summary: you never knew what love was until Jack showed you its true meaning. and when he asks for your hand in marriage, you have a mission to fulfill.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: age gap, just fluff because this is soft and sweet! also, mentions of childhood trauma and parental neglect.
word count: 3.7k
The metallic tang of adrenaline coats your tongue, sharp and cold. One second, a chill creeps up your legs, the next, your heart is a frantic percussion against your ribs. It’s a physical rebellion, a body reacting to a scenario it was never wired to expect.
First of all, you never imagined yourself in this situation, because everything in your life pointed to the opposite. And if we’re being honest, you have a long and lasting history with the word “marriage.”
You grew up in a house where love sounded like raised voices and doors closing too hard. Where you learned to turn Hannah Montana up loud enough to drown out the arguments downstairs. You didn’t need anyone to explain what was wrong, you could see it in the way your parents spoke to each other, like they were always keeping score, like winning mattered more than understanding.
When they separated, people said it would be better. It was supposed to be simple, one weekend here, one weekend there, a rhythm you could get used to. Something stable.
Supposed to be.
Your mother treated new relationships like life rafts, clinging to anyone who could drown out her own silence. Your father took to the open road, chasing the ghosts of a college dream he claimed the marriage had stolen from him.
By fourteen, you had mastered the art of self-sufficiency. By sixteen, you had learned to mourn your first heartbreak in a vacuum, crying until dawn without expecting a hand on your shoulder.
Independence wasn’t something you chose. It was something that grew around you, like a shell.
Your mother was growing increasingly distant, living the life she had perhaps always longed for. You were just a pawn in her game, one she’d left on the sidelines. You saw your father cry alone in his car after a weekend with him, knowing his life was forever ruined.
And it took many years of therapy and self-care to grow up and break free from the chains that trauma of that magnitude can impose on a human being.
It’s confusing, actually. Even later, in college, when things were supposed to feel different, you carried it with you. Relationships never quite settled. You were there, but never fully. Close, but never close enough. People noticed, like they always do.
For a long time, you wondered if something in you had been built wrong.
It took years—real ones, slow ones—to understand that it wasn’t a flaw. It was a defense. Something that had once kept you safe, even if it kept everything else out too.
That rift only began to heal when you joined the PTMC. A few years of residency were all it took to meet the person who would change your life in irreversible ways.
Everything you believed about love—the idea that it was temporary, something people held onto to soften whatever was missing inside them—started to lose its shape when Abbot came into your life. Sneaky and deliberate, he did exactly what you feared most: reached your heart.
With a tenderness and ease you never imagined possible.
Jack didn’t try to break down the walls, he simply sat outside them until you were ready to open the door. He offered a quiet, steady presence that didn't demand you perform or "fix" yourself.
He noticed things, but he didn’t make a spectacle of them. The way you hesitated before trusting something good. The way you sometimes pulled back without explaining why. He never chased you for answers, you think that’s why you started offering them.
With him, it wasn’t about intensity, it was about consistency. About the quiet, almost unfamiliar feeling of being understood without having to explain everything.
And somehow, without you realizing exactly when it changed, being with him stopped feeling like something you had to manage. It just felt… easy.
That’s why, a year and a half into something you kept mostly to yourselves—built in quiet hours, in late-night walks and coffee left untouched on his kitchen counter—Jack knew.
It wasn’t a realization that arrived all at once. It settled in gradually, until one day it simply felt certain.
It happened on a cold morning in December. The kind of cold that seeps into the windows and lingers. You were in his kitchen, moving around each other with an ease that had become second nature, the sound of something simmering low on the stove, the light outside dimmed by steady snowfall.
You asked him to pass the salt.
Something slid across the marble. You reached for it without looking, already half-turned back to the stove, but what you felt wasn’t glass or metal. It was smaller and smooth. Closed in your hand.
When you looked up, Jack was already watching you.
He stood there in a worn sweatshirt, grey hair slightly out of place, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after running his hands through it one too many times. There was no performance in him, no buildup. Just that quiet, almost careful expression he got when something mattered.
The box in your hand felt heavier once you understood what it was.
For a second, you didn’t move. And it's not because you didn’t know the answer, but because some part of you was still catching up, trying to reconcile this moment with the version of your life where this never happened.
And yet, there you were.
He didn’t make a speech. He didn’t need to. The question was simple when it came, steady in the same way he had always been with you. You said yes with the stove still on, with the wind pressing faintly against the windows, with everything around you continuing as if nothing had changed.
But it had.
It was so ordinary it almost felt unreal. No grand gesture, no perfect timing—just the two of you, in a space that had slowly become shared, choosing each other out loud.
When he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were warm, grounding. You noticed, distantly, the way his breath caught, nothing dramatic, but enough to give him away. As if this meant more to him than he had expected it to.
And it did.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it. Not from shock, not from fear, just from the weight of the moment, from the quiet certainty of being there, of being chosen, of choosing back.
And what an irony to find the love of your life where you were least expecting it.
A kind of love that doesn’t try to convince you it exists.
Because that’s what Jack was like—loving him was easy and unquestioning. After a lifetime of wondering if love really exists, if that word, “love,” is actually something that exists, and not just a term rooted in the depths of the human soul to fill the gaps of emotions and paradoxes, you were certain you had found the answer. But there isn’t one. Not a single, clear answer.
What exists are the ways people show up. The small, consistent choices. The things they do without thinking, because it comes naturally to them. And with Jack, the answer revealed itself like that, quietly, without asking for your attention.
In the way he looks at you, soft and focused, like he’s still a little surprised by you. In the offhand “great job” that started as nothing and somehow became everything. In the coffee cups he leaves by your charts, marked with uneven smiley faces that shouldn’t matter as much as they do.
It’s there when his hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers fitting together like they’ve learned the shape by memory. In the way he pulls you close, firm and grounding, like he doesn’t intend to let go anytime soon. Or how his eyes search for you wherever you are. In the kisses that carry more feeling than urgency, in the quiet confession of I love you that never sounds rehearsed, never sounds uncertain.
Those lazy, golden mornings where he’d pull you back into the covers, his arms a protective circle around you, squeezing just enough to let you know he wasn't letting go. The passionate frenzy that followed when he buried himself inside you, all sweat and lust. It was the ultimate dismantling of your walls. Skin against skin. For the first time, you didn't feel the need to remain distant.
So yes, it was easy to love him and even easier, somehow, to believe that he loved you too.
Jack didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t try to be more than he was.
He was just there. And for you, that was everything.
So, life in the ER was still hectic, and you were trying to find the right moment to approach Robby. You focused on your screen, typing up charts with more force than necessary, pretending your attention was fully there. It wasn’t. Every few seconds, your gaze drifted, tracking Robby as he danced through the room, stopping, answering, adjusting, always in motion.
“If you press any harder, that keyboard might give up on you.” Dana slid into place beside you, already flipping through her own paperwork, glasses perched low on her nose.
You blinked, only now noticing the tension in your hands. You eased your fingers, exhaling quietly, then glanced back toward Robby, who was deep in conversation with Whitaker.
“Is everything alright, dear?” Dana asked, peering at you over the rim of her glasses.
“No. Actually, yes. Maybe.”
She gave you a look. “That sounds promising.”
You hesitated, then let it out before you could overthink it. “I need to talk to Robby. I just—don’t know how to start.”
“Sweetheart, just rip the band-aid off already, whatever it is. That old man likes things straight and clear as day. You might want to do it soon, though. Before his sabbatical.”
You turned to her fully. “His what?”
“Oh.” She shrugged lightly. “He’ll be gone for a while. Didn’t you hear? So it’ll just be us holding things together.”
Something in your chest tightened, not panic, not quite urgency, but close enough.
You pushed your chair back. “Okay. I’ll do it now.”
“Good for you,” Dana murmured, already back to her charts.
The noise of the ER swallowed you again as you stepped away from the hub. You spotted Robby a few feet ahead, catching him just as Javadi stood frozen in front of him, her expression unreadable. Then she turned abruptly, walking off with Whitaker without a word.
Robby exhaled, and only then did you notice it, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, sharp against his skin.
“Um, Robby?”
“Yes?” he replied, the word edged with fatigue as he shifted his attention to you.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
He checked his watch, then reached for a clipboard a nurse handed him mid-sentence, signing it quickly before looking back up. “Did something happen?”
“No, but… could we talk somewhere private?”
This time, he really looked at you. The tiredness in his features was more apparent up close, his white hair only making it harder to ignore. You swallowed, steadying yourself.
After a brief pause, he nodded toward the break room. You moved first, not giving yourself time to reconsider, trusting that he’d follow.
The door clicked shut, and just like that, the noise of the ER dulled into something distant.
Robby crossed his arms, then motioned for you to sit.
Up close, the nerves were harder to ignore. This wasn’t just any conversation. The man in front of you had been there at the beginning, when everything felt uncertain, when you were still learning how to stand your ground. He had steadied you more times than you could count, sometimes without even realizing it.
There was a kind of respect there that went beyond hierarchy. Something quieter and lasting.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“No—no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… something else.”
He nodded once. “Alright. I’m listening.”
You drew in a breath, holding onto it for a second before letting it go. “You know that Jack and I… we’re together.”
Robby’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of confusion passing through his expression.
“I promise this is going somewhere,” you added, almost smiling. “I just—I wanted to say that I’m really grateful. For everything. Since my first day here. You’ve… you’ve done more than you had to, and I don’t think I ever said that properly.”
He watched you quietly, not interrupting.
“And with Jack,” you continued, “I know it hasn’t exactly been… simple. So thank you for letting us have that space. For not making it harder than it already was.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, something softer settling in his features. “You’re a good doctor,” he said. “I did what anyone in my position should do.” A brief pause. “Is everything alright between you two?”
“Yes,” you said, and this time it came easier. “It is. That’s actually… why I’m here.”
You let the next words come without overthinking them.
“We’re getting married.”
For a moment, he didn’t react. Not in any obvious way. Then it caught up to him slowly. A small smile, a quiet breath that turned into something close to a laugh as he ran a hand over his face.
“Well,” he said, looking back at you, “congratulations. I’m glad to hear it.” His expression softened further. “I hope you both are happy.”
“I am. We are!” you answered, and meant it. “But there’s… one more thing.”
That made him pause.
“I’ve never really talked about my parents,” you began, your voice steady but quieter now. “It’s… complicated. They’re not… involved. And they won’t be there.” You let out a short breath, something between a laugh and an exhale. “I think I always knew that would be the case.”
Robby didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“So,” you went on, the words coming a little faster now, before you could second-guess them, “I was wondering—only if you’d be comfortable with it, and it’s completely okay if not, but it would mean a lot to me if…”
You faltered, then shook your head, a small, nervous laugh slipping out.
“If you walked me down the aisle.”
Your heart pounds in your chest. Robby stands frozen. He just looked at you, like he was trying to understand if he’d heard you correctly.
“It’s really okay if you don’t want to,” you added quickly. “I just thought—”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“Do you want me to do that?”
There was something in his voice now. Something closer to disbelief.
“Yes,” you said, more firmly this time. “I do.”
“Me?”
And then it settled.
“Robby,” you said gently, “you’re very important to me. There isn’t anyone else I would ask.” You hesitated for only a second. “When I picture it… you’re there.”
That did it.
His expression shifted, slowly at first, then all at once. His eyes glossed over, not dramatically, but enough to give him away. For a man who carried so much without showing it, the reaction was quiet and unmistakable.
It took him a moment.
Then he stood, closing the distance between you, hands coming to your shoulders before pulling you into an embrace.
“Of course,” he said, his voice lower now. “Of course I will.”
You nodded against him, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. When you stepped back, you both took a second, like you needed it.
“Thank you,” you said, softer this time.
He gave a small nod, still collecting himself.
You turned toward the door, your hand already on the handle, ready to step back into everything waiting outside.
“Oh—” you added, glancing back, “you’ll be back in time, right?”
“For what?” he asked, a trace of confusion returning.
“Your sabbatical. Dana mentioned it.” You shrugged lightly. “You’ll be back for the wedding?”
There was a flicker of something in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible.
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”
You smiled, something lighter settling in your chest now.
“Good,” you murmured. “Thank you, Robby.”
“Look at you,” Robby said, reaching up to straighten Jack’s bow tie. “All sharp and polished, didn’t think I’d see the day.”
Jack didn’t laugh. He was too aware of everything, his hands, slightly damp, the tightness in his chest, the way his heartbeat refused to settle into anything steady.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead as he adjusted the tie again, even though it was already straight.
Especially Jack, who’s a bundle of nerves with his heart practically in his throat. Outside, the scene is set: rows of white wooden chairs occupied by a handful of friends and Jack’s few relatives. All gathered for a small, intimate celebration at a house in the countryside, a place you found at the last minute when Whitaker—who freaked out when he discovered the whole thing—let you know it was available and not too far from the city.
“Damn! Looking good, Dr. Abbot!” Santos practically shouted as she entered the house, where you were getting ready.
Jack let out a low, disapproving sound under his breath, which only made Robby chuckle.
“They don’t know when to stop,” Jack said.
“No,” Robby replied, glancing over with a faint smile, “they really don’t.”
Then they looked at each other, an exchange that said so much—a partnership of years, a recognition that only two people who’ve been through hell on earth can share. There was history there. Years of it. The kind that didn’t need to be explained, only recognized. It passed between them in a glance—everything they had seen, everything they had carried, side by side.
Jack had been trying to hold back the tears in his eyes all morning, besides having his nerves on edge, he wanted to stay composed and save all his tears for when you walked down the aisle.
“I’m happy for you, brother,” Robby said, pulling him into a firm embrace, his hand coming up to pat his back twice.
Jack nodded against him, swallowing hard before stepping back.
“Yeah,” he managed, a small smile breaking through. “Thanks for coming back.”
Robby hesitated for just a second as he let go. And when he did, it was devastating. With a heavy heart, he gave Jack’s shoulder a light squeeze, acknowledging the gratitude and sincerity behind it.
“You look…” Javadi paused behind you, her eyes widening at your reflection. “You look amazing.”
You smiled, a little shy under the weight of it. “Thank you.”
“Good thing you didn’t go with the other dress,” Santos added from across the room, adjusting her suit. “You would’ve looked like a wedding cake.”
You laughed, smoothing your hands over the fabric. The dress was simple, no excess, no effort to impress. It fit you the way something chosen carefully does. It felt like you.
“Shen’s about to lose it, saying everyone’s freezing their butts off out there.” Ellis rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. “We’ll go when you’re ready, bride-to-be.”
You turned to the mirror one last time. Everything seems to come crashing down like an avalanche—all the fear, all the insecurity, all those beliefs and doubts that seemed to terrify you your whole life—they’ve vanished.
What remained was something steadier. A version of yourself you hadn’t always known how to reach.
“I’m ready,” you said.
“I’ll get Robby,” Javadi replied, already heading for the door.
Your bridesmaids followed, leaving only Dana behind.
She stepped closer, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Can I say something?”
“Of course.”
“I’m really happy for you,” she said, her voice warm, certain. “Truly.”
You nodded, your throat tightening just slightly. “Thank you.”
She held your gaze for a second longer. “You chose well.”
Yes, you did.
Outside, the air was colder, sharper against your skin. The sun had begun to dip, casting everything in that soft, fleeting light that makes things feel suspended in time.
Robby was waiting near the entrance.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
The music started as you stepped forward.
People stood. You registered it in fragments—Santos lacing her fingers with Garcia’s, Javadi beside Samira and Mateo, Dana already dabbing at her eyes. It all blurred together, because your attention found him almost immediately.
Jack.
Jack's at the small makeshift altar, surrounded by white and yellow flowers. You catch his expression, his eyes welling up, and how his lips curl into a small pout, trying to hold back the tears. Those gentle eyes are all on you. He paces, almost restless, counting down the seconds until he can finally hold you in his arms and call you his wife.
He was looking only at you.
And just like that, everything else fell away.
Step by step, the distance between you closed. You felt Robby beside you, steady and grounding, until you reached the end.
When he placed your hand in Jack’s, the gesture was quiet but full of meaning. Jack nodded to him, something unspoken passing between them, before his attention returned to you.
Your hands meet and everything else ceases to exist except him.
His hands are on yours the whole time, caressing, stroking, making sure that this moment is real and that you are there. From that point on, the ceremony moved forward, but it felt distant, almost secondary. His eyes smiling with the small wrinkles around them, his pupils dancing as a way of saying he loves you, without verbalizing.
It’s a devastating love, the one you feel.
By the time the final words were spoken, there was a quiet shift in the air, like something had settled into place.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Jack touches your face as if it were the first time, a gentle touch, but this time he isn’t hesitant like the first time he kissed you in the car at your front door. No, this touch is certain, firm. His eyes wander over your face, committing every detail and feature to memory for the thousandth time, because he wants to remember this moment—even fifty years from now—when he took you in his arms and kissed you for the first time as his wife.
And you feel deep in your heart, in your very core, the most bittersweet and gentle feeling a person could ever feel.
Jack is yours. You are his. Just as it should be.
And this time, there was no reason to look for answers...
summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer.
characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned)
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned).
word count: 3.8k
And who's gonna hold you like me?
And who's gonna know you, if not me?
The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.
It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna kill myself.”
The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.
“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.
You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.
Holy shit.
"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."
“But I—”
Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.
Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”
Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.
From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.
The moment landed wrong in your chest.
Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.
No fucking way.
Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.
“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”
Robby nodded and glanced at you.
“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”
What? Your stomach dropped.
“About...?”
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”
You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.
As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.
“No. I have to go.”
And you left without saying another word.
Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”
You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.
“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”
He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”
“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”
You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.
“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”
“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”
“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”
You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.
“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”
“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”
He continues leafing through the medical record.
“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.
“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.
“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”
“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”
Robby raises his eyebrow.
“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”
You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”
“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”
“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”
He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”
Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.
“Hiro?”
Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”
Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient.
Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.
And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.
A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.
Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.
Why is he still here?
The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.
But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.
A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.
It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.
Jack and you, it was inevitable.
You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.
Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.
It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.
And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.
Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.
He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.
“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”
“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.
You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.
Instead, you see skin.
Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.
You freeze.
The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.
“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”
Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.
“Wait.”
His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.
“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”
“Me too.”
He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.
“Not now.”
“I know I screwed up...”
“Jack, please.”
“And that I disappeared and...”
Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.
“I can't do this right now.”
“Then just listen to me.”
You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”
Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”
He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.
And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.
“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”
“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”
You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.
“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.
The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.
And the five-minute break never comes.
The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.
He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.
Robby crosses his arms.
“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”
Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.
“She... came in here.”
Robby deadpans. “Astute.”
Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”
“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”
It hits him.
Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.
“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.
The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.
You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.
You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.
With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.
“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”
Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.
“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”
Oh, damn.
Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.
“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.
“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”
Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.
As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.
And there he is.
You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.
Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.
Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.
You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.
Jack doesn’t turn.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.
Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.
“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.
Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I'm fine.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.
Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“Be careful.”
You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.
The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.
“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Careful—”
Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”
“Jack.”
He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.
He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens.
“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”
You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.
You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.
“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”
There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.
“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”
There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.
“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”
His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.
“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.”
He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.
You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.
“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”
You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”
“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“It's just—”
“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”
Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.
“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”
He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”
“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.
“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”
That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.
“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.
You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”
You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”
You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.
“You don't have to ask twice.”
When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.
When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.
“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
“Worth it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.
pairing: steve harrington x hopper!reader
summary: You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister. Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth.
wc: 3.7K
warnings: mentions of violence, cursing, mention of y'know, since she choose to die, heartbreak and angst. if you don't feel comfortable reading this, even if it's a 'rewrite' scene from the tv show, please don't read and preserve yourself.
a/n: I was obsessed with the idea of Steve taking Mike's place when El leaves. So, here it is. I think I cried a few times while writing it (help). I was inspired by Ethel Cain's Nettles and Purple Rain to write it.
To love me is to suffer me
And I believe it.
The cacophony was absolute—a craggy wall of voices, the sharp clack of assault rifles being readied, and the guttural curses of men who had forgotten how to be human.
Steve was shoved forward, the momentum of the crowd carrying him along with Dustin, Mike, and Robin. He caught a glimpse of Robin’s hands, bound tight enough to turn her fingers white, before a soldier’s gloved hand slammed into the back of his neck.
His face was crushed against the cold metal of the transport truck. The smell of oil and old blood filled his nostrils. He couldn't breathe. Every gasp was a battle, his lungs struggling against the weight of a man twice his size pinning him down.
The problem was, he couldn't find you anywhere.
“Hey—hey,” He grimaced, a sharp, sickening pop echoing in his ears as his zygomatic bone groaned under the pressure against the metal panel. “Have you seen her?”
Dustin twisted his head as far as the restraints allowed, face pale but steady.
“She was with El, they must've escaped.”
The relief hit Steve like a physical wave. Good. That was more than good, it was the only thing that mattered. If the plan had worked—if the girl he loved was somewhere safe, somewhere far away from the screaming and the cold steel—then he could endure whatever was coming.
So a small, genuine smile blossomed on Steve's lips. It lasted only a second, because when he looked up, the smile died where it was born.
Where the sky had torn itself open, where the portal to the Upside Down bled a bruised, pulsating violet into the world, he saw you.
You weren't running. You were standing at the threshold, your silhouette framed by the apocalypse, your eyes fixed on the military line with a gaze so deadly it looked like it belonged to a different person.
“No… no, no, no—” Steve’s voice rose from a whimper to a raw, jagged roar. The realization settled in his gut like lead: you had stayed.
You were going to fight a war you couldn't win.
With a strength that shouldn't have existed in his broken, battered frame, Steve threw his head back. He felt the icky thud of his skull connecting with the soldier’s chin. He didn't wait for the man to fall. Two other guards lunged for him, their hands like iron claws on his sleeves, but something had snapped inside him. It wasn't bravery anymore, it was an animalistic, primal instinct.
“Steve!” Robin’s scream was high and thin, a desperate warning as a soldier leveled the butt of a rifle.
Steve didn't hear her. He stumbled, his legs heavy and uncoordinated, and when he finally fell to his knees, he didn't hit the pavement. Cold water splashed against his skin. He realized then, he was in your mind.
You walked quickly toward him and he got up, running to you.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke on the words. “Please—please don’t do this.”
His hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if the sheer force of his touch could tether you to the earth.
He was shaking. There were tears welling up in his eyes, and despite everything, it was his broken expression that haunted you the most.
“Steve,” you whispered, swallowing the thick knot of grief in your throat. You looked into those deer-like eyes, your own vision blurring as the first hot tears spilled over. “You need to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”
He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving under his bruised ribs. His eyes searched yours, begging for a lie, begging for a misunderstanding he could desperately fix.
“What? No—no, whatever you’re thinking, we’ll find another way. We always find another way.”
“I need you to understand my decision.”
“No. No. I don't—Please.”
You kept going because stopping would mean breaking. “I need you to tell the others the truth. Tell Hop that Jane's safe. I need you to tell them—” Your voice faltered. You forced it steady. “Tell them how grateful I am. For being so kind to me. For loving me.”
Tears slid freely down your cheeks. Steve lifted his hand without thinking, brushing them away with his thumb like he always did, like it was a reflex built into him. He was crying too, silent and helpless, but still trying to take care of you. He always would put you first.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said, pleading now, like if he said it enough times, reality might listen.
“I do. Steve, this will never ends. El will be hunted for the rest of her life. She’s just a kid. She deserves a chance to grow up without blood on her hands.”
You caught his hands, pulling them from your face to hold them against your chest. His fingers were calloused, covered in the fresh scratches and deep purple bruises of the fight. They were the hands of a protector, and they were the only things you were going to miss.
He stared at you like you were speaking another language.
“What about you?” The question came out with a sharp edge of accusation, a jagged shard of resentment born from pure, unadulterated heartbreak. “Don’t you deserve to live? Don't I deserve for you to stay?”
You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister. Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth.
You were the burden that was meant to be dropped so the light could keep shining.
And Steve—sweet, stubborn, endlessly kind Steve—was the only thing that had ever made you wish, just for a moment, that fate might be wrong.
But then Hopper found you and Jane together in that forest, clinging to each other like a second skin, desperate and afraid of what fate had planned. And that changed everything.
He had reached through the brush and pulled you into a life you were never supposed to have. He was resilient, jaggedly caring, and he tended to your wounds with a gentleness that felt like an assault on everything the lab had taught you. He fed you, gave you shelter, and advised you—doing all the things a father was supposed to do. A father you and Jane had only ever seen in child storybooks.
You had been reluctant at first, a wild thing trapped in a cabin. You ran away a dozen times because you were convinced that this life—the warm blankets, the Eggo waffles, the safety—was for Jane, not for you.
But Hopper had been immovable. He insisted, with a gruff, stubborn love, that you deserved that comfort too. It wasn't a luxurious life, but it was a life full of affection.
And what was supposed to be just a life for three became a big dysfunctional family, but one that you loved with every shattered piece of your heart.
Joyce, Jonathan, and Will. The family that went through hell on earth when little Byers was possessed and captured by darkness. There was Joyce, who taught you what it meant to be a woman, who brushed your hair with a mother’s tenderness and hugged you until the cold in your bones finally began to thaw. There was Jonathan, the quiet observer, who always stayed close enough to make sure you were alive.
The kids, who followed you like you were something out of a comic book. They made you feel brave when you were anything but. They welcomed Jane like she had always been theirs, and through them, you learned what friendship really was, unconditional, loud, forgiving.
Nancy showed you worlds hidden in books and taught you how to hold a gun without flinching. She kept your secret without ever asking for anything in return. Let you sleep in her basement when Hopper’s house became unbearable. Robin taught you sisterhood—real sisterhood. Movie nights, bad jokes, honesty without fear. She made life feel lighter just by standing beside you.
“Every moment of my life has led me here,” you said softly.
“Bullshit.” His voice cracked, raw and furious. “This is all bullshit. You can’t—you don’t deserve this. You can stay, I—”
“Steve,” you whispered. “Look at me.”
You reached up, cupping his face with both hands. His skin was cold, damp with sweat and tears. He pressed his lips together, a sob catching in his throat, and you felt the hot, thick tears roll down his cheeks until they pooled in the palms of your hands.
“From day one, you saw me. You saw beyond what I could see in myself.”
Steve let out a broken, animal sound and leaned into your touch, his eyes searching yours for a way out that didn't exist. He had spent years trying to convince you that you were worth saving, and now, he was watching you use that very life to save everyone else.
How could you ever forget that first night in the Wheeler basement? You had been a mess, bruised and soaked from head to toe, looking like you’d gone ten rounds with a nightmare. But even then, he didn’t look at you like a wounded animal. He didn’t look at you like a disposable tool of war. He looked at you with a careful, tentative affection that felt like the first warm sun after a lifetime of winter.
But the words had been written in the stars long before you met him and your story couldn't have been written any other way. If you were here now, it was because fate had allowed you to live. And if you lived, it was because Steve Harrington happened in your life.
It was because he accepted you for who you are. Because he fell first, pretending that all that fascination wasn't masked as love. Because he held your hand that Fourth of July and kissed you under the fireworks. It was because he saved you from near death and allowed you to still have some time together. It was the way he had knocked on Hopper’s door with a bouquet of flowers, his knees literally shaking with fear of your father, just to take you to a movie date. It was because he loved you devotedly, respected you, adored you with everything he had.
“If I know what it's like to love and to be loved, it’s because of you,” you whispered. “And you don't know how forever grateful I'll be to you for giving me that.”
“Please,” Steve murmured repeatedly, his hands trembling as he held your body against his. He was clutching you as if he could absorb you into his own skin, as if he could hide you from the fate that was coming for you.
“You made everything easier. All my life I believed I wasn't worthy of being loved, but then you came along and changed everything.” You smiled through the tears, a fragile, beautiful thing. “I wouldn't do anything differently, Steve. Not a single second.”
“Don't do this to me, babe—please, please—”
It was breaking your heart. Each plea was a physical blow. You felt your heart cracking, tiny pieces of it falling away one by one.
“I need you to promise me something, okay? Look at me, Steve.” You sought his eyes and had to exercise a lot of self-control not to break down right there. “I want you to be happy. I want you to live the life of your dreams.”
His laugh was broken, almost soundless. “I fucking hate this,” he said. “How am I supposed to do that without you?”
“I’ll always be with you,” you said, even though you both knew what that promise cost. “You have a life ahead of you, Steve. A good one. Promise me you won’t stop. Promise me you’ll fight for it.”
He couldn't speak. He just looked at you, his chest heaving, his face a mosaic of soot, drying blood, and fresh, hot tears. He looked like he was physically dying, like his soul was being pulled through his ribs.
“I love you,” was all he managed to choke out between the jagged, guttural sobs that racked his body.
You smiled, even as your heart felt like it was being torn in two.
“I love you, Steve Harrington.”
When you moved, you collided like lightning meeting thunder, violent, inevitable, and destructive. Your mouths crashed together in a disastrous mess of tears, salt, and terror.
Steve wanted time. God, he had wanted time so badly. He had built plans around it, trusted it like it was something guaranteed. The weight of his mother’s ring, hidden on a small chain beneath his shirt, felt like it was branding his skin. He had decided he'd propose the moment you got home, the moment the world was safe. He knew how much you dreamed of Alaska—of the frozen, silent mountains and the way the northern lights painted the sky—and he had spent every spare cent he had for a year to make that happen.
The initial plan was to propose to you with that breathtaking view as a witness to your youth, reckless, love. But Steve had always been haunted by the feeling that time was a thief. That was why he’d put the ring around his neck that morning.
He just hadn’t known how little time he had left.
As he kissed you with a painful, bruising intensity, he reached for the chain. He ripped it from his neck, the metal snapping with a faint ping that was lost to the chaos. He pressed the cold silver into your palm, his fingers trembling as he closed your hand around it.
You felt it when he placed it in your hand, the cold metal against your palm.
You felt the weight of it, the history of a family you would never officially join. You deepened the kiss, holding him with a strength that defied your tired body. You were holding your first love, your only love, the boy who had made you human.
When you finally broke apart, foreheads touching, both of you breathless and ruined, you closed your fingers around the chain and held his hand instead.
“Please, please—” he whispered, the word barely there. “Don’t leave me.”
You wanted to say everything. You wanted to stay forever.
You were at the end of the road, and the time for promises had run out.
“Goodbye, Steve.”
The sound never fully left his throat. It caught there, raw and animal, and when reality slammed back into place, it did so cruelly. Hands dragged him backward. Boots scraped asphalt. Someone shouted orders he couldn’t hear because all he could hear was his own voice breaking apart as he screamed your name.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Everyone was frozen, witnesses to a sacrifice they were powerless to stop. Robin had collapsed to her knees, her sobs racking her frame until she was doubled over. Hopper stood paralyzed, his eyes brimming with tears he couldn't shed, his path blocked by a wall of military personnel. Nancy’s hands were pressed tight over her mouth, a single, silent tear tracking through the soot on her cheek.
These were your people. The one you had built out of chaos and survival and love. The one that had taught you what it meant to belong.
Steve fought like a caged animal, his boots scraping against the asphalt as he begged them to let him go, shouting your name until his lungs burned. He was thrown to the ground, the grit biting into his skin, but he never took his eyes off you.
You looked at Hopper one last time. Not to ask. Not to beg. Just to let him see that this was your choice. That you were at peace with it. That Jane would live. That she would grow up safe, loved, ordinary in all the ways you never got to be. She was now the age you had been when he found you in that forest, feral, terrified, alive. She deserved the life he had fought to give her.
“I'm sorry,” you whispered.
Then, the air crackled. You felt the surge of energy before the world white-outed—a hum that vibrated in your very marrow. A flash swept across the perimeter, a titanic force field that pushed the entire world back. The C4 charges detonated in a synchronized roar, and the Upside Down didn't just break, it folded. Everything was sucked into a violent whirlwind, a chaotic abyss that began to erase itself from existence.
The noise was horrifying, a primal scream of a dying dimension. You closed your eyes, letting go of the tethers that held you to the world of the living. In the fading distance, you could still hear them screaming your name.
But this was the end. This was your story, and as the darkness rushed in to claim you, you realized you were happy. You have lived. You have loved.
One last tear tracked down your cheek. And then, nothingness.
A deafening silence took over the place. Steve stared in sheer, unadulterated horror at the space where you should have been. There was no portal. Just a building in ruins, smoking under a normal, mocking sky.
You were gone. Truly, finally gone.
He dropped to his knees, skin splitting against dust, pain flaring uselessly through his hand. He didn’t feel it. There was no room for it. All he could see was you, every version of you he had ever loved, layered one on top of the other until it crushed him.
Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in broken hitches. It was then that he realized his fist was clenched tight around something cold. He raised his hand, blinking through the tears, and saw it: the silver chain, the wedding ring dangling from the end. He hadn't noticed, but you had put it back in his hands as a promise you were forcing him to keep. You wanted him to move on.
You wanted him to be happy. A future you were asking him to live without you.
Steve let out a sound that barely resembled a sob and curled forward, clutching the ring to his chest like it might still anchor him to you.
But it would never be the same.
Without you, there was no happy ending.
“All right, all right—let’s go.”
Steve planted his hands on his hips, scanning the parking lot as the kids—who absolutely were not kids anymore—filed into the trailer. “Jeez, did you have to buy the whole store?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting as Robin struggled with a bag that looked one bad move away from tearing.
