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⋆˚࿔ Genre: Fluff! [Needy! Abbot x Equally Needy! Reader w an undisclosed age gap!]
⋆˚࿔ Word Count: 1k
⋆˚࿔ Summary: Tracing his forearms is one of the ways you fidget, he notices and enables you to do so, but these days he can’t help but crave those silly touches more than you do ♥︎
⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note: I have a new old man to fixate upon and I love Veil so why not add those two things together, this is inspired by Emma and Aleksander’s dynamic in Veil (pls read peak)
Jack craves your touch, this realisation dawned on him when he was forcefully separated from you; as in forced to attend a conference by Gloria for a whole week.
He knew he loved skinship, it was one of his love languages, but that gruesome week made him realise that he for the love of god can NOT function without at least a couple of seconds of your touch every day.
It doesn’t have to be in a sexual manner; even though he enjoys that kind of touch too. He just loves the feeling of your fingertips dancing across his skin, the little taps of your finger on his wrist.
Jack missed that silly motion so much that he started to do it to himself to try to fill the void. It calms his nerves, but it isn’t the same as how you would do it.
Oh god, he thinks he might’ve formed some kind of codependency on you. He just couldn’t help it, your voice wasn’t enough during that tough week.
He needs your touch.
You notice that ever since he left for that conference he has started to wear short sleeves often, or if he was wearing something long-sleeved, he’ll roll it up to his forearms.
Is this his way to get your affection? Yes, yes it is.
Jack can’t find the words to verbally express his need for your touch without sounding like a perverted old man. He doesn’t want you to read his intentions wrong.
So he hopes you’ll catch the signal he’s giving. His male peacock behavior or so to speak…
You’re sitting on the couch beside him watching a random movie that was recommended to you when all of a sudden he just dumps his forearm on your lap.
You look at him for a second dumbfounded at the sudden weight on your lap, he stares back at you with those hazel eyes while wiggling his forearm against your thighs.
It looks like a fish flopping when it’s out of the water, you can’t help but laugh at his silly antics “Do you want me to rub your forearm?”
“Finally took you long enough, I was doing my mating dance all week,” he chuckles, it was cut short however when you finally place those nimble fingers on his forearm.
“Oh, I noticed,” you coo as your index finger traces the veins that wrap around his forearm.
In certain angles it is prominent enough for you to feel the indents, you love to rub and press on the squishy lines and he loves the feeling of it, the attention you’re giving to every line.
The delicate taps on each indent, god he loves it when you do that. He keeps his eyes trained on your face, staring at those soft lips curving upwards into a smile.
God, he wants to kiss you senseless.
“You were wearing short-sleeved shirts in this cold weather, you were practically throwing your arms to me,” you tease, he pouts, rubbing his soft curls against your cheek.
“So why didn’t you do anything?” he scoffs, it hurts his ego that his girl is not impressed by his physique.
He knew he had attractive arms. He often gets compliments for his biceps and forearms. Of course, you complimented him several times, but it is never enough.
He needs the daily reassurance y’know.
And not by some patients he treats, or a lady that walks past him. It has to be by his woman.
The whole time you weren’t squeezing his arm or at least touching them drove him nuts, why did you out of all people act like you’re not tempted by them?
“I mean I didn’t know you actually wanted me to touch, I thought you were just flexing those muscles,” you lie.
Of course, you know Jack and his need for compliments, it’s cute to see this older man huff and puff when you act disinterested.
“For you to touch them, obviously,” he glares at you.
“And compliment them, I mean c’mon,” he flex so you can see his veins bulging, girls like that right?
At this point, he might have to come clean about focusing on his biceps and forearms when he works out so you can have a lot of space to play with…
“Here’s the attention you so desperately seek, Jack,” you hold his wrist, your struggle to circle it entirely with your hand as you rub circles across the freckled surface.
You cinch your other hand around his upper forearm, squeezing it gently. You can see him light up like a kid on Christmas, cute.
He’s smug now that he has your attention. The woman of his dreams, the love of his life, “Thank you very much, I’d like a kiss too if possible,” he asks.
“Wow you’re demanding,” you smile, your thumb now massaging his palm.
“Damn straight, c’mon give your poor old man a kiss,” he leans in closer, his forehead now touching yours.
He feels at home now, here with you.
He leans closer lips almost touching yours, “You know what they say the older they get the needier they’ll become,” he mutters.
But you want to play the game longer, so you lift his hand and kiss his palm with your eyes held onto his.
“That’s cute, but you know where to kiss, honey,” he huffs, his knuckles caressing your cheek. The kisses don’t seem to stop, small pecks here and there alternating between each fingertip.
“Oh, you didn’t specify the exact location,” your smart mouth, oh he loves it so much. You love to tease and he loves to be teased, match made in heaven, no?
“C’mhere you little rascal,” he cups your cheek with one hand before finally taking what he desperately needed from you, a kiss.
And of course, your hands are all over him. He chuckles when he feels your hand curved against his throat, where it belongs. Then he smiles when his lips meet yours, his thumb caressing your jaw as he deepens the kiss.
SUMMARY: You have spent years warning people about your loud little dog before they come over for the first time. A lot of them leave, and you start to trust your dog’s instincts more than your own. Jack wins over the love of your dog despite your warnings and the barks. You hope that, finally, Jack won’t be the one to leave. Your dog seems to hope for the same…
NOTES: Reader has a mini schnauzer (Romeo), established relationship, references to previous toxic relationships, mild profanity, Jack is a bit cocky.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You almost don’t invite Jack over. That is the truth of it, however much you pretend otherwise later, however much you laugh it off when Jack’s mouth quirks and he says something low and pleased about winning over your dog.
There is a moment, hand still on the door, where your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with memory, where you consider stepping back out onto the pavement and suggesting a walk instead, a drink, anywhere but here.
Home has always been yours first and safe second. Romeo makes it that way. He is already barking before you even turn the key properly, claws clicking against the wooden floor as he launches himself at the door like he has something to prove. You wince, shoulder tensing, already bracing for the inevitable explanation, already preparing yourself for Jack to reassess, to smile politely and decide this is more effort than it is worth.
You glance over your shoulder. “I did warn you.”
Jack does not look concerned. He never looks concerned in the way other people do, not outwardly, not with that small level of panic that you are used to reading and accommodating. His calm runs deeper than that, something steadier and harder earned. He just watches the door, head slightly tilted, as if listening past the noise.
“Sounds like he’s got opinions,” he says.
“That’s putting it lightly.” You push the door open before you can hesitate again. “Romeo, shut up.”
The barking spikes at the sight of Jack. It is immediate and visceral. Romeo plants himself a few feet back, ears raised, teeth bared in a way that is far too dramatic for a miniature schnauzer with a brown bow-tie collar and yet somehow still intimidating. You feel the familiar curl of embarrassment twist low in your stomach, heat rising up your neck.
“Jesus Christ,” you say, forcing a laugh that does not quite land. “This is what I meant. He’s an asshole.”
There is a script for this, one you have learned the hard way. You apologise. You explain. You promise it will settle. You reassure them that he is all noise, that he has never actually bitten anyone, that he just needs time. Then you watch them withdraw anyway, slow and subtle, the beginning of distance already taking shape.
You brace for it now, but Jack just steps inside.
Not cautiously, not with exaggerated care, just normally, like there isn’t a tiny, fluffy maniac barking up at him. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click and stands there for a moment, letting Romeo bark himself hoarse without reacting to it. No sharp movements, no attempt to reach out, no irritation flickering across his face.
You frown, thrown off your usual script. “Huh. Most men don’t make it through the door,” you say.
“Most men don’t know how to be patient,” Jack replies with a scoff.
Romeo does not stop barking, but something in the rhythm changes. Less frantic. More evaluative. You can see it, the way his head tilts slightly, the way his eyes track Jack rather than just react to him.
You fold your arms, tension still coiled tight in your chest. “He hates men.”
“Does he?” It is not a question, despite what it sounds like. Jack glances down at him, expression unreadable in that quiet way of his. “Or does he hate something else?”
You open your mouth to answer and then close it again. It is easier to say Romeo hates men than it is to explain the rest of it.
The way he used to hide behind your legs when voices got too loud. The way he would bark himself into exhaustion whenever someone overstayed their welcome, as if he understood before you did that something was wrong. The way he never, not once, warmed to anyone you dated before, as if he could smell the parts of them you kept trying to ignore.
“He’s never liked anyone I’ve brought home,” you say instead, softer now.
Jack hums, crouching down slowly, wincing at the strain, but deliberate in every movement. He does not reach out. He just lowers himself to Romeo’s level and waits, forearms resting loosely on his thighs.
“Fair enough,” he says. “I’m not just anyone, luckily.”
There is something about the way he says it that settles under your ribs, warm and unsettling all at once.
Romeo’s barking falters. It does not stop completely, but it drops in volume, turning into something more uncertain, more questioning. He edges forward a fraction, nose twitching, still wary but no longer on the offensive. You stare.
“That’s new,” you murmur.
“Mm.” Jack does not look at you. His focus stays on Romeo, steady and unhurried. “He’s just figuring me out.”
“You’re being sized up. He might eat you.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
A huff of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. It feels strange, this shift, this unexpected ease settling into a situation you had already written off as stressful.
Romeo takes another step forward. Then another.
You watch, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, as he closes the distance entirely and sniffs at Jack’s knee, quick and cautious. There is a pause, a beat of stillness where anything could happen.
Jack does not move. Not even when Romeo’s nose brushes against the seam of his jeans, not even when the dog huffs softly, considering.
“Go on,” you whisper, more to yourself than to either of them.
Romeo sneezes. Then, in a move so abrupt it almost makes you laugh, he sits down. Just… sits.
The barking stops. The silence that follows feels louder than anything that came before it.
Jack glances up at you then, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. There is something dangerously close to amusement in his eyes, something that tugs at the corner of his mouth in a way that feels unfairly smug.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I might be.”
Romeo leans forward and licks Jack’s hand. You feel it in your chest, sharp and sudden, like something cracking open.
“That is—” You break off, shaking your head. “He doesn’t do that.”
“Apparently he does,” Jack says.
There is no gloating in his voice, not exactly. It is quieter than that, more contained, but you know him well enough now to hear it anyway, that thread of satisfaction woven carefully through his tone.
“You’re insufferable,” you tell him.
“Give it a minute,” he replies. “I can get worse.”
Romeo shifts closer, pressing himself against Jack’s leg as if he has known him for years rather than seconds. His tail starts wagging, tentative at first and then with growing confidence, the earlier hostility completely forgotten.
You feel something twist in your chest again, but it is not tension this time. It is something softer. Something more dangerous.
“He’s never done that,” you say, quieter now.
Jack’s gaze flicks back to you, the smugness fading just enough to make room for something gentler. “Maybe he’s got good instincts.”
You let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall as the reality of it settles in.
Romeo, your fiercely loyal, man-hating little guard dog, is currently leaning into Jack like he belongs there. Like he has always belonged there. The thought lands heavier than you expect.
You look at Jack, really look at him, at the quiet steadiness of him, the way he has not tried to force anything, has not taken more than what was given. There is something achingly familiar in it, something that mirrors the way he has been with you from the start. Patient. Careful. Unassuming in a way that somehow matters more than anything louder ever could.
Your throat tightens. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you manage.
“Too late, baby,” he says, and this time the smile is unmistakable.
You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real bite. Because the truth of it is sitting right there in front of you, tail wagging and utterly content. Romeo likes him. And that feels like far more than it should.
There is a strange sort of quiet that follows.
Not the absence of noise, because Romeo is still there, still making small pleased whines as he noses insistently at Jack’s hand, still shifting his weight like he cannot quite get close enough, but the absence of what you had prepared yourself for. No tension. No careful monitoring of distance. No apology forming on your tongue every time the dog moves. You do not quite know what to do with it.
Jack scratches lightly behind Romeo’s ear, measured and unhurried, like he is aware of how easily this could have gone the other way and is not interested in pushing his luck. The dog melts into it, leaning harder, eyes softening in a way you have only ever seen when it is just the two of you at the end of a long day.
It does something unsettling to your chest. “He’s a traitor,” you say, though there is no heat in it.
Jack glances up at you, hand still moving in slow, absent strokes. “Or he’s got standards.”
You snort despite yourself. “That’s not helping your case.”
“I’m not making a case.” His gaze drops back to Romeo, expression easing into something softer than you are used to seeing at work, where everything about him is sharpened by urgency and held together by control. “He’s already decided.”
The words land heavier than they should. You push yourself off the wall, needing to move, to ground yourself in something physical before your thoughts start running ahead of you. “Don’t read too much into it. He also once tried to befriend a man who dropped a hot dog on the pavement.”
“Did it work?”
“The man or the hot dog?”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “Either.”
“The hot dog,” you admit. “The man got barked at for breathing too loud.”
“Reassuring.”
You hover for a second, watching them, the ease of it, the way Romeo has completely abandoned his usual suspicion. It feels like witnessing something quietly significant, something you cannot quite put into words without making it sound bigger than it is allowed to be.
Your home has seen versions of this before.
Different faces. Different voices. The same eventual outcome. Romeo barking. You apologising. Someone leaving a little sooner than planned, a little less certain than when they arrived.
You have learned not to expect anything else.
“Come on,” you say, turning towards the kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”
“Sounds good.”
You take a few steps before realising he is not following. You look back. Jack is still sat on the floor, and Romeo is still pressed against him, entirely unwilling to let him go. There is something almost ridiculous about it, the way your fiercely independent dog has decided, within minutes, that this man is his person.
“Romeo,” you call. “Leave him.”
He does not move.
Jack huffs out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. “I think I’m being held hostage.”
“You can extract yourself,” you say. “He’s not that strong.”
“I’m aware.” There is a pause, a brief flicker of something thoughtful crossing his face. “I just don’t want to move, really.”
Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply inconvenient. You turn back to the kitchen before he can see it, focusing on the familiar routine of filling the kettle, setting it on the hob, anything to give your hands something to do. The normality of it should be grounding. It is not.
You can hear them from where you stand, the soft shuffle of movement, the quiet murmur of Jack’s voice as he says something low you cannot quite make out. Romeo responds with a pleased little huff, the sound carrying easily down the short hallway.
It feels intimate in a way you had not prepared for.
Not just him being here, not just the shift in your space, but this, the way something you have always kept separate is folding in on itself without resistance.
You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter than necessary. It should not matter this much. It is just a dog. It is just a man your dog happens to like.
Except it is not just that, and you know it.
You have spent years trusting Romeo’s instincts more than your own when it comes to people, letting his reactions confirm what you already suspect but do not want to admit. He has been right more often than not.
Right about the ones who pushed too hard. Right about the ones who stayed too long. Right about the ones who made you feel small in ways you could not quite articulate at the time. He has never been wrong.
The kettle whistles sharply, dragging you back. You turn off the hob, exhaling slowly as you reach for the mugs. Your hands feel steadier now, the simple familiarity of the task easing some of the tightness in your chest.
By the time you step back into the living room, you have almost convinced yourself it is nothing. Then you see them again. Jack has shifted, sitting properly now with his back against the sofa, one leg stretched out, the other bent. Romeo is in his lap, head resting against his thigh, completely at ease. Completely at home.
You stop in the doorway. Something in your chest pulls, sharp and aching and warm all at once.
Jack looks up at the sound of your movement, eyes finding yours immediately. There is a question there, quiet and unspoken, like he is checking in without making a point of it.
You swallow. “Tea,” you say, holding up the mugs slightly as if that explains anything.
“My sweet little lifesaver.”
You cross the room, setting one down carefully on the coffee table before lowering yourself onto the sofa, leaving a small, instinctive gap between you. It feels necessary, even now, even with everything that has already shifted.
Jack notices. He always notices. He does not comment on it, does not close the distance, does not do anything except take the mug and murmur a quiet thanks. The restraint of it settles something restless in your chest, even as it makes something else ache.
Romeo lifts his head, glancing between you both, as if assessing the situation.
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.
He ignores you. Of course he does. With zero hesitation, Romeo climbs up, wedging himself between you and Jack with all the determination of a dog who has decided he knows best. He circles once, twice, and then settles, pressing into both of you at once like he is bridging a gap you are not quite ready to close yourself.
You stare at him. Jack exhales softly, something almost like a laugh catching in his throat.
“Subtle,” he says.
“He’s never subtle,” you reply, though your voice has gone quieter, something in it unsteady.
You are very aware of the way your arm is now brushing against Jack’s, of the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleeve, of how easy it would be to just lean.
You do not. You sit there, very still, as Romeo sighs contentedly between you, utterly convinced he has solved a problem that only exists because of you.
Jack takes a slow sip of his tea. “He didn’t like the others,” he says after a moment, not looking at you.
It is not a question. You shake your head anyway. “No.”
“Any of them?”
“No.”
A pause. “Right.”
There is no judgement in it, no probing curiosity, just a quiet acknowledgement. It should make it easier to breathe. It does not.
You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, eyes fixed on the movement of your fingers. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little bit,” he admits.
You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“You said that already.”
“I mean it this time.”
That earns you a proper smile, brief but real, softening the harder edges of his expression in a way that still catches you off guard, even now.
“He’s got good taste,” Jack says.
You huff. “That’s debatable.”
“Feels pretty solid to me.”
You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real force. Because underneath it, beneath the teasing and the deflection and the careful distance you are still trying to maintain, there is something else taking root.
It settles slowly, almost reluctantly, threading its way through the familiar caution you carry, easing into spaces that have been closed off for longer than you care to admit.
You look at Romeo, at the way he is so completely at ease, and then at Jack, at the steady presence of him, the way he has not tried to claim anything that has not been offered. Your chest tightens. This feels different. That is the problem. You are not entirely sure what to do with the difference.
It shifts again later, in a way that feels smaller on the surface and far more dangerous underneath.
You are halfway through telling him something inconsequential, some story from work that does not really go anywhere, when you realise you have stopped watching Romeo. That, more than anything, is what unsettles you.
There is always a part of your attention reserved for the dog when someone new is in your space, always a low-level awareness of where he is, what he is doing, whether you need to intervene, apologise, manage. It has become instinct, something ingrained so deeply you no longer notice it most of the time.
Except now it is gone. You notice the absence of it like a missing step on the stairs. Your words falter, trailing off mid-sentence as the realisation catches up with you. Jack’s gaze lifts from where it had been resting loosely on your hands, attentive even when you are rambling, quiet in a way that makes it easy to keep talking.
“You alright?” he asks.
You nod automatically, even as your eyes flick down. Romeo is asleep. Properly asleep, not the light doze he usually slips into when there is someone unfamiliar nearby, not the half-alert rest where his ears twitch at every small sound. He is out, completely and utterly, curled against Jack’s side like this is the most natural place in the world to be.
You stare at him. Something in your chest pulls tight, then tighter still.
“This is so weird,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Jack follows your gaze, taking in the sight with a quiet sort of understanding that makes your throat feel dry.
“Feels like a good sign,” he says.
It should be. It is. That is what makes it so difficult to sit with. You drag your eyes away, focusing instead on the faint pattern of wear on your coffee table, the small scratches and marks that have built up over time. It is easier than looking at what is right in front of you, easier than letting yourself fully register what it means.
“Or he’s exhausted himself by being so dramatic,” you offer, grasping for something lighter.
“Could be that.” His tone suggests he does not believe it.
You pick at the same loose thread on your sleeve, pulling it a little too hard this time until it snaps. The sudden give of it feels louder than it should, the small sound cutting through the quiet of the room.
Jack’s eyes flick back to you. “You’re miles away,” he says.
You huff out a breath, something caught between a laugh and something more strained. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Shut up.” There is no bite to it. There rarely is with him.
Silence settles again, softer this time, less uncertain than before. It wraps around you both, around the steady rhythm of Romeo’s breathing, around the faint clink of ceramic as you set your mug down on the table.
You feel it building, the weight of something you have been carefully not saying, pressing against the inside of your ribs.
It comes out anyway. “He has never liked anyone before,” you say quietly.
Jack does not interrupt.
You swallow, forcing yourself to keep going even as your instinct tells you to pull back, to make a joke, to deflect.
“Not just in a ‘he barked a bit’ way. Properly didn’t like them. Wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t settle if they were here. It was always… tense.”
You risk a glance at him. Jack is watching you, not with that clinical attentiveness he has at work, not with the careful neutrality he uses when things get difficult, but with something softer, something that feels like it is just for you. It makes it harder to look away.
“I used to think he was just difficult,” you admit. “Or jealous, maybe. It was easier than considering he might be right.”
