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Robby notes all the ways you make his life better, fuller. How you never failed to notice all the ways life could be beautiful. And your endless desire to share it with him.
He is simply, undoubtedly, infatuatedly, in love with you.
Notes: just a short little drabble of fluff.
Word Count: ~1.6k
Robby had been in love before.
He knew how love felt.
At least.
He thought he knew.
He had thought he knew all there was to love.
But with you. Something had shifted. His perspective had changed.
As though everything he once thought he knew about love had reframed itself.
He had fallen in love before.
But not like this.
Not like how he had fallen for you.
All at once.
It was steady, it was swift.
You had consumed his life in a way he never knew a person could.
Slowly his life began to orbit around yours.
As you peeled back the layers of his facade. Discovering all that he was as a person. No stone left unturned. You began to see him.
Fully and completely.
From all that was good, and all that he saw to be bad. Everything he viewed to be imperfect with himself, to view as reasons to run away and sprint from his hold.
Instead.
You cherished each new trait and memory he shared with you, as though they were little treasures and keepsakes to be kept, while you tucked away within your heart.
You saw him.
You understood him.
Amidst all the chaos of his mind, within the mess of his thoughts. You found clarity, and you placed a gentle kiss upon his temple.
Sweetly, as though to say directly to his thoughts, right down to his soul, I see you, I recognise you, and I understand you.
Until eventually you held his heart in your hands. And Robby could not picture it belonging to anyone else but you.
With each passing moment you shared with him whatever filtered into your mind.
You pointed out the beauty you saw in the world.
From the smallest moments, as simple as you and he walking through the supermarket as you scrunch your nose with a little grin on your face, as a little wrinkle creases between your brow.
Placing a hand on his arm, to turn his attention to the little thing that had caught yours.
To the little thing that had made you smile. Simply wanting to share it with him. As his own lips curl into a grin.
Not from the sight you pointed out. But from the sheer fact you wanted to share it with him.
Sharing it because you had believed it would bring a smile to his face.
No matter where you both were, you would take the time to point things out to him. In an effort to make him smile.
Not that it took much for you to bring a smile to Robby’s face.
It could be as simple as a passing couple that made you grin from overhearing their conversation, or a funny little display, or even a beautiful leaf that had caught your eye.
It was that consideration, that care, that Robby loved.
That was what always made him the happiest.
To the times while you were out together having dinner, a well deserved night out.
You’d flash him that kind smile that made him feel at home in your presence.
How you’d sigh in delight from a spoonful of your meal, how quickly after you’d insist, already extending a spoonful over to him, “Taste this, you’ll love it”
Watching as he’d smile, closing his eyes to savour the taste.
Before opening them as he’d notice how your eyes would brighten from the sight.
You’d continue to share your food, or offer him tastes of your desserts, or little snacks.
Or even in moments where you were cooking something you’d ask him to taste something, just to hear what he had on his mind. Even if all he had to offer was that it was delicious.
Each and everytime. You made him appreciate all that he once missed.
All the little things that once passed by.
All the things he would’ve simply taken for granted, without much notice.
You shared it all with him. You wanted to share it all with him.
Soon he simply couldn’t imagine life without you.
He didn’t want to imagine life without you.
You made him fall in love with life.
And if that wasn’t pure love.
Robby didn’t know what was.
And in the evenings as he’d come home from a long shift.
When his shoulders felt heavy from carrying the stress of the day. As his eyes were groggy, dry from exposure to the fluorescent lighting. Hands dry and slightly cracked from constant sanitizer.
Letting out a deep breath as he entered his home.
As soon as he had crossed through the threshold. It felt as though the evening air altered. What was once heavy, brightened as he was enveloped by the warmth of his home. Of the ways you had made it a home.
It was something he always looked forward to, at the end of each and every day he would come back to you.
To the home you had built together.
Walking down the hall he follows the gentle sounds of music drifting in the air. You softly sing along, skipping lines or making up lyrics as you hum along happily.
The contents of half folded laundry laying about the couch as you get swept up into the music.
A soft smile curls up onto Robby’s lips as he sees you there. Moving rhythmically or not, you were a sight his tired eyes would never tire of.
Noticing him standing there, your lips widen as you move swiftly, grasping him by his hands as you pull him in to dance with you. Your eyes light up at the sight of him.
Uttering with a sigh, “Doesn’t this song just make you smile.” Feet falling into rhythm, as he begins to slow dance with you, whilst you lean your head upon his shoulder.
He places a soft delicate kiss upon your head. While your eyes drift shut, pure contentment forms upon your features.
His own eyes creased at the corners, while a twinkle slipped in to shine within them.
You made him feel alive.
In all the little ways.
In all the ways that mattered.
You loved him in ways that were so pure and simple.
He couldn’t help but fall ever so deeply in love with you.
With you love was never some big grand gesture.
Never something you’d find printed in magazines, or depicted in the movies.
It was far more dear than that.
Far more beautiful.
It was a life shared.
Sharing each and every beautiful and difficult aspect of life together.
As you’d take him in your arms, just to soothe his aching heart when the days made him feel damaged.
You loved him back to life.
While he would hold and cherish you deeply. Pressing kisses upon your skin, in an act to display his unyielding adoration for you.
Eventually.
Just as you had shown what life looked like through your eyes.
He began to take note of it all on his own, and soon began to point out the little things he thought you would appreciate.
He craved to know your thoughts, and all that filtered through your mind.
He would do anything for you.
Anything and everything you could ask.
He would do it.
