Summary: They spent years saving lives in a war zone and driving each other insane. Now they’re coworkers again.
Words Count : 7,986
Genre : enemy to lovers, slow burn, age-gap
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , -
More Jack Abbot stories : 2nd Masterlist
Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a Comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️
"Diaz," Jack murmured before he could stop himself.
The patient gave a small knowing smile. "I know," he said, shrugging lightly. "I look a lot like him. Perks of being an identical twin."
For a second Jack forgot where he was.
Same eyes. Same smile. Same face. It felt like grief playing a cruel joke on him, holding up a mirror to something he had spent years learning to set down.
Beside him, Ellis shifted awkwardly, suddenly looking like she deeply regretted being present for whatever this moment was.
"Dr. Abbot?" she asked carefully.
Jack blinked and pulled himself back. "I'll take it from here," he said, quieter than usual. "Thanks, Ellis."
She nodded once, glanced between the two of them, and slipped out through the curtain without another word.
Jack pulled the stool closer and sat down, reaching for his stethoscope. "Sorry," he said, placing it against the man's chest. "You just really look like him."
Too much like him.
And suddenly he understood. He had spent years assuming you were avoiding the guilt, the weight of a night that hadn't gone the way it was supposed to. But this was different. Seeing Rafael felt like reopening something that had never fully closed. For him it was a shock. For you, seeing that face, it had to be something else entirely.
"Take a deep breath," Jack said.
Rafael inhaled.
"And let it out."
Jack listened carefully, moving the stethoscope across his chest. Rafael exhaled slowly and then spoke into the quiet. "That's why she doesn't want to meet me, right?" he said. "I bring back bad memories."
Jack said nothing.
Rafael gave a small shrug, though the sadness behind it was visible. "My parents still get teary-eyed every time they look at me," he admitted. "Grief does strange things to people."
Jack looked down for a moment. "Gabriel talked about you," he said finally. "Never showed us a photo though."
Rafael raised an eyebrow.
Jack huffed quietly. "He used to say, just look at my face, we look exactly the same." He glanced at Rafael again and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Now I get it."
Rafael let out a soft laugh. "We used to mess with people all the time." The smile faded slightly at the edges. "After he came back I kept meaning to take more photos with him. That's my biggest regret."
The room went quiet for a moment.
Jack finished listening to his lungs and pulled the stethoscope away. "You don't need the head of the OR for this," he said. "Your lungs sound fine. It's asthma."
"Yeah." Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I figured."
Jack leaned back and crossed his arms, studying him. "Then tell me something. Why do you keep trying to meet her?"
Rafael looked at him for a moment. Really looked at him, the way someone did when they were seeing more than the surface of a thing. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"Gabriel was right about you," he said.
Jack frowned. "What?"
Rafael leaned back against the bed, easy and unhurried. "You always get protective when it comes to her."
******
FLASHBACK
Diaz. Gabriel Diaz was the soldier who had gotten closest to you during the deployment. The two of you had fallen into something that looked, from the outside, almost exactly like siblings. Specifically the kind where the older one had decided the arrangement without asking and the younger one had never quite managed to get rid of them.
Diaz appointed himself the older one. You never agreed to this. It didn't matter.
One morning, six in the morning, too early for anything to be tolerable, he appeared at the entrance of the medic tent holding two protein bars and wearing the expression of someone who had slept well and wanted everyone to know it.
You didn't look up from the supply inventory. "No."
"I didn't ask anything yet."
"You're going to. I'm preventing the problem early."
Somewhere behind him a few soldiers laughed. Diaz turned to them with an expression of genuine wounded dignity. "You hear this? I survived deployment just to get bullied by the smallest person in the camp."
"You survived," you said, still not looking up, "because everyone else got tired of listening to you talk."
"Cold," he muttered. Then he tossed a protein bar onto your table anyway.
You looked at it. "No."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday."
"I'm busy."
"You say that every single day."
"I mean it every single day."
Diaz pulled a chair over, turned it backward, and sat down on it with the energy of someone who had nowhere else to be and had decided your workspace was a perfectly good place to be nowhere. "You know what your problem is? You have scary only child energy."
You finally looked up. "What does that mean."
"It means nobody taught you basic survival." He counted on his fingers. "Eat food. Sleep. Drink water. Stop staring at supply charts like they said something personally offensive to you."
"I'm a doctor."