Jack’s expression shifts, something subtle but significant. “About them,” he says.
You nod. “Yeah.”
The word sits heavy between you. There is a lot you are not saying, a lot you do not need to. The shape of it is there anyway, in the spaces between your words, in the way your shoulders have drawn in slightly, in the careful neutrality you are trying and failing to maintain.
Jack exhales slowly. “He’s not wrong about me, you know,” he says.
It catches you off guard enough that you actually look at him properly, a small frown pulling at your brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not exactly low maintenance,” he replies, tone even, almost too even. “I come with my own set of complications.”
There it is. The quiet honesty of it, offered without fanfare, without expectation. You recognise it for what it is, the same kind of careful truth he gives you in pieces, never more than you can hold at once.
You shake your head, a small, instinctive movement. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His gaze does not waver. “Yeah.”
Something in your chest aches. You shift slightly, the movement bringing you a fraction closer without fully closing the space. It feels deliberate and not at all at the same time.
“I’m not saying you’re perfect,” you say, voice softer now. “That would be ridiculous.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
You almost smile.
“I’m saying he’s never been this… calm with anyone. Not like this. Not straight away. It’s usually a whole thing. Takes weeks, sometimes.”
Jack glances down at Romeo, who remains blissfully unaware of the conversation happening over his head. “Maybe I got lucky,” he says.
You shake your head again, more certain this time. “He doesn’t do luck.”
“Then what does he do?”
You hesitate. The answer feels too big, too revealing, like it will shift something if you say it out loud.
“He reads people,” you say finally. “Better than I do, most of the time.”
Jack is quiet for a moment. Then, very gently, “You give him a lot of credit.”
“He’s earned it.”
“And you haven’t?”
The question lands softly and still manages to knock the breath from your lungs.
You look at him, really look at him, at the steadiness of him, the quiet persistence, the way he has stayed without pushing, has listened without trying to fix things you are not ready to have fixed. Your throat tightens.
“That’s not the point,” you say, though it comes out weaker than you intend.
“Feels like it might be.”
You exhale slowly, your gaze dropping back to Romeo, to the rise and fall of his small body, the complete trust in the way he has settled.
“I trust him,” you say.
It is not a complete answer. Jack does not push for one. “Alright,” he says simply.
The acceptance of it settles something restless in your chest, even as it leaves other things exposed, things you are not entirely ready to examine too closely. You sit with it for a moment, the quiet stretching out, comfortable and not at the same time.
Then, almost without thinking, you let your hand drift down, fingers brushing lightly against Romeo’s back. He stirs, just slightly, but does not wake. Your hand stills there, resting against him.
Jack’s arm shifts a fraction as well, the movement small but enough that your fingers brush against his for the briefest second. It is nothing. It is everything.
You do not pull away immediately. Neither does he.
The contact is light, barely there, but it sends something warm and unsettling curling through your chest, something that feels suspiciously like the beginning of a decision you have been avoiding.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “This doesn’t mean he gets to be smug about it,” you say, voice quieter now.
Jack huffs out a soft laugh. “Too late for that.”
You glance at him, catching the faint trace of it, the restrained satisfaction he is trying and failing to hide. “You’re unbearable.”
“Only a bit.”
“More than a bit.”
He tilts his head, considering. “Worth it?”
The question is light. The answer is not. You look at him, at the man sitting in your space like he has always been meant to be there, at the dog who has decided the same thing without hesitation, and you feel it settle, slow and certain, beneath the fear and the caution and the habits you have built to keep yourself safe. Different. Still different. But maybe not in a way that needs to be resisted.
Your chest tightens, then eases, like something finally giving way. “Yeah,” you say, softer than anything you have said all evening. “Hopefully.”
Jack does not smile properly at that, not in a way that draws attention to itself. It is smaller. Quieter. But it is there. And this time, when Romeo shifts in his sleep and presses further into both of you, you do not move away at all.
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It's nearly nine when Jack walks behind Trinity and Dennis at the hub, peeking at whatever they're looking at on her phone—a post of some trendy commodity that’s gone viral for the month.
He stops in his tracks and chuckles, “Oh, my wife loves those.”
They practically snap their necks to look at him, confused. “Your wife?” Trinity asks, incredulous.
Jack nods toward a vague direction in front of them, and their eyes lead to you, yawning your way through charting at a desk. In the middle of it, you put your head down to sneak a few seconds of shut-eye.
The two slowly turn their heads back to him, with Trinity squinting her eyes at his affectionate gaze to you.
“I thought you guys had only been seeing each other for, like, a month.”
Jack shrugs. “I’m, uh…what do you kids call it? Manifesting.” He pats Dennis’ shoulder. “Finish your charts and go home. It's late.”
He walks away, leaving them more confused than before. They watch him round your desk, kiss your head, and murmur something to you. You sigh and lift your head, visibly a bit lighter.
Trinity gags. “Jesus Christ.”
“Hey, I think it's nice!” Dennis nudges her with his elbow.
Shen whistles at Jack as he comes in for his shift. "Looking great, old man!" It makes everyone put their attention on Jack, who just smirks.
He's wearing black button-up t-shirt and black pants. It's an unsual sight, so different from the black scrubs he wears.
But the real whistles and cheers happen when you come sauntering after him. You wear skin-tight black dress that flows down to your feet, covering the high heels.
Your cheeks are flushed as your colleagues cheer at the sight of you. But it's not the only thing making you blush.
It's the fact, that it's obvious to everybody that you and Jack just came from a date.
Everyone has been speculating about you two for quiet a while, there's even a betting pool going around, but this....This confirms it.
You didn't have time to go home and change and get here in separate cars, not when there's been a massive pile up on the highway and everyone got called to work.
It was supposed to be yours and Jack's night off, you had a dinner reservation in the nicest restaurant in the city and it was so, so lovely.
That was until your phones started going off and you scrambled out of there in hurry and with groans. Don't get me wrong, you both love doing your job as doctors. But dates nights are sacred to you two since they don't happen as often as you would like.
"Yes! I fucking knew it." Santos says very loudly, already halfway through on the way for her winnings.
"Alright, alright, alright. The show is over, everybody get back to work." Finally, Dana yells loudly, making everyone avert their hungry gazes away from you.
"And you lovebirds, hurry up and get changed. ETA is 10 mins for the first patients."
You nod and hurry after Jack. It's not as easy to walk quickly in these high heels. Jack notices, of course he does, and waits up for you, hand extended your way.
You take it sheepishly and let him stabilise you so it's easier to walk. "You okay, angel? That was a lot, huh?"
"Yeah, but I'm okay. At least, now they know." You give him a little smile, squeezing his hand for the reassurance.
"Yes. At least, now I can kiss you whenever I want." He grins at you and you just look mortified. There's no way you'll survive heavy pda in front of your colleagues and you both know it.
"As long as it's moderate." You mumble out as you let Jack lead you towards the lockers.
"Don't worry, angel. I'll be on my best behaviour I promise." He seals that promise with a quick peck to your lips. But you are out of anyone's view so you relax into it. And you almost whine when he pulls away, almost. Gosh, you were so excited to have him all to yourself for the night.
"Okay, let's go, sweetheart. You heard Dana, no time to waste." He says when you try to steal another kiss from him.
"You kissed me first!" You laugh because he's clearly being ridiculous.
"I'd never." He fakes innocence, but the smirk on his face is far from that.
"Pff, we'll see where this gets you when we get home." You giggle but his eyes only darken.
"Doll, we both know I won't be the one begging then." He whispers the words into your ear and your stomach practically does somersaults at that.
"You're not playing fair." You pout at him as his hands help you unzip the dress.
"I'm only-" he stops in the middle of the sentences as you turn around and let the dress pool at your feet. The purple lingerie you have on clearly broke his brain. His eyes devour the sight in front of him.
You chuckle as you quickly change into your scrubs, and by the time Jack realises you are no longer half-naked, you are running away, leaving him there all stunned.
Yeah, this shift fucking better be over quickly. Or he'll lose his mind thinking about you.
gyno langdon but it's one of those shitty pornos where he's examining r n it's literally just him talking her thru it like he's the solution to her orgasm problem - 🍓
he's so endeared when you whimper and cover your face wondering out loud if maybe you're the problem :( he's quick to reassure, "no, sweetheart, I doubt that's the case. just need someone that knows what they're doing, yeah? a nice man—o-or woman, person—that will learn your body and what you like, alright?"
nods himself to encourage you to do the same. "I could..." he pretends to think about it then shakes his head. "no. I shouldn't—"
"no wait, what?" you reach for his arm, eyes wide and desperate. "I'll do anything, please. please fix me, dr. langdon."
"okay, alright," he soothes you and gently lowers you back down the bed. "you gotta calm down, okay? no good if you're all worked up, gotta get you nice and relaxed." his hands reach for the hem of your underwear. "I can show you."
Your bf’sdad!Jack always hits all the right spots for me- how do you feel about Reader watching Jack do yard work shirtless and trying not to look like she’s staring?
18+ cw: cheating/emotional cheating + daddy kink
you and your boyfriend are hanging out by the pool at jack’s house—lounging all morning, drinking and soaking up the first bits of summer. around noon, jack comes out, checking in on you two, seeing if you need anything from inside before he starts yard work.
this is why you come over. your boyfriend sits in the other lounge chair, absolutely clueless when you put on your sunglasses, eyes on jack when he shugs off his t-shirt. shorts highlighting his thick thighs and his prostheses—so fucking hot.
he’s trimming the plants, mowing the lawn, kneeling down to check the pool ph levels—everything he does just makes you rub your thighs together, soaking your bikini bottoms.
when your boyfriend gets up to get ready for work, you follow him inside, going to the kitchen to pour a large glass of ice cold lemonade. he kisses your forehead before you head back out—walking straight towards jack.
over the sound of the leaf blower, you yell n wave your fingers, “mr. abbot?” he lifts his head from where he’s focused on the ground, flicking the off button on the leaf blower, eyes moving from your manicured toes, up your smooth legs to your tiny bikini, then up to your eyes. he smiles, wipes sweat from his forehead, pecks flexing as he does.
“hey, sweetheart. you need anythin’?” you shake your head, holding your arm out with the cup of lemonade towards him, “just thought you’d want a refresher after being in the sun all day.”
he hums, smirking as his eyes look down at your tits, “thank you, honey. you havin’ fun?” you bite your lip, looking over your shoulder then back at him, “mhmm—view’s nice too.”
he laughs, head thrown back as his body shakes, “oh yeah? you’re a naughty girl.” you blush, walking closer to him to lift up on your toes, brushing your lips against his cheek to press against his ear, “let me know if you need anything else, daddy.”
he grunts, lets out a little “fuck” as you lean back, smiling to turn back towards your lounge chair. he smacks your ass as you start to walk away, “you’re trouble, baby.”
you squeal, giggling over your shoulder at him, laying back down, watching him work over the top of your book—not reading a single word. ♡
ABOUT: Your old boyfriends turn banking you in a competition.
PAIRING: Rabbot x Reader
NOTES: Unfortunately, I forgot about the tagging and excluded the post. Sorry! It was fun to write. I hope you enjoy it!
“Hey, honey, didn't you brought your things yesterday? I thought you would go shopping.” Jack is standing by the kitchen counter, phone in hand, brow faintly furrowed as he scrolls through his banking app.
The early morning light catches the crease between his eyebrows — the one that shows up whenever numbers don’t add up.
“Oh, yeah, I brought it!” You look into your apple pay, looking for the receipt. But, actually, you regret almost immediately. “... with Robby's card.”
There is something deeply ridiculous happening in the Abbot–Robinavich orbit. Both men — successful, established, financially comfortable to a borderline obscene degree — have independently decided that your existence should be funded.
Robby, with his old-money ease and casual generosity, who once handed you his card like it was a library pass.
Jack, quieter about it, but no less firm — the type to transfer money into your account without announcing it, just labeling it “for you” and pretending it was practical.
And somehow, you’ve become the center of a silent financial cold war.
Jack sets his phone down carefully. “How much?” He asks.
You hesitate. “Define… much.”
He doesn’t blink. “How much.”
You clear your throat. “It was a coat.”
He waits.
“And boots.”
He continues waiting.
“And a bag, but it was on sale.”
Jack exhales slowly through his nose, but there’s no anger in it. If anything, there’s a flicker of something dangerously close to amusement.
And then, as if summoned by narrative timing alone, the front door unlocks.
You don’t even turn around at first. You already know that rhythm of footsteps — confident, unhurried, like the world has never denied him anything substantial.
Robby walks in carrying a paper bag from the bakery down the street, sunglasses still perched on his nose even though he’s indoors. He looks entirely too pleased with himself for someone who has no idea what he’s walking into.
He leans down, presses a casual kiss to your cheek. “Morning.”
Then he looks at Jack.
Then at the phone on the counter.
Then back at you.
There's a pause — brief, calculating. And Robby smiles.
“So,” he says lightly, setting the bakery bag down, “I won this week, right? She spent mine more than yours.”
You close your eyes. “There is no scoreboard.”
Jack scoffs, pushing off the counter, the phone still in his hand. “We said we’d stop keeping score, but come on. Boutique on Fifth? That’s a solid win. You didn’t even give me a chance, man.”
Robby’s grin widens slowly, like a cat stretching in sunlight. “I don’t control her shopping impulses.”
“You absolutely encourage them,” Jack replies evenly.
Robby removes his sunglasses with deliberate slowness, folding them and slipping them into his shirt pocket. “Encouragement is such an ugly word. I prefer support.”
You look between them, incredulous. “You two sound like venture capitalists.”
Robby tilts his head.
“Well,” he says, “she is an excellent investment.”
Jack snorts. “You’re not helping your case.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Neither of you should be making a case. I’m not a startup.”
Robby opens the bakery bag like he’s unveiling something sacred. The smell of fresh pastries fills the kitchen immediately — butter, sugar, cinnamon.
“I also brought croissants,” he says casually, like that will somehow strengthen his argument.
Jack folds his arms. “Bribery.”
“Breakfast.”
“Strategic timing.”
Robby glances at you, amused. “You see what I deal with?”
“You started it,” Jack replies.
Robby places a croissant on a plate and slides it toward you with exaggerated courtesy. “My dear, please enjoy the fruits of my financial victory.”
“There is no victory,” you repeat.
Jack reaches across the counter, takes the plate, and slides it back toward himself.
“You spent my money on groceries yesterday,” he points out calmly. “That counts.”
Robby raises an eyebrow. “Groceries aren’t glamorous.”
“They’re practical.”
“You’re losing because you’re thinking like an accountant.”
“I’m winning because I’m thinking long term.”
You stare at both of them.
“You realize,” you say slowly, “that normal couples argue about who spent too much money.”
Jack shrugs slightly. “We’re efficient.”
Robby nods, entirely serious. “We’ve optimized the system.”
“Optimized—”
“Yes,” Robby continues, gesturing with a croissant like he’s presenting at a conference. “Jack handles infrastructure spending. I handle luxury acquisitions.”
Jack deadpans, “You mean impulse purchases.”
Robby ignores him.
“Together,” he says, “we ensure a balanced portfolio.”
You look at the two men standing in your kitchen — one leaning against the counter with arms crossed and that quiet, stubborn expression he gets when he’s decided something is logical, the other smiling like he’s enjoying a private joke with the universe.
Then you sigh.
“You’re both insane.”
Jack pushes the croissant plate back toward you again.
“Eat,” he says.
Robby leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“If you like the coat, by the way, there’s a matching scarf.”
Jack groans immediately. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m supporting her.”
“You’re escalating.”
Robby smiles innocently. “Same thing.”
You take a bite of the croissant just to avoid saying something that will make this worse.
Unfortunately, Robby notices.
“See?” he says, pointing at you. “She likes my investments.”
Jack reaches for his phone again.
“Oh, absolutely not,” you warn.
He’s already opening his banking app.
Robby watches, delighted. “What are you doing?”
Jack doesn’t look up. “Leveling the field.”
Your eyes widen. “Jack.”
He taps something on the screen. Your phone buzzes on the counter.
You glance down.
Transfer received.
Robby leans over your shoulder to read it. He laughs, low and impressed.
“Okay,” he admits. “That’s good.”
Jack finally looks up, calm as ever. “Scoreboard’s tied.”
synopsis: bothering jack abbot is your specialty, fuck whatever your actual job is.
content: swearing, medical inaccuracy obviously--sue me I'm in law not medicine, minor gaslighting but only un poquito, jack cant even be mad at reader LMFAO he is so whipped. but like he can though. but also in the moment he cant. he just needs a little time, I kept it T for freaking teen baby!!
a/n: what is there to say...technically preceding goldilocks but you don't have to read that to read this and vice versa. dani @alexturner once said to me "i love how she's the lawyer but he's always the one winning arguments" and i was like hm. perhaps i should rectify that. ok bye
Jack is elbow deep in someone’s chest cavity when his phone buzzes, cutting straight through the controlled chaos of consequences befalling a man rushed into his trauma bay after poor seatbelt choices and an accident straight out of Final Destination.
It starts as a faint tremor in the pocket of his scrubs—more vibration than sound—but even beneath layers of sterile gown and adrenaline, he feels it.
He doesn’t acknowledge it.
He can’t. His hand is currently cradling some guy’s inferior vena cava like it’s made of glass, and one wrong twitch means this guy is leaking faster than a bullet-addled DC-10.
But the buzzing doesn’t stop.
It goes off again.
And again.
The third time it happens, Ellis glances toward the tray table. “Dr. Abbot, your phone—”
“I know,” he says, voice calm but clipped. “Ignore it. I need suction.”
It’s not that he isn’t curious. Of course he is. Jack’s phone never rings this much unless something’s on fire—or worse, you tried using his gas stove again.
But there’s a heart in his hand, so it can wait.
Probably.
Hopefully.
God willing.
And then it fucking goes off again.
“Oh my God,” he breathes out, entire body stilling with disbelief. “Can someone please answer that?”
There’s a small shuffling as Ellis obeys his command, maneuvering around the occupants of the room towards the small metal tray. Tugging off one red-streaked glove, she shimmies the small phone out of his back pocket and swipes across the screen, unlocking it.
It presses against Jack’s ear.
Silence bleeds through from the other side, softly broken by the static of a breath.
“Hey, Jack.” You voice drifts out, half-articulate, and followed by a soft smack like you were mid-snack and had a prophetic vision of him at the most inopportune moment and decided to blow up his phone. “What’s up?”
Jack blinks down at his blood-soaked gloves—at the fucking cavern his hand disappears into.
What’s up?
“Nothing crazy,” he replies mildly. Catching someone’s eye, he nods down where his hands disappear, demanding more suction. “Are you dying?”
“Only to talk to you.”
Jack sighs, wedging the device harder between his shoulder and cheek.
“Honey, I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back.”
“No, you won’t—you always say that. There’ll be some emergency you have to tend to.”
“An emergency in the emergency room?” he asks dryly. “Imagine that.”
The doctor hears you snort, the microphone picking up the soft sound of your socks scuffling across the porcelain-disguised-as-wood floor before you grunt.
Hopping onto the counter in the kitchen, Jack assumes.
He shifts his weight, the blue fabric of his gown crinkling as he carefully pinches the artery between his fingers to further constrict blood flow.
Glancing up, he meets Ellis’ eyes and mouths, where the fuck is surgery?
Two minutes, she mouths back.
Jack huffs a breath that fogs up his glasses for a split second.
“Jack? You still there?”
“No, actually—”
“Alright, obviously you are. Anyway,” the doctor groans, but you continue as if he didn’t even have vocal chords with which to make the noise. “Medical opinion. Skipping backstory because someone is feeling bitchy today. Do penguins have depression?
Jack’s brain short-circuits.
Shaking his head minutely trying to generate any energy that would restart any mental faculty, a disbelieving laugh—more of a hwa, really—escapes him.
“What?”
“They can’t fly. Are they, like, sad because of that? I think I would be.”
He cannot fucking do this right now.
His leg is starting to ache, and his shoulder is starting to cramp from the awkward fucking position he finds himself in trying to stabilize this patient long enough to get him to surgery, and he has to subtly shift his weight in a futile attempt to relieve any of that tension—though, if he’s honest, most of that tension is coming from you—and his shoes make a sickening shweck sound when the soles of his boots slide across the blood-slicked ground. And through it all—the faint pulsing of the blood through the vein in his hand and the scent of iron wafting through the air, stealing all breath from his lungs—you’re on the other side of the phone, miles away, chirruping about the presumed mental state of Antarctic birds.