“In my defense,” she said, breathless but defiant, “we have, like, a small army to feed. And I needed a Kit Kat.” She held one up proudly. “I even brought one for you.” She tapped a second bar against Steve’s chest.
He caught it between his fingers, let out a long, grounded breath, and stuffed it into his pocket. “All right. Enough. Everyone here?” He poked his head into the trailer, performing the mental head-count that had become second nature.
Lucas glanced around. “Uh—Dustin’s not back yet.”
Steve opened his mouth to complain about the schedule when a familiar voice grumbled behind him.
“Jesus Christ, the bathroom in this place should be classified as a biohazard.” Dustin shrugged, his face twisted in a look of pure disgust.
“Everything okay, bud?” Steve took off his shades and patted Dustin’s shoulder, fighting back the laugh that threatened to break through his responsible adult mask.
“Barely,” Dustin said. “I stared death in the face in there, ‘cause—.”
“Biohazard,” Max interrupted, rolling her eyes with a smirk. “We get it.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“All right,” Steve said, gentle but firm, clapping hands to get everyone moving and get things in place. “Everybody, buckle up. Right now!”
Max and Lucas were already arguing about who got to lean on whom for the next leg of the trip. Dustin went back to his astrophysics book while Mike, Will, and El chatted happily in the back.
Steve caught El’s eye in the mirror. She gave him a small nod, there was a depth of respect and gratitude in her eyes that always made Steve’s heart ache.
When she had returned to Hawkins eighteen months after the Upside Down took you, it had been a bittersweet miracle. Hopper and Mike had known she was safe because of your final message, but for Steve, her return was the final, broken proof that you were gone.
He didn't blame her. He loved her. But looking at her was a constant, living reminder of the price you had paid.
“All right, dingus,” Robin said, already buckled in, watching him closely. “We doing this or what?”
Steve slid into the driver’s seat and fastened his seatbelt. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
He pressed play.
The familiar, melancholic chords of Piano Man filled the cabin, your favorite song. Billy Joel’s voice drifted through the speakers, steady and nostalgic. Steve turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and before they even cleared the gas station parking lot, the chaos in the back reached a fever pitch. Max was yelling at Lucas, Dustin was laughing at something Will said, and the air was thick with the life you had died to protect.
Beside him, Robin offered a small, closed-mouth smile: a look of pure solidarity.
Before hitting the highway toward the long road to Alaska, Steve glanced in the rearview mirror. Hanging from the glass was the silver chain, the wedding ring catching the afternoon sun. It swung gently with the movement of the car, a North Star to guide him.
A small, genuine smile touched his lips. This was what you wanted. This was the life you would have led if fate had been kinder.
“All right, Alaska,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the music and the kids. “Here we come.”
He shifted the trailer into gear and pulled onto the open road. It was for the kids. It was for the future.
summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer.
characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned)
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned).
word count: 3.8k
And who's gonna hold you like me?
And who's gonna know you, if not me?
The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.
It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna kill myself.”
The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.
“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.
You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.
Holy shit.
"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."
“But I—”
Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.
Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”
Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.
From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.
The moment landed wrong in your chest.
Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.
No fucking way.
Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.
“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”
Robby nodded and glanced at you.
“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”
What? Your stomach dropped.
“About...?”
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”
You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.
As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.
“No. I have to go.”
And you left without saying another word.
Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”
You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.
“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”
He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”
“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”
You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.
“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”
“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”
“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”
You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.
“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”
“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”
He continues leafing through the medical record.
“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.
“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.
“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”
“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”
Robby raises his eyebrow.
“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”
You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”
“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”
“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”
He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”
Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.
“Hiro?”
Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”
Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient.
Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.
And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.
A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.
Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.
Why is he still here?
The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.
But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.
A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.
It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.
Jack and you, it was inevitable.
You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.
Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.
It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.
And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.
Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.
He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.
“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”
“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.
You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.
Instead, you see skin.
Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.
You freeze.
The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.
“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”
Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.
“Wait.”
His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.
“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”
“Me too.”
He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.
“Not now.”
“I know I screwed up...”
“Jack, please.”
“And that I disappeared and...”
Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.
“I can't do this right now.”
“Then just listen to me.”
You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”
Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”
He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.
And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.
“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”
“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”
You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.
“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.
The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.
And the five-minute break never comes.
The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.
He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.
Robby crosses his arms.
“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”
Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.
“She... came in here.”
Robby deadpans. “Astute.”
Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”
“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”
It hits him.
Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.
“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.
The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.
You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.
You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.
With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.
“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”
Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.
“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”
Oh, damn.
Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.
“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.
“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”
Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.
As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.
And there he is.
You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.
Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.
Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.
You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.
Jack doesn’t turn.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.
Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.
“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.
Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I'm fine.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.
Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“Be careful.”
You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.
The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.
“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Careful—”
Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”
“Jack.”
He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.
He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens.
“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”
You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.
You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.
“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”
There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.
“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”
There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.
“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”
His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.
“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.”
He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.
You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.
“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”
You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”
“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“It's just—”
“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”
Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.
“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”
He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”
“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.
“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”
That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.
“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.
You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”
You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”
You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.
“You don't have to ask twice.”
When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.
When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.
“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
“Worth it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.
summary: You're obsessed with Jack Abbot, the kind of obsession where you want to be his no matter what. On a girls' night out, a daring phone call leads to a series of events you could never have imagined.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of pittfest, smut (slightly, nothing explicit) sex w/ no protection, jack is soft and takes care of the reader!
word count: 7.4k
Fuck Jack Abbot.
Your mouth tastes like vodka and something sweet—cranberry, maybe. Your feet ache from dancing, sweat clings to the small of your back, and the hem of your dress keeps creeping up your thighs while you and Trinity move through the crowd to an old Beyoncé song.
You're not that drunk, but the alcohol definitely does something to your mind. The lights pulse low and warm, bodies packed together on the dance floor—couples, strangers, people chasing that brief electric feeling that only happens in places like this. You close your eyes, your body taking on a life of its own, sliding to every beat, without fail.
Baby boy you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies. I think about you all the time, I see you in my dreams.
You hate that your mind wanders directly to gray hair, large, attentive, eager hands, broad, muscular shoulders, just from one song. But what could you do? Everything reminded you of him. It's infuriating.
What annoys you isn’t the attraction. It’s the silence, the days he disappears between shifts, completely unreachable. No messages. No calls. Like the man simply powers down when he leaves the hospital. And that's okay, you couldn't force yourself to be spoiled, because Jack was a great doctor and a very busy one, but you wanted him for yourself. Was that too much to ask?
But God, you want him.
Getting involved with Jack was a mistake from the start. Casual sex was supposed to be simple. Efficient. Stress relief between brutal shifts in the PTMC emergency department. Except somewhere along the way, you stopped being satisfied with just that.
You wanted his attention and that’s the real problem.
You don’t even see him every shift, which is criminal, honestly. Half the fun is catching his eye across the trauma bay and throwing him a look that makes the corner of his mouth twitch—that small, dangerous smile he tries to hide from the rest of the staff.
You communicated in your own language, throwing almost everyone off, even Robby. Trinity, on the other hand, suspected something was going on because you share an apartment, and when he picked you up one night to go to dinner—because he gets it in his head to be a gentleman—Trinity happened to glance out the apartment window.
She’d narrowed her eyes immediately.
“That truck across the street looks familiar.”
You’d laughed, badly, and changed the subject while texting Jack to drive around the block and wait at the next corner.
It’s not that the relationship needs to be secret. Technically, there isn’t a relationship, just sex. Just two doctors blowing off steam between impossible shifts. Jack taking you to dinner sometimes doesn’t mean anything. Neither does the way he walks you to the door or the fact that you occasionally end up in his apartment instead of yours.
You never stay the night., because, again—Just sex.
Except somewhere in the middle of all those blurred lines, it quietly stopped feeling that way.
And so, because of all that pent-up frustration that Jack Abbot was too busy to remember you existed, you decided to have a girls' night out with your friend. The place you picked wasn’t exactly a bar. It was the kind of place where the bass lived in your ribs and the lights never stopped moving. Neon everywhere, the air thick with perfume, liquor, and sweat. Bodies packed close, the dance floor pulsing like a heartbeat. Three shots of tequila in, you were feeling warm, loose, reckless.
And, unfortunately, still thinking about Jack.
After the song changes, you throw your hair back and take a deep breath, droplets of sweat gather on your temple, strands of hair clinging to the back of your neck and a dangerous idea pops into your head. A very bad one.
“I'll be right back!” You shout over the music.
Trinity barely glances up. She lifts her citrus drink in acknowledgment before disappearing back into the rhythm of the crowd, hips swaying like she belongs to the music.
Your heels click on the floor and you make a beeline for the bathroom. Hungry eyes devour you along the way, one guy in particular stares at you for too long: dark hair, decent face. You hold his gaze just because he's cute.
Incredibly, there’s no line for the bathroom, just a group of girls fixing their makeup, two in the corner of the sink pretending very unsatisfactorily that they are not using illicit substances. You slip into a stall and sit on the closed lid of the toilet.
Your phone feels heavier than it should when you pull it out.
The screen lights up your face in the dim stall. Your eyes look a little glassy, your lipstick’s slightly smudged. You scroll through your messages until you land on Jack’s. The last one still says read. Your stomach tightens.
You remember exactly why you sent it. You’d know it was his day off.
You: Can I see you?
Jack: Can't today, honey.
You: Oh, okay.
Honey. The stupid nickname that gives you chills, that weighs heavily on your stomach and makes your whole body knot up.
“Honey my ass,” you mutter, groggy and irritated.
Determined to do something you'll probably regret, you press the call button. The music in the background is a witness to your mistakes. You bite your fingernail, bouncing your heel against the tile floor, nerves buzzing under your skin.
Your heart pounds at the second ring, but it calms down at the fourth, fifth... For a moment you wonder if he’s going to let it go to voicemail after all. Then a rustling sound fills your ears—fabric shifting, maybe a hand fumbling for the phone—and your stomach flips.
Damn it.
“Hey, honey.”
“Hi,” you say, swallowing hard. You push yourself up from the toilet lid and begin pacing the tiny cubicle, one heel tapping nervously against the tile. “I just—” The words almost die in your throat.
For half a second you consider hanging up, pretending this never happened. But the alcohol gives you that dangerous little push again, the one that always convinces you that ruining Jack Abbot’s night is a perfectly reasonable decision.
“Are you okay?” There is genuine concern on the other end of the line.
“Oh, I'm great! I'm just calling to tell you that I'm having the best night of my life. Without you. Can you imagine?”
“Babygirl, have you been drinking?”
“Fuck you, Jack.” The words come out faster now, sharpened by tequila and wounded pride. “I’m having the time of my life, and guess what? There’s this reeeeeally hot guy who wants to take me home. And maybe I’ll let him. Actually—no, I will let him.” You laugh, a little wild, a little unsteady. “I’m going to have the best fuck of my life, and he’s going to do it so much better than you. You’re the one losing out, asshole!”
Oops, I did it again! it's the soundtrack to your rage. Jack’s about to say something, you hang up before he can finish. Your hand presses against your chest as your heart pounds like thunder beneath your ribs. You have absolutely no idea where that burst of audacity came from, but it’s already done.
When you push open the stall door, you realize you had an audience. Three girls are watching you through the mirror’s reflection.
“Way to go, girl!” One of them smiles, her lips crimson red.
“Screw him!” says the other. You smile in agreement with yourself.
You grin despite yourself and nod in agreement. The alcohol isn’t hitting quite the same anymore. Confronting the man you’re stupidly, desperately obsessed with has a way of sobering your system a little.
A shy but confident smile blossoms on your face. Another hit from the 2000s is playing when you return, squeezing through bodies until you find Trinity with another shot of tequila in her hands.
“Cheers!” she shouts, her glittery eye makeup catching every flicker of neon light.
You raise your tiny glass to meet hers. “Lots of tequila shots!” you yell back, laughing.
“And fewer shifts!” Trinity laughs.
The glasses clink, though the sound disappears beneath the pounding music. When you toss the tequila back, a little spills from the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin and leaving a warm trail along the curve of your chest. The burn hits your throat immediately, and you shake your head as the heat spreads through you.
Everything intensifies, the sweat, the alcohol, the thumping music. You close your eyes and let your instincts guide you, forgetting for a few moments what happened. In fact, this was what you wanted.
If Jack thought he was too good for you, then fine. You’d find someone else.
A few songs later, you’re borderline euphoric.
Somehow, Garcia had materialized as a hologram, much to Trinity's surprise. They dance together, and you can't help but smile when you see your friend so excited.
For a moment you just stand there, catching your breath while the strobe lights slice the room into fragments of color and shadow. The music pounds through your chest, vibrating somewhere behind your ribs.
And then that feeling creeps in. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Your smile fades slightly as your eyes drift across the crowd, following the movement of bodies and flashing lights. Faces blur together—strangers, strangers, strangers—until one figure catches in the flicker of a passing beam. A face half-lit, half swallowed by shadow. Your blood runs cold.
He’s standing only a few yards away, partially hidden among the crowd, tall enough that you’d recognize that posture anywhere. His expression is carved from stone, stern, unreadable, the kind of look that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Maybe you're imagining things and he's not really here. When you look again, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never there. Your balance falters and you stumble slightly, your heel catching on nothing as you squint through the flashing lights, trying to spot him again.
Did you imagine that?
Someone says something close to your ear, but you don't hear it. Nimble hands touch your waist, pressing your body against his. Your head is still spinning, your mind halfway convinced you just hallucinated the one man who can ruin your mood with a single look.
The stranger moves with the music, confident hands resting on your hips as the two of you move together. The closeness is easy, the heat of another body against yours. The press of a hand sliding slightly lower, fingers brushing your thigh before gliding back up again.
And of course, because your brain is cruel, you picture Jack.
You imagine that he’s holding your body with his firm, calloused hands, that his masculine arms envelop you, making you feel the warmth radiating from his chest. Hands touch your thigh and slide down, then up, taking with them part of the pink dress you're wearing. Your body reacts before your brain does, arching back slightly, leaning into the contact, chasing the sensation like it belongs to him. The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
God.
You're desperate to kiss him. You want to taste him, feel his warmth, want him everywhere. You turn on your heels and when your eyes meet the face that has been dancing with you for the last three minutes, you freeze. It's not Jack, it's just that cute guy you bumped into before going to the bathroom.
He smiles, clearly thinking things have been going very well. Your brain short-circuits.
“Oh—” You step back immediately. “Sorry.”
The guy looks confused, reaching out as if to catch your elbow, but you slip away before he can. You weave through the crowd, bumping shoulders and muttering quick apologies as you push toward the edge of the dance floor.
No one really sees you, you're just another person trying to get from one end of the dance floor to the other. The pressure of it all forces you forward until, finally, you reach a small pocket of space near the edge where you can actually breathe. You glance over your shoulder, checking to see if the guy from before followed you.
Relief barely has time to settle before your chest collides with someone.
You instinctively step back, ready to mumble a quick apology and keep moving, but something about the moment changes before your brain catches up. A strange shiver runs through your body, the kind that starts low in your spine and climbs upward.
Jack Abbot is standing right in front of you and for a second you just stare at him. Colored lights slide across his face—blue, red, violet—each flash sharpening the lines of his expression. He’s watching you carefully, almost cautiously, his features calm but alert, like he’s assessing a situation.
You blink once, twice. Like maybe the image will disappear if you reset your vision. Everything is in motion except you. Jack tilts his head slightly to look at you.
“Jack?” Your voice is quiet. “What are you doing here?”
Your gaze betrays you immediately. It drops for half a second, to the outline of his biceps under the fitted black T-shirt, to the tan of his skin, scattered with those faint freckles you’ve memorized without meaning to.
There’s something about the way he stands, relaxed but solid, confident without even trying, that makes every other man in the room feel like background noise. Jack doesn’t compete with people. He just exists, and somehow that’s enough.
One look. That’s all it takes for every bit of attitude you had five minutes ago to evaporate.
“You called me,” he says simply.
You choke on your own words.
“I didn't—”
Jack moves deftly, it’s quick, smooth, almost effortless. One hand lands against the small of your back, firm and steady, guiding you to turn with him. Suddenly you’re walking in the opposite direction, straight toward the exit, like the decision has already been made.
Your body follows automatically.
The contact sends a sharp chill down your spine. His palm rests low against your back, warm even through the thin fabric of your dress, steering you through the moving crowd with quiet certainty.
It feels unfair how natural it is, like your bodies already know how to move together.
The familiar scent of him hits you a second later—clean, warm, unmistakably him—and it lands harder than the tequila ever did. Suddenly you're hyperaware of everything: the brush of his arm against yours, the solid line of his chest behind you whenever someone bumps into him.
Every step toward the door feels heavier and every inch of him feels dangerously close.
The night air outside the club is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat and noise you just left behind. Laughter spills from the open door behind you, and somewhere down the street someone shouts something unintelligible, followed by more laughter. But all of it fades into the background. All you can really feel is him.
His hand is still firm at the small of your back, guiding you along the sidewalk. His body moves close enough that every step brushes him against you, the steady warmth of him impossible to ignore.
“Jack,” you murmur, trying to slow him.
He doesn’t stop.
“Let's get to the car, baby.”
“No, wait.” You frown and pull away just enough so you can turn and look at him. “You're… here.”
“Of course I am. You called me.”
“I don’t—” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t want you here. I was having fun.”
You whine like a grumpy baby.
Liar. That's what you are.
Jack nods once so subtly that you almost don't notice. He takes a step, his chest meets yours, warm and solid, and suddenly the small space between your bodies disappears. The contact sends a quiet jolt through you, an immediate awareness of how long it’s been since you felt him this close.
“Really, honey?” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “That’s not what it sounded like on the phone.”
You open your mouth to give a sharp reply, but it dies the moment his fingers drift down from your ear to your chin, tilting your face slightly. The pad of his thumb traces slowly across your lower lip, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.
“How much did you drink?” He says softly, his hoarse voice sliding into your ears.
You feel your stomach sink, a warm sensation creeping into your belly.
“Not much.” You whisper.
“How much?” he repeats, a little firmer this time.
You stare at him instead of answering. Up close, you can see every familiar detail: the faint silver threaded through his hair, the sun-warmed tone of his skin, the scatter of freckles across his shoulders where his shirt collar dips slightly open. Your mind drifts somewhere reckless, already building wild little scenarios around the man standing in front of you
“A few shots of tequila.” You look up and lean in, touching your nose to his.
For half a second, Jack allows it, but then he puts his hands on your waist, a quiet smile pulls at one corner of his mouth.
“Let's get you sober, shall we, sweetheart?” He looks down as he says it, his thumb softening your skin over your dress, pressing just enough to remind you exactly where his hand is.
You give him a mischievous smile and try to wrap your arms around his neck. “‘Mm… Not drunk.”
Jack almost laughs and smiles slightly, his throat bobbing and the silence remaining. You feel almost undressed by the way he looks at you, an overwhelming confidence.
“Sure.” Jack buries his fingers in the roots of your hair, pulling your face toward him.
For a split second you’re certain he’s about to kiss you. You barely move. Barely breathing.
“Did my girl want attention?” he murmurs, voice smooth as dark velvet. “Mm?” You part your lips, leaning in just enough for him to take the initiative. Jack moves closer, you hold your breath, then he whispers in your ear. “Since you're so needy, I'll give you what you want.”
Your stomach drops. He pulls away from you, the loss of his arm around you feels abrupt, almost physical, like something important just slipped out of reach.
Embarrassment creeps in, slow and uncomfortable. Thinking about how stupid this whole situation is. Jack came here looking for you. You drank too much and said some stupid things.
And apparently said something stupid enough that he actually showed up.
When you reach the truck, Jack unlocks it with a quiet click.
He moves ahead of you, opening the door before you even think to reach for it. One hand rests briefly at your elbow as you sit, steadying you while you slide onto the seat.
The leather is cool against your legs. Your head might be a little fuzzy from the tequila, but you’re very aware of what’s happening. Probably more aware than you’d like to be.
Without a word, he bends down on the sidewalk.
Your brows knit together. “What are you doing?”
Instead, his fingers move to the thin strap around your ankle. With a small, precise motion, he unfastens it. The other shoe comes off just as easily. He sets both of them carefully on the floor of the car before guiding your legs farther inside with a light push at your shin.
The movement makes your dress slide higher up your thighs. Your knees press together automatically, heat creeping up your neck as the fabric bunches dangerously close to revealing more than it should.
If Jack notices, he gives absolutely no sign.
“Let's get you comfy, yeah?” He says calmly.
He leans—almost on purpose—over your body to fasten your seatbelt. You turn your face at the same time as him, breathing in his scent, watching from a few inches away his stubble and dark eyes in the shadow of the night.
Your breath leaves you slowly. The ache in your chest is almost physical now. Wanting him this much feels ridiculous, and yet there it is—heavy and persistent. Jack takes his time. He clicks the seatbelt into place, then adjusts it slightly so it sits comfortably against your waist, smoothing the strap down with absent care.
But he doesn’t move away immediately. For a moment—two seconds, maybe—his face lingers close to yours. Close enough that if you leaned forward just a little… You could kiss him.
The thought hits you before you can stop it.
However, when you try to move, he pulls away as if you were the plague. The shift is sharp, almost clinical, like he just brushed something irritating off his sleeve.
He closes the door and you shrink slightly into the seat, staring out the window, your reflection staring back at you in the dark glass. Heat crawls up your neck again, but this time it’s embarrassing.
Whatever you had, it's over. That was the only certainty: Jack Abbot would never land another finger on you again. He probably thinks you’re childish and impulsive. Not worth the trouble.
The driver’s door opens and shuts. A second later the engine starts, the low rumble filling the quiet street.
You don’t look at him. Which’s difficult, because you can still see him in your peripheral vision, hands steady on the wheel, forearms flexing slightly as he shifts the car into gear. The movement pulls the fabric of his T-shirt tight across his arms, every line of muscle catching the dim glow from the dashboard.
You hate that you notice. You hate that he looks completely unaffected.
So you retreat. You pull your legs up onto the seat, curling slightly toward the door, resting your head against the cool glass of the window while the city lights slide past outside.
You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know you’re moving.
Strong arms lift you from the seat, the sudden shift pulling you out of that hazy half-sleep. Instinctively, your hands slide up around Jack’s neck to steady yourself.
“That’s not necessary,” you mumble, irritation creeping into your voice. “I can walk!”
Jack closes the car door with his foot and smiles mockingly.
“Just giving my girl the attention she deserves.”
My girl. He says it as if it really means something.
His apartmen’s pitch black when you enter, and Jack's familiar scent of clean clothes and cologne hits you. He carries you to the bedroom where you've been multiple times, just in different situations.
You take advantage of the situation, pressing your nose against his neck, brushing the tip just to get his attention, anything to make him look at you. But no, he goes into the bathroom and leaves you on the marble sink. As he turns on the light, you take a deep breath, then he steps closer and braces both arms around you, one on either side, effectively boxing you in. His chest is inches from yours, the solid line of his shoulders blocking your escape.
“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?” He murmurs against your hair.
You actually have several ideas. Very good ones, in your opinion, but judging by the way he’s been behaving all night, none of them are about to happen. Still… no one ever died from trying.
“How about a shower?” You perk up at the idea, but something’s off. You don't object when he grabs you by the waist to lift you off the sink and turns you around to slide off your dress, which falls in a puddle at your feet.
Automatically, you bring your hair forward, slightly covering your breasts with your arms, which is stupid, because Jack has seen you naked more times than you can count, not only that, but there’s something about the care with which he touches you that makes the moment intimate and vulnerable.
You step out of the dress and peel off the last piece of clothing, suddenly aware of the cool air on your skin. Without his hands on you, you feel oddly exposed, hugging your arms around yourself for warmth.
Jack moves calmly around the bathroom, pulling the small shower chair aside before turning the water on. Steam begins to curl into the air. Then he lifts you again—effortless—and sets you gently inside the shower.
You frown, unhappy. “Aren't you coming in?”
He adjusts the water and you shrink even more. He looks up at you and gives a faint, patient smile. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair away from your cheek.
“Not today, honey.”
This is the end. Literally, the worst day of your goddamn life. Damn the moment tequila gave you enough courage to do something stupid.
“Are you gonna be a good girl,” he asks quietly, “and let me take care of you?”
Then you nod, water droplets sliding down your eyelashes as you look at him, feeling more exposed than you have in a long time.
After that, everything slips out of focus.
One moment Jack’s standing close, carefully washing the last traces of the night from your skin. His hands move with quiet patience, planned and controlled, as if he’s following invisible boundaries he refuses to cross. The warmth of the water, the steadiness of his touch, it all melts together until the scene feels distant, almost dreamlike.
The next moment you’re wrapped in a towel.
The air outside the shower feels cool against your damp skin as he guides you down the hallway. His hand rests lightly at your back, steady and reassuring, and then you’re in his bedroom again.
Somewhere along the way, he hands you something soft to wear.
You manage to pull it on, movements slow and clumsy with sleep. Your hair’s still damp when you rub it absently with the towel before letting it fall over your shoulders. The room’s dim, the soft glow from a lamp turning everything hazy at the edges.
Your body sinks into the mattress the moment you lie down.
Jack moves quietly around the room, but your eyes can barely follow him anymore. His shape passes through your vision like a shadow—broad shoulders, the faint sound of a drawer closing, the rustle of fabric.
You’re already drifting. The last thing you see clearly is him sitting on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly under his weight. His hand reaches out, warm and steady as it cups your cheek, brushing your skin with a softness that makes something deep in your chest ache.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” you murmur.
Your voice’s thick with sleep, the words slurring slightly together. Your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, you feel his thumb move gently along your cheekbone.
And just before the darkness pulls you under, you hear his voice: low, close, and quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Let’s get some sleep, sweetheart.”
It's dark, too dark for you to see anything, but your body wakes up anyway. Your hands grope the bed, the soft fabric, and despite the confusion, you just know you're in his bed. Everything’s unmistakable, the softness of the mattress, the smooth sheets against your skin, his scent that’s everywhere.
The other side of the bed is cold when you touch it, which means that all your thoughts from last night were right: Jack had grown tired of you. Last night... Holy shit. Memories start to push through the fog—tequila, the club, calling him like an idiot, him showing up. You groan and drop your head back against the pillow, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose like maybe you can rewind time if you try hard enough.
It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t.
As you look at your own body, you feel the soft touch of Jack's button-down shirt, one you've never seen him actually wear. It’s big on you, soft from use, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You’ve never actually seen him wear this one before, but somehow it ended up on your body. A cool breeze comes in through the window, and as you search for your phone, you can't even remember where you put it.
“Perfect,” you mutter under your breath.
The digital clock on the dresser glows faint red in the darkness and points to exactly 3:12 a.m. So you put your feet out and feel the cold floor, and even barefoot, you make your way silently, on tiptoe, to the hallway.
You need your phone. Trinity must have sent about thirty messages by now. And your clothes—your dress, your shoes. You could grab them, order an Uber, and disappear before this gets any more embarrassing.
You swing your feet over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, and the chill shoots straight up your legs, waking you a little more. Still, you move quietly, almost instinctively on your toes as you make your way toward the door.
You feel your way along the walls of the apartment, your mind alert to every sound, every crack, and every movement you make. To your surprise, when you reach the living room, there’s a lamp next to the sofa and Jack’s there. He’s leaning back against the couch, one arm resting along the back while the other holds an open book. The warm light spills across his chest, catching on the faint scatter of freckles across his skin.
He looks up as soon as he sees you, then lowers the book and you don't know what to do, standing on tiptoe, looking at him completely embarrassed.
“Where are you going, honey?” he asks quietly.
“Um... I was going to... look for my clothes and... my phone, call an Uber, go home.”
You attempt a small smile. It’s the kind where you keep your lips firmly closed. Jack frowns and puts the book on the coffee table.
“C’mere.”
He says it more like an order, not a suggestion and you walk like a helpless animal, tucking your legs and arms together and sitting on the other end, far enough away that the embarrassment affects you. It's still partially dark, the small lampshade illuminating nothing but the freckles on Jack's broad chest, his salt and pepper locks, which you avoid staring at for more than two seconds and fail gloomily.
He watches you as you avoid his gaze, playing with the hem of the shirt as if it were interesting enough.
“Hey,” he calls you, his voice hoarser than ever. “Look at me.”
And then you look. And it kills you, because the truth is, this whole mess started with something small and stupid that grew into something much bigger than you ever planned. It started with affection—something neither of you were supposed to let happen. It was too late, you knew that from the moment you got involved with him ten months ago, when he saw you crying in a dark room after Pittfest.
You didn't expect to get attached to Jack Abbot, it was supposed to be just a physical thing, with no strings attached, but Jack is a real man, the kind who takes you to his house and cooks dinner for you, who opens the car door and gives you a ride when you have a panic attack at the end of the workday. You liked him more than you could admit, and maybe the alcohol made you realize that, perhaps, he doesn't feel the same way about you.
“I'm so embarrassed.” Your hands come up to cover your face as you drag in a slow breath.
Jack approaches, you can tell by the rustling of the sofa.
“Hey, sweetheart. Why’s that?”
“‘Cause...” Your voice fails you. You take your hands away from your face and he’s so incredibly close that it hurts. “I was stupid. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re probably busy, and you came all the way to—” You stop, suddenly remembering something. “Actually… how did you even find me?”
He reaches for your hand, his fingers close around it gently, steadying it before he lifts your wrist toward his mouth. Your breath catches. His lips press softly against the inside of your wrist.
Once. Then again.
Slow, unhurried kisses that move from your wrist to the back of your hand, then up along your forearm. Each one intentional, like he has all the time in the world.
Before you can fully process it, his arm slides around your waist, the next second you’re being pulled onto his lap and the movement steals the air from your lungs.
Your breathing quickens when he slips his hand under your shirt and smoothes your bare skin, caressing you slowly.
“You needed me,” he says quietly. “So I came.”
“I’m sure you had something better to do,” you murmur, trying to sound casual. “Or someone.”
Jack doesn’t even react to the attempt, he just watches you. And that somehow makes it worse.
Because the way he looks at you makes it painfully clear he knows exactly how much power he has over you. And the worst part is… you’d probably let him do anything he wanted, even if it meant dealing with the consequences later.
“You drive me insane, you know that?” His voice drops lower, rough with something that sounds dangerously close to frustration. His grip shakes at your waist and you lean in, holding Jack's shoulders for support. His palm slides up and down your back in a delicate, pleasurable movement that gives you goosebumps.
“Jack...”
“Yeah, honey. Did y’know that?” Your heart's beating too fast now. “How exactly,” he continues quietly, “did you convince yourself I’d be interested in anyone else… when you’re the only woman I can think about?”
For a second your brain simply stops. That can’t be right. You must still be half asleep. Dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
“...What?”
Jack’s hand moves to the buttons of the shirt you’re wearing. You don’t even remember when he decided to start undoing them. One by one, his fingers work them open with slow patience, like he’s in no hurry at all.
“You drive me out of my fucking mind,” he mutters. “In ways you probably don’t even realize.”
Another button slips free.
“My pretty girl needed my attention, didn’t she?”
The words settle deep in your chest.
“As if any other man would dare put his hands on what belongs to me.”
Your heart stumbles.
The contact triggered an immediate sympathetic nervous system response. A spike of adrenaline surged through your system, leaving your heart rate erratic and every nerve ending painfully sensitive.
When the last button comes undone, you close your eyes. You can feel his gaze moving over your face, studying every small reaction. His breath brushes your collarbone, warm against your skin, and a shiver spreads down your body before you can stop it.
You want him so badly that your body glows with longing every time he touches you, even if it's unwitting.
His beard brushes against your skin, his mouth almost touching your neck, but your body tilts, sways, his hand holds you firmly at an angle where you can't escape.
“No one,” he murmured, his lips grazing the hollow between your breasts. “...touches…” He dragged a path downward, his mouth searing against your skin. “…what’s mine.”
The sound that escaped you was sharp, raw. When you looked down, his focus was absolute, his touch careful, as if he were mapping you with devotion.
You arched your back as Jack settled into the sofa. The contact through the thin fabric of your lace was immediate, a localized heat that spiked your pulse and forced a jagged moan from your throat.
“So good for me...” You lean on him as your hips curl, the friction was a slow burn, a steady accumulation of kinetic energy between you “Fuck. S’that you want, honey?”
The answer caught in your throat, a half-formed word that dissolved into a moan. Jack didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He moved with a devastating efficiency, peeling the shirt from your shoulders and sweeping your hair aside, his eyes never leaving yours. He wanted every inch of skin available to him.
When you get rid of the piece of clothing, you push him against the couch and hold his face with your fingertips, his beard tickling your skin, his hand going straight to your ass and his fingers squeezing your flesh hard.
“I want you.” You caught his lower lip between your teeth, a sharp, demanding bite before you crashed into a kiss that felt less like an affection and more like a collision. Jack is gentle but fierce, he pushes your hair away, nibbles your lower lip, his tongue tangled with yours, his mouth swallowing every sound you tried to make as if he were memorizing the rhythm of your breath.
“Be good for me.” His breathing is ragged as his chest rises and falls rapidly. “Mm?”
He grabs you by the waist and you get up, stumbling over the rug, the shirt thrown on the floor, the shoes you hadn't seen in the dark because you're too busy holding his face, swallowing him as if he were the only thing that matters.