"You're sleep deprived and you haven't eaten and you're approximately this tall." He held his hand at a height that was designed to be annoying. "I'm concerned."
"I know where the morphine is stored."
He raised both hands immediately. "Okay. Respectfully terrifying. Eat the protein bar."
Jack was leaning against the tent pole nearby, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange with the quiet amusement of someone who had seen this play out before and had stopped trying to intervene. "There's a lot of him," he said to you dryly. "You might as well get used to it."
You sighed the sigh of someone accepting a fate they didn't choose. "It's annoying older brother energy."
Diaz pointed at himself immediately. "See? Family."
"You invited yourself."
"Still counts."
Jack looked between the two of you. "You actually see him like a brother?"
You glanced over at Diaz, who had located someone else's coffee and was drinking it without asking. "He bothers me too much to be anything else."
"Rude," Diaz called from across the tent. "I care about you deeply." Then, louder, with great satisfaction, "Unlike Abbott over here."
Jack closed his eyes briefly. "Don't."
Diaz grinned. "Oho." He looked between the two of you with the energy of a man who had just found something interesting. "There's tension."
"There is no tension," you said flatly.
Jack looked away. Slightly too fast.
Diaz pointed. "You see that?" He addressed the nearest soldiers like a man presenting evidence. "That right there. That is unresolved workplace chemistry."
"You're inventing things," you muttered.
"Oh please." He leaned forward on the chair back. "You only yell at people you actually care about."
"I yell at everyone."
"Not like him." Diaz tilted his head toward Jack. "With him it's different. It's got feeling in it."
Jack sighed. "I miss when soldiers had respect for authority."
"You started it, sir," Diaz said pleasantly. "Walking around being all intense and mysterious."
Jack looked genuinely offended. "I'm not mysterious."
"You absolutely are." Diaz turned to you. "Doc. Back me up."
You looked at Jack. Just for a second, maybe a second and a half, which was already longer than was strictly necessary. Then you looked away. "Little bit."
Diaz slapped the table so hard the supply jars rattled. "I KNEW IT."
"Eat your protein bar," you said.
"You know what," Diaz said, standing up and pointing between the two of you with absolute conviction, "when you two finally get married I want full credit. I want a speech. I want a framed photo at the reception."
You grabbed a roll of gauze from the table and threw it at him. He was already moving, ducking out of the tent with a laugh that carried across half the camp, and you stood there for a moment before deciding it was completely pointless to chase him and walking back toward the tent entrance.
Jack was still there.
"So," he said, with the particular casualness of someone who had thought about how to phrase something and was pretending they hadn't. "Big brother energy." A beat. "I thought that was your type."
You stopped walking.
You turned and looked at him, just briefly, just long enough. "He's not my type," you said simply, and walked back into the tent.
Jack stayed where he was for a moment. The camp moved around him, the usual noise and heat and motion, and he stood in the middle of it thinking about those four words with an expression he was grateful nobody was looking at.
"God help me," he muttered under his breath.
*************
The next morning came too quickly. War had no respect for sleep.
You were halfway through paperwork when a shadow fell across the table beside you.
"You look terrible."
You didn't glance up. "So do you."
Diaz placed a hand over his chest. "That's rude. I came here because I care about you."
"You bother me. That's not the same as caring."
"Same thing," he said cheerfully, and pulled a chair over.
You finally looked up.
Combat vest. Full gear. The particular way soldiers carried themselves on mission days, weight distributed differently, movements a little more deliberate.
Something tightened in your chest without permission.
"You heading out?"
"Easy mission." He shrugged. "In and out."
You hated when soldiers said that. Easy never meant easy. It just meant they hadn't found out what it was yet.
You reached across the table without saying anything and grabbed a medical patch, tossing it toward him.
Diaz caught it and grinned. "Aw. You do care."
"I care about paperwork. One less incident report is good for everyone."
"Cold," he said, and meant it as a compliment.
He stood up, checked his gear once with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, and then reached over and patted your head with his full palm the way he always did specifically because he knew it annoyed you.
You shoved his shoulder immediately. "Idiot."
"Tiny doctor."
He started walking backward toward the tent entrance, pointing past you. "Tell Abbott he needs to stop walking around looking miserable. It's affecting morale."
Jack, leaning against the supply shelf nearby with a coffee in hand, did not look up. "I heard that."
"Good." Diaz pointed between the two of you. "Figure your thing out before I get back. It's painful to watch."
"There is no thing," you said.