Jack’s eyes slide closed for a beat, and he takes a deep, should-be calming breath.
And then he cuts you right the fuck off.
“Sweetheart, I’m chest deep in someone who tried to merge with a semi-truck,” he bites out. “I have the only thing keeping his blood pressure in the double digits in my hand. My resident looks like she’s about cut my arm off and use it as a puppet, and I’m almost positive I just heard you lick a spoon.”
Jack takes another deep breath.
“And you called me,” he confirms slowly, the syllables taut with barely-there restraint, in an attempt to find the fucking sense in them, “to ask me if I think penguins get sad because they can’t fly?”
Someone stifles a snort across the room.
The tendon in his jaw flexes as he attempts to rein in his annoyance.
Someone's heart is literally in his hands. You’re calling inquiring about the possible chemical imbalances that may afflict flightless avians. And now there is laughter in his trauma room.
Jack makes a note for later—clean-up detail, entirely comprised of that one fucking guy. Why shouldn’t the janitor get a nice hour off?
“Yeah," you say simply. "Do they?”
“Honey. Sweetheart. Light of my life. I’m mid-vascular anastomosis,” He tilts his head, carefully balancing his phone between his cheek and his shoulder. Like a switch is flipped, his voice becomes laden with frustration. “I cannot stand here and opine on the emotional state of penguins,” Jack snaps.
The line goes silent. Jack almost feels bad.
Almost.
Then your voice—your once again snack-addled voice, thick with peanut butter or something, Jack guesses—cuts back in.
“Jack, it’s a simple yes or no,” you sigh.
Like he’s the crazy one for not wanting to have this conversation right now.
“I’m hanging up,” he decides.
“Okay, rude ass—”
“Kid, I love you,” he cuts in, catching Ellis’ eyes and shrugging the shoulder with his phone on it. “But I’m hanging up.”
Ellis grabs the phone from him, an extremely amused smile on her face.
Leaning over to him, she whispers, “I’ll make sure to chart that call as ‘urgent,’ Abbot.”
The moment Jack opens your door, he’s ready to fight.
He spent the entire drive rehearsing what he was going to say, so he could at least try to make it hard for you to twist his words and win an argument.
Jack would bring up the fact that the phone call was completely irresponsible. He would concede that, yes, you’re right, he could have hung up at any moment. He would also assert that you knew he was on-shift and that, barring any injury, major or minor, or you winning the lottery, communication should be confined to text.
He had it all planned out.
He, of course, forgot to account for the fact that your front door seems to squeak when it opens no matter how many cans of WD-40 he puts on it—he suspects that he’s keeping Home Depot in business from that alone—and the entryway looks directly into your kitchen.
His foot hovers over the threshold to your apartment, and Jack sees you freeze, half-eaten bagel hovering in the air, one of his old hoodies draped over your body barely covering your shorts, and one sock scrunched down by your ankle while the other remains glued mid-calf.
You don’t even turn toward him, but he sees your wide eyes locked on his figure from your periphery.
Without removing his eyes from you, the doctor hangs his backpack on the little hook he installed for himself.
His right foot brings him one step closer.
Then his left.
And then he starts stalking toward you.
Slowly, as casually as possible with no sudden movements, you toss your bagel down to the plate with a ping from the hard bread meeting ceramic. To your right, your arm slides across the kitchen island, your body turning toward him as it melts into the granite while your feet slink in the opposite direction.
Finally, your body reaches maximum stretch, and Jack rounds the island to rest opposite of you.
The island of burnt bagels and granite.
His new battleground.
You throw him a lopsided grin.
“Heyyyyyyyyy, Jack,” you nervously laugh out. “Looking goo—”
And suddenly, he’s angry.
Very angry.
He's angry that you can look so cute and be so nonchalant when you’ve caused him major turmoil in the past four hours. Not to mention teasing from Shen.
“Four in the morning,” he barks out.
Your shoulders hike up to your ears, smile melting down and baring your teeth in a distinct haha, you got me expression.
“You called me at four in the morning,” Abbot reiterates, “to ask me if I thought that penguins get sad because they can’t fly.”
He sticks a finger in your face. “Four in the morning.”
“Okay, well, do you—?”
“Four.”
“Established! But,” your finger lazily draws a circle on the counter, “you’re still not answering.”
Your name vibrates out of his chest in a groan. “You of all people should know the legal ramifications of stopping an emergency procedure for a phone call.”
He pauses.
Then, “Especially ones that are penguin based.”
“I don’t…” your eyes dart to the side before snapping back to him.
You squint, weaponizing confusion. “Jack, I’m not sure why you think the law explicitly prohibits penguin discussions amid emergency operations.”
“That’s not— my point is—”
“Give me one statute,” you demand.
“What?” he flounders, caught off guard.
“One. Statute.” You raise your eyebrows and shrug. “I’ll wait.”
1. Bring up the fact that the phone call was completely irrespons–
“That’s your job—” he hears himself saying instead.
What the fuck is happening right now? Where did his bullet-points go?
“Oh, alright,” you laugh out, crossing your arms over your chest. “So, you admit you came into the operating room with zero legal grounding.”
“What? No—”
“So you knowingly performed a high-stakes medical procedure without ensuring full compliance with potential,” your voice hesitates, the last syllable wavering as you battle amusement, “penguin-related clauses in state and federal code. That’s…” You push yourself clear off the island and wave two disbelieving hands in a what the fuck gesture. “Well, that’s bordering on gross negligence, Jack.”
“I didn’t— there are no penguin clauses—”
“Oh, okay.” You nod slowly. “So now you’re just assuming legal precedent, then. On what basis? Gut feeling? Ornithological jurisprudence?”
“You’re making things up,” he snaps.
“I’m doing my job.”
“What job? It’s eight in the morning on a Saturday and you—” he hisses out, jabbing a finger in your direction, “—you’re in Whataburger boxers and mismatched socks.”
“Typical Sunday best,” you dismiss with a shrug.
Stand your ground, Jack.
“It’s Saturday, not Sunday,” he grinds out.
“Saturdays are Sundays of the weekend, everyone knows that.”
And what the fuck does that mean?
Jack groans, rubbing his temples like that’ll somehow buffer him from your logic.
“You know what?” he snaps. “I hope penguins are sad. Deeply, irreparably sad. Because if I have to suffer, they do too.”
“Wow.” You blink, head slinking back in astonishment. “Bold stance for someone claiming to be pro-bird.”
“I never claimed that!” he insists, the tendon in his neck flexing, almost to the point of pain, while he fights for his life in a court of bird law that doesn’t even fucking exist.
And, if it does, it sure as fuck isn’t taught in medical school.
“Oh, so you’re anti-bird now?”
“No! I just— God, what is happening right now?” he explodes, gesturing wildly. “You called while I had my fingers in someone’s heart to debate whether Emperor penguins have some sort of evolutionary seasonal affective disorder—”
“Well, do they?”
He closes his eyes.
Breathes in.
Out.
You lean forward, elbows on the counter in full cross-examination intensity.
“You said—and I quote—‘You of all people should know the legal ramifications.’ So, I asked you a legal question. And now,” your hand comes to rest on your heart, “I’m the bad guy?”
“I said that because you were going to kill that guy.”
“I was going to do no such thing,” you say mildly. “Because I. Respect. The law.”
The older man stares at you, jaw working, a silent plea to whatever higher power might be listening for the patience to survive this conversation.
A strange sense of calm washes over him—one that accompanies your specific brand of arguing technique.
He thinks maybe you have a point with all that amen, brother shit you throw around half-seriously.
“You know what I meant,” he says, each word a slow, deliberate exercise in self-restraint. “You can’t just twist my words because you’re bored and running on two hours of sleep and orange juice.”
You don’t bother to hide your smirk.
“I’m not twisting your words. I’m clarifying the record for the court. You know, in case this comes up during your deposition.” The sentence cuts off abruptly as you blink, holding a finger up while a thought belatedly comes in on the fax machine in your brain. “Also. I cannot drink orange juice. It interacts with my Focalin.”
“I’m not on trial.”
When he says it, he really, really tries to keep his tone resolute—clinical and I’m Mister Doctor who does doctor things.
You prod a finger at the air between you.
“Not yet. But the jury,” you gesture to the half-eaten bagel on the counter, “isn’t looking great for you, doctor.”
But, unfortunately, he's not doing doctor things. He's off the clock.
Jack stares at you for a long beat—at your wild hair that kind of resembles a lion’s mane right now, and at the amusement simmering in your eyes.
The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of this entire conversation hits him full force, all at once. Five hours ago, he was in the emergency department actually saving lives; now, he’s standing in your kitchen, tired and resigned and helpless to you, standing there wearing Whataburger boxers and arguing avian psychology with the composure of a Supreme Court justice.
A slow, helpless twitch tugs at the corner of his mouth. He tries to swallow it, but it’s too late. His shoulders betray him with a single shake, a breathless puff of air escaping him as his head drops forward.
You pivot on your back foot, twisting your body to put distance between the two of you, in confusion.
But when Jack looks back up, whatever annoyance—anger, whatever—that was there is completely gone. The wrinkles by his eyes deepen with an amount of affection that is, frankly, a little embarrassing.
“You’re a nightmare,” he laughs, but the bite is entirely replaced by a soft, thread of fondness, wrapping around each word. He begins a leisurely walk towards where you’re standing, before he reaches out and catches the side of your jaw. “A literal, legal nightmare.”
Looking down, he sees your cloth-enclosed toes shuffle forward until they bump his shoes. His eyes make the ascent, trailing across your socks, and your fuckass shorts, and his hoodie, until they lock onto your own.
The apartment is silent as your soft breaths mingle with his.
Jack’s thumb traces down the line of your jaw, hooking on your chin before it smooths down to rest right above your collarbone.
Slowly, he tilts your head up.
Even more slowly, because proximity to you is now just downright Pavlovian, his eyes slide shut.
Distance between the two of you becomes non-existent, the bridge of his nose gently nudging your forehead.
He’s not thinking about the semi-truck or the first-year resident he’s definitely going to be overworking tomorrow or your extremely frustrating way of doubling down even when you know you’re wrong.
He’s thinking about how your forehead feels against his and how, despite his best efforts to be a serious professional, his heart is currently doing an extremely unprofessional skip.
“I’m going to lose my license because of you, you know that?” he whispers.
Against his throat, he feels your low, vibrating hum of surrender, lips grazing the sensitive skin.
“Not even because of that stupid fucking phone call,” he says. “But because I’m currently standing in the kitchen after my shift arguing about the legality of penguins with my extremely stubborn girlfriend instead of sleeping.”
A small puff of laughter dances across his skin, goosebumps following in its wake. “Girlfriend, huh?”
Jack hums.
And then lets out a long, very self-suffering sigh as the mockery of adrenaline evaporates from his system, leaving only the comfortable weight of being home. Carefully, his body sinks into yours, nudging one foot between yours and anchoring himself to you.
“For the record,” he whispers, lips brushing your skin with every word, “your little jury is biased. I would like to request a mistrial.”
Your arms snake around his waist, hooking together and finding comfortable resting place on his spine.
Jack abruptly pulls back and you whine, a pathetic where are you going whine that tugs at his heart.
“And I want a bite of that bagel as a peace offering,” he demands.
Small arms—deceptively strong small arms—pull him back to you.
You shake your head like your trying to burrow in.
“That’s literally your bagel,” you say, words muffled from where your face presses into his chest. "I made it for you."
Jack blinks.
“You were just eating it.” He turns his head and looks at what’s left of the offending breakfast item. “I watched you eat it. It’s literally half-eaten.”
“Ohhhh my god, you are bitchy today.”
"Kid, that's not even a bagel anymore. It's a piece of cardboard."
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x girlfriend!reader
Warnings: fighting, angst to fluff, pregnancy reveal, near death experience.
Summary: After an argument about Jack’s dangerous new hobby with the SWAT team, he walks out, leaving things shattered. Hours later, Jack realizes that the adrenaline he’s been chasing is nothing compared to the new reason to come back home after his shifts.
✨ based on this request ✨
Jack sat on the edge of the bed, his back a map of fresh bruises and the jagged edges of a new bandage peeking out from under his shirt.
"Just a hobby, Jack? Really?" Your voice was quiet, trembling with a mix of exhaustion and pure terror. "Most people take up woodworking. They bake bread. They don't volunteer to be the first one through a door in a tactical vest."
Jack didn't look at you. "My psychiatrist said I needed a way to channel the adrenaline. To feel useful outside the ER. I’m a veteran, doll. I’m trained for this."
"You were in a war zone because you had to be!" You finally snapped, the volume of your voice cracking the silence. "You spent years trying to crawl out of that hole, and now you’re jumping back into another one for fun? I spent six hours wondering if the man down on the news was you."
Jack stood up then, his movements stiff. The coldness in his eyes was worse than bruises. He wasn't the man who kissed you awake this morning.
"I don't need a keeper," he said, his voice flat. "I spent my entire life being told where to go and who to save. This is the first time out of ER that I’ve felt like I’m in control of the chaos. If you can’t handle that, that’s on you. Not me."
"Are you kidding me right now?" You let out a laugh. "You’re bleeding through your shirt, Jack! That isn't control, it's a death wish. You’re choosing the rush over us. You’re choosing the possibility of a funeral."
Jack grabbed his bag from the closet.
"Where are you going?" The panic finally broke through your anger, your heart hammering against your ribs. He still had three hours before his shift started.
"I can't do this," he muttered, swinging the bag over his shoulder. He winced as the strap hit the fresh wound on his shoulder, but he didn't slow down. "I can't come home to a trial every time I have a rough shift. I thought you, of all people, would understand wanting to mean something."
"You mean everything to me!" you screamed at his back as he moved toward the front door. "Is that not enough? Being loved isn't enough for you?"
"Apparently not," he said quietly. "I'm probably going to do a doble shift. Don't wait up for me."
The sound of the door clicking shut behind him was small, but it echoed through the empty hallway like a gunshot. You stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the lingering scent of his cologne and the discarded medical wrappers on the nightstand, waiting for the sound of him coming back.
-
"Abbot, take five," Dr. Shen muttered, catching him by the scrub sink. "You’re vibrating. And not in a good way. How's the bandage?"
Jack didn't look up from his hands, scrubbing until the skin was raw. "I’m fine. It’s just a long shift."
But he wasn't fine. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the way you had looked in the bedroom, the betrayal in your eyes, the way your voice had shattered when he walked out. He had chosen the rush and now the adrenaline had soured into a cold weight in his gut.
"Incoming trauma, Category Red. Single-vehicle MVA. Unresponsive female, massive hemorrhage, suspected femoral artery transection. ETA two minutes."
Jack was already moving toward the bay. When the paramedics burst through the doors, the sound of the gurney’s wheels was deafening.
"Vitals are crashing! We've got a tourniquet on the right thigh, but she’s lost too much. Pressure is 60 over palp—"
The paramedic stepped aside and his world stopped spinning.
It was your face. But it wasn't the face that had yelled at him hours ago. It was pale, waxen, framed by hair matted with blood. Your sweater, the one he’d complained about being too oversized, was shredded and soaked a deep crimson.
"Jack?" Parker's voice sounded like it was underwater. "Jack, step back. I’ve got this. Jack!"
"No," Jack whispered, then louder, his voice cracking with a desperate edge. "No! Get the O-neg! Now! I need a vascular kit!"
"Jack, you can't—"
"I said get the kit!" he roared, his hands hovering over your leg. He was a man watching his entire world leak out onto the floor.
The next hour was pure trauma and terror. He felt the hot spray of your blood on his face as he fought to clamp the artery. He was barking orders, his voice raw, refusing to let anyone else give up on you. When your heart monitor flatlined, his breath stopped.
"Starting compressions," he gasped, his palms over your sternum. One, two, three. "Don't you dare. Fuck, baby, don't you fucking dare."
"Jack, we have a pulse," a nurse called out after a minute, her voice trembling. "We have a rhythm. We need to go to the OR. Now."
He didn't leave your side. He had told you your love wasn't enough, and then he had walked out.
Hours later, you were a haunting sight on ICU. The rhythmic sound of the machines were the only thing keeping the silence at bay. Your leg was heavily bandaged, saved by a fraction of an inch and his own desperate hands.
Jack sat in the hard plastic chair by the bed. He reached out, his fingers hovering inches from your hand, afraid that if he touched you, you’d feel the coldness of the man who had abandoned you.
He thought about the fight, about the SWAT missions, about how he could be so selfish and dumb. It all felt like ash in his mouth. He had sought out danger for the sake of feeling alive, only to realize that life was sitting right here because she had been out looking for him or simply driving with a mind clouded by the grief he caused.
He leaned his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, a broken sob finally escaping his throat. "Please wake up, doll, I'm so sorry."
He stayed there in the dark, waiting for eyes that might never forgive him to open, realizing that he had saved your life but he had already destroyed your heart.
When your eyelids finally fluttered open, you were confused. You weren't on your bedroom. This wasn't your bed. You tried to shift but your right leg felt like it was encased in lead. A hand, warm but trembling, immediately folded over yours.
"Hey, try not to move. You're going to rip out your stitches."
"Jack?" Your voice was raspy. The memories started to bleed back in: the argument, the slamming door, the rain slicked road, his keys. "The... the keys. You left the house keys. I was coming to..."
Jack let out a broken sob, half-laugh. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. "The keys? Doll, you shouldn't have driven in the middle of the storm, you could have sent me a message."
"I didn't want you to be locked out, you know I'm a deep sleeper," you whispered, the anger from earlier completely drained. "I was mad, Jack. But I wanted to make sure you came back home."
He looked up then and the sight of him broke your heart. His eyes were bloodshot. "I’m the one who shouldn't have left. I was chasing a feeling because I was too arrogant to realize I already had everything I needed at home. I was wrong." He squeezed your hand, his thumb tracing your knuckles. "I've thinking about it all night. I’m done with SWAT."
"You finally realized being loved is enough?" you asked softly.
"That's one reason," Jack said, a strange light appearing in his eyes. "But there’s another. We found something during the scans. I- I think you didn't know. You're pregnant, doll."
---------------------------------
The trauma bay was a battlefield. Jack had just finished the primary repair on your femoral artery, his hands slick with the blood of the woman he loved. He was panting as the nurses began to stabilize your vitals for the move to the OR.
"Abbot," Shen said, his voice sharp but confused as he stared at the ultrasound monitor they’d used for a quick abdominal check. "Why the hell didn't you tell us?"
Jack whirled around, his heart in his throat, expecting to hear that your lungs were collapsing or your spleen had ruptured. "Tell you what? Is there internal bleeding?"
Shen pointed to the screen, to a tiny pulse that had absolutely nothing to do with your own heartbeat. "The pregnancy, Abbot. She may be seven weeks along. We need to adjust the meds for the OR."
Jack felt the floor tilt. The world narrowed down to that one rhythmic flicker on the screen. A baby. He had walked out on a family he didn't even know he had started. And suddenly, his hobby felt like a childish whim.
---------------------------------
You stared at him, your breath hitching as the realization settled in. Your hand instinctively moved toward your stomach, though it was blocked by the hospital gown and blankets.
"W-What? I’m... we're...?"
"Yeah," Jack whispered, his voice thick with emotions. "Seven weeks, according to the scans. A little heartbeat. Strong as anything."
"Oh..." was all you could manage. It was a soft sound of pure shock. Your hand, still shaky, instinctively drifted downward, coming to rest over the flat expanse of your stomach beneath the hospital blankets. You tried to process the miracle that a tiny life inside had survived the chaos of the last few hours.
Seeing your hand tremble, Jack reached out. He cupped his palm directly over yours, shielding it, pressing the weight of his love through the layers of fabric.
It was the first time since he’d walked out of the apartment that the tension truly left his frame.
He leaned down, pressing a long, lingering kiss to the back of your hand, right over the spot where a new life was forming.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and steady. "No more SWAT, no more looking for trouble. I've got everything I need to protect right here in this room."
You looked down at his dark hair, then at your joined hands over your middle and emotional happy tears appeared in your eyes.
"You're going to have to learn how to bake bread after all, baby," you whispered with a tiny smile.