He sits up on the bed, carrying you with him until you're straddling him, and the feeling of him beneath you, knowing that you're in charge, makes you extremely wet. He pulls your hair to the side, kisses your neck, your skin, and bites your shoulder when you grind on his lap, begging to be touched there.
Abbot had a devastating confidence in the dark. He made it clear that your pleasure was his only directive. He reclaimed your mouth, his hand sliding the lace aside to find the epicenter of the heat. You sobbed into his kiss, he simply drank the sound down. His thumb moved in a slow, rhythmic circle that teased the very edge of what you could handle. He bites your chin and watches your microexpressions when he touches you there, his fingers rubbing, but never really in.
“Jack...” You whimper, feeling the need for more, always more, more, more.
“Want that, honey?” A ghost of a smirk touched his lips as you tightened your grip on his shoulders, forcing yourself down against his fingers.
“Mm-hmm,” You say, incoherently.
“Mm-hmm,” He mimicked, a low, dark chuckle vibrating in his chest.
“Can you cum for me like that, honey?” Jack whispers under your skin, where he nibbles your nipple and watches the instant reaction of your skin to his touch. “Bet you can.”
He didn't make you wait. He knew exactly how to move, finding the precise rhythm to push you over the edge, spreading his fingers everywhere. The repetitive, relentless motion put you into a trance until the tension finally snapped. The climax hit like a physical shock, a wave of heat that undulated through your core and left you breathless.
“There you go,” Jack kisses your shoulder as he holds your body during your climax, a perfect ‘O’ blossoming your lips. “My pretty girl, s’good for me, huh?”
Your cheeks are rosy, your neck covered in sweat, and adrenaline crackling in your veins.
“You're right,” You lean in, kissing his neck, then his jaw… Everywhere. “I'm yours.”
Something awakens in Jack's eyes and kindness gives way to something sharper. It’s a transition you recognize, a silent understanding that only exists between the two of you. Both breathless, he exhales a low curse before reclaiming your mouth with a desperation that suggests he never should have let go in the first place.
“Damn right you are.” He rasps against your lips, his voice dropping an octave.
Your hands fumble with the fabric of his sweatpants, fueled by a frantic need to close the gap. When you finally make contact, the heat of him is staggering. Jack lets out a wrecked moan, his eyes snapping shut as his hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he devours your mouth.
“Damn, baby.” His voice is a whisper in the dark. You look into his eyes, in that inky gradient bathed in the night.
You're in sync, heart to heart, pulsing with adrenaline. When you touch him, pulling him out, it's pure euphoria. Jack groans when your hand pumps him, moving up and down, so slowly that he could die. You lift your hips, ignoring everything else, because at that moment it's just you and him.
It feels like a slow-motion collision. Jack whimpers, his features contorted in a sharp mask of pleasure that looks almost like pain. You move with a torturous rhythm, both of you suspended in that heavy, humid space where control starts to slip.
“Oh my God, Jack!” You moan, trying to keep your movements steady, but his hands lock onto your hips, his fingers digging in as he pulls you down, forcing a deeper connection.
“You're going to take it all, aren't you, baby?” Jack mumbles, his voice thick and broken. “Shit—ah, baby—you're doing so good...”
The intensity of the kiss is overwhelming, triggering a sharp contraction in your core. A raw, unyielding force takes over as Jack hitches the pace, swallowing your whimpers and turning them into his own. He’s murmuring into the crook of your neck now—broken sentences, encouragement, breathless praise—until your mind becomes a total fog. Your bodies move as one, in frenzied agony, Jack continues to whine and moan and say all the things that make your mind turn into nothing.
He's everywhere. The sensation builds, a radiating heat that starts in your toes and surges upward, centering in your belly. It’s a heavy, mounting pressure that leaves no room for anything else.
“I’m—”
“I’ve got you, baby. I'm right here.” He promises against your skin, and that’s the catalyst. You melt, pressing yourself against him, your pleasure pulling him over the edge, ecstasy swallowing everything.
The dam breaks. You melt into him, the force of your release dragging him over the edge with you. He swears, his entire frame locking as he holds you in a crushing embrace, his body vibrating with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it feels electric.
“I wanna feel you,” you murmur into his shoulder, clinging to the fading heat.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his pulse still erratic against your own, his arms tightening around you as if he’s making sure you’re still there.
Both of you are still catching your breath. Your heart hasn’t quite settled yet, and judging by the way Jack’s chest rises against yours, neither has his. But he’s right there, pressed close, skin warm against your skin. When your arms wrap around him, instinctively pulling him closer, the rest of the world fades out.
His lips brush your shoulder, slow and warm. Then again. And again. Small, absent kisses moving lazily along your skin.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he murmurs.
He whispers against your vibrant skin. You feel the hint of a smile where his beard grazes your shoulder, the roughness of it scraping gently across your damp skin. Part of you wants to freeze the moment exactly like this—to keep the warmth, the quiet, the way he feels against you.
You don’t want to let go.
Eventually Jack shifts, guiding you back toward the bed. The sheets are cool when your skin touches them, and for a second you assume the moment is over. That means it’s time to leave, so you start to sit up.
“Hey,” Jack says softly. “What are you doing?”
You blink at him, confused. You never stay. Never.
“I thought that...”
“No, honey," He reaches for your hand before you can finish. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss to the back of it. “Stay.”
The window is slightly open, letting a cool breeze drift through the room. Jack slides closer immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against him. Your back fits neatly against his chest.
His nose nestles into your hair, breathing you in. His body is warm, solid behind you, his leg brushing lightly against yours under the sheets.
“Okay,” you murmur, lacing your fingers with his.
He squeezes your hand gently.
“You should stay more often,” he says.
“Like, tomorrow?” You smile faintly in the dark, joking about it.
“No." Jack’s breath ghosts across the back of your neck. "Forever.”
summary: you never knew what love was until Jack showed you its true meaning. and when he asks for your hand in marriage, you have a mission to fulfill.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: age gap, just fluff because this is soft and sweet! also, mentions of childhood trauma and parental neglect.
word count: 3.7k
The metallic tang of adrenaline coats your tongue, sharp and cold. One second, a chill creeps up your legs, the next, your heart is a frantic percussion against your ribs. It’s a physical rebellion, a body reacting to a scenario it was never wired to expect.
First of all, you never imagined yourself in this situation, because everything in your life pointed to the opposite. And if we’re being honest, you have a long and lasting history with the word “marriage.”
You grew up in a house where love sounded like raised voices and doors closing too hard. Where you learned to turn Hannah Montana up loud enough to drown out the arguments downstairs. You didn’t need anyone to explain what was wrong, you could see it in the way your parents spoke to each other, like they were always keeping score, like winning mattered more than understanding.
When they separated, people said it would be better. It was supposed to be simple, one weekend here, one weekend there, a rhythm you could get used to. Something stable.
Supposed to be.
Your mother treated new relationships like life rafts, clinging to anyone who could drown out her own silence. Your father took to the open road, chasing the ghosts of a college dream he claimed the marriage had stolen from him.
By fourteen, you had mastered the art of self-sufficiency. By sixteen, you had learned to mourn your first heartbreak in a vacuum, crying until dawn without expecting a hand on your shoulder.
Independence wasn’t something you chose. It was something that grew around you, like a shell.
Your mother was growing increasingly distant, living the life she had perhaps always longed for. You were just a pawn in her game, one she’d left on the sidelines. You saw your father cry alone in his car after a weekend with him, knowing his life was forever ruined.
And it took many years of therapy and self-care to grow up and break free from the chains that trauma of that magnitude can impose on a human being.
It’s confusing, actually. Even later, in college, when things were supposed to feel different, you carried it with you. Relationships never quite settled. You were there, but never fully. Close, but never close enough. People noticed, like they always do.
For a long time, you wondered if something in you had been built wrong.
It took years—real ones, slow ones—to understand that it wasn’t a flaw. It was a defense. Something that had once kept you safe, even if it kept everything else out too.
That rift only began to heal when you joined the PTMC. A few years of residency were all it took to meet the person who would change your life in irreversible ways.
Everything you believed about love—the idea that it was temporary, something people held onto to soften whatever was missing inside them—started to lose its shape when Abbot came into your life. Sneaky and deliberate, he did exactly what you feared most: reached your heart.
With a tenderness and ease you never imagined possible.
Jack didn’t try to break down the walls, he simply sat outside them until you were ready to open the door. He offered a quiet, steady presence that didn't demand you perform or "fix" yourself.
He noticed things, but he didn’t make a spectacle of them. The way you hesitated before trusting something good. The way you sometimes pulled back without explaining why. He never chased you for answers, you think that’s why you started offering them.
With him, it wasn’t about intensity, it was about consistency. About the quiet, almost unfamiliar feeling of being understood without having to explain everything.
And somehow, without you realizing exactly when it changed, being with him stopped feeling like something you had to manage. It just felt… easy.
That’s why, a year and a half into something you kept mostly to yourselves—built in quiet hours, in late-night walks and coffee left untouched on his kitchen counter—Jack knew.
It wasn’t a realization that arrived all at once. It settled in gradually, until one day it simply felt certain.
It happened on a cold morning in December. The kind of cold that seeps into the windows and lingers. You were in his kitchen, moving around each other with an ease that had become second nature, the sound of something simmering low on the stove, the light outside dimmed by steady snowfall.
You asked him to pass the salt.
Something slid across the marble. You reached for it without looking, already half-turned back to the stove, but what you felt wasn’t glass or metal. It was smaller and smooth. Closed in your hand.
When you looked up, Jack was already watching you.
He stood there in a worn sweatshirt, grey hair slightly out of place, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after running his hands through it one too many times. There was no performance in him, no buildup. Just that quiet, almost careful expression he got when something mattered.
The box in your hand felt heavier once you understood what it was.
For a second, you didn’t move. And it's not because you didn’t know the answer, but because some part of you was still catching up, trying to reconcile this moment with the version of your life where this never happened.
And yet, there you were.
He didn’t make a speech. He didn’t need to. The question was simple when it came, steady in the same way he had always been with you. You said yes with the stove still on, with the wind pressing faintly against the windows, with everything around you continuing as if nothing had changed.
But it had.
It was so ordinary it almost felt unreal. No grand gesture, no perfect timing—just the two of you, in a space that had slowly become shared, choosing each other out loud.
When he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were warm, grounding. You noticed, distantly, the way his breath caught, nothing dramatic, but enough to give him away. As if this meant more to him than he had expected it to.
And it did.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it. Not from shock, not from fear, just from the weight of the moment, from the quiet certainty of being there, of being chosen, of choosing back.
And what an irony to find the love of your life where you were least expecting it.
A kind of love that doesn’t try to convince you it exists.
Because that’s what Jack was like—loving him was easy and unquestioning. After a lifetime of wondering if love really exists, if that word, “love,” is actually something that exists, and not just a term rooted in the depths of the human soul to fill the gaps of emotions and paradoxes, you were certain you had found the answer. But there isn’t one. Not a single, clear answer.
What exists are the ways people show up. The small, consistent choices. The things they do without thinking, because it comes naturally to them. And with Jack, the answer revealed itself like that, quietly, without asking for your attention.
In the way he looks at you, soft and focused, like he’s still a little surprised by you. In the offhand “great job” that started as nothing and somehow became everything. In the coffee cups he leaves by your charts, marked with uneven smiley faces that shouldn’t matter as much as they do.
It’s there when his hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers fitting together like they’ve learned the shape by memory. In the way he pulls you close, firm and grounding, like he doesn’t intend to let go anytime soon. Or how his eyes search for you wherever you are. In the kisses that carry more feeling than urgency, in the quiet confession of I love you that never sounds rehearsed, never sounds uncertain.
Those lazy, golden mornings where he’d pull you back into the covers, his arms a protective circle around you, squeezing just enough to let you know he wasn't letting go. The passionate frenzy that followed when he buried himself inside you, all sweat and lust. It was the ultimate dismantling of your walls. Skin against skin. For the first time, you didn't feel the need to remain distant.
So yes, it was easy to love him and even easier, somehow, to believe that he loved you too.
Jack didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t try to be more than he was.
He was just there. And for you, that was everything.
So, life in the ER was still hectic, and you were trying to find the right moment to approach Robby. You focused on your screen, typing up charts with more force than necessary, pretending your attention was fully there. It wasn’t. Every few seconds, your gaze drifted, tracking Robby as he danced through the room, stopping, answering, adjusting, always in motion.
“If you press any harder, that keyboard might give up on you.” Dana slid into place beside you, already flipping through her own paperwork, glasses perched low on her nose.
You blinked, only now noticing the tension in your hands. You eased your fingers, exhaling quietly, then glanced back toward Robby, who was deep in conversation with Whitaker.
“Is everything alright, dear?” Dana asked, peering at you over the rim of her glasses.
“No. Actually, yes. Maybe.”
She gave you a look. “That sounds promising.”
You hesitated, then let it out before you could overthink it. “I need to talk to Robby. I just—don’t know how to start.”
“Sweetheart, just rip the band-aid off already, whatever it is. That old man likes things straight and clear as day. You might want to do it soon, though. Before his sabbatical.”
You turned to her fully. “His what?”
“Oh.” She shrugged lightly. “He’ll be gone for a while. Didn’t you hear? So it’ll just be us holding things together.”
Something in your chest tightened, not panic, not quite urgency, but close enough.
You pushed your chair back. “Okay. I’ll do it now.”
“Good for you,” Dana murmured, already back to her charts.
The noise of the ER swallowed you again as you stepped away from the hub. You spotted Robby a few feet ahead, catching him just as Javadi stood frozen in front of him, her expression unreadable. Then she turned abruptly, walking off with Whitaker without a word.
Robby exhaled, and only then did you notice it, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, sharp against his skin.
“Um, Robby?”
“Yes?” he replied, the word edged with fatigue as he shifted his attention to you.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
He checked his watch, then reached for a clipboard a nurse handed him mid-sentence, signing it quickly before looking back up. “Did something happen?”
“No, but… could we talk somewhere private?”
This time, he really looked at you. The tiredness in his features was more apparent up close, his white hair only making it harder to ignore. You swallowed, steadying yourself.
After a brief pause, he nodded toward the break room. You moved first, not giving yourself time to reconsider, trusting that he’d follow.
The door clicked shut, and just like that, the noise of the ER dulled into something distant.
Robby crossed his arms, then motioned for you to sit.
Up close, the nerves were harder to ignore. This wasn’t just any conversation. The man in front of you had been there at the beginning, when everything felt uncertain, when you were still learning how to stand your ground. He had steadied you more times than you could count, sometimes without even realizing it.
There was a kind of respect there that went beyond hierarchy. Something quieter and lasting.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“No—no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… something else.”
He nodded once. “Alright. I’m listening.”
You drew in a breath, holding onto it for a second before letting it go. “You know that Jack and I… we’re together.”
Robby’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of confusion passing through his expression.
“I promise this is going somewhere,” you added, almost smiling. “I just—I wanted to say that I’m really grateful. For everything. Since my first day here. You’ve… you’ve done more than you had to, and I don’t think I ever said that properly.”
He watched you quietly, not interrupting.
“And with Jack,” you continued, “I know it hasn’t exactly been… simple. So thank you for letting us have that space. For not making it harder than it already was.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, something softer settling in his features. “You’re a good doctor,” he said. “I did what anyone in my position should do.” A brief pause. “Is everything alright between you two?”
“Yes,” you said, and this time it came easier. “It is. That’s actually… why I’m here.”
You let the next words come without overthinking them.
“We’re getting married.”
For a moment, he didn’t react. Not in any obvious way. Then it caught up to him slowly. A small smile, a quiet breath that turned into something close to a laugh as he ran a hand over his face.
“Well,” he said, looking back at you, “congratulations. I’m glad to hear it.” His expression softened further. “I hope you both are happy.”
“I am. We are!” you answered, and meant it. “But there’s… one more thing.”
That made him pause.
“I’ve never really talked about my parents,” you began, your voice steady but quieter now. “It’s… complicated. They’re not… involved. And they won’t be there.” You let out a short breath, something between a laugh and an exhale. “I think I always knew that would be the case.”
Robby didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“So,” you went on, the words coming a little faster now, before you could second-guess them, “I was wondering—only if you’d be comfortable with it, and it’s completely okay if not, but it would mean a lot to me if…”
You faltered, then shook your head, a small, nervous laugh slipping out.
“If you walked me down the aisle.”
Your heart pounds in your chest. Robby stands frozen. He just looked at you, like he was trying to understand if he’d heard you correctly.
“It’s really okay if you don’t want to,” you added quickly. “I just thought—”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“Do you want me to do that?”
There was something in his voice now. Something closer to disbelief.
“Yes,” you said, more firmly this time. “I do.”
“Me?”
And then it settled.
“Robby,” you said gently, “you’re very important to me. There isn’t anyone else I would ask.” You hesitated for only a second. “When I picture it… you’re there.”
That did it.
His expression shifted, slowly at first, then all at once. His eyes glossed over, not dramatically, but enough to give him away. For a man who carried so much without showing it, the reaction was quiet and unmistakable.
It took him a moment.
Then he stood, closing the distance between you, hands coming to your shoulders before pulling you into an embrace.
“Of course,” he said, his voice lower now. “Of course I will.”
You nodded against him, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. When you stepped back, you both took a second, like you needed it.
“Thank you,” you said, softer this time.
He gave a small nod, still collecting himself.
You turned toward the door, your hand already on the handle, ready to step back into everything waiting outside.
“Oh—” you added, glancing back, “you’ll be back in time, right?”
“For what?” he asked, a trace of confusion returning.
“Your sabbatical. Dana mentioned it.” You shrugged lightly. “You’ll be back for the wedding?”
There was a flicker of something in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible.
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”
You smiled, something lighter settling in your chest now.
“Good,” you murmured. “Thank you, Robby.”
“Look at you,” Robby said, reaching up to straighten Jack’s bow tie. “All sharp and polished, didn’t think I’d see the day.”
Jack didn’t laugh. He was too aware of everything, his hands, slightly damp, the tightness in his chest, the way his heartbeat refused to settle into anything steady.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead as he adjusted the tie again, even though it was already straight.
Especially Jack, who’s a bundle of nerves with his heart practically in his throat. Outside, the scene is set: rows of white wooden chairs occupied by a handful of friends and Jack’s few relatives. All gathered for a small, intimate celebration at a house in the countryside, a place you found at the last minute when Whitaker—who freaked out when he discovered the whole thing—let you know it was available and not too far from the city.
“Damn! Looking good, Dr. Abbot!” Santos practically shouted as she entered the house, where you were getting ready.
Jack let out a low, disapproving sound under his breath, which only made Robby chuckle.
“They don’t know when to stop,” Jack said.
“No,” Robby replied, glancing over with a faint smile, “they really don’t.”
Then they looked at each other, an exchange that said so much—a partnership of years, a recognition that only two people who’ve been through hell on earth can share. There was history there. Years of it. The kind that didn’t need to be explained, only recognized. It passed between them in a glance—everything they had seen, everything they had carried, side by side.
Jack had been trying to hold back the tears in his eyes all morning, besides having his nerves on edge, he wanted to stay composed and save all his tears for when you walked down the aisle.
“I’m happy for you, brother,” Robby said, pulling him into a firm embrace, his hand coming up to pat his back twice.
Jack nodded against him, swallowing hard before stepping back.
“Yeah,” he managed, a small smile breaking through. “Thanks for coming back.”
Robby hesitated for just a second as he let go. And when he did, it was devastating. With a heavy heart, he gave Jack’s shoulder a light squeeze, acknowledging the gratitude and sincerity behind it.
“You look…” Javadi paused behind you, her eyes widening at your reflection. “You look amazing.”
You smiled, a little shy under the weight of it. “Thank you.”
“Good thing you didn’t go with the other dress,” Santos added from across the room, adjusting her suit. “You would’ve looked like a wedding cake.”
You laughed, smoothing your hands over the fabric. The dress was simple, no excess, no effort to impress. It fit you the way something chosen carefully does. It felt like you.
“Shen’s about to lose it, saying everyone’s freezing their butts off out there.” Ellis rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. “We’ll go when you’re ready, bride-to-be.”
You turned to the mirror one last time. Everything seems to come crashing down like an avalanche—all the fear, all the insecurity, all those beliefs and doubts that seemed to terrify you your whole life—they’ve vanished.
What remained was something steadier. A version of yourself you hadn’t always known how to reach.
“I’m ready,” you said.
“I’ll get Robby,” Javadi replied, already heading for the door.
Your bridesmaids followed, leaving only Dana behind.
She stepped closer, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Can I say something?”
“Of course.”
“I’m really happy for you,” she said, her voice warm, certain. “Truly.”
You nodded, your throat tightening just slightly. “Thank you.”
She held your gaze for a second longer. “You chose well.”
Yes, you did.
Outside, the air was colder, sharper against your skin. The sun had begun to dip, casting everything in that soft, fleeting light that makes things feel suspended in time.
Robby was waiting near the entrance.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
The music started as you stepped forward.
People stood. You registered it in fragments—Santos lacing her fingers with Garcia’s, Javadi beside Samira and Mateo, Dana already dabbing at her eyes. It all blurred together, because your attention found him almost immediately.
Jack.
Jack's at the small makeshift altar, surrounded by white and yellow flowers. You catch his expression, his eyes welling up, and how his lips curl into a small pout, trying to hold back the tears. Those gentle eyes are all on you. He paces, almost restless, counting down the seconds until he can finally hold you in his arms and call you his wife.
He was looking only at you.
And just like that, everything else fell away.
Step by step, the distance between you closed. You felt Robby beside you, steady and grounding, until you reached the end.
When he placed your hand in Jack’s, the gesture was quiet but full of meaning. Jack nodded to him, something unspoken passing between them, before his attention returned to you.
Your hands meet and everything else ceases to exist except him.
His hands are on yours the whole time, caressing, stroking, making sure that this moment is real and that you are there. From that point on, the ceremony moved forward, but it felt distant, almost secondary. His eyes smiling with the small wrinkles around them, his pupils dancing as a way of saying he loves you, without verbalizing.
It’s a devastating love, the one you feel.
By the time the final words were spoken, there was a quiet shift in the air, like something had settled into place.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Jack touches your face as if it were the first time, a gentle touch, but this time he isn’t hesitant like the first time he kissed you in the car at your front door. No, this touch is certain, firm. His eyes wander over your face, committing every detail and feature to memory for the thousandth time, because he wants to remember this moment—even fifty years from now—when he took you in his arms and kissed you for the first time as his wife.
And you feel deep in your heart, in your very core, the most bittersweet and gentle feeling a person could ever feel.
Jack is yours. You are his. Just as it should be.
And this time, there was no reason to look for answers...
summary: you never knew what love was until Jack showed you its true meaning. and when he asks for your hand in marriage, you have a mission to fulfill.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: age gap, just fluff because this is soft and sweet! also, mentions of childhood trauma and parental neglect.
word count: 3.7k
The metallic tang of adrenaline coats your tongue, sharp and cold. One second, a chill creeps up your legs, the next, your heart is a frantic percussion against your ribs. It’s a physical rebellion, a body reacting to a scenario it was never wired to expect.
First of all, you never imagined yourself in this situation, because everything in your life pointed to the opposite. And if we’re being honest, you have a long and lasting history with the word “marriage.”
You grew up in a house where love sounded like raised voices and doors closing too hard. Where you learned to turn Hannah Montana up loud enough to drown out the arguments downstairs. You didn’t need anyone to explain what was wrong, you could see it in the way your parents spoke to each other, like they were always keeping score, like winning mattered more than understanding.
When they separated, people said it would be better. It was supposed to be simple, one weekend here, one weekend there, a rhythm you could get used to. Something stable.
Supposed to be.
Your mother treated new relationships like life rafts, clinging to anyone who could drown out her own silence. Your father took to the open road, chasing the ghosts of a college dream he claimed the marriage had stolen from him.
By fourteen, you had mastered the art of self-sufficiency. By sixteen, you had learned to mourn your first heartbreak in a vacuum, crying until dawn without expecting a hand on your shoulder.
Independence wasn’t something you chose. It was something that grew around you, like a shell.
Your mother was growing increasingly distant, living the life she had perhaps always longed for. You were just a pawn in her game, one she’d left on the sidelines. You saw your father cry alone in his car after a weekend with him, knowing his life was forever ruined.
And it took many years of therapy and self-care to grow up and break free from the chains that trauma of that magnitude can impose on a human being.
It’s confusing, actually. Even later, in college, when things were supposed to feel different, you carried it with you. Relationships never quite settled. You were there, but never fully. Close, but never close enough. People noticed, like they always do.
For a long time, you wondered if something in you had been built wrong.
It took years—real ones, slow ones—to understand that it wasn’t a flaw. It was a defense. Something that had once kept you safe, even if it kept everything else out too.
That rift only began to heal when you joined the PTMC. A few years of residency were all it took to meet the person who would change your life in irreversible ways.
Everything you believed about love—the idea that it was temporary, something people held onto to soften whatever was missing inside them—started to lose its shape when Abbot came into your life. Sneaky and deliberate, he did exactly what you feared most: reached your heart.
With a tenderness and ease you never imagined possible.
Jack didn’t try to break down the walls, he simply sat outside them until you were ready to open the door. He offered a quiet, steady presence that didn't demand you perform or "fix" yourself.
He noticed things, but he didn’t make a spectacle of them. The way you hesitated before trusting something good. The way you sometimes pulled back without explaining why. He never chased you for answers, you think that’s why you started offering them.
With him, it wasn’t about intensity, it was about consistency. About the quiet, almost unfamiliar feeling of being understood without having to explain everything.
And somehow, without you realizing exactly when it changed, being with him stopped feeling like something you had to manage. It just felt… easy.
That’s why, a year and a half into something you kept mostly to yourselves—built in quiet hours, in late-night walks and coffee left untouched on his kitchen counter—Jack knew.
It wasn’t a realization that arrived all at once. It settled in gradually, until one day it simply felt certain.
It happened on a cold morning in December. The kind of cold that seeps into the windows and lingers. You were in his kitchen, moving around each other with an ease that had become second nature, the sound of something simmering low on the stove, the light outside dimmed by steady snowfall.
You asked him to pass the salt.
Something slid across the marble. You reached for it without looking, already half-turned back to the stove, but what you felt wasn’t glass or metal. It was smaller and smooth. Closed in your hand.
When you looked up, Jack was already watching you.
He stood there in a worn sweatshirt, grey hair slightly out of place, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after running his hands through it one too many times. There was no performance in him, no buildup. Just that quiet, almost careful expression he got when something mattered.
The box in your hand felt heavier once you understood what it was.
For a second, you didn’t move. And it's not because you didn’t know the answer, but because some part of you was still catching up, trying to reconcile this moment with the version of your life where this never happened.
And yet, there you were.
He didn’t make a speech. He didn’t need to. The question was simple when it came, steady in the same way he had always been with you. You said yes with the stove still on, with the wind pressing faintly against the windows, with everything around you continuing as if nothing had changed.
But it had.
It was so ordinary it almost felt unreal. No grand gesture, no perfect timing—just the two of you, in a space that had slowly become shared, choosing each other out loud.
When he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were warm, grounding. You noticed, distantly, the way his breath caught, nothing dramatic, but enough to give him away. As if this meant more to him than he had expected it to.
And it did.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it. Not from shock, not from fear, just from the weight of the moment, from the quiet certainty of being there, of being chosen, of choosing back.
And what an irony to find the love of your life where you were least expecting it.
A kind of love that doesn’t try to convince you it exists.
Because that’s what Jack was like—loving him was easy and unquestioning. After a lifetime of wondering if love really exists, if that word, “love,” is actually something that exists, and not just a term rooted in the depths of the human soul to fill the gaps of emotions and paradoxes, you were certain you had found the answer. But there isn’t one. Not a single, clear answer.
What exists are the ways people show up. The small, consistent choices. The things they do without thinking, because it comes naturally to them. And with Jack, the answer revealed itself like that, quietly, without asking for your attention.
In the way he looks at you, soft and focused, like he’s still a little surprised by you. In the offhand “great job” that started as nothing and somehow became everything. In the coffee cups he leaves by your charts, marked with uneven smiley faces that shouldn’t matter as much as they do.
It’s there when his hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers fitting together like they’ve learned the shape by memory. In the way he pulls you close, firm and grounding, like he doesn’t intend to let go anytime soon. Or how his eyes search for you wherever you are. In the kisses that carry more feeling than urgency, in the quiet confession of I love you that never sounds rehearsed, never sounds uncertain.
Those lazy, golden mornings where he’d pull you back into the covers, his arms a protective circle around you, squeezing just enough to let you know he wasn't letting go. The passionate frenzy that followed when he buried himself inside you, all sweat and lust. It was the ultimate dismantling of your walls. Skin against skin. For the first time, you didn't feel the need to remain distant.
So yes, it was easy to love him and even easier, somehow, to believe that he loved you too.
Jack didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t try to be more than he was.
He was just there. And for you, that was everything.
So, life in the ER was still hectic, and you were trying to find the right moment to approach Robby. You focused on your screen, typing up charts with more force than necessary, pretending your attention was fully there. It wasn’t. Every few seconds, your gaze drifted, tracking Robby as he danced through the room, stopping, answering, adjusting, always in motion.
“If you press any harder, that keyboard might give up on you.” Dana slid into place beside you, already flipping through her own paperwork, glasses perched low on her nose.
You blinked, only now noticing the tension in your hands. You eased your fingers, exhaling quietly, then glanced back toward Robby, who was deep in conversation with Whitaker.
“Is everything alright, dear?” Dana asked, peering at you over the rim of her glasses.
“No. Actually, yes. Maybe.”
She gave you a look. “That sounds promising.”
You hesitated, then let it out before you could overthink it. “I need to talk to Robby. I just—don’t know how to start.”
“Sweetheart, just rip the band-aid off already, whatever it is. That old man likes things straight and clear as day. You might want to do it soon, though. Before his sabbatical.”
You turned to her fully. “His what?”
“Oh.” She shrugged lightly. “He’ll be gone for a while. Didn’t you hear? So it’ll just be us holding things together.”
Something in your chest tightened, not panic, not quite urgency, but close enough.
You pushed your chair back. “Okay. I’ll do it now.”
“Good for you,” Dana murmured, already back to her charts.
The noise of the ER swallowed you again as you stepped away from the hub. You spotted Robby a few feet ahead, catching him just as Javadi stood frozen in front of him, her expression unreadable. Then she turned abruptly, walking off with Whitaker without a word.
Robby exhaled, and only then did you notice it, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, sharp against his skin.
“Um, Robby?”
“Yes?” he replied, the word edged with fatigue as he shifted his attention to you.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
He checked his watch, then reached for a clipboard a nurse handed him mid-sentence, signing it quickly before looking back up. “Did something happen?”
“No, but… could we talk somewhere private?”
This time, he really looked at you. The tiredness in his features was more apparent up close, his white hair only making it harder to ignore. You swallowed, steadying yourself.
After a brief pause, he nodded toward the break room. You moved first, not giving yourself time to reconsider, trusting that he’d follow.
The door clicked shut, and just like that, the noise of the ER dulled into something distant.
Robby crossed his arms, then motioned for you to sit.
Up close, the nerves were harder to ignore. This wasn’t just any conversation. The man in front of you had been there at the beginning, when everything felt uncertain, when you were still learning how to stand your ground. He had steadied you more times than you could count, sometimes without even realizing it.
There was a kind of respect there that went beyond hierarchy. Something quieter and lasting.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“No—no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… something else.”
He nodded once. “Alright. I’m listening.”
You drew in a breath, holding onto it for a second before letting it go. “You know that Jack and I… we’re together.”
Robby’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of confusion passing through his expression.
“I promise this is going somewhere,” you added, almost smiling. “I just—I wanted to say that I’m really grateful. For everything. Since my first day here. You’ve… you’ve done more than you had to, and I don’t think I ever said that properly.”
He watched you quietly, not interrupting.
“And with Jack,” you continued, “I know it hasn’t exactly been… simple. So thank you for letting us have that space. For not making it harder than it already was.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, something softer settling in his features. “You’re a good doctor,” he said. “I did what anyone in my position should do.” A brief pause. “Is everything alright between you two?”
“Yes,” you said, and this time it came easier. “It is. That’s actually… why I’m here.”
You let the next words come without overthinking them.
“We’re getting married.”
For a moment, he didn’t react. Not in any obvious way. Then it caught up to him slowly. A small smile, a quiet breath that turned into something close to a laugh as he ran a hand over his face.
“Well,” he said, looking back at you, “congratulations. I’m glad to hear it.” His expression softened further. “I hope you both are happy.”
“I am. We are!” you answered, and meant it. “But there’s… one more thing.”
That made him pause.
“I’ve never really talked about my parents,” you began, your voice steady but quieter now. “It’s… complicated. They’re not… involved. And they won’t be there.” You let out a short breath, something between a laugh and an exhale. “I think I always knew that would be the case.”
Robby didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“So,” you went on, the words coming a little faster now, before you could second-guess them, “I was wondering—only if you’d be comfortable with it, and it’s completely okay if not, but it would mean a lot to me if…”
You faltered, then shook your head, a small, nervous laugh slipping out.
“If you walked me down the aisle.”
Your heart pounds in your chest. Robby stands frozen. He just looked at you, like he was trying to understand if he’d heard you correctly.
“It’s really okay if you don’t want to,” you added quickly. “I just thought—”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“Do you want me to do that?”