Diaz looked at Jack. "She always this deep in denial?"
"Every single day," Jack said.
Diaz shook his head with the solemn disappointment of a man who had tried his best. "Unbelievable. Both of you." He turned back toward the entrance and lifted one hand in a lazy salute. "See you later, Doc."
"Go be useful," you said, not looking up.
He laughed and walked out into the morning light, and the tent felt slightly emptier after him the way it always did, the particular absence of someone who took up more space than their size accounted for.
The medic tent was busy as usual. Minor injuries, routine checkups, the steady controlled chaos of a normal day. Until Clark appeared in the entrance and the expression on his face made the room change before he said a single word.
"We got casualties."
Everything sharpened immediately. You were on your feet before the sentence finished.
"Where?"
Clark gave the coordinates and your heart stopped. Because Diaz's unit had been sent there. You grabbed your trauma bag too fast, hands moving on muscle memory while your brain was still catching up. Vest. Gloves. Equipment. Your ears were ringing.
Jack was already outside beside the vehicle in full combat gear when you came out of the tent. Helmet on, weapon secured, ready in the way that meant he had already heard and had already made his decisions.
"Abbot."
He opened the passenger door. "I know." A beat. "Let's hope everybody made it."
You hated how carefully he said it.
The drive felt too long and not long enough at the same time.
When you arrived the smoke was still settling. Dust covered everything. The smell hit before anything else, burnt metal and gunpowder and blood, the specific combination that your brain had learned to file under work faster. Jack scanned the perimeter while he talked. "IED. Roadside. The enemy's position was down but the blast caught them badly."
You nodded and moved. Because hours ago these men had been eating breakfast and arguing and laughing and complaining about the heat, and now some of them were screaming and some were silent and you had learned by now that the silent ones were the ones to run toward.
You never got used to that part. Not fully. You just got better at moving through it.
"Where's Diaz?" You turned to Jack. "Have you seen him?"
Jack shook his head and grabbed the radio. "Anyone got eyes on Gabriel Diaz?"
Static. Voices overlapping. Then, "We found him!"
You ran before they finished the sentence.
He was sitting against a damaged wall with his rifle still in his hands, breathing too hard, blood soaked through his vest in a pattern that made your stomach drop the moment you saw it. Too much. Wrong location.
"Diaz."
He looked up. "Hey." Then coughed, and the cough brought blood, and you were already crouching.
"Don't talk." You pulled open the front of his vest and went still for just a second. Small entry wound, left chest, close to the sternum. Shrapnel. Small and precise and devastating.
Jack arrived beside you and read it at the same moment you did.
"Cardiac tamponade," you said, hands already moving. Blood filling the pericardial sac, compressing the heart, preventing it from pumping the way it needed to. "He's bleeding internally."
Jack looked at Diaz. Then at you. Weak pulse, too pale, consciousness coming and going like a signal in bad weather.
"It's too late," he said quietly.
You looked up at him. "No."
"Y/N."
"Jack." Your voice cracked at the edge, just slightly. "I've read the studies. There's still time. He's still conscious." You looked back at Diaz, at the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and wrong but there. "We decompress in the helicopter. We still have the golden hour."
Jack was quiet for a moment, watching you, watching the way you were holding onto this with both hands.
"Do it," he said.
Inside the medevac helicopter everything was loud and violent. The rotors roared and the aircraft shook and blood coated your gloves and Diaz kept sliding in and out of consciousness in a way that made your chest seize every time his eyes went unfocused.
"Hey." You snapped your fingers in front of his face. "Eyes open."
He blinked slowly. "You always this bossy?"
"Yes."
"Scary," he murmured.
"Diaz."
Jack sat on the other side applying pressure, handing you supplies without being asked, his movements steady and practiced in a way that you were grateful for because yours were not as steady as they usually were and you both knew it.
Diaz looked between the two of you with the dimmed, half-present expression of someone running on fumes. "You guys arguing means I'm alive, right?"
Neither of you laughed.
You inserted the needle carefully. Emergency field decompression, a needle into the chest cavity to relieve the pressure around the heart. Temporary. Imperfect. Just enough. Your own heartbeat was loud in your ears.
Come on.
The monitor shifted. Not good. But less bad than it had been thirty seconds ago.
You exhaled a breath that had been sitting in your chest since the moment you saw the wound. "He's stabilizing."
Jack looked at you across Diaz's body and for the first time since arriving at the blast site he allowed himself something that was almost hope. Just barely. Just enough to get through the next hour.
