.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[afterdarkbydel]

The Work Husband Clause

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2, 980

Summary: John Shen brings you a 48-ounce Dunkin' iced latte; fake marriage paperwork is discussed; and Jack Abbot discovers his girlfriend has a work husband.

Warnings: Established relationship, workplace teasing, jealous-but-not-really jealous Jack, Shen, and Reader being absolute menaces, fake marriage pact, excessive Dunkin, one deeply offensive sweet coffee beverage, no real angst.

Author’s Note: This is pure nonsense, and I love it. Jack is secure in his relationship, but unfortunately, his girlfriend and her work husband have paperwork, annual reviews, and a beverage vessel. Pray for him. Thank you @jennataurus for the idea!

Xoxo, Del

Jack saw Shen before he saw the drink. That was his first mistake. Shen walking into the emergency department was not unusual. Shen walking into the emergency department with that particular expression on his face was.

Too calm. Too neutral. Too deliberately innocent.

Jack narrowed his eyes from the other side of the nurses’ station.

Then he saw what Shen was carrying.

For one brief and terrible second, Jack thought it was medical equipment.

Then he saw the ice. Then he saw the straw.

Then he saw your face light up like Shen had walked in carrying a diamond ring, a rescue puppy, and a winning lottery ticket.

“Oh my god,” you said, already abandoning your chart. “You got it.”

Shen set the container on the counter with the solemn care of a man presenting evidence in court. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”

You pressed both hands to your chest. “John.”

Jack looked at the bucket. Then he looked at Shen. Then he looked at you.

“No,” Jack said.

You turned toward him, smiling. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“I know enough,” Jack replied. 

“It’s the bucket,” you said, like that explained anything.

“It is not a bucket,” Shen said.

Jack stared at him. “It absolutely is.”

“It’s a beverage vessel.” Shen corrected. 

Jack stared at him. “It has a handle.”

“That doesn’t make it a bucket,” Shen grumbled. 

You leaned over the counter and kissed Shen’s cheek. Jack went still. Shen went very still, too, but not because he was nervous.

No.

Because he knew.

Jack watched Shen’s mouth twitch once before he smoothed his expression back into something infuriatingly calm.

“Thank you,” you said sweetly.

Shen nodded. “Of course.”

Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Don’t love that.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“The cheek kiss,” Jack answered. 

Shen looked down at the drink. “It was a gratitude kiss.”

Jack’s eyes shifted to him. “Dunkin.”

Shen’s brows lifted. “Is that me?”

Jack nodded once, “It is now.”

You pressed your lips together. Jack knew that face. He loved that face. He also knew that face meant you were about thirty seconds away from making his life worse on purpose.

“Jack,” you said gently.

“No,” Jack said. “You don’t get to ‘Jack’ me when Dunkin just walked in with forty-eight ounces of sugar and got kissed for it.”

Shen glanced down at the container. “It does have two straws.”

“That makes it worse,” Jack replied. 

You picked up one of the straws with reverent fingers. “It’s for sharing.”

“With your boyfriend?” Jack said, jerking his head in John’s direction. 

You smiled. “With my work husband.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. There it was. Shen took one small, thoughtful step closer to you, like a man approaching a live wire just to see what would happen.

Jack watched him do it. He watched you notice. He watched both of you decide, silently and instantly, to be problems.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Your what?”

“My work husband,” you said, very seriously.

Shen nodded once. “It’s an administrative title.”

“Administrative,” Jack repeated.

“Very little romance involved,” Shen said.

Jack stared at him. “Very little?”

You touched Jack’s chest. “Jack, be fair. John and I have survived a lot together.”

“Long shifts,” Shen said.

“Bad coffee,” you added.

“Printer failures,” Shen said.

“The cafeteria meatloaf incident,” you said.

Shen’s expression darkened. “We don’t discuss that.”

You nodded. “Out of respect for the dead.”

Jack looked between the two of you and inhaled slowly through his nose. 

He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had handled trauma bays, impossible calls, mass casualties, and patients who thought WebMD had more authority than medical school. He was not going to let two adults and a container of dessert coffee dismantle him in the middle of his emergency department.

You slid the bucket toward Shen. “First sip goes to the provider.”

Jack’s head turned. “Provider?”

“He provided the bucket,” you said.

Shen took the straw with grave dignity. “I accept this responsibility.”

Jack watched him take a sip.

You leaned in, eyes bright. “Well?”

Shen considered it for a moment. “Sweet.”

You nodded. “Expected.”

“Artificial blueberry,” Shen said.

“But fun artificial?” You asked.

Shen took another sip. “Aggressively fun.”

You pointed at him. “That’s what I thought.”

Jack stared. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

You gave Jack a look, “I know John’s palate.”

Jack went still again.

Shen lowered the straw. “You walked into that one.”

“I did not walk into anything,” Jack said.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you jealous of John’s palate?”

“No,” Jack replied immediately. 

Shen tilted his head. “He seems jealous of my palate.”

Jack pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”

“Appropriate,” Shen said, glancing at the bucket. “Given the beverage.”

You made a sound like you were trying not to choke.

Jack looked down at you. “Do not laugh at that.”

You covered your mouth. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Jack said.

You pointed to Shen and said, “I’m being supportive of my work husband’s humor.”

Jack stared at you. You smiled sweetly.

Shen leaned slightly toward you. “I feel supported.”

Jack closed his eyes.

Not yet, he told himself. It is too early in this shift to ask God for intervention.

When he opened them, you were holding the straw toward him.

“Try it,” you said.

Jack shook his head, “No.”

“One sip.” You implored. 

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I already know I’m going to hate it.”

“That’s not very scientific,” Shen said.

Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin, I am not discussing the scientific method with you over a bucket of sugar milk.”

You lifted the straw another inch. “For me?”

Jack looked at your face. That was unfair. Everything about your face was unfair. He sighed like a man accepting his own execution, leaned down, and took the smallest sip possible. His face changed immediately.

You brightened. “Well?”

Jack swallowed with effort. It was worse than he expected. It was sweet in a way that felt personally aggressive. It tasted like someone had taken a blueberry muffin, drowned it in melted ice cream, panicked, and added more sugar.

Jack looked at both of you. “Well, that’s horrific.”

You gasped. “Jack.”

Jack grimaced, “It tastes like someone liquefied a blueberry muffin, panicked, and added more sugar.”

Shen took the bucket back and considered that. “Not inaccurate.”

You pointed at him. “Do not side with my actual boyfriend against me.”

Jack’s head turned. Actual boyfriend. That helped. He hated that it helped. 

He was not jealous of John Shen. He was not jealous of the drink. He was not jealous of the cheek kiss, the work husband title, or the fact that Shen apparently had a detailed working knowledge of your coffee preferences. Jack was simply opposed to nonsense.

That was all.

You smiled up at him. “Yes. Actual boyfriend.”

Shen lifted one hand. “Work husband acknowledges the hierarchy.”

Jack looked at him. “Temporary husband.”

Shen blinked. “I don’t remember agreeing to temporary.”

“You don’t need to agree,” Jack replied. 

Shen frowned, “I feel like I should.”

“You shouldn’t,” Jack said.

You took the bucket back from Shen. “For legal accuracy, the arrangement is currently suspended.”

Jack looked down at you. “The arrangement.”

You nodded solemnly. “Until further notice.”

“Or forty,” Shen added.

Jack’s gaze moved slowly back to him. “Excuse me?”

Shen took a careful breath, like he was about to present lab results. “If neither of us is married by the time we are forty, we’ve agreed to enter a mutually beneficial domestic partnership.”

You nodded. “For practical reasons.”

Jack stared at you.

“Tax benefits,” you said.

“Shared expenses,” Shen added.

“Emergency contact efficiency,” you said.

“Mutual tolerance,” Shen added.

Jack looked between you. “You rehearsed that.”

You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled. Shen sipped the drink.

Jack looked toward the ceiling.

Dear God, he thought, then stopped himself. Not yet. He could still handle this.

“You’re not single,” Jack said.

You patted his chest. “I know.”

“So the pact is void.” Jack continued. 

Shen lifted one finger. “Suspended.”

Jack pointed at him. “Void.”

“Suspend—”

“Void.” Jack cut him off. 

You sighed softly. “This is a difficult day for the marriage.”

Shen nodded. “We’ll need time to heal.”

Jack stared at the two of you. “Marriage.”

“Future potential marriage,” you clarified.

Jack frowned, “Not better.”

Ellis, who had been pretending not to listen from two feet away, slowly lowered her chart.

“Do I want to know?” Ellis asked.

“No,” Jack said.

“Yes,” you and Shen said together.

Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted and absolutely unrepentant.

Ellis’s eyes landed on the bucket. “Is that coffee?”

“Allegedly,” Jack said.

Shen lifted the container. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”

Ellis blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”

Jack pointed at her. “Thank you.”

You gasped. “Ellis.”

Ellis glanced at Jack’s face, then at Shen, then at you. “Why does this feel like I walked in on something personal?”

“Because you did,” Jack said.

Shen shook his head. “It’s not personal. It’s a product review.”

Jack looked at him. “You announced a suspended marriage pact.”

Ellis’s face lit up. “A what?”

You waved a hand. “It’s not active.”

“Not active,” Shen agreed.

Jack’s eyes shifted to him.

“Void,” Shen corrected.

Ellis blinked. “Do you two have paperwork?”

You nodded solemnly. “A shared note.”

Shen added, “Reviewed annually.”

Jack looked at him. “You have annual paperwork?”

“To assess the health of the union,” Shen said.

“Coffee compatibility,” you said.

“Update emergency contact information,” Shen added.

“Long-term tax strategy,” you finished.

Jack stared at you. “You’re making that up.”

You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.

Jack’s eyes narrowed.

Ellis looked delighted. “What else is in the paperwork?”

Jack pointed at her. “Do not encourage them.”

Shen cleared his throat. “There is the intimacy clause.”

Jack went completely still. Ellis’s chart lowered another inch.

“The what?” Jack asked.

“The intimacy clause,” you said, very seriously.

Shen nodded. “One night of passionate lovemaking per calendar year to maintain the marriage.”

Jack stared at him.

You nodded along solemnly. “For the health of the union.”

“And morale,” Shen added.

Jack’s head turned toward you. “Morale.”

“It’s important,” you said.

“Vital,” Shen agreed.

Jack pointed at the bucket. “Dunkin.”

Shen blinked. “Yes?”

“Never use the phrase ‘passionate lovemaking’ in a sentence about my girlfriend again.”

Shen considered him. “Would ‘annual intimacy maintenance’ be better?”

Jack looked at him, “No.”

You pressed your lips together. “Less romantic.”

Jack looked down at you. “You are not helping.”

“I’m grieving the clause,” you said.

Jack stared at you.

Ellis made a strangled sound behind her chart.

Shen took a slow sip from the bucket. “This is difficult for all parties.”

Jack closed his eyes. Dear God, grant me patience, Jack thought. Because if you grant me strength, Shen is not making it out of this emergency department.

Then Shen set the bucket down and hooked an arm around your shoulders. You did not miss a beat. You slid your arm around Shen’s waist and leaned into his side with a grave little nod. “Privacy would be appreciated during this difficult transition.”

Jack opened his eyes. Ellis’s mouth opened slightly.

Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Separate.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Immediately,” Jack said.

Shen looked down at you. "Our bond threatens him.”

“I am threatened by nothing,” Jack said.

You patted Shen’s stomach. “It’s okay. He’s processing.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds.”

Shen’s arm stayed exactly where it was. “Before what?”

Jack smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

Shen removed his arm.

You removed yours too, biting your lip hard enough that Jack could see the fight not to laugh all over your face.

“Smart,” Jack said.

Shen picked up the bucket again. “For the record, that separation felt hostile.”

Jack looked at him. “Good.”

You let the moment hang for exactly one second. Then you slid right into Jack’s side, your body fitting against his like that was where you had meant to be the whole time.

Jack’s eyes dropped to you.

Your smile went soft and wicked at the same time. “Better?”

Jack held your gaze. He was still annoyed. He was still trying not to look pleased. He was still failing.

“Marginally,” he said.

You hummed and smoothed your hands over his scrub top. “Only marginally?”

His hand settled at your waist before he could pretend he wasn’t going to touch you. “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re hotter than him.”

Shen’s head lifted. “Rude.”

Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin.”

“Yes?” Shen replied. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Drink your muffin soup.”

You laughed into Jack’s chest. His mouth twitched despite himself, and his hand tightened gently at your waist.

“Better,” he admitted, quieter this time.

Ellis finally gave up pretending she was working. “Can I try the divorce coffee?”

Jack’s eyes shifted to her. For the first time since Shen walked in, Jack looked almost pleased.

“Divorce coffee,” he repeated.

You brightened. “Oh, that’s good.”

Shen nodded. “Accurate, but emotionally painful.”

“It is not emotionally painful,” Jack said. “It’s legally clarifying.”

Ellis held out a hand. “So can I try it?”

“Don’t,” Jack warned.

“Yes,” you and Shen said together.

Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted. Jack looked at the bucket. Then at Shen. Then at you. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

Jack nodded toward the other end of the nurses’ station. “You’re coming with me.”

Your mouth fell open, offended and delighted at the same time. “What?”

“I have been very patient,” Jack said.

“You have,” you said solemnly.

He continued, “I tried the muffin soup.”

“You did.” You agreed. 

“I tolerated the cheek kiss,” Jack added. 

You nodded, “You did.”

“I tolerated the work husband,” Jack said, almost with a grimace.

“Barely,” Shen said.

Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Temporary husbands do not get commentary.”

Shen nodded. “Understood.”

Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m taking my girlfriend ten feet that way so I can remember why I love her without Shen making tax comments.”

You glanced back at Shen, then at the bucket in his hand. Your face went dramatically mournful. 

“No,” you whispered. “My husband. My coffee.”

Jack went completely still. Ellis made a sound behind her chart.

Shen looked down at you with grave sympathy. “I’ll miss you.”

Jack’s head turned slowly toward him. “Dunkin.”

Shen lifted one hand. “Right. Sorry.”

You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking.

Jack looked down at you. “You are walking away with me, or I am confiscating the coffee.”

Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would,” Jack replied. 

You frowned, “You hate it.”

“I hate many things about this situation,” Jack said. “That has not stopped me yet.”

Shen hugged the bucket closer to his chest. “For the record, I object to seizure of communal property.”

“It is not communal property,” Jack said.

“It’s divorce coffee,” Ellis said.

Jack pointed at her. “Helpful.”

Ellis smiled. “Thank you.”

You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Jack’s fingers closed around yours. “Thank you.”

“But under protest.” You added. 

Jack nodded once, “Noted.”

“And I want visitation rights.” You said. 

Jack looked at you. “To Shen or the coffee?”

You looked genuinely torn. Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“The coffee,” you said quickly.

Shen nodded. “Hurtful, but wise.”

Jack tugged gently on your hand. “Move.”

You let Jack lead you away, still laughing under your breath. Halfway down the nurses’ station, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Shen mouthed, I miss you.

You coughed to hide your laugh.

Jack stopped walking. You froze.

He looked down at you. “What did he do?”

You replied quickly. “Nothing.” 

Jack turned. Shen looked immediately busy with a chart, one hand still wrapped around the bucket.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Dunkin.”

Shen did not look up. “Yes?”

“Do not make me come back there.”

Shen nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.”

Jack stared for another second, then turned back to you. You smiled up at him, innocent and hopelessly pleased. Jack shook his head, but his hand squeezed yours.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

Your smile brightened. “You love me.”

“I do,” Jack said.

You stepped closer, sliding your free hand up his chest again. “And I love you.”

Jack’s irritation loosened instantly. He hated how fast it happened.

No, he didn’t.

He loved it. Loved the way you could tug him out of himself with three words and one hand on his chest. Loved the way you smiled at him like he was exactly where you wanted to be, like Shen and the coffee and every ridiculous thing you had said were only funny because Jack was there to react to them.

“Even if John brings me forty-eight ounces of coffee,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Even if he’s my work husband.” You continued. 

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Former work husband,” you corrected.

Jack nodded once, “Better.”

You smiled and rose onto your toes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my actual everything.”

Jack went very still.

Behind you, Shen called, “Rude.”

Jack didn’t look away from you. For once, he didn’t even answer Shen. His hand slid more firmly around your waist, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”

Jack’s expression softened completely. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, quick but warm, like he couldn’t help it. When he pulled back, he looked almost annoyed with himself for melting so fast.

You grinned. “Better?”

Jack exhaled, thumb brushing once at your waist. “Much better,” he said.

@nosebeers @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24, @itzpixieba, @scott-890, @disappearintofanfiction, @laughsandlivia, @missmillivanilli, @normanscupcake, @tlc3802, @donttalktosposts, @sparklemermaidprincessgirl, @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @meowtortellini, @voidsagent, @miahelen, @milesawayyy, @mkiving, @lanadelrey10, @doesanyonereadthis

[afterdarkbydel]

Courtship Rocks

Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Summary: Jack Abbot gets drunk. This is rare. This is unexpected. This is apparently also how you end up standing at your bedroom window in Pittsburgh, staring down at your husband while he recites Shakespeare on the lawn like a very handsome, very intoxicated theater kid with excellent lung capacity. He is romantic. He is committed. He is loud. You are in pajamas. The neighbors may never recover. Eventually, you get him inside, get him sitting on the edge of the bed, and attempt to help him into sweatpants while he becomes deeply concerned about your honor, your reputation, and the fact that his legs “don’t match.” Jack Abbot is steady under pressure. Drunk Jack Abbot is apparently one balcony away from a community noise complaint.

Warnings: married Jack Abbot x Reader, drunk Jack, alcohol use, established relationship, romantic comedy chaos, Shakespeare recitation, public embarrassment, Pittsburgh setting, responsible spouse caretaking, suggestive humor, changing clothes while drunk, prosthetic leg removal handled casually and respectfully, soft domestic intimacy, dramatic husband behavior.

Author's Note:

This one is for everyone who has ever wondered what would happen if Jack Abbot got drunk enough to become both romantic and theatrical. The answer is Shakespeare. Outside your window. At night. You have to retrieve your husband before the neighbors start calling in noise complaints, then get him upstairs, undressed, into sweatpants, prosthetic off, and safely into bed while he behaves like a scandalized Victorian man being compromised by his own legal wife.

He is dramatic. He is devoted. He is very lucky he is cute.

Xoxo, Del

You were asleep when the first little tap woke you up.

At least, you were pretty sure you had been asleep. It was the heavy kind of sleep you earned after two back-to-back shifts, a shower hot enough to steam the whole mirror, and half an episode of a show you absolutely could not remember choosing.

The bedroom was dark. The house was quiet. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent and Jack’s shampoo because he had a habit of showering, crawling into bed with damp hair, and pretending he was not actively ruining your pillowcases.

Another tap near the glass.

Tiny.

Sharp.

Distinct.

You opened one eye.

For a second, you thought it was weather. Pittsburgh did weird things at night sometimes. Wind. Branches. Rain pattering sideways against the glass.

Then a third sound.

Tap.

A pause.

Tap tap.

You stared at the ceiling.

“What the fuck.” you whispered to no one.

From outside, faint but unmistakable, came a man’s voice.

“But soft.”

Your eyes widened.

Oh my god.

“But soft,” the voice repeated, louder this time. “What light through yonder—yonder—fuck.”

You sat up so fast the comforter slipped to your waist.

There was a muffled shout from outside, followed by laughter. Loud, wheezing, helpless laughter.

Robby.

You threw the covers back, crossed the room, and shoved the curtain aside.

Your husband was standing in the front yard.

Jack Abbot, attending physician, homeowner, allegedly grown man, was in the grass beneath your bedroom window with his jacket half-zipped, his hair a disaster, one shoulder slightly lower than the other, as if balance were a concept he respected but did not currently possess.

One hand was braced against his chest.

The other held what looked like a fistful of gravel from the edge of the driveway.

On the sidewalk behind him stood Robby, bent almost in half, one hand planted on his own knee while he laughed hard enough to shake. He looked drunk in the reckless, sparkly-eyed way that meant he was going to make every bad decision worse on purpose.

Shen leaned against the mailbox with the loose, happy posture of a man who was buzzed enough to be philosophical and rapidly approaching drunk enough to consider himself useful.

Crus stood near the curb beside his car, arms folded, completely sober and spiritually exhausted.

Jack saw your face appear behind the glass.

Everything in him lit up.

“Lady,” he said.

You blinked down at him.

Robby made a noise like a balloon losing air.

“Lady?” you repeated, mostly to yourself.

Jack lifted his chin with tremendous dignity. “Lady in the window.”

Crus looked up at you and mouthed, “I am so sorry.”

You unlocked the window. “Jack—”

Outside, Jack was already winding up again.

You pushed the window open.

A tiny piece of driveway gravel sailed through the gap and hit you softly in the chest.

For one perfect second, no one moved.

You looked down at the pebble where it bounced off your sweatshirt and landed on the floor.

Then you looked back out the window.

Jack stood in the yard with his hand still raised, his face draining of every ounce of drunken triumph. “Oh no.”

Robby slapped both hands over his mouth.

Shen went very still against the mailbox.

Crus closed his eyes like he had expected disaster, but was still disappointed by its form.

Jack took one horrified step backward. “I struck my lady.”

“You threw a pebble,” you said.

“I struck her.” Jack turned on Robby, devastated. “Why did you let me throw rocks at her?”

Robby’s eyes widened. “I did not authorize the courtship rocks.”

Jack looked at Robby, confused, “They weren’t your idea?” 

“No!” Robby exclaimed as if he had been accused of first-degree murder. 

Crus pointed at Jack. “They were your idea.”

Jack looked back up at you, appalled by himself. “I would never harm you.”

You press your lips together in an attempt to stop your smile, “I know, Jack.”

His gaze dropped to your sweatshirt.

Then his expression changed.

Just slightly. Concern stayed there. Guilt stayed there. But something else arrived.

Something drunker. Stupider.

Very much your husband.

Jack squinted. “Did that go down your shirt?”

You stared at him.

Robby inhaled sharply.

Crus shook his head.

Jack lifted one hand, very serious and very helpful. “I can get it for you.”

The sidewalk exploded.

“Absolutely not,” Crus said.

Robby bent fully at the waist, laughing so hard he nearly folded himself in half. “Chaperone! They need a chaperone! This is improper!”

Shen lifted one finger, swaying with grave importance. “A matter of decorum has presented itself.”

Jack’s face snapped from hopeful to offended. “I was being medically helpful.”

“You were offering to put your hand up her shirt,” Crus said.

Jack looked deeply wounded. “I am a doctor.”

“You are drunk,” Crus replied, rolling his eyes. 

Jack frowned, as if this were technically accurate but spiritually irrelevant.

You picked the tiny pebble up from the floor and held it between two fingers. “It’s the size of a Tic Tac.”

Jack’s eyes locked onto it. His shoulders dropped in relief. Then he winced all over again. 

“No more rocks!” he announced.

Robby straightened just enough to salute. “End of an era.”

Jack looked back up at you, still guilty, still giddy, still completely obsessed. “Are you sure it didn’t go down your shirt?”

“Jack.” You're warned, fighting a smile. 

Jack’s brow furrowed, “Respectfully.”

“No.” You told him. 

He nodded immediately, solemn as a vow. “Right. Boundaries.”

Crus pointed at him. “Hands where I can see them, Romeo.”

Jack lifted both hands. One was still full of gravel.

You raised your eyebrows.

He looked at the gravel, horrified all over again, and opened his hand. The tiny rocks were scattered into the grass. 

“The rocks are retired,” Jack announces. 

Shen nodded. “A noble sacrifice.”

You should have closed the window then. You should have told him to come inside. You should have reminded him that neighbors existed and that Crus looked one stern glance away from calling time of death on the evening.

Instead, your eyes drifted toward the porch.

The tiny blue light above the doorbell camera blinked steadily in the dark.

Recording. 

Oh.

Oh, this was a gift.

You glanced toward the corner of the garage, where the driveway camera sat angled toward the front yard. Also recording. You folded your arms on the windowsill and tried very hard to make your face neutral.

“Go on, Romeo,” you called down.

Crus’s head snapped toward you. “Do not encourage him.”

Too late.

Jack’s face opened like you had handed him a sword and a reason.

Robby pointed up at you, delighted. “She’s making him worse.”

“She appreciates theater,” Jack said.

“You don’t know theater,” Crus said.

Jack gave him a wounded look. “I know my lady.”

Robby made a strangled sound. “Your lady?”

Jack turned on him. “Yes.”

Crus stared at him. “Your wife.”

Jack froze.

Then, very slowly, he looked back up at your window. “We’re married?”

Your smile started before you could stop it. “We are.”

His whole face lit. Not soft, exactly. Not sad. Not even sentimental.

Just pure, stunned delight.

Like someone had woken him in the middle of the night and told him he had won the best thing in the world, then pointed to you as proof.

“Fuck yeah,” Jack murmured. 

Robby doubled over. “Oh, he’s happy about it.”

Shen nodded, solemn and wobbly. “As he should be.”

Crus rubbed a hand over his face. “He has been happy about it for years.”

Jack ignored all of them.

He was looking up at you again, bright-eyed and entirely too pleased with himself.

“My wife,” he said, testing it out.

You nodded, “Yes.”

His grin widened. “Fuck yeah.”

“Jack,” Crus said, “you cannot just keep rediscovering your marriage.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Watch me.”

Then he lifted one hand toward your window again, suddenly possessed by the urgent need to continue.

“But soft.”

Robby wheezed. “He’s going back in.”

Jack cleared his throat with the unearned confidence of a man about to ruin literature.

“But soft,” he repeated. “What light through yonder…”

He frowned.

The line had apparently vanished.

“What light through yonder…” Jack tried again, squinting at your window like the answer might be written on the glass. “Through yonder… house hole.”

Robby howled.

Crus leaned towards Jack, “Window.”

“I know,” Jack snapped, then looked back up at you and immediately softened. “Window.”

You leaned your chin into your hand, trying so hard not to smile too wide because every tiny bit of encouragement made him more powerful.

Jack saw anyway. Of course he did.

 His grin went crooked and giddy. “She likes this.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Crus said.

“I do,” you called down.