"I will, huh?" He let out a laugh, his hand refusing to let go. "I’ll learn whatever it needs. Just as long as I’m doing it with you. Well, the two of you."
pairing: Jack Abbot x ex!reader
summary: you and Jack broke up a year ago — it was so painful, you barely recovered. when you meet again at the Pitt Fundraiser, you’re dead set on keeping your distance. he is dead set on getting you back. (or, alternatively: Jack on his knees. that’s it.)
warnings: 🔞 Jack going from emotionally unavailable to emotionally vulnerable (thanks to Robby and therapy); mentions of hand tremor and grieving; angst and LOTS of longing; sprinkle of jealousy; heated argument in the rain, explosive love confession. smut (oral, fingering, unprotected piv). NO DESCRIPTIONS OF THE READER / words: 20K / author’s note: I saw the “pick your tropes” tag game on my dashboard, and the choice was between “break up & make up or proposal & wedding”. no one tagged me, so I had to write a whole-ass fic about my pick. I am chill like that ♡ {read on AO3} ♡ MASTERLIST
This pain feels like a whirlpool, a current that drags him right down to the bottom. It doesn’t take much to provoke it — he only needs a glimpse: of your shirt hanging in his closet, your blue mug in the kitchen cupboard, your scarf still tucked into the pile of his winter clothes. You didn’t leave too many things behind for him to hold on to. He didn’t leave you any choice.
Jack was the sole reason you had to pack your bags and get out of the apartment in tears and in such haste, you couldn’t care less what he was left with. And he can never blame you because it was entirely his fault.
He wishes that he had a valid motive, some kind of explanation to make his actions justified. Him being held at gunpoint, you being forced to cut ties for your safety, a prophecy that said you two being together would bring death to every living thing. But no threats or foretelling were involved in his decision-making. If only Jack could see into the future, he would’ve never let you go. And he wouldn’t be standing here alone, his hands unsteady and fixing the tie for the tenth time as people rush past him, in an astir flow of dresses and tuxedos going up the stairs. He doesn’t pay attention to the noise, faces, and colors. Jack thinks about the conversation he and Robby had the day before, three sentences the messaging chain ended with:
She’ll be there. You sure you’re ready?
Yes.
He’s sure that he can’t bear it any longer.
The chill of autumn already settles in the air, the sunset hiding behind the clouds the wind brought. Jack doesn’t really feel it. He feels instead like he can’t take a full breath, like everything in him is threaded with unyielding tension in the absence of your touch. He misses you, he never stops, it is his only constant. It also serves as a reminder of just how badly he screwed up.
Because it wasn’t a careless mistake, a rude word slipped out, an argument that snowballed into a fight. No, Jack was stupidly strategic about pushing you away. He set a goal — and he worked toward it with grit, with rigor mastered back when he was sprinting through the ruins that smelled like blood and rot. His military track record has proven him to be experienced enough. Only, this time it was a suicidal mission. It was a grim ending to something beautiful and soft — but never fragile.
Because you two built a relationship that was supposed to last. And you were solely responsible for that.
Jack can’t pinpoint the moment when it started — hell, he didn’t even remember the first day you met. His life was just a blur of hours packed into tense shifts, of months that barely differed from each other. And Jack moved through each day with no demands for more. His heart’s been broken — not just by injustices and deaths, but by the loss so grave it almost killed him. He pulled himself together piece by piece. He put in countless stitches. And he has kept his heart sewn shut. The tissue scarred and hardened through the years, but Jack’s been led by the belief he’d never want to open up to anyone again.
He didn’t care if someone had introduced you. At best, he shook your hand or gave a nod, his gaze distant and scarcely making contact. He had no favorites, he took no part in any conversations that weren’t about work. He spent his breaks alone — in call rooms or standing in the stairwell, his back pressed to the wall as he soaked up the silence. But somehow, in between the calls, the rush, the gowns covered in blood and gurneys screaking, he started noticing your presence. How you’d hand him the things he needed before he even asked — tools, scissors, dressings, a transducer in your palm for him to take. Your movements quick but careful, never in someone’s way but ready to step in. Small bows you left when tying bandages on kids. Your love for apples — tart green or juicy Honeycrisp, a few to share with the others, one always saved for him.
Jack didn’t even know there were cracks in his composure until your warmth began to trickle through.
You never put it into words as if you were afraid to spook him. But unexpectedly, Jack’s paperwork would be all done — the patients' history, examinations and outlined prescriptions. The lab results were taking way less time. The radiology no longer needed his reminders, as if someone was doing that for him. And on the rare occasions that you did speak up, your short advice was meant to nudge him in the right direction, that tired man who hardly could recall your name.
Jack does remember when the realization hit him. It was the night that brought a storm in spring: a mass accident involving seven cars, three passengers in critical condition, five — seriously injured. Jack had to stay an extra hour, which imperceptibly slipped into two. He’s struggled with a heavy headache for just as long. It got so bad, he barely could walk up to the nurse station, throat dry and vision blurring at the edges, heart thumping like he’s about to pass out. But someone placed two plastic cups of water in his line of sight. He gulped them down without even thinking. In half a minute, the pain receded, taking away his dizziness and thirst. Jack turned to see who brought the saving liquid, but you just threw away the cups and left. You didn’t say a word and didn’t ask for any gratitude. As if you’ve done it many times before, as if you looking out for him became a mere habit. And with the clarity that comes from being dragged back into consciousness, he managed to connect the dots until he saw a pattern, dozens of constellations formed out of your acts of kindness. Then Abbot found himself confused: why would you ever waste your time on him?
And then he started watching you as if he was stargazing.
Jack tried to rationalize his keenness: he only wanted to return the favor, it would be wrong to let your efforts go unnoticed. He made sure to greet you, gaze clinging to your face, a little bit more confident each time. A little more at ease. He wanted your opinion, he wasn’t shy about asking for your help. He paid attention to every little thing: the way you smile with your eyes first before your lips follow, the way you slightly tilt your head when listening to someone talk, the way you tend to disappear for a few minutes to rest your back against a wall somewhere in silence. Just like he does. He figured out the latter when he once rushed into the stairwell and found you there — eyes closed, hands in your pockets, a single strand of hair loose against your cheek. He almost reached out to tuck it behind your ear.
You looked at him. With that gaze that always softened when he was around. With that faint glee he has become adept at catching.
“Am I in your spot?”
Jack shook his head, his voice lowered to match the calm he stepped into. “Am I in yours?”
Then your mouth smiled too. “We can share it.”
With how accustomed Jack’s grown to his loneliness, it would seem like a challenge to let people in. But you made it so easy. Your care for him was never loud nor insistent, and he was drawn to feel it, a long-anticipated touch of sun against his frozen skin. He’d wait for you to have a meal together in the break room, your chairs moving closer over time, your voices hushed, not meant to leave the bubble you were in. You stirred up feelings in him that he had to rediscover — anticipation, eagerness, excitement. The softness of your touch, even if only fleeting: your hands brushed — over the operating table and the one you ate at, your shoulders touched when you were standing at the stairs, only the fabric of the clothes between you. And he began to wonder what it would feel like to remove it.
Jack didn’t fall in love with you, that’s too rushed of a verb. It felt like he kept walking toward love — with every turn and step he took to you, with every layer of defence that he kept shedding. And when he didn’t feel like moving, you’d meet him halfway.
He let his guard down completely under the roar of fireworks. Although that day didn’t exactly call for celebrations. At least, it never had for Jack.
The Fourth of July had always filled him with unease. He doesn’t hate it, he’s worked on managing his feelings through the years: he stopped flinching at the sounds of firecrackers, he doesn’t get alarmed at the sight of screaming crowds, and now the fireworks rarely remind him of the bomb explosions. He’d come to barbeques his friends invite him to, he’d have a beer or two, and help with grilling food and putting extra chairs in the backyard and picking up the trash after the guests go home. But he’s never the one to make uplifting toasts or joke about his military days, nor does he laugh at someone else’s stories. Instead, he pushes down the memories of his own fear and helplessness, of many people who didn’t make it out alive, some — on their own volition, because the rate of suicide among the veterans just keeps increasing. But that is not the topic you bring up over the buns and burgers. So Jack would sip on beer and give nods, silently wishing for it all to finally be over. It’s better when he is at work, the noise of celebrations cut off by the walls, the conversations held only include raw facts, and no small talks are needed.
But that day in particular went wrong from the beginning.
His air conditioner broke down while he was asleep, and his downstairs neighbours were in the middle of a break-up, by the sound of it — their yelling woke him up, his bed a mess of sweaty sheets, his right leg cramping. He cracked his favorite ceramic mug. The coffee tasted like cat’s piss. The fried eggs turned out burnt. Some asshole’s janky Chrysler blocked up the driveway, so Jack was forced to ditch his pickup truck in favor of the good old public transport. The bus came painted in red, white and blue, and maybe in that moment, he did hate that holiday. Then someone lit a firecracker at the bus stop, and his hand twitched. And Jack hated himself a little, too.
The ER was packed with people who evidently didn’t know how to use grills, knives, lawn mowers — and also their brains, as Abbot muttered when he saw a guy with fingers stuck in a sink’s drainer. He pushed through the first few hours on pure spite. Because it is the easiest emotion to wear as a cover. But it was getting harder to ignore the sounds vibrating through concrete, like something’s detonating, like the next patient would have shrapnel wounds and torn-off limbs. Ignore that his leg ached from him working flat out with no breaks, that he was getting startled way too often to blame it on fatigue.
So, his brain he was capable of using suggested he should take a breather, or the next thing going off would be his temper.
Around the sixth hour of his shift, Jack sneaked into one of the call rooms. Unnoticed, as he thought (or more so hoped). He didn’t bother turning on the light and sat down on the floor, hands balled up into fists over his kneecaps. The faint beams coming from the window danced across the walls. He slowly stretched his shoulders. He tried some breathing exercises. But there was that dull hum in his head, the tension coiling at his ribs as minutes ticked away.
The door opened, letting a streak of light cut through the darkness. Then he heard it closing. He knew that it was you just by the sound of your steps. You sat down next to him — back to the wall, your shoulder pressed to his. Jack felt your gaze on him: a caress, a kindness that he couldn’t help but yearn for.
“It can get pretty loud on a day like this,” you noted, with that same subtle understanding that you always offered. Instead of pity or incomprehension most people would’ve met him with; but not you.
He let out a deep sigh, the heaviness in his ribcage dissolving like a block of ice. The silence that you shared was never heavy.
“I’m used to the noise,” he mumbled. “I usually don’t even notice it. But it’s just... it gets too much too fast. Just on this one day a year.”
He clasped his hands tighter, with palpable frustration. It didn’t last. Because you put your forearm over his and traced his knuckles with your fingertips — and suddenly, Jack found it easier to breathe. Unsurely, he opened one of his palms. You covered it with yours, without hesitation. His pulse sped up, so treacherously fast, he feared you would feel its beating right under your wrist. If you did, you weren’t letting on. Instead, you whispered:
“Everyone needs a break sometimes. You are allowed to take one too, Jack.”
He turned to look at you. More colors soared into the night sky outside, and he watched as the flashing lights painted your face in shades of red and blue. The thought of kissing you has crossed his mind before, and this time, Jack was too tired to fight it. He leaned in — but stopped an inch short of your mouth, still thinking there was a chance you wouldn’t want it. Your fingers grazed the slope of his cheekbone — a touch that held no weight but carried an unswerving promise: you won’t do anything to hurt him. And then your thumb settled under his chin as you closed the distance.
The world around Jack went quiet.
He didn’t hear the echoes of the fireworks, the beeping of the monitors, even his own heartbeat. You kissed him, and it felt like finding something holy in the ruins, like watching light awake at dawn. Jack melted — and so did all his doubts and fears, and in that moment, nothing else existed but your lips. He pulled you closer, hands skimming from your waist to hips, his legs clumsily bumping into yours, which you both couldn’t care less about. What etched into his mind was not discomfort but your ragged sighs, your fingers at his nape, your tenderness that swelled into desire, like there were no clothes and shadows in between you.
You only pulled apart when you were breathless. And yet, to him the kiss felt like a lungful of air.
“You aren’t alone in this,” you said after a beat, your hands over his chest, close to his heart. To where you’ve already made your way.
“I know,” Jack replied quietly, arms tightly wrapped around you.
The possibility of happiness suddenly seemed so real that he allowed himself to want it. Allowed himself to think that he could have it.
And letting you into his life made Jack so happy, his chest sometimes would feel too small to fit his feelings.
He took joy in the learning process: how you would like your tea and coffee, what was your favorite color, what songs you listened to the most, what childhood memory you carried close to heart. And Jack reveled in the novelty of you. In how your hands — gentle and delicate, precise in every move — didn’t shy away from contact, a ghost of your warmth always somewhere at his elbow, shoulder, back. In how your touch felt, the softness of it lingered like a promise, and how your laugh sounded, equally as soft. The way your lips tasted when you were smiling. When you were moaning. When you were crying out his name. How perfect it felt every single time, whether it was just a spark of craving you’d satisfy in the ER supply closet, his hand over your mouth to hush you, his cock inside you making that a challenge. Or in the twilight of his bedroom, your skin bathed in the shades of sky and slick with sweat, time pouring away as he was thrusting into you, slow and relentless, hitting the spot that made you choke on air, his lips painting your neck with marks. And after, when you were both catching your breath, legs tangling under the covers, he’d always pull you into him. And Jack held you like you were his safest place. Like nothing else could feel so right. So good.
But then there were bad days, too. Not just the kind of bad that’s woven out of unfortunate coincidences that he had no control over, like changes in the weather or accidents with no survivors found. He’s seen enough of those. He’s lived through them. Because Abbot is wired to deal with unpredictable and messy, to get his hands bloody or use them to repair damage.
And yet, the worst would always be the days when Jack saw himself as wreckage.
In early years, it sounded like a mere uncertainty, an inner voice that sometimes made him wonder if he’s a little bit closed off. A little too hard-headed. Too principled when it’d be better to concede, too quiet when everyone around him loosens up. But then the army helped to polish his rough edges. It brought a change in him, a confidence that helped him move and work fast, and muster that unapologetic stare. And Jack was thriving under pressure. As much as he did thrive on being needed, wanted. Loved. Because after his tours ended, all the adrenaline worn off and clothes soiled with sand and gore, he still had something to look for, someone to wait for him at home.
It got harder to silence his inner voice when he lost half a limb.
His wife stayed by his side, unruffled, being supportive in any way she could. And Jack told her it’s just another challenge he would pass, a temporary inconvenience he’d learn how to live with. It made him feel better when he could bring her peace. Even if he was losing his. Even when it hurt to sit, to stand, to move. Even when he spent his nights awake and waiting for the meds to work, stuck in between his stubbornness and pain that didn’t feel like just a phantom. But he didn’t allow himself to share it with her — what’s good about a man who cannot rein in his emotions? He was supposed to shield her from any misery and worries, and so he did.
Then she got sick.
And there was no shielding her from death. No way for him to stop the growth of the cancer cells that filled her blood and damaged healthy tissues until her body could no longer fight. Until she fell into a feverish unconsciousness she didn’t recover from. Throughout the long months of her suffering, Jack had to keep his own unseen, to stay strong for both of them. He’s got into the habit of suppressing his heartache, of storing up his feelings like pennies in a jar. He’s never learnt to share them — because she died, and suddenly there was no one he could share things with.
All he’d got left with was the dead weight of pain, the mass of metal stacked beneath his bones. It was so heavy that it almost drowned him, almost pulled down into the abysmal depths of grief. The only remedy that helped him stay adrift was work: the countless shifts that he’d take back to back, the short hours of sleep squeezed in between. And it took many weeks for him to feel like he had moved from the edge of the abyss. But his self-doubt wasn’t just lurking in the background anymore. By then, it was a deeply-rooted creedence: he is too much to deal with — an amputee, a widower, a loner; it would be wrong to let anyone into the ordeal his life was. He got his chance at love once, it felt good while it lasted. He’s got a job to keep him sane enough through his remaining years.
So Jack built a routine that wasn’t meant for two: he picked nights as his working hours, he bought a single bed, he had one black mug in his kitchen, one pillow and one toothbrush. Strictly one set of everything, like an attempt to prove his solitude. He genuinely never planned on breaking it.
Then you came. And soon Jack wanted nothing more than to make space for you. But he couldn’t invite you in only to show some chosen parts of him. And opening up meant that there was no hiding from the ugly truth. Since Jack thought that the reality of living with him wasn’t pretty. He almost felt bad for how smoothly things were going: the veiled secrecy of stolen glances and short minutes spent away from any prying eyes in the ER, the shared dinners in his old apartment, the eagerness of looking for a new place where you would live together. But when you found it, it seemed like all his traumas also got the invitation to move in.
A nightmare jolted Jack awake on the first day. It’s been a few years since he had one, and yet he recognized immediately that bone-chilling dread. He never figured out the reason they kept coming back — and he’s never had someone witness their aftermath: his heart pounding as he sat up, short of breath, disoriented for a moment, eyes wide in the dark. But you just rolled in bed and pulled him down into your embrace, lips following the contour of his jaw until it got less tense. And when you whispered that it’s gonna be okay, a reassurance instead of questions that he’d loathe, Jack did feel slightly better. Slightly less scared. He listened to the murmur of your voice and let it carry him into a peaceful slumber.
Except the nightmares didn’t go away. They soon became his guests — frequent, unwanted: not just because of all the memories they stirred in him, but also for stirring you awake. And yet, he never saw you irritated for a second. You always held him close, and not once were you reluctant, bothered, or uncaring. Even after a full week of interrupted sleep, and after two, and after three. He got a few good days then, perhaps due to the late summer rain that poured for hours, lulling his anxiety to sleep.
Until Jack started waking up not from the frightening dreams but from the pain that was very much real. He’s heard about it — that stumps can hurt when the weather’s harsh, something to do with barometric pressure and the expansion of the muscles. Something he hasn’t experienced before. It was so bad from the get-go, he almost fell out of bed, then barely managed to get to the bathroom, teeth clenched so he’d make no noise. He should’ve thought about the pain meds in his bedroom dresser, but with how much his leg ached, he wasn’t thinking straight. You found him sitting on the cold tile floor; it took you one glance to figure out the issue. You tiptoed out and came back with his meds and water, then wiped his sweat-covered face with a wet towel. Jack felt drained — and even more embarrassed, so he refused to meet your eyes. You didn’t force him to. Instead, you quietly sat near, your fingers ably kneading his sore muscles.
Jack glanced at you, undoubtedly grateful. But still hesitant, still fearing your love for him may have an expiration date, and his weaknesses would only bring it closer. He forced out a chuckle.
“First the nightmares, now this. I am a lost cause.”
He looked like he didn’t find it funny. Like he actually believed what he was saying. A long pause would’ve confirmed his fears, but you replied with no delay.
“I think you are a work in progress. But so were a lot of things before they became art.”
Jack could’ve cried right then. Just from how sure you seemed, how all his flaws that felt debilitating and just as permanent as scars, were fading with your every word. Your hands cradled his face, a whisper pressed into the corner of his mouth: let’s get you to bed. And that day, he slept soundly.
Then you had to repeat the same routine for two weeks straight.
You didn’t voice any complaints, and maybe that everlasting surety of yours did seem a bit naive, but Jack wasn’t complaining either. You brought up therapy — just once, as carefully as if you tried to walk around the broken glass. He mumbled something that resembled half a promise. Half a lie. But he convinced himself that he’s been managing just fine on your support and your supply of kind words and consolations.
And yet, things still kept escalating. Just like they do if you refuse to patch up wounds and only put on bandages to hide them.
It was early September, the kitchen drizzled with the sunlight, the color of the melted butter Jack was covering the pan with — when his hands twitched. Subtle, fast. Could’ve been written off as nothing. But he froze because it didn’t feel like nothing. And when an hour later he was putting away the plates while you were in the shower, the tremor came back. And it felt like something bad.
He took a blood test the next day, all by himself — not even in the exam room, but in a bathroom stall, watching the crimson liquid flow, like he intended to get the diagnosis at a glance. He didn’t — and neither did the lab: no abnormalities detected, no lack in vitamin D, or B12, or folate. And weirdly enough, he felt completely fine in the ER, hands steady on the instruments and keyboard keys and during examinations. Then he carried the groceries and held the doors for you, and on your way home, one of his hands laid on the wheel, the other — on your thigh, unflinching. He almost let himself believe it was a one-time oddity, a stressful night and too much caffeine. He almost let himself forget. But that same day, as you snuggled together on the couch, Jack reached for the TV remote — and saw his hand shake. Very clearly.