Just to make you smile.
And yet all you wanted from him.
Was for his hand to keep yours warm, as you pointed out all the glimmering beautiful parts of life. Together.
A life noticed together.
That was what love was for you both.
And that was something neither of you took for granted.
“I love you,” he softly whispered in your ear, as you drifted slowly into sleep.
Sprawled across the couch, as you laid against him, his arms settled around your waist, while your head was tucked beside his heart.
Soothed by the steady rhythm of its gentle beating. Your soft breaths, in sync with his own.
Calm and blissful.
You shifted slightly, just barely, pressing a soft kiss upon his chest, eyes still shut as you murmured, “I love you too”
Curling further into his hold. You fall asleep soundly.
While all Robby can do is appreciate you. The gentle softness of your features, how in love he was with you. And all that you were.
How without meaning to.
You had become the meaning of his life.
His priorities shifted as you inched your way into his. Until it had consumed it entirely.
Pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. A soft smile formed onto his lips. Eyes pooling with love.
“Thank you for showing me how beautiful life can be,” he softly uttered, words left unheard by you as you slept.
But its importance is not lessened by the fact.
In some ways, Robby believes you might’ve heard them. As the smallest curl of your lips tilt up.
Perhaps from a good dream.
Or just from the comfort of being in his arms.
He couldn’t be sure.
What he was sure of. Was that he wanted this moment to last. For your love to last.
He was sure that he would find no other person he would rather spend his life with.
There was no one quite like you in his heart.
No one else who would make the colours of his world so vivid.
No one else who would share a slice of buttered toasted bread as though it was the tastiest thing in the world.
No one else whose laughter would enrich the gentle cadence of a song, even if you danced out of time or messed up the lyrics.
The sound of your voice as you smiled, made his heart race.
You made his world seem so much wider than it used to be. As you showed him all that made you smile.
He loved seeing life through your eyes.
He loved you.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my little story about Robby and how he loves you, just simple, plain romance in all the little mundane ways that make it feel all the more special. Let me know what you thought of this little piece of fluff! ✨
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺
Or check out my main Masterlist here
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, angst, 18+ smut, fluff
word count: 7.6k
a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently!! i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
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The drive from Pittsburgh to Cleveland takes just over two hours. Two hours trapped in a car with Jack in awkward silence. The radio had murmured softly in the background, but the tension between you was almost palpable, thick enough to cut.
Neither of you talked. Neither of you hummed along when a good song came on. You both just stayed silent—your body angled toward the passenger window, where you were still able to catch glimpses of Jack's fingers tightening periodically around the steering wheel.
The only words he managed to squeeze out during the entire ride were when you bent back to grab your bag from the backseat.
"Don't."
You'd frozen mid-motion.
"Sit up straight—you're gonna hurt yourself." His eyes had flickered to yours in the rearview mirror briefly, and you'd been so flustered that you hadn't even argued that your ribs barely hurt anymore. And when he'd stopped at the next red light and reached back for it himself, you'd only muttered a soft "thanks".
That marked the extent of your exchanges—practical concerns that felt so distant they barely registered.
But you're fine now—mostly. Enough to have moved back to your own room after Robby dropped this on you. Enough that you’ve decided it’s time to set Jack free. After this conference wraps up, you plan to present him with the divorce papers sitting neatly on your desk, just waiting for his signature.
One pen stroke and then he'd be free. Free to stop pretending. Free from this cage you've trapped him in.
The parking lot is already bustling with people when you pull in. Jack is out of the car before you can get your seatbelt off, popping open the trunk and grabbing both of your bags with ease.
"I can carry—" you start to say.
"I've got it," he cuts in, already walking toward the entrance.
You press your lips together, then follow him.
The conference is held at a hotel, the kind with huge glass doors, marble floors and chandeliers swinging above. Just another reminder of how the administration pours money into superficial perks rather than addressing the hospitals' actual needs.
Jack jerks his head toward a cosy seating area near the entrance, where plush couches surround coffee tables stacked with books. "Sit."
You don’t get the chance to protest or even offer to take the bags before he strides off to reception, both bags shifted comfortably into one hand. You can’t help but admire the flex of his forearm before shaking yourself back to reality.
With a quiet sigh, you sink into one of the cushions. You'd expected this weekend to hurt, but seeing just how annoyed he is that he has to be here with you hurts worse than you thought. Flicking through one of the coffee table books, you try to distract yourself while Olivia’s words echo in your mind: You’re reading this all wrong. I promise, just tell him how you feel.
Promises feel meaningless when faced with cold, hard facts.
"Let's go." Jack stops in front of you, watchful as you rise. You try to hide the slight wince when you do, but judging by the way his brows furrow, he notices. His hand reaches out, but he draws it back immediately.
He trails behind you to the elevators, and you step in with a few other people. He pushes the button for your floor, and then the silence continues. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of his tensed shoulders and the rigidity in his jaw.
It's the longest elevator ride of your life.
Jack sets off the second the doors open, leading you to a door where he swipes the key card hard. He steps inside, placing it in the power slot and the light flickers on.
You linger hesitantly by the door, confused as to why he hasn’t handed you your bag or the key card. "Is this mine or yours?" you ask.
Jack sighs, his back turned to you. "It's...ours."
"Oh." You're glad he isn't looking at you, or he would have seen your face fall. Yet another way you've made this weekend hell for him.
Robby had said to just show up to the reception and tell them your names—that the hospital had taken care of it—but something must have gone wrong. You know better than anyone how their systems can't be trusted.