Crus looked up at you. “You are creating a monster.”

You shrugged, “He’s already my monster.”

Jack’s mouth fell open.

Robby slapped Shen’s arm. “Oh, that got him.”

Jack stared up at you, dazzled. “I’m yours?”

“You’re mine.” You confirmed. 

He turned toward the guys, almost vibrating with joy. “I’m hers.”

“We know, you’re married to her. ” Crus said.

Jack looked back up at you, needing it from the only source that mattered. “I am?”

You were laughing now. “You are.”

Jack grinned, “Fuck yeah.”

Then he remembered his mission.

His expression shifted back into concentration, but it was different now. Less performance for performance’s sake and more desperate translation. Like his drunk brain had decided regular words were not enough for what you looked like in that window, wearing his sweatshirt, smiling down at him with sleep-warm eyes and messy hair.

He did not know Shakespeare.

You were sure of that.

Jack had once referred to a sonnet as “one of those fancy rectangles.” He had complained about mandatory high school English with the same tone he used for hospital printer jams. He did not casually quote old plays.

But apparently, somewhere inside him, beneath the whiskey and whatever terrible thing Robby had talked him into ordering, a few broken pieces of Romeo and Juliet had survived.

And tonight, because he was drunk and in love and staring up at you, his brain had decided those pieces were the only tools worthy of the job.

“What light through yonder window…” Jack paused, fought for the word, and then looked offended by his own mouth. “Fucks.”

Crus sighed. “Breaks.”

Jack’s brow furrowed deeply, “That’s what I said.” 

“You said fucks.” Crus corrected. 

Jack glared at him with a frown, “Emotionally, I said breaks.”

Shen nodded. “I understood him.”

“You are not helping,” Crus said.

Jack ignored them, his gaze locked on you.

“What light through yonder window breaks,” he said again, mangled but determined. “It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.”

He stopped. His brow furrowed. “No.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

Jack shook his head with deep seriousness. “Not Juliet.”

Robby made a tiny dying sound.

Jack pointed up at you, eyes bright and unfocused and absolutely full of you. “My lady is the sun.”

Your breath caught around your laugh.

Jack looked frustrated now. Not with you. Never with you. With the words. With the fact that he had this whole impossible feeling in his chest and only scraps of half-remembered Shakespeare, curse words, and driveway gravel to work with.

“You are,” he insisted. “You’re the sun. And the moon is—”

He looked up, squinting into the dark sky. “The moon is fucked.”

Crus exhaled through his nose. “That is not Shakespeare.”

“It is now,” Shen said.

Jack kept looking at you.

“You’re more beautiful than the fucking moon,” he said, rough and certain. “And I don’t know if the stupid moon knows that, but I do.”

You pressed your lips together.

There he was.

Your ridiculous husband. Your drunk, swaying, gravel-holding husband, publicly destroying Shakespeare on your lawn because he loved you so much he needed bigger words than his own and kept breaking the bigger words in half.

Robby cupped both hands around his mouth. “Say more about the moon!”

Jack whipped around. “Do not tell me how to court my lady.”

Robby gasped. “Your lady?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Yes.”

Crus sighed. “Your wife.”

Jack immediately turned back toward the window. “We’re married?”

You nodded. “We are.”

That joy hit him all over again. “Fuck yeah.”

Shen sighed dreamily. “Every time, it lands.”

“It has happened four times,” Crus muttered.

Jack was not listening. He had apparently reloaded the romance. He took one dramatic step closer to the house and nearly tripped over the landscaping.

Crus moved automatically, one hand half-raised.

Jack caught himself and pointed down, “Sabotage.”

“That is a shrub,” Crus said.

“A treacherous shrub.” Jack glared down at the shrub. 

Robby staggered a step and caught himself on Shen’s shoulder. “This is the best night of my life.”

“You threw up behind the bar,” Shen reminded him.

“Second-best night of my life.” Robby amended.

Jack cleared his throat.

The yard went quiet.

He looked up at you, full of giddy purpose.

“Tell them to leave,” Jack said, without looking away from you. “I’m courting you.”

You leaned against the window frame. “You live here.”

Jack visibly brightened. “Then let me in.”

“Use your key.” You replied. 

Jack patted one pocket. Then the other. Then his jacket. Then his jeans again, with increasing distress.

His face fell. “I left it in the carriage.”

Shen lifted one hand. “He means the car.”

“The Honda,” Robby added.

Crus pointed toward the curb. “The car he escaped from at a red light.”

“It was stopped,” Robby said.

Crus turned to him, “At a red light.”

“That’s stopped,” Robby argued. 

Jack ignored them. He was still staring up at you, wounded. “I don’t have my key.”

You looked down at him, “I can see that.”

“I would like to come inside.” He said, lower lip pressing out. 

You gestured down at the lawn. “You were courting me.”

“I can court you indoors,” Jack replied instantly. 

Robby’s head snapped up. “Oh,” he said.

Crus immediately said, “No.”

Robby pointed at Jack, drunk and thrilled with his own incoming damage. “Wait. If you’re courting a lady, you need a chaperone.”

Jack froze.

You covered your mouth.

Robby nodded, warming to the bit. “Historically. Otherwise, it’s improper.”

Shen pushed off the mailbox, eyes bright with buzzed seriousness. “There would be whispers. Her honor would be ruined amongst high society.”

Jack went completely still. Then his face changed.

Horror.

Betrayal.

Moral outrage.

“No.” He breathed. 

Shen blinked. “No?”

Jack pointed at him. “You take that back.”

Shen looked genuinely confused. “The whispers?”

“The honor,” Jack answered. 

Robby whispered, delighted, “Oh my god.”

Jack lifted his chin. “I will duel Shen for inferring an insult to her honor.”

Crus’s mouth tightened. “Implying.” He stepped forward. “No one is dueling anyone.”

Jack whipped around and pointed to him, “Don’t correct my vows of violence.”

“I was defending her honor,” Shen said, pressing a hand to his chest.

“You said it could be ruined,” Jack argued. 

Shen looked over to Robby, “By Robby’s fake chaperone rules.”

Robby held up both hands. “I stand by the rules.”

Crus pointed at him. “You are not helping.”

Jack looked back up at you, devastation written all over his drunk, beloved face. “He spoke of your honor.”

You were laughing so hard that you had to grip the window frame. “He was being dramatic.”

“I’m being dramatic.” Jack gestured to himself. “He was being defamatory.”

Shen turned to Crus. “Is he using legal words correctly?”

“No,” Crus answered. 

Robby nodded. “I think he’s doing great.”

Jack took one unsteady step toward Shen.

Crus moved fast, catching the back of Jack’s jacket in one fist. “Absolutely not.”

Jack kept pointing. “Pistols. At dawn.”

Shen straightened, solemn and swaying. “I accept.”

Crus rounded on him. “You do not.”

“For the lady’s honor,” Shen said.

Jack gasped. “Do not speak of the lady.”

Shen looked up at you, then back to Jack. “You challenged me on behalf of the lady.” 

“She is my—”

Jack stopped.

His eyes widened like he had almost said something important and lost it.

Robby saw the opening.

“Wife,” he supplied.

Jack turned immediately toward your window. “She is?”

You nodded, grinning helplessly. “I am.”

The joy detonated across his face. “Fuck yeah.”

Then, without missing a beat, he pointed at Shen again. “But I’ll still duel him.”

“No, you won’t,” Crus said.

Jack turns back to the window, “For her.”

“Jack,” you said, fighting laughter, “baby, I don’t need you to duel Shen.”

Jack looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “You deserve to be defended.”

“I am very defended.” You assure him. 

Jack beamed, “By me?”

“Yes.” You answer. 

That settled him.

Some of the outrage eased from his shoulders. He looked pleased, softened by the idea that he had done something right. Then he turned back to Shen with one final warning finger. “You’re lucky she is merciful.”

Shen bowed toward your window. “Her mercy is noted.”

Robby tried to bow too, immediately lost his balance, and grabbed Crus’s shoulder. “Long live the lady of the window.”

Crus shoved him upright. “Everybody shut up before the neighbors call the police.”

Jack looked back up at you.

“My lady,” he said softly, then brightened again. “My wife?”

You nodded. “Your wife.”

Jack smiled, “Fuck yeah.”

You were going to save the security footage forever.

Jack’s face shifted suddenly. He had a new thought. That was never good.

He looked back up at you, deeply serious. “Wait.”

“Oh no,” Crus said.

Jack ignored him.

 “If I’m courting you,” he said carefully, “does that mean we can’t have sex?”

The entire sidewalk exploded.

Robby made a sound like he had been shot.

Shen turned away, shoulders shaking.

Crus stared up at the sky like he was asking God why he had been assigned this shift.

You pressed your lips together. “Jack.”

“What?” Jack demanded, offended by everyone’s reaction. “I’m asking respectfully.”

You stared at him, “You are yelling in the yard.”

“I need to know the rules.” Jack frowned. 

You shook your head, “We’re married.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “We are?”

You stared at him for one beat.

Then you softened, because God help you, it was still so funny. Every single time.

“We are.”

His grin came back, immediate and brilliant. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby crouched on the sidewalk, laughing so hard he had one hand braced against the concrete.

Shen nodded with great emotion. “The sacrament remains intact.”

“Do not help,” Crus said.

Jack looked back up at you, still concerned. “So?”

“So what?” You asked, tilting your head. 

Jack frowned deeply, “So what about the chaperone rules?” 

You leaned farther out the window. “No chaperone rules.”

Jack looked relieved. Then pleased. 

Then a little too pleased.

“But no sex tonight,” you added. “You’re drunk.”

Jack’s expression sobered instantly. Well. As much as it could.

“Right,” he said, nodding hard. “Boundaries.”

“Exactly.” You agreed. 

“I respect my lady,” Jack added. 

You nodded, “I know.”

“My wife?” He asks, so hopeful. 

You smiled. “Your wife.”

“Fuck yeah.” He grinned. 

Robby booed from the sidewalk.

Jack spun so fast he almost lost his balance. Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket.

“Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”

Robby pointed at him. “You just checked if she was your wife!”

Jack pointed right back. “And she said yes.”

Shen lifted one finger. “A valid argument.”

Crus muttered, “I hate all of you.”

Jack tilted his head suddenly, studying the side of the house.

Your smile faded a little. You knew that look. It was the look he got when he decided a patient was lying about taking all their antibiotics. The look he got when a vending machine stole his money. The look he got when Robby said something so stupid that Jack had to pause before answering because violence had become a real possibility.

Determination.

“Oh no,” Crus said again.

Jack pointed up at you. “I’m coming up.”

You straightened immediately. “No, you are not.”

Jack nodded enthusiastically, “I am.”

“Jack.” You warned. 

He pointed at you, “Romeo climbed.”

Robby, delighted, whispered, “Did he?”

Shen squinted at the house. “I don’t think that’s structurally sound.”

Jack ignored them. “I will climb to you.”

“No,” you said, louder this time.

He looked wounded. “You don’t believe in me?”

“I believe you are drunk.” You replied. 

He raised a fist in the air, “For love.”

“For whiskey.” You corrected. 

Robby lifted one finger. “And tequila.”

“And tequila,” you add.

Jack nodded solemnly, accepting the record. Then he took a step toward the house.

Crus tightened his grip on the back of Jack’s jacket. “Absolutely not.”

Jack tried to keep walking and got nowhere.

For one ridiculous second, your husband simply leaned forward, legs moving slightly, while Crus held him in place like a misbehaving golden retriever.

Robby lost what little remained of his composure.

Shen put both hands over his mouth.

You slapped a palm against the window frame. “Jack Abbot, stop trying to climb the house.”

Jack looked up at you, betrayed. “I’m courting you.”

You pointed at the lawn, “You can court me from the ground.”

“I’m too far away,” Jack said with a frown.

You sighed, “You are twelve feet away.”

“Exactly,” he said, with heartbreaking seriousness, “it is unbearable.”

And there it was.

The stupid, sweet thing under all the chaos.

You looked down at him.

At your husband, drunk and swaying and ridiculous, held in place by the back of his jacket, still staring up at you like the whole world had narrowed to your face in the window.

You sighed, mostly for show. “Stay there. I am coming down to open the door.”

Jack went very still. Then his whole face lit up. “You’re coming down?”

“Yes.” You confirmed. 

His eyes widened, “To me?” 

You nodded, “Yes, Jack.” 

He turned toward the guys, triumphant. “She’s coming down.”

Robby wiped tears from his eyes. “Yeah, Romeo. Because you tried to scale the house.”

Jack shrugged, “Love requires risk.”

Crus tightened his grip. “Love requires you not making me go into the ER on my night off.”

Shen nodded. “A noble point.”

Jack looked back up at you. “Don’t rush. I’ll wait forever.”

Crus said, “You could not wait through a red light.”

Jack did not miss a beat. “That was different. My lady was in the house.”

Robby opened his mouth.

Jack immediately looked up at you. “Wife?”

You laughed. “Wife.”

Jack nodded, “Fuck yeah.”

You closed the window before he could see what that did to your face. By the time you got downstairs, the front yard had only gotten louder. 

You opened the front door just as Robby said, “I still think chaperone rules apply.”

Jack, standing at the bottom of the steps with Crus’s hand still fisted in the back of his jacket, gasped like he had been stabbed. “My wife said no chaperone.”

“I did say that,” you confirmed.

Jack turned.

The second he saw you in the doorway, everything else disappeared from his face.

He looked at you like he had forgotten the house, the street, the guys, the gravel, the moon, the duel, and every failed line of Shakespeare.

“There she is,” he said.

It was quiet.

Too quiet for the amount of chaos that had come before it.

Your smile softened. “Hi, Romeo.”

Jack took one careful step toward you. Crus released his jacket but stayed close, ready.

Jack made it up the first porch step. Then the second.

He stopped in front of you, swaying slightly, eyes warm and unfocused and giddy all over again.

“I was wooing you.”

“I noticed.” You replied. 

He leaned in, “Did it work?”

You looked past him at the yard.

Robby was giggling now. Shen was leaning against the mailbox again, smiling like he had witnessed something sacred. Crus stood on the walkway with the dead-eyed patience of a man who had kept three drunk medical professionals alive and received no thanks for it.

Then you looked back at your husband.

At his messy hair. His flushed cheeks. The tiny piece of gravel was still stuck to his palm. The stupid, pleased hope in his face.

“Yes,” you said. “It worked.”

Jack’s smile went bright. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby groaned. “God, marriage is disgusting.”

Jack turned just enough to glare at him. Then he paused.

Slowly, he looked back at you. “We’re married?”

You laughed, unable to help it. “Yes.”

His delight was immediate. “Fuck yeah.”

Robby pointed at him. “See? Disgusting.”

Jack turned back. “You’re alone.”

Robby clutched his chest. “Low blow, Romeo.”

“Go home,” Jack said. “I have been received.”

Crus looked at you. “Please take him.”

You smiled, “I’ve got him. Thank you, Crus.” 

Jack immediately leaned toward you, pleased by the words.

You caught him with both hands against his chest. “Shoes off inside. Water. Bed. No climbing anything.”

He nodded seriously. “Boundaries.”

“Exactly.” You agreed. 

Robby booed from the sidewalk again.

Jack spun so fast he had to grab the doorframe. “Do not boo my wife’s boundaries.”

Then he glanced down at you. “My wife?”

You patted his chest. “Still me.”

“Fuck yeah.”

Shen lifted both hands. “I would never boo boundaries.”

“I still might duel you,” Jack said.

“For defending her honor?” Shen asked. 

Jack glared, “For bringing it up.”

Crus hooked a hand around Robby’s arm and started dragging him toward the car. “We’re done.”

Robby waved at you. “Send the security footage!”

Jack froze. Slowly, he turned toward the doorbell camera.

The little blue light blinked back at him.

Then he looked at you. You smiled.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “How long has that been recording?”

“The whole time.” You answered. 

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Robby screamed from the curb, “Director’s cut!”

Crus shoved him toward the car. “Get in.”

Shen bowed one more time toward you. “Goodnight, lady of the window.”

“Goodnight, Shen.” You called back. 

Jack pointed at him. “Respectfully.”

“Respectfully,” Shen agreed.

You slipped your hand around Jack’s wrist and tugged gently. “Inside.”

Jack followed immediately.

The second the door closed behind him, the night noise muffled. The laughter outside faded toward the street. Crus’s car doors opened and shut. Robby shouted something unintelligible. Shen answered with something that sounded like philosophy but was probably nonsense.

Inside, the house was warm and dim.

Jack stood in the entryway, blinking like he had crossed into another realm.

You took the last piece of gravel from his palm.

He looked down at it. “My rock.”

“You’re done with that.” You replied. 

His eyes found yours, “It worked.”

“It hit me.” You said. 

His face fell all over again. “I know.”

“Very gently.” You added with a smile.

Jack frowned, shaking his head. “I wounded my lady.”

“You booped my sweatshirt with gravel.” You corrected him.

His frown deepened. “Still bad.”

You softened despite yourself and held up the pebble between you. “I’m keeping it.”

Jack stared at it. Then at you. “You are?”

“Yes.” You answered. 

His entire expression brightened. “The courtship rock.”

“The courtship rock,” you agreed.

He looked very pleased with himself for about half a second.

Then he looked toward your chest again. “Are we sure it didn’t—”

“Jack.”

He nodded, “Right. Boundaries.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, and dropped the pebble into the small ceramic bowl where you usually kept keys.

Jack watched you do it. Then he looked at the bowl. Then at you.

“Do I live here?”

You stepped closer, unzipping his jacket. “Yes, Jack.”

“With you?” He asked. 

You pulled the zipper free. “Yes.”

His face lit again, tired and pleased and still so delighted by the answer. “Fuck yeah.”

You laughed under your breath and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. “Arms.”

He obeyed, but only barely. His balance was not great, and he kept watching you like he was afraid you might vanish if he looked away.

You hung his jacket over the railing.

“Shoes,” you said.

Jack looked down at his feet. Then back up at you. “I have shoes on.”

“You do.” You confirmed. 

Jack nodded gravely, “Good.”

You guided him to sit on the bottom step.

He dropped heavily, then immediately reached for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and clumsy. “Are  you mad?”

“You threw rocks at our window.” You replied. 

Jack tilted his head, “Courtship rocks.”

“You hit me with one.” You countered. 

His face crumpled. “My greatest shame.”

“You tried to climb the house.” You added. 

Jack looked at you, “For romance.”

“You threatened to duel Shen.” You replied. 

Jack sighed deeply, “For your honor.”

You huffed a laugh, “You forgot we were married at least six times.” 

His thumb moved over your knuckles. “But I asked you,” he said.

You looked down at him.

He was smiling up at you, drunk and tired and so pleased with himself for that one piece of logic.

“You did,” you said quietly.

“You know the true things.” He murrmed. 

“I do?” You asked. 

He nodded gravely. “Wife things.”

You smiled and bent to untie his shoes. “Wife things.”

He brightened. “My wife?”

You looked up at him. “Yes.”

His grin came back, softer now but still giddy. “Fuck yeah.”

And that was the problem with Jack.

Even when he was a public menace with gravel.

Even when he mangled Shakespeare in the front yard.

Even when he almost started an honor duel with Shen, he tried to scale the siding like the house was a castle wall.

He always managed to say one thing that slipped under your ribs and stayed there.

You bent and kissed his forehead.

His eyes closed immediately. “There,” he murmured.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “There?”

He nodded, eyes still closed. “My lady.”

You softened.

Then he opened one eye. “Wife?”

You nodded, “Yes, Romeo. Wife.”

“Fuck yeah.” He grinned. 

You got him up the stairs with significant effort. Mostly because Jack was determined to be helpful in ways that were not helpful. He tried to remove his shoes while standing, even though you had already removed them. You stopped him. He tried to take off his shirt halfway up the stairs. You stopped that, too. He paused on the landing to tell you, very sincerely, that the moon had deserved what he said.

By the time you got him into the bedroom, Jack was mostly upright through sheer stubbornness and your hand at his waist.

“Sit,” you said, guiding him toward the edge of the bed.

Jack dropped onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, then looked up at you with enormous sincerity. “Wife voice.”

You paused. “What?”

He pointed at you, swaying slightly even while seated. “You used the voice.”

“I used wife voice.” You confirmed. 

His face softened immediately. “Wife?”

You smiled. “Wife.”

His whole expression lit. “Fuck yeah.”

You knelt in front of him and reached for his belt buckle.

Jack looked down, scandalized. “My lady.”

“I’m taking your belt off.” You replied, pulling the leather through the loops. 

“My love,” he said, lowering his voice like the room might be bugged by high society, “we are alone.”

“We live together.” You told him. 

He gasped softly. “Scandal.”

“Marriage,” you corrected, loosening one shoe.

Jack blinked. Then he looked at you, hopeful. “We’re married?”

You nodded, “Yes, baby.”

“Fuck yeah.” He murmured. 

You slipped the belt free, then set it beside the bed. Jack watched the whole process with the solemn focus of a man witnessing a ceremony.

Then his gaze dropped to his legs.

He stared for a second. His brow furrowed. “My legs don’t match.”

You pressed your lips together so you would not laugh directly in his face.

“No,” you said gently. “They don’t.”

Jack looked up at you, eyes wide with drunk discovery. “Did you know?”

“I had noticed.” You answered. 

He absorbed that with grave importance. Then nodded once. “Good.”

“Good?”

“You’re observant.” His hand landed clumsily over his heart. “Good wife.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t make good wife sound cute right now.”

Jack smiled, pleased and unrepentant. “My wife.”

“Yes.” You touched his prosthetic side lightly. “Leg?”

He nodded at once, all trust. “Leg.”

That was the thing that always got you.

Not the jokes. Not the ridiculous courtship act. Not even the way he kept rediscovering your marriage like it was the best news anyone had ever given him.

It was the trust.

The way he let you close without bracing for it. The way he let your hands move through a routine that had become as ordinary as turning down the sheets or setting water on the nightstand.

You knew what to do.

You had done it a hundred times.

You eased the fabric out of the way, found the release with practiced fingers, and carefully helped him out of the prosthetic, setting it where he could reach it in the morning.

Jack watched you, quieter now.

For one second, the drunk performance softened at the edges.

“There,” you said.

He looked from the prosthetic to you. “You take good care.”

Your chest warmed. “So do you.”

Jack considered that. Then frowned. “I threw rocks at you.”

“Tiny rocks.” You corrected him.

Jack nodded, “Courtship rocks.”

“One courtship rock.” You replied. 

He winced. “My shame.”

You smiled, “You survived it.”

“You were merciful.” He said. 

You nodded once, “I was.”

He reached for your hand, warm and clumsy, and squeezed your fingers. “My lady is merciful.”

You smiled. “Your wife is tired.”

His eyes lit again. “Wife?”

You lifted your left hand.

He stared at your rings, then lifted his own hand so you could see his wedding band.

“We’re married,” you said.

Jack’s grin came back, bright and helpless. “Fuck yeah.”

You stood and reached for the button of his jeans.

Jack’s hand flew to his waistband. “My lady!”

You looked up at him.

His eyes were wide and deeply, drunkenly solemn. “My love, you must restrain yourself.”

You inhaled, “Jack.”

“We must consider your honor.” He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, as if Robby might burst in with a chaperone contract. “Your reputation.”

“Jack, baby, we are married.” You reminded him. 

He froze. Then slowly turned back to you. “We are?”

You lifted your left hand again and wiggled your fingers.

His eyes locked on your rings. Then you took his left hand and held up his. His wedding band gleamed in the bedside lamplight.

Jack stared at it. Then at yours. Then at you.

His grin spread, slow and delighted. “Fuck yeah.”

“Exactly.” You patted his knee. “So let me help you change before you fall asleep in jeans.”

He considered this. Then nodded gravely. “For comfort.”

“For comfort.” You agreed.

“And marriage.” He added. 

You nodded, “And marriage.”

“And not dishonor.” Jack continued. 

“No dishonor.” You agreed.

Jack relaxed his hand from his waistband with great dignity. “Proceed.”

Once you had gotten Jack successfully into his sweatpants, you got him water from the bathroom. He drank half of it, made a face like water had personally wronged him, then drank the other half because you raised your eyebrows. 

Then you helped him under the covers.

He rolled onto his side and reached for you before you were even in bed.

“No sex,” you said, climbing in beside him. “You’re drunk.”

Jack’s eyes opened with sudden seriousness. “Right. Boundaries.”

“Right.”

Jack nodded gravely, “I respect my lady.”

You nodded, “I know.”

“My wife?” He asked, bright and hopeful. 

You smiled into the dark. “Your wife.”

“Fuck yeah.” His arm settled around your waist, heavy and warm. He tucked himself closer, his face pressing into your shoulder, all that theatrical devotion quieting into simple contact.

Outside, Crus’s car finally pulled away.

The house settled again.

You stared into the dark, one hand resting over Jack’s forearm.

His breathing slowed.

Just when you thought he had fallen asleep, he mumbled, barely audible, “Still the sun.”

Your throat tightened. You covered his hand with yours. “Go to sleep, Romeo.”

A pause.

Then, soft and satisfied against your shoulder: “Fuck yeah.”

The Next Day...

Jack woke up to consequences.

 The first consequence was pain. His head was splitting. His mouth tasted like old tequila and poor judgment. One of his eyes did not want to open all the way. The room was too bright despite the curtains being mostly closed, and someone had apparently replaced his bones with sandbags.

The second consequence was you.

You were sitting beside him in bed, already showered, wearing leggings and one of his old sweatshirts, sipping coffee with the kind of suspicious cheerfulness that made every instinct in his body go cold.

Jack stared at you through one open eye. “Why are you smiling like that?”

You took a slow sip of coffee. “No reason.”

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then buzzed again. Then again.

Jack closed his eye. “No.”

Your smile widened. “Jack.”

“No.” He said instantly. 

You raised a brow, “You should check the group chat.”

“I’m resigning from the group chat,” Jack said. 

You shook your head, “You can’t resign from a group chat.”

“I can resign from medicine,” Jack replied. 

The phone buzzed again.

Jack groaned and reached for it with the despair of a man approaching his own autopsy report.

The first message was from Robby.

ROMEO ABBOT: THE DIRECTOR’S CUT

Below it was a video.