There was something in his voice now. Something closer to disbelief.
“Yes,” you said, more firmly this time. “I do.”
“Me?”
And then it settled.
“Robby,” you said gently, “you’re very important to me. There isn’t anyone else I would ask.” You hesitated for only a second. “When I picture it… you’re there.”
That did it.
His expression shifted, slowly at first, then all at once. His eyes glossed over, not dramatically, but enough to give him away. For a man who carried so much without showing it, the reaction was quiet and unmistakable.
It took him a moment.
Then he stood, closing the distance between you, hands coming to your shoulders before pulling you into an embrace.
“Of course,” he said, his voice lower now. “Of course I will.”
You nodded against him, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. When you stepped back, you both took a second, like you needed it.
“Thank you,” you said, softer this time.
He gave a small nod, still collecting himself.
You turned toward the door, your hand already on the handle, ready to step back into everything waiting outside.
“Oh—” you added, glancing back, “you’ll be back in time, right?”
“For what?” he asked, a trace of confusion returning.
“Your sabbatical. Dana mentioned it.” You shrugged lightly. “You’ll be back for the wedding?”
There was a flicker of something in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible.
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”
You smiled, something lighter settling in your chest now.
“Good,” you murmured. “Thank you, Robby.”
“Look at you,” Robby said, reaching up to straighten Jack’s bow tie. “All sharp and polished, didn’t think I’d see the day.”
Jack didn’t laugh. He was too aware of everything, his hands, slightly damp, the tightness in his chest, the way his heartbeat refused to settle into anything steady.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead as he adjusted the tie again, even though it was already straight.
Especially Jack, who’s a bundle of nerves with his heart practically in his throat. Outside, the scene is set: rows of white wooden chairs occupied by a handful of friends and Jack’s few relatives. All gathered for a small, intimate celebration at a house in the countryside, a place you found at the last minute when Whitaker—who freaked out when he discovered the whole thing—let you know it was available and not too far from the city.
“Damn! Looking good, Dr. Abbot!” Santos practically shouted as she entered the house, where you were getting ready.
Jack let out a low, disapproving sound under his breath, which only made Robby chuckle.
“They don’t know when to stop,” Jack said.
“No,” Robby replied, glancing over with a faint smile, “they really don’t.”
Then they looked at each other, an exchange that said so much—a partnership of years, a recognition that only two people who’ve been through hell on earth can share. There was history there. Years of it. The kind that didn’t need to be explained, only recognized. It passed between them in a glance—everything they had seen, everything they had carried, side by side.
Jack had been trying to hold back the tears in his eyes all morning, besides having his nerves on edge, he wanted to stay composed and save all his tears for when you walked down the aisle.
“I’m happy for you, brother,” Robby said, pulling him into a firm embrace, his hand coming up to pat his back twice.
Jack nodded against him, swallowing hard before stepping back.
“Yeah,” he managed, a small smile breaking through. “Thanks for coming back.”
Robby hesitated for just a second as he let go. And when he did, it was devastating. With a heavy heart, he gave Jack’s shoulder a light squeeze, acknowledging the gratitude and sincerity behind it.
“You look…” Javadi paused behind you, her eyes widening at your reflection. “You look amazing.”
You smiled, a little shy under the weight of it. “Thank you.”
“Good thing you didn’t go with the other dress,” Santos added from across the room, adjusting her suit. “You would’ve looked like a wedding cake.”
You laughed, smoothing your hands over the fabric. The dress was simple, no excess, no effort to impress. It fit you the way something chosen carefully does. It felt like you.
“Shen’s about to lose it, saying everyone’s freezing their butts off out there.” Ellis rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. “We’ll go when you’re ready, bride-to-be.”
You turned to the mirror one last time. Everything seems to come crashing down like an avalanche—all the fear, all the insecurity, all those beliefs and doubts that seemed to terrify you your whole life—they’ve vanished.
What remained was something steadier. A version of yourself you hadn’t always known how to reach.
“I’m ready,” you said.
“I’ll get Robby,” Javadi replied, already heading for the door.
Your bridesmaids followed, leaving only Dana behind.
She stepped closer, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Can I say something?”
“Of course.”
“I’m really happy for you,” she said, her voice warm, certain. “Truly.”
You nodded, your throat tightening just slightly. “Thank you.”
She held your gaze for a second longer. “You chose well.”
Yes, you did.
Outside, the air was colder, sharper against your skin. The sun had begun to dip, casting everything in that soft, fleeting light that makes things feel suspended in time.
Robby was waiting near the entrance.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
The music started as you stepped forward.
People stood. You registered it in fragments—Santos lacing her fingers with Garcia’s, Javadi beside Samira and Mateo, Dana already dabbing at her eyes. It all blurred together, because your attention found him almost immediately.
Jack.
Jack's at the small makeshift altar, surrounded by white and yellow flowers. You catch his expression, his eyes welling up, and how his lips curl into a small pout, trying to hold back the tears. Those gentle eyes are all on you. He paces, almost restless, counting down the seconds until he can finally hold you in his arms and call you his wife.
He was looking only at you.
And just like that, everything else fell away.
Step by step, the distance between you closed. You felt Robby beside you, steady and grounding, until you reached the end.
When he placed your hand in Jack’s, the gesture was quiet but full of meaning. Jack nodded to him, something unspoken passing between them, before his attention returned to you.
Your hands meet and everything else ceases to exist except him.
His hands are on yours the whole time, caressing, stroking, making sure that this moment is real and that you are there. From that point on, the ceremony moved forward, but it felt distant, almost secondary. His eyes smiling with the small wrinkles around them, his pupils dancing as a way of saying he loves you, without verbalizing.
It’s a devastating love, the one you feel.
By the time the final words were spoken, there was a quiet shift in the air, like something had settled into place.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Jack touches your face as if it were the first time, a gentle touch, but this time he isn’t hesitant like the first time he kissed you in the car at your front door. No, this touch is certain, firm. His eyes wander over your face, committing every detail and feature to memory for the thousandth time, because he wants to remember this moment—even fifty years from now—when he took you in his arms and kissed you for the first time as his wife.
And you feel deep in your heart, in your very core, the most bittersweet and gentle feeling a person could ever feel.
Jack is yours. You are his. Just as it should be.
And this time, there was no reason to look for answers...
LORD the scene with robby.... asking him if he'll be back from the sabbatical in time for the wedding.... considering everything going on right now in the second season.... I SOBBED
this is so well written, im in love aaaaaaaa
summary: you never knew what love was until Jack showed you its true meaning. and when he asks for your hand in marriage, you have a mission to fulfill.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: age gap, just fluff because this is soft and sweet! also, mentions of childhood trauma and parental neglect.
word count: 3.7k
The metallic tang of adrenaline coats your tongue, sharp and cold. One second, a chill creeps up your legs, the next, your heart is a frantic percussion against your ribs. It’s a physical rebellion, a body reacting to a scenario it was never wired to expect.
First of all, you never imagined yourself in this situation, because everything in your life pointed to the opposite. And if we’re being honest, you have a long and lasting history with the word “marriage.”
You grew up in a house where love sounded like raised voices and doors closing too hard. Where you learned to turn Hannah Montana up loud enough to drown out the arguments downstairs. You didn’t need anyone to explain what was wrong, you could see it in the way your parents spoke to each other, like they were always keeping score, like winning mattered more than understanding.
When they separated, people said it would be better. It was supposed to be simple, one weekend here, one weekend there, a rhythm you could get used to. Something stable.
Supposed to be.
Your mother treated new relationships like life rafts, clinging to anyone who could drown out her own silence. Your father took to the open road, chasing the ghosts of a college dream he claimed the marriage had stolen from him.
By fourteen, you had mastered the art of self-sufficiency. By sixteen, you had learned to mourn your first heartbreak in a vacuum, crying until dawn without expecting a hand on your shoulder.
Independence wasn’t something you chose. It was something that grew around you, like a shell.
Your mother was growing increasingly distant, living the life she had perhaps always longed for. You were just a pawn in her game, one she’d left on the sidelines. You saw your father cry alone in his car after a weekend with him, knowing his life was forever ruined.
And it took many years of therapy and self-care to grow up and break free from the chains that trauma of that magnitude can impose on a human being.
It’s confusing, actually. Even later, in college, when things were supposed to feel different, you carried it with you. Relationships never quite settled. You were there, but never fully. Close, but never close enough. People noticed, like they always do.
For a long time, you wondered if something in you had been built wrong.
It took years—real ones, slow ones—to understand that it wasn’t a flaw. It was a defense. Something that had once kept you safe, even if it kept everything else out too.
That rift only began to heal when you joined the PTMC. A few years of residency were all it took to meet the person who would change your life in irreversible ways.
Everything you believed about love—the idea that it was temporary, something people held onto to soften whatever was missing inside them—started to lose its shape when Abbot came into your life. Sneaky and deliberate, he did exactly what you feared most: reached your heart.
With a tenderness and ease you never imagined possible.
Jack didn’t try to break down the walls, he simply sat outside them until you were ready to open the door. He offered a quiet, steady presence that didn't demand you perform or "fix" yourself.
He noticed things, but he didn’t make a spectacle of them. The way you hesitated before trusting something good. The way you sometimes pulled back without explaining why. He never chased you for answers, you think that’s why you started offering them.
With him, it wasn’t about intensity, it was about consistency. About the quiet, almost unfamiliar feeling of being understood without having to explain everything.
And somehow, without you realizing exactly when it changed, being with him stopped feeling like something you had to manage. It just felt… easy.
That’s why, a year and a half into something you kept mostly to yourselves—built in quiet hours, in late-night walks and coffee left untouched on his kitchen counter—Jack knew.
It wasn’t a realization that arrived all at once. It settled in gradually, until one day it simply felt certain.
It happened on a cold morning in December. The kind of cold that seeps into the windows and lingers. You were in his kitchen, moving around each other with an ease that had become second nature, the sound of something simmering low on the stove, the light outside dimmed by steady snowfall.
You asked him to pass the salt.
Something slid across the marble. You reached for it without looking, already half-turned back to the stove, but what you felt wasn’t glass or metal. It was smaller and smooth. Closed in your hand.
When you looked up, Jack was already watching you.
He stood there in a worn sweatshirt, grey hair slightly out of place, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it after running his hands through it one too many times. There was no performance in him, no buildup. Just that quiet, almost careful expression he got when something mattered.
The box in your hand felt heavier once you understood what it was.
For a second, you didn’t move. And it's not because you didn’t know the answer, but because some part of you was still catching up, trying to reconcile this moment with the version of your life where this never happened.
And yet, there you were.
He didn’t make a speech. He didn’t need to. The question was simple when it came, steady in the same way he had always been with you. You said yes with the stove still on, with the wind pressing faintly against the windows, with everything around you continuing as if nothing had changed.
But it had.
It was so ordinary it almost felt unreal. No grand gesture, no perfect timing—just the two of you, in a space that had slowly become shared, choosing each other out loud.
When he slid the ring onto your finger, his hands were warm, grounding. You noticed, distantly, the way his breath caught, nothing dramatic, but enough to give him away. As if this meant more to him than he had expected it to.
And it did.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it. Not from shock, not from fear, just from the weight of the moment, from the quiet certainty of being there, of being chosen, of choosing back.
And what an irony to find the love of your life where you were least expecting it.
A kind of love that doesn’t try to convince you it exists.
Because that’s what Jack was like—loving him was easy and unquestioning. After a lifetime of wondering if love really exists, if that word, “love,” is actually something that exists, and not just a term rooted in the depths of the human soul to fill the gaps of emotions and paradoxes, you were certain you had found the answer. But there isn’t one. Not a single, clear answer.
What exists are the ways people show up. The small, consistent choices. The things they do without thinking, because it comes naturally to them. And with Jack, the answer revealed itself like that, quietly, without asking for your attention.
In the way he looks at you, soft and focused, like he’s still a little surprised by you. In the offhand “great job” that started as nothing and somehow became everything. In the coffee cups he leaves by your charts, marked with uneven smiley faces that shouldn’t matter as much as they do.
It’s there when his hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers fitting together like they’ve learned the shape by memory. In the way he pulls you close, firm and grounding, like he doesn’t intend to let go anytime soon. Or how his eyes search for you wherever you are. In the kisses that carry more feeling than urgency, in the quiet confession of I love you that never sounds rehearsed, never sounds uncertain.
Those lazy, golden mornings where he’d pull you back into the covers, his arms a protective circle around you, squeezing just enough to let you know he wasn't letting go. The passionate frenzy that followed when he buried himself inside you, all sweat and lust. It was the ultimate dismantling of your walls. Skin against skin. For the first time, you didn't feel the need to remain distant.
So yes, it was easy to love him and even easier, somehow, to believe that he loved you too.
Jack didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. He didn’t try to be more than he was.
He was just there. And for you, that was everything.
So, life in the ER was still hectic, and you were trying to find the right moment to approach Robby. You focused on your screen, typing up charts with more force than necessary, pretending your attention was fully there. It wasn’t. Every few seconds, your gaze drifted, tracking Robby as he danced through the room, stopping, answering, adjusting, always in motion.
“If you press any harder, that keyboard might give up on you.” Dana slid into place beside you, already flipping through her own paperwork, glasses perched low on her nose.
You blinked, only now noticing the tension in your hands. You eased your fingers, exhaling quietly, then glanced back toward Robby, who was deep in conversation with Whitaker.
“Is everything alright, dear?” Dana asked, peering at you over the rim of her glasses.
“No. Actually, yes. Maybe.”
She gave you a look. “That sounds promising.”
You hesitated, then let it out before you could overthink it. “I need to talk to Robby. I just—don’t know how to start.”
“Sweetheart, just rip the band-aid off already, whatever it is. That old man likes things straight and clear as day. You might want to do it soon, though. Before his sabbatical.”
You turned to her fully. “His what?”
“Oh.” She shrugged lightly. “He’ll be gone for a while. Didn’t you hear? So it’ll just be us holding things together.”
Something in your chest tightened, not panic, not quite urgency, but close enough.
You pushed your chair back. “Okay. I’ll do it now.”
“Good for you,” Dana murmured, already back to her charts.
The noise of the ER swallowed you again as you stepped away from the hub. You spotted Robby a few feet ahead, catching him just as Javadi stood frozen in front of him, her expression unreadable. Then she turned abruptly, walking off with Whitaker without a word.
Robby exhaled, and only then did you notice it, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, sharp against his skin.
“Um, Robby?”
“Yes?” he replied, the word edged with fatigue as he shifted his attention to you.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
He checked his watch, then reached for a clipboard a nurse handed him mid-sentence, signing it quickly before looking back up. “Did something happen?”
“No, but… could we talk somewhere private?”
This time, he really looked at you. The tiredness in his features was more apparent up close, his white hair only making it harder to ignore. You swallowed, steadying yourself.
After a brief pause, he nodded toward the break room. You moved first, not giving yourself time to reconsider, trusting that he’d follow.
The door clicked shut, and just like that, the noise of the ER dulled into something distant.
Robby crossed his arms, then motioned for you to sit.
Up close, the nerves were harder to ignore. This wasn’t just any conversation. The man in front of you had been there at the beginning, when everything felt uncertain, when you were still learning how to stand your ground. He had steadied you more times than you could count, sometimes without even realizing it.
There was a kind of respect there that went beyond hierarchy. Something quieter and lasting.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“No—no,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… something else.”
He nodded once. “Alright. I’m listening.”
You drew in a breath, holding onto it for a second before letting it go. “You know that Jack and I… we’re together.”
Robby’s brows lifted slightly, a flicker of confusion passing through his expression.
“I promise this is going somewhere,” you added, almost smiling. “I just—I wanted to say that I’m really grateful. For everything. Since my first day here. You’ve… you’ve done more than you had to, and I don’t think I ever said that properly.”
He watched you quietly, not interrupting.
“And with Jack,” you continued, “I know it hasn’t exactly been… simple. So thank you for letting us have that space. For not making it harder than it already was.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, something softer settling in his features. “You’re a good doctor,” he said. “I did what anyone in my position should do.” A brief pause. “Is everything alright between you two?”
“Yes,” you said, and this time it came easier. “It is. That’s actually… why I’m here.”
You let the next words come without overthinking them.
“We’re getting married.”
For a moment, he didn’t react. Not in any obvious way. Then it caught up to him slowly. A small smile, a quiet breath that turned into something close to a laugh as he ran a hand over his face.
“Well,” he said, looking back at you, “congratulations. I’m glad to hear it.” His expression softened further. “I hope you both are happy.”
“I am. We are!” you answered, and meant it. “But there’s… one more thing.”
That made him pause.
“I’ve never really talked about my parents,” you began, your voice steady but quieter now. “It’s… complicated. They’re not… involved. And they won’t be there.” You let out a short breath, something between a laugh and an exhale. “I think I always knew that would be the case.”
Robby didn’t interrupt. He just listened.
“So,” you went on, the words coming a little faster now, before you could second-guess them, “I was wondering—only if you’d be comfortable with it, and it’s completely okay if not, but it would mean a lot to me if…”
You faltered, then shook your head, a small, nervous laugh slipping out.
“If you walked me down the aisle.”
Your heart pounds in your chest. Robby stands frozen. He just looked at you, like he was trying to understand if he’d heard you correctly.
“It’s really okay if you don’t want to,” you added quickly. “I just thought—”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“Do you want me to do that?”
There was something in his voice now. Something closer to disbelief.
“Yes,” you said, more firmly this time. “I do.”
“Me?”
And then it settled.
“Robby,” you said gently, “you’re very important to me. There isn’t anyone else I would ask.” You hesitated for only a second. “When I picture it… you’re there.”
That did it.
His expression shifted, slowly at first, then all at once. His eyes glossed over, not dramatically, but enough to give him away. For a man who carried so much without showing it, the reaction was quiet and unmistakable.
It took him a moment.
Then he stood, closing the distance between you, hands coming to your shoulders before pulling you into an embrace.
“Of course,” he said, his voice lower now. “Of course I will.”
You nodded against him, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. When you stepped back, you both took a second, like you needed it.
“Thank you,” you said, softer this time.
He gave a small nod, still collecting himself.
You turned toward the door, your hand already on the handle, ready to step back into everything waiting outside.
“Oh—” you added, glancing back, “you’ll be back in time, right?”
“For what?” he asked, a trace of confusion returning.
“Your sabbatical. Dana mentioned it.” You shrugged lightly. “You’ll be back for the wedding?”
There was a flicker of something in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible.
“Yes,” he said. “I will.”
You smiled, something lighter settling in your chest now.
“Good,” you murmured. “Thank you, Robby.”
“Look at you,” Robby said, reaching up to straighten Jack’s bow tie. “All sharp and polished, didn’t think I’d see the day.”
Jack didn’t laugh. He was too aware of everything, his hands, slightly damp, the tightness in his chest, the way his heartbeat refused to settle into anything steady.
“Fuck off,” he muttered, eyes fixed ahead as he adjusted the tie again, even though it was already straight.
Especially Jack, who’s a bundle of nerves with his heart practically in his throat. Outside, the scene is set: rows of white wooden chairs occupied by a handful of friends and Jack’s few relatives. All gathered for a small, intimate celebration at a house in the countryside, a place you found at the last minute when Whitaker—who freaked out when he discovered the whole thing—let you know it was available and not too far from the city.
“Damn! Looking good, Dr. Abbot!” Santos practically shouted as she entered the house, where you were getting ready.
Jack let out a low, disapproving sound under his breath, which only made Robby chuckle.
“They don’t know when to stop,” Jack said.
“No,” Robby replied, glancing over with a faint smile, “they really don’t.”
Then they looked at each other, an exchange that said so much—a partnership of years, a recognition that only two people who’ve been through hell on earth can share. There was history there. Years of it. The kind that didn’t need to be explained, only recognized. It passed between them in a glance—everything they had seen, everything they had carried, side by side.
Jack had been trying to hold back the tears in his eyes all morning, besides having his nerves on edge, he wanted to stay composed and save all his tears for when you walked down the aisle.
“I’m happy for you, brother,” Robby said, pulling him into a firm embrace, his hand coming up to pat his back twice.
Jack nodded against him, swallowing hard before stepping back.
“Yeah,” he managed, a small smile breaking through. “Thanks for coming back.”
Robby hesitated for just a second as he let go. And when he did, it was devastating. With a heavy heart, he gave Jack’s shoulder a light squeeze, acknowledging the gratitude and sincerity behind it.
“You look…” Javadi paused behind you, her eyes widening at your reflection. “You look amazing.”
You smiled, a little shy under the weight of it. “Thank you.”
“Good thing you didn’t go with the other dress,” Santos added from across the room, adjusting her suit. “You would’ve looked like a wedding cake.”
You laughed, smoothing your hands over the fabric. The dress was simple, no excess, no effort to impress. It fit you the way something chosen carefully does. It felt like you.
“Shen’s about to lose it, saying everyone’s freezing their butts off out there.” Ellis rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. “We’ll go when you’re ready, bride-to-be.”
You turned to the mirror one last time. Everything seems to come crashing down like an avalanche—all the fear, all the insecurity, all those beliefs and doubts that seemed to terrify you your whole life—they’ve vanished.
What remained was something steadier. A version of yourself you hadn’t always known how to reach.
“I’m ready,” you said.
“I’ll get Robby,” Javadi replied, already heading for the door.
Your bridesmaids followed, leaving only Dana behind.
She stepped closer, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Can I say something?”
“Of course.”
“I’m really happy for you,” she said, her voice warm, certain. “Truly.”
You nodded, your throat tightening just slightly. “Thank you.”
She held your gaze for a second longer. “You chose well.”
Yes, you did.
Outside, the air was colder, sharper against your skin. The sun had begun to dip, casting everything in that soft, fleeting light that makes things feel suspended in time.
Robby was waiting near the entrance.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready.”
The music started as you stepped forward.
People stood. You registered it in fragments—Santos lacing her fingers with Garcia’s, Javadi beside Samira and Mateo, Dana already dabbing at her eyes. It all blurred together, because your attention found him almost immediately.
Jack.
Jack's at the small makeshift altar, surrounded by white and yellow flowers. You catch his expression, his eyes welling up, and how his lips curl into a small pout, trying to hold back the tears. Those gentle eyes are all on you. He paces, almost restless, counting down the seconds until he can finally hold you in his arms and call you his wife.
He was looking only at you.
And just like that, everything else fell away.
Step by step, the distance between you closed. You felt Robby beside you, steady and grounding, until you reached the end.
When he placed your hand in Jack’s, the gesture was quiet but full of meaning. Jack nodded to him, something unspoken passing between them, before his attention returned to you.
Your hands meet and everything else ceases to exist except him.
His hands are on yours the whole time, caressing, stroking, making sure that this moment is real and that you are there. From that point on, the ceremony moved forward, but it felt distant, almost secondary. His eyes smiling with the small wrinkles around them, his pupils dancing as a way of saying he loves you, without verbalizing.
It’s a devastating love, the one you feel.
By the time the final words were spoken, there was a quiet shift in the air, like something had settled into place.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Jack touches your face as if it were the first time, a gentle touch, but this time he isn’t hesitant like the first time he kissed you in the car at your front door. No, this touch is certain, firm. His eyes wander over your face, committing every detail and feature to memory for the thousandth time, because he wants to remember this moment—even fifty years from now—when he took you in his arms and kissed you for the first time as his wife.
And you feel deep in your heart, in your very core, the most bittersweet and gentle feeling a person could ever feel.
Jack is yours. You are his. Just as it should be.
And this time, there was no reason to look for answers...
summary: You're obsessed with Jack Abbot, the kind of obsession where you want to be his no matter what. On a girls' night out, a daring phone call leads to a series of events you could never have imagined.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of pittfest, smut (slightly, nothing explicit) sex w/ no protection, jack is soft and takes care of the reader!
word count: 7.4k
Fuck Jack Abbot.
Your mouth tastes like vodka and something sweet—cranberry, maybe. Your feet ache from dancing, sweat clings to the small of your back, and the hem of your dress keeps creeping up your thighs while you and Trinity move through the crowd to an old Beyoncé song.
You're not that drunk, but the alcohol definitely does something to your mind. The lights pulse low and warm, bodies packed together on the dance floor—couples, strangers, people chasing that brief electric feeling that only happens in places like this. You close your eyes, your body taking on a life of its own, sliding to every beat, without fail.
Baby boy you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies. I think about you all the time, I see you in my dreams.
You hate that your mind wanders directly to gray hair, large, attentive, eager hands, broad, muscular shoulders, just from one song. But what could you do? Everything reminded you of him. It's infuriating.
What annoys you isn’t the attraction. It’s the silence, the days he disappears between shifts, completely unreachable. No messages. No calls. Like the man simply powers down when he leaves the hospital. And that's okay, you couldn't force yourself to be spoiled, because Jack was a great doctor and a very busy one, but you wanted him for yourself. Was that too much to ask?
But God, you want him.
Getting involved with Jack was a mistake from the start. Casual sex was supposed to be simple. Efficient. Stress relief between brutal shifts in the PTMC emergency department. Except somewhere along the way, you stopped being satisfied with just that.
You wanted his attention and that’s the real problem.
You don’t even see him every shift, which is criminal, honestly. Half the fun is catching his eye across the trauma bay and throwing him a look that makes the corner of his mouth twitch—that small, dangerous smile he tries to hide from the rest of the staff.
You communicated in your own language, throwing almost everyone off, even Robby. Trinity, on the other hand, suspected something was going on because you share an apartment, and when he picked you up one night to go to dinner—because he gets it in his head to be a gentleman—Trinity happened to glance out the apartment window.
She’d narrowed her eyes immediately.
“That truck across the street looks familiar.”
You’d laughed, badly, and changed the subject while texting Jack to drive around the block and wait at the next corner.
It’s not that the relationship needs to be secret. Technically, there isn’t a relationship, just sex. Just two doctors blowing off steam between impossible shifts. Jack taking you to dinner sometimes doesn’t mean anything. Neither does the way he walks you to the door or the fact that you occasionally end up in his apartment instead of yours.
You never stay the night., because, again—Just sex.
Except somewhere in the middle of all those blurred lines, it quietly stopped feeling that way.
And so, because of all that pent-up frustration that Jack Abbot was too busy to remember you existed, you decided to have a girls' night out with your friend. The place you picked wasn’t exactly a bar. It was the kind of place where the bass lived in your ribs and the lights never stopped moving. Neon everywhere, the air thick with perfume, liquor, and sweat. Bodies packed close, the dance floor pulsing like a heartbeat. Three shots of tequila in, you were feeling warm, loose, reckless.
And, unfortunately, still thinking about Jack.
After the song changes, you throw your hair back and take a deep breath, droplets of sweat gather on your temple, strands of hair clinging to the back of your neck and a dangerous idea pops into your head. A very bad one.
“I'll be right back!” You shout over the music.
Trinity barely glances up. She lifts her citrus drink in acknowledgment before disappearing back into the rhythm of the crowd, hips swaying like she belongs to the music.
Your heels click on the floor and you make a beeline for the bathroom. Hungry eyes devour you along the way, one guy in particular stares at you for too long: dark hair, decent face. You hold his gaze just because he's cute.
Incredibly, there’s no line for the bathroom, just a group of girls fixing their makeup, two in the corner of the sink pretending very unsatisfactorily that they are not using illicit substances. You slip into a stall and sit on the closed lid of the toilet.
Your phone feels heavier than it should when you pull it out.
The screen lights up your face in the dim stall. Your eyes look a little glassy, your lipstick’s slightly smudged. You scroll through your messages until you land on Jack’s. The last one still says read. Your stomach tightens.
You remember exactly why you sent it. You’d know it was his day off.
You: Can I see you?
Jack: Can't today, honey.
You: Oh, okay.
Honey. The stupid nickname that gives you chills, that weighs heavily on your stomach and makes your whole body knot up.
“Honey my ass,” you mutter, groggy and irritated.
Determined to do something you'll probably regret, you press the call button. The music in the background is a witness to your mistakes. You bite your fingernail, bouncing your heel against the tile floor, nerves buzzing under your skin.
Your heart pounds at the second ring, but it calms down at the fourth, fifth... For a moment you wonder if he’s going to let it go to voicemail after all. Then a rustling sound fills your ears—fabric shifting, maybe a hand fumbling for the phone—and your stomach flips.
Damn it.
“Hey, honey.”
“Hi,” you say, swallowing hard. You push yourself up from the toilet lid and begin pacing the tiny cubicle, one heel tapping nervously against the tile. “I just—” The words almost die in your throat.
For half a second you consider hanging up, pretending this never happened. But the alcohol gives you that dangerous little push again, the one that always convinces you that ruining Jack Abbot’s night is a perfectly reasonable decision.
“Are you okay?” There is genuine concern on the other end of the line.
“Oh, I'm great! I'm just calling to tell you that I'm having the best night of my life. Without you. Can you imagine?”
“Babygirl, have you been drinking?”
“Fuck you, Jack.” The words come out faster now, sharpened by tequila and wounded pride. “I’m having the time of my life, and guess what? There’s this reeeeeally hot guy who wants to take me home. And maybe I’ll let him. Actually—no, I will let him.” You laugh, a little wild, a little unsteady. “I’m going to have the best fuck of my life, and he’s going to do it so much better than you. You’re the one losing out, asshole!”
Oops, I did it again! it's the soundtrack to your rage. Jack’s about to say something, you hang up before he can finish. Your hand presses against your chest as your heart pounds like thunder beneath your ribs. You have absolutely no idea where that burst of audacity came from, but it’s already done.
When you push open the stall door, you realize you had an audience. Three girls are watching you through the mirror’s reflection.
“Way to go, girl!” One of them smiles, her lips crimson red.
“Screw him!” says the other. You smile in agreement with yourself.
You grin despite yourself and nod in agreement. The alcohol isn’t hitting quite the same anymore. Confronting the man you’re stupidly, desperately obsessed with has a way of sobering your system a little.
A shy but confident smile blossoms on your face. Another hit from the 2000s is playing when you return, squeezing through bodies until you find Trinity with another shot of tequila in her hands.
“Cheers!” she shouts, her glittery eye makeup catching every flicker of neon light.
You raise your tiny glass to meet hers. “Lots of tequila shots!” you yell back, laughing.
“And fewer shifts!” Trinity laughs.
The glasses clink, though the sound disappears beneath the pounding music. When you toss the tequila back, a little spills from the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin and leaving a warm trail along the curve of your chest. The burn hits your throat immediately, and you shake your head as the heat spreads through you.
Everything intensifies, the sweat, the alcohol, the thumping music. You close your eyes and let your instincts guide you, forgetting for a few moments what happened. In fact, this was what you wanted.
If Jack thought he was too good for you, then fine. You’d find someone else.
A few songs later, you’re borderline euphoric.
Somehow, Garcia had materialized as a hologram, much to Trinity's surprise. They dance together, and you can't help but smile when you see your friend so excited.
For a moment you just stand there, catching your breath while the strobe lights slice the room into fragments of color and shadow. The music pounds through your chest, vibrating somewhere behind your ribs.
And then that feeling creeps in. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Your smile fades slightly as your eyes drift across the crowd, following the movement of bodies and flashing lights. Faces blur together—strangers, strangers, strangers—until one figure catches in the flicker of a passing beam. A face half-lit, half swallowed by shadow. Your blood runs cold.
He’s standing only a few yards away, partially hidden among the crowd, tall enough that you’d recognize that posture anywhere. His expression is carved from stone, stern, unreadable, the kind of look that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Maybe you're imagining things and he's not really here. When you look again, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never there. Your balance falters and you stumble slightly, your heel catching on nothing as you squint through the flashing lights, trying to spot him again.
Did you imagine that?
Someone says something close to your ear, but you don't hear it. Nimble hands touch your waist, pressing your body against his. Your head is still spinning, your mind halfway convinced you just hallucinated the one man who can ruin your mood with a single look.
The stranger moves with the music, confident hands resting on your hips as the two of you move together. The closeness is easy, the heat of another body against yours. The press of a hand sliding slightly lower, fingers brushing your thigh before gliding back up again.
And of course, because your brain is cruel, you picture Jack.
You imagine that he’s holding your body with his firm, calloused hands, that his masculine arms envelop you, making you feel the warmth radiating from his chest. Hands touch your thigh and slide down, then up, taking with them part of the pink dress you're wearing. Your body reacts before your brain does, arching back slightly, leaning into the contact, chasing the sensation like it belongs to him. The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
God.
You're desperate to kiss him. You want to taste him, feel his warmth, want him everywhere. You turn on your heels and when your eyes meet the face that has been dancing with you for the last three minutes, you freeze. It's not Jack, it's just that cute guy you bumped into before going to the bathroom.
He smiles, clearly thinking things have been going very well. Your brain short-circuits.
“Oh—” You step back immediately. “Sorry.”
The guy looks confused, reaching out as if to catch your elbow, but you slip away before he can. You weave through the crowd, bumping shoulders and muttering quick apologies as you push toward the edge of the dance floor.
No one really sees you, you're just another person trying to get from one end of the dance floor to the other. The pressure of it all forces you forward until, finally, you reach a small pocket of space near the edge where you can actually breathe. You glance over your shoulder, checking to see if the guy from before followed you.
Relief barely has time to settle before your chest collides with someone.
You instinctively step back, ready to mumble a quick apology and keep moving, but something about the moment changes before your brain catches up. A strange shiver runs through your body, the kind that starts low in your spine and climbs upward.