Clark met you outside the medical tent when you landed. He looked at your face and then at your hands and then back at your face. "You did it?"
You pulled off your gloves slowly. "Yeah." You looked exhausted in a way that went deeper than physical. "I'm sorry."
Clark frowned. "For what?"
"It was risky. I made a call without full information and if it had gone wrong—"
"It didn't," Clark said. He looked toward the helicopter and then back at you. "It was risky," he said honestly, because Clark never softened things unnecessarily. "But you bought him time." He tapped your shoulder once. "You did good."
You nodded and walked toward the tent.
Clark waited until you were out of earshot. Then he walked to where Jack was standing and lowered his voice. "He's not going to make it."
Jack said nothing.
"The damage is too extensive. We can transfer him, get him into a proper surgical facility, but." Clark looked toward the tent where you had gone. "The fact he's still breathing is already past what it should be."
Jack looked over at you through the tent opening. You were at the wash station, scrubbing your hands with the focused mechanical motion of someone keeping themselves together through sheer discipline. Still believing. Still moving. Still carrying every patient like they were yours to save personally.
His jaw tightened.
"I know," he said quietly.
A long pause settled between them.
"I don't have the courage to tell her," Jack said.
Clark looked at him for a moment. Then he looked away.
Neither of them moved.
****
You adjusted Diaz's blanket one last time. The medication had made him quieter, and the quiet made him look smaller somehow, which you hated because Diaz had never been a small presence in any room he occupied.
"You've got that face again," he said.
"What face?"
"The one where you're thinking too much and pretending you're not."
You checked his IV instead of answering. "You should rest."
"You always avoid the question."
"I'm a doctor. It's professionally sanctioned."
"You're annoying is what you are."
You looked at him flatly. "You're literally dying and still irritating. That's genuinely impressive."
"Talent," he said.
Despite yourself, something almost became a smile.
His expression softened then, the performance dropping into something quieter and more honest. "Hey."
You looked at him.
"Thanks," he said.
"For what."
"For yelling at me in the helicopter." His breathing stayed uneven, careful, the kind of breathing someone did when they had learned their body needed to be managed. "Kept me awake."
"Someone had to."
"Yeah." A weak smile. "You're pretty good at bossing people around."
"Get some sleep," you said, shaking your head.
He looked at you for a moment longer than the conversation required. Then, "Go check on the others."
"You sure?"
"I'll still be ugly when you get back."
You rolled your eyes and adjusted the blanket corner one final time. "Debatable."
That earned the smallest laugh. The kind that cost him something.
"I'll be back," you said.
"Yeah." His voice had gone softer, quieter, in a way you didn't examine too closely. "See you later, Doc."
You didn't understand why that sentence stayed with you until later. Until it was too late to ask him what he meant by it.
Jack came in a while after you left. Pulled a chair up beside the cot and sat down without ceremony.
Diaz looked over. "Sir."
"Stay still."
"Yes, sir." A beat. "You look terrible too, by the way."
"So does everyone in a war zone." Jack crossed his arms. "How are you feeling."
"Like a miracle, apparently." Diaz shifted carefully against the pillow. "Clark keeps saying that word."
Jack said nothing.
Diaz was quiet for a moment, looking at the tent ceiling. Then, "Sir."
"Hm."
"I kinda want to see you both get together."
Jack blinked.
Of course. Half dead, barely breathing, and still. "No wonder she finds you exhausting," Jack said.
Diaz let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough that he rode out with his eyes closed. When he opened them again his expression had shifted into something softer and more deliberate. "She doesn't find me exhausting," he said. "She just doesn't know how to say she cares about people without making it an argument."
Jack looked at him.
"Neither do you," Diaz added quietly.
The tent was still around them. Outside, the camp moved and breathed and carried on, and in here it felt like a separate thing entirely, a small pocket of honesty that the rest of the world wasn't part of.
"I'm gonna miss you both," Diaz said. Simply, softly, the way soldiers said the things they actually meant. No drama, no ceremony. Just the sentence, placed down carefully between them.
Jack's jaw tightened. He looked away briefly, at the tent wall, at nothing. This was the part he hated most. Not the explosions, not the chaos, not even the loss itself. This part. The part where someone knew and said it sideways so the people around them didn't have to carry the weight of a direct goodbye.
"You can tell her yourself," Jack said.