The thumbnail showed Jack in the front yard, one hand raised toward the bedroom window, mouth open mid-sentence, body angled with what appeared to be tragic nobility.

Jack stared. His stomach dropped. “What,” he said slowly, “is that?”

You leaned closer, bright-eyed. “Art.”

He pressed play.

On the screen, his own drunk voice rang out. “But soft—what light through yonder house hole—”

Crus’s voice corrected, “Window.”

Jack stopped the video. Silence.

You sipped your coffee.

Jack set the phone very carefully on the blanket. “I’m deleting Robby from my life.”

You smiled into your mug, “You also tried to duel Shen.”

His eyes closed. “I need to be buried.”

“You called them courtship rocks.” You added, 

He opened one eye. “What?”

You pointed toward the dresser. Sitting atop it, in a tiny ceramic dish, were three pieces of driveway gravel.

Jack stared at them. “You kept them?”

You smiled, “Of course I kept them.”

His face changed, just slightly.

Even hungover, even mortified, he softened.

Then he noticed one pebble sitting separately in the center.

His brow furrowed. “Why is that one in the middle?”

“That’s the one that hit me.” You answered. 

Jack stared at you. Then at the pebble. Then back at you. “It hit you?”

“Gently.”

His face went pale. “Where?”

You smiled over the rim of your coffee. “My sweatshirt.”

A memory seemed to crawl through the hangover.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. Then closed. “Oh god.”

“You asked if it went down my shirt.” You said, enjoying the memory. 

He did not move.

You pressed your lips together. “You offered to get it.”

He pulled the blanket over his face.

From underneath it, muffled and ruined, came, “I was trying to be helpful.”

“You were very respectful when I said no.” You told him. 

The blanket lowered just enough for one eye to appear. “I was?”

“You were.” You assured him. 

That seemed to make him feel marginally better.

Then his phone buzzed again.

You picked it up before he could stop you. “Oh, good. Robby sent another angle.”

Jack went still. “Another angle?”

“We have the doorbell camera too.” You explained. 

His head turned very slowly toward you. “No.”

You nodded, “Oh, yes.”

“You have security footage?” He asks.

“From two angles.” You replied happily. 

“Two?”

You nodded again, “Doorbell and driveway. I sent them to Robby.”

Jack lowered himself back onto the pillow and covered his face with both hands.

A long silence. Then, muffled, “I’m leaving.”

“You live here.” You told him.

He peeked at you through his fingers. “With you?”

“Yes.”

He watched you for a beat, hungover and miserable and somehow still hopeful. “We’re married?”

You smiled. “We’re married.”

A slow grin pulled at his mouth. “Fuck yeah.”

You laughed and leaned down to kiss his temple.

He accepted it with a little hum.

Then he muttered, “Did I at least do okay?”

You looked at your husband.

At the man who had jumped out of a car at a red light because he could not stand being two blocks away from you. The man who had thrown rocks at your window, accidentally hit your sweatshirt, threatened an honor duel, tried to climb the house, and rediscovered your marriage with fresh joy every single time.

You brushed your fingers through his hair. “You wooed me.”

Jack smiled into his hands. “Fuck yeah.”

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130

[afterdarkbydel]

I Want That One

Jack Abbot xWife! Reader

Summary: After a pediatric patient panics during an IV start, you end up in the ED with a dislocated shoulder, a lot of pain meds, and absolutely no filter. The day shift learns three things very quickly: Jack Abbot is your husband, you picked that one, and apparently, his forearms are medically relevant.

Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, injury, shoulder dislocation, medical procedure/reduction, pain medication/loopy reader, swearing, suggestive humor, sexual jokes, Jack being hot as a clinical intervention, Robby being Robby, fluff, crack treated seriously, hospital setting, peds nurse reader, very unserious wedding lore

Author’s Note: This is very much the sister fic in spirit to Where Is My Husband? Same deeply married chaos, same loopy wife energy, same Jack Abbot being forced to endure public affection against his will. Except this time, Robby discovers that “sexy doctor husband” is not just a title — it is, unfortunately for Jack, a clinically useful intervention. This one is ridiculous, soft, unhinged, and honestly exactly the kind of nonsense I love putting these two through. Jack is trying so hard to be a serious, worried husband; Robby is having the best shift of his life; Dana is quietly enabling chaos under the guise of professionalism; and Reader is simply telling the truth. Loudly. On medication.

You’re welcome.

Xoxo, Del

The first rule of pediatrics was that fear moved faster than pain. You had learned that early.

Pain made kids cry. Fear made them bolt.

Eli Mereiter had been trying very hard not to do either for almost twenty minutes.

He sat in the center of the peds exam bed with his knees tucked under the thin blanket, his left wrist cradled against his chest, his cheeks blotchy from the effort of pretending he was fine. His mother stood near the head of the bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twisting the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

“You’re doing great,” you told him.

Eli looked at the IV tray and swallowed. “No, I’m not.”

You crouched beside the bed so you were closer to eye level.

“You are. Great doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you’re still here with me even though you are.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

The honesty helped. It usually did. Kids could smell a lie faster than adults could dress one up.

“It’s gonna hurt,” he said.

You nodded.

“It’s going to pinch. I won’t call it nothing.” You rested one hand on the mattress, close but not touching him without warning. “But it’ll be fast, and you don’t have to watch.”

His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. “I don’t want it.”

“I know.” You gave him a serious nod. “That’s fair. We can hate it together.”

Eli looked at you like that was suspicious. “You hate it?”

“I hate it when kids have to do scary things,” you said. “But I like when they get through them and realize they were braver than they thought.”

His mom made a quiet sound behind him.

You glanced up at her and gave a small, reassuring smile before looking back at Eli.

“How about this,” you said. “You pick where you look. Mom’s face, the ceiling tile that kind of looks like a potato, or me.”

Eli’s brows pinched together. “The ceiling tile doesn’t look like a potato.”

You looked up. “It absolutely does.”

He glanced up despite himself. For one second, his attention shifted. Not enough to make him calm, but enough to give him somewhere else to put the fear.

“That one?” he asked.

You nodded. “Very potato.” His mom gave a wet little laugh.

The nurse beside you finished prepping the IV with practiced quiet. You saw Eli clock the movement anyway. His eyes cut to the tourniquet. Then the alcohol wipe. Then the catheter.

His breathing changed. You leaned in slightly. “Eli. Look at me.” His gaze snapped back to yours.

You kept your voice low and even. “Can you breathe in with me?”

He tried. His breath caught halfway.

“That’s okay,” you said. “Again. Smaller this time.”

The nurse reached for his arm. Eli saw the flash of the needle. Fear got there first.

“No,” he said.

His mother tightened her hand on his shoulder. “Eli—”

“No!” He jerked backward, fast and hard, trying to get away from the tray, from the nurse, from the whole room.

“Hey, hey.” You moved with him. “You’re okay.”

But he was already twisting. His sneaker slid against the paper sheet. His hip caught the edge of the mattress. The bed rail was down on your side because you had been sitting there with him, and his small body tipped toward the open space between the bed and the floor.

You moved before thought could catch up.

Your hand caught the back of his gown. Your other arm shot across his chest, bracing him before he could fall.

For half a second, you had him. Then his weight hit your shoulder wrong. Something shifted. Not cracked. Not snapped.

Slipped.

White-hot pain tore through your shoulder and down your arm so violently that the room went gray at the edges. You made a sound you did not recognize.

Someone grabbed Eli from the other side.

“I’ve got him,” the other nurse said. “I’ve got him.”

Good, you thought. That was good.

You went down hard on one knee, your right arm hanging wrong, breath gone from your chest.

Eli was crying now. Not the scared kind. The guilty kind.

“I hurt her,” he sobbed.

You tried to lift your head. Bad idea. Pain slammed up the side of your neck and behind your teeth.

“No,” you forced out. Your voice sounded thin. Far away. “No, honey. You didn’t.”

A hand touched your back. “Don’t move,” someone said.

You tried to breathe through your nose. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay,” she repeated, firmer this time. “We have him.”

Eli’s mother had him against her now, both arms wrapped around his shaking body. His face was turned toward you, wet and horrified.

You managed to focus on him. “Eli.”

His crying hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” You swallowed down nausea. “I know you didn’t. You got scared. That’s different.”

His face crumpled harder. You looked at his mom. “Tell him I’m not mad.”

“We will,” she said quickly.

You closed your eyes for half a second. “Please tell him.”

“We will,” the nurse said beside you. “But right now, we need to get you downstairs.”

You opened your eyes. “No, he needs—”

“He has his mom,” she said gently. “And he has Megan. We’ve got him.”

You wanted to argue. Your shoulder pulsed once, deep and sickening, and the rest of the sentence disappeared. Someone called down to the ED before they moved you. You heard pieces of it through the pain and the blood rushing in your ears.

“Staff injury coming down from peds.”

“Likely right shoulder dislocation.”

“Caught a pediatric patient who panicked during IV prep.”

“Vitals stable.”

“Severe pain.”

Nobody said your name. Or maybe they did, and it got swallowed somewhere between the exam room and the elevator. Either way, by the time they got you into a wheelchair, your scrubs were damp at the collar, your vision kept narrowing at the corners, and your arm had become a separate, terrible country you refused to look at.

You hated being the patient.

You hated it so much you almost missed the part where you were terrified. Almost.

The elevator ride downstairs felt both too fast and too slow. Someone kept telling you to breathe. Someone else kept asking your pain number. You gave a number that was probably too low because saying the real one made it feel more real.

The ED doors opened.

The familiar noise hit first. Monitors. Shoes. Voices. The distant roll of a cart.

Robby was already at the mouth of a bay when they wheeled you in, tablet in hand, chief-of-the-ER face on. Dana stood beside him with gloves already pulled on, calm and unsmiling in the way that meant she had already cleared the room in her head. Santos hovered just behind her like she could smell a procedure from three bays away. Princess was at the computer, and Javadi stood near the supply cart, trying very hard to look like someone who was not internally rehearsing every step of a shoulder reduction.

“Peds called down,” Robby said. “Likely right shoulder disloca—”

Then he saw your face. The chief of the ER expression dropped clean off.

For one second, he was not chief of anything. He was just your friend. “What the fuck, dude?”

You tried to glare at him. “Great bedside manner.”

Robby was already moving. He came to your side, one hand bracing the wheelchair arm, his eyes sweeping over your face.

“Look at me,” he said. “You with me?”

You blinked at him through the pain. “No, Robby, I thought I’d dissociate recreationally.”

His jaw tightened. “Answer me like less of a pain in my ass.”

You sighed. “I’m with you.”

“Good.” He glanced at the peds nurse behind your chair. “They called down a peds nurse. They did not say it was you.”

“Would that have changed your medical plan?” you asked.

“No.” His eyes flicked to your shoulder, and the doctor came back into him all at once. “It would have given me thirty more seconds to emotionally prepare for both my friend being injured and Jack killing me.”

“Jack is not going to kill you,” you replied.

Dana made a quiet sound. Robby pointed at her without looking. “Do not contribute.”

Dana lifted both gloved hands. “I said nothing.”

“You thought loudly.”

Santos leaned slightly to see your arm better. “Is it anterior?”

You swallowed through the pain. “Is Eli okay?”

Robby’s attention snapped back to you. Then he looked to the peds nurse. “Eli is the kid?”

The peds nurse nodded quickly. “Eight-year-old. Wrist injury. He’s okay. Megan stayed with him and his mom.”

Your eyes closed. “Did someone tell him I’m not mad?”

Robby went still for half a beat. His expression changed again. Softer this time. Worried in a way he could not hide behind sarcasm fast enough.

“Yeah,” he said. “They told him.”

“He won’t believe them,” you murmured.

Robby looked at you. “He might.”

“He’s eight.” Your voice thinned around the pain. “Eight-year-olds think everything is their fault.”

Robby looked at you for one second too long. Then he nodded once, like he was putting that away for later. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you on the bed. Slow. Dana, support the arm. Javadi, do not look terrified.”

Javadi straightened. “I’m not terrified.” Robby looked at her.

Javadi swallowed. “I’m appropriately alert.” Robby nodded once. “Better.”

You hated how many people it took.

You hated the careful hands and the count of three and the way pain still broke through your teeth when they moved you.

You hated that Robby’s face stayed calm. That meant it looked bad.

Once you were on the bed, Dana slid a pillow under your arm with the clean precision of a woman who did not waste motion. Princess clipped a monitor to your finger. Javadi asked about allergies, her voice only a little too bright. Santos hovered at the foot of the bed, watching your shoulder with open interest until Dana glanced at her.

Santos lifted her hands. “I’m not touching anything.”

“Correct,” Dana said.

Robby looked up from your shoulder. “Pain number.” You hesitated.

He gave you a look. “Do not make me ask like I don’t know you.” You told the truth.

Robby’s mouth tightened. “Thank you for not lying to me twice.”

“I lied once,” you admitted.

Robby shook his head. “You lied badly once.” Your breathing hitched. “Did someone tell Eli?”

The peds nurse, still lingering near the curtain, nodded. “Megan did. His mom did too.”

“But did he believe them?” you pushed.

Robby braced one hand lightly on the bed rail. “Do not try to sit up.”

You looked at him. “I wasn’t.”

“You thought about it,” Robby replied.

Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove that.”

“I’m chief of emergency medicine,” he said. “I can prove anything if I chart creatively.”

A laugh tried to escape you. It did not make it past the pain. Robby saw that too. His voice shifted.

“IV, x-ray, then pain meds before we reduce it,” he said. “Let’s get films and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Love being discussed like a broken chair,” you muttered.

Robby leaned over you, penlight in hand. “I have never met a chair this mouthy.”

Princess found a vein in your good arm. You looked away while she taped the line down. That felt ridiculous, considering you had started hundreds of IVs yourself, but today your body had decided to be dramatic, and you were not giving it more material.

Robby watched your face. “You okay?”

“No,” you answered honestly.

Robby almost smiled. “Good answer.”

Princess glanced up from your IV. “Do you want us to call someone?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

Robby’s eyes narrowed like he already knew where this was going.

Princess kept her hands near the computer. “Who should we call?”

“Jack Abbot.”

The room did not stop. Not yet. Princess typed, then paused.

Her eyes moved from the screen to you. “Dr. Abbot?”

You breathed through your teeth. “Yes.”

The room went a little too quiet. You opened one eye. “What?”

Santos looked from you to Robby. “Night-shift Abbot?”

“How many Jack Abbots do you know?” you asked.

Javadi made the mistake of whispering, “Dr. Abbot is her emergency contact?”

“He’s my husband,” you said, like that explained the entire universe.

It did, actually. Just not to the room. Santos stared.

Javadi looked like someone had changed the laws of physics in front of her.

Princess’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Dana, somehow, did not move at all.

Then her eyes narrowed. “The sandwich.” You closed your eyes. “Dana.”

Santos looked at her. “What sandwich?”

Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “Shift change. Three weeks ago. Abbot was coming off nights. She was passing the desk with a stack of peds charts.”

Princess leaned around Javadi. “I remember that.”

“He had half a sandwich in his hand,” Dana said. “Tore the crust off without breaking conversation, held it up, and she took it on the way by.”

You breathed carefully through your teeth. “I was hungry.”

“You said thanks,” Dana added.

Santos blinked. “That’s it?” Dana finally looked up.

“That’s the point.” A beat passed.

Then Princess pointed toward you. “Wait. The parking lot.”

You opened one eye. “Please don’t.”

“I saw you two by the employee parking last month,” Princess said. “He switched sides with you near the cars.”

Javadi blinked. “Switched sides?” Princess looked at her like this was obvious. “The sidewalk rule.”

Javadi’s brows pulled together. “The what?”

“When the guy walks closer to the street,” Princess said. “Protective thing. Old-school. Very romantic if he’s hot.”

Santos made a face. “That sounds fake.”

Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord. “It’s not fake.”

Princess pointed at Dana. “Thank you.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Can we not analyze my husband’s walking patterns while my shoulder is in another fucking zip code?”

“And he had your bag,” Princess added.

“It was heavy,” you said.

She looked at you. “It had little strawberries on it.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Jack carried a strawberry bag?”

You gave him the best glare you could manage while lying flat with your arm attempting secession. “You are supposed to be my doctor.”

Santos’s face changed. “Oh, my god. The fire alarm drill.”

“No,” you said.

“You had his jacket,” she said.

“It was cold.”

“No.” Santos pointed, too delighted to stop herself. “He put it around your shoulders before you asked.”

Dana’s gaze sharpened with recognition.

Santos nodded hard. “And took your clipboard so you could get your arms through the sleeves.”

Princess looked at Robby. “You knew?”

Robby held up one hand. “I was at the wedding.”

The room shifted again. Javadi whispered, “There was a wedding?”

You stared at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think day shift needs hobbies.”

Robby looked at you, and this time his humor was gentle around the edges. “You married a night-shift attending and then wandered around this hospital accepting crustless sandwich halves like that was normal.”

“It is normal,” you replied.

“For married people,” Dana said.

Santos looked personally offended. “I am usually very good at noticing things.”

You swallowed through another pulse of pain. “Sorry my marriage was inconvenient for your brand.”

Robby pointed at you. “Pain has not made her less mean. Excellent prognostic sign.”

Princess was still looking at you like she had discovered treasure. “So Dr. Abbot is your husband.”

“Yes.”

“And he brings you coffee,” Princess added.

You inhaled. “Yes.”

“And the sandwich,” she continued.

“Yes.”

Princess’s eyebrows rose. “And the parking lot.” You closed your eyes. “I would like drugs now.”

Robby’s smile faded enough for his concern to show again. “Soon,” he said. “We’re moving.”

Then he held out his hand toward Princess. “I’ll call him.”

You looked at him. “You don’t have to.”

“I do, actually,” Robby replied.

“Why?”

Robby’s face softened around the edges, just enough that your chest hurt for reasons that had nothing to do with your shoulder.

“Because he’s going to be worried,” he said. “And if a stranger calls him, he’s going to scare somebody.”

You sighed. “Jack doesn’t scare people.”

“No,” Robby said. “But when he’s worried about you, he gets very concise.”

Dana hummed. “That’s true.”

You closed your eyes. “Tell him not to speed.”

Robby shook his head. “I’m not promising that.”

“Robby,” you said, trying to sound reasonable.

He sighed. “I’ll suggest moderation.”

Robby stepped a few feet away from the bed and tapped Jack’s contact. You watched him through the pain, sweat cooling at the back of your neck. He pointed at you without lowering the phone. “Try not to dislocate anything else while I’m gone.” The call rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Jack answered.

His voice came rough with sleep and irritation. “What, Robby?”

Robby glanced back at you. You were pale on the bed, jaw tight, your good hand fisted in the sheet while Dana adjusted the monitor.

“Your wife is in the ED,” Robby said. “She’s fine. I’ve got her.”

The line went silent. Then Jack’s voice came back low and awake. “What happened?”

“Right shoulder dislocation,” Robby said. “Peds incident. She caught a kid before he fell and took the force the wrong way. She’s conscious, stable, and pissed off, which I’m taking as a good sign.”

Another pause. Jack breathed out once, sharply. “Of course she caught the kid.”

“Yeah,” Robby said, softer. “That was my reaction too.”

You lifted your head an inch off the pillow. “Tell him not to speed.”

Robby looked over his shoulder. You stared back, sweaty and serious.

“She says not to speed.”

Jack was already moving. Robby could hear it through the phone: sheets, a drawer, something hitting the floor. “Tell her I’m coming.”

“Jack,” Robby said carefully.

“I heard her,” Jack said sharply.

Robby nodded once. “Good.”

“Thanks, brother. I’m on my way,” Jack replied.

Robby’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said.

He ended the call and came back to the side of the bed. “He’s coming.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Good.” The word came out smaller than you meant it to. Robby heard that too. For a second, he was quiet.

Then he nodded to Princess. “Now give her the good stuff before she remembers she’s trying to be reasonable.”

Princess pushed medication into your IV. Warmth moved up your arm a few seconds later, strange and soft. The pain did not vanish, but the edges of the room began to loosen. The lights blurred a little. The monitor beep sounded farther away.

You blinked. “Wow.”

Santos leaned closer. “How’s that?”

You turned your head toward her slowly. “You have two faces.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Better?”

You inhaled. “I can still feel my skeleton making bad choices.”

“So, somewhat.” Robby grinned.

You looked toward the curtain. “Did someone tell Eli I’m not mad?”

Robby exhaled. “Yes.”

“I’m not mad,” you repeated.

“I know.”

You blinked hard. “No, but he needs to know.”

“He knows,” Robby replied gently.

You frowned. “You’re just saying that.”

“I am saying many things,” Robby said. “This one happens to be true.”

You tried to sit up. Every person in the room reacted.

Dana touched your good shoulder. “Nope. Stay back.”

“I should tell him,” you told her.

“You should keep your shoulder still,” Robby said.

You frowned at him. “You’re being bossy.” Robby shrugged. “It’s on the mug.”

“Jack has a mug that says World’s Sexiest Doctor,” you replied without thinking. The pain meds were softening things too much now. Words had started wandering into places you had not invited them.

Robby slowly turned his head. “I’m sorry. He has a what?”

You winced. “It was a joke. I got it for him when we were dating.”

Princess looked delighted. “And he kept it?”

You breathed through another pulse of pain. “He drinks out of it every morning.”

Santos stared. “Abbot drinks coffee out of a World’s Sexiest Doctor mug?”

Dana, dry as dust, added, “That explains more than I wanted it to.”

Robby pressed his fingers to his mouth like he was trying to hold in actual joy.

You glared at him. “You’re supposed to be my doctor.”

“I am,” Robby said. “And this is healing me.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. The ED lights drifted above you. Your body felt heavy against the bed, but your mind kept circling the same places. Eli crying. Your shoulder slipping. Jack coming. You blinked slowly. “Did someone tell Eli?”

Dana adjusted the blanket around your legs. “Yes.”

“Did someone tell Jack?” you asked.

Robby’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” You nodded, satisfied for exactly one second.

Then you frowned. “Which one is coming to see me?”

Robby stared at you. “What?”

“Eli or Jack?” you asked.

Princess turned toward the computer with suspicious speed. Santos looked openly delighted. Robby’s expression brightened with pure, terrible affection.

“Oh,” he said softly. “This is going to be a great drug for you.”

You frowned. “Don’t be weird.”

Robby patted the bed rail. “Try not to say anything incriminating before your husband gets here.”

Your eyes closed, but you could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jack already knows everything.”

Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s test that.”

Robby stayed beside the bed after Princess pushed the medication. One hand rested on the rail. His eyes moved from your face to the monitor, then to your shoulder, then back to your face again. He was not joking as much now.

You hated that. “Stop looking worried,” you said.

His mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile. “Stop giving me reasons.”

You blinked at him, the lights blurring softly around the edges. “Rude.”

“Consistent,” Robby said.

Dana adjusted the blanket over your legs, brisk yet careful. “That’s one word for it.”

The medication had made the room strange. Softer, but not kinder. The monitors sounded farther away, and the overhead lights had started to bloom at the edges. Your shoulder still hurts. Not as sharply as before, maybe, but it was there under everything, pulsing and wrong. You tried to shift away from it. Your body disagreed. “Bad,” you muttered.

Robby leaned in a fraction. “Pain?”

You shook your head. “Existence.”

He nodded once. “Fair.”

Dana checked the line of your IV, then glanced at him.

Robby’s eyes returned to yours, and something in his face softened. “Hey,” he said. “World’s Sexiest Doctor.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The mug,” Robby said, voice lighter on purpose. “You said he drinks out of it every morning.”

Your face softened before you could stop it. “He does.” Princess turned from the computer with immediate interest. Santos, who had been pretending not to hover near the foot of the bed, stopped pretending. Dana’s expression did not change, but her eyes flicked toward you.

Robby leaned one forearm against the rail. “Still can’t believe he committed to the bit.”

“It’s not a bit,” you said.

Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”

You looked at him like he was missing the obvious. “It’s true.”

Santos’s mouth curved. Dana looked down at the monitor. Princess pressed her lips together like she was holding something very large behind her teeth. You blinked at the ceiling, dreamy and annoyed all at once. “He is the sexiest doctor.”

Robby drew back like you had slapped him. “Rude.”

You turned your head toward him slowly. “You’re right.”

His expression softened. “Thank you.”

“Ellis is pretty hot, too,” you murmured happily.

Robby froze. Princess made a sound and turned sharply toward the computer. Santos whispered, “Wow.”

Dana closed her eyes. Robby stared at you. “That was not the correction I was requesting.”

You considered him through the pleasant fog around your thoughts. “You have nice hair.”

Robby’s hand went to his chest. “That was devastatingly lukewarm.”

“It is nice.”

“Nice hair,” he repeated, wounded. “That’s what I get after years of friendship.”

“You’re my friend,” you said.

His expression shifted. For one second, the joke left his face. “I know.”

You watched him through the blur. “You’re a good doctor.”

Robby’s hand tightened slightly on the rail. “You’re on excellent medication.”

“I mean it.”

“I know,” he said, quieter.

Dana looked away first. Santos suddenly found the supply tray very interesting. Robby cleared his throat and straightened. “Okay,” he said, his voice returning to a steady tone. “Let’s get ready.”

The words landed wrong. Your smile faded. The room shifted back into medicine too quickly. Gloves. Positioning. Dana adjusting the bed. Santos watching Robby’s hands intently. Javadi standing too still by the supplies, trying to look prepared. Your stomach dropped through the medication. “Wait.” Robby looked back at you. “Yeah?”

Your good hand tightened in the sheet. “You’re doing it now?” His expression softened. “Soon.”

“No.”

Dana’s hand settled lightly near your good shoulder. Not holding you down. Just there.

Robby stepped closer. “I know.”

“No, Robby.” Your voice stayed even, but barely. “I don’t want to do it.”

Robby did not flinch. “I know you don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you mean it.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “I don’t want it to hurt.”

Robby’s face changed again, not much, just enough to show you he hated this part too. “I’m going to be as gentle as I can.”

You frowned. “That’s what people say before they do stuff that sucks.” Santos muttered, “Accurate.”

Dana looked at her. Santos lifted both hands. “I’m validating.”