He zeroed in on finding the solution as if his life depended on it. Or at the very least, his job. He knew he wouldn’t be able to operate with tremor, it would destroy the only thing he’s ever been good at. But every shift ended with him being equal parts relieved and mystified because his fingers didn’t flinch or shake at work. And yet, they did when he was folding laundry. When he was chopping vegetables or reorganizing kitchen shelves or helping you hang the print-out of a painting that you liked — a swirl of bright blue waves with sunbeams shimmering on water like specks of glitter. You were too thrilled to notice that he fumbled with a double-sided tape. He felt bad for not being able to share your excitement. He felt stupid for not knowing what was wrong, why in the comfort of his home his muscles were contracting — involuntarily, abruptly, for no reason at all.
And soon his mind was contaminated not by the fear but by the feeling of how flawed he was. And it was getting harder to suppress the tremors, to act like his control was not wearing thin. One evening, on your day off, he was making popcorn, and you were sitting on the kitchen counter, all smiley and waggling your feet and wearing his grey t-shirt that looked so good on you, he got distracted and reached into one of the cabinets without looking — but his hand shook so violently that he dropped the bowl. It shattered: both the ceramic dish and his self-control, his face expression first horrified, then dejected, hopeless.
You paused mid-sentence, eyes caught on him. Then they moved to the floor. “You break dishes, and I break test tubes. We are a great match.”
It took Jack a few seconds to snap out of his despondency. “When did you break test tubes?”
“Last Wednesday, at the end of the shift. Slammed a whole tray of them into a wall,” you crouched down to pick up the pieces, and he immediately joined. “You should’ve seen Robby’s face. He facepalmed himself so hard, he knocked down his glasses.”
Jack couldn’t force a smile in return. And he didn’t trust his hands not to shake again, so you did most of the work, seemingly unbothered. But once you cleaned the mess, you walked to him and took his hands in yours. And Jack knew that his secret got out in the open. You massaged small circles over his joints and palms as you examined them, then your gaze went up at him.
“Does that happen at work too?”
“No, never,” Jack whispered, his eyes downcast.
“Does it hurt? Any ache or numbness?”
He shook his head, and you didn’t cast doubt on his honesty.
“Might be something psychogenic,” you mused, with no pressure but with a veiled, unvoiced suggestion: he should make an appointment with a therapist. You put your hands over his shoulders and leaned closer, your nose brushing his. “Maybe it’s your subconscious hinting that you should hurry up with your next vacation.”
That did earn you a glance and then a kiss, soft like an apology, a thank you, a desire to amend his ways. And he really intended to. His imagination rushed to paint a dreamy picture: you two on some mildly crowded beach, your skin sprinkled with drops of salty water, his hands confident and resting on your hips, sun glinting off the waves, sand golden.
Unfortunately, that image never came to life.
The downfall began with something small. Stupid. Something he should’ve never paid any mind to.
A man was brought in in the middle of the night — late forties, with a gaping wound on his forehead: he went to check the noises in the yard and slipped on his front porch. He had a seizure in the ambulance. His vitals weren’t good. His wife came with him, tired and timid, and she told Jack that he had trouble sleeping and refused to take his meds. That last year he had his left leg amputated, way above the knee. He got discharged from the army a month later. Jack listened closely and didn’t bat an eye. Gave her assurances that sounded sincere. But when she left the room, and he looked at the table, he didn’t see a patient anymore — now he was looking at an amputee, a vet. Someone who could’ve easily been him. And someone he most definitely couldn’t fail.
He didn’t — he spent an hour in that razor-focused state, his consciousness reduced to giving orders and getting his gloves stained, with everything else blurry in the background. You knew that when Jack was like that, it meant something important, something personal. So you just gave him space and let him move at his own pace; you had no trouble keeping up. He touched your elbow on his way out with an unspoken gratitude.
Jack took a ride up to the ICU where they placed the man, then had a short talk with his wife — she kept wiping away the tears, and he didn’t want to make it harder on her than it already was. As he was heading for the elevators, he saw two nurses, their faces unfamiliar but voices loud enough for him to catch.
“Poor thing. Won’t ever have a normal life while she is with him.”
“You’re being a little harsh.”
“More like realistic. Men like that come with a crap ton of baggage, she’s basically a babysitter before she is his wife. And they don’t even have kids yet.”
“He probably just needs a better prescription.”
“So he’d stop wandering around in the dark, sure. But then she’ll have to deal with his other 99 problems.”
“Jesus, you are so sour today. Maybe he doesn’t have that many.”
“Even if it’s half as much, she’ll spend years trying to fix him. And there’s no guarantee she’ll ever succeed. So yeah, I’d recommend her to find a better match.”
Jack should’ve interfered. He should’ve scolded them for being unprofessional and disrespectful. But he just stood there and waited for the elevator door to open. On his way down, their words echoed in his head: baggage, babysitter, should find a better match. Before he knew it, they dug into him like splinters. He walked out and saw you in the hall, chatting with Jesse on your break. And Abbot looked at you like you were separated by insuperable distance, like he was just a sinking ship trying to catch the last glimpse of the sun above. He didn’t want to drag you down with him.
It hurt to think he was holding you back. And Jack is not the one for public self-abasement, so he’d wear a stoic face expression and pretend he’s fine. But once his insecurities took root, they only grew, spreading through him like vines. Like poison.
Jack had no wish to go in for half measures. He could never be cruel, he wouldn’t even think about being rude. But he was effortlessly good at being cold. He made it seem like he didn’t pay attention — forgetting what you asked, what plans you made, using the same excuse of feeling too worn-out. He wore a feigned indifference each time you tried to find out what was wrong. He pulled away from you — from your touches and tenderness that he secretly craved like plants crave water. And deep inside, it felt like he was pulling out his teeth, nails, flesh from bones, a truly agonizing torture. Sometimes he’d lie in bed and watch you sleep, his fingers itching to reach out. Jack would instead just lean further away. And on the bad days, he’d reach for the painkillers he stocked up on, because he wanted you to break out of the habit to comfort him. But caring about Jack became your second nature, so you couldn’t give up on him so easily.
So he had to resort to drastic measures.
He mercilessly cut down the time you spent together: Jack begged Robby to switch to day shifts, then told you it was temporary. Which was a lie. Which did manage to dim down your enthusiasm, but somehow, you still held on to hope: you made time for your shared breaks, for checking up on him when your shifts overlapped. For cooking meals for him. For kissing him goodbye. For everything he thought he wasn’t worthy of, and yet, you were still giving it to him so freely. Frustration piling up in Jack was only directed at him — but it was you he snapped at. Two weeks in, three nightmares in a row, four patients in a critical condition in broad daylight. One died. You waited outside the trauma room, but didn’t even get a chance to speak — he breezed past you, and his words sounded like a bite:
“I don’t need you to babysit me.”
That came out way rougher than intended. It was horribly hard not to turn around and run back to you barely five seconds after. He forced himself not to.
Jack tried to justify it by that god-awful saying — about letting go of someone you love. It didn’t sound profound in his head. It sounded fucking stupid. But what worked wonders was a reminder that you deserved stability, and he was just a ticking bomb. He wouldn’t want you to get hit by shrapnel.
He also didn’t want you to waste any more time. So Jack made the decision to cut ties. To cut off the rope that had you tied to all the baggage he indeed was carrying.
He waited for your day off to have the conversation so you wouldn’t get upset before your shift. He came from work already sullen, distant, not even looking at you when you came into the hall to greet him. Right there and then, he told you that things between you weren’t working out anymore. That he needed a break. He barely tried to make it sound believable, and maybe that was the real cruelty: you always putting so much effort into everything, and him seemingly not caring enough.
You couldn’t even manage a reply at first, you looked shell-shocked. Your voice came out pained:
“So none of this ever mattered to you?”
He literally bit his tongue to stop himself from saying that, of course, it did. Jack had to hide the truth behind more lies: he said it was distracting him from work, it got too serious, too complicated. He said it with a voice so flat, he might’ve as well stabbed you. And it was hurting him in equal measure. But he acted like he had a PhD in faking.
“I will give you some time. To think about it. I’ll just go for a walk,” he added curtly.
If he stayed for a minute longer, he would get physically sick from all the venom his words carried.
He glanced at you before turning away. It is the memory that always hits him first, carved into his mind like an inscription on the tombstone of his making — it’s your gaze. Heartbroken, clouded with tears. But you clearly looked like you did finally believe every bad thing his insecurities were telling you.
It’s for the best, Jack told himself as he walked out and closed the door behind him. You will get over it, he kept repeating as he took the stairs, as he strolled down the empty streets. It was already dark and chilly outside, the drizzle shimmering under the many street lamps. For days he thought that freeing you of him would be the reasonable choice. But in the stillness and the hues of artificial lights, it actually felt wrong. And suddenly, regret started to weigh on him, wrapped up around his ankles like chains that clank with every step.
It took him roughly 20 minutes to change his mind. Another 5 to get back to his flat. It must’ve taken you around the same time to grab the things you spent hours unpacking and run into the night. Because he came in only to find you gone.
Jack took one look around, and instantly it left him gutted: you weren’t coming back.
He almost rushed out of the building the second time. He made a step toward the door. Then stopped. For all his shortcomings, Jack did know when it was better to back off. He’s taken an entire weekend off from work, but you were getting back to the ER a day early. So Jack decided he should let you be, let you take a long-awaited break from him.
He absentmindedly took off his shoes, only one thought pulsating in his head: your presence used to light up every room. Without you the place seemed dreary. Lonely. He pulled the closet doors open to find all of your hangers empty, and it made him wince. He was about to turn away when his eyes snagged on it — a blue plaid shirt. He’s got a similar one, and you would often mix them up: he didn’t mind when you wore his, while yours was just left hanging. Jack trailed his fingers over the cotton and held one of the sleeves up to his nose: it smelled like you — apples and fabric softener, something so fresh and warm and making his heart ache. And then Jack wondered what else might’ve been forgotten in a hurry.
He instantly followed his hunch like he was on a treasure hunt. For pieces that would end up haunting him.
The first one was hidden by a pile of plates in the dishwasher — your mug, with Andy Warhol’s bridge print and a small chip on the rim. Next were your pens that he’s kept borrowing and leaving on his desk. An almost empty bottle of your shower gel. Your woolen scarf stashed on the upper shelf. The painting — but its lower corner was crunched and torn a little, as if you tried to rip it off the wall. Jack smoothed it out the best he could, then carefully taped the picture back together. And even though he knew that mending your relationship would be way harder, he was unwilling to abandon hope.
The days couldn’t run fast enough for Jack. He knew your roommate still had your previous apartment, so that’s where you probably were crashing. Or so he told himself, at least, so that his worry would subside a little. His hours were crammed with so many almosts — he almost texted, almost called, almost came up with an apology that was supposed to make up for the pain he caused you. But Jack believed he would have time to do that later, when you meet again. At work.
On Monday, he went back on nights and strided into the ER an hour earlier. He brimmed with nervousness but kept his posture straight and his hopes high. Jack barely made it to the locker room before Robby barged in. And he didn’t go for their usual handshake. Instead, he handed Jack a rolled-up sheet of paper.
“Hey, I was wondering if you could explain this.”
Jack took it, and his gaze fell on the lines of cursive. And then his heart dropped.
He realized in hindsight that it was a logical turn of events. He should’ve seen it coming. But as he stared at the paper in his hands, he couldn’t even read past the first sentence.
The first sentence stated it was a resignation letter.
Yours.
“When did she—” that question sounded so surreal, Jack couldn’t finish it.
“Yesterday,” more wrinkles crossed Robby’s forehead. “It was your day off, so I didn’t want to bother you. She said she got another job offer about a week ago, and she chose to take it.”
Jack didn’t move as his eyes followed the handwritten lines. And every pain he’s ever felt before — ripping, dull, phantom — suddenly was nothing in comparison to this.
Robby turned worried. “The explanation that I’m getting from your face is, frankly, concerning. You two were...?”
Jack nodded, staring numbly at your signature. Then he forced out: “Yeah. We were.”
Robby let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why the fuck I am even surprised. Evans suspected it months ago,” he pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly torn between displeasure and distress. Then he nudged the glasses back in place and glanced at Jack again. His face looked pale and tense, as if set into a brittle mask. As if another word would make him crack like porcelain. “Should I pull you off the shift?”
The silence stretched out for an uncomfortable number of seconds.
“Don’t be absurd,” Jack finally replied; although it took some effort.
Robby stood with arms crossed over his chest, looking at Jack with an appraising eye. He kept his thinking process to himself and just gave him a quick pat on the back. “Shen is with you today since we’re a little understaffed. So if at any point you need a break—”
“I won’t,” Jack cut him off. He tore his eyes away from your handwriting and gave the letter back to Robby. Jack shoved his backpack into the locker and shut the door with a loud bang. His palm stayed on the metal sheet as he calmed his breathing. Then Abbot cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me.”
He walked out of the room in hasty steps.
He didn’t slow down for the next 12 hours.
Because it felt like if he did, his guilt would burst out, like water through a dam. And everywhere he looked, it only made him painfully aware that you’d left. He hasn’t realized before how tightly you were woven into his life — and just how empty it would be without you. He did miss your assistance, yes — your confidence, your speed and skills; everyone else seemed sluggish by comparison. But none of it compared to how badly he missed you.
He missed the calmness that you brought, the way a single touch of yours would make his agitation fade, his hesitation disappear. He missed seeing you across the hall, he missed the moments when he’d catch your gaze, your smile, your laugh. Four hours in, he walked into the break room — and for a fleeting second, he thought he’d meet you there, just like he had for weeks. Instead, he stared blankly at the table and the seat you weren’t at; Jack had to leave before his feelings got a chance to choke him. His memory mercilessly threw other reminders at him: of you standing beside him in the trauma room, you walking by his side toward the nurse station, you pausing musingly next to the snack machine, you trying not to trot to beat him to the stairs. And every time he gave in and turned to look, you weren’t there.
Jack barely could finish up his shift, avoiding others' gazes and not registering any questions. He all but barged out on the roof, into the gloom of early autumn morning. The cold readily nibbled at his skin as he gulped air; it didn’t bring him much relief. He walked up to the railing, thinking: this used to be the place he would retreat to be alone. And yet, he was reminded of you and him at dawn, rays of the sun caught in your hair, his breath caught at the sight of you.
No matter where he went, he couldn’t run away from memories. And he was seeing you in each and every one of them.
Jack leaned against the rail and pressed his forehead to the metal. And when he heard the door creaking, he just snapped:
“Can I get a fucking break—”
It was Robby coming in.
He got two plastic cups, a can of Coke and two mini bottles of Jack Daniel’s, all in one hand; Jack’s hoodie in the other. He tossed him the piece of clothing.
“You surely can. Just try not to catch pneumonia while you’re at it.”
Jack did feel warmer with the hoodie on. He watched as Robby emptied one of the bottles into a cup.
“What’s this about?”
“We are gonna have a drink and a conversation,” and Robby’s face suggested it wasn’t up for a debate. He pulled a small bag of potato chips out of his pocket. “Eat some.”
Jack stared at the label: no additives but salt. Supposedly low in cholesterol and sodium. No wonder no one was buying these.
“They taste like cardboard,” he mumbled with his mouth already full. He hasn’t had a bite of food since he arrived. Robby just gave him a knowing look, then poured the soda into another cup.
Jack chuckled. “Aren’t you supposed to mix the two?”
“I am supposed to be sober at work. And only one of us needs alcohol to start talking.”
Abbot immediately lost his wit. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I obviously planned on letting you suffer all alone,” Robby sniped. “But then I came back to work, and I got pulled aside four times in 10 minutes, since literally everybody seems to be wondering if you are okay. Because — and I quote — you kinda look like someone died.”
Jack crumpled the empty bag of chips. “Let me guess, Shen said that?”
“No, it was Ellis. Shen thinks you look ill. And that thought was kindly followed by the story of his grandfather, who died of pancreatic cancer. Which isn’t the best comparison, if you ask me,” then Robby shoved the whisky into his hand.
Jack looked at the dark liquid without much enthusiasm. But it could hardly make things any worse. So he drank half a cup in one gulp, grimacing at the taste and waiting for the burning liquor to be absorbed into his bloodstream. He didn’t know where to start at first, and how to put words into sentences that would sound coherent. He took a few more sips to help loosen his tongue. And Robby waited patiently — until Jack could dial down his reticence under the pressure of remembrance. Then all of it poured out of him: his ignorance, your care, your kindness, and your unwavering acceptance of his failings. The trust and tenderness that bloomed behind closed doors, the joint plans and the shared apartment. The moments he’s been nestling close to his heart.
The moments that didn’t stop him from pushing you away.
Out of whiskey and out of words, Jack dropped his face into his hand.
“Well, as the man who ruined two really great relationships, I must say,” Robby put down his untouched cup of Coke. “Welcome to the club.”
And usually, Jack would quip back. But all the quips were humorless against the truth.
“I fucked it up,” he admitted quietly. Denying it was pointless. As was believing that you would forgive him. “She will be better off without me.”
“Yes to the first part. Not sure about the second.”
Robby replied so swiftly, Jack couldn’t help his skepticism. “Were you even listening?”
“I was. Did I miss the part where she told you that she didn’t want you? That she needed a break?” Robby retorted. “Or was that all in your head?”
He wasn’t wrong. Robby has always aimed to find the underlying cause of problems, just like any great doctor would. But Jack didn’t seek acknowledgement of his wrongdoings — he was aware of them. And he was fairly convinced that he’s unfixable.
“You’d be great at relationship counselling,” Jack noted flatly and looked down at his empty cup. “Funny that we are both single.”
Robby took no offence, as if he was prepared for that exact reaction. “I’m not in a relationship because I don’t want to be. I’m fine with that. And I’m fine with changing my mind when the time comes,” he leaned to him a little so he could catch Jack’s gaze and add: “But it sounds like you love her.”
“And what good did it do?” Jack remarked bitterly and looked away.
Robby held back a sigh. He knew that trying to dissuade him would be like talking to a wall. A wall that only Jack himself was able to tear down. And no words and no reasons could ever help with that. But time should.
“Alright, no more free counselling for you,” Robby took away his cup, ignoring Jack’s attempt at glaring. “It’s clear you are in no mood for some friendly advice. But as your colleague, I do encourage you to figure out what’s up with that tremor.”
“What an invaluable input. I’ll look into it.”
“Also, I’m ordering you a taxi.”
“I’ll just walk—”
“Like hell you will,” and Robby’s firm hand on Jack’s shoulder felt like a full stop in that discussion.
Him coming down and leaving the ER and riding home — all that left a blank page in Abbot’s memory. His eyes kept closing, and it was a miracle he somehow found the keyhole. He almost fell asleep right in the hallway. But as he stood there in the grayly daylight that peeked in from the quiet rooms, Jack suddenly was riven by a feeling — so strong, it nearly knocked him off his feet:
he missed your voice.
He missed you talking to him — about everything and nothing, he missed the softness of your tone, simply the sound of it. He missed you so much that he had trouble breathing. So he took out his phone and dialed your number like it was his lifeline. It went straight to voicemail, which came as no surprise. But then he heard you — a short recorded message: “Hi, I’m sorry I can’t pick up the phone right now. I solemnly swear I will call you back.” And he could swear that you were smiling at the end, and he could picture it so vividly, it made his heart swell. He hung up when the message ended and managed one deep breath. Then he called you again. And he kept calling — as he walked mindlessly around the apartment, closing his eyes to picture you with him. At some point, when he opened them again, the painting caught his gaze. The patched-up corner wasn’t hard to notice — a little wrinkled, with glossy tape over the paper. And yet, it didn’t ruin the whole picture. The mark left just by one mistake didn’t take away from its significance and beauty.
And as Jack stared at it, for the first time in days he felt hope flicker through his mind: maybe there was still a chance for him to fix things. To get you back. But there was no denying that he should fix himself first. Which starts with therapy —
well, in reality, it started with a hangover.
Jack dozed off on the floor, and waking up didn’t feel nice for quite a few reasons. His head hurt, his back ached, his throat was dry. He slept for barely five hours. But then he glanced up at the painting right in front of him, and hope cut through the vines of sadness that he was entangled with. Jack knew he owed it to himself to try and find a way out of the mess he’s got himself into. He also owed that much to you.
So he began searching for a therapist that very afternoon. He looked through his old messages and pulled some previous recommendations, he went through countless cups of coffee while reading the reviews. He made appointments. A couple of them, just so he could find someone he’d like, since he suspected he would need a specialist for the long run. And he felt hopeful.
That feeling lasted for about a week.
Because, despite his best attempts, he couldn’t let go of his reluctance to open up. He sat through every session, in person and online, but he just never clicked with any of them. First was an ex-marine who was supposed to be the perfect choice; in twenty minutes, Jack felt like they were in a contest of who’d had it worse. It only pushed him to close off. Then came an old lady who politely asked if he could skip the gruesome details of his past because she found them upsetting. A 20-something kid who put on a navy t-shirt for their Zoom session “to show his mad respect”. A woman of his age who looked at him like she had never been this bored before.