Jack exhales sharply, dropping your bags onto the desk before turning to face you. "We're still married in the system, so they must've auto-booked us together," he explains, his voice tight.
"Oh." That’s all you manage to say again as you step fully into the room, closing the door behind you and taking in the surroundings: a desk, a closet, a bathroom, and a single bed. Great.
"I tried changing it," he says quickly, "but they're fully booked."
You nod, trying not to show him just how much that hurts to hear. Of course, he tried to change it. Of course, he doesn’t want to share a room with you.
Two more days and he's free.
Your gaze drifts helplessly back to the bed.
"I can sleep on the floor," he offers, clearing his throat.
"What?"
He shrugs stiffly.
"You don’t have to sleep on the floor." You frown. Were another few nights really that horrible that he'd prefer sleeping there? You bite your lip, stepping into the bathroom pretending to inspect it, but mostly to not see his face as you say, "It's fine. What's two more nights?"
Jack's silent for a moment, and you almost don't hear his "okay" over the sound of your heart cracking.
The first day at the conference passes by faster than Jack expects. A good thing, even if it does feel slightly bittersweet. Time alone with you is all he's wanted for months, but now that he has it, he doesn't know what to do with it.
Not when you've made it clear this past week that you want nothing to do with him. You've moved back to your own bed, and the hospital had forced you right back into sharing again—just like it had forced you into this whole thing in the first place.
Jack knows the end is near, and he's trying to give you space. But he can't help being pulled in by you—watching as you listen carefully to demonstrations, his hands hovering near you to keep the crowd from jostling your ribs.
Normally, he’s not a fan of this part of the conferences: the chaos, the noise, the sales reps tripping over each other to pitch their latest gadgets.
Today, he leans into it. He lets himself get trapped in twenty-minute demonstrations he doesn't care about. He asks unnecessary questions, picks up brochures he knows he won’t read, and lingers at displays his hospital would never consider—anything to keep his mind occupied and avoid fixating on you. Your sweet perfume still wraps around him, your accidental brushes against him still make his skin flush, and his heart still races whenever you glance his way.
And despite this distance between you, you're still looking out for him. You still notice how he subtly shifts to put more weight on his good leg, and even when he'd told you he was fine, intending to soldier on, it had only taken a stern glare from you for him to relent.
The foolish part of his heart can't help but hope that it means something more—that the way you look at him means more than it probably does. He's probably just seeing the reflection of his own hurt in your eyes because he knows you've been searching for a way out—bringing up getting a divorce, looking at apartments and distancing yourself again.
The way you'd reacted when he told you that you had to share a bed again only solidified it. So, even if it's the last thing he wants to do, he does his best to keep his distance like you want him to.
By dinner, though, the distance is harder to maintain when walking into the stupid hotel restaurant feels dangerously close to a date. The lighting is low and warm, reflections dancing off polished glasses as the waiter leads you to a four-person table.
He's trying not to stare at you or the lipstick you'd put on before leaving, but he's failing. His gaze keeps drifting to the soft curve of your cupid's bow and the way you nibble on your lower lip. When he forces himself to look away, it's only to trace the marks you left on your glass.
You both attempt awkward small talk about the conference, which feels like the safest topic, and his heart lifts a little when you laugh at his reminder of the sales rep who actually fell over in his eagerness to speak with you.
You twirl the stem of your glass, and he traces condensation around the rim of his glass when silence falls over the table again. Now and then, your eyes meet before darting away again.
It hurts that this is what it's come to. Jack still remembers the first time you went to dinner, back when this whole thing had just begun, and how gorgeous you had looked that night. The way you had smiled when he'd brought your flowers, how you had teased him all night—how much fun the two of you had had.
This couldn't be farther from that.
Just as he’s about to say something—anything—to reach out to you again, a shadow falls over the table.
"Excuse me, sir? Ma’am?" The waiter stands there looking at you both apologetically. "I'm sorry to ask, but would you mind sharing your table? We're fully booked, and I was told you know each other—"
Jack is prepared to say no, doesn't want people he supposedly knows to witness this, or to ruin his attempt at salvaging it, but before he can speak, a bright and jarring voice cuts in.
"Jack!"
His stomach drops as he recognises the voice, and he has to stop himself from grimacing. "Dr. Warren," he responds with a forced smile.
"Oh, Jack won’t mind," she chimes in cheerfully to the waiter before he can protest. Then her tone turns sugary sweet as she looks at him again. "Right?"
She's set him up perfectly, making it impossible to refuse her without causing a scene. He glances over at you, noticing how you're staring down at your plate, and with a resigned shake of his head, he replies, "Of course not."
Warren breezes past the waiter and pulls out the chair next to Jack. "Sit down, Turner."
Jack hadn’t even noticed the man until now. He’s tall with dark hair, young, and looking vaguely uncomfortable as he flashes Jack an apologetic smile before taking a seat next to you.
"Sorry to intrude on your dinner. I'm Jeremy," Turner says. Jack watches as you look up to greet him and sees both of your faces shift from confusion to recognition. "Wait—"
"Jeremy?"
"Is that you, Sleepy?" His face breaks into a stupid grin. Jack hates him instantly—mostly for the nickname but also for the way he manages to make you smile.
"Oh my god, don't call me that!" you groan, covering your face briefly.
Warren leans back into her chair, watching the exchange with curious eyes. Meanwhile, Jack feels a wave of nausea wash over him.
Turner leans in, bumping his shoulder against yours, and Jack has to grip his glass tighter to prevent himself from commenting on it. Why is he sitting that close? Why are you letting him?