Robby ignored her and kept his eyes on you. “It is going to suck,” he said. “But the longer it stays out, the worse it’s going to feel. I want to get it back where it belongs.”

Your breathing went shallow. The medication had made everything loose except the fear. That stayed sharp. Clear. Mean. You looked toward the hallway. “Fine.” Robby waited. You glared at him, sweaty and medicated and angry enough to hide behind it. “I’ll do it if Jack is my doctor.”

The room paused. Dana looked at Robby. Princess looked at the hallway. Javadi looked like she had just realized this was not covered in any textbook.

Robby let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “That’s not how this works.”

You frowned at him. “He’s a doctor.”

“He is.” Dana’s voice stayed calm beside you. “He’s also your husband.”

You looked at her like she had helped your case. “Exactly.” Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.

Before he could answer, Jack’s voice cut through the department. “Where is she?”

Your head turned. Completely. All the thoughts in your brain scattered like startled birds. Jack was halfway down the hall, moving fast and trying not to look like he was moving fast, a hoodie under his unzipped jacket. His hair was sleep-rough on one side. His jaw was tight, his eyes already searching, already locked on the room. The second he saw you, his pace changed.

Your good hand lifted off the sheet. “That one.”

Robby followed your gaze. For the first time since the reduction tray came out, true humor broke through his worry. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.”

Jack stepped into the bay. You pointed at him, certain now. “I want that one.”

Jack froze for half a second. His eyes moved over you. Face. IV. Monitor. Shoulder. Robby. Dana. Back to your face.

Then he was at your side. “Baby.”

The word hit the room like a dropped instrument. Santos stared very hard at the floor. Princess pressed her lips together. Javadi’s eyes went wide, then wider, like she was watching hospital folklore become sentient.

You smiled up at him. “Hi.”

Jack took your good hand, his palm warm and familiar around yours. “Hi.”

His thumb moved once over your knuckles. You exhaled. You felt it happen before you could stop it. Your shoulders did not relax, not really, but your breathing changed. Your grip loosened from the sheet. The sharp edge of panic moved back by an inch.

Robby saw it. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to Jack’s hand. “Interesting.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”

“I’m observing.”

“You observe too loudly.”

Robby’s mouth curved. “I am her physician.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “You are enjoying being her physician too much.”

“I was worried,” Robby said.

The joke thinned for a second. Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze. “Still am.”

Jack’s face shifted.

You squeezed his hand. “Don’t do serious faces.”

Jack looked back down at you. His thumb moved again. “Sorry.”

You studied him, hazy and affectionate. “You came.”

“Of course I came.”

You turned your head toward Dana, solemn and proud. “I picked that one.”

Dana’s mouth twitched. “So I’m hearing.”

Jack closed his eyes. “What did you give her?”

“Pain control,” Robby said. “Not enough to explain all of this.”

You tugged lightly on Jack’s hand. “He’s being rude.”

Jack looked at Robby. “Stop being rude.”

Robby pointed at him. “You weren’t even here.”

“I believe my wife.”

Princess turned toward the computer again, but not fast enough to hide her smile.

Santos murmured, “That was hot.”

Dana said, “Santos.”

“What? It was,” Santos replied with a shrug.

Jack ignored all of them and leaned closer to you. “How bad?”

“Bad.”

His face softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, then regretted it. “Don’t let me do head stuff.”

“I won’t,” Jack promised.

You frowned. “Having a head is bad.”

“I’ll make a note,” Jack said with a soft smile.

Robby stepped closer to your injured side. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to try Cunningham.”

“No.” Your response was immediate.

Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Robby did not react like the word surprised him. “I know.”

“No, I don’t want Cunningham. It sounds smug,” you told him.

Robby’s brow raised. “It’s a reduction technique, not a man at a country club.”

You frowned at him. “Still smug.”

Jack’s thumb brushed your knuckles. “Look at me.”

You turned your eyes back to him. “No.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “You’re already doing it.”

You glared. “That’s annoying.”

His mouth almost smiled. “I know.”

Robby looked between you and Jack. Then his eyes moved to the monitor again. A thought entered his face.

Jack saw it immediately. “No.”

Robby blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”

Dana adjusted the bed so you were sitting up more, angled slightly back against the raised mattress. The movement sent a pain-sparking sensation down your arm. “Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, this is worse than my fucking IUD insertion.”

The room went silent. Jack’s thumb stilled against your hand. “Okay,” he said carefully.

You opened your eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I thought I knew pain. I was wrong.”

Dana’s mouth twitched near the monitor. Princess turned very deliberately toward the computer.

Jack leaned closer. “Baby.”

“No.” You turned your glare on him. “This is your fault.”

His brows pulled together. “My fault?”

“Yes.”

Jack blinked once. “How is this my fault?”

“Because,” you said, furious and medicated, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know this was worse.”

Robby looked up. Jack did not move.

“I was doing fine,” you continued. “I was in my celibate phase. I was at peace.”

Jack’s face changed by exactly one dangerous millimeter. “You were not at peace.”

“I was close.” Your eyes narrowed. “Then you came along with your stupid handsome face and your stupid arms, and then I got the stupid IUD, and I thought that was pain. But no.”

Robby nodded slowly. “That is a clinically fascinating chain of blame.”

Jack did not look away from you. “So your shoulder hurts because I’m handsome.”

“And slutty with your forearms,” you added.

Jack’s jaw flexed. Santos whispered, “Slutty forearms.”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.” Your face softened immediately.

Jack noticed. His eyes dropped back to yours, something warm cutting through the mortification. “What?”

You blinked up at him, drug-soft and suddenly pleased. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah, baby.”

A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”

Robby looked from you to Dana. Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “What?”

“You’re enjoying this,” Robby said.

“I am maintaining room discipline.”

“You called her Mrs. Abbot.”

Dana’s mouth barely moved. “That is her name.” Your smile widened.

Jack looked at Dana, then back at you, and his face softened despite himself. Dana glanced at the monitor. “See? Therapeutic.” Robby’s eyes dropped to Jack’s sleeve.

Jack saw it happen. “No.”

Robby smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You looked at my sleeve.”

“Clinically,” Robby replied.

Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked up at Jack, still angry, still hazy, still betrayed by the entire medical system. “He does have nice forearms.”

Jack stared at the ceiling. Robby nodded toward Jack’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Jack looked at him. “Excuse me?”

“She’s tensing.”

Jack gave Robby a look. “You want me to roll up my sleeves.”

“I want patient compliance,” Robby corrected.

Jack looked at Dana. Dana glanced at the monitor, then at you. “It would probably help.”

Jack’s face went flat. “Not you too.”

Dana shrugged. “I’m practical.”

Robby looked delighted. “See? Medicine.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, then dragged one sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm. Your eyes followed the movement immediately. You hated yourself a little. Not enough to look away. His forearm flexed as he pushed the fabric past his elbow, tendons shifting under skin, the veins at his wrist standing out when his fingers curled once around the bed rail. Your mouth went soft.

Robby pointed at you. “There.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him. “Do not point at my wife while she’s objectifying me.”

“I am pointing at a response to treatment,” Robby replied with glee.

You looked at Jack’s arm. “Treatment is good.”

Princess made a strangled sound. Javadi stared straight ahead like a resident determined to survive rounds with her soul intact.

Jack leaned closer to you. “You are making this very difficult.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“You.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Very stubborn. Very pretty. Extremely bad at being a patient.”

The giggle came before you could stop it. Soft. Helpless. Embarrassing. Jack’s eyes warmed. Robby looked like he had just discovered a new antibiotic. “Oh, that’s excellent.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Ignore him.”

“You think I’m pretty,” you said.

“I married you,” Jack replied.

“That’s not an answer.”

His mouth curved. “Yes, baby. I think you’re pretty.”

You melted. Completely. It was humiliating. It was also his fault. Robby adjusted your injured arm, careful and slow, guiding your hand toward his shoulder. The position made pain spark hot and immediate. “No.” You tried to pull back. “No, fuck this.”

Jack’s face sharpened. Robby’s tone stayed calm. “I need thirty seconds.”

“I don’t want thirty seconds,” you said, frowning.

Robby’s expression softened, “I know.”

“No, I want that one to do it,” you said, looking from Robby to Jack.

Jack leaned closer. “You have that one.”

“I want that one to doctor me.” Your lower lip jutted out.

Robby, far too cheerful, said, “We’ve covered the conflict of interest.”

You frowned at him. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack looked at Robby. “Fix her shoulder.”

Robby looked at Jack’s hoodie. Jack saw it. His whole body went still. “No.”

Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Jack stared at him.

Robby smiled. “She responded well to forearm.”

“Forearm is not a drug,” Jack shot back.

Robby shrugged. “It is today.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck me.”

You, who had been blinking hazily at the ceiling, turned your head with alarming speed. “Yes.”

The room stopped. Completely. Jack’s hand froze halfway down his face. “No.”

You frowned, offended. “Rude.”

Princess turned toward the computer with the focus of a woman fighting for her life. Santos stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.

Dana checked the monitor. “Heart rate response noted.”

Jack looked at her. “Dana.”

She did not look up. “I report data.”

Robby pressed his lips together. “For the record, that was the fastest she’s oriented to verbal stimulus since the medication.”

You reached weakly for Jack’s hand. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack looked down at you. Your eyes were glassy from medication and pain, your good hand tight around his, your face still trying so hard to stay mad because scared was too vulnerable, and both of you knew it. His irritation lost some of its shape. “Fine,” he muttered. Robby brightened. Jack glared at him. “Don’t look so happy.”

“I’m a scientist observing results,” Robby replied, delighted.

Jack stood beside the bed and reached back, fingers catching the sweatshirt at the back of his neck. Your eyes locked onto the movement. He pulled it over his head in one smooth drag, the hem catching for half a second on the white T-shirt underneath. The shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders when he lifted his arms. His biceps shifted under the fabric. His forearms flexed as he dragged the sweatshirt free.

The room went very quiet. You stared. Completely gone. Jack paused with the sweatshirt in one hand. Just for a second. Long enough to let you look. His mouth tilted, barely. “Better?”

You nodded slowly. “Wow.”

Robby made a sound that might have been spiritual.

Jack dropped back into the chair beside you and took your hand again. “Eyes on me.”

You obeyed immediately. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”

Robby looked at the monitor, then at Jack. “That was outstanding.”

Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not compliment me.”

“Clinically outstanding,” Robby corrected himself.

Jack’s gaze didn’t leave you. “Still no.”

Robby grinned. “You removed clothing, and her heart rate stabilized.”

“That is not what happened,” Jack replied with a sigh.

Dana glanced at the monitor. “It sort of is.” J

ack looked betrayed. “Dana.”

She shrugged. “I report data.”

Robby gestured toward you, far too pleased with the entire clinical situation. “Magic Mike: ED Edition.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “No.”

Robby’s grin spread slowly. “I don’t know, brother. You danced at your wedding. Pretty risky, if memory serves.”

Jack’s stare went flat. “Robby.”

“There was a certain Eminem song involved,” Robby continued.

Your head turned on the pillow. “Shake That.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Do not help him.”

Robby pointed at you, delighted. “That’s the one.”

Dana looked up from the monitor. “You danced to ‘Shake That’ at your wedding?”

“No,” Jack said immediately.

You turned toward him with surprising speed. “Jack.”

His eyes opened. “Baby.”

Your brow furrowed, “Don’t you dare deny that.”

Princess pressed both lips together and turned toward the computer as if it had suddenly become fascinating. Santos stared between you and Jack, openly thrilled. You lifted your good hand as much as the IV allowed and pointed at him. “That moment changed my brain chemistry.”

Jack looked toward the ceiling. “Good Lord.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “For the record, I was there. It changed several people’s brain chemistry.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “You cried during the father-daughter dance.”

“You and your wife offended decent people everywhere with that dance,” Robby said.

You nodded, glassy-eyed and completely unashamed. “Yep. My grandma left.”

Jack looked down at you, horror flickering across his face. “Your grandmother left?”

You blinked up at him. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” Jack said. “I did not know that.”

“She came back for cake,” you added.

Jack looked at you. “That does not make it better.”

Robby’s grin widened. “I’m just saying. It was a lot of wedding.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him. “You ended that night with half your shirt unbuttoned because a bridesmaid took your tie off with her teeth.”

Santos’s head snapped up. “With her teeth?”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat wedding lore.”

Princess turned from the computer, delighted. “Did he go home with her?”

Robby pointed sharply at your shoulder. “We have a patient.”

Jack’s mouth curved, barely. “He did.”

Robby stared at him. “Betrayal.”

Jack shrugged. “You started this.”

“I started a medical discussion,” Robby defended.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “You called me Magic Mike.”

Robby frowned. “In a medical context.”

You looked between them, soft and dreamy now, the medication turning the memory warm around the edges. “It was perfect.”

Jack’s expression shifted. “Our wedding?”

You nodded. “You danced. I danced. Robby got slutty.”

Robby pointed at you. “For the record, ‘Robby got slutty’ is not medically relevant.”

Your eyes drifted back to Jack. You studied him for one long, medicated second. “You got slutty.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “I did not.”

You gave him a look. “Tell that to your hips.” You kept looking at Jack, still dreamy and deeply serious. “And hands.”

Jack closed his eyes again.

Santos made a tiny sound. “He got slutty.”

Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Your face softened immediately. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed. His thumb moved once over your hand. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

“I heard,” Jack said, quieter now.

A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.” Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it.

Robby looked from you to Dana. “You’re enjoying this.”

Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “I am maintaining room discipline.”

Jack looked at you slowly. He looked down at you, and something in his expression changed. Not embarrassed now. Worse. Amused. “You know, baby,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t hear you complaining that night.”

Your mouth parted. For one blessed second, the medication actually managed to quiet you.

Robby looked delighted. “Oh, that worked.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”

You blinked up at Jack, soft and glassy-eyed and deeply sincere. “I was thoroughly enjoying it.”

Dana closed her eyes. Princess turned fully toward the computer.

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “That is a lot of marriage for a workplace.”

Jack’s jaw flexed, but his thumb moved over your hand again. “Trouble.”

You smiled faintly. “You started it.”

Robby pointed at Jack. “She’s right.”

Jack looked at him. “You started it.” Robby nodded. “Also true. Still worth it.”

Dana adjusted the bed, then looked at both of them. “Shoulder now. Wedding crimes later.”

You frowned. “They’re not crimes if everyone had fun.”

“Your grandmother left,” Jack said.

“She came back for cake.”

Robby nodded. “Strong recovery.”

Jack looked at him. “You are done.”

Robby smiled. “Brother, I have barely begun.”

Dana’s voice cut through, calm and final. “Robby.”

Robby lifted both hands. “Shoulder now.”

Jack leaned closer to you, resigned and soft all at once. “Eyes on me, trouble.”

You looked at his white T-shirt, then his face. “I am looking,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

For half a second, he looked like he might say something that would make the entire situation worse.

Robby must have seen it coming, because he clapped once, sharp and quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Shoulder.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You heard the man.”

You frowned at him. “I don’t like the man.”

Robby adjusted his gloves at your injured side. “The man is hurt by that.”

Dana moved closer to the bed, one hand resting near your good shoulder. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, calm and even. “We’re going to sit you up a little more.”

Your face softened immediately. Jack saw it again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You like that.”

You blinked at him. “Like what?”

His voice went quieter. “Mrs. Abbot.”

A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”

Jack’s expression changed. Not enough for anyone else to call him out on it, maybe, but enough for you to feel warmer than the medication could explain. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s you.”

Robby looked at Dana. Dana kept her face neutral. “Therapeutic,” she said.

Robby nodded solemnly. “Marital nomenclature. Noted.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Do not note that.”

Robby shrugged. “I have a whole mental chart now.”

“Delete it,” Jack shot back.

Robby grinned. “HIPAA doesn’t apply to my thoughts.”

Dana raised the bed before Jack could answer. The motion sent your shoulder into a hot, mean pulse. Your good hand tightened around Jack’s. “Nope.”

Jack stepped in closer immediately. “I’ve got you.”

“Nope,” you said again, sharper this time. “I changed my mind.”

Robby’s voice stayed steady from your side. “You can hate it.”

“I do hate it. I hate the concept. I hate whoever invented Cunningham,” you groaned.

Robby nodded once. “Probably fair.” You went on, “I hate that his name is Cunningham.”

“It is a useful medical procedure,” Robby replied.

You turned your glare on him. “Don’t defend Cunningham to me right now.”

Jack leaned into your line of sight. “Look at me.”

You looked at him. Mostly because he was very close. Also, because the T-shirt was still doing hateful things across his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly, like he knew exactly where your attention had gone.

“My face,” he said.

You sighed. “Your face is also a problem.”

Robby glanced at the monitor. “Problem appears effective.” Jack turned his head a fraction. “Robby.”

“Data,” Dana said.

Jack gave her a betrayed look. Dana’s brows lifted. “I report it.”

Robby slid your injured hand carefully toward his shoulder. The second your arm shifted, pain sparked bright and fast down your side.

“Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, fuck that.”

Jack’s free hand came to your cheek. Warm palm. Steady fingers. No pressure, just contact. “Hey.”

You shook your head. “No, Jack, I really don’t—”

“I know.”

Robby paused, his hands still supporting your arm.

Jack’s thumb moved once beneath your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”

You opened your eyes. His face was right there. Close enough to blur at the edges. Worried in that contained way that made your chest hurt. Soft in the places no one else knew to look.

“I don’t want it to hurt,” you whispered.

Jack’s expression gentled. “I know.” Your throat tightened. “I’m being so stupid.”

“No,” he said immediately.

Robby’s voice came from your side, quieter now. “You’re not.”

Dana’s hand stayed light near your shoulder. “You are allowed to be in pain, Mrs. Abbot.”

Your mouth trembled. That was rude of her, honestly. Using the name like that.

Jack watched your face, and something in him settled. “Be mad,” he said softly. “Swear at Robby. Insult Cunningham.”

Robby lifted one hand. “I would like to opt out of one third of that.”

Jack ignored him. “But keep looking at me.” You swallowed. “You’re bossy.”

“I know.” Jack smiled softly.

You narrowed your eyes. “You like being bossy.” His mouth curved, barely. “With you?”

Your eyes widened a little. Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek. “Yeah.”

The room went dangerously still. Robby’s face brightened. “Oh, that was good.”

Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “Do not grade me.”

“I’m not grading. I’m appreciating the technique.”

Dana looked at the monitor. “Heart rate improved.” Jack exhaled through his nose. “Good Lord.”

You stared at him, caught between pain and medication and the unfair fact of him. “Sexy doctor husband.”

His jaw flexed. “Apparently.” Robby moved your elbow another careful inch. You tensed immediately.

Jack’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Eyes on me.”

You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped to his mouth first.

Jack noticed. His mouth twitched. “My eyes, trouble.”

“I’m trying,” you groaned.

He smirked. “You’re doing terrible.” You made a small, offended sound.

Jack’s thumb stroked lightly at the base of your skull. “But you’re very pretty while you do it.”

A giggle escaped you before you could stop it. It came out wet, shaky, and ridiculous.

Robby froze. Dana glanced at the monitor. Princess made a tiny sound near the computer.

Santos looked like she might need to sit down. Jack’s eyes softened. “There she is.”

You frowned at him. “You’re flirting medically again.”

“I am not,” Jack replied.

Robby adjusted his grip on your elbow. “You are.”

Jack kept his face angled toward you. “No one asked you.”

“I did,” you said.

Jack looked back at you. “You did not.”

“I spiritually asked,” you said with a sigh.

Robby pointed at you. “She gets me.”

Jack’s hand tightened carefully at the back of your head. “That is what worries me.”

The laugh that tried to leave you broke into a gasp when Robby began working at the muscles around your shoulder.

Pain rose again, deep and threatening. “No,” you said, voice thin now.

Jack’s teasing vanished. Just gone. His face steadied. “Breathe with me.”

“I don’t want to breathe.”

He raised a brow. “Do it anyway.” You frowned. “That’s mean.”

“I know,” Jack agreed.

“Fuck, Jack.”

His eyes held yours. “I’ve got you.”

Robby’s voice came low and focused. “Good. Just like that. Try not to fight me.”

You turned your eyes toward him in outrage. “Try not to fight you?”

Jack’s hand at the back of your head guided you back. “Me.”

You sucked in a breath. “Robby is saying stupid things.”

“I know.” Jack nodded.

“I can hear you,” Robby said.

Jack’s thumb swept once under your eye. “Ignore him.”

“He’s touching my shoulder,” you said, miserable.

Jack tilted his head closer to you. “Because he’s fixing it.”

“I don’t like him,” you said with a frown.

Jack smiled softly at you. “You love him.”

“Not right now,” you said, brows furrowed.

Robby nodded without looking up. “Temporary friendship suspension. Accepted.”

Dana looked at you. “Hold still, Mrs. Abbot.”

The name hit exactly where it had before. Your breathing hitched, but this time it hitched softer.

Jack saw it. Robby saw it. Dana absolutely saw it. Robby looked at Dana. “You’re good.”

Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “I know.” Jack leaned closer. “You’re doing good.”

You stared at him. “I am?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

Your eyes burned. “I’m making this difficult.” Jack nodded once. “You’re scared.”

“I’m swearing,” you continued.

He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”

“I told everyone about our wedding crimes.” Your lower lip wobbled.

His mouth moved like he was fighting a smile. “That one we’ll discuss later.”

“You got slutty.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Not now.” Robby’s shoulders shook once.

Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not laugh during my wife’s reduction.”

Robby’s expression snapped back into focus. “Guilty.”

Pain flared again, sharper this time, and your whole body tried to pull away.

Jack’s hand held steady at the back of your head. Not forcing you. Keeping you with him. “Look at me.”

You blinked away tears. “I am.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “Really look.”

You did.

His eyes were dark and close and worried. His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and sure.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”

Your breath shook. “This fucking sucks.”

“I know,” Jack murmured.

You went on. “Cunningham is a bad man.”

“Probably.” Jack nodded with a soft smile.

Robby glanced up. “Cunningham did not personally do this to you.”

You glared at him through tears. “He knows what he did.” Robby nodded. “I’ll allow it.”

Jack’s mouth brushed the edge of a smile.

You caught it. Even through pain. Even through fear. Even through the medication making the room swim around the edges. “You’re laughing.”

“I’m not,” Jack replied.

You glared at him. “You are.”

“Only because you’re mean on drugs,” he said, smiling softly at you.

You inhaled sharply. “I’m allowed to be mean right now.”

“Yeah,” Jack said, impossibly soft. “You are.”

Robby’s hands shifted. The pressure changed. Your body knew before your brain did.

You went rigid. “No.” Jack’s face sharpened. “Baby.”

“No, no, no, I don’t want—” You shook your head despite the pain.

His hand cupped your face more firmly. “Look at me.” Your eyes found his. “I am looking.”

“Good,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.

Your eyes burned as you stared up at him. “Jack.”

His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, fingers threaded carefully into your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You swallowed hard, trying not to pull away from Robby’s hands. “I hate this.”

“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek.

Your breath hitched, half pain and half panic. “I hate your stupid face for helping.”

His mouth curved just enough to ruin you. “Use it.”

“What?”

“My stupid face.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Look at it instead of your shoulder.”

You stared at him. “I hate that that works.”

“I know,” Jack murmured.

You glared at him. “Your face is medically annoying.” Robby murmured, “Groundbreaking terminology.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Not now.”

Robby’s hands shifted again. You felt the pressure build. Slow, careful, awful.

Jack saw you brace. Of course he did. His voice dropped. “Be good for me.”

Your face went soft immediately. “Oh, that’s unfair.”

Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know.”

“You’re cheating.” You tried to glare at him, but the medication and his hand in your hair made it a weak attempt.

His mouth curved, barely there and deeply unrepentant. “I know.”

Robby, without missing a beat, said, “Cheating is medically allowed right now.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Do it now.”

For one suspended second, there was only Jack’s face, his hand in your hair, his thumb on your cheek, and Robby’s steady pressure on your arm.

Then the joint shifted. Not violently. Not with a dramatic crack.

Just a deep, sickening slide, followed by sudden release. You gasped.

The wrongness vanished all at once. Your whole body folded toward Jack on a broken little sob.

He caught you carefully, one hand still cradling your head, the other braced at your good shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’ve got you.”

Robby exhaled. “Shoulder’s back.”

You breathed hard against Jack’s white T-shirt, your face pressed into the warmth of his chest, tears leaking more from relief than pain now. “Holy shit.”

Jack’s mouth brushed your hair before he seemed to remember there were witnesses. “Yeah.”

“That was awful,” you breathed, tears falling.

Jack kissed your head. “I know.” You turned your face enough to look up at him. “You were helpful.”

His expression softened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still floating, still furious, still very much on drugs. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Robby pulled off his gloves with great satisfaction. “For the record, Cunningham with targeted husband exposure: wildly effective.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Document that and die.”

Robby smiled. “Brother, this is medicine now.”

You blinked up at Jack, wet-eyed and dazed. “I picked that one.”

The room went quiet around the softness in your voice. Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

You stared at him for another long, drug-soft second. “I picked good.”

His face changed. Not a lot. Enough. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly. “You did.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “I need everyone to know I am handling this with incredible maturity.”

Dana looked at him. “You are not.”

“No,” Robby agreed. “But I almost did.”

Jack’s hand stayed against the side of your face for another second before he seemed to remember the rest of the room existed.

“Post-reduction films?” he asked, glancing toward Robby.

Robby pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the trash. “Already ordered.” Jack nodded once.

Robby gave him a look as he stepped back to your injured side. “Neurovascular was intact before. Checking again now.”

“I know you are,” Jack said.

Robby lifted his brows. “Do you?” Jack’s mouth flattened. “I’m standing right here.”

“Great,” Robby said. “Then stand there husbandly and let me be her doctor.”

You turned your head slowly against Jack’s palm. “You’re both doctors.”

Robby leaned closer, careful as he checked your hand. “Only one of us is currently allowed to practice medicine on you.”

You looked at Jack. “I vote that one.” Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”

Robby did not look up from your fingers. “Your vote has been received and rejected by the ethics committee.”

You frowned at him. “I don’t like the ethics committee.”