Jack Abbot is standing right in front of you and for a second you just stare at him. Colored lights slide across his face—blue, red, violet—each flash sharpening the lines of his expression. He’s watching you carefully, almost cautiously, his features calm but alert, like he’s assessing a situation.
You blink once, twice. Like maybe the image will disappear if you reset your vision. Everything is in motion except you. Jack tilts his head slightly to look at you.
“Jack?” Your voice is quiet. “What are you doing here?”
Your gaze betrays you immediately. It drops for half a second, to the outline of his biceps under the fitted black T-shirt, to the tan of his skin, scattered with those faint freckles you’ve memorized without meaning to.
There’s something about the way he stands, relaxed but solid, confident without even trying, that makes every other man in the room feel like background noise. Jack doesn’t compete with people. He just exists, and somehow that’s enough.
One look. That’s all it takes for every bit of attitude you had five minutes ago to evaporate.
“You called me,” he says simply.
You choke on your own words.
“I didn't—”
Jack moves deftly, it’s quick, smooth, almost effortless. One hand lands against the small of your back, firm and steady, guiding you to turn with him. Suddenly you’re walking in the opposite direction, straight toward the exit, like the decision has already been made.
Your body follows automatically.
The contact sends a sharp chill down your spine. His palm rests low against your back, warm even through the thin fabric of your dress, steering you through the moving crowd with quiet certainty.
It feels unfair how natural it is, like your bodies already know how to move together.
The familiar scent of him hits you a second later—clean, warm, unmistakably him—and it lands harder than the tequila ever did. Suddenly you're hyperaware of everything: the brush of his arm against yours, the solid line of his chest behind you whenever someone bumps into him.
Every step toward the door feels heavier and every inch of him feels dangerously close.
The night air outside the club is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat and noise you just left behind. Laughter spills from the open door behind you, and somewhere down the street someone shouts something unintelligible, followed by more laughter. But all of it fades into the background. All you can really feel is him.
His hand is still firm at the small of your back, guiding you along the sidewalk. His body moves close enough that every step brushes him against you, the steady warmth of him impossible to ignore.
“Jack,” you murmur, trying to slow him.
He doesn’t stop.
“Let's get to the car, baby.”
“No, wait.” You frown and pull away just enough so you can turn and look at him. “You're… here.”
“Of course I am. You called me.”
“I don’t—” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t want you here. I was having fun.”
You whine like a grumpy baby.
Liar. That's what you are.
Jack nods once so subtly that you almost don't notice. He takes a step, his chest meets yours, warm and solid, and suddenly the small space between your bodies disappears. The contact sends a quiet jolt through you, an immediate awareness of how long it’s been since you felt him this close.
“Really, honey?” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “That’s not what it sounded like on the phone.”
You open your mouth to give a sharp reply, but it dies the moment his fingers drift down from your ear to your chin, tilting your face slightly. The pad of his thumb traces slowly across your lower lip, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.
“How much did you drink?” He says softly, his hoarse voice sliding into your ears.
You feel your stomach sink, a warm sensation creeping into your belly.
“Not much.” You whisper.
“How much?” he repeats, a little firmer this time.
You stare at him instead of answering. Up close, you can see every familiar detail: the faint silver threaded through his hair, the sun-warmed tone of his skin, the scatter of freckles across his shoulders where his shirt collar dips slightly open. Your mind drifts somewhere reckless, already building wild little scenarios around the man standing in front of you
“A few shots of tequila.” You look up and lean in, touching your nose to his.
For half a second, Jack allows it, but then he puts his hands on your waist, a quiet smile pulls at one corner of his mouth.
“Let's get you sober, shall we, sweetheart?” He looks down as he says it, his thumb softening your skin over your dress, pressing just enough to remind you exactly where his hand is.
You give him a mischievous smile and try to wrap your arms around his neck. “‘Mm… Not drunk.”
Jack almost laughs and smiles slightly, his throat bobbing and the silence remaining. You feel almost undressed by the way he looks at you, an overwhelming confidence.
“Sure.” Jack buries his fingers in the roots of your hair, pulling your face toward him.
For a split second you’re certain he’s about to kiss you. You barely move. Barely breathing.
“Did my girl want attention?” he murmurs, voice smooth as dark velvet. “Mm?” You part your lips, leaning in just enough for him to take the initiative. Jack moves closer, you hold your breath, then he whispers in your ear. “Since you're so needy, I'll give you what you want.”
Your stomach drops. He pulls away from you, the loss of his arm around you feels abrupt, almost physical, like something important just slipped out of reach.
Embarrassment creeps in, slow and uncomfortable. Thinking about how stupid this whole situation is. Jack came here looking for you. You drank too much and said some stupid things.
And apparently said something stupid enough that he actually showed up.
When you reach the truck, Jack unlocks it with a quiet click.
He moves ahead of you, opening the door before you even think to reach for it. One hand rests briefly at your elbow as you sit, steadying you while you slide onto the seat.
The leather is cool against your legs. Your head might be a little fuzzy from the tequila, but you’re very aware of what’s happening. Probably more aware than you’d like to be.
Without a word, he bends down on the sidewalk.
Your brows knit together. “What are you doing?”
Instead, his fingers move to the thin strap around your ankle. With a small, precise motion, he unfastens it. The other shoe comes off just as easily. He sets both of them carefully on the floor of the car before guiding your legs farther inside with a light push at your shin.
The movement makes your dress slide higher up your thighs. Your knees press together automatically, heat creeping up your neck as the fabric bunches dangerously close to revealing more than it should.
If Jack notices, he gives absolutely no sign.
“Let's get you comfy, yeah?” He says calmly.
He leans—almost on purpose—over your body to fasten your seatbelt. You turn your face at the same time as him, breathing in his scent, watching from a few inches away his stubble and dark eyes in the shadow of the night.
Your breath leaves you slowly. The ache in your chest is almost physical now. Wanting him this much feels ridiculous, and yet there it is—heavy and persistent. Jack takes his time. He clicks the seatbelt into place, then adjusts it slightly so it sits comfortably against your waist, smoothing the strap down with absent care.
But he doesn’t move away immediately. For a moment—two seconds, maybe—his face lingers close to yours. Close enough that if you leaned forward just a little… You could kiss him.
The thought hits you before you can stop it.
However, when you try to move, he pulls away as if you were the plague. The shift is sharp, almost clinical, like he just brushed something irritating off his sleeve.
He closes the door and you shrink slightly into the seat, staring out the window, your reflection staring back at you in the dark glass. Heat crawls up your neck again, but this time it’s embarrassing.
Whatever you had, it's over. That was the only certainty: Jack Abbot would never land another finger on you again. He probably thinks you’re childish and impulsive. Not worth the trouble.
The driver’s door opens and shuts. A second later the engine starts, the low rumble filling the quiet street.
You don’t look at him. Which’s difficult, because you can still see him in your peripheral vision, hands steady on the wheel, forearms flexing slightly as he shifts the car into gear. The movement pulls the fabric of his T-shirt tight across his arms, every line of muscle catching the dim glow from the dashboard.
You hate that you notice. You hate that he looks completely unaffected.
So you retreat. You pull your legs up onto the seat, curling slightly toward the door, resting your head against the cool glass of the window while the city lights slide past outside.
You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know you’re moving.
Strong arms lift you from the seat, the sudden shift pulling you out of that hazy half-sleep. Instinctively, your hands slide up around Jack’s neck to steady yourself.
“That’s not necessary,” you mumble, irritation creeping into your voice. “I can walk!”
Jack closes the car door with his foot and smiles mockingly.
“Just giving my girl the attention she deserves.”
My girl. He says it as if it really means something.
His apartmen’s pitch black when you enter, and Jack's familiar scent of clean clothes and cologne hits you. He carries you to the bedroom where you've been multiple times, just in different situations.
You take advantage of the situation, pressing your nose against his neck, brushing the tip just to get his attention, anything to make him look at you. But no, he goes into the bathroom and leaves you on the marble sink. As he turns on the light, you take a deep breath, then he steps closer and braces both arms around you, one on either side, effectively boxing you in. His chest is inches from yours, the solid line of his shoulders blocking your escape.
“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?” He murmurs against your hair.
You actually have several ideas. Very good ones, in your opinion, but judging by the way he’s been behaving all night, none of them are about to happen. Still… no one ever died from trying.
“How about a shower?” You perk up at the idea, but something’s off. You don't object when he grabs you by the waist to lift you off the sink and turns you around to slide off your dress, which falls in a puddle at your feet.
Automatically, you bring your hair forward, slightly covering your breasts with your arms, which is stupid, because Jack has seen you naked more times than you can count, not only that, but there’s something about the care with which he touches you that makes the moment intimate and vulnerable.
You step out of the dress and peel off the last piece of clothing, suddenly aware of the cool air on your skin. Without his hands on you, you feel oddly exposed, hugging your arms around yourself for warmth.
Jack moves calmly around the bathroom, pulling the small shower chair aside before turning the water on. Steam begins to curl into the air. Then he lifts you again—effortless—and sets you gently inside the shower.
You frown, unhappy. “Aren't you coming in?”
He adjusts the water and you shrink even more. He looks up at you and gives a faint, patient smile. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair away from your cheek.
“Not today, honey.”
This is the end. Literally, the worst day of your goddamn life. Damn the moment tequila gave you enough courage to do something stupid.
“Are you gonna be a good girl,” he asks quietly, “and let me take care of you?”
Then you nod, water droplets sliding down your eyelashes as you look at him, feeling more exposed than you have in a long time.
After that, everything slips out of focus.
One moment Jack’s standing close, carefully washing the last traces of the night from your skin. His hands move with quiet patience, planned and controlled, as if he’s following invisible boundaries he refuses to cross. The warmth of the water, the steadiness of his touch, it all melts together until the scene feels distant, almost dreamlike.
The next moment you’re wrapped in a towel.
The air outside the shower feels cool against your damp skin as he guides you down the hallway. His hand rests lightly at your back, steady and reassuring, and then you’re in his bedroom again.
Somewhere along the way, he hands you something soft to wear.
You manage to pull it on, movements slow and clumsy with sleep. Your hair’s still damp when you rub it absently with the towel before letting it fall over your shoulders. The room’s dim, the soft glow from a lamp turning everything hazy at the edges.
Your body sinks into the mattress the moment you lie down.
Jack moves quietly around the room, but your eyes can barely follow him anymore. His shape passes through your vision like a shadow—broad shoulders, the faint sound of a drawer closing, the rustle of fabric.
You’re already drifting. The last thing you see clearly is him sitting on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly under his weight. His hand reaches out, warm and steady as it cups your cheek, brushing your skin with a softness that makes something deep in your chest ache.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” you murmur.
Your voice’s thick with sleep, the words slurring slightly together. Your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, you feel his thumb move gently along your cheekbone.
And just before the darkness pulls you under, you hear his voice: low, close, and quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Let’s get some sleep, sweetheart.”
It's dark, too dark for you to see anything, but your body wakes up anyway. Your hands grope the bed, the soft fabric, and despite the confusion, you just know you're in his bed. Everything’s unmistakable, the softness of the mattress, the smooth sheets against your skin, his scent that’s everywhere.
The other side of the bed is cold when you touch it, which means that all your thoughts from last night were right: Jack had grown tired of you. Last night... Holy shit. Memories start to push through the fog—tequila, the club, calling him like an idiot, him showing up. You groan and drop your head back against the pillow, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose like maybe you can rewind time if you try hard enough.
It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t.
As you look at your own body, you feel the soft touch of Jack's button-down shirt, one you've never seen him actually wear. It’s big on you, soft from use, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You’ve never actually seen him wear this one before, but somehow it ended up on your body. A cool breeze comes in through the window, and as you search for your phone, you can't even remember where you put it.
“Perfect,” you mutter under your breath.
The digital clock on the dresser glows faint red in the darkness and points to exactly 3:12 a.m. So you put your feet out and feel the cold floor, and even barefoot, you make your way silently, on tiptoe, to the hallway.
You need your phone. Trinity must have sent about thirty messages by now. And your clothes—your dress, your shoes. You could grab them, order an Uber, and disappear before this gets any more embarrassing.
You swing your feet over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, and the chill shoots straight up your legs, waking you a little more. Still, you move quietly, almost instinctively on your toes as you make your way toward the door.
You feel your way along the walls of the apartment, your mind alert to every sound, every crack, and every movement you make. To your surprise, when you reach the living room, there’s a lamp next to the sofa and Jack’s there. He’s leaning back against the couch, one arm resting along the back while the other holds an open book. The warm light spills across his chest, catching on the faint scatter of freckles across his skin.
He looks up as soon as he sees you, then lowers the book and you don't know what to do, standing on tiptoe, looking at him completely embarrassed.
“Where are you going, honey?” he asks quietly.
“Um... I was going to... look for my clothes and... my phone, call an Uber, go home.”
You attempt a small smile. It’s the kind where you keep your lips firmly closed. Jack frowns and puts the book on the coffee table.
“C’mere.”
He says it more like an order, not a suggestion and you walk like a helpless animal, tucking your legs and arms together and sitting on the other end, far enough away that the embarrassment affects you. It's still partially dark, the small lampshade illuminating nothing but the freckles on Jack's broad chest, his salt and pepper locks, which you avoid staring at for more than two seconds and fail gloomily.
He watches you as you avoid his gaze, playing with the hem of the shirt as if it were interesting enough.
“Hey,” he calls you, his voice hoarser than ever. “Look at me.”
And then you look. And it kills you, because the truth is, this whole mess started with something small and stupid that grew into something much bigger than you ever planned. It started with affection—something neither of you were supposed to let happen. It was too late, you knew that from the moment you got involved with him ten months ago, when he saw you crying in a dark room after Pittfest.
You didn't expect to get attached to Jack Abbot, it was supposed to be just a physical thing, with no strings attached, but Jack is a real man, the kind who takes you to his house and cooks dinner for you, who opens the car door and gives you a ride when you have a panic attack at the end of the workday. You liked him more than you could admit, and maybe the alcohol made you realize that, perhaps, he doesn't feel the same way about you.
“I'm so embarrassed.” Your hands come up to cover your face as you drag in a slow breath.
Jack approaches, you can tell by the rustling of the sofa.
“Hey, sweetheart. Why’s that?”
“‘Cause...” Your voice fails you. You take your hands away from your face and he’s so incredibly close that it hurts. “I was stupid. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re probably busy, and you came all the way to—” You stop, suddenly remembering something. “Actually… how did you even find me?”
He reaches for your hand, his fingers close around it gently, steadying it before he lifts your wrist toward his mouth. Your breath catches. His lips press softly against the inside of your wrist.
Once. Then again.
Slow, unhurried kisses that move from your wrist to the back of your hand, then up along your forearm. Each one intentional, like he has all the time in the world.
Before you can fully process it, his arm slides around your waist, the next second you’re being pulled onto his lap and the movement steals the air from your lungs.
Your breathing quickens when he slips his hand under your shirt and smoothes your bare skin, caressing you slowly.
“You needed me,” he says quietly. “So I came.”
“I’m sure you had something better to do,” you murmur, trying to sound casual. “Or someone.”
Jack doesn’t even react to the attempt, he just watches you. And that somehow makes it worse.
Because the way he looks at you makes it painfully clear he knows exactly how much power he has over you. And the worst part is… you’d probably let him do anything he wanted, even if it meant dealing with the consequences later.
“You drive me insane, you know that?” His voice drops lower, rough with something that sounds dangerously close to frustration. His grip shakes at your waist and you lean in, holding Jack's shoulders for support. His palm slides up and down your back in a delicate, pleasurable movement that gives you goosebumps.
“Jack...”
“Yeah, honey. Did y’know that?” Your heart's beating too fast now. “How exactly,” he continues quietly, “did you convince yourself I’d be interested in anyone else… when you’re the only woman I can think about?”
For a second your brain simply stops. That can’t be right. You must still be half asleep. Dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
“...What?”
Jack’s hand moves to the buttons of the shirt you’re wearing. You don’t even remember when he decided to start undoing them. One by one, his fingers work them open with slow patience, like he’s in no hurry at all.
“You drive me out of my fucking mind,” he mutters. “In ways you probably don’t even realize.”
Another button slips free.
“My pretty girl needed my attention, didn’t she?”
The words settle deep in your chest.
“As if any other man would dare put his hands on what belongs to me.”
Your heart stumbles.
The contact triggered an immediate sympathetic nervous system response. A spike of adrenaline surged through your system, leaving your heart rate erratic and every nerve ending painfully sensitive.
When the last button comes undone, you close your eyes. You can feel his gaze moving over your face, studying every small reaction. His breath brushes your collarbone, warm against your skin, and a shiver spreads down your body before you can stop it.
You want him so badly that your body glows with longing every time he touches you, even if it's unwitting.
His beard brushes against your skin, his mouth almost touching your neck, but your body tilts, sways, his hand holds you firmly at an angle where you can't escape.
“No one,” he murmured, his lips grazing the hollow between your breasts. “...touches…” He dragged a path downward, his mouth searing against your skin. “…what’s mine.”
The sound that escaped you was sharp, raw. When you looked down, his focus was absolute, his touch careful, as if he were mapping you with devotion.
You arched your back as Jack settled into the sofa. The contact through the thin fabric of your lace was immediate, a localized heat that spiked your pulse and forced a jagged moan from your throat.
“So good for me...” You lean on him as your hips curl, the friction was a slow burn, a steady accumulation of kinetic energy between you “Fuck. S’that you want, honey?”
The answer caught in your throat, a half-formed word that dissolved into a moan. Jack didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He moved with a devastating efficiency, peeling the shirt from your shoulders and sweeping your hair aside, his eyes never leaving yours. He wanted every inch of skin available to him.
When you get rid of the piece of clothing, you push him against the couch and hold his face with your fingertips, his beard tickling your skin, his hand going straight to your ass and his fingers squeezing your flesh hard.
“I want you.” You caught his lower lip between your teeth, a sharp, demanding bite before you crashed into a kiss that felt less like an affection and more like a collision. Jack is gentle but fierce, he pushes your hair away, nibbles your lower lip, his tongue tangled with yours, his mouth swallowing every sound you tried to make as if he were memorizing the rhythm of your breath.
“Be good for me.” His breathing is ragged as his chest rises and falls rapidly. “Mm?”
He grabs you by the waist and you get up, stumbling over the rug, the shirt thrown on the floor, the shoes you hadn't seen in the dark because you're too busy holding his face, swallowing him as if he were the only thing that matters.
He sits up on the bed, carrying you with him until you're straddling him, and the feeling of him beneath you, knowing that you're in charge, makes you extremely wet. He pulls your hair to the side, kisses your neck, your skin, and bites your shoulder when you grind on his lap, begging to be touched there.
Abbot had a devastating confidence in the dark. He made it clear that your pleasure was his only directive. He reclaimed your mouth, his hand sliding the lace aside to find the epicenter of the heat. You sobbed into his kiss, he simply drank the sound down. His thumb moved in a slow, rhythmic circle that teased the very edge of what you could handle. He bites your chin and watches your microexpressions when he touches you there, his fingers rubbing, but never really in.
“Jack...” You whimper, feeling the need for more, always more, more, more.
“Want that, honey?” A ghost of a smirk touched his lips as you tightened your grip on his shoulders, forcing yourself down against his fingers.
“Mm-hmm,” You say, incoherently.
“Mm-hmm,” He mimicked, a low, dark chuckle vibrating in his chest.
“Can you cum for me like that, honey?” Jack whispers under your skin, where he nibbles your nipple and watches the instant reaction of your skin to his touch. “Bet you can.”
He didn't make you wait. He knew exactly how to move, finding the precise rhythm to push you over the edge, spreading his fingers everywhere. The repetitive, relentless motion put you into a trance until the tension finally snapped. The climax hit like a physical shock, a wave of heat that undulated through your core and left you breathless.
“There you go,” Jack kisses your shoulder as he holds your body during your climax, a perfect ‘O’ blossoming your lips. “My pretty girl, s’good for me, huh?”
Your cheeks are rosy, your neck covered in sweat, and adrenaline crackling in your veins.
“You're right,” You lean in, kissing his neck, then his jaw… Everywhere. “I'm yours.”
Something awakens in Jack's eyes and kindness gives way to something sharper. It’s a transition you recognize, a silent understanding that only exists between the two of you. Both breathless, he exhales a low curse before reclaiming your mouth with a desperation that suggests he never should have let go in the first place.
“Damn right you are.” He rasps against your lips, his voice dropping an octave.
Your hands fumble with the fabric of his sweatpants, fueled by a frantic need to close the gap. When you finally make contact, the heat of him is staggering. Jack lets out a wrecked moan, his eyes snapping shut as his hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he devours your mouth.
“Damn, baby.” His voice is a whisper in the dark. You look into his eyes, in that inky gradient bathed in the night.
You're in sync, heart to heart, pulsing with adrenaline. When you touch him, pulling him out, it's pure euphoria. Jack groans when your hand pumps him, moving up and down, so slowly that he could die. You lift your hips, ignoring everything else, because at that moment it's just you and him.
It feels like a slow-motion collision. Jack whimpers, his features contorted in a sharp mask of pleasure that looks almost like pain. You move with a torturous rhythm, both of you suspended in that heavy, humid space where control starts to slip.
“Oh my God, Jack!” You moan, trying to keep your movements steady, but his hands lock onto your hips, his fingers digging in as he pulls you down, forcing a deeper connection.
“You're going to take it all, aren't you, baby?” Jack mumbles, his voice thick and broken. “Shit—ah, baby—you're doing so good...”
The intensity of the kiss is overwhelming, triggering a sharp contraction in your core. A raw, unyielding force takes over as Jack hitches the pace, swallowing your whimpers and turning them into his own. He’s murmuring into the crook of your neck now—broken sentences, encouragement, breathless praise—until your mind becomes a total fog. Your bodies move as one, in frenzied agony, Jack continues to whine and moan and say all the things that make your mind turn into nothing.
He's everywhere. The sensation builds, a radiating heat that starts in your toes and surges upward, centering in your belly. It’s a heavy, mounting pressure that leaves no room for anything else.
“I’m—”
“I’ve got you, baby. I'm right here.” He promises against your skin, and that’s the catalyst. You melt, pressing yourself against him, your pleasure pulling him over the edge, ecstasy swallowing everything.
The dam breaks. You melt into him, the force of your release dragging him over the edge with you. He swears, his entire frame locking as he holds you in a crushing embrace, his body vibrating with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it feels electric.
“I wanna feel you,” you murmur into his shoulder, clinging to the fading heat.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his pulse still erratic against your own, his arms tightening around you as if he’s making sure you’re still there.
Both of you are still catching your breath. Your heart hasn’t quite settled yet, and judging by the way Jack’s chest rises against yours, neither has his. But he’s right there, pressed close, skin warm against your skin. When your arms wrap around him, instinctively pulling him closer, the rest of the world fades out.
His lips brush your shoulder, slow and warm. Then again. And again. Small, absent kisses moving lazily along your skin.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he murmurs.
He whispers against your vibrant skin. You feel the hint of a smile where his beard grazes your shoulder, the roughness of it scraping gently across your damp skin. Part of you wants to freeze the moment exactly like this—to keep the warmth, the quiet, the way he feels against you.
You don’t want to let go.
Eventually Jack shifts, guiding you back toward the bed. The sheets are cool when your skin touches them, and for a second you assume the moment is over. That means it’s time to leave, so you start to sit up.
“Hey,” Jack says softly. “What are you doing?”
You blink at him, confused. You never stay. Never.
“I thought that...”
“No, honey," He reaches for your hand before you can finish. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss to the back of it. “Stay.”
The window is slightly open, letting a cool breeze drift through the room. Jack slides closer immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against him. Your back fits neatly against his chest.
His nose nestles into your hair, breathing you in. His body is warm, solid behind you, his leg brushing lightly against yours under the sheets.
“Okay,” you murmur, lacing your fingers with his.
He squeezes your hand gently.
“You should stay more often,” he says.
“Like, tomorrow?” You smile faintly in the dark, joking about it.
“No." Jack’s breath ghosts across the back of your neck. "Forever.”
This Jack is fucking delicious. You write so vividly. I felt like I was the club, and I felt readers emotions and embarrassment the entire time. And the way you wrote Jack… FUCKING CRIMINAL. I need him. Thank you for your service and sharing this with us!
summary: You're obsessed with Jack Abbot, the kind of obsession where you want to be his no matter what. On a girls' night out, a daring phone call leads to a series of events you could never have imagined.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of pittfest, smut (slightly, nothing explicit) sex w/ no protection, jack is soft and takes care of the reader!
word count: 7.4k
Fuck Jack Abbot.
Your mouth tastes like vodka and something sweet—cranberry, maybe. Your feet ache from dancing, sweat clings to the small of your back, and the hem of your dress keeps creeping up your thighs while you and Trinity move through the crowd to an old Beyoncé song.
You're not that drunk, but the alcohol definitely does something to your mind. The lights pulse low and warm, bodies packed together on the dance floor—couples, strangers, people chasing that brief electric feeling that only happens in places like this. You close your eyes, your body taking on a life of its own, sliding to every beat, without fail.
Baby boy you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies. I think about you all the time, I see you in my dreams.
You hate that your mind wanders directly to gray hair, large, attentive, eager hands, broad, muscular shoulders, just from one song. But what could you do? Everything reminded you of him. It's infuriating.
What annoys you isn’t the attraction. It’s the silence, the days he disappears between shifts, completely unreachable. No messages. No calls. Like the man simply powers down when he leaves the hospital. And that's okay, you couldn't force yourself to be spoiled, because Jack was a great doctor and a very busy one, but you wanted him for yourself. Was that too much to ask?
But God, you want him.
Getting involved with Jack was a mistake from the start. Casual sex was supposed to be simple. Efficient. Stress relief between brutal shifts in the PTMC emergency department. Except somewhere along the way, you stopped being satisfied with just that.
You wanted his attention and that’s the real problem.
You don’t even see him every shift, which is criminal, honestly. Half the fun is catching his eye across the trauma bay and throwing him a look that makes the corner of his mouth twitch—that small, dangerous smile he tries to hide from the rest of the staff.
You communicated in your own language, throwing almost everyone off, even Robby. Trinity, on the other hand, suspected something was going on because you share an apartment, and when he picked you up one night to go to dinner—because he gets it in his head to be a gentleman—Trinity happened to glance out the apartment window.
She’d narrowed her eyes immediately.
“That truck across the street looks familiar.”
You’d laughed, badly, and changed the subject while texting Jack to drive around the block and wait at the next corner.
It’s not that the relationship needs to be secret. Technically, there isn’t a relationship, just sex. Just two doctors blowing off steam between impossible shifts. Jack taking you to dinner sometimes doesn’t mean anything. Neither does the way he walks you to the door or the fact that you occasionally end up in his apartment instead of yours.
You never stay the night., because, again—Just sex.
Except somewhere in the middle of all those blurred lines, it quietly stopped feeling that way.
And so, because of all that pent-up frustration that Jack Abbot was too busy to remember you existed, you decided to have a girls' night out with your friend. The place you picked wasn’t exactly a bar. It was the kind of place where the bass lived in your ribs and the lights never stopped moving. Neon everywhere, the air thick with perfume, liquor, and sweat. Bodies packed close, the dance floor pulsing like a heartbeat. Three shots of tequila in, you were feeling warm, loose, reckless.
And, unfortunately, still thinking about Jack.
After the song changes, you throw your hair back and take a deep breath, droplets of sweat gather on your temple, strands of hair clinging to the back of your neck and a dangerous idea pops into your head. A very bad one.
“I'll be right back!” You shout over the music.
Trinity barely glances up. She lifts her citrus drink in acknowledgment before disappearing back into the rhythm of the crowd, hips swaying like she belongs to the music.
Your heels click on the floor and you make a beeline for the bathroom. Hungry eyes devour you along the way, one guy in particular stares at you for too long: dark hair, decent face. You hold his gaze just because he's cute.
Incredibly, there’s no line for the bathroom, just a group of girls fixing their makeup, two in the corner of the sink pretending very unsatisfactorily that they are not using illicit substances. You slip into a stall and sit on the closed lid of the toilet.
Your phone feels heavier than it should when you pull it out.
The screen lights up your face in the dim stall. Your eyes look a little glassy, your lipstick’s slightly smudged. You scroll through your messages until you land on Jack’s. The last one still says read. Your stomach tightens.
You remember exactly why you sent it. You’d know it was his day off.
You: Can I see you?
Jack: Can't today, honey.
You: Oh, okay.
Honey. The stupid nickname that gives you chills, that weighs heavily on your stomach and makes your whole body knot up.
“Honey my ass,” you mutter, groggy and irritated.
Determined to do something you'll probably regret, you press the call button. The music in the background is a witness to your mistakes. You bite your fingernail, bouncing your heel against the tile floor, nerves buzzing under your skin.
Your heart pounds at the second ring, but it calms down at the fourth, fifth... For a moment you wonder if he’s going to let it go to voicemail after all. Then a rustling sound fills your ears—fabric shifting, maybe a hand fumbling for the phone—and your stomach flips.
Damn it.
“Hey, honey.”
“Hi,” you say, swallowing hard. You push yourself up from the toilet lid and begin pacing the tiny cubicle, one heel tapping nervously against the tile. “I just—” The words almost die in your throat.
For half a second you consider hanging up, pretending this never happened. But the alcohol gives you that dangerous little push again, the one that always convinces you that ruining Jack Abbot’s night is a perfectly reasonable decision.
“Are you okay?” There is genuine concern on the other end of the line.
“Oh, I'm great! I'm just calling to tell you that I'm having the best night of my life. Without you. Can you imagine?”
“Babygirl, have you been drinking?”
“Fuck you, Jack.” The words come out faster now, sharpened by tequila and wounded pride. “I’m having the time of my life, and guess what? There’s this reeeeeally hot guy who wants to take me home. And maybe I’ll let him. Actually—no, I will let him.” You laugh, a little wild, a little unsteady. “I’m going to have the best fuck of my life, and he’s going to do it so much better than you. You’re the one losing out, asshole!”
Oops, I did it again! it's the soundtrack to your rage. Jack’s about to say something, you hang up before he can finish. Your hand presses against your chest as your heart pounds like thunder beneath your ribs. You have absolutely no idea where that burst of audacity came from, but it’s already done.
When you push open the stall door, you realize you had an audience. Three girls are watching you through the mirror’s reflection.
“Way to go, girl!” One of them smiles, her lips crimson red.
“Screw him!” says the other. You smile in agreement with yourself.
You grin despite yourself and nod in agreement. The alcohol isn’t hitting quite the same anymore. Confronting the man you’re stupidly, desperately obsessed with has a way of sobering your system a little.
A shy but confident smile blossoms on your face. Another hit from the 2000s is playing when you return, squeezing through bodies until you find Trinity with another shot of tequila in her hands.
“Cheers!” she shouts, her glittery eye makeup catching every flicker of neon light.
You raise your tiny glass to meet hers. “Lots of tequila shots!” you yell back, laughing.
“And fewer shifts!” Trinity laughs.
The glasses clink, though the sound disappears beneath the pounding music. When you toss the tequila back, a little spills from the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin and leaving a warm trail along the curve of your chest. The burn hits your throat immediately, and you shake your head as the heat spreads through you.
Everything intensifies, the sweat, the alcohol, the thumping music. You close your eyes and let your instincts guide you, forgetting for a few moments what happened. In fact, this was what you wanted.
If Jack thought he was too good for you, then fine. You’d find someone else.
A few songs later, you’re borderline euphoric.
Somehow, Garcia had materialized as a hologram, much to Trinity's surprise. They dance together, and you can't help but smile when you see your friend so excited.
For a moment you just stand there, catching your breath while the strobe lights slice the room into fragments of color and shadow. The music pounds through your chest, vibrating somewhere behind your ribs.
And then that feeling creeps in. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Your smile fades slightly as your eyes drift across the crowd, following the movement of bodies and flashing lights. Faces blur together—strangers, strangers, strangers—until one figure catches in the flicker of a passing beam. A face half-lit, half swallowed by shadow. Your blood runs cold.
He’s standing only a few yards away, partially hidden among the crowd, tall enough that you’d recognize that posture anywhere. His expression is carved from stone, stern, unreadable, the kind of look that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Maybe you're imagining things and he's not really here. When you look again, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never there. Your balance falters and you stumble slightly, your heel catching on nothing as you squint through the flashing lights, trying to spot him again.
Did you imagine that?
Someone says something close to your ear, but you don't hear it. Nimble hands touch your waist, pressing your body against his. Your head is still spinning, your mind halfway convinced you just hallucinated the one man who can ruin your mood with a single look.
The stranger moves with the music, confident hands resting on your hips as the two of you move together. The closeness is easy, the heat of another body against yours. The press of a hand sliding slightly lower, fingers brushing your thigh before gliding back up again.
And of course, because your brain is cruel, you picture Jack.
You imagine that he’s holding your body with his firm, calloused hands, that his masculine arms envelop you, making you feel the warmth radiating from his chest. Hands touch your thigh and slide down, then up, taking with them part of the pink dress you're wearing. Your body reacts before your brain does, arching back slightly, leaning into the contact, chasing the sensation like it belongs to him. The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
God.
You're desperate to kiss him. You want to taste him, feel his warmth, want him everywhere. You turn on your heels and when your eyes meet the face that has been dancing with you for the last three minutes, you freeze. It's not Jack, it's just that cute guy you bumped into before going to the bathroom.