"Wow, you look exactly the same! How long has it been—five, six years?"
"Something like that," you nod, then huff softly. "But I think my eye bags have definitely worsened since then."
"Ah," Turner chuckles. "Still living up to your nickname then, I see."
You glare at him, and he only smiles wider. And Jack—
He wants this man dead. Not literally—or well, not mostly. But when was the last time you'd laughed like that with him? When was the last time you looked at him like that? He'd thought Warren was going to be the worst part of this dinner, but Turner is quickly taking first place.
"So, how have you been—" Warren starts, turning her body toward Jack, attempting to start a conversation between just the two of them.
But Jack doesn't care. He cuts her off, "You two know each other?" He tries to sound casual as he looks at you, but he can feel his jaw tense up.
Warren frowns as Jack speaks over her, but all he sees is Turner, glowing at you.
"Yeah, we met in med school."
"Oh, how fun!" Warren chimes in. She turns to Jack again. "Jeremy just started at Presby—he's our newest attending."
Jack still isn't looking at her, only seeing the way you smile warmly at Turner as you congratulate him.
"Did you manage to keep that attending offer at PTMC?" Warren asks you with a pointed smile, and Jack notices your brow furrow slightly before you answer.
"I did."
"She's doing amazing," Jack offers, finally looking at Warren. "Still the best-performing doctor we have."
"Oh wow!" Turner says, and Jack can see you flush, tucking a hair behind your ear.
You deftly steer the conversation into general hospital topics, easily falling back into a rhythm with Turner. You share stories from med school and let inside jokes slip, leaving Jack to simmer quietly.
And while that's going on, Warren keeps shifting her chair closer to him. Her knee brushes against his, her hands keep squeezing his arm as she tries to sequester him into a separate conversation. He's pushed his chair as far away as he can to try and avoid her touch.
"I never thought I'd see you at one of these things again," she says lightly, taking a bite of her salad.
"No," he replies, taking a sip of his wine.
Warren's silent for a second, watching him. She's definitely clocked the weirdness between you. "You're more than welcome to come to Presby anytime you want," she says, then adds, "I’d love to show you around." The implication is clear as daylight, and Jack is stunned by her audacity.
Even if she feels the weirdness, the fact that she feels it appropriate to come onto him in front of you—his wife—is astonishing. He notices your shoulders tense slightly, but he convinces himself he’s imagining it because you’re still laughing with Turner.
"Oh, I've already been there."
Warren just shrugs, spearing another piece of salad with her fork, smiling at him with a knowing look. "Things might have changed."
Evidently satisfied with that, she turns to Turner and you. "So, how close were you two back in med school?"
Jack stills, his attention honing in on you and the way your eyes widen slightly.
"Uh—"
"We dated," Turner says.
Jack's vision blurs and the noise of the restaurant dulls as blood rushes in his ears.
"Briefly," you add immediately, glancing over at Jack before dropping your gaze again. "For like two weeks."
"Still broke my heart," Turner says dramatically.
You roll your eyes. "You dated Tiffany literally less than a week after."
Turner shrugs with a grin, and Jack can't decide which is worse—knowing he once dated you, that he didn’t value you enough to keep you, or that he so easily replaced you.
You laugh, and it doesn't look like you care that much about it, but Jack can't help the ugly feeling that curls in his stomach.
"You still out there breaking hearts?" Turner asks.
"She's my wife." Jack doesn't hesitate, wanting to lay his claim even if he doesn't have the right to.
Turner's expression shifts to one of surprise, followed by a wide smile. "Oh wow. Congrats!"
He sounds genuine, which somehow only makes Jack hate him even more.
"You must be real special if Sleepy decided to settle down."
You offer a tight smile, taking a long sip of your drink as Jack follows suit. Unable to stop himself, he asks, "So, what's up with the nickname?"
Turner bursts into laughter, while you groan and point a finger at him, "Don't."
"She fell asleep in a lecture once," he says, clearly enjoying the moment.
Warren laughs loudly and mutters with a smile, "That's not very professional."
Your expression tightens, but Turner either didn't hear or just chose to ignore it, as he continues, "Our professor actually stopped class to call her out."
"I was exhausted," you defend yourself.
"You also used to fall asleep during study sessions."
"It's not my fault that you guys insisted on studying until like three in the morning," you retort.
"Good thing that's over then," Jack comments.
You look over at him, surprised. "...Yeah," you say softly.
For the first time all night, it feels like it's just the two of you again.
Until Warren smiles cloyingly at you. "A good doctor never stops studying."
"Of course," you smile, letting your gaze drop down to your plate again.
Later, after awkward goodbyes and forced smiles, you and Jack retreat back to your hotel room. There's a sharp bitterness settling in your mouth, your stomach churning after having to watch Warren flirt—blatantly, in your eyes—with Jack, and him not doing anything about it.
He could at least have some decency to wait until you're not there. You're not even going to comment on her and how disrespectful she was. All you can focus on is the anger that simmers under your skin as you brush your teeth. The rush of frustration drowns out everything else as you wash your face, your breath uneven as you change into your pyjamas.
The only thing that had gotten you through that dinner was seeing Jeremy again—he'd been the perfect distraction, keeping your attention on him with tales from med school. But you'd still noticed how Warren kept touching Jack and how pointed her comments were when she did speak to you.
When you step out of the bathroom again, after taking a few deep breaths, you find Jack sitting on the edge of the bed in sweats and a t-shirt, glasses low on his nose as he scrolls through his phone.
