summary: Jack Abbot has one very expensive habit: Spoiling his girlfriend.
𝒘 — Jack Abbot & Fem! Reader ⟢ ( 1k-ish ) proofread. age gap. (not mentioned, but r is like 25-30.) established relationship. fluff.
Dior, Miu Miu, Tom Ford, Chanel, and Prada are all brands that have somehow invaded your bedroom. Perfumes stacked neatly on a sterling silver stand on your dresser. Charlotte Tilbury palettes on your vanity, and Tiffany diamonds sparkling on your jewelry tray.
Despite your best efforts to tell him you really don’t need any of it, Jack Abbot buys you quite literally everything you show the tiniest amount of interest in.
It isn’t that you can’t afford it, you absolutely can. Years of medical school and brutal residency shifts had earned you a salary you were more than proud of, which made Jack’s habit of paying for everything simultaneously frustrating and endearing.
It started small. You’d pause a second too long in front of a perfume display, eyes widening at the price tag as you muttered something about how insane it was. The bottle would appear on your bathroom counter the next morning.
You’d complain that your work tote was falling apart. Three days later, a brand new leather one arrived at your apartment with your initials hand-stitched on the side in dainty gold thread.
You’d compliment a necklace in passing, and somehow Cartier already knew your address.
At first it was sweet. Then it became excessive. Which is why you now have enough designer items in your home to pay off someone’s mortgage.
And somehow… that still wasn’t enough for him.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
You’re standing in the Sephora checkout line, fully intent on spoiling yourself for once. Jack stands close by your side, seemingly distracted by his phone, squinting down at a text from Robby. You make a mental note to increase the font size later when he isn’t looking.
As the person in front of you finishes, you see his hand slip into his pocket out of the corner of your eye, reaching for his wallet.
“Jack,” you huff quietly, no real heat behind it.
“Hm?”
“Put your wallet away. I told you, I’m paying.”
He glances up from the screen, expression perfectly innocent. “Why?”
You turn to face him fully, arms crossed. “Because these are my things. I can buy my own makeup, Jack. You’ve already bought me three things today.”
His eyebrow lifts just slightly, that calm, steady doctor look settling over his features. He steps closer until his chest brushes your shoulder, voice low and warm against your ear.
“I like taking care of my girl. Why wouldn’t I?”
The cashier is smiling politely, pretending not to listen. Your cheeks are hot, fairly certain that they’re tinted a faint shade of red.
“Jack,” you warn, softer this time.
“You gonna stand here and argue with me, baby?” His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate. “Or are you gonna let me pay?”
You exhale a defeated laugh, cheeks burning.
A small, satisfied smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”
He slides his card into the reader before you can make any move to protest again. While the cashier rings everything up, his arm stays looped around your waist, holding you close like it’s his favorite thing in the world.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
The drive home is quiet at first, city lights sliding across the windshield. You keep glancing down at the heavy Sephora bag in your lap, then over at him.
“You promised you’d let me pay today” you say, gently poking his arm.
Jack’s hand leaves the gear shift to rest on your thigh instead, squeezing gently.
“I said I’d try,” he corrects, voice low with amusement. “There’s a difference.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re ridiculous. We’re both doctors, y’know? I don’t need you dropping half your salary on me every time we leave the house.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thumb brushing back and forth over your leg as he drives.
“You work harder than anyone I know,” he says finally. “Longer hours than me sometimes. You come home exhausted and still make time for us. Let me take care of you, sweetheart. It makes me feel good. Like I’m doing something right.”
Your chest flickers with undeniable warmth. You reach down and lace your fingers with his. “You do plenty right, Jack. You don’t have to buy me half of Sephora to prove it.”
“I know.” He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles without taking his eyes off the road. “But I want to. And I like seeing my baby have pretty things.”
The words settle warm and heavy in your stomach. Your eyes are soft as you study the side of his face.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
Back at your apartment, Jack carries the bags inside like they weigh nothing. You kick off your shoes and start unpacking the new products on your vanity, admiring the sleek packaging.
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that soft, focused look that always makes your heart feel 10 pounds heavier.
“You’re staring,” you tease, fighting off a genuine smile.
“Can’t help it.” He pushes off the doorframe and comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder. “You happy?”
You lean back into his chest. “Yes. Thank you… even though you have no self-control.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrates low and warm against your neck. “Good.”
You turn in his arms, looping yours around his neck. “But next time, I’m paying. I will hear no arguments.”
Jack hums, pretending to consider it. “We’ll see.”
“Jack.”
“Alright, alright,” he says, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ll behave.”
You narrow your eyes. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
・・・۶ৎ・・・
Forty minutes later you’re curled up on the couch together when your phone buzzes. A notification from the jewelry store you’d walked past earlier on the way to Sephora.
Order confirmed. Your custom initial pendant will be ready for pickup tomorrow.
You sit up slowly, staring at the screen, then turn to look at him.
Jack doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. He just pulls you back against his chest with a lazy grin, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.
“You said you’d behave,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
“I did behave,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “For a whole forty minutes. That’s gotta count for something, right?”
Tr*mp's gross ass, pathetic loser ass having to be led away so he didn't photobomb a historiec spain win was highkey rage inducing. Fucking leave bitch. This ain't about you.
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