And Jack inevitably ended up frustrated — at them or more so at himself.
That same frustration led him to the support group meeting for the vets. He’d come to those after he lost his leg; it helped a little to be surrounded by the people who could imagine what he felt. At least, it used to help. But as he sat there and listened to the others' stories, he found it harder to relate. And even harder to speak up, to share the guilt that he’s been carrying. When his turn came, Jack mumbled the first thing he could come up with: he’s got a tough job and it’s tiring. None of them pressed him further, nor saw through his rushed lies; except for that one guy who chaired the meeting. A few years younger, his limbs intact, a shiny golden ring around his finger — and yet, he must’ve sensed something.
Once their time was up and Jack went for the exit, the man hurriedly followed him outside.
“Hey, not to sound weird, I just wanna check up on you. Is it actually your job that’s bothering you? Sorry, you just have that look.”
Abbot side-eyed him. “What look?”
“Like you have nothing else left but work,” the man said earnestly.
Jack put his hands deeper in his pockets. “It’s not just work, it’s... Many things. I am a hard case.”
His curt explanation didn’t require a reply. The other man wasn’t discouraged. “I know a guy. And by guy I mean, he’s in his sixties. He really helped me a few years back”.
“As in, a therapist?” Jack glanced at him and got a nod. “I’ve tried plenty. Didn’t do anything for me.”
“Well, will it hurt to try some more?” the man asked with a sympathetic smile. He didn’t wait for Jack’s objections — instead, he ripped a piece off some paper flyer and scribbled down a phone number. Then handed it to Abbot. “He’s very chill. And also kinda funny. Give it a try.”
He walked off, and Jack was left alone to ponder. His road to redemption did seem pretty unsuccessful at that point. What was there to lose? So he did make the call, although with little hope. He almost dragged his feet on his way there. And it didn’t feel like rainbows coming through the clouds on their first appointment. But Jack also didn’t feel ignored or awkward or misunderstood. That was enough for him to come again — for his second, third, fourth sessions. That is how long it took for him to finally ease up.
To talk about you.
It happened on his fifth visit. Which turned out to be a memorable one: he has replayed it like a tape recording in his head many times since then. It starts with an unusual matter-of-fact: Jack found himself a therapist who’s nothing short of awesome.
He’s British, voice warm just like the tea he drinks (in frightening amounts), his pale blue eyes gleaming from behind the lenses of his glasses. He loves puzzles, and he makes sense of Abbot’s bottled-up emotions as if he’s solving a Rubik’s Cube.
“You are easy to talk to,” Jack blurts out mid-conversation, hands wrapped around his own cup of Earl Grey. He doesn’t like the smell of it, but the warmth is calming.
“I get that a lot,” the old man says, a smile grazing his lips. “I also find that people are more willing to open up if their previous refusal cost them dearly.”
The hint hangs in the air, not blunt enough to be offensive. But clear enough. And Abbot takes it as his chance to spill it out. He doesn’t hold back any details — as much as it is painful, it’s also comforting: remembering you. Not that he ever stopped.
He keeps talking for what feels like half an hour. His therapist listens carefully, not interrupting. And not looking surprised.
“So she made you feel loved, valued and cared for,” he doesn’t say it like a question because all these are facts.
And even though Jack nods, he knows: it’s not a finished thought. The ending’s meant to hit him. The old man delivers quite a punch:
“And in return, you made her feel unloved, unappreciated and unwanted.”
The hit lands heavier than Jack expected. It suddenly becomes so obvious: he should’ve opened up to you. He should’ve talked about his concerns, he should’ve trusted you to understand them. Instead, he hurt you, repeatedly and cruelly, and pushed you out of his life. Although you were the only one he wished to share it with.
So Jack exhales the question with defeat. “I should just let her go, shouldn’t I?”
“Doing nothing can be an option,” his therapist replies calmly. “Or you can try and do better.”
And he says it like it’s the simplest thing, like getting dressed or doing dishes. Jack sighs and rubs his forehead. It takes a minute for him to find the words — he wrenches the confession out of himself in a strained voice.
“Sometimes I think I don’t deserve her. She is too good for me.”
He waits for either lecturing or judgment in reply. But his therapist just asks:
“Have you tried being good for her?” he watches Jack attentively — and quickly adds, “I’m just saying, I never pegged you for a quitter.”
Jack lets the words sink in. Then looks at him and huffs a laugh. “Real fucking smooth, doc.”
“But that’s the truth, innit?” the old man shrugs.
And his assuredness does help to ease the burden of Jack’s past mistakes. The way he gets straight to the point and never runs out of ideas on how to fix things — Jack thinks that’s why he likes him. Then Abbot catches on to a much more cardinal realization:
you never treated him like he was broken.
You loved him like there wasn’t anything wrong with him at all.
He can’t believe he ruined that.
Jack had to do a lot of learning for his healing.
He painstakingly rewired his thought process: the symptoms that he’s deemed incurable were more so… a malfunction. Not terminal but treatable. The best treatment was patience. And he required plenty of it to deal with the consequences of him refusing help for months. Jack learned about psychogenic tremors, their underlying cause being his pent-up emotions. He tried tremor retrainment, he cut down on caffeine. He gave another chance to mirror therapy for night pains. He got on with meditation, although it did take some convincing (which sounded like “please, do yourself a favor, don’t be such a bugger,” — another pearl of wisdom from his therapist. It worked).
It wasn’t easy — not for the first month or the second or the third. But very slowly, day by day, it did get bearable. And then, somewhere between the seventh and the ninth month, Jack actually began to feel better. He didn’t need painkillers anymore, his dishware remained intact, his nightmares forgotten. He’d randomly chat with the interns and crack a joke or two, he stopped his visits to the stairs, he rarely went to the roof. It was an undeniable achievement that should’ve filled him with joy and pride.
But deep inside, up to his throat, Jack has been filled with longing. The thoughts of you would leave him sore, like rupture of blood vessels, like he was bruised all over. He couldn’t stop thinking. He never wanted to forget — the contours of your silhouette his eyes traced through the air, the spark of warmth that was your smile he dreamed of, the tenderness of you he missed. The taste of apples he kept buying since they reminded him of you. The scent still hidden in the fabric of your shirt: every inhale sparked up the coals of his feelings. But he couldn’t act on impulse, couldn’t barge back into your life while he was only half the man he wished to be.
So he crossed off the passing days and let the seasons pass as he continued working on himself. For you. And when his clandestine bruising hurt too much, he’d call you. To listen to the same voicemail, same 14 seconds and 19 words he’s learned by heart. He’s never left a message. And never truly cured his insomnia, his nights perpetually cold, your side of the bed painfully empty.
Jack waited for the change in him that he would feel with every fibre of his being. And for a chance to talk to you. Robby presented him with the latter.
The Fundraiser was Gloria’s idea, and Jack managed to avoid it for two years. She did try to talk him into coming (all donors love a sob story, and what’s sadder than an amputee?), but his few glares and dry tone discouraged her in record time. So Jack didn’t move an ear when Robby mentioned the event.
“I can look up the full list of guests,” Robby suggested, waiting for Jack to get the clue.
It took Abbot a moment. Then his pen froze over the paperwork, eyes darting up at Robby. “You think she might come?”
“We aren’t the only doctors fishing for investors,” he chuckled. “So it’s usually pretty packed. And Gloria loves playing a hostess. She’d drag in half the city if she could.”
Jack mulled over the suggestion. Apart from hopeful, he was also scared. Would you still care that he’s changed?
“It’s been almost a year,” Robby noted. “You found a therapist, you unfucked your life, you’re doing good. How long do you plan on waiting?”
Jack rubbed the back of his head. “I just keep thinking what I’d say. Never been great at speeches.”
“You can start with an apology,” Robby’s voice was low but sure. As was his gaze when he met Jack’s, silently waiting for the decision to be made. At last, Abbot gave him a short nod. It was too obvious for words: his wish to see you was way stronger than any other feelings.
Jack spent the whole day looking for a tie. Last time he wore one was at his wife’s funeral: the strip of fabric felt like a noose around his neck. Years later, when you went on a date, he tried it on — and it was so discomforting that he kept squirming in the driver’s seat. You took the tie off him on your way to the restaurant, no questions asked. Jack took your hand as he stopped at a red light, pressed his lips to your wrist. You leaned closer to kiss him. Your laugh spilled in his mouth when someone honked at you. And in the glow of the green light, sitting right next to him, you seemed so gloriously happy.
Jack thought about it as he was fumbling with that tie, in the apartment he was now alone in. What scared him the most was not knowing if you could let him in again. If you moved on already. He never cared about the socials, and you preferred to keep things private. Still, he checked your Facebook page — you only changed your place of work. No added photos of your boyfriend, no changes to your “not married” status. Which was a good sign. Which didn’t stop his hands from shaking each time he tried imagining what it would feel like to be in the same room with you again.
The hours leading up to the event passed in a blink. Jack’s nerves haven’t calmed one bit. Anxiety bubbled in him as he drove to the hospital, as he sat in his car, forcing his breaths to even out.
He still feels anxious as he walks to the entrance and finally comes in. It’s crowded, a mess of fabrics and the shine of jewels and the fizz of drinks, the chatter never-ending, half of the smiles fake. It’s almost nauseating; Jack loosens the tie a little. One of the servers darts to him.
“Sir, would you like some cham—”
“Do you have water?” Jack’s eyes impatiently move over the guests' faces.
The man pauses. “Um, just... water?”
The teeth of agitation graze his insides. Jack doesn’t let it show. “Just a glass of water with some ice, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be right back,” the man scampers off into the crowd.
Jack promptly moves in the same direction. Some of his colleagues greet him, some of the strangers shoot him glances; he hardly cares about either. He’s searching for only one voice and face — yours. The server finds him in a few minutes; he pants a little as he gives Jack a lowball glass, only in place of whiskey, there’s a clear liquid and a bunch of ice. And Abbot notices how pale the man’s up close, some reddness splotched above his crisp white collar. Jack almost wants to ask if everything’s okay. Instead, he thanks him and keeps going. Someone is laughing, someone is obviously drunk; some posh guys who’ve never worked a day in their lives are asking mind-blowingly dumb questions. The background music is unnecessary, incessant; someone is writing checks and making toasts, Jack’s fingers go cold from the ice —
His gaze stumbles on the hair color first. The painfully familiar lines of the neck and shoulders.
His heart leaps up. Exhale caught in his throat.
You’re standing with your back to him, your dress dark blue and hair up, your shoulder blades left bare. And he would recognize you anywhere. It makes him stop. It stuns him: as he is staring at you, everything else — that’s bright and loud and harsh — suddenly grows dim.
Jack timidly allows his gaze to look you over. He was afraid you’d change, but he can see it even from a distance: the same slow movement of your arms, your bearing poised, same slight tilt of your head as you are listening to someone, a hand gliding over your waist —
a man’s hand.
You didn’t come alone.
When Jack sees who the hand belongs to, everything in him sinks, the weight of heartbreak filling up his stomach. This isn’t just unfortunate — it is a worst-case scenario, it’s watching the paper boat of his hopes being completely torn apart.
Jack knows Jonathan: a classmate turned your best friend, the man who looks like he stepped out of a magazine — tall, dark-haired, green-eyed, and with a million-dollar smile. He is a neurosurgeon who operates on kids with brain cancer, he regularly donates to charity, he owns a three-legged dog he rescued (of-fucking-course). What makes things even worse is that he’s not an asshole. He’s also never brash or loud — because he doesn’t have to be; he catches everyone’s attention like a diamond among marbles. When he’s with you, his smile grows wider. And Jonathan’s lips glisten like he had a kissing session not so long ago.
Jack hears quick footsteps approaching, and he already knows who’s coming. 'Cause no one radiates anxiety like Robby.
But Jack did hope he’d get another chance. He gulps more water, still perfectly icy — but on the inside, he is burning. He’s not allowed to be this jealous: you aren’t his to keep, and that’s on him. He’d rather walk through fire than watch you with another man. He cannot take his eyes away.
“You can do it in the parking lot,” Dana’s voice comes from his left.
Jack turns to her, his face perplexed.
“... What?”
“I mean, he is a bit taller than you, and he works out for sure. But your military training should be good for something, right? If you want to punch him, just don’t do it here,” she takes a sip of what looks like a Gin tonic. “I spent half an hour listening to that douchebag tech guy who wants to fly to Mars — and who also offered to pay for our new MRI machine. I’d like to get that check by the end of the night, so please don’t fuck things up.”
When Jack broke up with you, Dana refused to talk to him for weeks. And now she does, so technically, they’ve made some progress.
“I’m not gonna punch anyone,” Jack tells her. More like a protest, less a promise.
“Oh, 'cause you’re in therapy now,” she rolls her eyes. “If only you started it, I don’t know, a year or two earlier. Wouldn’t be standing here throwing daggers at the other guy.”
She isn’t wrong. He’s got no arguments in his defence nor any wish to argue. Jack’s eyes are drawn to you again — but this time, when he finds you, he can tell: you know. And he can almost see the tension straightening your shoulders, the wariness stealing away your smile. He gets his guess confirmed when you finally turn — and look exactly where he’s standing. You aren’t smiling. You manage to control your feelings, but one of them slips out for a second: pain. And Jack discerns it in your gaze, just like he did the day he left you.
You look away. It nearly unstitches all of his patched-up composure.
“You think she’ll talk to you?” Dana’s voice comes out a tad softer, more concerned.
“Only one way to find out,” Jack quietly replies.
He is way more unsure than he wishes he would be. His main wish is to apologize to you.
You make it obvious you do not want to talk to him at all.
You aren’t the one to make a scene, but it is hardly subtle — how consciously you keep your distance. You move around the hall as people wave at you and call your name: McKay and Collins gush over your dress and pepper you with questions, Princess makes jokes that get a smile out of you. Dana pulls you into a hug, and Robby greets you just as warmly. And Jonathan surprisingly isn’t a clingy boyfriend — he keeps darting back to the bar, avoiding women of all ages who keep staring at him, which you don’t seem to care about.
But you are dead set on not crossing paths with Jack.
He tries approaching you nonchalantly, like he is merely an old friend wanting to catch up. You talk with literally anyone but him. Even with that damn server, pale and panting in your face after you stop him with a question Jack can’t hear. He spends an hour on attempts to get to you — you move further away each time he makes a step in your direction.
Jack knows you certainly have reasons to be upset. He grows increasingly uncertain about his chances for a reconciliation. His heart rushes from what feels a little bit like panic. He gets a glimpse of you chatting with Garcia — before he all but runs into the bathroom, into the empty room behind closed doors, to splash his face with some cold water. And then he stares at the mirror like he’s trying to summon a version of himself that you might tolerate; but to no avail.
Jack takes a minute to calm down. To bolt into his head that he won’t give up easily. He strides into the corridor with a newfound determination and his tie fixed —
in a few seconds, the door to the women’s bathroom opens —
and you walk outside.
You take a step away, two, three.
A measurement of time is yet to be invented for just how fast you turn to him. Like you are still aware — unwittingly, unfailingly, always — of his presence; you can’t help but look.
You freeze immediately. He stands unmoving. The two of you are separated by a couple of feet. But also by the months apart and the unsaid and the unhealed. It’s hard to casually break that kind of silence. And all the pre-planned speeches in Jack’s head boil down to I’m so sorry and Please, don’t leave. You look like you’re about to —
There is a sharp, loud sound followed by a dull one — of something heavy falling. You both instantly turn your heads and find the source of it around the corner: a metal tray and a smashed bottle of champagne, a server lying sprawled out on the floor. That same white-faced man, deadly unconscious.
The awkwardness gives way to urgency: you act like not two strangers but a team, just like you were once. And you worked damn well together.
Jack runs to him and crouches down, two fingers pressing on the man’s neck. “Got a pulse.”
You take your phone out to use the flashlight and lean down to his face. “Pupils reactive.”
“Will probably have a bruise from the fall,” Jack is examining his head and neck.
“And a nasty bump too,” you add, your own hands moving quickly down the server’s body. You start searching his pockets.
Jack quirks a brow at that. “You think he’s got any meds on him?”
“He’s diabetic,” you explain. “He looked pale, so I asked him if he was okay. He said it was his low blood sugar 'cause he kept forgetting to get a snack.”
Abbot bites down a smile: you still catch on to small things he doesn’t, and people always talk to you more willingly. He wonders if you’ve ever missed working with him, too. Out loud, Jack notes:
“So he might be in a coma.”
“I was hoping he’d have glucagon,” you mumble, with a hint of discontent.
Two other servers see you and sprint closer. Jack asks them to deal with the mess of glass and alcohol left on the floor. He isn’t moving from his spot, he knows this moment won’t last long: you next to him, you two talking, proximity you aren’t avoiding, aren’t distressed by.
“Look for an inside pocket in his vest,” Jack suggests.
Your fingers move to check, quickly unbuttoning the man’s clothes. “Bingo,” you whisper joyfully when you find the small injection kit.
You don’t waste time on reading the instructions you already know: you mix the powder with the liquid and easily fill the syringe. He helps you out by dragging down the man’s pants so you can inject the glucagon into a leg muscle. A few guests and doctors are gawking at the scene.
Jack can only look at you.
The server opens his eyes with a pained exhale. “S-shit, did I pass out?”
Jack helps him to sit up; you do the talking. “How’s your head? Any dizziness?”
He rubs his temple and frowns at the sight of his dirtied white shirt. “Nah, I’m fine. Didn’t mean to bother you guys, gotta go clean myself up.”
Jack holds him by the elbow as the man slowly gets up. You button back his vest and give advice. “You need to get a head CT just in case. Or at least get checked properly. The ER is just around—”
“No, I can’t afford that,” he retorts quickly, tiredly. “I know you mean well, but it’s gonna cost me a fortune. And I should get back to work.”
But Jack tightens his grip on the man’s arm. “You’re gonna pay a bigger price if you don’t take care of your health,” Abbot tells him in that effortlessly persuasive tone. “They won’t charge you for a simple check-up. Take the main exit and turn left, then look for ambulances and follow them. The ER is not that busy right now, you’ll be out in under 30 minutes.”
It’s very hard to say no under the pressure of his gaze. The server nods, a bit disoriented; but also grateful. “Thank you so much,” he utters, then clumsily adjusts his vest and moves to the exit in jerky steps, like he has to stop himself from running.
The crowd of spectators lazily disperses. Jack sends a quick text to John, eyes on the screen, but his spine tenses like a string at the cognizance: you aren’t leaving. And he can calculate the distance without looking — it’s barely an arm’s length, and if he reaches out his hand, he knows he’ll touch you. God, how much he wants to touch you.
Jack is so stuck on his reluctance, he doesn’t expect you to speak up.
“Don’t you charge for check-ups?”
When he turns to you, you are already looking at him. It twinkles in your gaze like the moon through clouds: hope. Like you are waiting, wishing for him to say something. He doesn’t know where to begin.
“I asked Shen for a favor,” Jack says, holding up his phone. “Besides, he’s bored out of his mind, so we’re kinda helping each other out,” he chuckles lightly.
“Shen is an attending now?” your question is equally surprised and guilty: you and John used to be friends. You must’ve cut ties with a lot of people when you quit.
The words pile up on Jack’s tongue: it’s not your fault you weren’t there, no one holds that against you, everyone misses you, and he’s been missing you so much it is a never-ending torment —
“Got the job in August,” is what Abbot actually says.
“Good to hear,” your eyes are still on him. “Got anyone new on the team?”
“Same old,” he shakes his head. “We don’t do well with change in here.”
Your affability dissolves into an expression that’s disappointed first, then — completely blank. Jack has no idea why. It would be great to show assertiveness, to bring back the same commanding tone he used a few minutes ago. But that would feel like playing pretend. Which he has never done with you, and he is not about to start.
So Jack allows himself the truth. And his voice softens when he says:
“You look beautiful.”
He catches a ghost of a smile on your lips. But your eyes aren’t smiling.
“You look like you don’t want to be here,” you tell him plainly.
“I do, actually.”
“Since when do you care about socializing?”
Since he found out you’d come. But he thinks it would be too blunt to say that.
“It’s for a good cause. So I figured, why not,” Jack brushes it off. The panic is pulsating through his chest again: what did he do, how can he make this better? “How’s your new job?”