You look away before it can stir something in your chest. "I'm done," you tell him as you slip under the covers, turning your back on him.
By the time he comes back, you've dimmed the lights except for the lamp on his side. You listen as he removes his prosthetic, the soft sound of cream squishing as he gently massages his leg. Part of you wants to help him, but you hesitate, unsure if he would welcome it.
You stay still as he slides under the covers and turns off the lamp. You wonder what he's thinking of—if he's relieved the first day is over or if he wishes he were here with Lily instead.
A minute passes, then another, only the sounds of your breathing filling the room. Out in the hallway, you can hear muted footsteps, quiet laughter and then—
A loud sound tears through the wall. A moan, to be more specific. Long, dramatic and almost definitely fake.
Your eyes widen as another sound permeates the wall, somehow even louder the second time. It continues in a flurry of noises.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
Jack lets out a short laugh through his nose. A smile tugs at your lips at that sound. You haven't heard him laugh in forever when it was just the two of you. Without thinking, you ask, "Do you think he knows?"
Another moan echoes, and Jack snorts. "No."
You laugh quietly into your pillow. "Poor man."
Jack huffs another soft laugh. "Poor woman, more like."
You glance at him, turning around without really meaning to. "What?"
He shifts, too, his body turning toward you. "If she feels the need to fake it like that," he nods toward the wall, "then she clearly hasn't been with men who know how to make a woman feel good."
"Oh, and you do?" Your voice is light, teasing him like these past weeks haven't happened. You freeze the second you register it.
Jack stills next to you.
Heat floods your face immediately. "Oh my god, forget I said that." You turn around quickly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as if it can cool the flush that's travelling upwards. It sounded like you were challenging him, like you were asking him to—
You squeeze your eyes shut.
The mattress shifts slightly behind you as Jack exhales softly. "You know," he says after a moment, "I'd like to think I'd figure it out."
"You do not have to answer that," you squeak. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry."
He chuckles quietly, and after a moment of silence, he replies, "Goodnight, Trouble."
He doesn't like you crossed a line or like you've annoyed him—he sounds...gentle. You pretend not to notice the way he puts pressure on your nickname.
"...Goodnight, Jack."
Nothing from the second day really sticks in your memory. You sit through lectures, take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your brain keeps snagging on the same thing—over and over again.
How you woke up wrapped in Jack's arms. How warm he was, the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your neck, and—
God.
The feel of his cock against your ass. How, when you'd shifted, still half asleep, it had twitched against you.
You'd tried to ignore it all day. It wasn't on purpose—just biology—but your mind keeps trying to spin it. The cold shower you took was not enough to keep the flush away throughout the day.
Jack's acting like it didn't happen. Like he hadn't nearly jumped off the bed when he woke up and noticed it. That still hurts to think about.
The warm feeling immediately turns sour when you remember that—a feeling that only worsens when Warren and Jeremy run into you after the celebratory dinner is over and the room has been turned into a dance floor.
Warren barely even acknowledges you as she sidles up to Jack. You hate how she speaks to him, hate how you can't help noticing how she stands close to him, how she laughs when he jokes, how she keeps touching him.
Jack doesn't seem to mind, and it makes you wonder briefly if you've been wrong about Lily—that it wasn't necessarily her, it was just anyone but you.
Jeremy tries to keep a conversation going with you, but even he sees it. His eyes keep glancing from the way you glare down at your champagne flute to the way Warren is laughing. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, offering a sympathetic smile that asks if you're okay. You nod your head and force a smile back. You don’t need him to intervene; if Jack wanted to, he would.
He doesn't.
A sudden squeal from the microphone interrupts the chatter. "If there are any couples here tonight—or anyone hoping to be in one—head to the dance floor!"
Laughter ripples through the room as soft music begins playing.
You press your lips together, staring down at your drink. You plan to stay where you are.
"Wanna go—" Warren begins, and your chest aches. You can't stay here if he dances with her.
But Jack stays still, too, only to then reach his outstretched hand into your field of vision. "May I?"
You look up at him, surprised, but then realise it's just for show. Married couples dance. He can't exactly go off with Warren when there are people here whom you know. One last time pretending can't hurt, so you place your hand in his.
He leads you out onto the crowded dance floor and places a hand at your waist. The two of you step awkwardly, but somewhere between the music and the closeness, it stops. Your body remembers the shape of him, the rhythm, the ease of existing near him.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and the two of you sway gently. For the first time during this trip, you actually look at him. The lighting catches the green flecks in his eyes, his gaze locked on yours.
Your mouth goes dry, and you nervously bite your lip, almost willing to swear that his gaze drops down to it. Heat rushes up your neck.
You lean in closer, and he mirrors your movement.
"Can I—" he begins, and for a foolish second, you think he might kiss you. Then the room erupts into loud claps as the song ends, and your eyes snap open. You take a quick step back.
"I—I'll be right back," you stammer.
Jack frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah," you nod quickly. "Just need to...pee!" You rush off before he can say anything else.
The bathroom is too bright and too quiet, though you're thankful no one is here to watch your spiral. You grip the sink tightly, exhaling harshly.
You need to get your shit together. Remember that this doesn't mean anything. It's a performance—he doesn't want you. No matter how much you can't help but keep hoping, even after the hallway, that he does.
You stay in there longer than you should. Splash water on your wrists, fix your lipstick, and try not to feel like you're sixteen years old again—stupid and foolish when it comes to love.