“The ethics committee is me,” Robby said.

You blinked at him. “That tracks.”

Santos made a tiny sound near the foot of the bed. Dana glanced at her. Santos pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.

Robby touched your fingers gently. “Can you wiggle these for me?” You wiggled them.

Robby nodded. “Good. Any numbness or tingling?”

You stared at him, still dazed. “Just in my dignity.”

“That is not innervated by the axillary nerve,” Robby said.

You blinked. “Show-off.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your cheek again. The motion was small. Your body noticed anyway.

Robby saw that too, because of course he did, but for once he did not comment.

Dana adjusted the sling on the tray beside the bed. “We’ll get her immobilized once Robby’s done checking you,” she said. Jack’s attention shifted to the sling. His jaw tightened by a fraction.

You saw it even through the medication. “You’re doing the face.”

Jack looked back down at you. “What face?”

“The face,” you said.

Robby glanced over. “Oh, I know the face.” Jack did not look at him. “No one asked you.”

Robby’s voice stayed light, but not careless. “It’s the face he makes when he wishes he could make it easier for you.”

Jack went quiet. So did you. Your fingers tightened around his. “You did,” you said.

Jack looked down at you. “What?” Your smile was small and drug-soft. “You made it easier.”

His thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes glassy and sincere. “Yeah. Because you’re hot. And a doctor. And smart. And sexy. And my husband. And I love you.”

The room went very still. Jack’s face softened all at once.

Then you added, very seriously, “And you’re hot.”

Robby’s mouth opened. Dana looked at the monitor like it had become essential to her survival.

Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Is that all?”

You blinked up at him, exhausted and earnest. “No.” His mouth curved. “No?”

You shook your head once, barely. “But I’m tired and drugged.”

Jack’s expression warmed into something painfully fond. “Okay, baby.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. You swallowed, the edges of the room still warm and watery.

“And Eli?”

Robby’s expression gentled before the joke could get there.

“Megan called down while we were getting the films ordered. He’s okay.”

You stared at him. “She told him?”

“She told him,” Robby said. “His mom told him. He knows you’re not mad.”

You blinked hard. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.

Robby leaned a hip lightly against the counter, his voice quieter now. “He drew you a picture.”

Your throat closed. “He did?”

“Apparently it’s you with a cape,” Robby said.

Princess smiled from the computer. “And a very large arm.”

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh and almost became something else. “Is it anatomically correct?”

Robby looked at Princess. Princess shook her head. “Not even close.” You closed your eyes. “Good.”

Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles.

Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t think I’m mad?”

Robby shook his head. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”

You went very still. Jack felt your hand tighten around his. Then your face crumpled. “Oh, no.”

Jack leaned in immediately. “Baby?” Your eyes filled too fast for you to stop them. “I’m leaking.”

Jack’s expression softened all at once. “You’re crying.”

“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I don’t want to.”

“That’s okay,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jack replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You sniffled. “It is in front of the day shift.”

Robby’s face softened from the counter. “Day shift can handle feelings.”

Santos looked suspiciously focused on the floor. Princess turned toward the computer, blinking too much.

Dana adjusted the sling on the tray without looking up. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said evenly, “day shift has seen worse.”

Your smile wobbled through the tears. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”

Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reached your cheek. “Yeah, baby.”

You looked up at him, wet-eyed and overwhelmed. “He thinks I’m a superhero.”

Jack’s face changed. Not a lot. Enough to make you cry harder. “He’s right.”

Your chin trembled. “Jack.”

“He is,” Jack said, voice low. “You protected him.”

A tear slipped hot down your cheek. “I scared him.”

“You helped him.”

The words landed so gently that they hurt. You made a broken little sound and tried to wipe your face with your good hand, but Jack caught your fingers before you could tug at the IV.

“I’ve got it.” He brushed another tear away with his thumb.

You sniffed. “I’m leaking a lot.”

His mouth softened. “I know.”

You exhaled. “I hate this drug.”

“No, you don’t.” He smiled gently.

You thought about it, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “I kind of love this drug.”

Robby nodded from the counter. “There she is.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Let her leak.”

Dana smiled gently. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, crisp and even, “I’m going to help support your arm while we get this situated.”

Your eyes opened the rest of the way. A smile pulled at your mouth immediately, even through the tears.

Jack looked down at you. “There it is.” You blinked at him. “What?”

He brushed one knuckle lightly along your jaw. “That smile.”

You looked toward Dana, pleased and hazy. “She called me Mrs. Abbot again.”

Dana did not look up from the sling. “That is your name.”

Robby pointed at her. “You’re doing it on purpose.” Dana kept her hands steady. “I am doing my job.”

“You are weaponizing legal marriage,” Robby said.

Dana fitted the strap carefully behind your neck. “I am supporting patient cooperation.”

You sighed happily. “It is working.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”

Dana adjusted the sling around your injured arm. “This may pull a little.” Your smile vanished.

Jack saw it instantly. “Hey.”

“Nope,” you said.

His hand found your good one again. “Look at me.”

You frowned. “I already did that.”

“Do it again.”

You looked at him.

His eyes stayed steady on yours while Dana adjusted the last strap. There was a brief tug, a hot little spark of discomfort, and then your arm was held against you, supported and still.

You exhaled shakily. Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. “There you go.”

You swallowed. “I swore a lot.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “You were allowed.”

You leaned and whispered poorly. “In front of Dana.”

Dana stepped back from the sling. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Abbot.” Your smile came back immediately.

Jack glanced at Dana. “Therapeutic.”

Dana picked up the chart. “Accurate.”

Robby checked the sling with a quick glance, then nodded to Dana. “Looks good.”

Dana stepped back. “It’ll do until ortho tells her the same thing in a more expensive voice.”

Princess laughed under her breath. Santos rocked back on her heels.

“So she’s going home?” Santos asked.

Jack looked at Robby before Robby could answer, the same question reflected in his eyes

Robby lifted his brows. “You asking as her husband or as the night attending who has forgotten he is not on shift?”

Jack stared at him. “Husband.”

Robby smiled. “Good choice.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “Robby.”

“We’ll watch her a bit after the follow-up films, make sure pain is controlled, then yes,” Robby said. “Home. Ice. Sling. Ortho follow-up. No lifting. No heroic catching of children for a while.”

You frowned at him. “That feels targeted.”

“It is,” Robby confirmed.

Your frown deepened. “Eli was falling.”

“And you caught him,” Robby said. “And now your shoulder is in a sling.”

You looked away. Jack’s voice softened. “You did good.”

You looked back up at him. “I broke myself.”

Jack shook his head. “You protected him.”

You pressed your lips together. “That sounds like something you say when I broke myself.”

Jack held your gaze. “It can be both.”

You considered him through the medication. “You’re very pretty when you’re reasonable.”

Robby made a wounded sound. “Not this again.”

Jack did not look away from you. “Thank you.”

Your smile went soft. “Sexy doctor husband.”

Jack lowered his head for half a second like he was gathering strength.

Dana picked up the chart. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Santos closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.

Princess turned toward the computer, shoulders shaking. Robby looked between Dana and the monitor.

“Therapeutic and preventative.”

Dana’s eyes flicked to him. “Exactly.”

Jack gave her a long look. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be concerned.”

“Both is usually safest,” Dana said.

A little while later, after the films confirmed what Robby already knew, after Princess brought discharge paperwork, after Santos was banished from asking any more questions about the wedding, the room finally thinned out.

Dana left with one last check of your sling and one more calm, devastating, “Take it easy, Mrs. Abbot.”

You smiled so hard your eyes closed.

Jack watched Dana go, then looked down at you. “She did that on purpose.”

You leaned into the pillow. “She likes me.”

“She likes making me suffer,” Jack said.

You nodded solemnly. “People contain multitudes.” Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

Robby came back with the discharge papers and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Because apparently I am the only person in this room still committed to medicine.”

Jack was sitting beside your bed now, his sweatshirt back on but unzipped, one hand wrapped around yours. “You loved every second of this.”

Robby held up the paperwork. “I loved several medically relevant seconds of this.”

“You called me Magic Mike,” Jack said.

Robby nodded. “In a medically relevant context.”

“You threatened to chart targeted husband exposure,” Jack added.

“I still might,” Robby said.

Jack stared at him. Robby smiled. “I won’t.”

“You better not,” Jack warned.

“I’ll save it for the group chat,” Robby said with a shrug.

Jack’s expression went blank. “There is no group chat.”

Robby looked at you. “He thinks there’s no group chat.”

You turned to Jack, horrified. “You think there’s no group chat?”

Jack looked between you and Robby. “I hate this family.”

Your smile went dreamy. “You said family.”

Robby’s expression softened before he covered it with a cough.

Jack looked down at your joined hands. “I did.”

The air warmed around that. For one second, nobody ruined it.

Then Robby clicked the pen. “Anyway,” he said. “Sling stays on. Ice twenty minutes at a time. Pain meds as prescribed, not as creatively interpreted by the patient. Ortho follow-up within the week. No work until cleared.”

You opened your eyes. “No work?” Jack’s hand tightened.

Robby looked at you. “No work.”

“But peds is short,” you replied.

“Peds will survive,” Robby said.

You frowned. “You don’t know that.”

Robby leaned closer, his sarcasm gone soft around the edges. “I know you cannot care for children with a freshly reduced shoulder.”

You looked at Jack for backup. Jack shook his head. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me ask,” you said, brows furrowed.

Jack just gave you a look. “I know where you were going.”

“You always know where I’m going,” you sighed.

Jack shrugged. “Usually because it’s somewhere you shouldn’t.” Robby nodded. “Marriage.”

You sighed again and let your head fall back against the pillow. “This is oppressive.”

“This is discharge planning,” Robby said.

“Oppressive discharge planning,” you mumbled.

Jack stood slowly, keeping hold of your hand. You looked up at him. “We’re leaving?”

He nodded. “Soon.”

“Are you taking me home?” you asked, hopefully.

His expression softened. “Yeah, baby.”

Your whole face relaxed. “Good. I want that one.”

Robby pressed the paperwork to his chest. “She’s still doing it.”

Jack took the papers from him. “She’s on medication.”

He folded the paperwork and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

Robby watched him for a moment, the humor easing out of his face. “You good to get her home?”

Jack looked at you. You were blinking slowly, exhausted now, the adrenaline finally draining out of your body.

His voice gentled. “Yeah.”

Robby nodded. “Call me if anything changes.”

Jack met his eyes. “I will.”

The two men looked at each other for half a second longer than the words required.

You noticed even through the fog. “You two are having feelings.”

Robby looked down at you. “We are absolutely not.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “No feelings.”

“Lies,” you murmured.

Robby pointed at you. “Pain meds have made her too powerful.”

Jack helped you sit up carefully. The room tilted as soon as you moved. You made a small sound and grabbed for him with your good hand.

He was already there. One arm came around your waist, careful not to jostle the sling, his body solid beside yours. “I’ve got you.”

You leaned into him. “I know.”

That seemed to hit him somewhere. His hand spread warm at your side. Robby stepped closer, but Jack had you steady.

“Slow,” Jack said.

“I am slow,” you grumbled.

The room tilted. You caught Jack’s shirt with your good hand, and his arm came around your waist before you could wobble any farther.

His mouth twitched. “That’s why I said go slow.”

You rolled your eyes. “Smartass.”

Robby nodded from beside the bed. “Fair assessment.” Jack shot him a look.

“Supportive environment,” Robby said.

Jack eased you carefully off the bed. Your knees felt uncertain, and the room stayed too bright, but his arm held you steady.

Dana reappeared at the curtain like she had sensed movement. “You good?”

Jack nodded. “I’ve got her.”

Dana looked at you. “Mrs. Abbot?”

Your smile came back, sleepy and immediate.

“I’m good.”

Dana’s mouth barely moved. “Clearly.”

Robby narrowed his eyes at her. “You did it again.”

Dana checked the hallway. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You absolutely do.”

Jack adjusted his hold at your waist. “Can we leave before anyone learns anything else about my wedding?”

Princess, still at the computer, lifted one finger. “I have follow-up questions.”

“No,” Jack said.

Santos leaned against the counter. “I have several.”

Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

Robby grinned. “I have photos.”

Jack went still. You gasped softly. “You have photos?”

Robby’s grin widened. “And videos.”

Jack pointed at him. “Delete them.”

“Never,” Robby responded immediately.

“You have videos of the dance?” you asked, unable to contain your excitement.

Robby gave you a look. “You think I would witness neurological history and not document it?”

Your eyes went glassy again. “Can you send them to me?”

Jack looked down at you. “Baby.”

“What? I was there. I should have them,” you defended yourself.

Robby tapped his phone. “Already sent.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”

Your phone buzzed somewhere in the plastic belongings bag.

You looked up at Jack, delighted. “Brain chemistry.”

Dana held up one hand before Santos could speak. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”

Santos sighed. “I didn’t even say it.”

Dana looked at her. “You thought loudly.”

Jack shook his head and started guiding you toward the hallway. “We’re going home.”

You leaned into him, warm and sore and still floating enough that the ED lights looked like stars smeared across glass. “Home with you?”

Jack glanced down. His face softened. “Yeah.”

You smiled. “I picked good.”

This time, there were no monitors beeping too loud, no hands at your shoulder, no room full of witnesses waiting for the next outrageous thing you might say.

Just Jack’s hand at your waist, his body steady beside yours, his voice low near your ear.

“So did I.”

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[afterdarkbydel]

Where The Hell Is My Husband

Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Summary: A night out with Robby, Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, and Mel takes a turn when you get drunk, refuse to leave the bar, and start loudly demanding to know where your husband is. Santos calls Jack. Jack arrives. Unfortunately for everyone in the bar, you are drunk and do not immediately recognize him as your husband.

Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, suggestive jokes, reader being extremely horny for her own husband, Jack being responsible and not engaging sexually while reader is drunk, soft caretaking, lots of teasing, lots of “hell yeah.”

Author's Note:

I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes a woman gets drunk, forgets she is married, and tries to hit on her own husband in public. Sometimes that husband happens to be Jack Abbot. Sometimes he has to provide ring verification every five minutes while trying to get her to drink water.

This is love.

Xoxo, Del

By the time Santos called Jack, you had been singing for twenty-three minutes.

Not continuously.

There had been pauses.

Important pauses.

One pause to tell Robby he was doing the background vocals wrong. Another to inform Whitaker that his attempt to close the tab was “emotionally hostile.” Another to point at a man near the jukebox and announce, with deep conviction, that he was not your husband because your husband had better shoulders.

Mel had tried water.

Javadi had tried fries.

Whitaker had tried logistics.

Robby had tried joining in, which had only made everything worse.

And Santos, because she had the glare of a woman who had spent years keeping doctors from making stupid choices, and no patience left, finally pulled out her phone.

You were standing beside the booth with one hand braced on the table, swaying to the beat of a song that was no longer playing.

“Baby! Woo-hoo, where the hell is my husband? Woo-hoo! What is takin' him so long to find me? Woo-hoo!”

Robby lifted both hands as if he were conducting you. “Great projection.”

Santos pointed at him. “Stop encouraging her.”

Robby shrugged, “She’s an artist.”

“She is refusing to leave a bar because she thinks her husband has been misplaced,” Santos replied. 

You turned sharply. Too sharply. Mel caught your elbow before gravity could make a compelling argument.

“He is not misplaced,” you said.

Santos lowered the phone slightly. “No?”

You frowned, “He is missing.”

Javadi nodded from the end of the booth, phone in hand, filming with the calm detachment of someone documenting history. “The distinction is important.”

Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face. “It is not.”

You slapped one palm gently against the table. “My husband is handsome and tall and sexy and has doctor hands.”

Robby leaned toward Mel. “Doctor's hands is specific.”

Mel nodded. “And accurate.”

“And,” you continued, because you were not finished and everyone needed to understand the scale of the emergency, “he has very serious pecs.”

Santos closed her eyes.

Robby whispered, “Here we go.”

You pointed at him. “Respect the pecs.”

“I do,” Robby said immediately.

Whitaker slid your glass of water toward you. “Can we respect the pecs from the parking lot?”

You shake your head quickly, “No.”

“Why?” He groans. 

You point towards the door, “Because my husband is not in the parking lot.”

Santos pressed Jack’s contact and lifted the phone to her ear.

You gasped. “Are you calling him?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

“No!” You exclaimed. 

Santos looked at you. “No?”

You shook your head, “I don’t want to call him.”

“You have been singing for him for twenty-three minutes,” Santos said.

You rolled your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I want him to appear.” 

Robby slapped the table once. “That is marriage.”

Santos ignored him and turned slightly away as the call connected.

Jack answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”

His voice came through low and alert, and you froze.

Santos looked at you.

You stared at her phone like it had become sacred.

“Abbot,” Santos said.

There was a small pause on the other end. “Santos?”

“You busy?” She asks. 

“At home.” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Is she okay?”

You grabbed Mel’s wrist and whispered very loudly, “Is that my husband?”

Mel patted your hand. “Yes, honey.”

You looked down at your left hand.

Your wedding rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.

You gasped. “I have wife jewelry.”

Robby bent forward with a wheeze. “Wife jewelry.”

On the phone, Jack went quiet. “What was that?”

Santos looked at you as you lifted your hand in front of your face and admired your rings with genuine awe.

“She is okay,” Santos said carefully.

Jack exhaled. “Define okay.”

You turned toward the booth again, apparently remembering your mission. “Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?” You pick up your song.

Jack went silent.

Robby threw his head back and supplied a terrible echo. “Woo-hoo!”

Santos pinched the bridge of her nose.

Jack said, “Is that her?”

“No,” Santos said. “That is the jukebox haunting me.”

Jack sighed, “Santos.”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Is she hurt?” He asked. 

“No.”

“Sick?” He continued. 

“No.”

Jack exhaled, “Crying?”

You pointed at a man near the pool table. “Not him. My husband has a better ass.”

Mel covered her mouth with a hand.

Santos stared at the ceiling. “No. Not crying.”

There was a pause.

Then Jack said, dry as hell, “Did she say something about my ass?”

Robby lunged across the table, trying to get closer to the phone. “Tell him she said better.”

Santos shoved his forehead back with two fingers. “She is refusing to leave until her husband comes to collect her.”

You leaned toward Santos’s phone. “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants.”

Santos pulled the phone away from you. “Absolutely not.”

Jack made a sound that might have been a cough. “I’m leaving now. Send me the address.” He was already moving.

“All right,” Santos said. “I’ll send it.”

In the background, Robby shouted, “Tell him she’s been reviewing his ass for twenty minutes!”

Jack went silent again.

Santos closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”

You reached toward the phone. “Wait, I want to talk to him.”

“No,” Santos said, ending the call. 

Your lower lip trembled, “But he’s missing.”

“He’s on his way.” She told you. 

That stopped you. Your mouth fell open. “He’s coming?”

Santos slid her phone into her pocket. “Yes.”

You laid a hand on your chest, “To me?”

“Yes.” Trinity nodded. 

You pressed both hands to your cheeks. “Oh, fuck.”

Whitaker nodded toward the door. “Great. Now we can go.”

“No,” you said immediately.

His shoulders dropped. “Why not?”

You looked at him like he had just asked the stupidest question in recorded history. “I have to be here when my husband appears.”

Robby raised one hand. “I support her.”

Santos snapped, “No one asked you.”

You sat back down in the booth and folded your hands on the table like you were waiting for a job interview.

Mel slid the water toward you again. “Drink some water while you wait.”

You stared at the glass.

Then at Mel.

Then at Santos.

“What if he gets here and I’m drinking water?” You ask. 

Javadi tilted her head. “Would that be bad?”

You frowned, thinking hard. “No. Hydration is sexy.”

Whitaker looked at the ceiling. “Thank God.”

You picked up the glass, took one sip, and set it down with a proud nod.

Then you leaned toward Robby. “Do you think he knows he’s my husband?”

Robby’s face lit with dangerous joy.

Santos pointed at him. “Do not.”

Robby held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

Her eyes narrowed, “You were about to.”

Robby frowned deeply, “I have never done anything wrong in my life.”

Javadi looked up from her phone. “There are videos.”

You tapped your rings against the table, watching them sparkle. “I’m going to ask him.”

Mel smiled. “Ask him what?”

“If he’s my husband.” You answer. 

Whitaker muttered, “This will be efficient.”

“It will not,” Santos said.

And it wasn’t.

Because when Jack walked in seven minutes later, everything in you stopped working.

He came through the door in jeans, sneakers, and a dark hoodie under his jacket, like he had pulled on the first clothes he found and driven over without thinking about anything except getting to you. His hair was messy, his expression serious, and his eyes scanned the bar once before landing on your booth.

On you.

You stopped mid-hum.

Your hand tightened around Mel’s wrist. “Oh no.”

Mel followed your gaze. “What?”

You pointed. “That man has pecs like my husband’s.”

Robby twisted in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over Whitaker’s drink.

Santos sighed. “That man is your husband.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on Jack as he crossed the bar. “No.”

Javadi kept filming. “Denial phase.”

Jack reached the table and looked you over first, quick and clinical, because he was Jack. No visible injury. No tears. No panic. Just you, drunk and bright-eyed and staring at him like he had been sent from some divine catalog of bad ideas.

His shoulders eased. “Hey, baby.”

You blinked. Then slowly turned to Santos. “He called me baby.”

She nodded slowly, “Because he is your husband.”

You whipped back toward him. “You are?”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

He lifted his left hand without hesitation.

His wedding band caught the bar light.

You looked down at your own rings.

Then back at his.

Then at your rings again. “Oh, my god.”

Jack’s face softened. “Yeah?”

You beam. “We match.”

“We do.” He replied.

You looked him up and down, with a long pause at his chest. “Hell yeah.”

Robby slammed both hands on the table. “And we’re off.”

Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Don’t.”

You leaned toward Mel, still staring at Jack. “He has very serious pecs.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Mel’s shoulders shook. “I know, honey.”

“Do you think he works out?” You whispered to Trinity. 

Santos answered before Jack could. “Occasionally.”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s working.”

Jack opened his eyes. “Okay. Time to go.”

You frowned. Then looked him up and down again. “Hey, soldier.”

The whole booth went quiet.

Jack stared at you.

Santos slowly turned her head. “Oh, my god.”

You gave Jack what you clearly thought was a seductive smile. “You come here often?”

Jack’s mouth twitched again, despite his best efforts. “To retrieve my drunk wife from a bar? No.”

Your eyes went wide. “Wife?”

He lifted his hand again.

You looked at his ring.

Then yours.

Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”

Javadi, still filming, said, “The verification system remains functional.”

Jack looked at her phone. “Are you recording?”

“Yes.” She answered instantly. 

Jack groans, “Why?”

“Documentation,” Victoria answered. 

“It’s behavioral science,” Robby added.

Jack ignored all of them and reached for the water glass instead of you. “Drink.”

You froze. Then you sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp with drunk discovery. “Huh.”

Jack paused. “Huh?”

You pointed at him. “Attending voice.”

Robby made a delighted noise. “Oh, she clocked it.”

Jack gave him a flat look. “Do not participate.”

You leaned toward Santos, whispering very loudly. “He said drink like he was about to order labs.”

Santos nodded. “He did.”

“I did not,” Jack said.

Mel patted your shoulder. “You kind of did.”

Jack pushed the glass closer. “Three sips.”

Your lips parted. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack closed his eyes. “Please just drink the water.”

You picked up the glass with both hands, still staring at him. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”

Jack opened his eyes. “I’m not a stranger.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Then you looked down at your rings again.

Jack lifted his hand.

You inspected his wedding band with deep seriousness.

“Right,” you said. “Husband.”

“Yes,” Jack confirmed. 

You took one sip.

Jack nodded once. “Good.”

You set the glass down too hard. “No.”

His brow furrowed. “No?”

“You can’t say ‘good’ with attending voice.” You frowned. 

Robby dropped his forehead onto the table. “She’s right.”

Jack pointed at him. “Not another word.”

You finished the water because Jack stood there with crossed arms and serious eyes, and the world had become a place where hydration was suddenly compelling.

When you set the glass down, Jack picked up your coat. “Arm.”

You inhaled sharply.

Santos pointed at him. “That one was attending voice.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “I need her arm in the sleeve.”

You looked at him, dazed. “You need my arm?”

Jack took a slow breath. “Baby.”

You melted back against the booth. “Oh, Jackie.”

That got him. Just a little. His expression shifted, the stern line of his mouth almost breaking.

Santos saw it immediately. “Don’t reward her.”

“I’m not rewarding her,” Jack said.

“You liked Jackie,” Santos replied. 

Jack held the coat open and looked at you. “Arm.”

You stared at him. Then slid one arm into the sleeve. “Bossy.”

He guided the coat around your shoulders. “Other arm.”

You looked at Mel. “He wants the other one too.”

Mel nodded, fighting for her life. “Coats usually do.”

You gave Jack your other arm. He pulled the coat into place and zipped it halfway with careful, practical hands. You looked down at the zipper. Then up at him. “That was hot.”

“It was a zipper.” Jack deadpanned. 

You sighed happily, “You did it like a procedure.”

Robby lifted his head. “Sterile field: wife edition.”

Jack did not turn around. “Robby.”

“Sorry.” Robby lowered his head once more. 

Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she proposes to him.”

You froze. Then your head turned slowly toward Jack. “I proposed?”

Jack’s expression softened at once. “No, baby.” He lifted his left hand before you could even ask, wedding band, catching the bar light. “I proposed.”

You looked down at your rings. Then at his. Then up at him, stunned and pleased and drunk-happy. “You wanted to marry me?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still do.”

Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”

Robby dropped his forehead back to the table. “They’re disgusting.”

Jack crouched slightly in front of you and offered his hand. “Stand up.”

The booth went silent. You stared at him. Then you looked at Santos. “Attending voice.”

Santos nodded. “Full attending voice.”

Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling. “I am trying to get you upright.”

You nodded, “You’re doing it with authority.”

“You are drunk in public,” Jack replied. 

You clicked your tongue, “You’re hot in public.”

Mel made a small sound into her hand.

Jack’s ears went faintly pink.

You saw it. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Jackie’s blushing.”

Jack shook his head, “I am not.”

“You are.” You squeal with delight. 

Jack’s hand stayed steady in front of you. “Up.”