He smiles, clearly thinking things have been going very well. Your brain short-circuits.
“Oh—” You step back immediately. “Sorry.”
The guy looks confused, reaching out as if to catch your elbow, but you slip away before he can. You weave through the crowd, bumping shoulders and muttering quick apologies as you push toward the edge of the dance floor.
No one really sees you, you're just another person trying to get from one end of the dance floor to the other. The pressure of it all forces you forward until, finally, you reach a small pocket of space near the edge where you can actually breathe. You glance over your shoulder, checking to see if the guy from before followed you.
Relief barely has time to settle before your chest collides with someone.
You instinctively step back, ready to mumble a quick apology and keep moving, but something about the moment changes before your brain catches up. A strange shiver runs through your body, the kind that starts low in your spine and climbs upward.
Jack Abbot is standing right in front of you and for a second you just stare at him. Colored lights slide across his face—blue, red, violet—each flash sharpening the lines of his expression. He’s watching you carefully, almost cautiously, his features calm but alert, like he’s assessing a situation.
You blink once, twice. Like maybe the image will disappear if you reset your vision. Everything is in motion except you. Jack tilts his head slightly to look at you.
“Jack?” Your voice is quiet. “What are you doing here?”
Your gaze betrays you immediately. It drops for half a second, to the outline of his biceps under the fitted black T-shirt, to the tan of his skin, scattered with those faint freckles you’ve memorized without meaning to.
There’s something about the way he stands, relaxed but solid, confident without even trying, that makes every other man in the room feel like background noise. Jack doesn’t compete with people. He just exists, and somehow that’s enough.
One look. That’s all it takes for every bit of attitude you had five minutes ago to evaporate.
“You called me,” he says simply.
You choke on your own words.
“I didn't—”
Jack moves deftly, it’s quick, smooth, almost effortless. One hand lands against the small of your back, firm and steady, guiding you to turn with him. Suddenly you’re walking in the opposite direction, straight toward the exit, like the decision has already been made.
Your body follows automatically.
The contact sends a sharp chill down your spine. His palm rests low against your back, warm even through the thin fabric of your dress, steering you through the moving crowd with quiet certainty.
It feels unfair how natural it is, like your bodies already know how to move together.
The familiar scent of him hits you a second later—clean, warm, unmistakably him—and it lands harder than the tequila ever did. Suddenly you're hyperaware of everything: the brush of his arm against yours, the solid line of his chest behind you whenever someone bumps into him.
Every step toward the door feels heavier and every inch of him feels dangerously close.
The night air outside the club is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat and noise you just left behind. Laughter spills from the open door behind you, and somewhere down the street someone shouts something unintelligible, followed by more laughter. But all of it fades into the background. All you can really feel is him.
His hand is still firm at the small of your back, guiding you along the sidewalk. His body moves close enough that every step brushes him against you, the steady warmth of him impossible to ignore.
“Jack,” you murmur, trying to slow him.
He doesn’t stop.
“Let's get to the car, baby.”
“No, wait.” You frown and pull away just enough so you can turn and look at him. “You're… here.”
“Of course I am. You called me.”
“I don’t—” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t want you here. I was having fun.”
You whine like a grumpy baby.
Liar. That's what you are.
Jack nods once so subtly that you almost don't notice. He takes a step, his chest meets yours, warm and solid, and suddenly the small space between your bodies disappears. The contact sends a quiet jolt through you, an immediate awareness of how long it’s been since you felt him this close.
“Really, honey?” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “That’s not what it sounded like on the phone.”
You open your mouth to give a sharp reply, but it dies the moment his fingers drift down from your ear to your chin, tilting your face slightly. The pad of his thumb traces slowly across your lower lip, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.
“How much did you drink?” He says softly, his hoarse voice sliding into your ears.
You feel your stomach sink, a warm sensation creeping into your belly.
“Not much.” You whisper.
“How much?” he repeats, a little firmer this time.
You stare at him instead of answering. Up close, you can see every familiar detail: the faint silver threaded through his hair, the sun-warmed tone of his skin, the scatter of freckles across his shoulders where his shirt collar dips slightly open. Your mind drifts somewhere reckless, already building wild little scenarios around the man standing in front of you
“A few shots of tequila.” You look up and lean in, touching your nose to his.
For half a second, Jack allows it, but then he puts his hands on your waist, a quiet smile pulls at one corner of his mouth.
“Let's get you sober, shall we, sweetheart?” He looks down as he says it, his thumb softening your skin over your dress, pressing just enough to remind you exactly where his hand is.
You give him a mischievous smile and try to wrap your arms around his neck. “‘Mm… Not drunk.”
Jack almost laughs and smiles slightly, his throat bobbing and the silence remaining. You feel almost undressed by the way he looks at you, an overwhelming confidence.
“Sure.” Jack buries his fingers in the roots of your hair, pulling your face toward him.
For a split second you’re certain he’s about to kiss you. You barely move. Barely breathing.
“Did my girl want attention?” he murmurs, voice smooth as dark velvet. “Mm?” You part your lips, leaning in just enough for him to take the initiative. Jack moves closer, you hold your breath, then he whispers in your ear. “Since you're so needy, I'll give you what you want.”
Your stomach drops. He pulls away from you, the loss of his arm around you feels abrupt, almost physical, like something important just slipped out of reach.
Embarrassment creeps in, slow and uncomfortable. Thinking about how stupid this whole situation is. Jack came here looking for you. You drank too much and said some stupid things.
And apparently said something stupid enough that he actually showed up.
When you reach the truck, Jack unlocks it with a quiet click.
He moves ahead of you, opening the door before you even think to reach for it. One hand rests briefly at your elbow as you sit, steadying you while you slide onto the seat.
The leather is cool against your legs. Your head might be a little fuzzy from the tequila, but you’re very aware of what’s happening. Probably more aware than you’d like to be.
Without a word, he bends down on the sidewalk.
Your brows knit together. “What are you doing?”
Instead, his fingers move to the thin strap around your ankle. With a small, precise motion, he unfastens it. The other shoe comes off just as easily. He sets both of them carefully on the floor of the car before guiding your legs farther inside with a light push at your shin.
The movement makes your dress slide higher up your thighs. Your knees press together automatically, heat creeping up your neck as the fabric bunches dangerously close to revealing more than it should.
If Jack notices, he gives absolutely no sign.
“Let's get you comfy, yeah?” He says calmly.
He leans—almost on purpose—over your body to fasten your seatbelt. You turn your face at the same time as him, breathing in his scent, watching from a few inches away his stubble and dark eyes in the shadow of the night.
Your breath leaves you slowly. The ache in your chest is almost physical now. Wanting him this much feels ridiculous, and yet there it is—heavy and persistent. Jack takes his time. He clicks the seatbelt into place, then adjusts it slightly so it sits comfortably against your waist, smoothing the strap down with absent care.
But he doesn’t move away immediately. For a moment—two seconds, maybe—his face lingers close to yours. Close enough that if you leaned forward just a little… You could kiss him.
The thought hits you before you can stop it.
However, when you try to move, he pulls away as if you were the plague. The shift is sharp, almost clinical, like he just brushed something irritating off his sleeve.
He closes the door and you shrink slightly into the seat, staring out the window, your reflection staring back at you in the dark glass. Heat crawls up your neck again, but this time it’s embarrassing.
Whatever you had, it's over. That was the only certainty: Jack Abbot would never land another finger on you again. He probably thinks you’re childish and impulsive. Not worth the trouble.
The driver’s door opens and shuts. A second later the engine starts, the low rumble filling the quiet street.
You don’t look at him. Which’s difficult, because you can still see him in your peripheral vision, hands steady on the wheel, forearms flexing slightly as he shifts the car into gear. The movement pulls the fabric of his T-shirt tight across his arms, every line of muscle catching the dim glow from the dashboard.
You hate that you notice. You hate that he looks completely unaffected.
So you retreat. You pull your legs up onto the seat, curling slightly toward the door, resting your head against the cool glass of the window while the city lights slide past outside.
You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know you’re moving.
Strong arms lift you from the seat, the sudden shift pulling you out of that hazy half-sleep. Instinctively, your hands slide up around Jack’s neck to steady yourself.
“That’s not necessary,” you mumble, irritation creeping into your voice. “I can walk!”
Jack closes the car door with his foot and smiles mockingly.
“Just giving my girl the attention she deserves.”
My girl. He says it as if it really means something.
His apartmen’s pitch black when you enter, and Jack's familiar scent of clean clothes and cologne hits you. He carries you to the bedroom where you've been multiple times, just in different situations.
You take advantage of the situation, pressing your nose against his neck, brushing the tip just to get his attention, anything to make him look at you. But no, he goes into the bathroom and leaves you on the marble sink. As he turns on the light, you take a deep breath, then he steps closer and braces both arms around you, one on either side, effectively boxing you in. His chest is inches from yours, the solid line of his shoulders blocking your escape.
“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?” He murmurs against your hair.
You actually have several ideas. Very good ones, in your opinion, but judging by the way he’s been behaving all night, none of them are about to happen. Still… no one ever died from trying.
“How about a shower?” You perk up at the idea, but something’s off. You don't object when he grabs you by the waist to lift you off the sink and turns you around to slide off your dress, which falls in a puddle at your feet.
Automatically, you bring your hair forward, slightly covering your breasts with your arms, which is stupid, because Jack has seen you naked more times than you can count, not only that, but there’s something about the care with which he touches you that makes the moment intimate and vulnerable.
You step out of the dress and peel off the last piece of clothing, suddenly aware of the cool air on your skin. Without his hands on you, you feel oddly exposed, hugging your arms around yourself for warmth.
Jack moves calmly around the bathroom, pulling the small shower chair aside before turning the water on. Steam begins to curl into the air. Then he lifts you again—effortless—and sets you gently inside the shower.
You frown, unhappy. “Aren't you coming in?”
He adjusts the water and you shrink even more. He looks up at you and gives a faint, patient smile. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair away from your cheek.
“Not today, honey.”
This is the end. Literally, the worst day of your goddamn life. Damn the moment tequila gave you enough courage to do something stupid.
“Are you gonna be a good girl,” he asks quietly, “and let me take care of you?”
Then you nod, water droplets sliding down your eyelashes as you look at him, feeling more exposed than you have in a long time.
After that, everything slips out of focus.
One moment Jack’s standing close, carefully washing the last traces of the night from your skin. His hands move with quiet patience, planned and controlled, as if he’s following invisible boundaries he refuses to cross. The warmth of the water, the steadiness of his touch, it all melts together until the scene feels distant, almost dreamlike.
The next moment you’re wrapped in a towel.
The air outside the shower feels cool against your damp skin as he guides you down the hallway. His hand rests lightly at your back, steady and reassuring, and then you’re in his bedroom again.
Somewhere along the way, he hands you something soft to wear.
You manage to pull it on, movements slow and clumsy with sleep. Your hair’s still damp when you rub it absently with the towel before letting it fall over your shoulders. The room’s dim, the soft glow from a lamp turning everything hazy at the edges.
Your body sinks into the mattress the moment you lie down.
Jack moves quietly around the room, but your eyes can barely follow him anymore. His shape passes through your vision like a shadow—broad shoulders, the faint sound of a drawer closing, the rustle of fabric.
You’re already drifting. The last thing you see clearly is him sitting on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly under his weight. His hand reaches out, warm and steady as it cups your cheek, brushing your skin with a softness that makes something deep in your chest ache.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” you murmur.
Your voice’s thick with sleep, the words slurring slightly together. Your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, you feel his thumb move gently along your cheekbone.
And just before the darkness pulls you under, you hear his voice: low, close, and quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Let’s get some sleep, sweetheart.”
It's dark, too dark for you to see anything, but your body wakes up anyway. Your hands grope the bed, the soft fabric, and despite the confusion, you just know you're in his bed. Everything’s unmistakable, the softness of the mattress, the smooth sheets against your skin, his scent that’s everywhere.
The other side of the bed is cold when you touch it, which means that all your thoughts from last night were right: Jack had grown tired of you. Last night... Holy shit. Memories start to push through the fog—tequila, the club, calling him like an idiot, him showing up. You groan and drop your head back against the pillow, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose like maybe you can rewind time if you try hard enough.
It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t.
As you look at your own body, you feel the soft touch of Jack's button-down shirt, one you've never seen him actually wear. It’s big on you, soft from use, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You’ve never actually seen him wear this one before, but somehow it ended up on your body. A cool breeze comes in through the window, and as you search for your phone, you can't even remember where you put it.
“Perfect,” you mutter under your breath.
The digital clock on the dresser glows faint red in the darkness and points to exactly 3:12 a.m. So you put your feet out and feel the cold floor, and even barefoot, you make your way silently, on tiptoe, to the hallway.
You need your phone. Trinity must have sent about thirty messages by now. And your clothes—your dress, your shoes. You could grab them, order an Uber, and disappear before this gets any more embarrassing.
You swing your feet over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, and the chill shoots straight up your legs, waking you a little more. Still, you move quietly, almost instinctively on your toes as you make your way toward the door.
You feel your way along the walls of the apartment, your mind alert to every sound, every crack, and every movement you make. To your surprise, when you reach the living room, there’s a lamp next to the sofa and Jack’s there. He’s leaning back against the couch, one arm resting along the back while the other holds an open book. The warm light spills across his chest, catching on the faint scatter of freckles across his skin.
He looks up as soon as he sees you, then lowers the book and you don't know what to do, standing on tiptoe, looking at him completely embarrassed.
“Where are you going, honey?” he asks quietly.
“Um... I was going to... look for my clothes and... my phone, call an Uber, go home.”
You attempt a small smile. It’s the kind where you keep your lips firmly closed. Jack frowns and puts the book on the coffee table.
“C’mere.”
He says it more like an order, not a suggestion and you walk like a helpless animal, tucking your legs and arms together and sitting on the other end, far enough away that the embarrassment affects you. It's still partially dark, the small lampshade illuminating nothing but the freckles on Jack's broad chest, his salt and pepper locks, which you avoid staring at for more than two seconds and fail gloomily.
He watches you as you avoid his gaze, playing with the hem of the shirt as if it were interesting enough.
“Hey,” he calls you, his voice hoarser than ever. “Look at me.”
And then you look. And it kills you, because the truth is, this whole mess started with something small and stupid that grew into something much bigger than you ever planned. It started with affection—something neither of you were supposed to let happen. It was too late, you knew that from the moment you got involved with him ten months ago, when he saw you crying in a dark room after Pittfest.
You didn't expect to get attached to Jack Abbot, it was supposed to be just a physical thing, with no strings attached, but Jack is a real man, the kind who takes you to his house and cooks dinner for you, who opens the car door and gives you a ride when you have a panic attack at the end of the workday. You liked him more than you could admit, and maybe the alcohol made you realize that, perhaps, he doesn't feel the same way about you.
“I'm so embarrassed.” Your hands come up to cover your face as you drag in a slow breath.
Jack approaches, you can tell by the rustling of the sofa.
“Hey, sweetheart. Why’s that?”
“‘Cause...” Your voice fails you. You take your hands away from your face and he’s so incredibly close that it hurts. “I was stupid. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re probably busy, and you came all the way to—” You stop, suddenly remembering something. “Actually… how did you even find me?”
He reaches for your hand, his fingers close around it gently, steadying it before he lifts your wrist toward his mouth. Your breath catches. His lips press softly against the inside of your wrist.
Once. Then again.
Slow, unhurried kisses that move from your wrist to the back of your hand, then up along your forearm. Each one intentional, like he has all the time in the world.
Before you can fully process it, his arm slides around your waist, the next second you’re being pulled onto his lap and the movement steals the air from your lungs.
Your breathing quickens when he slips his hand under your shirt and smoothes your bare skin, caressing you slowly.
“You needed me,” he says quietly. “So I came.”
“I’m sure you had something better to do,” you murmur, trying to sound casual. “Or someone.”
Jack doesn’t even react to the attempt, he just watches you. And that somehow makes it worse.
Because the way he looks at you makes it painfully clear he knows exactly how much power he has over you. And the worst part is… you’d probably let him do anything he wanted, even if it meant dealing with the consequences later.
“You drive me insane, you know that?” His voice drops lower, rough with something that sounds dangerously close to frustration. His grip shakes at your waist and you lean in, holding Jack's shoulders for support. His palm slides up and down your back in a delicate, pleasurable movement that gives you goosebumps.
“Jack...”
“Yeah, honey. Did y’know that?” Your heart's beating too fast now. “How exactly,” he continues quietly, “did you convince yourself I’d be interested in anyone else… when you’re the only woman I can think about?”
For a second your brain simply stops. That can’t be right. You must still be half asleep. Dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
“...What?”
Jack’s hand moves to the buttons of the shirt you’re wearing. You don’t even remember when he decided to start undoing them. One by one, his fingers work them open with slow patience, like he’s in no hurry at all.
“You drive me out of my fucking mind,” he mutters. “In ways you probably don’t even realize.”
Another button slips free.
“My pretty girl needed my attention, didn’t she?”
The words settle deep in your chest.
“As if any other man would dare put his hands on what belongs to me.”
Your heart stumbles.
The contact triggered an immediate sympathetic nervous system response. A spike of adrenaline surged through your system, leaving your heart rate erratic and every nerve ending painfully sensitive.
When the last button comes undone, you close your eyes. You can feel his gaze moving over your face, studying every small reaction. His breath brushes your collarbone, warm against your skin, and a shiver spreads down your body before you can stop it.
You want him so badly that your body glows with longing every time he touches you, even if it's unwitting.
His beard brushes against your skin, his mouth almost touching your neck, but your body tilts, sways, his hand holds you firmly at an angle where you can't escape.
“No one,” he murmured, his lips grazing the hollow between your breasts. “...touches…” He dragged a path downward, his mouth searing against your skin. “…what’s mine.”
The sound that escaped you was sharp, raw. When you looked down, his focus was absolute, his touch careful, as if he were mapping you with devotion.
You arched your back as Jack settled into the sofa. The contact through the thin fabric of your lace was immediate, a localized heat that spiked your pulse and forced a jagged moan from your throat.
“So good for me...” You lean on him as your hips curl, the friction was a slow burn, a steady accumulation of kinetic energy between you “Fuck. S’that you want, honey?”
The answer caught in your throat, a half-formed word that dissolved into a moan. Jack didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He moved with a devastating efficiency, peeling the shirt from your shoulders and sweeping your hair aside, his eyes never leaving yours. He wanted every inch of skin available to him.
When you get rid of the piece of clothing, you push him against the couch and hold his face with your fingertips, his beard tickling your skin, his hand going straight to your ass and his fingers squeezing your flesh hard.
“I want you.” You caught his lower lip between your teeth, a sharp, demanding bite before you crashed into a kiss that felt less like an affection and more like a collision. Jack is gentle but fierce, he pushes your hair away, nibbles your lower lip, his tongue tangled with yours, his mouth swallowing every sound you tried to make as if he were memorizing the rhythm of your breath.
“Be good for me.” His breathing is ragged as his chest rises and falls rapidly. “Mm?”
He grabs you by the waist and you get up, stumbling over the rug, the shirt thrown on the floor, the shoes you hadn't seen in the dark because you're too busy holding his face, swallowing him as if he were the only thing that matters.
He sits up on the bed, carrying you with him until you're straddling him, and the feeling of him beneath you, knowing that you're in charge, makes you extremely wet. He pulls your hair to the side, kisses your neck, your skin, and bites your shoulder when you grind on his lap, begging to be touched there.
Abbot had a devastating confidence in the dark. He made it clear that your pleasure was his only directive. He reclaimed your mouth, his hand sliding the lace aside to find the epicenter of the heat. You sobbed into his kiss, he simply drank the sound down. His thumb moved in a slow, rhythmic circle that teased the very edge of what you could handle. He bites your chin and watches your microexpressions when he touches you there, his fingers rubbing, but never really in.
“Jack...” You whimper, feeling the need for more, always more, more, more.
“Want that, honey?” A ghost of a smirk touched his lips as you tightened your grip on his shoulders, forcing yourself down against his fingers.
“Mm-hmm,” You say, incoherently.
“Mm-hmm,” He mimicked, a low, dark chuckle vibrating in his chest.
“Can you cum for me like that, honey?” Jack whispers under your skin, where he nibbles your nipple and watches the instant reaction of your skin to his touch. “Bet you can.”
He didn't make you wait. He knew exactly how to move, finding the precise rhythm to push you over the edge, spreading his fingers everywhere. The repetitive, relentless motion put you into a trance until the tension finally snapped. The climax hit like a physical shock, a wave of heat that undulated through your core and left you breathless.
“There you go,” Jack kisses your shoulder as he holds your body during your climax, a perfect ‘O’ blossoming your lips. “My pretty girl, s’good for me, huh?”
Your cheeks are rosy, your neck covered in sweat, and adrenaline crackling in your veins.
“You're right,” You lean in, kissing his neck, then his jaw… Everywhere. “I'm yours.”
Something awakens in Jack's eyes and kindness gives way to something sharper. It’s a transition you recognize, a silent understanding that only exists between the two of you. Both breathless, he exhales a low curse before reclaiming your mouth with a desperation that suggests he never should have let go in the first place.
“Damn right you are.” He rasps against your lips, his voice dropping an octave.
Your hands fumble with the fabric of his sweatpants, fueled by a frantic need to close the gap. When you finally make contact, the heat of him is staggering. Jack lets out a wrecked moan, his eyes snapping shut as his hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he devours your mouth.
“Damn, baby.” His voice is a whisper in the dark. You look into his eyes, in that inky gradient bathed in the night.
You're in sync, heart to heart, pulsing with adrenaline. When you touch him, pulling him out, it's pure euphoria. Jack groans when your hand pumps him, moving up and down, so slowly that he could die. You lift your hips, ignoring everything else, because at that moment it's just you and him.
It feels like a slow-motion collision. Jack whimpers, his features contorted in a sharp mask of pleasure that looks almost like pain. You move with a torturous rhythm, both of you suspended in that heavy, humid space where control starts to slip.
“Oh my God, Jack!” You moan, trying to keep your movements steady, but his hands lock onto your hips, his fingers digging in as he pulls you down, forcing a deeper connection.
“You're going to take it all, aren't you, baby?” Jack mumbles, his voice thick and broken. “Shit—ah, baby—you're doing so good...”
The intensity of the kiss is overwhelming, triggering a sharp contraction in your core. A raw, unyielding force takes over as Jack hitches the pace, swallowing your whimpers and turning them into his own. He’s murmuring into the crook of your neck now—broken sentences, encouragement, breathless praise—until your mind becomes a total fog. Your bodies move as one, in frenzied agony, Jack continues to whine and moan and say all the things that make your mind turn into nothing.
He's everywhere. The sensation builds, a radiating heat that starts in your toes and surges upward, centering in your belly. It’s a heavy, mounting pressure that leaves no room for anything else.
“I’m—”
“I’ve got you, baby. I'm right here.” He promises against your skin, and that’s the catalyst. You melt, pressing yourself against him, your pleasure pulling him over the edge, ecstasy swallowing everything.
The dam breaks. You melt into him, the force of your release dragging him over the edge with you. He swears, his entire frame locking as he holds you in a crushing embrace, his body vibrating with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it feels electric.
“I wanna feel you,” you murmur into his shoulder, clinging to the fading heat.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his pulse still erratic against your own, his arms tightening around you as if he’s making sure you’re still there.
Both of you are still catching your breath. Your heart hasn’t quite settled yet, and judging by the way Jack’s chest rises against yours, neither has his. But he’s right there, pressed close, skin warm against your skin. When your arms wrap around him, instinctively pulling him closer, the rest of the world fades out.
His lips brush your shoulder, slow and warm. Then again. And again. Small, absent kisses moving lazily along your skin.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he murmurs.
He whispers against your vibrant skin. You feel the hint of a smile where his beard grazes your shoulder, the roughness of it scraping gently across your damp skin. Part of you wants to freeze the moment exactly like this—to keep the warmth, the quiet, the way he feels against you.
You don’t want to let go.
Eventually Jack shifts, guiding you back toward the bed. The sheets are cool when your skin touches them, and for a second you assume the moment is over. That means it’s time to leave, so you start to sit up.
“Hey,” Jack says softly. “What are you doing?”
You blink at him, confused. You never stay. Never.
“I thought that...”
“No, honey," He reaches for your hand before you can finish. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss to the back of it. “Stay.”
The window is slightly open, letting a cool breeze drift through the room. Jack slides closer immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against him. Your back fits neatly against his chest.
His nose nestles into your hair, breathing you in. His body is warm, solid behind you, his leg brushing lightly against yours under the sheets.
“Okay,” you murmur, lacing your fingers with his.
He squeezes your hand gently.
“You should stay more often,” he says.
“Like, tomorrow?” You smile faintly in the dark, joking about it.
“No." Jack’s breath ghosts across the back of your neck. "Forever.”
summary: You're obsessed with Jack Abbot, the kind of obsession where you want to be his no matter what. On a girls' night out, a daring phone call leads to a series of events you could never have imagined.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of pittfest, smut (slightly, nothing explicit) sex w/ no protection, jack is soft and takes care of the reader!
word count: 7.4k
Fuck Jack Abbot.
Your mouth tastes like vodka and something sweet—cranberry, maybe. Your feet ache from dancing, sweat clings to the small of your back, and the hem of your dress keeps creeping up your thighs while you and Trinity move through the crowd to an old Beyoncé song.
You're not that drunk, but the alcohol definitely does something to your mind. The lights pulse low and warm, bodies packed together on the dance floor—couples, strangers, people chasing that brief electric feeling that only happens in places like this. You close your eyes, your body taking on a life of its own, sliding to every beat, without fail.
Baby boy you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies. I think about you all the time, I see you in my dreams.
You hate that your mind wanders directly to gray hair, large, attentive, eager hands, broad, muscular shoulders, just from one song. But what could you do? Everything reminded you of him. It's infuriating.
What annoys you isn’t the attraction. It’s the silence, the days he disappears between shifts, completely unreachable. No messages. No calls. Like the man simply powers down when he leaves the hospital. And that's okay, you couldn't force yourself to be spoiled, because Jack was a great doctor and a very busy one, but you wanted him for yourself. Was that too much to ask?
But God, you want him.
Getting involved with Jack was a mistake from the start. Casual sex was supposed to be simple. Efficient. Stress relief between brutal shifts in the PTMC emergency department. Except somewhere along the way, you stopped being satisfied with just that.
You wanted his attention and that’s the real problem.
You don’t even see him every shift, which is criminal, honestly. Half the fun is catching his eye across the trauma bay and throwing him a look that makes the corner of his mouth twitch—that small, dangerous smile he tries to hide from the rest of the staff.
You communicated in your own language, throwing almost everyone off, even Robby. Trinity, on the other hand, suspected something was going on because you share an apartment, and when he picked you up one night to go to dinner—because he gets it in his head to be a gentleman—Trinity happened to glance out the apartment window.
She’d narrowed her eyes immediately.
“That truck across the street looks familiar.”
You’d laughed, badly, and changed the subject while texting Jack to drive around the block and wait at the next corner.
It’s not that the relationship needs to be secret. Technically, there isn’t a relationship, just sex. Just two doctors blowing off steam between impossible shifts. Jack taking you to dinner sometimes doesn’t mean anything. Neither does the way he walks you to the door or the fact that you occasionally end up in his apartment instead of yours.
You never stay the night., because, again—Just sex.
Except somewhere in the middle of all those blurred lines, it quietly stopped feeling that way.
And so, because of all that pent-up frustration that Jack Abbot was too busy to remember you existed, you decided to have a girls' night out with your friend. The place you picked wasn’t exactly a bar. It was the kind of place where the bass lived in your ribs and the lights never stopped moving. Neon everywhere, the air thick with perfume, liquor, and sweat. Bodies packed close, the dance floor pulsing like a heartbeat. Three shots of tequila in, you were feeling warm, loose, reckless.
And, unfortunately, still thinking about Jack.
After the song changes, you throw your hair back and take a deep breath, droplets of sweat gather on your temple, strands of hair clinging to the back of your neck and a dangerous idea pops into your head. A very bad one.
“I'll be right back!” You shout over the music.
Trinity barely glances up. She lifts her citrus drink in acknowledgment before disappearing back into the rhythm of the crowd, hips swaying like she belongs to the music.
Your heels click on the floor and you make a beeline for the bathroom. Hungry eyes devour you along the way, one guy in particular stares at you for too long: dark hair, decent face. You hold his gaze just because he's cute.
Incredibly, there’s no line for the bathroom, just a group of girls fixing their makeup, two in the corner of the sink pretending very unsatisfactorily that they are not using illicit substances. You slip into a stall and sit on the closed lid of the toilet.
Your phone feels heavier than it should when you pull it out.
The screen lights up your face in the dim stall. Your eyes look a little glassy, your lipstick’s slightly smudged. You scroll through your messages until you land on Jack’s. The last one still says read. Your stomach tightens.
You remember exactly why you sent it. You’d know it was his day off.
You: Can I see you?
Jack: Can't today, honey.
You: Oh, okay.
Honey. The stupid nickname that gives you chills, that weighs heavily on your stomach and makes your whole body knot up.
“Honey my ass,” you mutter, groggy and irritated.
Determined to do something you'll probably regret, you press the call button. The music in the background is a witness to your mistakes. You bite your fingernail, bouncing your heel against the tile floor, nerves buzzing under your skin.
Your heart pounds at the second ring, but it calms down at the fourth, fifth... For a moment you wonder if he’s going to let it go to voicemail after all. Then a rustling sound fills your ears—fabric shifting, maybe a hand fumbling for the phone—and your stomach flips.
Damn it.
“Hey, honey.”
“Hi,” you say, swallowing hard. You push yourself up from the toilet lid and begin pacing the tiny cubicle, one heel tapping nervously against the tile. “I just—” The words almost die in your throat.
For half a second you consider hanging up, pretending this never happened. But the alcohol gives you that dangerous little push again, the one that always convinces you that ruining Jack Abbot’s night is a perfectly reasonable decision.
“Are you okay?” There is genuine concern on the other end of the line.
“Oh, I'm great! I'm just calling to tell you that I'm having the best night of my life. Without you. Can you imagine?”
“Babygirl, have you been drinking?”
“Fuck you, Jack.” The words come out faster now, sharpened by tequila and wounded pride. “I’m having the time of my life, and guess what? There’s this reeeeeally hot guy who wants to take me home. And maybe I’ll let him. Actually—no, I will let him.” You laugh, a little wild, a little unsteady. “I’m going to have the best fuck of my life, and he’s going to do it so much better than you. You’re the one losing out, asshole!”
Oops, I did it again! it's the soundtrack to your rage. Jack’s about to say something, you hang up before he can finish. Your hand presses against your chest as your heart pounds like thunder beneath your ribs. You have absolutely no idea where that burst of audacity came from, but it’s already done.
When you push open the stall door, you realize you had an audience. Three girls are watching you through the mirror’s reflection.
“Way to go, girl!” One of them smiles, her lips crimson red.
“Screw him!” says the other. You smile in agreement with yourself.
You grin despite yourself and nod in agreement. The alcohol isn’t hitting quite the same anymore. Confronting the man you’re stupidly, desperately obsessed with has a way of sobering your system a little.
A shy but confident smile blossoms on your face. Another hit from the 2000s is playing when you return, squeezing through bodies until you find Trinity with another shot of tequila in her hands.
“Cheers!” she shouts, her glittery eye makeup catching every flicker of neon light.
You raise your tiny glass to meet hers. “Lots of tequila shots!” you yell back, laughing.
“And fewer shifts!” Trinity laughs.
The glasses clink, though the sound disappears beneath the pounding music. When you toss the tequila back, a little spills from the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin and leaving a warm trail along the curve of your chest. The burn hits your throat immediately, and you shake your head as the heat spreads through you.
Everything intensifies, the sweat, the alcohol, the thumping music. You close your eyes and let your instincts guide you, forgetting for a few moments what happened. In fact, this was what you wanted.
If Jack thought he was too good for you, then fine. You’d find someone else.
A few songs later, you’re borderline euphoric.
Somehow, Garcia had materialized as a hologram, much to Trinity's surprise. They dance together, and you can't help but smile when you see your friend so excited.
For a moment you just stand there, catching your breath while the strobe lights slice the room into fragments of color and shadow. The music pounds through your chest, vibrating somewhere behind your ribs.
And then that feeling creeps in. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Your smile fades slightly as your eyes drift across the crowd, following the movement of bodies and flashing lights. Faces blur together—strangers, strangers, strangers—until one figure catches in the flicker of a passing beam. A face half-lit, half swallowed by shadow. Your blood runs cold.
He’s standing only a few yards away, partially hidden among the crowd, tall enough that you’d recognize that posture anywhere. His expression is carved from stone, stern, unreadable, the kind of look that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Maybe you're imagining things and he's not really here. When you look again, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never there. Your balance falters and you stumble slightly, your heel catching on nothing as you squint through the flashing lights, trying to spot him again.
Did you imagine that?
Someone says something close to your ear, but you don't hear it. Nimble hands touch your waist, pressing your body against his. Your head is still spinning, your mind halfway convinced you just hallucinated the one man who can ruin your mood with a single look.
The stranger moves with the music, confident hands resting on your hips as the two of you move together. The closeness is easy, the heat of another body against yours. The press of a hand sliding slightly lower, fingers brushing your thigh before gliding back up again.