When you finally head back, you're not sure what you expected, but it wasn't seeing Jack and Warren laughing together. Her hand on his bicep, her head tilted backwards. You watch as she leans in, whispering something to him before heading over to the bar.
The hurt turns into anger as humiliation washes over you. He really doesn't care about your reputation or the fact that you'll forever be known for him straying.
You stride over to him.
"There you are—" he begins with a relieved smile.
You don't let him finish, leaning in to murmur to him. "I'm gonna go."
Jack blinks at you. "Why? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," you huff, but he seems unconvinced, searching your face for answers.
He sets his glass down. "Okay, let's go."
Your brows knit together. "No, you stay." Your gaze shifts to Warren. "It looks like you're doing just fine without me anyway."
"What—"
You step back, sending him a forced smile that hurts. "Have fun." You begin to turn around, but then remember— "Oh, just text me if you need the room."
Before he can ask anything else, before you can embarrass yourself further and before he can notice the angry tears glistening in your eyes, you turn and walk away.
Jack stands frozen for several seconds after you leave, staring at the spot you just occupied, trying—yet failing—to wrap his head around what just happened. He’d been trying to shake off Warren ever since you went to the bathroom, and just when she finally decided to head to the bar, you appeared with that piercing glare.
It looks like you're doing fine without me anyway.
Your words replay in his head.
Text me if you need the room.
Said as if you expected him not to come back, or like you expected him to—
His stomach sinks. He pushes through the crowd, ignoring Warren’s calls, impatiently tapping his fingers against his arms as he waits for the elevator. When it finally reaches your floor, he rushes out, swiping his key card haphazardly.
As the door swings open, he immediately sees you pacing, making sharp turns from the bed to the desk and back again. Your heels are thrown off to the side carelessly.
He closes the door behind him softly. "What's going on?"
You stop at the desk, your back turned to him, and he notices your shoulders rising and falling with quick breaths. "Nothing. You can go back," you dismiss him with a wave of your hand. There's an anger in your tone he’s never heard before.
"Go back?" He doesn't understand why you think he would—you're clearly upset.
"To Warren. Or whoever."
"Why on earth would I do that?"
You huff a laugh, bitter and low. "Don't play dumb."
Jack takes a cautious step closer. "Tell me what's going on."
"I told you. Nothing."
"Well, it's clearly not nothing," he says, frustration creeping into his voice. He doesn't understand why you won't look at him or why you're pushing him away like this—like you can't stand him.
"Jack—" you sigh, glancing back for barely a second. It's enough for him to spot the frustration carved deep in your features.
"Sweetheart," he says softly. You remain silent, but he feels like he’s making progress. "Why did you say that? About the room?"
Whatever hope he had quickly dissipates as you rip your earrings out and fling them onto the desk. "You know."
"No," he says. "I really don't."
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, turning to face him, your eyes blazing with fury. "Oh, please." You cross your arms defiantly. "She was all over you. And you just let her."
Jack doesn't pretend not to know who you're talking about. It's clear that it's Warren. He wants to make it clear that he has no interest in her, but in his surprise, all he can manage to say is, "She knows we're married."
You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Well...you're not. Not really. Not in the way that matters." Taking a step closer, you add, "And she clearly doesn’t care anyway, but if it matters to you, you can just tell her we’re in an open relationship."
Jack stares at you. "Is that what you want?"
Your expression twists instantly. "What?"
"Is that what you want?" he repeats, slower, taking a step forward, too.
Your laugh this time sounds bitter. "Who cares what I want? If you want this, go for it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. "Seriously. Have fun. I’ll leave."
Jack watches as you begin messily shoving things into your bag. Why is it that you keep saying things like this when you know what he feels for you? Are you just looking for a fight so you can leave?
Jack tightens his jaw. "And where exactly are you staying?"
You shrug.
"At Jeremy's?" he says, mocking the way you said it all evening. Soft and sweet and nauseating.
"Maybe...yeah," you snap, glaring at him. "He wouldn't flirt in front of the person he’s supposed to be married to."
Jack shakes his head in frustration. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why did you keep saying that?"
You throw a shirt down and spin toward him. "Because it's true and you know it." You step closer, and he mirrors your movement. "Just stop pretending."
You’re close enough now for him to see your hands shaking with anger.
"I know you regret this," you say, voice cracking as it rises in volume. "And it’s okay."
"What?"
"The least you can do," you continue, "is be honest about it."
"I don’t—" His pulse races, the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to catch up.
"Come on," you scoff. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."
"Pretend what?" He steps closer.
"That you didn't hate every second of this. That saying yes to me wasn’t the biggest mistake of your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"That you regret getting stuck in this marriage!"
"That's not true!"
You close your eyes briefly, looking utterly worn out. "Can we not do this? Please?"
There’s barely any space between you now. He can feel your uneven breaths, just as clearly as he can see them.
"I've got a viewing in a few days. If it looks good, then I'll be out of your hair soon." The words pummel into him, stealing his breath.
You continue like you haven't just broken his heart, "We can sign the divorce papers when we get back. It's been long enough now."
The pieces of his heart shatter into even finer shards. "What?"
You avoid his gaze. "You can finally be with the person you actually want to be with."
His brows pinch together. "Who?"
"Lily."
Jack stares at you, confused. "...Lily?"
You huff, anger bubbling back up. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Don't pretend you don’t know."
"I genuinely don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"
"I've seen the way you talk about her," you tell him. "The way your face changes."
His brain feels like it’s malfunctioning. "You think I’m in love with Lily?"