You pressed one hand dramatically to your chest. “Fuck.”

Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she discovers a military kink.”

Jack’s head snapped up. “Santos.”

She shrugged, “What? She’s halfway there.”

You tilted your head, considering. “A what?”

“Nope.” Jack took your hand and helped you stand. “We’re going home.”

For one glorious second, you were upright and triumphant.

Then the room tilted. Jack caught you by the waist.

Your entire body went still. “Oh, fuck.”

“Balance,” he said.

You stared up at him. “You said that like an order.”

“It was an explanation,” Jack replied. 

You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”

“No,” Jack answered immediately. 

Robby lifted his head. “She’s not wrong.”

Jack’s eyes cut to him.

Robby lowered his head again. “Withdrawn.”

You touched Jack’s chest lightly with one finger. “Responsible soldier husband.”

Jack looked down at your hand. Then at your face. “Doctor husband. Former soldier.”

You nodded solemnly. “Doctor husband with command voice.”

Mel laughed into her hand. 

Jack took a slow breath. “Arm over my shoulder.”

Your eyes went wide. “Jackie.”

“Arm,” he repeated, then pointed to his shoulder. “Here.”

You looked at Santos. “He pointed.”

“I saw.” She answered. 

You licked your lips. “He pointed and said here.”

Trinity nodded solemnly, “You’re going to survive.”

You shook your head furiously, “You don’t know that.”

Jack guided your arm over his shoulders.

You held on to him and immediately looked delighted. “I’m touching him.”

Santos nodded. “You are.”

“Legally?” You asked, looking to Jack, bright and hopeful. 

Jack lifted his left hand in front of your face.

You checked his ring. Then yours. “Hell yeah.”

Jack slid an arm around your waist and pulled you carefully against his side.

You went very still. Then you looked down at his arm. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack sighed. “Please walk.”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and delighted. “Can you say it again, but like bossier?”

“No,” Jack said. 

“Absolutely not,” Santos said at the same time.

Robby lifted his head just enough to gasp for air. “I can’t believe it. This is foreplay with witnesses.”

Jack pointed at him without loosening his hold on you. “Not foreplay.”

You leaned into his side and whispered loudly. “But later?”

Jack closed his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

You nodded, “But later, when I’m not drunk?”

“Later,” Santos said quickly, “is between you, Jack, and God.”

Javadi nodded. “And possibly the HOA, depending on volume.”

You looked at Jack. “Do we have an HOA?”

He shook his head, “No.”

You leaned closer to him, “Then later?”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Walk.”

You inhaled sharply. “Oh, that was better.”

Santos threw both hands up. “Door. Now.”

Jack started moving.

You went with him, tucked carefully into his side, one arm over his shoulders, his arm secure around your waist, your coat half-zipped and your dignity somewhere under the booth.

You made it three steps before he said, “Watch your feet.”

You looked up at him. “Attending voice.”

“Safety voice.” He corrected. 

You shrugged, “They’re cousins.”

“Eyes forward,” Jack replied. 

You sighed dramatically, “Oh fuck me, that one too.”

Santos followed behind you, laughing now despite herself. “This is the worst evacuation I’ve ever seen.”

Jack kept you tucked firmly against his side. “It is not an evacuation.”

“You’re using evacuation posture,” you said.

He looked down at you.

You smiled up at him, drunk and delighted. “I like it.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

Halfway to the door, you twisted carefully to look back at the table.

“Everybody be cool,” you announced. “I’m leaving with my husband.”

Robby raised both hands. “Hell yeah, Mrs. Abbot.”

You stopped.

Jack stopped with you, patient but visibly suffering.

You looked down at your rings.

Then grabbed his left hand and checked his.

The band was still there.

You smiled, delighted all over again. “Hell yeah.”

Jack’s face softened.

Then you glanced behind him one more time. 

“And he has a great ass!” You cheer.

Jack immediately started walking again.

“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder.

Santos waved. “Hydrate her.”

Mel added, “Text when you get home.”

Whitaker pointed at Jack. “Do not let her order fries.”

You gasped. “Traitor.”

Javadi lifted her glass. “The record will show we tried.”

Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ask him to walk bossier!”

Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you into the cool night air.

The second the air hit your face, you sighed dramatically and leaned a little more heavily into his side.

Jack adjusted his hold. “You okay?”

You looked up at him.

The bar lights spilled behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the tired concern in his face, the little pinch between his brows that meant he was trying to figure out if you needed water, food, sleep, or all three.

Your drunk brain, unhelpfully, sorted those options into one category.

Husband.

“Jack?” You asked quietly. 

Jack looked down at you, “Yeah, baby?”

“You’re really my husband?” You whispered the question. 

He lifted his left hand between you before you even asked.

You looked at his ring.

Then down at yours.

Then up at him.

Your smile went soft and bright and drunk-happy. “Hell yeah.”

Jack shook his head, but he was smiling now. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you toward the car. “Hell yeah.”

You made it halfway across the parking lot before you stopped again.

Jack looked down. “What?”

You stared at him very seriously. “You came when I sang.”

His mouth twitched. “Santos called.”

“But I sang.” You persisted. 

Jack nodded, “You did.”

“And you appeared.” You added with delight. 

“I did,” Jack replied. 

You nodded, deeply moved. “Powerful.”

Jack opened the passenger door and kept one hand at your back. “In.”

You looked at the seat. Then at him. “I like it when you give directions.”

Jack almost smiled, “I have noticed.”

“Can you say ‘in’ again?” You asked, looking up at him. 

His answer comes quickly, “No.”

“Meaner?” You tried.

This answer was faster: “Absolutely not.”

You sighed and got into the car anyway, mostly because Jack’s hand was warm at your back and he looked like that, and you were only human.

He leaned across you to buckle your seatbelt.

You went very still.

Jack paused immediately. “Okay?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “You smell good.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and clicked the seatbelt into place. “You’re drunk.”

“You smell good when I’m drunk.” You amended. 

Jack shook his head, “That’s not how that works.”

“It is for me.” You replied with a happy shrug. 

Jack braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at you.

His expression was amused. Tired. Fond in a way he would absolutely deny if Robby had been there to witness it. “You need water when we get home.”

You pointed at him. “Bossy.”

“You need sleep.” He added. 

You smiled. “Oh, fuck.”

“And no flirting with me until you can walk in a straight line.” Jack continued. 

Your mouth fell open. “You’re denying your wife?”

Jack held up his left hand.

You looked at his ring automatically.

Then at yours.

The distress vanished.

You nodded, “Hell yeah.”

He smiled despite himself. “And yes. I’m denying my drunk wife.”

You considered that, then nodded slowly. “Responsible husband.”

He smiled softly, “Trying to be.”

You looked him up and down from your seat. “Hot.”

Jack shut the door before you could say anything else. You watched him walk around the front of the car. The parking lot lights were doing very good things to him. His shoulders. His hoodie. His jeans. When he opened the driver’s side door, you were still staring.

He slid in and caught your expression immediately. “No.”

You frowned deeply, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to,” Jack commented. 

You looked out the windshield, dignified. “I was admiring privately.”

You looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, fuck.”

He closed his eyes. “Baby.”

You looked down at your rings.

Then, at his hand on the wheel, wedding band visible under the passing sweep of the parking lot light.

“You called me baby.” You sighed happily. 

He pulled out of the parking space. “I’m your husband.”

You smiled at his ring. “Hell yeah.” 

The drive home was mostly quiet. Mostly. 

You hummed under your breath until Jack, without looking away from the road, said, “No more husband song.”

You turned your head toward him. “I like it when you’re bossy.”

“I know.” He replied. 

You sat up straighter, “Say something else.”

“No.”

“That was something.” You mumbled. 

He sighed.

You smiled out the window like you had won.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, your energy had softened around the edges. The feral husband appreciation was still there, obviously, because Jack existed and you had eyes, but it had gone warm and sleepy.

Less bar announcement.

More gravity.

Jack came around to your side and opened the door.

You looked up at him.

He looked down at you. “Out.”

Your mouth parted.

Jack pointed at you. “Do not.”

You pressed your lips together, nodding seriously. Then whispered, “Attending voice.”

He helped you out anyway.

You wobbled once on the driveway, and his hand found your waist immediately.

You leaned into him. “Good catch.”

He gave you a little grin, “Good wobble.”

You gasped. “You praised me.”

“I should not have,” Jack replied, regretting his choice immediately. 

You smiled up at him, “I liked it.”

Jack looked down at you, “I know.” 

Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Jack locked the door behind you, then turned back to find you standing in the entryway, looking down at your left hand again.

He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Checking?”

You lifted your rings toward the hall light. “Still married.”

Jack held up his left hand. His wedding band gleamed.

Your smile went loose and delighted. “Hell yeah.”

He took your coat off first.

Not because you helped.

You did not help.

You got distracted halfway through by the flex of his forearm when he pulled the sleeve down your arm. “Oh, fuck.”

Jack paused. “What?”

You didn’t look up, “Your arm.”

“My arm is removing your coat,” Jack said. 

“Yeah.” You stared at it. “That’s the problem.”

Jack exhaled through his nose and hung your coat on the hook. “Kitchen.”

You looked at him sharply. “Attending voice.”

Jack sighed, “I’m getting you water.”

“You said kitchen like an order.” You argued. 

Jack inhaled, “It was a destination.”

“A hot destination.” You corrected him. 

He pointed down the hall. “Move.”

You inhaled. “Jackie.”

“No.” He said instantly. 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” You said with a whine. 

Jack gave you a look, “I do.”

You followed him anyway, because his hand settled at the small of your back and your drunk brain apparently classified that as a life-altering event.

At the kitchen counter, he gave you more water and two crackers.

You stared at the crackers. Then up at him. “Are you feeding me?”

“I am preventing tomorrow from being worse,” Jack replied. 

Your eyes went wide and affectionate, “You provide.”

“I provide saltines.” Jack amended. 

You picked one up and took a dramatic bite. “Sexy.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Chew.”

You froze. Then pointed at him with the cracker. “Attending voice.”

Jack tilted his head, “Chewing is not optional.”

“Oh, my god.” You fan yourself with the cracker. 

He dragged a hand down his face. “Please eat the cracker.”

You did, mostly because he watched you with that serious, focused Jack expression, and you had already learned at the bar that being perceived by your husband while he gave basic instructions was dangerous.

After water and crackers, he got you upstairs.

Barely.

There was a brief negotiation on the landing because you stopped to admire his butt from a lower step and whispered, “Perspective,” like you had made a scientific discovery.

Jack looked over his shoulder. “Keep walking.”

You gripped the railing. “Attending voice.”

“Stairs voice.” He corrected you.

You shrugged, “Same family.”

When you finally reached the bathroom, Jack set your makeup remover, toothbrush, and face wash on the counter as if he were preparing for a procedure.

You leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re setting up supplies.”

Jack nodded, “I am.”

“Like an attending.” You add. 

“Like a husband who knows you’ll sleep in mascara if I don’t help,” Jack replied. 

You gasped and looked down at your rings.

Jack lifted his left hand immediately.

You checked. Satisfied, you nodded. “Verified.”

He handed you a makeup wipe. “Face.”

You took it, then blinked. “Huh.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”

“You said face.” You answered. 

Jack nodded, “I did.”

“Very direct.” You replied with a crooked smile. 

Jack looks over your face, “You have makeup on it.”

You touched the wipe to your cheek, still watching him. “Bossy skincare husband.”

Jack leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. That was a mistake.

You stared at his chest. 

He noticed. “Face,” he repeated.

You closed your eyes. “That was worse.”

“Makeup off.” He tried again. 

You threw your head back in defeat, “Oh, fuck.”

He held out his hand. “Give me the wipe.”

You handed it over without thinking. Jack stepped closer and gently tipped your chin up with two fingers. The bathroom went very quiet. He wiped beneath one eye with slow, careful strokes, his other hand steady at your jaw. His face was close enough that you could see the tired fondness in his eyes.

You swallowed. “Jackie.”

His thumb stilled for half a second. “Yeah?”

“You’re really good at this.” You whispered. 

He smiled softly, “At taking off mascara?”

“At being mine.” You said, almost breathless. 

His expression softened.

Then, because you were drunk and incapable of letting tenderness survive unbothered, you added, “Also, your pecs are close.”

Jack closed his eyes. “There she is.”

You smiled.

He finished with your makeup, then handed you your toothbrush.

“Toothpaste,” he said.

You looked at the toothbrush. Then at him in the mirror. “Attending voice.”

“Toothpaste voice.”

You brushed your teeth while glaring at him with exaggerated suspicion.

Jack watched you in the mirror, arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.

When you finished, he pointed to the sink. “Spit.”

You blinked around the toothbrush. Then slowly looked at him. “Jack.”

“What?” He asked. 

Your eyes widened, “You can’t just say spit like that.”

His jaw tightened. Not anger. A smile he was trying to kill. “I am asking you to brush your teeth.”

“You are issuing commands in a bathroom.” You say, mouth foamy. 

Jack looked down at your mouth, “You have toothpaste in your mouth.”

You pointed the toothbrush at him. “Dangerous.”

“Sink.” He commanded. 

“Oh, fuck.” You spat, rinsed, and accepted the towel he handed you.

“Good,” he said.

You pressed the towel to your mouth and froze.

He sighed immediately. “I forgot.”

“You said good.” You grinned. 

He sighed again, “I did.”

“With the voice.” You say, eyebrows raised. 

Jack shrugged, “It slipped.”

You lowered the towel and pointed at him. “Dangerous.”

“Bed,” he said.

You stared. “Jack.”

He pointed toward the bedroom. “Now.”

Your mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jack muttered something under his breath and guided you into the bedroom.

He found one of his old T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts from your drawer. Then he turned back to you, clothes in hand. “Can I help?”

You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Then down at your rings.

Jack lifted his hand before you could ask. You checked his wedding band.

“Okay,” you said. “Husband verified.”

He nodded once, “Good.”

You pointed at him immediately. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did not.” He replies innocently. 

You pouted, “You weaponized good.”

“I am trying to get you into pajamas,” Jack replied. 

Your frown deepened, “Domestic warfare.”

He helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Then he crouched in front of you and touched the hem of your top. “Arms up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a trick?”

He smiled, “No.”

Your brow furrows, “Because I’m drunk.”

“Exactly.” Jack agreed. 

You look at him suspiciously, “You’re not going to be weird.”

“I’m not going to be weird,” Jack promised. 

You leaned closer, whispering with great seriousness. “I might be weird.”

His mouth twitched. “I know.”

You lifted your arms. 

Jack changed you with the careful efficiency of a man determined not to let his drunk wife turn pajamas into a legal incident. Shirt off, sleep shirt on. No lingering. No teasing. No letting his eyes go where drunk you absolutely wanted them to go.

Which, naturally, offended you. “You’re very respectful.”

“I try,” Jack replied. 

You groan, “It’s annoying.”

“I know.” He said. 

You sighed, “It’s hot.”

“I know that too.” He said with a smile. 

He helped you step into the shorts while you held both hands on his shoulders for balance.

The second your palms settled there, you sighed. “Shoulders.”

“Balance,” Jack corrected.

“Shoulders.” You repeated dreamily. 

He pulled the shorts up to your hips and patted your side once. “Done.”

You looked down at yourself. Then at him. “You dressed me.”

Jack shrugged, “I helped.”

“You’re like a sexy pit crew.” You say with a wink. 

Jack stared at you.

You nodded, pleased with yourself. “Fast. Focused. Good with hands.”

He stood and pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”

Your eyes went wide. “Attending voice.”

He continued to point, “Bed.” 

You looked at him desperately, “Oh, Jackie.”

“Do not make bed weird.” He groaned. 

You pouted, “You made it weird when you pointed.”

He pulled the blanket back. “In.”

You climbed under the covers, mostly because the single syllable nearly took you out.

Jack tucked the blanket around your waist, then set the water on the nightstand.

“You need sleep,” he said.

You looked up at him, suddenly softer. “You’re staying?”

His expression shifted. “Yeah, baby. I’m staying.”

You looked down at your rings one more time. Then reached for his hand.

Jack gave it to you.

You checked his wedding band, slower now, your thumb brushing over the metal.

“You proposed?”

He sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “I proposed.”

“And I said yes?” You asked happily. 

His mouth softened. “You said yes.”

You smiled, sleepy and bright. “Hell yeah.”

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“No sex,” You murmured. “I’m drunk.”

Jack huffed a laugh against your temple, “I know, baby.” 

Your eyes closed.  “It sucks, though, because you have amazing pecs. And a great ass.”

He laughed quietly and brushed your hair away from your face. “Go to sleep.”

You sighed into the pillow. “Attending voice.”

“Husband voice,” he corrected, softer.

Your smile was almost gone with sleep. “Jackie.”

“Yeah?” He answers quietly. 

“Still hot.” You murmur into your pillow. 

He stayed there until your breathing evened out, his thumb moving once over your rings before he let go. Then he slipped into the bathroom, changed, came back, and climbed into bed beside you. You rolled toward him automatically, even in sleep, one hand landing against his chest like you were verifying he was still there. Jack covered your hand with his. Your rings pressed lightly against his skin.

The Next Day...

In the morning, you woke up to pain, sunlight, and consequences.

Mostly consequences.

Your head hurts. Your mouth was dry. Your body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. For one blessed second, you remembered nothing after the second round of drinks.

Then your phone buzzed.

You opened one eye.

On the nightstand, your screen lit up with a message from Robby.

MRS. ABBOT LIVE AT THE BAR: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND TOUR

You closed your eye again. “No.”

Beside you, Jack was already awake.

You could feel it.

You turned your head very slowly.

He was lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, watching you with the calm, devastating expression of a man who knew everything.

You swallowed. “How bad?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Define bad.”

You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.

He reached over and tugged it down just enough to see you. “You reviewed my body in public.”

Your eyes closed. “Oh, my god.”

“Pecs got mentioned several times.” He added. 

“Jack.” You whined. 

He grinned, “Butt got a standing ovation.”

You covered your face with both hands. “I need to leave the country.”

“You also called your rings' wife jewelry.”

A pause.

You peeked through your fingers. “That’s kind of cute.”

Jack nodded, “It was very cute.”

Your stomach softened despite the hangover.

Then he added, “You made me show you my ring every time someone told you we were married.”

You lowered your hands. “I did?”

He lifted his left hand. His wedding band gleamed in the morning light. Your eyes flicked down to your own rings automatically. 

Jack noticed.

A smile started at the corner of his mouth.

You pointed at him. “Do not.”

He raised both his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked smug.” You replied, eyes narrowed. 

Jack tilted his head, “I’m allowed.”

“You are not.” You argued. 

Jack smiled, “You kept checking.”

“I was drunk.” You defend. 

Jack looked down at his ring. “You were thorough.”

You groaned again and rolled onto your back. “I hate myself.”

“No, you don’t,” Jack said.

You stared at the ceiling. “I hate Robby.”

“That’s fair.” Jack agreed. 

Your phone buzzed again.

This time, Jack picked it up before you could stop him.

“Jack.” You warned. 

He looked at the screen. Then his mouth twitched.

“No.” You groaned. 

He turned the phone toward you.

The video thumbnail showed you in the booth, hand dramatically raised, mouth open mid-song. At the same time, Robby performed backup vocals, and Santos looked as if she were reconsidering friendship as a concept.

You stared.

Then slowly turned to Jack. “Delete it.”

“It’s not on my phone.” He replied. 

You groaned, “Tell Robby to delete it.”

“I will,” Jack answered. 

You narrowed your eyes.

Jack’s expression stayed too innocent. “After I watch it once.”

You huffed, “Jack.”

He pressed play. Your own drunk voice filled the room with devastating commitment. On-screen, Robby echoed you terribly.

Then the video shifted as Santos muttered, “I’m calling Abbot.”

Your face lit up. You grabbed Mel’s wrist and shouted, “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants!”

Jack paused the video. Silence. You stared at the ceiling. Jack stared at the phone.

Then he looked at you. “The gray sweatpants?”

You pulled the blanket over your face again. “I was unwell.”

“You were specific.” Jack corrected you. 

“I had a medical condition.” You attempted to explain. 

“Being horny for your husband is not a medical condition,” Jack replied. 

You slowly lowered the blanket.

Jack’s eyebrow lifted.

You pointed at him. “You’re a doctor. Diagnose it.”

He laughed then. Really laughed. Warm and low and unfairly pleased.

You groaned, but you were smiling too. He set the phone aside and leaned over you, bracing one hand near your shoulder. Your eyes flicked to his arm before you could stop yourself.

Jack noticed that too. “Still?”

“Shut up.”

His smile widened.

You looked down at your rings, partly because you were embarrassed and partly because the habit had apparently survived the alcohol. Then, quietly, Jack lifted his left hand beside yours.

The rings caught the same strip of morning light.

Your chest softened. “We match,” you said, voice rough from sleep and singing and terrible decisions.

Jack’s expression went gentle. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We match.”

You stared at the rings for a second.

Then at him.

Even hungover, even humiliated, even with video evidence waiting in the group chat, you could not help it.

“Hell yeah.”

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“Hell yeah,” he said.

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130

[notyourlovemonkey]

Tuesday | A Jack Abbot one-shot

gif by: @ho-ii

Summary: On a random Tuesday, you wake up tangled together in the late-afternoon light, exhausted and half-asleep, when Jack casually suggests getting married before your shift.

Pairing: Jack Abbot / f!Reader (reader works in night shift, nothing else described I think). Rating: M. Tags: Established Relationship. Tooth rotting fluff. Unconventional marriage proposal. Eloping. Word count: 3904 words. a/n: So... after publishing part 5 of my Harry Castillo story I word-vomited this in like an hour (don't get used to this 😅)... and I was like... I should wait to publish, but I just can't... so... here it is. Also, I'm aware that there are probably inaccuracies in how the courthouse system works, but, well... this is fiction, so... bear with me okay? Here's my new obsession, The Pitt 😆, and even though I'm a Robby girl, this idea just wouldn't leave my head. I hope you like it! Also, English is not my first language and the corrector only goes so far, so if you see any weird stuff, I'm so sorry, I hope it doesn't bother your reading too much!

MASTERLIST

The apartment is honey-gold with late afternoon light, that weird hour that doesn’t belong to anyone.

Not morning. Not evening.

Just that quiet, suspended time night shifters live in, when the rest of the world is halfway through their day and yours is just beginning.

The clock on the stove reads 4:42 PM, but your brain still thinks it’s morning. Your body thinks it’s midnight. And Jack is wrapped around you like you’re the only solid thing in the room.

The blackout curtains don’t quite meet in the middle, so a stripe of sunlight cuts across the bed, warm against the sheets.

It lands right across his bare shoulder. Golden, soft. You trace it lazily with your fingers. He doesn’t wake.

He’s half on top of you, one leg hooked between yours, arm tight around your waist, face tucked into your neck. His breath is warm and slow and smells faintly like the toothpaste you both used at eight this morning before collapsing into bed.

Post-shift sleep always feels heavier, like drowning in cotton.

You shift a little. His grip tightens instantly. A low, sleepy hum against your collarbone.

“…don’t go,” he mumbles.

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You’re warm.”

“So are you.”

“Good.”

He sinks closer, like a cat claiming territory.

You smile into the pillow.

This is your favorite part of night shift life, the world feels small. Private. Like you two exist slightly out of sync with everyone else. No emails, no traffic... No expectations.

Just him.

Your fingers slip under his t-shirt, tracing the familiar line of his spine; he sighs, then blinks one eye open.

“What time is it?” he croaks.

You squint at the clock.

“Four forty-something.”

He groans dramatically and buries his face deeper into your neck.

“Illegal,” he mutters. “The sun shouldn’t exist when I’m conscious.”

“You picked night shift.”

“I was lied to.”

You laugh softly, and his stubble scratches your skin when he kisses your shoulder, slow and lazy.

Neither of you moves to get up, you still have time. Report isn’t until seven. There’s always that dangerous illusion that you have plenty of time.

His hand slides under your shirt, resting warm against your stomach. Not sexual. Just… grounding, like making sure you’re real.

You turn to face him. His hair’s a disaster, pillow lines on his cheek, eyes puffy with sleep. God, you love him like this. Soft. Unarmored. Just Jack.

“Hey,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“You okay?”

He nods, then shrugs. Then stares at you for a long moment like he’s trying to memorize your face.

“What?” you ask.

He studies you another second. Then, very casually, very quietly:

“What if we got married before shift?”

You blink.

“…what?”

“What if we got married today,” he repeats, like he’s suggesting takeout. “Before work.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow.

“Jack. We just woke up.”

“I know.”

“You still have pillow creases on your face.”

“So marry me anyway.”

You stare at him.

He doesn’t smile. He’s serious.

Soft. Calm. Certain.

“There’s that courthouse by the hospital,” he says. “Closes at seven.”

“…you’ve thought about this.”

“Maybe.”

“Jack.”

He exhales through his nose, thumb rubbing slow circles on your hip.

“I just keep thinking,” he says quietly, “how every shift feels like roulette.”

You know. You’ve both seen it. The calls that change everything. The families. The codes. How fast a normal day becomes the worst day of someone’s life.

“I don’t want to keep waiting for some perfect moment,” he continues. “Because we don’t get those. We get vending machine dinners and trauma bays and five minutes together in supply closets.”

You snort.

“Romantic.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

He cups your cheek, his hand is warm, steady.

“I already feel married to you,” he says. “You’re the first person I want after every shift. You’re the one I fall asleep with at eight in the morning. You’re home.”

Your throat tightens.

“So… what if we just make it official?” he murmurs. “Today. Before we clock in.”

“This is the least traditional proposal ever.” You reply, mid-laugh.

“I’m aware.”

“It’s very ‘we have forty minutes before report.’”

“Extremely on brand for us.”

You look at him, at the messy hair. The sleepy eyes. The absolute sincerity. No kneeling, no grand speech.

Just him. Choosing you. Right now. Every day.

You lean down and kiss him. Slow. Soft.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He freezes.

“…okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Let’s go get married before shift.”

He stares at you like you just rewrote gravity.

Then he laughs, bright and disbelieving, and pulls you into the tightest hug.

“Oh my god,” he says into your hair. “We’re insane.”