You sigh like he made the wrong move. “Pays well. Way less chaotic,” and your voice is void of anything that can give him hope.
You used to be so bubbly and expressive, he never pushed for details — you’d give him all down to the smallest, and he heeded to every word. He cannot tell if you’re trying not to overshare or if this is just how you are now, grown out of your exuberance like it was something foolish. Something he made you regret.
“Don’t you miss the chaos?” Jack asks swiftly.
It does seem that he manages to scratch the mask you have on: you frown, like you’re about to remind him why exactly you had to leave it all behind —
“There you are!” Gloria cuts in, her long dress light pink, her voice booming from across the hall. The smile she gives you doesn’t look fake. “Why didn’t you come say hi? I found out that you’re here from Jonathan! So lovely that you came together!”
She’s interrupted briefly by some old man — a doctor or perhaps a donor, someone who’s got enough authority to matter. Your smile is nothing but polite. You smooth your dress, something you do when you are nervous or uncomfortable. Or both. But this is your way out, and Jack knows you will take it. Of course, he wishes that you wouldn’t. He’d abdicate his pride, his morals and beliefs; he is ready to beg you. But wouldn’t it be selfish to drag you into something you want none of?
He wants you back, yes. He also wants you to be happy. And maybe there is no connection between the two, maybe it’s indeed too late. Accepting it wounds him. Jack pushes through; he puts his feelings under anesthesia, he puts on a smile.
“I’m glad that it’s him,” he says, unprompted, his words meant only for you to hear. “You deserve someone good, something stable. It seems like a perfect match.”
Your face falls. And his sincerity that’s meant to be a farewell backfires. You are trying to hide it, but he can read the signs: you bite the inside of your cheek and purse your lips, eyes momentarily drawn to the floor. When you look back at him, your gaze is also wounded. Like you are in a whirlpool too, and your pain goes by his name.
Your voice comes out barely above a whisper:
“I didn’t want it to be perfect, Jack. I just wanted it to be you.”
He is left standing — staggered, speechless — as Gloria takes you by the arm and speedily leads you away. You disappear into the crowd, you’re on your way to a much better future, and Jack is on his own. Because in real life, not everyone gets their happy ending.
Except, this doesn’t feel final. This feels like a mistake.
The Fundraiser is in full swing: the main hall packed with people, every glass surface dappled with light, beams flashing in the air like confetti. Gloria thanks everyone for being in attendance, her speech a faraway echo, soon drowned out by the cheering. Some lone guests brush by him, but Jack stays in the quiet, at a distance, deep in his thoughts. They churn in him just like the clouds outside the windows — dark grey, crawling over the sky, over the faint shades of violet and red. The colors dim at the horizon, but not his doubts: they only rise, like water vapor rising in the air. He never told you just how sorry he was. Maybe he should have. Abbot picks up his glass that he left on the floor, half-full still, the ice melted. What clinks through his head are the words: why didn’t he tell you? What if it could’ve made a difference?
Someone walks up to him, slowly, with purpose. And Jack expects Robby’s or Dana’s sympathetic face, or maybe that poor server coming back. But it’s none of these people.
It is Jonathan.
“Tired of trying to charm old millionaires for a paycheck?” he smiles at Abbot and steps closer, a glass of red wine in his hand, smelling so strongly of perfume, he must’ve soaked himself in it.
He seems relaxed and harmless. And yet, Jack’s rigid, like he is looking for a catch.
“I don’t have much charm in me,” he doesn’t bother with a smile. “Not a problem for you, I reckon.”
But he speaks with no bitterness. Primarily because it seems impossible to hate him: Jonathan is fun, lighthearted, witty. He’s everything Jack’s not.
“Oh, I don’t need charm for that,” the brunet chuckles. “I just mention kids and cancer in one sentence, and that does it. Saves me a lot of time so I can spend it in a more pleasant company.”
Yours, Jack assumes. He’s trying not to picture you and Jonathan together, doing the things you’ve done with Jack.
“You shouldn’t leave her waiting, then,” he forces out, swallowing his jealousy.
He raises his glass with an unspoken toast — to your happiness, Jonathan’s luck. Jack’s loss. He’s waiting for the picture-perfect man to leave him to his misery.
But Jonathan is in no rush to go. And weirdly enough, his face is actually... amused.
“You are aware we’ve been friends for years, right?” he narrows his eyes a little. “Ever since the uni. Has she told you how we met?”
Okay, this is where he draws the line. Jack doesn’t need to listen to how easily it was to fall in love with you. He knows already. And Abbot’s never been nonchalant about his feelings. How do you tell a man that you are mad about his girlfriend? Jack tells himself he’ll keep his mouth shut until he’s out of water.
He takes a sip. There’s barely a couple left.
How far’s the parking lot?
Jonathan is oblivious to his internal struggle. Or maybe he’s just unconcerned. “It happened at the end of the first semester,” he recounts, smoothing his green silk tie with manicured fingers. “I got so smashed at one of the parties, I actually forgot where the dorm was. Passed out somewhere in the bushes, I’m not kidding. A dozen people must’ve walked by me, but she didn’t. She helped me up, let me crash in her room. When I woke up with what probably is the worst hangover I’ve ever had, she brought me coffee. And then she told me that if drinking and partying were all I’m good for, I should drop out,” he drops his glee, his serious expression hinting at how much weight your words held. “Believe it or not, that conversation changed my life. And in our uni days, she was my closest friend. I knew I could rely on her because she’s so... straightforward. Funny. Kind. I’ve always got enough attention from the ladies, sure. But I valued kindness and sincerity way more,” then he looks Abbot dead in the eye — and punctuates, “Because I was a closeted gay.”
Jack chokes on water.
Jonathan doesn’t even flinch.
“You know, I keep hearing how good a doctor you are, and I do believe it to be true. But man, you fucking suck at picking up social cues,” the brunet gives his wine a swirl and lists. “I’ve got a suit that’s tailored to perfection. I dodged every woman’s attempt to flirt with me and spent the evening making heart-eyes at the bartender. I am literally wearing lip gloss. If I wanted to be any more gay, I’d have to jump your bones. And honestly, I would rather lick the pavement. No offence.”
“None taken,” Jack says under his breath, wiping droplets of water off his jacket, utterly confused. “Why didn’t she tell me that? I thought you two were dating. And she didn’t correct me.”
Jonathan holds a pause and holds his gaze, as if he’s hoping Abbot can figure out himself the explanation that is so glaringly apparent.
“You shattered her heart, Jack,” the brunet tells him, not with reproach but with honesty. “I’m surprised she said a word to you. She once promised me she never would.”
That’s when it hits him like a blinding spotlight: you did grant him a chance to make things right. And he just wasted it.
Or did he?
“I really need to go,” Jack mutters. He makes a few rushed steps away before abruptly turning on his heels. “Do you know where—”
“I left her with Evans,” Jonathan readily informs him and adds with a sad half-smile. “You may need to do some groveling.”
Jack offers no reply because he is already on the move. But he knows he will kneel and crawl and wear his feet off to the knees to merit your forgiveness.
Anticipation gets his blood pumping as he sprints through the crowd, through the cacophony of sounds and a swarm of colors, his eyes darting all over the place, looking for you. His pulse competes in speed with passing seconds. It maybe takes him five minutes or just a half of one — before he spots Dana. Who’s standing at the bar alone. Her plastic smile has almost worn off; it dies completely as she notices Jack coming. She meets him with hissed words and an accusatory tone.
“Geez, I ran out of talking points, she just left! What took you so long?!”
“You knew Jonathan was gay?” Jack can’t help his bafflement. His body is already turning in the direction of the lobby.
She groans and yanks away his glass he totally forgot about. “Anybody with eyes would know that! Now hurry up!”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Abbot careens into the lobby just in time to see you grabbing your black coat. You’re leaving earlier than planned — that much is clear from how hastily you move, from how pensive and distant your expression is. Just as you turn, your eyes fall on him — and in an instant, you put on a mask again, only this one is cold and stern and so defensive, you don’t allow him to say a word.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I know, I know,” Jack agrees humbly, ruefully. “Just give me a minute, I —”
“We already had one pointless exchange of pleasantries, and now I’m going home,” you pop on the coat without looking at him, putting the collar up like it’s your armor.
There is a rumbling outside, the sound creeping close, closer. A car alarm goes off. You go towards the exit.
“It’s gonna rain any minute now, you should wait it out,” he tries to persuade you, following behind, but you refuse to spare him a glance.
“I’m sure I’ll survive. Thank god for Uber,” you pull your phone out, heels clicking on the polished floor.
And his resolve is melting into desperation that pours into his abdomen, heavy like molten rocks. Burning like magma.
“I talked to Jonathan. Actually, he did most of the talking,” Jack manages to keep pace. “And he kinda came out in the process. So I know you aren’t dating.”
“I didn’t say we were, you made an assumption. Good to know you still like those.”
Affliction flickers through his voice. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”
“Because the thought of me dating someone is an intolerable torment,” you sneer at him over the shoulder, still not slowing down.
The answer flies out of his mouth before he even thinks about it:
“Yes.”
Three-letter word — that’s what it takes for you to stop and turn to him. But when you do, it isn’t out of confusion or surprise. No, Jack is getting a different emotion from your sharp exhale and knitted brows and flaming gaze.
And Abbot realizes he’s never seen you truly angry. He sure does now.
“Wow,” you draw, eyes boring into him, the phone in your hand forgotten. “Do you even hear yourself right now? You don’t get to have any opinions on my love life.”
Jack looks like you just hit him in the face. Like if you actually did, it would’ve hurt him less. He takes a breath so he’s got enough air for all the words he must let out.
“I want to apologize. I know I treated you horribly, and I never should’ve—”
“Thanks, I feel whole again,” you cut him off and turn your back to him, as if his words are idle. Meaningless.
You venture out into the street, a gust of wind tearing through the layers of your dress and coat. The sky is swallowed up by grey clouds and autumn’s gloom, the silence hanging in the air is eerie like a premonition.
Jack catches up to you, and desperation rises up in him under the pressure of his awakened fears, of his sleepless yearning.
“Can you stop for a second?”
“Why, so you can heap me with some excuses? As if I’m still supposed to care,” you say, voice brimming over with emotions — he can hear fury and offence. But the pain is there too.
“I just want to explain—”
“For months I’ve been waiting like a goddamn idiot for your text or your call or your visit,” you wander on to the parking lot, seething and so obviously hurt. “But you never reached out, didn’t even leave me a single message. You moved on so fast, like I was just a bump on your road.”
“That’s not what—”
“And then you come and tell me I hurt your feelings?” you whirl around, face tear-stained, each word a shard of glass that cuts him. “And how dare I not inform you that I’m still pathetically single? Why would I do that, Jack? Who the hell do you think you are to make any demands?!”
Lightning cracks fiercely in the sky, silver electric pulses threading through the darkness. Wind roughens up the trees and tears wilting leaves that swirl down in the air.
You notice none of it.
“You were the one who broke up with me! You didn’t do shit for things to work out, you didn’t care about my efforts, you decided for both of us because, of course, you always know better. So you don’t get to have any feelings about it now, after a year of radio silence! After you made it so clear you didn’t want me,” your voice breaks.
And it’s not anger that flashes across your face but sadness, inordinate and undeniable, like your heartbreak is fresh. Because, oh god, you still have feelings for him. And everything in you screams how much you want it not to be true.
You wipe the tears off your cheeks, not realizing that some of it is rain — the first few drops fall down, their patter just a murmur in the foliage. But it is getting louder. You shamefully avert your gaze. You sound dejected when you speak.
“At least have the decency to leave me alone. Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why did—”
“Because I can’t fucking breathe without you!” Jack’s voice roars like thunder, like eruption, a force of nature breaking loose.
You instantly turn back to him, your gaze linking with his. It makes you stop. It stuns you: when he’s with you, everything else — crowds, faces, storm brewing above — suddenly grows dim. You gape at Jack like he just cut his chest open with bare hands.
And then he offers you his heart.
“I can’t move on, I am incapable of it, there wasn’t a day in the past year that I didn’t spend wishing I could go back and fix this! You think I don’t know I fucked up? I’d still remember it with my skull cracked in half! I’d have to get amnesia to forget it — and then it would come back to me the second I get back home. Because every part of it, every inch of it is stained with you.”
His eyes are riveted to you, and you are rooted to the spot. The rain comes down harder, but you are only hearing what pours out of Jack’s mouth.
“I still have the apartment. The one you helped me pick, the one we lived in. There’s the same bed we shared, the same shower, the same kitchen where you made me breakfasts. And I see shadows of you on every wall, I hear echoes of your voice, I wait for the sound of your key. And it’s suffocating. But I keep renewing the lease because that’s all I have left of you.”
You are looking at him like you don’t recognize him. And truthfully, you can’t: the Jack you knew buried his feelings deep. He never shared them — not when he woke up in cold sweat, not when his hands shook or his mood dropped. He never even told you that he loved you.
But this Jack talks to you like he can’t even think of stopping.
And he lays all his feelings bare.
“I wake up wanting you, I suffer through each day wanting you, I can’t sleep at night because lying there awake without you is unbearable — and if I close my eyes, I dream of no one but you, which feels worse than stepping on a landmine. Because I know that I’ll wake up alone. And it’s been tearing me to shreds.”
His voice is hoarse, his usually impenetrable expression collapsing into one of undeniable remorse. You don’t move when Jack allows himself a step to you.
“I didn’t come here to argue with you. And I’d never want to hurt you. Not again,” Jack needs another breath before he shares his reasoning — fervid and candid and certain in its brevity. “I want you back.”
Your clothes are getting wet, his too. But all you’re feeling is how your fury and defiance disintegrate around the edges, turning to dust the rain washes away. And after everything Jack’s put you through, you can’t hate him, can’t fight him, can’t reject him.
And he can’t stay away from you.
“I’d crawl through hell for you if it gets me another chance. I’d cut off my arm up to the shoulder, I’d give up my career, I’d move cities and cross countries and swim across oceans. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
The sky lights up, white flashes on an indigo canvas. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears. Jack pleads:
“Tell me you can give me a second chance.”
“Please.”
“Tell me.”
You try to say something, but no words come out. And in this moment, you don’t want to talk. You want to feel something, you search for solid proof that this is real — for something grounding and tangible, like an embrace. Or like a kiss.
You dart to him without thinking.
His hands catch you midway.
His lips meet yours with no resistance and no hesitation.
It’s soft first, not out of reticence but out of tenderness — Jack holds and kisses you like you’re fragile, a treasure he’s afraid to damage with his fingerprints. But that is hardly satisfying for how much you’ve missed him. You pull him closer, you want the kiss to deepen — and he obliges you, his tongue skating across your lower lip. You almost lose the sense of time, mindless of the wind and raindrops dripping in your mouth — you only feel the heat of his, the need for him, the way your lungs burn from the lack of air, from the intensity of him.
Jack has to pull away first, his own breath heaving. The rain is trickling down your cheeks, and he brushes a few drops away. “You’re gonna catch a cold, we can’t just stand here,” and then he grabs onto an idea, the way a drowning man would grip a straw. “I still have some of your things. The drive to the apartment is only—”
“About nine minutes,” you whisper, eyes searching his, like maybe there is a reason hidden there for you to turn down his offer. He doesn’t want you to. You know that you don’t want that either.
“C'mon, let’s get you in the car,” Jack takes you by the hand and leads the way.
And you comply. You know he’s sober — his tongue didn’t bring the taste of alcohol, no bitterness of whiskey or the spiciness of rum. He just tasted like Jack. You press your lips together like you’re savouring it (you actually are).
He spots his pickup truck and helps you get in first, then takes the driver’s seat. Jack turns the heater on and keeps his gaze away from your wet clothes that cling to every curve of you. He fights the urge to take the tie off — you catch his fingers drumming on the wheel, his shoulders tense, eyes sometimes darting down, trying to be discreet. To you, he isn’t. This goes on for a minute, two; the roads aren’t busy, and he is driving fast.
A red light stops him at a crossing. Jack shifts a little on his seat. Tries for a deep, calming inhale —
You lean to him.
Your hands move on their own accord, out of habit you never unlearned: you skillfully loosen the knot, pulling the thin tail of the fabric out, then carefully unfold his tie. Jack sits mellowed and motionless, his gaze tracing your face — wet eyelashes and lines of your nose and cheeks down to the parted lips. He knows if you allow him another kiss, he will have trouble stopping.
But you pull back. And he steps on the gas.
Heat floods in through the vents, and you silently watch the city through the rain-streaked window. You’ve missed a lot about Jack, and Dana’s words skate through your mind: “he has been working on himself, he’s really changed.” But it’s impossible to change the past, to act like his behavior didn’t scar you. You don’t know if you can let him in again. And yet, the truth thuds in tact with your heartbeat: you want to, you want to, you want to.
He parks as close to the apartment building as he can — the walk up to the entrance is barely half a minute. He doesn’t take your hand, he gives you space. But he still holds the doors for you, and you can feel his palm hover over your lower back when you go up the stairs. And you expect to see the flat changed too, you keep imagining how he revamped the place and rearranged things, new paint over the old, over the traces that you left. Just so his memories don’t loom in every corner.
But then Jack turns his key and lets you in. And it feels like you traveled back a year.
Because nothing is different. Everything looks exactly how you left it.
Jack locks the door behind you, and for a moment, he just stands here. You feel his gaze on you, while yours is wandering — over the same furniture, same colors, green apples in the white bowl in the hallway, because you used to grab a couple before leaving. And he remembered it. You.
Warmth roots deep in your chest.
You toe off your shoes and wiggle out of your semi-dry coat. Jack carefully pops it on a hanger while you amble around. It’s like a walk down memory lane: you can recall how he assembled every shelf, his brows wrinkled in concentration, his sleeves rolled up, you shamelessly admiring his tensing muscles instead of reading the instructions (not that he needed any). You think of him refusing to let you lift a single box, of how you cheerfully unpacked them — taking out clothes and books and new things meant for just the two of you to share: soft cotton towels and fresh bed linen and dinnerware sets. He didn’t show any emotions when you were shopping; but when you were alone, Jack’s feigned aloofness vanished — he smiled softly at you, one arm secured around your waist, his short hums of approval pressed into your shoulder. You smile at the memory.
And then you glimpse the painting — bright blue wave, still in the same spot on the bedroom wall. You can’t help but come in.
The gap between the heavy curtains lets barely any light in, but you manage to find the bedside lamp and flip the switch on. The yellow glow spreads all over the room, over the printout. You notice instantly: he fixed the corner you almost ripped off. You didn’t mean to — you were heartbroken, you were in a rush, you thought he’d hate it if you left it. You also absolutely had to leave before he came back, so you didn’t have time to properly untape the whole thing. But Jack took care of it like it was more than just a piece of paper. Like it held meaning to him simply because it did to you.
The warmth in you grows, like snowdrops at the edge of winter.
You take a better look around — there’s the dresser you used to put vases with flowers on, the dark blue bed cover you spent many days under, the fluffy bedside rug he bought you because the floor always felt cold. Belatedly, you see a thick spine of what looks like a book left on the nightstand. But you know it’s a photo album. One of your gifts to him.
It’s something you found startling when you got to know Jack — he barely had any photographs. As if the whole idea of capturing life’s moments seemed alien to him. Or maybe he didn’t want to have reminders of everything he’s lost. But you wanted to remind him of all the good bits life was still full of. You chose the first three photos: Robby in heart-shaped glasses he put on as a joke, Shen in a white gown he had to wear for an hour when they ran out of scrubs, Trinity grinning next to sleeping Frank after she drew a mustache on him, with Dana laughing in the background. And Jack loved it. He was way more selective, but he did add dozens of polaroids as the months went on — you turn the pages and see familiar faces, the people you loved working with. The image you remember last was of you and Jack: you dozed off on his shoulder, his arm casually tucked behind your back, his eyes on you. Walsh snapped the photo sneakily and sent to you, although you blatantly denied all her suspicions.
But the collection doesn’t end there — you unexpectedly discover a few more photos.
Of you.
They’re from his phone, you guess — some shots are blurry, definitely made without you knowing. The first one is you cooking with his shirt on, knees bare, and hair in a messy bun, a grin curling the corner of your mouth. Then comes a photo of you standing at the ER’s exit, probably waiting for him, your tired face soaking up the sun. Then it’s you chatting with McKay at the nurse station, you sitting in a call room reading, you sniffing candles in IKEA, you hugging a sad kid who got his leg broken, you petting stray cats at the farmer’s market. But it’s the one Abbot put at the end that makes your breath catch in your throat. He took a picture of you sleeping — your back and shoulders peeking from the bedsheets, faint sunlight glittering over your naked skin. The shadow of his hand covers your closed eyelids. And the realization bolts through you so violently, it makes you shiver: you don’t know how to stop loving him.