"You seriously expect me to believe otherwise?"
"Yes, because that's insane."
"I’m not blind, Jack!" you snap, your voice cracking. "I love you, and you don't love me, and that's fine."
"You—" His voice comes out rough. "What?"
Your eyes widen, and you quickly look away. "...Let's just stop."
Jack's hand shoots out, grabbing hold of your wrist before you can turn away. "No." The word comes out fast. "That's not what I want."
His mind is spinning. You love him.
"Well, we can't always get what we want," you say quietly, sounding incredibly sad. You try to tug your wrist free, but he keeps his grip firm.
"Trouble—" Jack begins, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "You love me?" he asks quietly.
You love him.
"Jack," you interject.
He takes a step closer. "I don't understand why you’re still pulling away. Not when you know—“
"That’s exactly why!" you cut him off.
His laugh comes out strained. "Is it that horrible to be with me? To let me love you?"
You stare at him with wide eyes, but then you shake your head. "You don't love me."
"What?" he asks. But you knew? Didn't you?
"No, you’re upset," you say quickly. "Or you feel guilty, or—or you're trying to fix this because I said something embarrassing."
"You think this is pity? After everything?"
"I think you're a good person," you say quietly. "And I think you're trying not to hurt me."
"No."
"Jack—"
"You really think I'd do that?" he asks quietly.
You hesitate.
His laugh comes out sharp. He turns away for a moment, pressing both hands against his mouth, as if trying to hold it together. Because somehow this feels more devastating than everything else: worse than thinking you didn’t want him, worse than the apartment viewings, worse than the divorce papers.
You think he pitied you. That every moment between you had been an obligation.
"You think I stayed because I felt bad for you?" he asks.
"I...yeah," you murmur, and the words nearly take him out at the knees.
"Sweetheart," he says softly, and there’s something wrecked in the word now. "I don’t know how I fucked this up so badly."
"You think I wanted out?" he asks. "All this time?" He shakes his head hard before you can answer. "I have spent months trying not to love you."
Your breath hitches in your throat.
"I tried," he admits helplessly. "I tried so hard. And I failed."
Doubt still flickers across your face.
"Sweetheart. Please. I don't know how else to tell you."
You look down. "I just don't want you to say something you'll regret tomorrow."
"Regret?" he repeats quietly. That damn word haunts him.
You shrug helplessly, eyes glassy. "When this all settles," you say softly, "I don't want you to wake up and feel trapped again."
"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "I have done a lot of stupid shit that I regret, but loving you has never been one of them."
You still look doubtful.
Jack feels something hot and frantic curl in his chest. He doesn't know what to say to make you believe him, so he does the next best thing. He closes the gap between you, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilts your head back and kisses you. It isn't a soft or careful kiss like he'd imagined you'd share after he'd told you that—no, this is angry, frustration bleeding into every part of it.
You shove weakly at his chest, and he's ready to step back, but then your fingers close into a fist, tugging at his shirt and pulling him closer.
His lips press against yours again, devouring you as he crowds you into the desk. He loses himself in the feeling, barely noticing how he's lifted you onto the desk, how your legs have parted around him or how he's grinding into you.
All he can focus on is the way you breathe his name softly, the sweet sounds you make as he trails kisses down your neck, and how your fingers claw at his hair, his shoulders, his arms, urging him to come closer.
You love him.
It's an euphoric feeling—he almost feels like he's floating outside his body. The thought keeps hitting him over and over again, dizzying and intoxicating.
Jack pulls back to look you in the eye. "I love you." His thumb brushes your jaw gently and across your kiss-swollen lips. You kiss it softly, leaning your face into his touch.
"Do you understand? Not Lily. Not anyone else." He searches your eyes, desperate for you to grasp the depth of his feelings. You’re the only one who’s ever mattered. "I love you."
Your eyes start glistening again, but you nod. Relief fills his chest. "I thought you didn't—" Before he can say anything to reassure you again, you move forward, capturing his lips in another heated kiss. The force of it nearly tilts him backwards, and the way you giggle against his lips sends his heart fluttering.
Your legs pull him closer, and he finally notices how your dress has bunched up around your waist. He curses at the sight of your underwear, the sweet little bow that starkly contradicts the naughty way you're moving against him and the wetness that's slowly soaking his slacks.
"Fuck me," he groans, his fingers gripping onto your waist, helping you move. He's never been this hard before. He moves slowly, trailing his fingers down to your thighs, watching you carefully.
His chest rumbles lowly when he finally feels just how wet you are. He can't count on one—or even two—hands how much he's thought about doing this and reality is so much better.
"You really love me?" he asks quietly, still not quite able to believe it.
"Yeah," you whisper. "I always have."
He leans his forehead against yours, pieces of his heart mending with each kiss. He pushes the fabric aside, brushes his fingers softly through your wetness, circling your clit and listening as you moan sweetly for him. He swears he could cum from just this.
You're so soft. So sweet. So tight around his fingers. "You're gorgeous," he breathes, and he feels you squeeze around him. He catches on to that quickly, leaning in close so he can whisper to you. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. You're so wet. So perfect." He pulls his fingers in and out, relishing in the sounds he manages to pull from both your cunt and your mouth.
"Ja-ack," you gasp, and he can tell you're close.
"Be a good girl and cum for me," he says, pressing his other hand against your clit. The combined stimulation and his words push you over the edge, your legs shaking against him, your nails pressing hard into his arms. He doesn't mind, welcoming it and staying close until you begin pulling back.