“Completely.”

“We’re going to show up to trauma married.”

“Dana is going to lose it. And Robby.”

“Worth it.”

Sunlight creeps further across the bed, reality creeping in. You groan.

“We have, like, an hour to shower and not look like raccoons.”

He kisses you again, quick and sure.

“C’mon,” he says, sliding out of bed and grabbing your hand. “Wife-to-be.”

*************

You stand in front of the closet in your underwear twenty minutes later, staring at your clothes like they personally betrayed you.

Scrubs, hoodies, old band tees, three identical cardigans… Why do you own nothing remotely bridal?

You huff out a breath.

“This is so stupid,” you mumble, rifling through hangers.

Then…

Your hand pauses in the back. The white dress. You’d forgotten about it. Simple. Soft cotton. Knee-length. Something you bought last summer for a friend’s birthday dinner and never wore again. Nothing fancy, no lace. No drama, but clean. Light. Easy.

You pull it out and hold it up. It looks… right. You tug it on. Bare legs. Minimal makeup. Hair still a little messy no matter what you do. You look like yourself.

You study your reflection… A woman about to get married before a 7 p.m. trauma shift.

Completely unhinged behavior.

You smile.

Perfect.

When you step out into the living room, Jack is buttoning up a clean dark shirt. Not scrubs yet, actual clothes. You stop walking.

Because… 

Oh.

Oh no.

He looks unfair. Dark jeans. Rolled sleeves. Hair still slightly damp from the shower. That stupidly handsome jawline, the faint shadow of stubble… like he accidentally walked out of a “small-town courthouse wedding” indie movie.

He looks up. Freezes.

“…hi,” he says softly.

The way he says it, like you just knocked the air out of him, makes your stomach flip.

“You look…” he trails off.

“Don’t say bridal,” you warn.

“I was gonna say beautiful.”

You swallow.

“Good. Stick with that.”

He steps closer, hands sliding around your waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of the dress like he can’t believe it’s real.

“You look like you,” he murmurs.

“That good or bad?”

“The best.”

He kisses you. Slow. Warm. Like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though you absolutely don’t.

***********

The courthouse is only ten minutes away. Early evening light spills gold across the sidewalk. People are still out, walking dogs, grabbing coffee, living their normal Tuesday lives. And you’re sitting in the passenger seat thinking: I might have a husband in an hour.

Your hand is laced with his over the center console. He keeps squeezing your fingers like he needs to check you’re still there.

“You nervous?” you ask.

“A little,” he admits.

“Regretting your impulsive life decisions?”

“Never.”

A beat.

“Okay maybe a little but in a hot way.”

You laugh.

God, you love him.

The courthouse steps are quiet, almost empty. You step out of the car, heart suddenly thundering.

This is real.

This is happening.

Jack glances at the building, then at you. Then…

“…shit.”

“What?”

“I forgot something.”

Your stomach drops.

“What did you forget?”

“I’ll be right back. Two minutes. Stay here.”

“Jack…?”

But he’s already jogging down the sidewalk.

You blink.

“Jack!”

He waves without turning around and disappears around the corner. You just stand there. Alone. Outside a courthouse. In a white dress. About to get married. Possibly abandoned.

“…cool,” you mutter. “Love this for me.”

You check your phone. No texts. No calls.

Five minutes pass. Then seven.

Okay.

Now you’re spiraling.

Did he panic? Did this suddenly feel too real? Did you both just speedrun a proposal and now he’s having a crisis behind a vending machine somewhere?

Right when you’re about to march back to the car…

“Hey!”

You turn and there he is. A little out of breath, hair wind-tousled, grinning like an idiot. Relief slams into you so hard you almost cry.

“You absolute jerk,” you snap, marching toward him. “Where did you…”

He holds something up between his fingers. Two small velvet boxes. Your brain short-circuits.

“…what.”

“There’s a jeweler two blocks over,” he says, slightly breathless. “I couldn’t… I didn’t want you to not have rings.”

Your throat closes.

“I know we said courthouse quick and whatever,” he continues, suddenly shy, “but… I wanted something you could look down at during shift and remember we did this. That it’s real.”

He opens the boxes. Two simple bands.

Gold. Clean. Classic.

Nothing flashy, just solid. Forever.

Your eyes fill instantly.

“You ran to buy rings?” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“You idiot,” you choke out, smiling.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But I’m your idiot.”

You throw your arms around him.

He laughs into your hair, hugging you tight. He presses his forehead to yours.

“C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s get married before we’re late for work.”

***********

The courthouse doors open with a heavy, reluctant creak, like the building itself is tired.

Inside, the air smells faintly of disinfectant and old paper, the kind of scent every public building seems to share. The lights are too bright after the soft gold of outside, fluorescent and unforgiving, humming quietly overhead. Beige tile floors, plastic chairs lined against the wall, a corkboard cluttered with notices about parking permits and jury summons. It’s deeply, aggressively ordinary.

You look at Jack. He looks at you.

And something about the sheer lack of romance makes you both start laughing under your breath, like kids who snuck into somewhere they shouldn’t be.

“This is it, huh?” you murmur.

He squeezes your hand. “Five-star venue. Very exclusive.”

Your fingers stay threaded together as you check in at the clerk’s desk. There, a tired woman with reading glasses squints at you both.

“Marriage license?” she asks.

Jack nods.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looks between you, then down at your dress, then at his shirt.Then back at you with the faintest, knowing smile.

“Night shift?” she asks.

You both freeze.

“…how did you-”

“Honey, I’ve worked this desk twenty years,” she says. “I can spot hospital people a mile away.”

You laugh. She slides the forms under the glass.

“Fill these out. Ceremony room’s at the end of the hall. Judge’ll be free in ten.”

Ten minutes. Your heart flips. Ten minutes until he’s your husband.

While Jack finishes the paperwork, you wander a few steps away, suddenly jittery with energy. There’s a tiny vending machine nook down the corridor.

And next to it…

A sad little stand. Plastic buckets. Half-wilted carnations. Baby’s breath. And one bunch of small white daisies wrapped in cellophane. Probably leftover from someone’s graduation or something.

You stare at them.

They’re imperfect. A little messy. A little crooked. You love them immediately.

Three dollars in coins from your scrubs pocket. That’s all they cost. You peel the plastic off and hold them in your hands.

Simple. Soft. Enough.

When you walk back, Jack looks up. Sees the flowers. His entire face melts.

“Where did you get those?” he asks.

“High-end floral boutique,” you say seriously. “Next to the vending machine.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They were three dollars.”

“Still beautiful.”

He says it like he means you. Not the flowers. You feel heat climb your cheeks.

Your last names get called and you walk inside. The ceremony room is tiny, smaller than you expected, just a little office with folding chairs and a state flag in the corner. A fake ficus plant. A desk pushed against the wall.

That’s it.

No music. No aisle. Just you. Him. A middle-aged judge with kind eyes and sensible shoes.

She smiles gently.

“Just the two of you today?”

Jack squeezes your hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just us.”

Perfect.

Two courthouse employees linger near the wall with clipboards, polite and detached. Witnesses, apparently. One of them gives you a small smile, like she’s seen this a hundred times and still finds it sweet. It makes everything feel oddly real.

Not a dream. Not something private and imaginary. Official. Documented. Witnessed.

The judge says a few simple words. Nothing flowery, nothing long, just talk of partnership and commitment and choosing each other every day. The ordinary miracle of building a life side by side. The language is plain, almost practical, which somehow makes it land harder.

You barely hear half of it, because you’re too busy looking at Jack. At the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars yourself. Eyes soft. A little glassy. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real, or that this is actually happening.

There are no vows. No speeches. No promises you rehearsed in the mirror. Just the judge glancing between you and asking, gently:

“Do you take this man to be your husband?”

“I do,” you say, voice steadier than you expected.

“And you? Do you take this woman to be your wife?”

“I do,” he answers, just as quick, like there was never any other option.

He reaches into his pocket, fingers fumbling slightly as he pulls out the small velvet box from earlier. For the first time since you got here, he looks nervous.

Not scared. Just… careful. Like this matters more than anything.

He slides the ring out and takes your left hand, his touch warm and familiar. You feel the faint tremor in his fingers as he guides the band over your knuckle. It’s simple gold, nothing fancy, but when it settles into place it feels strangely right, like something that’s always belonged there.

Like it was waiting for you. Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur softly, blinking fast. “My turn.”

You open the other box and take his hand. His skin is warm, pulse steady under your fingertips. You push the ring down slowly, feeling the shape of his hand, memorizing the moment. He watches you like you’re doing something sacred.

When the band slides into place, he lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

Like relief.

Like home.

The judge smiles at both of you, satisfied, and closes the folder with a soft clap.

“Well,” she says gently, “that’s it.”

A tiny pause. Then:

“You may kiss your wife.”

The word hits you both at the same time. Wife.

His breath catches. His hand slides up your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye, gentle and reverent, like you’re something fragile and holy and he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too fast.

And then he kisses you. Slow. Deep. Not rushed. Not messy. Just warm and sure and full of everything you don’t have words for. It tastes like toothpaste and coffee and him. Like early mornings driving home half-asleep. Like shared granola bars at 3 a.m. Like every shift you’ve survived shoulder to shoulder.

Like home.

When you pull back, your foreheads rest together and you’re both smiling like idiots, a little dazed.

Married.

Just like that.

No music. No aisle. No big moment. Just love. And fluorescent lighting.

You huff out a shaky laugh, tears threatening anyway. “We really just did that.”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

He turns your hand slightly, brushing his thumb over your new ring like he needs to check it’s real. “Hey,” he adds, quieter, almost shy. “My wife.”

Your heart does a little jump.

“My husband,” you say back.

You check your phone out of habit and immediately grimace. “It’s 6:18.”

He snorts. “Of course it is.”

There’s no dramatic rush, no sprinting for the door. Just the two of you exchanging a look that says yeah, that tracks.

You grab his hand, bouquet tucked against your hip, and he squeezes your fingers once before leading you back out into the hallway.

“C’mon,” he says, already walking. “If we’re late, you’re explaining it to Dana.”

“That’s not fair, this was your idea.”

“Yeah,” he says, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Worth it though.”

And together you head back to the car, rings catching the last light of the evening, two slightly underdressed, newly married idiots on their way to clock in for night shift like nothing monumental just happened at all. Like this is just another day.

Only now, you’re his. And he’s yours.

***********

Inside the ER, the familiar sounds hit immediately; phones ringing, someone laughing too loudly at the desk, the squeak of stretcher wheels, the constant low murmur of controlled chaos. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee wraps around you like muscle memory.

Lockers first.

The white dress gets folded carefully into your bag, softer now, like it belongs to another life entirely. You pull on your scrubs, tie your hair back, wash your face quickly.

For a moment, you just stand there looking at your left hand. The ring catches the fluorescent light when you flex your fingers. Simple gold, nothing flashy. But it feels heavier now. Warmer.

You turn it once around your finger, just to feel it there. Still real. Still yours.

When you step out, Jack’s already finished changing. He bumps your shoulder lightly as you pass each other, an unconscious touch, the same as always, except now it sends a little electric current up your spine.

Your husband.

Jesus.

You’re going to lose your mind if you keep thinking that.

Dana is at the nurses’ station when you walk out, flipping through charts with the kind of focus that suggests someone’s personally offended her with bad handwriting.

“Nice of you two to join us,” she says without looking up. “Thought you called out together or something.”

“Tempting,” you reply, logging into the computer beside her.

“Yeah, yeah. You can rest when you’re dead.”

It’s normal. Completely normal. The same start to every shift you’ve had for months, which feels surreal, considering you got married less than an hour ago.

Report rolls on. Room numbers. Admits. Staffing gripes. Someone already asking about coffee. You jot notes automatically, brain sliding into work mode like muscle memory.

Across the station, Jack leans beside Robby, talking through bed assignments, one hip against the counter, arms loosely crossed. Calm. Focused. He looks exactly like he always does at the start of shift.

No one would ever guess. Your gaze drops to your hand as you type. The ring catches the fluorescent light. Just a small flash of gold. It sends a stupid, giddy warmth straight through your chest.

Your husband.

God.

You look down too long, and Dana notices. She pauses mid-sentence, eyes narrowing slightly at your keyboard.

“…hold on,” she mutters.

You instinctively still.

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

She doesn’t answer. She just stares at your hand resting on the desk. Then at your face. Then back at the ring. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“You were not wearing that yesterday,” she says slowly.

Your heart leaps into your throat. Across the station, Jack glances over at the shift in her tone. He watches you lean closer to her, shoulder brushing hers, like you’re about to share gossip.

You whisper, “Don’t react.”

Dana immediately reacts. Her hand clamps onto your forearm.

“You didn’t,” she breathes.

“Shh,” you whisper, already smiling. “Just- keep your voice down.”

“You didn’t,” she repeats, louder this time, eyes going wide and shiny. “You two did not-”

“What?” Robby calls from across the desk.

Dana looks between you and Jack like her brain can’t decide who to yell at first. You try to shush her, but it’s too late. She turns fully toward both of them.

“Are you kidding me right now?” she blurts.

Jack straightens. “What did we do?”

Dana points dramatically at your hand.

“Explain. The ring.”

Everything goes very still for half a second. Robby looks at your hand, then automatically at Jack’s… Because of course he does.

And there it is. Same simple gold band. His eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into his hairline.

“…no way,” he says.

Jack exhales through his nose, caught, like a kid who just got busted sneaking candy. You and him lock eyes across the station. There’s that tiny, helpless smile again.

“Well,” you say softly, because there’s no point pretending now, “we had the afternoon free.”

Dana makes the most offended noise you’ve ever heard. “You got married and then just came to work like it’s nothing?!”

“Courthouse,” Jack says, shrugging like you’re talking about grabbing groceries. “Took twenty minutes.”

“TWENTY-” she chokes. “I hate you both.”

Robby lets out a low whistle. “Before shift? That’s… actually kinda badass.”

“It was impulsive,” you say, laughing.

“It was insane,” Dana corrects, but she’s already tearing up. “Oh my god. You idiots. That’s disgustingly romantic.”

She grabs your hand to look closer at the ring, then immediately grabs Jack’s wrist too, comparing like she’s inspecting matching tattoos.

“They match,” she says, voice wobbling. “I can’t deal with this. I’m too tired to be this emotional.”

Jack looks mildly alarmed. “Please don’t cry at the desk.”

“No promises.”

Robby claps Jack on the shoulder. “Congrats, brother.”

Jack just nods, a little bashful now, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Then he looks at you. Not big. Not dramatic. Just soft. Private. Like the rest of the room fades out for a second.

“Guess we’re stuck with each other,” he says.

It’s the most Jack thing he could possibly say.

You smile back. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

Dana sniffs loudly. “Okay, great, beautiful, love wins, whatever. Trauma room two is waiting and you’re both still on the schedule, married or not. Move.”

And just like that, the moment folds back into the noise of the ER, monitors beeping, phones ringing, someone calling for transport.

Life continuing.

Only now there’s a small band of gold on your hand when you reach for gloves.

And every time you catch Jack’s eye across the department, there’s that quiet, stunned look between you both.

Like you’re sharing the best secret in the world. 

By the time you get home, the sun is fully up and the world is already loud again; traffic, neighbors, someone mowing a lawn down the block. It feels wrong, somehow, after the strange bubble of the night. You barely make it through brushing your teeth before you both collapse into bed, still half damp from the shower, limbs heavy and boneless with exhaustion.

Jack falls into you automatically, like he always does, one arm slung over your waist, his face tucked into your neck. You tangle together without thinking, sheets twisted around your legs, his thumb drawing slow, sleepy circles against your side. Neither of you says anything. There’s nothing left to say.

A few minutes later, just before you drift off, he presses a lazy kiss into your shoulder and murmurs, “Night, wife,” like it’s the most normal word in the world. You smile into the pillow, pull him closer, and finally let sleep take you both.

***********

a/n: So... what I meant is... I know you probably can't just go and get married right away, but for the sake of the story let's pretend you can 😆

I hope you like this! Let me know if you do :)

[imaginesofwonder]

Where the Hell Is My Husband? - Jack Abbot x Reader

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

WC: 1.5k

Summary: It was supposed to be date night… but Jack was nowhere to be seen.

A/N: This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.

Masterlist

After being with Jack for years, you two had fallen into a rhythm together. One constant: every two weeks, a day was set aside for a date. Sometimes brunch, sometimes running errands together, sometimes just dinner out. Tonight was supposed to be date night, at some new, upscale restaurant on the far end of town that a fellow doctor had recommended to Jack.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror one last time, ensuring that everything was perfect. Heels on, Jack’s favourite dress hugging you in all of the right places and lipstick with no smudge in the slightest.

However, one thing was missing.

Jack.

Your phone sat on the counter, silent. No call. No text. Nothing. You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged on your lips. Of course, he was late. Trauma cases didn't exactly respect your dinner plans.

“Jack,” you muttered under your breath, tapping your fingers on the counter as you waited. “You’re something else.”

Still, you knew where he was. Probably elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity, saving their life. He probably forgot the world outside of work. And yet… You couldn't help but feel a little pang of annoyance that made your arms cross over your chest.

You stalked around your apartment, heel clicking against the floor as you filled a bag. If Jack wasn’t coming home, you were going to him. 

And with that, you sling your bag over your shoulder, grab your coat, and leave for the hospital. 

– 

The sliding doors of the hospital opened with a soft hiss, and your heels clicked against the polished floor. The familiar hum of the hospital filled you, the beeping monitors, soft chatter and distant calls over the intercom. Your eyes scanned the room as you made your way to the nurses' station, searching for him. 

“Hey, honey!”

You looked up to see Dana, the Charge Nurse for the daytime shift, waving with a warm smile. “Looking gorgeous as always,” she added, giving you a quick hug.

“Thanks,” you replied with a shrug, trying to hide the edge of your annoyance. “The things we do for our husbands.”

From behind, a sharp, mischievous voice chimed in. “Ohhh, look at you!”

Dr. Ellis leaned against the desk, hoodie half-zipped, and sneakers scuffed from a long shift, grinning as she looked you up and down. 

“I don’t know if I should be jealous or terrified, honestly. Jack’s gonna melt into a puddle when he sees you.”

“That’s the plan,” you said with a shrug, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Or at least… it was.”

Ellis leaned on the counter, grinning. “Ooooh, he must be in trouble. I can see the smoke already.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Careful, Ellis… keep it up and you’re gonna see way more than just smoke.”

Ellis threw her hands up, eyes wide in mock surrender. “Okay, okay! I wasn’t planning to get burned today, unlike someone.”

You smirked, still chuckling. “You’re fine; the only person facing my wrath will be Jack.”

“Now that I need to see,” Dana said, raising her eyebrows.

You leaned on the counter. “Where the hell is my husband anyway?”

Dana gave a sympathetic smile. “Oh, he’s in Trauma Room 3. Got called into a case. Multiple car pile-ups, he's probably elbow-deep in it right now.”

Dana’s words barely left the air before you let out a quiet sigh, though it carried more amusement than frustration.

“Of course he is,” you murmured. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“They brought the worst one straight to him,” Dana added as she took a seat at her computer.

That didn't surprise you in the slightest. Jack was good, damn good. Years of experience meant he was the one they trusted the most with the worst cases. It was one of the things you loved the most about him, his ability to lead, even if it meant waiting sometimes.

Ellis tilted her head at you. “You’re taking this suspiciously well for someone all dressed up.”

You shrugged lightly. “I married a trauma doctor who loves his job. Expecting him to always be on time would’ve been my first mistake.”

Dana laughed softly. “Fair point.”

You leaned in closer to the women, speaking quietly enough for only them to hear. “Besides,” you added with a sly smile, “now I get to make sure Jack works for what he wants.”

Ellis barked out a laugh. “You cheeky little thing,” She had a feeling her coworker was going to be in for a very long night once he finished that trauma case.

Dana shook her head, smiling as she glanced down the hall towards the trauma rooms. “Poor Abbot,” she said with a small chuckle. “Man just finished wrestling a major trauma to have to come out and fight with his wife looking like that.”

You just smiled sweetly, smoothing a hand over your dress to avoid wrinkles as you turned your gaze towards the rooms at the end of the hall.

As if on cue, the double doors swung open.

A couple of nurses stepped out first, pulling off their gloves and chatting about labs and scans. Perlah was the first one you recognized. She spotted you and immediately slowed, eyes widening as she nudged the other nurse, whom you thought was Princess.

They both glanced back towards the trauma room with barely contained grins, whispering among themselves. Even the nurses knew Jack was in for it.

A moment later, Jack stepped out.

His shoulders looked heavier than usual, and the exhaustion from the case was settling on his face as he tugged his gloves off. He reached up to rub the back of his neck in relief when he looked up.

And froze.

His eyes found you instantly. 

He took in the heels.

The dress.

The makeup.

Standing there in the middle of the ED, as if you had stepped straight out of date night.

For a split second, the trauma attending who had just run an entire emergency team looked like his brain had completely shut down.

Then the realization hit him.

His eyes widened.

“…Oh shit.”

Behind you, Ellis clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

Dana just leaned back in her chair, watching the scene unfold with open amusement.

And Jack stood there, staring at his wife like a man who had suddenly remembered something very, very important.

Because he knew.

He had forgotten date night.

Jack quickly made his way towards you, running a hand through his hair.

When he got close, you could see the tiredness that clung to his eyes, but also the look of regret written all over his face.

“Hey,” he said softly, stopping in front of you.

You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms.

“Hey?”

He winced immediately. “Right— no,”  He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry. The pile-up came in and I just—”

“You forgot,” you finished for him.

Jack nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. I forgot.”

Behind you, Ellis and Dana were very clearly pretending to type on their computers while they watched the interaction like it was prime television. Perlah and Princess stood near a code cart nearby, suddenly looking very interested in the equipment they definitely knew how to use.

You stepped a little closer, invading Jack’s space just enough that he instinctively leaned down towards you.

Then you reached up and gently straightened the collar of his scrubs.

Jack blinked in surprise.

“You’re lucky,” you murmured, “that you're hot and pretty good at saving lives.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, relief flickering across his face.

“You’re not mad?” he asked cautiously.

You tilted your head, considering him for a moment. Looking at him, tired, apologetic, still coming down from the high of saving someone’s life. It was hard to stay mad for long.

“Oh, I’m still making you work for it,” you said sweetly.

Behind you, Ellis snorted.

Jack’s ears turned slightly red.

You smoothed a hand down the front of his scrubs before stepping back. “Now go change,” you added casually. “So we can go home.”

He blinked. “Home?”

“I already called the restaurant,” you said, picking up your bag from the counter and handing it towards him. “Told them we’re doing pickup instead.”

Jack stared at you for a second, clearly processing that. “You… did?”

“Mhm.” You nodded toward the hallway. “Now go change.”

Jack looked back at you, something soft settling into his expression, something warm and a little overwhelmed. For a moment, the tough trauma doctor disappeared, replaced by the man who loved you.

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

Then he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before heading down the hall. 

The moment he disappeared around the corner, Ellis spun in her chair.

“Oh, my god.”

Dana shook her head with a laugh. “That man is so whipped.”

Perlah grinned. “Completely.”

Princess nodded. “I’ve never seen a trauma attending run that fast.”

You glanced down the hallway where Jack had disappeared, a small warmth settling in your chest. Maybe he was.

But that was only because Jack Abbott loved his wife more than anything.

[annsfics]

♡ things a man provides ♡

♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader

♡ 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.

[paperlotus613]

🧵| What Dragons want | Sylus🐦‍⬛

First encounter with Sylus / ↻+♡ appreciated

“No,wait, hold the door please!” you rush toward the elevator, forcing yourself through the closing doors. The tall, silver-haired man inside sees you coming.

“Thank y–“ You stop as he lifts his finger off the door close button with a disappointed sigh. “Asshole!” you think. You shoot him a sharp look, but he doesn’t even glance your way.

“Waiting until you can order me to press another button?” he pauses. “Or should the elevator guess your floor?” His voice is so deep, it stirs something oddly primal in you.

“Don’t worry! I wouldn’t dare ask Sephiroth for a favor again. Not like he’d comply anyway,” you mutter. You spot a faint, amused smile tugs at his lips, though you’re not sure he got the reference.

You reach for the top floor button, only to see it’s already lit. You lean back against the wall and remain silent while the elevator moves up. *THUNK*! The elevator comes to an abrupt stop! You instinctively grab the nearest thing to steady yourself – his arm.

To your surprise, he lifts you up instead of shrugging you off. You hear a harsh mechanical whirr. The lights flicker. He presses the emergency button and annoyed reports: “Elevator stalled. Hysterical woman trapped inside with me. Hurry or I’ll shut your hotel down by tonight.” his voice demanding, but calm. “Oh, Mr. Sylus!! Of course!! Our deepest apologies, we–“ the operator stammers. “NOW!” he interrupts sharply.

“Excuse you?? I didn’t even say a word & you call me hysterical?” you snap. “If anything, I should be complaining about being stuck in here with you. Unbelievable!” You keep going & his amused expression makes you feel like you’re proving his point.

The operator informs you, it’ll take 15–20 minutes. Your stomach growls loudly. He looks at you as if the sound was a direct insult to him. “You owe me breakfast,” you declare. “Oh? And how did I earn that punishment?” he asks.

“If you had just opened the door properly, I wouldn’t have forced it, the elevator wouldn’t have broken, and I wouldn’t be missing 15 minutes of breakfast.” He presses the emergency button again. “Prepare a doctor when we get out. The hysterical woman hit her head.”

“OH MY GOD, I HAVE NEVER MET SOMEONE THIS RUDE! ARE YOU INSANE?” you shout. “Are you?” he replies, clearly entertained. Now you press the emergency button. “Hello? Mr. Sylus, we’re still-“ – “This is NOT Mr. Sylus!” you cut in.

“Look- I’m locked in here with that Witcher-looking guy. I expect compensation! As well as complimentary service!” “Ah, yes, of course, ma’am,” the operator stammers. A hint of amusement flashes in Sylus’ eyes as he studies you.