Diaz smiled. It didn't reach his eyes the way it usually did. "Yeah," he said.
They both sat with that for a moment.
Then Jack leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and looked at Diaz directly. "I'll take care of her."
Diaz looked at him. Really looked, the way he did when he was deciding if someone meant something. Then something settled in his expression, something that looked like relief and something else underneath it, something that might have been peace.
"Knew it," he said quietly.
Jack looked away before his face could do anything he'd have to account for.
***********
Exhaustion finally caught up to you hours later.
Every patient had been checked. The paperwork was done. You had eaten half of something that Diaz would have found deeply inadequate and he would have told you so and you would have rolled your eyes and eaten the other half just to make him stop talking about it.
The chair beside the supply shelf was close enough. Just twenty minutes. That was all you needed.
You closed your eyes.
When you woke up the light had changed.
Your heart dropped before the rest of you was fully conscious. Too bright. Too quiet. The specific quality of silence that a tent had when it was holding something you weren't ready for.
You were on your feet before you had decided to stand.
"How long was I—"
Nobody answered fast enough. You were already moving, boots hitting the ground, the wrongness of the quiet pulling you forward before your brain had caught up with what your body already knew.
You pushed through the tent flap and stopped.
Your knees went weak so suddenly that stopping was the only thing that kept you upright.
Diaz.
Still. Too still. The blanket pulled up, the monitor dark, the cot holding the particular terrible silence of something that had been a person and was now just the absence of one. No stupid comments waiting. No grin. No protein bar appearing from somewhere you hadn't seen him go.
"No." Your voice cracked open. "No."
You stepped forward and your legs almost went out from under you and then a hand caught your shoulder, firm and steady, and held you up.
Jack.
"It wasn't your fault," he said.
You shook your head. The tears were already there, burning. "I should have checked on him. I should have stayed, I promised I'd come back, I told him—"
"Listen to me." His voice was quiet and steady, the voice that cut through noise, the voice that had pulled you back to yourself in the middle of chaos more times than you could count. "It's already a miracle you brought him back here at all. You gave him more time."
"But I lost him." The words came out in pieces. "I lost him anyway."
Jack looked at Diaz once. Then back at you. And then you stopped thinking about what you were doing and pressed your forehead against his chest because there was nowhere else to go and your legs were not going to hold you up through this alone.
The grief came ugly and exhausted and entirely without dignity, the kind that had been waiting behind the work and the adrenaline and the deliberate forward motion for hours, and now it had found the gap and it came through.
Jack went still for half a second. Then his arms came around you slowly and carefully, one hand resting against the back of your head, and he held you the way someone held something they were trying to keep from breaking entirely.
He didn't tell you it was okay. He didn't tell you to stop. He didn't say the things people said when they didn't know what else to offer, because Jack had been in enough of these moments to know that sometimes there was nothing to say and the only honest thing was to stay.
So he stayed.
And held you together while you fell apart.
And outside the tent the camp kept moving, indifferent and relentless, the way war always did.
********
PRESENT TIME
You were at the park because of one very annoying text message.
Can I have a playdate with Riot on Saturday?
There was no reasonable way to say no to that. Especially when Riot wagged his entire body every time Jack Abbot existed within a fifty meter radius.
Jack was standing near the bench with his hands in his jacket pockets when you arrived, relaxed and annoyingly good-looking for someone who probably considered coffee a complete breakfast. When he spotted you something in his face softened in a way he didn't bother to hide.
"I thought you wouldn't come," he said.
Before you could respond, Riot made the decision to slip his leash entirely.
"Riot—"
Too late. The dog sprinted toward Jack with the full committed energy of an animal who had been waiting for this specific moment all week. Jack crouched immediately, arms open, completely unbothered by the seventy pound German Shepherd throwing himself forward.
"There's my favorite guy." Jack caught him, both hands going straight to his ears. "Missed you too, buddy."
Your lips almost moved. Almost.
Then you noticed someone standing a short distance away and everything in your body went still at once.
Same face. Same eyes. Same build. Grief had apparently learned how to walk around and show up at parks on Saturday morning.
You turned to Jack.
"No."
He already had the expression of someone who knew exactly what was coming. "Listen to him first," he said quietly.
"Is this an ambush?"
"A badly planned intervention," he corrected.
"Abbot."
He sighed once, soft and resigned. "If you want to yell at me later, that's fair. But hear him out first."
You crossed your arms. "You have no idea what his family said to me."