He's never seen anyone as stunning as you. He watches as the glazed look in your eyes slowly subsides, and you come back to earth.
He still can't believe this is real. His thumb brushes softly against your jaw. "Hi, sweetheart."
"Hi," you murmur, a shy smile on your face. "That was—that was incredible."
It's like you know he'll tease you because you pull his face close, kissing him again. He could do this all the time. He hopes you'll let him.
He's so caught up in your kisses and making you feel good that he's forgotten about himself. It's only when your hands travel down his chest to his slacks and begin to palm him that he remembers.
You grin into the kiss at the groans he makes.
"Stop teasing," he begs, but doesn't move to change anything. He stands still as you find the zipper and begin pulling his slacks and boxer briefs down. He lets you take the lead, won't force you to do anything you don't want to—even if he's aching to feel your heat around him.
You pull him out, and then you stare down at his cock with a wide-eyed look. He can't help but tease you. "Don't tell me you've never seen one of these before?"
"Ha," you huff, slapping his chest. "It's just...big."
"You flatter me," he says, pride rushing through him. He's about to make another silly comment, but it evaporates the second you twist your hand.
"Fuck," he gasps when you pull him close, letting the head swipe through your wetness.
"I don't—" It takes all his strength to think clearly. "I don't have a condom."
"It's okay." You continue grinding against him.
"You sure?"
"Yes," you confirm, looking him deeply in the eye. Then you position him against your entrance and pull at his hips. He pushes forward slowly. Fuck. You're so tight. So warm.
He watches you carefully, ready to stop at the slightest hint of discomfort.
"Move, Jack," you beg him once the full length of him is inside. "Please."
Who is he to deny you? His hips snap forward, setting a steady pace. "I won't last long," he warns you.
You kiss him again, pulling him closer. Your gasps and moans are more than enough to send him over the edge, but he gathers all the strength he has. He reaches a hand down and finds your clit and waits until your eyes begin to glaze over and your legs shake again.
Only then does he let go of all restraint. His hips snap into you in a furious pace before he pulls away with a loud groan, spilling onto your cunt. He watches it drip down your thighs, his chest rising unevenly as he comes down from his high.
"That was—" he breathes out, locking eyes with you again. You nod, equally speechless. The two of you share a moment of silence before Jack springs into action, grabbing a towel to wipe you down.
He sends you away to pee and slips out of his clothes, leaving only his underwear on. His prosthetic lands next to the bed as he crawls under the covers, a wave of nervousness washing over him.
What if you regretted it? What if you didn't feel like that anyway?
You emerge from the bathroom, barely meeting his gaze, and Jack's stomach drops at the sight. His t-shirt from yesterday hangs on the chair, and he watches breathlessly as you put it on along with a fresh pair of panties. Then you settle in beside him, leaning into the crook of his neck with a smile, and he finally feels himself relax.
You don't regret it.
"I'm sorry," he says softly after a moment of breathing in your calming scent.
"For what?"
"For not telling you sooner." He exhales, tracing gentle patterns on your skin with his fingers. "I thought you knew. I thought you were pulling away because of that."
You pause to process his words, your head shaking firmly. "I'm sorry, too. I should've asked you instead of just assuming." You take his hand, intertwining your fingers. "I overheard you saying you regretted this, and that sent me spiralling. It didn't help that I thought you loved Lily."
Jack frowns. "When did I say that?"
"In the hallway. With Robby..."
He thinks back and realises, "Oh, sweetheart. That's not what I meant—I said I regretted it because I fell in love with you during it, and I couldn't stop it from happening despite knowing you didn't want me like that."
"I do—"
"I know," he interrupts gently. "I know that now." He squeezes your fingers and leans down to plant a soft kiss on your head. "And just to be clear—if you need to hear it again—I don’t love Lily. I love you."
He can feel the smile spreading across your face. "I love you, too."
He's grateful you're not looking at him because he must look silly grinning this widely. You press a kiss to his neck and then sigh contentedly.
"Guess I should've trusted Olivia," you murmur after a moment.
He chuckles, making a mental note to send her a thank-you gift for having his back without him knowing. "Robby, too."
You groan. "They're gonna be insufferable once they find out they were right."
Jack hums, his fingers dancing along your back. "We don't have to tell them right away."
"No?" You lean back slightly to look at him.
"We can keep this between us for a little bit, don't you think?" he says, his gaze dropping down your lips.
"Yeah," you breathe, your eyes darkening as your fingers gently tug at the hair at the nape of his neck to bring him close. Jack kisses you again. And again. And again.
He isn't sure how long he kisses you for, not that it really matters. All he knows is that it won't ever get better than this. He finally has his girl.
a/n: aaahhhh!! they finally confessed!!! it's been a long (and painful) journey but we're finally here <33333
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 120k┊ongoing┊updates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
Yall I haven’t read this much fanfiction/smut about a singular man in such a long time.. I feel like I’m back in high school staying up until three am reading about Shawn Hatosy/Andrew Cody/Jack Abbott
No me dejaste cosas lindas,
me dejaste todo lo que no quiero volver a encontrar.
Y a veces eso vale más.
Porque hay personas que no vienen a quedarse,
vienen a mostrarte exactamente
qué no vas a permitir nunca más.
Fuiste más maestro en lo que rompiste
que en lo que intentaste construir.
Y aunque jamás vaya a agradecerte el dolor,
lo comprendí al ver a los tuyos.
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jbbartram-illu
origamiaround
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dededos
jacobvanloon
izzy806
dailybridgerton