And of course, because your brain is cruel, you picture Jack.
You imagine that he’s holding your body with his firm, calloused hands, that his masculine arms envelop you, making you feel the warmth radiating from his chest. Hands touch your thigh and slide down, then up, taking with them part of the pink dress you're wearing. Your body reacts before your brain does, arching back slightly, leaning into the contact, chasing the sensation like it belongs to him. The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
God.
You're desperate to kiss him. You want to taste him, feel his warmth, want him everywhere. You turn on your heels and when your eyes meet the face that has been dancing with you for the last three minutes, you freeze. It's not Jack, it's just that cute guy you bumped into before going to the bathroom.
He smiles, clearly thinking things have been going very well. Your brain short-circuits.
“Oh—” You step back immediately. “Sorry.”
The guy looks confused, reaching out as if to catch your elbow, but you slip away before he can. You weave through the crowd, bumping shoulders and muttering quick apologies as you push toward the edge of the dance floor.
No one really sees you, you're just another person trying to get from one end of the dance floor to the other. The pressure of it all forces you forward until, finally, you reach a small pocket of space near the edge where you can actually breathe. You glance over your shoulder, checking to see if the guy from before followed you.
Relief barely has time to settle before your chest collides with someone.
You instinctively step back, ready to mumble a quick apology and keep moving, but something about the moment changes before your brain catches up. A strange shiver runs through your body, the kind that starts low in your spine and climbs upward.
Jack Abbot is standing right in front of you and for a second you just stare at him. Colored lights slide across his face—blue, red, violet—each flash sharpening the lines of his expression. He’s watching you carefully, almost cautiously, his features calm but alert, like he’s assessing a situation.
You blink once, twice. Like maybe the image will disappear if you reset your vision. Everything is in motion except you. Jack tilts his head slightly to look at you.
“Jack?” Your voice is quiet. “What are you doing here?”
Your gaze betrays you immediately. It drops for half a second, to the outline of his biceps under the fitted black T-shirt, to the tan of his skin, scattered with those faint freckles you’ve memorized without meaning to.
There’s something about the way he stands, relaxed but solid, confident without even trying, that makes every other man in the room feel like background noise. Jack doesn’t compete with people. He just exists, and somehow that’s enough.
One look. That’s all it takes for every bit of attitude you had five minutes ago to evaporate.
“You called me,” he says simply.
You choke on your own words.
“I didn't—”
Jack moves deftly, it’s quick, smooth, almost effortless. One hand lands against the small of your back, firm and steady, guiding you to turn with him. Suddenly you’re walking in the opposite direction, straight toward the exit, like the decision has already been made.
Your body follows automatically.
The contact sends a sharp chill down your spine. His palm rests low against your back, warm even through the thin fabric of your dress, steering you through the moving crowd with quiet certainty.
It feels unfair how natural it is, like your bodies already know how to move together.
The familiar scent of him hits you a second later—clean, warm, unmistakably him—and it lands harder than the tequila ever did. Suddenly you're hyperaware of everything: the brush of his arm against yours, the solid line of his chest behind you whenever someone bumps into him.
Every step toward the door feels heavier and every inch of him feels dangerously close.
The night air outside the club is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat and noise you just left behind. Laughter spills from the open door behind you, and somewhere down the street someone shouts something unintelligible, followed by more laughter. But all of it fades into the background. All you can really feel is him.
His hand is still firm at the small of your back, guiding you along the sidewalk. His body moves close enough that every step brushes him against you, the steady warmth of him impossible to ignore.
“Jack,” you murmur, trying to slow him.
He doesn’t stop.
“Let's get to the car, baby.”
“No, wait.” You frown and pull away just enough so you can turn and look at him. “You're… here.”
“Of course I am. You called me.”
“I don’t—” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t want you here. I was having fun.”
You whine like a grumpy baby.
Liar. That's what you are.
Jack nods once so subtly that you almost don't notice. He takes a step, his chest meets yours, warm and solid, and suddenly the small space between your bodies disappears. The contact sends a quiet jolt through you, an immediate awareness of how long it’s been since you felt him this close.
“Really, honey?” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “That’s not what it sounded like on the phone.”
You open your mouth to give a sharp reply, but it dies the moment his fingers drift down from your ear to your chin, tilting your face slightly. The pad of his thumb traces slowly across your lower lip, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.
“How much did you drink?” He says softly, his hoarse voice sliding into your ears.
You feel your stomach sink, a warm sensation creeping into your belly.
“Not much.” You whisper.
“How much?” he repeats, a little firmer this time.
You stare at him instead of answering. Up close, you can see every familiar detail: the faint silver threaded through his hair, the sun-warmed tone of his skin, the scatter of freckles across his shoulders where his shirt collar dips slightly open. Your mind drifts somewhere reckless, already building wild little scenarios around the man standing in front of you
“A few shots of tequila.” You look up and lean in, touching your nose to his.
For half a second, Jack allows it, but then he puts his hands on your waist, a quiet smile pulls at one corner of his mouth.
“Let's get you sober, shall we, sweetheart?” He looks down as he says it, his thumb softening your skin over your dress, pressing just enough to remind you exactly where his hand is.
You give him a mischievous smile and try to wrap your arms around his neck. “‘Mm… Not drunk.”
Jack almost laughs and smiles slightly, his throat bobbing and the silence remaining. You feel almost undressed by the way he looks at you, an overwhelming confidence.
“Sure.” Jack buries his fingers in the roots of your hair, pulling your face toward him.
For a split second you’re certain he’s about to kiss you. You barely move. Barely breathing.
“Did my girl want attention?” he murmurs, voice smooth as dark velvet. “Mm?” You part your lips, leaning in just enough for him to take the initiative. Jack moves closer, you hold your breath, then he whispers in your ear. “Since you're so needy, I'll give you what you want.”
Your stomach drops. He pulls away from you, the loss of his arm around you feels abrupt, almost physical, like something important just slipped out of reach.
Embarrassment creeps in, slow and uncomfortable. Thinking about how stupid this whole situation is. Jack came here looking for you. You drank too much and said some stupid things.
And apparently said something stupid enough that he actually showed up.
When you reach the truck, Jack unlocks it with a quiet click.
He moves ahead of you, opening the door before you even think to reach for it. One hand rests briefly at your elbow as you sit, steadying you while you slide onto the seat.
The leather is cool against your legs. Your head might be a little fuzzy from the tequila, but you’re very aware of what’s happening. Probably more aware than you’d like to be.
Without a word, he bends down on the sidewalk.
Your brows knit together. “What are you doing?”
Instead, his fingers move to the thin strap around your ankle. With a small, precise motion, he unfastens it. The other shoe comes off just as easily. He sets both of them carefully on the floor of the car before guiding your legs farther inside with a light push at your shin.
The movement makes your dress slide higher up your thighs. Your knees press together automatically, heat creeping up your neck as the fabric bunches dangerously close to revealing more than it should.
If Jack notices, he gives absolutely no sign.
“Let's get you comfy, yeah?” He says calmly.
He leans—almost on purpose—over your body to fasten your seatbelt. You turn your face at the same time as him, breathing in his scent, watching from a few inches away his stubble and dark eyes in the shadow of the night.
Your breath leaves you slowly. The ache in your chest is almost physical now. Wanting him this much feels ridiculous, and yet there it is—heavy and persistent. Jack takes his time. He clicks the seatbelt into place, then adjusts it slightly so it sits comfortably against your waist, smoothing the strap down with absent care.
But he doesn’t move away immediately. For a moment—two seconds, maybe—his face lingers close to yours. Close enough that if you leaned forward just a little… You could kiss him.
The thought hits you before you can stop it.
However, when you try to move, he pulls away as if you were the plague. The shift is sharp, almost clinical, like he just brushed something irritating off his sleeve.
He closes the door and you shrink slightly into the seat, staring out the window, your reflection staring back at you in the dark glass. Heat crawls up your neck again, but this time it’s embarrassing.
Whatever you had, it's over. That was the only certainty: Jack Abbot would never land another finger on you again. He probably thinks you’re childish and impulsive. Not worth the trouble.
The driver’s door opens and shuts. A second later the engine starts, the low rumble filling the quiet street.
You don’t look at him. Which’s difficult, because you can still see him in your peripheral vision, hands steady on the wheel, forearms flexing slightly as he shifts the car into gear. The movement pulls the fabric of his T-shirt tight across his arms, every line of muscle catching the dim glow from the dashboard.
You hate that you notice. You hate that he looks completely unaffected.
So you retreat. You pull your legs up onto the seat, curling slightly toward the door, resting your head against the cool glass of the window while the city lights slide past outside.
You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know you’re moving.
Strong arms lift you from the seat, the sudden shift pulling you out of that hazy half-sleep. Instinctively, your hands slide up around Jack’s neck to steady yourself.
“That’s not necessary,” you mumble, irritation creeping into your voice. “I can walk!”
Jack closes the car door with his foot and smiles mockingly.
“Just giving my girl the attention she deserves.”
My girl. He says it as if it really means something.
His apartmen’s pitch black when you enter, and Jack's familiar scent of clean clothes and cologne hits you. He carries you to the bedroom where you've been multiple times, just in different situations.
You take advantage of the situation, pressing your nose against his neck, brushing the tip just to get his attention, anything to make him look at you. But no, he goes into the bathroom and leaves you on the marble sink. As he turns on the light, you take a deep breath, then he steps closer and braces both arms around you, one on either side, effectively boxing you in. His chest is inches from yours, the solid line of his shoulders blocking your escape.
“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?” He murmurs against your hair.
You actually have several ideas. Very good ones, in your opinion, but judging by the way he’s been behaving all night, none of them are about to happen. Still… no one ever died from trying.
“How about a shower?” You perk up at the idea, but something’s off. You don't object when he grabs you by the waist to lift you off the sink and turns you around to slide off your dress, which falls in a puddle at your feet.
Automatically, you bring your hair forward, slightly covering your breasts with your arms, which is stupid, because Jack has seen you naked more times than you can count, not only that, but there’s something about the care with which he touches you that makes the moment intimate and vulnerable.
You step out of the dress and peel off the last piece of clothing, suddenly aware of the cool air on your skin. Without his hands on you, you feel oddly exposed, hugging your arms around yourself for warmth.
Jack moves calmly around the bathroom, pulling the small shower chair aside before turning the water on. Steam begins to curl into the air. Then he lifts you again—effortless—and sets you gently inside the shower.
You frown, unhappy. “Aren't you coming in?”
He adjusts the water and you shrink even more. He looks up at you and gives a faint, patient smile. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair away from your cheek.
“Not today, honey.”
This is the end. Literally, the worst day of your goddamn life. Damn the moment tequila gave you enough courage to do something stupid.
“Are you gonna be a good girl,” he asks quietly, “and let me take care of you?”
Then you nod, water droplets sliding down your eyelashes as you look at him, feeling more exposed than you have in a long time.
After that, everything slips out of focus.
One moment Jack’s standing close, carefully washing the last traces of the night from your skin. His hands move with quiet patience, planned and controlled, as if he’s following invisible boundaries he refuses to cross. The warmth of the water, the steadiness of his touch, it all melts together until the scene feels distant, almost dreamlike.
The next moment you’re wrapped in a towel.
The air outside the shower feels cool against your damp skin as he guides you down the hallway. His hand rests lightly at your back, steady and reassuring, and then you’re in his bedroom again.
Somewhere along the way, he hands you something soft to wear.
You manage to pull it on, movements slow and clumsy with sleep. Your hair’s still damp when you rub it absently with the towel before letting it fall over your shoulders. The room’s dim, the soft glow from a lamp turning everything hazy at the edges.
Your body sinks into the mattress the moment you lie down.
Jack moves quietly around the room, but your eyes can barely follow him anymore. His shape passes through your vision like a shadow—broad shoulders, the faint sound of a drawer closing, the rustle of fabric.
You’re already drifting. The last thing you see clearly is him sitting on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly under his weight. His hand reaches out, warm and steady as it cups your cheek, brushing your skin with a softness that makes something deep in your chest ache.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” you murmur.
Your voice’s thick with sleep, the words slurring slightly together. Your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, you feel his thumb move gently along your cheekbone.
And just before the darkness pulls you under, you hear his voice: low, close, and quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Let’s get some sleep, sweetheart.”
It's dark, too dark for you to see anything, but your body wakes up anyway. Your hands grope the bed, the soft fabric, and despite the confusion, you just know you're in his bed. Everything’s unmistakable, the softness of the mattress, the smooth sheets against your skin, his scent that’s everywhere.
The other side of the bed is cold when you touch it, which means that all your thoughts from last night were right: Jack had grown tired of you. Last night... Holy shit. Memories start to push through the fog—tequila, the club, calling him like an idiot, him showing up. You groan and drop your head back against the pillow, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose like maybe you can rewind time if you try hard enough.
It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t.
As you look at your own body, you feel the soft touch of Jack's button-down shirt, one you've never seen him actually wear. It’s big on you, soft from use, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You’ve never actually seen him wear this one before, but somehow it ended up on your body. A cool breeze comes in through the window, and as you search for your phone, you can't even remember where you put it.
“Perfect,” you mutter under your breath.
The digital clock on the dresser glows faint red in the darkness and points to exactly 3:12 a.m. So you put your feet out and feel the cold floor, and even barefoot, you make your way silently, on tiptoe, to the hallway.
You need your phone. Trinity must have sent about thirty messages by now. And your clothes—your dress, your shoes. You could grab them, order an Uber, and disappear before this gets any more embarrassing.
You swing your feet over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, and the chill shoots straight up your legs, waking you a little more. Still, you move quietly, almost instinctively on your toes as you make your way toward the door.
You feel your way along the walls of the apartment, your mind alert to every sound, every crack, and every movement you make. To your surprise, when you reach the living room, there’s a lamp next to the sofa and Jack’s there. He’s leaning back against the couch, one arm resting along the back while the other holds an open book. The warm light spills across his chest, catching on the faint scatter of freckles across his skin.
He looks up as soon as he sees you, then lowers the book and you don't know what to do, standing on tiptoe, looking at him completely embarrassed.
“Where are you going, honey?” he asks quietly.
“Um... I was going to... look for my clothes and... my phone, call an Uber, go home.”
You attempt a small smile. It’s the kind where you keep your lips firmly closed. Jack frowns and puts the book on the coffee table.
“C’mere.”
He says it more like an order, not a suggestion and you walk like a helpless animal, tucking your legs and arms together and sitting on the other end, far enough away that the embarrassment affects you. It's still partially dark, the small lampshade illuminating nothing but the freckles on Jack's broad chest, his salt and pepper locks, which you avoid staring at for more than two seconds and fail gloomily.
He watches you as you avoid his gaze, playing with the hem of the shirt as if it were interesting enough.
“Hey,” he calls you, his voice hoarser than ever. “Look at me.”
And then you look. And it kills you, because the truth is, this whole mess started with something small and stupid that grew into something much bigger than you ever planned. It started with affection—something neither of you were supposed to let happen. It was too late, you knew that from the moment you got involved with him ten months ago, when he saw you crying in a dark room after Pittfest.
You didn't expect to get attached to Jack Abbot, it was supposed to be just a physical thing, with no strings attached, but Jack is a real man, the kind who takes you to his house and cooks dinner for you, who opens the car door and gives you a ride when you have a panic attack at the end of the workday. You liked him more than you could admit, and maybe the alcohol made you realize that, perhaps, he doesn't feel the same way about you.
“I'm so embarrassed.” Your hands come up to cover your face as you drag in a slow breath.
Jack approaches, you can tell by the rustling of the sofa.
“Hey, sweetheart. Why’s that?”
“‘Cause...” Your voice fails you. You take your hands away from your face and he’s so incredibly close that it hurts. “I was stupid. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re probably busy, and you came all the way to—” You stop, suddenly remembering something. “Actually… how did you even find me?”
He reaches for your hand, his fingers close around it gently, steadying it before he lifts your wrist toward his mouth. Your breath catches. His lips press softly against the inside of your wrist.
Once. Then again.
Slow, unhurried kisses that move from your wrist to the back of your hand, then up along your forearm. Each one intentional, like he has all the time in the world.
Before you can fully process it, his arm slides around your waist, the next second you’re being pulled onto his lap and the movement steals the air from your lungs.
Your breathing quickens when he slips his hand under your shirt and smoothes your bare skin, caressing you slowly.
“You needed me,” he says quietly. “So I came.”
“I’m sure you had something better to do,” you murmur, trying to sound casual. “Or someone.”
Jack doesn’t even react to the attempt, he just watches you. And that somehow makes it worse.
Because the way he looks at you makes it painfully clear he knows exactly how much power he has over you. And the worst part is… you’d probably let him do anything he wanted, even if it meant dealing with the consequences later.
“You drive me insane, you know that?” His voice drops lower, rough with something that sounds dangerously close to frustration. His grip shakes at your waist and you lean in, holding Jack's shoulders for support. His palm slides up and down your back in a delicate, pleasurable movement that gives you goosebumps.
“Jack...”
“Yeah, honey. Did y’know that?” Your heart's beating too fast now. “How exactly,” he continues quietly, “did you convince yourself I’d be interested in anyone else… when you’re the only woman I can think about?”
For a second your brain simply stops. That can’t be right. You must still be half asleep. Dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
“...What?”
Jack’s hand moves to the buttons of the shirt you’re wearing. You don’t even remember when he decided to start undoing them. One by one, his fingers work them open with slow patience, like he’s in no hurry at all.
“You drive me out of my fucking mind,” he mutters. “In ways you probably don’t even realize.”
Another button slips free.
“My pretty girl needed my attention, didn’t she?”
The words settle deep in your chest.
“As if any other man would dare put his hands on what belongs to me.”
Your heart stumbles.
The contact triggered an immediate sympathetic nervous system response. A spike of adrenaline surged through your system, leaving your heart rate erratic and every nerve ending painfully sensitive.
When the last button comes undone, you close your eyes. You can feel his gaze moving over your face, studying every small reaction. His breath brushes your collarbone, warm against your skin, and a shiver spreads down your body before you can stop it.
You want him so badly that your body glows with longing every time he touches you, even if it's unwitting.
His beard brushes against your skin, his mouth almost touching your neck, but your body tilts, sways, his hand holds you firmly at an angle where you can't escape.
“No one,” he murmured, his lips grazing the hollow between your breasts. “...touches…” He dragged a path downward, his mouth searing against your skin. “…what’s mine.”
The sound that escaped you was sharp, raw. When you looked down, his focus was absolute, his touch careful, as if he were mapping you with devotion.
You arched your back as Jack settled into the sofa. The contact through the thin fabric of your lace was immediate, a localized heat that spiked your pulse and forced a jagged moan from your throat.
“So good for me...” You lean on him as your hips curl, the friction was a slow burn, a steady accumulation of kinetic energy between you “Fuck. S’that you want, honey?”
The answer caught in your throat, a half-formed word that dissolved into a moan. Jack didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He moved with a devastating efficiency, peeling the shirt from your shoulders and sweeping your hair aside, his eyes never leaving yours. He wanted every inch of skin available to him.
When you get rid of the piece of clothing, you push him against the couch and hold his face with your fingertips, his beard tickling your skin, his hand going straight to your ass and his fingers squeezing your flesh hard.
“I want you.” You caught his lower lip between your teeth, a sharp, demanding bite before you crashed into a kiss that felt less like an affection and more like a collision. Jack is gentle but fierce, he pushes your hair away, nibbles your lower lip, his tongue tangled with yours, his mouth swallowing every sound you tried to make as if he were memorizing the rhythm of your breath.
“Be good for me.” His breathing is ragged as his chest rises and falls rapidly. “Mm?”
He grabs you by the waist and you get up, stumbling over the rug, the shirt thrown on the floor, the shoes you hadn't seen in the dark because you're too busy holding his face, swallowing him as if he were the only thing that matters.
He sits up on the bed, carrying you with him until you're straddling him, and the feeling of him beneath you, knowing that you're in charge, makes you extremely wet. He pulls your hair to the side, kisses your neck, your skin, and bites your shoulder when you grind on his lap, begging to be touched there.
Abbot had a devastating confidence in the dark. He made it clear that your pleasure was his only directive. He reclaimed your mouth, his hand sliding the lace aside to find the epicenter of the heat. You sobbed into his kiss, he simply drank the sound down. His thumb moved in a slow, rhythmic circle that teased the very edge of what you could handle. He bites your chin and watches your microexpressions when he touches you there, his fingers rubbing, but never really in.
“Jack...” You whimper, feeling the need for more, always more, more, more.
“Want that, honey?” A ghost of a smirk touched his lips as you tightened your grip on his shoulders, forcing yourself down against his fingers.
“Mm-hmm,” You say, incoherently.
“Mm-hmm,” He mimicked, a low, dark chuckle vibrating in his chest.
“Can you cum for me like that, honey?” Jack whispers under your skin, where he nibbles your nipple and watches the instant reaction of your skin to his touch. “Bet you can.”
He didn't make you wait. He knew exactly how to move, finding the precise rhythm to push you over the edge, spreading his fingers everywhere. The repetitive, relentless motion put you into a trance until the tension finally snapped. The climax hit like a physical shock, a wave of heat that undulated through your core and left you breathless.
“There you go,” Jack kisses your shoulder as he holds your body during your climax, a perfect ‘O’ blossoming your lips. “My pretty girl, s’good for me, huh?”
Your cheeks are rosy, your neck covered in sweat, and adrenaline crackling in your veins.
“You're right,” You lean in, kissing his neck, then his jaw… Everywhere. “I'm yours.”
Something awakens in Jack's eyes and kindness gives way to something sharper. It’s a transition you recognize, a silent understanding that only exists between the two of you. Both breathless, he exhales a low curse before reclaiming your mouth with a desperation that suggests he never should have let go in the first place.
“Damn right you are.” He rasps against your lips, his voice dropping an octave.
Your hands fumble with the fabric of his sweatpants, fueled by a frantic need to close the gap. When you finally make contact, the heat of him is staggering. Jack lets out a wrecked moan, his eyes snapping shut as his hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he devours your mouth.
“Damn, baby.” His voice is a whisper in the dark. You look into his eyes, in that inky gradient bathed in the night.
You're in sync, heart to heart, pulsing with adrenaline. When you touch him, pulling him out, it's pure euphoria. Jack groans when your hand pumps him, moving up and down, so slowly that he could die. You lift your hips, ignoring everything else, because at that moment it's just you and him.
It feels like a slow-motion collision. Jack whimpers, his features contorted in a sharp mask of pleasure that looks almost like pain. You move with a torturous rhythm, both of you suspended in that heavy, humid space where control starts to slip.
“Oh my God, Jack!” You moan, trying to keep your movements steady, but his hands lock onto your hips, his fingers digging in as he pulls you down, forcing a deeper connection.
“You're going to take it all, aren't you, baby?” Jack mumbles, his voice thick and broken. “Shit—ah, baby—you're doing so good...”
The intensity of the kiss is overwhelming, triggering a sharp contraction in your core. A raw, unyielding force takes over as Jack hitches the pace, swallowing your whimpers and turning them into his own. He’s murmuring into the crook of your neck now—broken sentences, encouragement, breathless praise—until your mind becomes a total fog. Your bodies move as one, in frenzied agony, Jack continues to whine and moan and say all the things that make your mind turn into nothing.
He's everywhere. The sensation builds, a radiating heat that starts in your toes and surges upward, centering in your belly. It’s a heavy, mounting pressure that leaves no room for anything else.
“I’m—”
“I’ve got you, baby. I'm right here.” He promises against your skin, and that’s the catalyst. You melt, pressing yourself against him, your pleasure pulling him over the edge, ecstasy swallowing everything.
The dam breaks. You melt into him, the force of your release dragging him over the edge with you. He swears, his entire frame locking as he holds you in a crushing embrace, his body vibrating with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it feels electric.
“I wanna feel you,” you murmur into his shoulder, clinging to the fading heat.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his pulse still erratic against your own, his arms tightening around you as if he’s making sure you’re still there.
Both of you are still catching your breath. Your heart hasn’t quite settled yet, and judging by the way Jack’s chest rises against yours, neither has his. But he’s right there, pressed close, skin warm against your skin. When your arms wrap around him, instinctively pulling him closer, the rest of the world fades out.
His lips brush your shoulder, slow and warm. Then again. And again. Small, absent kisses moving lazily along your skin.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he murmurs.
He whispers against your vibrant skin. You feel the hint of a smile where his beard grazes your shoulder, the roughness of it scraping gently across your damp skin. Part of you wants to freeze the moment exactly like this—to keep the warmth, the quiet, the way he feels against you.
You don’t want to let go.
Eventually Jack shifts, guiding you back toward the bed. The sheets are cool when your skin touches them, and for a second you assume the moment is over. That means it’s time to leave, so you start to sit up.
“Hey,” Jack says softly. “What are you doing?”
You blink at him, confused. You never stay. Never.
“I thought that...”
“No, honey," He reaches for your hand before you can finish. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss to the back of it. “Stay.”
The window is slightly open, letting a cool breeze drift through the room. Jack slides closer immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against him. Your back fits neatly against his chest.
His nose nestles into your hair, breathing you in. His body is warm, solid behind you, his leg brushing lightly against yours under the sheets.
“Okay,” you murmur, lacing your fingers with his.
He squeezes your hand gently.
“You should stay more often,” he says.
“Like, tomorrow?” You smile faintly in the dark, joking about it.
“No." Jack’s breath ghosts across the back of your neck. "Forever.”
summary: You're obsessed with Jack Abbot, the kind of obsession where you want to be his no matter what. On a girls' night out, a daring phone call leads to a series of events you could never have imagined.
characters: jack abbot x reader
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of pittfest, smut (slightly, nothing explicit) sex w/ no protection, jack is soft and takes care of the reader!
word count: 7.4k
Fuck Jack Abbot.
Your mouth tastes like vodka and something sweet—cranberry, maybe. Your feet ache from dancing, sweat clings to the small of your back, and the hem of your dress keeps creeping up your thighs while you and Trinity move through the crowd to an old Beyoncé song.
You're not that drunk, but the alcohol definitely does something to your mind. The lights pulse low and warm, bodies packed together on the dance floor—couples, strangers, people chasing that brief electric feeling that only happens in places like this. You close your eyes, your body taking on a life of its own, sliding to every beat, without fail.
Baby boy you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies. I think about you all the time, I see you in my dreams.
You hate that your mind wanders directly to gray hair, large, attentive, eager hands, broad, muscular shoulders, just from one song. But what could you do? Everything reminded you of him. It's infuriating.
What annoys you isn’t the attraction. It’s the silence, the days he disappears between shifts, completely unreachable. No messages. No calls. Like the man simply powers down when he leaves the hospital. And that's okay, you couldn't force yourself to be spoiled, because Jack was a great doctor and a very busy one, but you wanted him for yourself. Was that too much to ask?
But God, you want him.
Getting involved with Jack was a mistake from the start. Casual sex was supposed to be simple. Efficient. Stress relief between brutal shifts in the PTMC emergency department. Except somewhere along the way, you stopped being satisfied with just that.
You wanted his attention and that’s the real problem.
You don’t even see him every shift, which is criminal, honestly. Half the fun is catching his eye across the trauma bay and throwing him a look that makes the corner of his mouth twitch—that small, dangerous smile he tries to hide from the rest of the staff.
You communicated in your own language, throwing almost everyone off, even Robby. Trinity, on the other hand, suspected something was going on because you share an apartment, and when he picked you up one night to go to dinner—because he gets it in his head to be a gentleman—Trinity happened to glance out the apartment window.
She’d narrowed her eyes immediately.
“That truck across the street looks familiar.”
You’d laughed, badly, and changed the subject while texting Jack to drive around the block and wait at the next corner.
It’s not that the relationship needs to be secret. Technically, there isn’t a relationship, just sex. Just two doctors blowing off steam between impossible shifts. Jack taking you to dinner sometimes doesn’t mean anything. Neither does the way he walks you to the door or the fact that you occasionally end up in his apartment instead of yours.
You never stay the night., because, again—Just sex.
Except somewhere in the middle of all those blurred lines, it quietly stopped feeling that way.
And so, because of all that pent-up frustration that Jack Abbot was too busy to remember you existed, you decided to have a girls' night out with your friend. The place you picked wasn’t exactly a bar. It was the kind of place where the bass lived in your ribs and the lights never stopped moving. Neon everywhere, the air thick with perfume, liquor, and sweat. Bodies packed close, the dance floor pulsing like a heartbeat. Three shots of tequila in, you were feeling warm, loose, reckless.
And, unfortunately, still thinking about Jack.
After the song changes, you throw your hair back and take a deep breath, droplets of sweat gather on your temple, strands of hair clinging to the back of your neck and a dangerous idea pops into your head. A very bad one.
“I'll be right back!” You shout over the music.
Trinity barely glances up. She lifts her citrus drink in acknowledgment before disappearing back into the rhythm of the crowd, hips swaying like she belongs to the music.
Your heels click on the floor and you make a beeline for the bathroom. Hungry eyes devour you along the way, one guy in particular stares at you for too long: dark hair, decent face. You hold his gaze just because he's cute.
Incredibly, there’s no line for the bathroom, just a group of girls fixing their makeup, two in the corner of the sink pretending very unsatisfactorily that they are not using illicit substances. You slip into a stall and sit on the closed lid of the toilet.
Your phone feels heavier than it should when you pull it out.
The screen lights up your face in the dim stall. Your eyes look a little glassy, your lipstick’s slightly smudged. You scroll through your messages until you land on Jack’s. The last one still says read. Your stomach tightens.
You remember exactly why you sent it. You’d know it was his day off.
You: Can I see you?
Jack: Can't today, honey.
You: Oh, okay.
Honey. The stupid nickname that gives you chills, that weighs heavily on your stomach and makes your whole body knot up.
“Honey my ass,” you mutter, groggy and irritated.
Determined to do something you'll probably regret, you press the call button. The music in the background is a witness to your mistakes. You bite your fingernail, bouncing your heel against the tile floor, nerves buzzing under your skin.
Your heart pounds at the second ring, but it calms down at the fourth, fifth... For a moment you wonder if he’s going to let it go to voicemail after all. Then a rustling sound fills your ears—fabric shifting, maybe a hand fumbling for the phone—and your stomach flips.
Damn it.
“Hey, honey.”
“Hi,” you say, swallowing hard. You push yourself up from the toilet lid and begin pacing the tiny cubicle, one heel tapping nervously against the tile. “I just—” The words almost die in your throat.
For half a second you consider hanging up, pretending this never happened. But the alcohol gives you that dangerous little push again, the one that always convinces you that ruining Jack Abbot’s night is a perfectly reasonable decision.
“Are you okay?” There is genuine concern on the other end of the line.
“Oh, I'm great! I'm just calling to tell you that I'm having the best night of my life. Without you. Can you imagine?”
“Babygirl, have you been drinking?”
“Fuck you, Jack.” The words come out faster now, sharpened by tequila and wounded pride. “I’m having the time of my life, and guess what? There’s this reeeeeally hot guy who wants to take me home. And maybe I’ll let him. Actually—no, I will let him.” You laugh, a little wild, a little unsteady. “I’m going to have the best fuck of my life, and he’s going to do it so much better than you. You’re the one losing out, asshole!”
Oops, I did it again! it's the soundtrack to your rage. Jack’s about to say something, you hang up before he can finish. Your hand presses against your chest as your heart pounds like thunder beneath your ribs. You have absolutely no idea where that burst of audacity came from, but it’s already done.
When you push open the stall door, you realize you had an audience. Three girls are watching you through the mirror’s reflection.
“Way to go, girl!” One of them smiles, her lips crimson red.
“Screw him!” says the other. You smile in agreement with yourself.
You grin despite yourself and nod in agreement. The alcohol isn’t hitting quite the same anymore. Confronting the man you’re stupidly, desperately obsessed with has a way of sobering your system a little.
A shy but confident smile blossoms on your face. Another hit from the 2000s is playing when you return, squeezing through bodies until you find Trinity with another shot of tequila in her hands.
“Cheers!” she shouts, her glittery eye makeup catching every flicker of neon light.
You raise your tiny glass to meet hers. “Lots of tequila shots!” you yell back, laughing.
“And fewer shifts!” Trinity laughs.
The glasses clink, though the sound disappears beneath the pounding music. When you toss the tequila back, a little spills from the corner of your mouth, sliding down your chin and leaving a warm trail along the curve of your chest. The burn hits your throat immediately, and you shake your head as the heat spreads through you.
Everything intensifies, the sweat, the alcohol, the thumping music. You close your eyes and let your instincts guide you, forgetting for a few moments what happened. In fact, this was what you wanted.
If Jack thought he was too good for you, then fine. You’d find someone else.
A few songs later, you’re borderline euphoric.
Somehow, Garcia had materialized as a hologram, much to Trinity's surprise. They dance together, and you can't help but smile when you see your friend so excited.
For a moment you just stand there, catching your breath while the strobe lights slice the room into fragments of color and shadow. The music pounds through your chest, vibrating somewhere behind your ribs.
And then that feeling creeps in. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
Your smile fades slightly as your eyes drift across the crowd, following the movement of bodies and flashing lights. Faces blur together—strangers, strangers, strangers—until one figure catches in the flicker of a passing beam. A face half-lit, half swallowed by shadow. Your blood runs cold.