“What now? What is Sylus Targaryen planning to lie about this time?” you hiss. He finally laughs. It was unexpectedly comforting. At least one reference landed with him. “I think...,” he says stepping closer to you, “...it would be more accurate to call me the dragon.”

His red eyes gleaming at you. “And you should be careful…” he whispers dangerously close to your ears. “Dragons don’t usually let people grab them, unless they’re deciding whether to keep them… or burn them.”

[art-by-ady]

Easy, Tiger 🐈

This banner is so cute. Just another reimagining of this scenario. Kinda makes sense to be in your birthday suit tho if you transform from a cat then back to being a human 😂

Frame by frame ⬇️

[m-oo-ncake]

The Dragon

NSFW 18+

Sylus is a Warlord, and he knows you're out there somewhere... and he's done waiting for you.

5.2K word count.

There were no screams, no smoke—not yet. If anything, the day was perfect, with the midday sunshine draping over your shoulders like a shawl. The breeze carried that sweet scent of wildflowers from the fields beyond your small town, warm and pleasant. 

But you could feel it. 

Dread, heavy and oily in your gut. 

Something was coming.

Someone. 

It was inevitable, really. All of the villages to the south had been pillaged months ago by the clashing Warlords, and the straggling survivors now crawled about your streets for refuge. You prayed it might be the terror from the South, or even that brute from the West… anyone but the Dragon. 

They said that he’d been born in the depths of a volcano, cracked from an egg that fell from the heavens, his godly appetite ill-suited for this earthly realm. You shuddered to even think what he might look like. No doubt he was a dark and endless form, with scales of steel, blades for teeth, and eyes that burned like coals. 

Today was stunning, and still, you knew. You knew. 

It felt almost juvenile to be upset. Why must a calamity happen today, of all days? This was meant to be your moment. For months, you’d waited patiently, worked persistently, and there upon your hip was your completed marital pouch. You chose to finalise the embroidery with golden silk strands, the phoenix flaring its metallic wings… but from a distance, you supposed it looked more like a crow. 

You were going to give it to a suitor this evening, the ceremony to begin at sunset. The entire town was hustling for it, laughing and gathering supplies. How could they not feel it? Not see it? That stillness that pierced the air, how the shadows were darker… deeper… like you might fall in…

You tried to swallow away the dryness that stuck in your throat. You had to flee, and yet your feet remained rooted in the earth. Even if you sounded an alarm, who would believe you? Now clutching your pouch to your chest, you let out a deep sigh. 

And you ran. 

Not to escape, but for help. The merchant city wasn’t far, half a day’s journey if you didn’t stop. Perhaps you’d manage to convince some soldiers to come. If you were wrong, well, it was best to be precautious. 

+++

You’d barely run for ten minutes before you felt it.

Something was watching. Following.

Waiting.

Like the calm before the storm, something crackled through the grassland, vivid and alive. With a shiver, you slowed your pace, whipping your head over your shoulder to catch the culprit.

Nothing, only swaying green and the blurring of pretty blooms.

With a relieved sigh, you pressed on.

Only to be met with the looming presence of him.

There he stood, a statue carved from marble. Carved from death. By the gods, he was tall. Thighs like trunks, torso rippling with muscle, arms folded across the expansive plane of his chest. Then you met his gaze, and the breath was stolen right out of your lungs.

Like gemstones, those ruby eyes gleamed, burning bright and framed by sharp features, and ashen hair that fell down his form like a waterfall. Obsidian horns towered from his head, gleaming, almost wet. Thin chains of gold wrapped about his bare chest, as well as decorative paint.

And then he took a step toward you. Then another. You’d been running before, but now?

You bolted, heart hammering like a drum—a war drum.

You barely made it ten strides before you were ensnared by two enormous arms.

With a shriek, you thrashed and fought, but it was no use. The tower of a Warlord hoisted you over his shoulder, a darkly delighted chuckle rumbling from his throat. You smacked your fists against his pale, painted back, the swirls of paint smearing from your blows.

“Let go of me!”

The Dragon chuckled again.

“Let me go! Let me GO!”

“Or what?” He finally spoke, voice smooth and rich, his taunt coiling about your neck like a noose.

You kept fighting, scratching hard against his back, slicing his skin, but he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. With all your strength, you managed to hoist yourself up just enough to sink your teeth into the back of his neck. You dug deep until the taste of copper dribbled down your throat.

The Warlord erupted into laughter. Even as the crimson dripped down his back, like streaks of new paint, he merely shook you about, and you slung back down. Tears welled at the corners of your eyes, your panic now ripening into full-blown fear.

What was he going to do to you?

“Please,” you whispered this time, brimmed with terror. “Please, please don’t hurt me.”

Your frightened plea had the Warlord halt, and he placed you down into the grass. Your lower lip trembled as you stared at him, a hot pain blooming behind your eyes, and you held back the tears. And then, your heart sank into your knees, as he produced your pouch.

Dangling from two fingers, he held the pouch out to taunt you. “Your elders spoke of this. A girl gives it as a present to her beloved. Isn’t that right?”

Petrified, you barely managed to nod.

The Warlord—the Dragon—leaned forward, until he was so close his nose was a breath from yours. “Do you have a lover?”

Again, terror clawed at you, and you shook your head.

He gripped your chin, not enough to hurt, but just enough to convey that he could.

“Tsk.” With his other hand, he still dangled the pouch, and you couldn’t help but side-eye it. “I said, 'Do you have a lover?”

Oh.

Dragging back to meet his stare, you swallowed thickly, as if it might aid your heart back into place. “If I did, then he wouldn’t hurt my people?” You’d intended to sound strong, but your voice was pitched and breathless.

The Dragon smirked, lifting his chin with satisfaction, and purred, “he wouldn’t.”

“Then yes,” you agreed softly. “I do have a lover.”

He curled the pouch into his fist, and with one last moment to stare into you, the Warlord released you. Skin prickled and hot from his touch, you rubbed at it. 

“Come along, then,” he ordered, something dark simmering beneath that blood-red gaze. “Let us be wed, then.”

+++

The wedding was awful.

Cold, silent, and thrumming with fear.

Sylus, however, was anything but. Unable to leave his side, the warmth of his body seeped into you. After the vows, he had insisted on a bonfire, to which he drank and sang, all in your honour. Witnessing the Dragon drunk might have been amusing if he weren’t so terrifying.

Your entire town watched you quiver before the white-haired man, heads hung, and gazes averted. Not even your parents came to your defence. What was worse than the wedding was knowing it would eventually come to an end.

And you would be his.

You knew it was a fool’s dream to believe your first time would be in love. That it would be kind and gentle. At least you’d been able to choose your husband, though. You had one or two in mind, having grown up with some of the men.

Seated at a grand table, food being brought to you in waves, you tried to smile. Really, you did. You didn’t want Sylus thinking you were ungrateful, after all. He was going to spare your village, all for something as simple as you?

You could be miserable all you wanted, but at least your people would live.

And yet, he noticed your stiffness. How your shoulders tensed, and your fingers trembled, even as you clenched them in your lap. With one large hand, he settled it around the base of your neck, and you couldn’t help but flinch.

“Are you cold?” He drawled, knowing very well you weren’t, and with gentle pressure, began to massage you.

With a deep breath, you steadied your smile and blinked up at him. “A little.”

“Come closer, then.”

Grabbing the edge of your chair, he dragged you over. Your short breaths drew to a complete stop as your arm brushed against his.

“Thank you,” you managed to murmur.

With a slow smile, he leaned down and inhaled, letting your scent fill his lungs. “You’re welcome… wife.”

A shiver ripped up your spine, right into Sylus’ grip as he continued to work your muscles carefully. “Surely you’re still not cold?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“My lap is available.”

You looked at him then—really looked at him, with his smooth skin, firm jaw, and prominent nose. You noticed how in the firelight, he seemed softer, more human, horns almost invisible against the night that lurked behind him. If you had enough to drink, you might even forget he was a Warlord.

 “Um,” you chewed your lip, not sure how to reject him—if you could.

His rumbling chuckle reverberated between you. “Why do you look so startled? I’m not going to bite, unlike you,” he purred the word.

Your eyes flickered to where you’d sunk your teeth, the mark covered with a healing balm, but even through the waxen appearance, you could see the red marks.

“I’m sorry for that.”

“I’ve faced far more vicious foes than you,” he said with jest, and yet you knew it was true. Then, he patted the top of his thighs, motioning with his brows to obey. With a silent whimper, you crawled from your seat, sitting tentatively on him. He tugged at your hips, planting you more firmly, one hand coming to rest on your knee.

“Lean back,” his command was soft, but a command it was.

You did, heartbeat stuck in your throat. By the gods, he was warm, even shirtless; the heat from him engulfed you, threatening to burn you alive.

“Comfortable?” he asked into the shell of your ear.

You were distinctly aware of how your rear was pressed against him, how the plush of your thighs fit against his. You bit down on your tongue to withhold a yelp as you felt his mouth brush the nape of your neck.

“I have half a mind to return the favour,” and as promised, his teeth scraped ever so gently along your skin. With a violent shudder, you clenched everywhere, bracing for pain. “Where I am from, leaving marks is a great romantic gesture.”

Of course it was.

“Oh,” you uttered weakly. “I didn’t know that.”

“Do you accept?” He purred, the force of it thundering through you.

What was the alternative? Scanning the crowd, seeing all those you ever loved, you took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

He chuckled darkly, his hands coming to settle on your hips. “That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.”

You let your head loll onto his shoulder, hoping that your closed eyes conveyed a dreamy look. “Please.”

You couldn’t help but scrunch, anticipating the pain… only it never came. Sylus planted a tender kiss upon your pulse point, breathing in deep once more, as if trying to drown in you.

“It doesn’t count if you don’t mean it,” he whispered into your skin.

You sucked in your bottom lip, afraid he’d punish you for it, but he merely guided you off his lap, letting you slip back onto your own seat. Blinking up at him with startled confusion, he smiled, but you noticed the sliver of sorrow swimming within them.

You went to lie, to convince him that you’d do anything he asked… but the words didn’t come.

The night moved quickly, your people coming to loosen up as the pleasant flow of alcohol washed away the nerves. Sylus wouldn’t hurt anyone, not as long as you remained by his side. Still, the only thing holding him back was his word, and all heard tales of the Dragon’s temper. None dared do anything but drink and smile.

With much dread, it came time to retire.  The rest of Sylus’ camp had arrived, participating in the late events, their tents littering the open space beyond the walls of your town. And so, with your hand interlaced in his, you were led away.

++++

You sat on the edge of the bed, blood ice cold. Sylus had his back to you as he removed his jewellery. You stared holes through him, watching the massive expanse of him subtly flex with his movements. Every aspect of him was enormous, and you could only quiver with fear, actively gulping.

When Sylus finally turned, he met your gaze and held it, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Are you going to sleep in that?”

You peered down, forgetting that you were still clad in a ceremonial gown. A heat crept up your neck, a stark contrast to the chill that haunted you.

“I have nothing else.”

You anticipated a crude remark about being naked, but rather, he paced across the luxurious tent and fetched you a linen gown. “Here,” he said, passing it to you.

Clearing your throat, you rose to change, but there was nowhere to offer cover. At this point, Sylus had reclined into the bed, hands tucked behind his head in a leisurely manner, eyes never once leaving you.

He wanted to watch.

Your whole body was on fire, knees wobbling slightly as your head spun. No one had ever seen you naked before, and you couldn’t quite comprehend that a carnivorous Warlord would be the first.  

Cheeks aflame, you began slowly, half cowered from his prying gaze. The sleeves of your gown slipped down your arms, the front coming to soften about your chest. Closing your eyes to hide, you let the rest of it slip down and crumple at your feet, and with haste, slipped into the garment Sylus offered you.

Opening your eyes, you dared a peek at the giant man, only to find he had his head tilted right back, eyes closed. A soft snore slipped from him, and like a bucket of water, relief washed over you.

He hadn’t seen.

Crawling in beside him, he was still atop some of the blankets. You held your breath as you poked his bicep. Like a crocodile, one blazing red eye cracked open, slitted pupil focusing into a round one as it registered you.

“You’re… you’re on the blanket,” your hushed tone barely left your lips.

With a lazy smirk, he adjusted, and you were both beneath the spread. Lying flat on your back, you stared at the roof, wondering if waking him had been a mistake. You could have simply slept on the floor, shivering cold, but unclaimed.

Still your own.

Sylus rolled onto his side to face you, fingertips ghosting along your temple, coming to trace the curve of your ear.

“Is this ok?” He murmured.

Your vision flickered onto him, and his gaze drooped down to notice your quivering bottom lip. He removed his touch.

“I won’t touch you,” he whispered, a strange pain twisting across his face. “Not unless you want me to.”

This was the Dragon? The man who burned houses and slaughtered the innocent? You didn’t believe it. This was a trick, some ploy to have you lower your guard. You knew the second you fell asleep, he’d pounce.

With a sudden possession of courage, glancing back to the ceiling, you rasped, “What if I don’t want you to ever touch me?”

A barely audible gasp escaped his lips—yet you still heard it. He huffed, averting his gaze, then settled onto his back, the same as you. “Then I will never touch you.”

You weren’t sure why, but tears welled at the corners of your eyes.

“That’s it?”

He scoffed. “You almost sound disappointed.”

“I…” You trailed off, needing to gather your jumbled thoughts. “You have a reputation… Sylus.” You whispered his name, the taste of it on your tongue nowhere near as repulsive as you’d thought.

“How many women have I wed?”

You paused, unsure.

He shifted, facing you once again, as if needing your gaze. “You are the first… the only.”

You felt your face go pink. “Oh.”

He held up his palm, and he let it hover in the space between you. Accepting the gentle invitation, you pressed your own against his. He was so warm, so real, his touch creating a tangle of emotion in your stomach.

+++

You awoke with Sylus’ large hand splayed across your ribcage, the warm expanse of his chest pressed against your back. One of your feet was tangled between his legs, and as the grogginess of slumber wore off, you could feel the gentle puff of his breath stir at the back of your head.

You didn’t bolt. Didn’t even move, actually.

Although there was still that lingering thump of fear within your chest, there was something else.

Sylus woke and immediately withdrew himself. The sudden coldness hit you like a slap. Rolling over, you felt confused at the disappointment settling in your chest. You trailed after him as he rose. 

“My camp will stay here until you are ready to leave,” he stated, already half-dressed, clipping his chains back on.

Your heart stopped.

Leave?

Of course you’d be leaving. He was a Warlord, a conqueror. His apparent wealth didn’t sprout from the dirt.

You felt unworthy to ask him for another hour, let alone a day. But you longed to say goodbye, to convince your family you’d be alright. That you… might even be happy. Eventually. Maybe.

“Sylus,” you mumbled, his name still so foreign. “Could I please have one more day?”

He turned to face you, fully decorated. Standing there, you couldn’t help but gawk. “A day? You don’t wish for longer? I was prepared to remain here for a month, perhaps even two.”

Your jaw dropped.

His features softened. “I only conquer those who oppose me. Your home has been nothing but welcoming… even if it came from fear. But they are kind. They didn’t need to be kind. I will not rip you from your home.”

His words held edge, an ancient pain laced through his tone… as if he spoke from experience.

“Thank you,” you breathed, unsure of what else to say.

+++

A month had passed since your wedding, and as promised, Sylus never touched you. He barely even looked at you, not unless you looked first. Spoke to him first. 

He had fortified your village’s defences, taught your people the art of the bow and sword, and even gifted the elders some of his wealth, so they might strengthen their trades. 

At night, he would return to you, quiet and distant. You slept in the same bed, and every morning, you awoke curled right into him. At this point, it shouldn’t have made you so flustered, to make you so quick to retreat. 

Whenever your gazes met, you felt your heart spike. As the early days spanned into weeks, you found it to be less out of apprehension and more with curiosity. 

Conversations with Sylus grew more meaningful. When you were bolder, you’d ask about the word and its people. He was always honest. He told you of the southern seas and their secret city, for the people wept pearls. He told you how the people to the west would glow at night, as did their flowers. 

You were shy to ask questions, but alas, you did. “Would you ever take me to see these places?” 

His grin filled you with a surprising warmth. “There is nothing I would ever deny you.”

It made you stay awake at night, staring up at the ceiling. Had the world been wrong about the Dragon?

No, they hadn’t.

The warhorses came at dawn.

At first, you thought it was a storm rolling across the far horizon, but Sylus knew. He jolted from the bed, sword in hand, his men shouting.

It was the Terror, the one from the distant sea. His flaming conquest left no survivors. He had heard of the new bride and wanted her for himself.

You stood on a hill, as did your people, as you all watched in helpless horror. The ebb and flow of blood and steel, how it screamed and sang. In the end, the Terror called for his retreat, and you stared out at him on his monstrous steed, the beast an impossible silver.

You narrowed your eyes in contempt, willing daggers to impale the back of his head. 

Sylus returned to you, dripping in gore. You said nothing, only held out your arm for him to take it.

He did.

You guided him not to your shared tent, but to the bathhouse. Entering the steamy hut, you ushered him to sit in the hot spring, all without a word. Sylus obeyed you, occasionally glancing up with a curious gleam.

Sitting by the edge, the hot water lapped at your shins, your bloodied husband nestled between them. You grabbed a cloth, and you began to wash him.

You finally broke the silence. “You saved us all.”

“I promised you my protection.”

“No,” you said, leaning in, arms wrapping around him so you could scrub his chest. “Actually, you didn’t.”

“Oh?” He huffed, but you could hear his smile.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his ear, your stomach twisting as you felt him shiver.

Silence filled the bathhouse once more as you continued your mission. You washed his hair next, fingertips scraping at his scalp, unable to resist a smile as you felt him purr.

“Dragon? More like a cat,” You teased him, your thumbs stroking at his temples.

Sylus’ eyes had been closed, enjoying your care as you dipped his head into the water, rinsing the soap out. Peering up at you, he arched a playful brow. “Is that so?”

You broke into a chuckle, biting your lip in an effort to stop. “Maybe.”

He sat upright, turning to fully face you, that gentle smile he only gave to you gracing his face. You blinked at him once. Twice. You reached in, cradling his face in your palms, gazing deep into those ruby voids.

“I’ve decided,” you announced, stomach flipping at the admission.

He arched a pale brow. “On what?”

You lowered your voice, leaning in slightly, so the breath of your words could caress his mouth. “I want you to touch me.”

You held his stare, heart fluttering as you noticed his right eye sharpening, its red hue glowing. Emboldened, you shifted closer until your noses aligned, lips brushing against his.

“I want you to make me yours.” And to fulfill your request, you pressed your lips to his, a promise.

… Only for him to pull back, his gasp sharp. “Are—are you sure?”

“Please,” you almost whined it, needing him to kiss you, devour you, make you scream.

His pupils flared, his astonishment fading and replaced by something darker, as if he’d heard your wicked little thoughts.

His hands seized your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the spring. You arched in, pressing your body into Sylus as his mouth captured yours. It started soft and teasing, but after several hammering heartbeats, he deepened the claim until it was pure and unrelenting.

You moaned against him, the sensation of it all like molten gold. Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging in as his tongue glided against yours, coaxing for more. He swallowed your breathless pants, your overwhelmed whimpers, all while his burning palms roamed.

Sylus pulled back, breathing ragged. “I have waited… so long for you.”

Something told you he meant more than the past few weeks.

“And now, finally, you’re mine.” His hands tightened on your hips, tugging you closer, like you might dare try to escape.

A startled whine slipped from you as he dipped down, licking the column of your neck. With a slow, deep inhale, a low rumble caught in his throat. “Mine.”

He bit you. Hard. And by the gods, was it glorious. Licking the sensitive mark, his hands glided up, up, up, fingertips grazing your nipples through your dress. You let out an indignant moan. He chuckled, pinching them.

“Ah!”

You were at his mercy now, arching deeper, needing to be closer.

“More,” you gasped. “Please, please, please.”

“Begging already?” He taunted, denying you.

You didn’t have the strength to be cheeky. “Whatever you want,” you sighed, fingers coming to curl at the nape of his neck. “Show me how it feels to be yours.”

Sylus let out a low groan at your words, teeth tugging at your earlobe. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them, sweetie.” His tone held warning. He was barely restraining himself.

You threaded your fingers deeper into his ashen locks. “Sylus, I need you. Right now.”

His control snapped. Fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, he had you wrap your legs about his waist, and once you were secure, lifted you from the water’s edge. He strode out of the bathhouse, right across the campsite—you didn’t care. Sylus didn’t stop until you were sprawled across your bed, panting with need.

“Your first time should be somewhere you feel warm,” he explained, caging himself over you. “Somewhere comfortable and safe.”

“I feel those things when I’m with you,” I murmured, caressing his cheek. 

He kissed you, sensual and slow, and seemed content to keep it that way. You, however, were impatient, a burning, aching need coiling low in your core. 

“Sylus,” you sighed into his mouth, nails raking down the back of his neck, digging into his shoulders. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”

Nipping at your bottom lip, he let out a dark chuckle. Sylus trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, gliding down the column of your neck. Gripping the front of your dress, he tore it right off, mindful not to hurt you in the process. Breasts bared for him, his grin was sinful, and he dipped down to suck on a nipple, squeezing the other. 

“I want to take my time with you,” he panted, switching to your other breast, licking at your sensitive bud. 

You threaded your fingers through his damp hair, squirming as he palmed and suckled, swirling his tongue with delicious pressure. You couldn’t help but whimper, try to clamp your legs shut as he descended lower, licking at your skin. His teeth grazed your hip bone, a teasing promise of what was to come.

“I want to savour your taste,” he murmured, voice thick. His words hung over you, already overwhelmed by the heat Sylus was stirring from you. It was only when his hands–those ridiculous, strong hands–gripped your thighs, ensuring that they remained completely open for him, did it register. 

You sucked down your yelp as his tongue flicked out, only a simple tease, but to you, it was maddening. Sylus began gently, although you could feel his thrumming restraint. It was almost testing, the way he licked, until finally, when you began to let yourself fall away into euphoria, he gave you everything. 

His grip on you tightened as he worked you, unrelenting until your cheeks were wet from pleasured tears. You tugged at his horns, squirmed to escape, the sensation impossible, pure, electric. You wouldn’t survive it. 

“It’s alright,” he rasped with reassurance, “you can come for me.”

You were no stranger to masturbation. Had given yourself countless orgasms, but nothing ever came close to what Sylus was doing to you. It was as if your soul was about to soar out of your body, your release threatening to plunge you into an abyss. 

The heat of him was going to shatter you entirely. 

You outright screamed when he deepened his claim, slipping two devastating fingers into your soaked core. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. 

The tension finally snapped, and you came, the surge of it like a thundering wave. It flowed right into your fingertips, escaping your lips as a strangled whine, back arching off the bed. 

After your much-needed deep breaths, Sylus pressed a tender kiss to your inner thigh. “Good girl,” you felt him grin against your skin as he began his ascent. 

“I can’t breathe,” you mumbled pathetically, the afterwaves of your release still clinging. 

With a husky chuckle, Sylus came back to hover over you, peering down at you with those beautiful crimson eyes. The right was glowing, almost pulsating, as he seemed to roam over your face, an unreadable expression upon it. 

“You are everything,” he breathed, and before you could respond, he leaned down to kiss you. One hand skimmed down your side, grasping your hip, caressing your thigh. His touch was pure fire, delicious in its intensity. You slung a leg about his waist, and with your pitiful strength (at least in comparison to him), pulled him flush against you. 

Wrapped within his heat, Sylus positioned himself at your core, and all of that burning need had you tremble. 

“Please,” you murmured into his mouth. 

“Hold onto me,” he whispered, voice like velvet. “Look at me.”

Meeting his gaze, your lips parted into a silent gasp as he, with devastating slowness, sank into you, engulfing you in an inferno of desire. Sylus groaned low in his throat as you took all of him, for even as your breath hitched and tears clung to the corners of your eyes, you didn’t once falter. 

Your nails came to dig into his shoulders as he stilled, giving you time to adjust to such fullness. You craned forward to kiss him, needing something—anything—to ground you. 

“You’re perfect,” he rasped into your mouth, “you take me so well.” His voice was rough, brimming with restraint, which came to pool low in your stomach. 

“More,” you moaned softly, rolling your hips.  

The first thrust was so careful, so agonisingly slow, you thought you might explode, until white-hot stars burst behind your eyelids as he pressed deeper. 

“I won’t break,” you begged, raking at his back, desperate for more. 

His chuckle seemed pained as he buried into your neck, teeth grazing. “You just might, with the things I want to do to you.”

“You promise?” You groaned, arching up into him, your body hungry for more heat, more of him. 

Sylus pulled back, that crimson eye fully ablaze from your words. Cupping his cheek, you gave him a weak smile, the pent-up need that burned within you teetering into downright painful. 

“I’m not afraid. Please, Sylus. I’m yours… I’m all yours…”

A bright, almost feral shift took hold within him then. With a searing kiss, his pace grew bolder, deeper, and you clung to him fiercely, needing to be anchored as your pleasure grew. 

Sylus didn’t lose his control, which you were equally disappointed and grateful for. There was no chance you’d have survived, and yet, you yearned to be shattered by him. Yet, your release was close enough. Like glass, you splintered apart beneath him, everything explosive and burning.

Sylus’ rhythm faltered, the feel of your high too intoxicating. You felt him go to retreat from you, but with spent breath, you whimpered your permission, “Inside.”

With heavy, uneven breaths, he spilled inside of you with a rumbling groan, the weight of it oddly emotional. With a lingering kiss, Sylus pulled from you, then came to prop himself up at your side with an elbow. With gentle fingers, he traced patterns over your skin, an invisible lace. His ruby gaze was still glowing faintly. 

“Are you alright?”

Your laugh was completely spent, but full of satisfaction. “I’ve never been better,” you said, genuine. 

“What are you thinking right now?”

“How glad I am that you found me in that field.”

Sylus’ smile filled you with a different kind of warmth, something that stirred within the heart. “I would stop at nothing to find you. Now, and always.” 

_________________________________________________________

This is my first fanfic, and it came to me in a vision.

Inspired by a few of Sylus' different cards, mainly the grassland one.

I'm low-key nervous to post, but I am trying new things so...

[meowmilkshake]

This is so cute 😭