"I know." He stepped slightly closer and lowered his voice. "He told me." A pause, quieter still. "You didn't deserve any of it."
He said it with the particular certainty of someone who had already made up their mind about something and wasn't interested in arguing the point. No hesitation, no qualification. Just that.
Something shifted in your chest in a way you didn't have a clean response to.
Jack glanced toward Rafael and then back at you, voice dropping to something that was almost conversational except for the edge underneath it. "If he says anything that bothers you, I'll punch him."
You blinked. "You can't punch grieving people."
"I can if they're rude."
"Abbot.”
"And if his family tries to contact you again," he continued, with the calm of someone discussing the weather, "I'll make sure that stops."
You stared at him for a second. It was a little terrifying. It was also, against your better judgment, oddly comforting. You looked away before your face did something about that.
"I'll be right here," Jack said simply.
You looked over at Rafael. He was standing with his hands at his sides and the specific posture of someone who had been nervous for longer than just this morning. Gabriel had walked into every room like he had been expecting and was simply arriving. This man looked like he wasn't sure he had the right to be here at all.
You walked over slowly.
Rafael straightened immediately. "Hi," he said, and there was an awkward honesty in the word that disarmed you slightly. "I'm Rafael Diaz. Gabriel's twin." He paused. "Which I guess is obvious."
"Hi," you said quietly.
You looked away for a moment, at the path, at Riot still occupying Jack's full attention nearby. "I'm sorry I've been avoiding you," you said finally.
Rafael shook his head immediately. "No. It's understandable." He looked down briefly, then back at you with the expression of someone who had been rehearsing this and had decided to abandon the rehearsed version. "After what my family did to you, I understand completely."
The silence that settled between you was heavy with everything neither of you had said yet.
Rafael rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For my mom. For all of them." His jaw tightened slightly. "They were grieving. I know that. But grief doesn't excuse what they did to you." He swallowed once. "The letters. Showing up at your place. I didn't know how bad it had gotten until recently. If I had known earlier, I would have stopped it."
He looked genuinely ashamed. Not performing it, not offering it as a transaction. Just carrying it and putting it down in front of you.
FLASHBACK
The first thing you did after landing in the States was visit Gabriel's grave. Alone. Still carrying guilt like something stitched between your ribs that hadn't loosened since the helicopter ride home.
The cemetery was quiet in the way only cemeteries were. Flowers rested against his headstone, fresh ones, which meant someone had already been. You crouched slowly, hands trembling slightly, and stared at his name in the stone.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
The words tasted hollow. Because sorry didn't restart hearts. Didn't undo war. Didn't change what had happened in that tent while you were sleeping twenty feet away.
"You should be."
You turned.
His mother stood at the edge of the path. Eyes swollen, grief sharpened into something with edges. Before you could speak the slap landed hard, snapping your head to the side.
"You left him." Her voice shook. "You were supposed to save him."
"I tried," you said quietly.
"We heard you left him alone."
No. She’s wrong.
"I was checking on other patients. I came back as soon as—"
"You left my son to die alone." Her voice broke open into something raw and terrible. "Do you know what that did to us?"
You stood there and said nothing. Because grief made people cruel and maybe, in the part of you that ran the scenario on a loop at three in the morning, you believed her. Maybe if you had stayed. Maybe if you had checked on him sooner. Maybe.
"I'm sorry," you said again.
She looked at you like the words made it worse. "You should have died instead."
That one stayed. Long after everything else faded, that one stayed.
The letters came after. Blaming you, calling you careless, calling you worse things than that. Flowers left at your door and then notes and then sometimes strangers showing up with questions that were really accusations wearing a different face. You moved apartments. Then moved again. Eventually you stopped using your real address entirely, redirecting everything to your university mailbox. Cleaner. Safer. Further away.
Because grief had teeth. And sometimes it bit whoever was standing closest.
You didn't see Rafael for years.
Until an ordinary shift at your previous hospital. Busy day, nothing remarkable about it, and then you looked up from the nurses station and the room stopped making sense.
Gabriel. Standing at the desk. Alive. Same face, same eyes, same everything, smiling politely at the receptionist like he had just walked out of a memory you had spent years trying to put down.
Your ears rang. Your chest seized so completely and so fast that you had no warning before the floor came up.
You woke up in an exam room with someone handing you water and someone else saying, “You fainted”, and it took longer than it should have to understand what had happened. Rafael. Gabriel's twin. Not Gabriel. Obviously not Gabriel.