You can’t.
All of a sudden, the air feels warmer. You know that Jack walked in — you feel him staring. You always do.
“I wasn’t sure you would keep this,” you say, your fingers gliding over the edges of the album.
“Of course I did,” he replies quietly, fondly.
You turn to look at him.
He brought your plaid blue shirt, his tie and jacket discarded somewhere in the hall. Your gaze unhurriedly traces his face — the wrinkles faintly scattered at the corners of his hazel eyes, lines of his nose and cheekbones and curve of his lips. But in his features, you are also seeing weariness, the kind that doesn’t bother with pretence. And in the ambience of soft light, after so many truths unveiled, there’s still one answer you are seeking.
“Why didn’t you leave a message?” you wish you’d sound more collected; you don’t. You cast your eyes back to the polaroids as you dig out the memories that are less pleasant. “I got notifications after your every call. I had to buy a second phone eventually because I got too tired of waiting for you to say something.”
And you don’t see Jack opening his mouth and closing before he reads between the lines: you could’ve turned off notifications, you could’ve changed your number. Instead, you waited. For many months.
For him.
“At first I thought it would be too soon,” he confesses, a pained edge to his tone. “I knew I hurt you. Figured you’d want some time away from me. It felt wrong to disturb you, to offer excuses that would be pointless without fixing the real issue. Which was all in my head,” Jack admits. “It took me a while to get hold of myself. I didn’t want to give you some half-assed apologies and I... What I need to tell you, I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”
He doesn’t turn it into a performance, you do not hear him move or even make a sound. For a few seconds, you wait for him to say more. But then you glance at Jack —
and see him on his knees.
Your heart stutters.
The sight brings you no satisfaction. Because you are imagining the edges of his prosthesis dig into his skin, his upper leg pressing into the hard metal at this uncomfortable angle. And just a thought of him being in pain is what you still can’t bear.
“Jack, your leg will hurt if—”
“I don’t care,” he breathes out, eyes not leaving yours. “I love you.”
His voice is roughened by sincerity. You’ve never seen him so exposed, so unashamed about being vulnerable.
“I don’t remember what it’s like not to love you. And it’s the only thing I know won’t change,” the words fall out of him, steeped in devotion that slowly binds your wounds. “I knew I loved you before I even kissed you. I should’ve told you then. I should’ve told you that so many times.”
You cross the space between you, barefoot and up to your throat filled with longing. Jack rests his head against your stomach, one of his hands finding your lower back. Like he needs you to ground him. It only takes one touch — for your body to cave in, to ask for more, a treacherous response that only he elicits. An exhale shudders out of you as you’re anchoring yourself to him, so you won’t be carried away by currents of desire. But it’s already swelling in your core.
You feel the warmth of his mouth when Jack speaks up again. “I was afraid that if I said it, it would make it real. Would mean that I dragged you into my mess. Even though you deserve so much better.”
You look down at him — at his broad shoulders slacken in defeat, the damp grey curls with a dusting of white. Instinctively, you thread your fingers through his hair. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I’ve always been exactly where I wanted,” and your voice wavers in a confession of your own, “But you hurt me so badly.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Jack slowly turns his head, his other hand tracing your leg up to your hip. Both of his palms lay flat against your back. And then he nuzzles you, inhales you through the thin fabric of your dress, as if he’s been deprived of air. His muffled words burn your skin.
“I hurt myself too,” but then he looks up and meets your gaze and whispers, “I want us both to stop hurting,” in that low voice that makes your knees buckle.
Your craving for him has been crooning in your chest, and now the heat of him — his gaze, his touch — is making your blood sing. You lower yourself down to him, shift closer to him, your fingers falling on his jaw. Jack leans in, letting his face fall into your hand. His eyes seem darker in this lighting, deep umber with the specks of green, with the same sheen of need. You’ve never seen a man more handsome.
And you want him to kiss you like he doesn’t plan on stopping.
“What you said at the parking lot, I feel that too,” you murmur. “I wake up every day wanting you.”
His lips crash into yours — or maybe yours crash into his — it’s hot and frantic, it loosens the last remnants of your self-control. You grasp his shirt as you’re struggling to undo the buttons, snapping a few off until you bare his chest and feel his skin, his muscles taut under your palms. Jack makes a sound — a groan you swallow, his teeth grazing your lower lip before his tongue is sliding against yours. The kiss is deep, dizzying. There is no grace nor shame in how your body presses into his, in how his hands clutch onto your hips, in how you barely keep balance until you two part to catch your breath.
Your voice is shaky. “We should—”
“The bed, yes,” Jack rasps.
But his mouth trails for yours again, and you can’t keep your hands off him, can’t fight this all-consuming need.
The bed is barely twenty feet away — you stumble toward it. You’re kissing like you are starving for each other, leaving a trail of clothing on the floor. His shirt goes first, then he pulls down his pants, his mouth lowered to your throat, to where the jugular vein thuds under your skin. Your jaw falls open with a gasp — just like he knew it would; his hands are quick to steady you, his grip tight as his lips move up. His breath brushes the spot beneath your ear; he stops there. You can’t hold back a whine and turn your face to kiss him, eyes already dazed. But as Jack teeters on the edge of no return, an inkling takes shape in his mind: this is the closure that you didn’t get last year. This is the grand finale to the story before the curtain drops. Before you leave for good. Because you didn’t promise him you wouldn’t.
And yet, it doesn’t stop him. Nothing could. His love is a gratuitous surrender, an offering of the best parts of him, even if it leaves him hollow. If this is what your last shared memory is, he’ll make it worth your time.
Jack kisses you with his mouth open, his hand pressed to your nape, his lips devouring you like he can’t get enough — you let him, you melt into him. And everything in you is reeling. He only breaks for air when you are out of it, your lips swollen, your palms roaming over his naked chest. Your senses are reduced to just the feeling of him — his hands peeling away your dress, the soft press of his mouth at your collarbones, between your breasts, the way his tongue circles your nipple — then his lips close around it, his fingers tugging at the other — you feel the wetness pool between your legs, your body prickling with warmth. Your dress slides down to the floor — the second you step out of it, Jack locks his arm around you and lifts you — it’s barely three heartbeats before he lays you on the mattress, pushing you up until your head reaches the pillows. His mouth comes back to yours.
Desire courses through you freely and burns brighter with his every kiss, his every touch, skin pressing against skin. His hands make their way lower — his perfect, big, firm hands, their roughness molded into softness when they are on you; his lips follow. He leaves a damp trail over the hollow of your throat, over your heaving chest, right over your heart. Over the ridges of your ribs (each one, like he is counting). Then he centers his path, a kiss placed at your belly button. Then his exhale skims right above your underwear.
He pulls back — just a little. Just to get a better view. You know the thin cotton does nothing to cover your arousal — Jack eyes the wet spot at your center, dragging his fingers up your thigh. Then he presses his thumb right where you’re already aching for him.
Your breath comes out in gasps. Your heart lurches, threatening to bruise your ribcage.
Jack doesn’t hesitate or stall or tease you.
He slips your panties off in one smooth motion, then his hands slowly push your legs apart. Cool air touches you before he does, and goosebumps spring up on your skin. You hear Jack swallow loudly as his eyes drop between your thighs. He seems transfixed, pupils blown wide, a vehemence that comes from hunger. Or from reverence.
He bends his knees and sinks down on the bed like he is at the altar. And he lowers his head in worship.
Jack spreads you open with his practiced fingers, flicking his tongue over your clit, then tracing a line lower — to lick what’s dripping out of you already. A moan breaks from your throat, hips jerking down involuntarily as your hands clutch the bed sheets. He drags his tongue back up — and then buries his face between your legs, no warning given before he starts eating you out like he’s having a feast. It is a calculated mess: the way he licks and sucks, obscenely unapologetic, and pleasure sparks off through you, intoxicating and setting every nerve alight. There is no questioning his skills — Jack knows your body like it was made for him, like he has mapped it with his mouth so many times, he’d find and follow every contour in the darkness. He doesn’t use his hands yet. He doesn’t need to: not when he wraps his lips around your clit, the pressure in your stomach building up, your orgasm barrelling towards you deliciously fast — and then it crashes right through you, your body trembling all over, Jack’s name lustily rolling off your tongue.
He doesn’t stop.
One of his palms glides to the inside of your thigh, rubs a few soothing circles on your skin. Then his thumb carefully strokes your swollen bundle of nerves — and you don’t come down from your high, instead reaching a torturous plateau: you are still sensitive and gasping, and yet insatiable for him, your hips instinctively, needily grinding against his hand. He starts with just one finger — thick, long, and pushing into you with ease. Jack’s breathing hitches when you clench around him, and almost instantly, he adds a second, knowing you’ll take it, knowing how much you love being stuffed full of him. You answer with a long-drawn moan because fuck yes, you do.
He’s slow at first, sliding his fingers in up to the knuckles, dragging his gaze up to your face. It’s a debauched sight, a mesmerizing one: the way you spread your legs for him, head falling back against the pillow, a string of wanton sounds spilling from your lips. He watches your reaction closely as he expertly hits the spot that makes you keen and squeeze your eyes shut, hips grounding down into him harder. Jack takes this moment to ease another finger in, his hand already slick with you, his cock straining against his boxer briefs.
And he is picking up the pace, his three fingers stretching you wider, wet sounds filling the dimmed room.
He doesn’t plan to. He’s memorizing it again: your scent, your taste, the tremble of your legs he unspools the tension from. This perfect, sweat-covered image of your naked body — he’d paint it on the inside of his eyelids if he could. And Jack can tell you’re getting close: words incoherent, muscles pulling tighter. It takes just four swipes of his tongue — and then you’re cumming with a silent scream, back arched, thighs clamped around his head. He works you through it, patient and waiting until your legs relax again, so he can pull his fingers out.
You feel the aftershocks hum through your body, the satisfying rush of blood ebbing a little. But you are not yet satiated. And when you look at Jack, he is already staring at you, gaze dark, unblinking. He keeps eye contact as he licks his fingers clean, his chin and mouth drenched in you, cheeks flushed. You think, with anxious excitement:
he will not give you anything that you don’t ask for. You have to be straightforward about what you want.
So you tug at his hair to bring him up, to kiss him, the growing urgency you want him to join in on. He moves up purposefully slowly, your legs still open under him, his palm grazing your hip up to the waist, his touches featherlike and fleeting, unseen lines that won’t turn into marks. Jack hovers over you, sturdy and still, but he’s not teasing. Up close, with your faces mere inches from each other, he’s softer — like he’s marveling at you, like he is reverent, like he’d believe in you like he never believed in God.
And yet, he is still holding back.
You put a hand up to his chest, fingers splayed wide, appreciative of how heated his skin feels. His pulse leaps — you do feel it. Your hushed words brush his lips:
“I don’t want just your hands, I need more. I need all of you.”
And then abruptly, your fingers travel lower, over his tensing stomach and down to where he’s hard and leaking through his briefs. You palm him through the fabric, eager, with just the right amount of pressure. Just how he likes it. His hips stutter, a groan stifled in his throat. You easily slip under the elastic and free him — so thick and heavy in your palm, you have to bite your lip to hold back a grin. You wrap your hand around the base without even looking and give his cock a few slow strokes; with each one, Jack gulps more and more air in. Unraveling.
And you say — bluntly, ardently, right into his mouth:
“I want to have you raw.”
Jack’s eyes go wide. Emotions ripple across his face — amazement bordering on disbelief. He grabs both of your hands and pins them above your head, a strong grip you can’t free yourself from. This silences you for a second. And then you watch intently as his resolve gives way to his desires, to something almost primal, inescapable. That mirrors everything you’re feeling. You shamelessly arch into him, bare breasts rubbing against his broad chest.
“Please, Jack,” you writhe — in agony, in need. “I want to feel you. Want you to fill me up. Leave me so full, I’ll leak all over the bed. Please, please, plea—”
His mouth shuts you up, a kiss so searing it knocks the air from your lungs. You taste yourself on him — you also taste his desperation, the fevered hunger he is at the mercy of. Him and you both. There is no space between your bodies, and you can feel his length against your thigh — you plea again, and his hands dart to nudge your legs further apart. Your own hands — freed and impatient — tug at his briefs; he yanks them down to his knees before his cock finally presses at your entrance. His tip slids through your folds until he’s coated in your wetness, until you’re whimpering and begging and bucking your hips forward.
But all the words escape you when he pushes in.
He eases into you, unhurried, inch by inch, his thickness stretching you and filling you until he bottoms out. You are so overwhelmed, it feels like you can’t take a single breath. Jack gives your body a moment to adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his palm against your cheek. And then he rolls his hips experimentally, just once. A sound tumbles from your mouth: loud, throaty moan. And suddenly your lust for him eclipses every other feeling.
You link your hands behind his neck, locking your gaze with his. And you don’t need to say a word for him to move. He starts slow, but he thrusts deep, the way he knows you love, the way that makes your hips cant up to meet his rhythm. You feel him everywhere — the friction and the weight of him, breaths shared between two mouths, the pleasure mounting in you so fast, your head is swimming. And you are pliant in his hands, and you know he did ruin you for every other man. You’d let him do it all over again.
Jack takes his time, determined, each thrust unleashing pure bliss in you. He manages to keep control — until he moves his eyes down to where you are joined, where you’re soaking him.
“You are taking me so fucking well,” he praises breathlessly.
And then his thrusts start growing rougher, sweat dribbling from his temples, his lips tasting like salt when you catch them with yours. You bite his lower lip — he almost wishes you drew blood and left a mark he’d wear for days. A gift, a memory, proof that you allowed him to have you one last time. He also wishes he could make this last, but he’s as wrecked as you are. And you are back to begging.
Jack moves his mouth to your neck, and his hand snakes between your bodies to trace tight circles on your clit. He doesn’t need to ask you or to wait for long — he barely even needs to touch you — you fall apart with a full-body shudder, a cry muffled against his shoulder. And you squeeze him so tight, it tips him over. The orgasm rips through him, hips jerking as he spills inside you, your body clinging to his, welcoming everything he gives you. Down to the last drop. Until he’s emptied, and the room feels colder. And somehow emptiness feels heavy.
You stay like this — tangled together, your labored breathing the only sound in the silence. And Jack suspects that once you slip out of your daze, you will regret this. Him. He watches as you calm your breath, he keeps his weight braced above you as he is trying to compose himself. As if he’s bracing for the impact of your rejection.
You sigh with your whole chest. Then look at him, your words measured, the decision made:
“I can’t give you a second chance.”
His face doesn’t react, not right away. His eyes do — they are much greener now, and pain sweeps through them like an underwater current. Like something that’s about to swallow him. And he will let it drown him willingly.
But then you put your thumb under his chin. To make him pay attention when you add:
“—If you don’t start talking to me. If you don’t let me in that overthinking head of yours,” your voice isn’t commanding but conciliatory, the same softness you always have for him in spades. “Because I don’t want to second-guess your every move. Or watch you distancing yourself from me over something you mentally blew out of proportion. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on, and I hate not knowing.”
He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t move. You aren’t even sure he is breathing. In the faint golden lamplight, Jack is a marble statue, as though his brain short-circuited at your suggestion. As if he can’t believe your words are real.
Your hand cradles his face, like all these months back. Your touch is just as warm and soothing.
“Jack, can you take a breath for me?” you ask quietly, your words grazing his lips.
A few long seconds pass before he blinks and breathes in — and his chest shudders on the inhale, like all the walls he’s built around his heart are finally collapsing. He’s blinking rapidly, eyes glistening. He never looks away.
“Yes,” Jack whispers, his voice colored with relief. “Yes, to everything you said. I’ll do it. You won’t have to ask again,” and then his head drops to your shoulder, and his mouth presses repentance and kisses into your skin. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“You’ve apologized enough,” you say softly, arms moving up to hug him — but then he shifts his weight, and your thighs flinch. Because he’s still inside you.
You hiss, Jack stops. He drags his lips back, a barely audible apology left somewhere at your collarbone because he just can’t help it. He gets up and almost stumbles, one foot caught in his own briefs that dangle somewhere at his ankles. You laugh and help him pull them up; Jack leaves a kiss on the crown of your head. He comes back with a wet towel, sits next to you, and opens your legs gently to wipe you clean, his hands careful where you are most sensitive. Where you are filled with him.
And while he is attentive, he’s relaxed, like all the tension bled out of him with sweat, like an enormous weight has been lifted from his shoulders. You watch him and you wish so strongly that he could always be like this. And when he’s not, you wish you could be there too.
And something prompts you to blurt out:
“I’m still on the pill, by the way. So no accidental babies, don’t worry.”
A smile splits across his face. Real, evident in both corners of his mouth. He doesn’t fight it, he doesn’t give you a reply until he’s done. Jack pulls your underwear back on and crawls into the bed with you — he is still smiling when he says:
“I wouldn’t mind if you weren’t.”
And you should laugh it off or leave for later, but you can’t. Responsibilities that come with kids usually come hand in hand with marriage. You’ve never talked about either. Although you’ve wanted to — you thought about it, dreamed about it, and Jack has always been the one you could imagine your life with.
Now you’re afraid it all may crumble like a sand castle. He reads the worry from your gaze and pulls you closer, arms on your waist. And this time, Jack lays the foundation for a home he wants to last for years.
“I want everything with you,” he says simply, warmly. “I want to come home to you, I want to fall asleep and wake up next to you. I want you on your day-offs, and I want to be in trauma rooms with you. If there’s a spot for a night-shift attending at your hospital, I’ll transfer,” he leans to place a kiss over your shoulder. Lips soft, words firm, gaze — both, always on you. “I want to marry you — in a cathedral packed with guests or have a courthouse wedding, it doesn’t matter, take your pick. I’d love for us to have a kid one day — but I’ll be just as happy if we don’t. I know that I will love you under any circumstances, through good and bad, and everything else life throws at us. And I don’t ever want to be without you.”
You only realize you’re crying when his fingers sweep the tears from your cheeks.
“I thought you hated weddings,” you sniffle.
“I said I didn’t care about them. But I do care about you,” he skims his thumb across your cheekbone. Then places a kiss there, too.
Before you know it, you are smiling. And these are definitely happy tears. The dreams you deemed delusive come back to your mind — and they are not about diamonds or white dresses: instead, you picture waking in his arms. In an apartment of your own or maybe in a house. And you do want a kid — at least one — with his bright copper curls and freckles and that cheeky crooked smile he had when he was little.
And in the morning, you will tell him that Gloria said she’d gladly have you back.
But right now, you have other words to say. You drop a light kiss on his jaw, your tears dried up, face beaming when you tell him:
“I love you.”
Jack’s smile quivers. As does his voice. “No, don’t say it. Not now,” he shakes his head and drops his gaze, like he’s afraid you’ll notice his one fear he doesn’t yet know how to pacify. “Tell me again later, when I’ll deserve that. I hope I will.”
You put your index finger over his cheek and turn his face a little so he can meet your eyes again. You’re speaking with them, too.
“I loved you then, and I love you now. You don’t need to work for it. You just need to accept it. You need to let me love you, Jack. That’s what you deserve.”
You look out for the furrow of his brows. For shades of doubt or for some objections to make his mouth twitch. But even if they try to, Jack doesn’t let them — because he chooses to believe you. Because he’s not about to waste his second chance. He takes your face in his hands, his eyes in awe of you, in love. He kisses you — deeply, unhurriedly, like it’s a promise no words are needed for.
And then it feels like deja vu, the sweetest dream that’s coming true — you bring him into your embrace, under the bedcover you pull over his back. More kisses tucked between his face and neck. His arms stay wrapped around you, and he’s wrapped in your warmth, in calmness he forgot the feel of. Jack’s breath tickles your skin as his eyes finally dip closed.
And it feels like coming home.
✧ I totally imagined Jonathan Bailey as Jonathan;
✧ the title is a quote from a song. I also made a PLAYLIST for this fic 🎵
✧ here’s the thing that’s been on my mind: headcanons about Jack finding his therapist (that savvy old man I keep mentioning in my fics). would anyone want to read that? I even have a face claim.
✧ dividers by @/firefly-graphics and @/uzmacchiato.
✧ MY MASTERLIST
♡ English is not my first language, so feel free to tell me about any mistakes. comments & reblogs are very appreciated! let me know if you want to be tagged ♡