He’s standing only a few yards away, partially hidden among the crowd, tall enough that you’d recognize that posture anywhere. His expression is carved from stone, stern, unreadable, the kind of look that makes your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Maybe you're imagining things and he's not really here. When you look again, he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never there. Your balance falters and you stumble slightly, your heel catching on nothing as you squint through the flashing lights, trying to spot him again.
Did you imagine that?
Someone says something close to your ear, but you don't hear it. Nimble hands touch your waist, pressing your body against his. Your head is still spinning, your mind halfway convinced you just hallucinated the one man who can ruin your mood with a single look.
The stranger moves with the music, confident hands resting on your hips as the two of you move together. The closeness is easy, the heat of another body against yours. The press of a hand sliding slightly lower, fingers brushing your thigh before gliding back up again.
And of course, because your brain is cruel, you picture Jack.
You imagine that he’s holding your body with his firm, calloused hands, that his masculine arms envelop you, making you feel the warmth radiating from his chest. Hands touch your thigh and slide down, then up, taking with them part of the pink dress you're wearing. Your body reacts before your brain does, arching back slightly, leaning into the contact, chasing the sensation like it belongs to him. The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine.
God.
You're desperate to kiss him. You want to taste him, feel his warmth, want him everywhere. You turn on your heels and when your eyes meet the face that has been dancing with you for the last three minutes, you freeze. It's not Jack, it's just that cute guy you bumped into before going to the bathroom.
He smiles, clearly thinking things have been going very well. Your brain short-circuits.
“Oh—” You step back immediately. “Sorry.”
The guy looks confused, reaching out as if to catch your elbow, but you slip away before he can. You weave through the crowd, bumping shoulders and muttering quick apologies as you push toward the edge of the dance floor.
No one really sees you, you're just another person trying to get from one end of the dance floor to the other. The pressure of it all forces you forward until, finally, you reach a small pocket of space near the edge where you can actually breathe. You glance over your shoulder, checking to see if the guy from before followed you.
Relief barely has time to settle before your chest collides with someone.
You instinctively step back, ready to mumble a quick apology and keep moving, but something about the moment changes before your brain catches up. A strange shiver runs through your body, the kind that starts low in your spine and climbs upward.
Jack Abbot is standing right in front of you and for a second you just stare at him. Colored lights slide across his face—blue, red, violet—each flash sharpening the lines of his expression. He’s watching you carefully, almost cautiously, his features calm but alert, like he’s assessing a situation.
You blink once, twice. Like maybe the image will disappear if you reset your vision. Everything is in motion except you. Jack tilts his head slightly to look at you.
“Jack?” Your voice is quiet. “What are you doing here?”
Your gaze betrays you immediately. It drops for half a second, to the outline of his biceps under the fitted black T-shirt, to the tan of his skin, scattered with those faint freckles you’ve memorized without meaning to.
There’s something about the way he stands, relaxed but solid, confident without even trying, that makes every other man in the room feel like background noise. Jack doesn’t compete with people. He just exists, and somehow that’s enough.
One look. That’s all it takes for every bit of attitude you had five minutes ago to evaporate.
“You called me,” he says simply.
You choke on your own words.
“I didn't—”
Jack moves deftly, it’s quick, smooth, almost effortless. One hand lands against the small of your back, firm and steady, guiding you to turn with him. Suddenly you’re walking in the opposite direction, straight toward the exit, like the decision has already been made.
Your body follows automatically.
The contact sends a sharp chill down your spine. His palm rests low against your back, warm even through the thin fabric of your dress, steering you through the moving crowd with quiet certainty.
It feels unfair how natural it is, like your bodies already know how to move together.
The familiar scent of him hits you a second later—clean, warm, unmistakably him—and it lands harder than the tequila ever did. Suddenly you're hyperaware of everything: the brush of his arm against yours, the solid line of his chest behind you whenever someone bumps into him.
Every step toward the door feels heavier and every inch of him feels dangerously close.
The night air outside the club is cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat and noise you just left behind. Laughter spills from the open door behind you, and somewhere down the street someone shouts something unintelligible, followed by more laughter. But all of it fades into the background. All you can really feel is him.
His hand is still firm at the small of your back, guiding you along the sidewalk. His body moves close enough that every step brushes him against you, the steady warmth of him impossible to ignore.
“Jack,” you murmur, trying to slow him.
He doesn’t stop.
“Let's get to the car, baby.”
“No, wait.” You frown and pull away just enough so you can turn and look at him. “You're… here.”
“Of course I am. You called me.”
“I don’t—” You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t want you here. I was having fun.”
You whine like a grumpy baby.
Liar. That's what you are.
Jack nods once so subtly that you almost don't notice. He takes a step, his chest meets yours, warm and solid, and suddenly the small space between your bodies disappears. The contact sends a quiet jolt through you, an immediate awareness of how long it’s been since you felt him this close.
“Really, honey?” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “That’s not what it sounded like on the phone.”
You open your mouth to give a sharp reply, but it dies the moment his fingers drift down from your ear to your chin, tilting your face slightly. The pad of his thumb traces slowly across your lower lip, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.
“How much did you drink?” He says softly, his hoarse voice sliding into your ears.
You feel your stomach sink, a warm sensation creeping into your belly.
“Not much.” You whisper.
“How much?” he repeats, a little firmer this time.
You stare at him instead of answering. Up close, you can see every familiar detail: the faint silver threaded through his hair, the sun-warmed tone of his skin, the scatter of freckles across his shoulders where his shirt collar dips slightly open. Your mind drifts somewhere reckless, already building wild little scenarios around the man standing in front of you
“A few shots of tequila.” You look up and lean in, touching your nose to his.
For half a second, Jack allows it, but then he puts his hands on your waist, a quiet smile pulls at one corner of his mouth.
“Let's get you sober, shall we, sweetheart?” He looks down as he says it, his thumb softening your skin over your dress, pressing just enough to remind you exactly where his hand is.
You give him a mischievous smile and try to wrap your arms around his neck. “‘Mm… Not drunk.”
Jack almost laughs and smiles slightly, his throat bobbing and the silence remaining. You feel almost undressed by the way he looks at you, an overwhelming confidence.
“Sure.” Jack buries his fingers in the roots of your hair, pulling your face toward him.
For a split second you’re certain he’s about to kiss you. You barely move. Barely breathing.
“Did my girl want attention?” he murmurs, voice smooth as dark velvet. “Mm?” You part your lips, leaning in just enough for him to take the initiative. Jack moves closer, you hold your breath, then he whispers in your ear. “Since you're so needy, I'll give you what you want.”
Your stomach drops. He pulls away from you, the loss of his arm around you feels abrupt, almost physical, like something important just slipped out of reach.
Embarrassment creeps in, slow and uncomfortable. Thinking about how stupid this whole situation is. Jack came here looking for you. You drank too much and said some stupid things.
And apparently said something stupid enough that he actually showed up.
When you reach the truck, Jack unlocks it with a quiet click.
He moves ahead of you, opening the door before you even think to reach for it. One hand rests briefly at your elbow as you sit, steadying you while you slide onto the seat.
The leather is cool against your legs. Your head might be a little fuzzy from the tequila, but you’re very aware of what’s happening. Probably more aware than you’d like to be.
Without a word, he bends down on the sidewalk.
Your brows knit together. “What are you doing?”
Instead, his fingers move to the thin strap around your ankle. With a small, precise motion, he unfastens it. The other shoe comes off just as easily. He sets both of them carefully on the floor of the car before guiding your legs farther inside with a light push at your shin.
The movement makes your dress slide higher up your thighs. Your knees press together automatically, heat creeping up your neck as the fabric bunches dangerously close to revealing more than it should.
If Jack notices, he gives absolutely no sign.
“Let's get you comfy, yeah?” He says calmly.
He leans—almost on purpose—over your body to fasten your seatbelt. You turn your face at the same time as him, breathing in his scent, watching from a few inches away his stubble and dark eyes in the shadow of the night.
Your breath leaves you slowly. The ache in your chest is almost physical now. Wanting him this much feels ridiculous, and yet there it is—heavy and persistent. Jack takes his time. He clicks the seatbelt into place, then adjusts it slightly so it sits comfortably against your waist, smoothing the strap down with absent care.
But he doesn’t move away immediately. For a moment—two seconds, maybe—his face lingers close to yours. Close enough that if you leaned forward just a little… You could kiss him.
The thought hits you before you can stop it.
However, when you try to move, he pulls away as if you were the plague. The shift is sharp, almost clinical, like he just brushed something irritating off his sleeve.
He closes the door and you shrink slightly into the seat, staring out the window, your reflection staring back at you in the dark glass. Heat crawls up your neck again, but this time it’s embarrassing.
Whatever you had, it's over. That was the only certainty: Jack Abbot would never land another finger on you again. He probably thinks you’re childish and impulsive. Not worth the trouble.
The driver’s door opens and shuts. A second later the engine starts, the low rumble filling the quiet street.
You don’t look at him. Which’s difficult, because you can still see him in your peripheral vision, hands steady on the wheel, forearms flexing slightly as he shifts the car into gear. The movement pulls the fabric of his T-shirt tight across his arms, every line of muscle catching the dim glow from the dashboard.
You hate that you notice. You hate that he looks completely unaffected.
So you retreat. You pull your legs up onto the seat, curling slightly toward the door, resting your head against the cool glass of the window while the city lights slide past outside.
You must have dozed off, because the next thing you know you’re moving.
Strong arms lift you from the seat, the sudden shift pulling you out of that hazy half-sleep. Instinctively, your hands slide up around Jack’s neck to steady yourself.
“That’s not necessary,” you mumble, irritation creeping into your voice. “I can walk!”
Jack closes the car door with his foot and smiles mockingly.
“Just giving my girl the attention she deserves.”
My girl. He says it as if it really means something.
His apartmen’s pitch black when you enter, and Jack's familiar scent of clean clothes and cologne hits you. He carries you to the bedroom where you've been multiple times, just in different situations.
You take advantage of the situation, pressing your nose against his neck, brushing the tip just to get his attention, anything to make him look at you. But no, he goes into the bathroom and leaves you on the marble sink. As he turns on the light, you take a deep breath, then he steps closer and braces both arms around you, one on either side, effectively boxing you in. His chest is inches from yours, the solid line of his shoulders blocking your escape.
“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?” He murmurs against your hair.
You actually have several ideas. Very good ones, in your opinion, but judging by the way he’s been behaving all night, none of them are about to happen. Still… no one ever died from trying.
“How about a shower?” You perk up at the idea, but something’s off. You don't object when he grabs you by the waist to lift you off the sink and turns you around to slide off your dress, which falls in a puddle at your feet.
Automatically, you bring your hair forward, slightly covering your breasts with your arms, which is stupid, because Jack has seen you naked more times than you can count, not only that, but there’s something about the care with which he touches you that makes the moment intimate and vulnerable.
You step out of the dress and peel off the last piece of clothing, suddenly aware of the cool air on your skin. Without his hands on you, you feel oddly exposed, hugging your arms around yourself for warmth.
Jack moves calmly around the bathroom, pulling the small shower chair aside before turning the water on. Steam begins to curl into the air. Then he lifts you again—effortless—and sets you gently inside the shower.
You frown, unhappy. “Aren't you coming in?”
He adjusts the water and you shrink even more. He looks up at you and gives a faint, patient smile. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair away from your cheek.
“Not today, honey.”
This is the end. Literally, the worst day of your goddamn life. Damn the moment tequila gave you enough courage to do something stupid.
“Are you gonna be a good girl,” he asks quietly, “and let me take care of you?”
Then you nod, water droplets sliding down your eyelashes as you look at him, feeling more exposed than you have in a long time.
After that, everything slips out of focus.
One moment Jack’s standing close, carefully washing the last traces of the night from your skin. His hands move with quiet patience, planned and controlled, as if he’s following invisible boundaries he refuses to cross. The warmth of the water, the steadiness of his touch, it all melts together until the scene feels distant, almost dreamlike.
The next moment you’re wrapped in a towel.
The air outside the shower feels cool against your damp skin as he guides you down the hallway. His hand rests lightly at your back, steady and reassuring, and then you’re in his bedroom again.
Somewhere along the way, he hands you something soft to wear.
You manage to pull it on, movements slow and clumsy with sleep. Your hair’s still damp when you rub it absently with the towel before letting it fall over your shoulders. The room’s dim, the soft glow from a lamp turning everything hazy at the edges.
Your body sinks into the mattress the moment you lie down.
Jack moves quietly around the room, but your eyes can barely follow him anymore. His shape passes through your vision like a shadow—broad shoulders, the faint sound of a drawer closing, the rustle of fabric.
You’re already drifting. The last thing you see clearly is him sitting on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips slightly under his weight. His hand reaches out, warm and steady as it cups your cheek, brushing your skin with a softness that makes something deep in your chest ache.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” you murmur.
Your voice’s thick with sleep, the words slurring slightly together. Your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, you feel his thumb move gently along your cheekbone.
And just before the darkness pulls you under, you hear his voice: low, close, and quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Let’s get some sleep, sweetheart.”
It's dark, too dark for you to see anything, but your body wakes up anyway. Your hands grope the bed, the soft fabric, and despite the confusion, you just know you're in his bed. Everything’s unmistakable, the softness of the mattress, the smooth sheets against your skin, his scent that’s everywhere.
The other side of the bed is cold when you touch it, which means that all your thoughts from last night were right: Jack had grown tired of you. Last night... Holy shit. Memories start to push through the fog—tequila, the club, calling him like an idiot, him showing up. You groan and drop your head back against the pillow, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your nose like maybe you can rewind time if you try hard enough.
It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t.
As you look at your own body, you feel the soft touch of Jack's button-down shirt, one you've never seen him actually wear. It’s big on you, soft from use, the sleeves swallowing your hands. You’ve never actually seen him wear this one before, but somehow it ended up on your body. A cool breeze comes in through the window, and as you search for your phone, you can't even remember where you put it.
“Perfect,” you mutter under your breath.
The digital clock on the dresser glows faint red in the darkness and points to exactly 3:12 a.m. So you put your feet out and feel the cold floor, and even barefoot, you make your way silently, on tiptoe, to the hallway.
You need your phone. Trinity must have sent about thirty messages by now. And your clothes—your dress, your shoes. You could grab them, order an Uber, and disappear before this gets any more embarrassing.
You swing your feet over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, and the chill shoots straight up your legs, waking you a little more. Still, you move quietly, almost instinctively on your toes as you make your way toward the door.
You feel your way along the walls of the apartment, your mind alert to every sound, every crack, and every movement you make. To your surprise, when you reach the living room, there’s a lamp next to the sofa and Jack’s there. He’s leaning back against the couch, one arm resting along the back while the other holds an open book. The warm light spills across his chest, catching on the faint scatter of freckles across his skin.
He looks up as soon as he sees you, then lowers the book and you don't know what to do, standing on tiptoe, looking at him completely embarrassed.
“Where are you going, honey?” he asks quietly.
“Um... I was going to... look for my clothes and... my phone, call an Uber, go home.”
You attempt a small smile. It’s the kind where you keep your lips firmly closed. Jack frowns and puts the book on the coffee table.
“C’mere.”
He says it more like an order, not a suggestion and you walk like a helpless animal, tucking your legs and arms together and sitting on the other end, far enough away that the embarrassment affects you. It's still partially dark, the small lampshade illuminating nothing but the freckles on Jack's broad chest, his salt and pepper locks, which you avoid staring at for more than two seconds and fail gloomily.
He watches you as you avoid his gaze, playing with the hem of the shirt as if it were interesting enough.
“Hey,” he calls you, his voice hoarser than ever. “Look at me.”
And then you look. And it kills you, because the truth is, this whole mess started with something small and stupid that grew into something much bigger than you ever planned. It started with affection—something neither of you were supposed to let happen. It was too late, you knew that from the moment you got involved with him ten months ago, when he saw you crying in a dark room after Pittfest.
You didn't expect to get attached to Jack Abbot, it was supposed to be just a physical thing, with no strings attached, but Jack is a real man, the kind who takes you to his house and cooks dinner for you, who opens the car door and gives you a ride when you have a panic attack at the end of the workday. You liked him more than you could admit, and maybe the alcohol made you realize that, perhaps, he doesn't feel the same way about you.
“I'm so embarrassed.” Your hands come up to cover your face as you drag in a slow breath.
Jack approaches, you can tell by the rustling of the sofa.
“Hey, sweetheart. Why’s that?”
“‘Cause...” Your voice fails you. You take your hands away from your face and he’s so incredibly close that it hurts. “I was stupid. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re probably busy, and you came all the way to—” You stop, suddenly remembering something. “Actually… how did you even find me?”
He reaches for your hand, his fingers close around it gently, steadying it before he lifts your wrist toward his mouth. Your breath catches. His lips press softly against the inside of your wrist.
Once. Then again.
Slow, unhurried kisses that move from your wrist to the back of your hand, then up along your forearm. Each one intentional, like he has all the time in the world.
Before you can fully process it, his arm slides around your waist, the next second you’re being pulled onto his lap and the movement steals the air from your lungs.
Your breathing quickens when he slips his hand under your shirt and smoothes your bare skin, caressing you slowly.
“You needed me,” he says quietly. “So I came.”
“I’m sure you had something better to do,” you murmur, trying to sound casual. “Or someone.”
Jack doesn’t even react to the attempt, he just watches you. And that somehow makes it worse.
Because the way he looks at you makes it painfully clear he knows exactly how much power he has over you. And the worst part is… you’d probably let him do anything he wanted, even if it meant dealing with the consequences later.
“You drive me insane, you know that?” His voice drops lower, rough with something that sounds dangerously close to frustration. His grip shakes at your waist and you lean in, holding Jack's shoulders for support. His palm slides up and down your back in a delicate, pleasurable movement that gives you goosebumps.
“Jack...”
“Yeah, honey. Did y’know that?” Your heart's beating too fast now. “How exactly,” he continues quietly, “did you convince yourself I’d be interested in anyone else… when you’re the only woman I can think about?”
For a second your brain simply stops. That can’t be right. You must still be half asleep. Dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
“...What?”
Jack’s hand moves to the buttons of the shirt you’re wearing. You don’t even remember when he decided to start undoing them. One by one, his fingers work them open with slow patience, like he’s in no hurry at all.
“You drive me out of my fucking mind,” he mutters. “In ways you probably don’t even realize.”
Another button slips free.
“My pretty girl needed my attention, didn’t she?”
The words settle deep in your chest.
“As if any other man would dare put his hands on what belongs to me.”
Your heart stumbles.
The contact triggered an immediate sympathetic nervous system response. A spike of adrenaline surged through your system, leaving your heart rate erratic and every nerve ending painfully sensitive.
When the last button comes undone, you close your eyes. You can feel his gaze moving over your face, studying every small reaction. His breath brushes your collarbone, warm against your skin, and a shiver spreads down your body before you can stop it.
You want him so badly that your body glows with longing every time he touches you, even if it's unwitting.
His beard brushes against your skin, his mouth almost touching your neck, but your body tilts, sways, his hand holds you firmly at an angle where you can't escape.
“No one,” he murmured, his lips grazing the hollow between your breasts. “...touches…” He dragged a path downward, his mouth searing against your skin. “…what’s mine.”
The sound that escaped you was sharp, raw. When you looked down, his focus was absolute, his touch careful, as if he were mapping you with devotion.
You arched your back as Jack settled into the sofa. The contact through the thin fabric of your lace was immediate, a localized heat that spiked your pulse and forced a jagged moan from your throat.
“So good for me...” You lean on him as your hips curl, the friction was a slow burn, a steady accumulation of kinetic energy between you “Fuck. S’that you want, honey?”
The answer caught in your throat, a half-formed word that dissolved into a moan. Jack didn't wait for a verbal confirmation. He moved with a devastating efficiency, peeling the shirt from your shoulders and sweeping your hair aside, his eyes never leaving yours. He wanted every inch of skin available to him.
When you get rid of the piece of clothing, you push him against the couch and hold his face with your fingertips, his beard tickling your skin, his hand going straight to your ass and his fingers squeezing your flesh hard.
“I want you.” You caught his lower lip between your teeth, a sharp, demanding bite before you crashed into a kiss that felt less like an affection and more like a collision. Jack is gentle but fierce, he pushes your hair away, nibbles your lower lip, his tongue tangled with yours, his mouth swallowing every sound you tried to make as if he were memorizing the rhythm of your breath.
“Be good for me.” His breathing is ragged as his chest rises and falls rapidly. “Mm?”
He grabs you by the waist and you get up, stumbling over the rug, the shirt thrown on the floor, the shoes you hadn't seen in the dark because you're too busy holding his face, swallowing him as if he were the only thing that matters.
He sits up on the bed, carrying you with him until you're straddling him, and the feeling of him beneath you, knowing that you're in charge, makes you extremely wet. He pulls your hair to the side, kisses your neck, your skin, and bites your shoulder when you grind on his lap, begging to be touched there.
Abbot had a devastating confidence in the dark. He made it clear that your pleasure was his only directive. He reclaimed your mouth, his hand sliding the lace aside to find the epicenter of the heat. You sobbed into his kiss, he simply drank the sound down. His thumb moved in a slow, rhythmic circle that teased the very edge of what you could handle. He bites your chin and watches your microexpressions when he touches you there, his fingers rubbing, but never really in.
“Jack...” You whimper, feeling the need for more, always more, more, more.
“Want that, honey?” A ghost of a smirk touched his lips as you tightened your grip on his shoulders, forcing yourself down against his fingers.
“Mm-hmm,” You say, incoherently.
“Mm-hmm,” He mimicked, a low, dark chuckle vibrating in his chest.
“Can you cum for me like that, honey?” Jack whispers under your skin, where he nibbles your nipple and watches the instant reaction of your skin to his touch. “Bet you can.”
He didn't make you wait. He knew exactly how to move, finding the precise rhythm to push you over the edge, spreading his fingers everywhere. The repetitive, relentless motion put you into a trance until the tension finally snapped. The climax hit like a physical shock, a wave of heat that undulated through your core and left you breathless.
“There you go,” Jack kisses your shoulder as he holds your body during your climax, a perfect ‘O’ blossoming your lips. “My pretty girl, s’good for me, huh?”
Your cheeks are rosy, your neck covered in sweat, and adrenaline crackling in your veins.
“You're right,” You lean in, kissing his neck, then his jaw… Everywhere. “I'm yours.”
Something awakens in Jack's eyes and kindness gives way to something sharper. It’s a transition you recognize, a silent understanding that only exists between the two of you. Both breathless, he exhales a low curse before reclaiming your mouth with a desperation that suggests he never should have let go in the first place.
“Damn right you are.” He rasps against your lips, his voice dropping an octave.
Your hands fumble with the fabric of his sweatpants, fueled by a frantic need to close the gap. When you finally make contact, the heat of him is staggering. Jack lets out a wrecked moan, his eyes snapping shut as his hand finds the back of your neck, grounding you as he devours your mouth.
“Damn, baby.” His voice is a whisper in the dark. You look into his eyes, in that inky gradient bathed in the night.
You're in sync, heart to heart, pulsing with adrenaline. When you touch him, pulling him out, it's pure euphoria. Jack groans when your hand pumps him, moving up and down, so slowly that he could die. You lift your hips, ignoring everything else, because at that moment it's just you and him.
It feels like a slow-motion collision. Jack whimpers, his features contorted in a sharp mask of pleasure that looks almost like pain. You move with a torturous rhythm, both of you suspended in that heavy, humid space where control starts to slip.
“Oh my God, Jack!” You moan, trying to keep your movements steady, but his hands lock onto your hips, his fingers digging in as he pulls you down, forcing a deeper connection.
“You're going to take it all, aren't you, baby?” Jack mumbles, his voice thick and broken. “Shit—ah, baby—you're doing so good...”
The intensity of the kiss is overwhelming, triggering a sharp contraction in your core. A raw, unyielding force takes over as Jack hitches the pace, swallowing your whimpers and turning them into his own. He’s murmuring into the crook of your neck now—broken sentences, encouragement, breathless praise—until your mind becomes a total fog. Your bodies move as one, in frenzied agony, Jack continues to whine and moan and say all the things that make your mind turn into nothing.
He's everywhere. The sensation builds, a radiating heat that starts in your toes and surges upward, centering in your belly. It’s a heavy, mounting pressure that leaves no room for anything else.
“I’m—”
“I’ve got you, baby. I'm right here.” He promises against your skin, and that’s the catalyst. You melt, pressing yourself against him, your pleasure pulling him over the edge, ecstasy swallowing everything.
The dam breaks. You melt into him, the force of your release dragging him over the edge with you. He swears, his entire frame locking as he holds you in a crushing embrace, his body vibrating with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it feels electric.
“I wanna feel you,” you murmur into his shoulder, clinging to the fading heat.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his pulse still erratic against your own, his arms tightening around you as if he’s making sure you’re still there.
Both of you are still catching your breath. Your heart hasn’t quite settled yet, and judging by the way Jack’s chest rises against yours, neither has his. But he’s right there, pressed close, skin warm against your skin. When your arms wrap around him, instinctively pulling him closer, the rest of the world fades out.
His lips brush your shoulder, slow and warm. Then again. And again. Small, absent kisses moving lazily along your skin.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he murmurs.
He whispers against your vibrant skin. You feel the hint of a smile where his beard grazes your shoulder, the roughness of it scraping gently across your damp skin. Part of you wants to freeze the moment exactly like this—to keep the warmth, the quiet, the way he feels against you.
You don’t want to let go.
Eventually Jack shifts, guiding you back toward the bed. The sheets are cool when your skin touches them, and for a second you assume the moment is over. That means it’s time to leave, so you start to sit up.
“Hey,” Jack says softly. “What are you doing?”
You blink at him, confused. You never stay. Never.
“I thought that...”
“No, honey," He reaches for your hand before you can finish. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a slow kiss to the back of it. “Stay.”
The window is slightly open, letting a cool breeze drift through the room. Jack slides closer immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against him. Your back fits neatly against his chest.
His nose nestles into your hair, breathing you in. His body is warm, solid behind you, his leg brushing lightly against yours under the sheets.
“Okay,” you murmur, lacing your fingers with his.
He squeezes your hand gently.
“You should stay more often,” he says.
“Like, tomorrow?” You smile faintly in the dark, joking about it.
“No." Jack’s breath ghosts across the back of your neck. "Forever.”
summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer.
characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned)
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned).
word count: 3.8k
And who's gonna hold you like me?
And who's gonna know you, if not me?
The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.
It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna to kill myself.”
The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.
“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.
You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.
Holy shit.
"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."
“But I—”
Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.
Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”
Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.
From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.
The moment landed wrong in your chest.
Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.
No fucking way.
Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.
“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”
Robby nodded and glanced at you.
“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”
What? Your stomach dropped.
“About...?”
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”
You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.
As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.
“No. I have to go.”
And you left without saying another word.
Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”
You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.
“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”
He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”
“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”
You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.
“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”
“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”
“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”
You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.
“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”
“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”
He continues leafing through the medical record.
“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.
“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.
“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”
“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”
Robby raises his eyebrow.
“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”
You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”
“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”
“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”
He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”
Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.
“Hiro?”
Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”
Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient.
Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.
And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.
A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.
Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.
Why is he still here?
The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.
But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.
A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.
It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.
Jack and you, it was inevitable.
You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.
Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.
It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.
And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.
Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.
He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.
“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”
“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.
You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.
Instead, you see skin.
Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.
You freeze.
The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.
“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”
Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.
“Wait.”
His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.
“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”
“Me too.”
He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.
“Not now.”
“I know I screwed up...”
“Jack, please.”
“And that I disappeared and...”
Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.
“I can't do this right now.”
“Then just listen to me.”
You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”
Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”
He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.
And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.
“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”
“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”
You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.
“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.
The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.
And the five-minute break never comes.
The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.
He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.
Robby crosses his arms.
“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”
Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.
“She... came in here.”
Robby deadpans. “Astute.”
Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”
“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”
It hits him.
Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.
“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.
The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.
You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.
You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.
With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.
“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”
Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.
“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”
Oh, damn.
Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.
“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.
“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”
Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.
As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.
And there he is.
You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.
Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.
Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.
You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.
Jack doesn’t turn.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.
Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.
“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.
Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I'm fine.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.
Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“Be careful.”
You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.
The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.
“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Careful—”
Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”
“Jack.”
He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.
He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens.
“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”
You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.
You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.
“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”
There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.
“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”
There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.
“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”
His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.
“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.”
He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.
You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.
“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”
You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”
“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“It's just—”
“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”
Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.
“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”
He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”
“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.
“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”
That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.
“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.
You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”
You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”
You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.
“You don't have to ask twice.”
When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.
When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.
“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
“Worth it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.
summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer.
characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned)
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned).
word count: 3.8k
And who's gonna hold you like me?
And who's gonna know you, if not me?
The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.
It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna to kill myself.”
The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.
“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.
You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.
Holy shit.
"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."
“But I—”
Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.
Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”
Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.
From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.
The moment landed wrong in your chest.
Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.
No fucking way.
Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.
“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”
Robby nodded and glanced at you.
“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”
What? Your stomach dropped.
“About...?”
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”
You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.
As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.
“No. I have to go.”
And you left without saying another word.
Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”
You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.
“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”
He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”
“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”
You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.
“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”
“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”
“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”
You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.
“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”
“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”
He continues leafing through the medical record.
“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.
“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.
“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”
“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”
Robby raises his eyebrow.
“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”
You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”
“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”
“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”
He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”
Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.
“Hiro?”
Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”
Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient.
Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.
And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.
A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.
Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.
Why is he still here?
The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.
But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.
A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.
It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.
Jack and you, it was inevitable.
You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.
Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.
It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.
And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.
Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.
He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.
“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”
“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.
You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.
Instead, you see skin.
Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.
You freeze.
The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.
“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”
Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.
“Wait.”
His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.
“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”
“Me too.”
He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.
“Not now.”
“I know I screwed up...”
“Jack, please.”
“And that I disappeared and...”
Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.
“I can't do this right now.”
“Then just listen to me.”
You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”
Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”
He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.
And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.
“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”
“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”
You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.
“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.
The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.
And the five-minute break never comes.
The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.
He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.
Robby crosses his arms.
“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”
Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.
“She... came in here.”
Robby deadpans. “Astute.”
Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”
“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”
It hits him.
Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.
“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.
The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.
You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.
You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.
With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.
“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”
Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.
“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”
Oh, damn.
Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.
“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.
“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”
Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.
As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.
And there he is.
You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.
Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.
Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.
You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.
Jack doesn’t turn.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.
Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.
“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.
Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I'm fine.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.
Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“Be careful.”
You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.
The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.
“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Careful—”
Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”
“Jack.”
He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.
He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens.
“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”
You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.
You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.
“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”
There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.
“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”
There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.
“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”
His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.
“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.”
He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.
You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.
“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”
You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”
“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“It's just—”
“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”
Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.
“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”
He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”
“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.
“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”
That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.
“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.
You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”
You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”
You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.
“You don't have to ask twice.”
When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.
When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.
“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
“Worth it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.
summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer.
characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned)
contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned).
word count: 3.8k
And who's gonna hold you like me?
And who's gonna know you, if not me?
The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.
It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.
Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna kill myself.”
The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.
“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.
You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.
Holy shit.
"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."
“But I—”
Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.
Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”
Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.
From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.
The moment landed wrong in your chest.
Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.
No fucking way.
Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.
“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”
Robby nodded and glanced at you.
“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”
What? Your stomach dropped.
“About...?”
“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”
You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.
As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.
“No. I have to go.”
And you left without saying another word.
Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”
You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.
“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”
He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”
“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”
You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.
“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”
“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”
“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”
You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.
“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”
“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”
He continues leafing through the medical record.
“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.
“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.
“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”
“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”
Robby raises his eyebrow.
“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”
You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”
“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”
“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”
He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”
Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.
“Hiro?”
Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”
Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient.
Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.
And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.
A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.
Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.
Why is he still here?
The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.
But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.
A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.
It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.
Jack and you, it was inevitable.
You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.
Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.
It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.
And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.
Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.
He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.
“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”
“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.
You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.
Instead, you see skin.
Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.
You freeze.
The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.
“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”
Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.
“Wait.”
His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.
“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”
“Me too.”
He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.
“Not now.”
“I know I screwed up...”
“Jack, please.”
“And that I disappeared and...”
Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.
“I can't do this right now.”
“Then just listen to me.”
You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”
Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.
“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”
He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.
And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.
“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”
“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”
You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.
“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”
“What? No—that’s not—”
“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”
Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.
The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.
And the five-minute break never comes.
The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.
He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.
Robby crosses his arms.
“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”
Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.
“She... came in here.”
Robby deadpans. “Astute.”
Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”
“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”
It hits him.
Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.
“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”
Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.
The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.
You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.
You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.
With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.
“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”
Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.
“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”
Oh, damn.
Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.
“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.
“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”
Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.
As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.
And there he is.
You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.
Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.
Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.
You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.
Jack doesn’t turn.
For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.
Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.
“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.
Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I'm fine.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.
Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“Be careful.”
You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.
The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.
“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Careful—”
Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”
“Jack.”
He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.
He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens.
“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”
You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.
You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.
“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”
There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.
“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”
There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.
“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”
His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.
“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.”
He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.
You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.
“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”
You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.
“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”
“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”
“It's just—”
“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”
Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.
You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.
“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”
He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”
“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.
“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”
That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.
“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.
You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”
You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”
You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.
“You don't have to ask twice.”
When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.
When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.
“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”
“Worth it.”
You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.
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