But trauma didn't care about logic. Every time you saw that face your body remembered the grief before your mind could catch up. And suddenly you were back in the medic tent, too tired, too late, watching the monitors go flat while the camp slept quietly outside.
So yes. You had been avoiding Rafael Diaz for a very long time.
PRESENT TIME
"I appreciate the apology," you said quietly.
Rafael nodded immediately, like he had expected nothing more and was grateful for what he got. "I don't think," you started, then exhaled slowly, "I can look at your face without feeling guilty."
"I understand," he said. Too quickly, too easily, the way someone answered when they had already made peace with a harder version of the answer.
A small sad smile crossed his face. "I just wanted to say sorry." A pause. "And maybe finally meet the people Gabriel wouldn't stop talking about."
He pointed toward Jack. "Him." Then toward Riot, who was sitting on Jack's foot with the contentment of an animal who had no concept of complicated human situations. "And the dog."
"Riot?"
"He said the puppy liked you more than him." Rafael's smile shifted into something more genuine. "Apparently that was the whole thing."
Behind you, Jack said, "Still is," with complete sincerity.
Rafael laughed. Softly, briefly, but real. The first time since he'd arrived that he actually looked lighter, like something had come loose. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at nothing in particular. "That sounds like my brother."
He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the folded piece of paper. You looked at it for a moment before you took it. Your name on the front in handwriting you would have recognized anywhere. Messy and fast and entirely unbothered by the concept of neat penmanship.
To my scary tiny doctor.
Your throat tightened in a way you couldn't swallow down completely.
"I found it when I went through his things again recently," Rafael said. "I think he meant it for you."
You folded it carefully and held it without opening it. You weren't going to open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not yet.
"He talked about you both a lot," Rafael continued, glancing briefly toward Jack. "He said you were the only doctor who ever scared him more than the enemy." A small pause. "He meant it as the highest compliment he knew how to give."
Something moved through you that was almost a laugh. "That sounds exactly like him."
Rafael smiled properly for the first time, and it was so familiar, so completely and painfully familiar, that you had to look at the ground for a moment and breathe through it.
He stayed quiet for a beat. Then he looked between you and Jack with an expression that had something resolved in it, something that had come here needing to be set down and had finally been set down.
"I'm glad my brother met you both," he said simply. He looked at you directly, no performance in it, just honesty. "Thank you for giving him more time." A breath. "We watched the video he made. In the tent." His voice stayed steady but only just. "He was still himself in it. Right until the end." He pressed his lips together briefly. "That was because of you."
You didn't trust your voice enough to answer that. You nodded once, and he seemed to understand that was everything you had right now, and he accepted it without asking for more.
Rafael looked down at Riot, who had wandered over at some point and was now sitting directly on Rafael's feet with the calm authority of a dog who had decided something. Rafael crouched down and let Riot sniff his hand, and then Riot leaned into him, heavy and warm and certain.
Rafael exhaled slowly. His hand moved over the dog's head. "Hey, buddy," he said quietly.
Nobody said anything for a moment.
*********
Rafael eventually left. The silence he left behind felt awkward and heavy in equal measure, the kind that settled after something necessary and painful had finally been said out loud.
You stood there for a moment. Then you turned toward Jack and glared.
He sighed immediately. "Yeah. I deserve that."
"You ambushed me."
"I know."
You crossed your arms. "I thought you were on my side."
Jack's expression shifted, the easy deflection gone, something more direct underneath it. "Always." Too fast. Too certain. Like there had never been another option worth considering and he didn't understand why you would ask.
You looked away first.
"Then why?" you asked quietly.
Jack shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Because I wanted to hear him apologize too." He paused. "For what his family did to you."
The words landed steadily between you. Not dramatic, not performed. Just honest, the way Jack was when something had been sitting with him long enough to stop being careful about it.
He looked toward the path Rafael had taken, jaw tightening slightly. "If I had known sooner." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because you understood what sat behind it. Every letter. Every accusation. Every stranger showing up at your door with grief wearing the face of blame. Jack would have burned the whole thing down without hesitating.
"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly.
You looked at him. Really looked, the way you didn't usually let yourself because it gave too much away. Because Jack always sounded the most serious when it came to you, and you had never fully worked out what to do with that.
A beat passed.
"Are you seriously going to beat them up?" you asked.
Jack didn't hesitate. "In a heartbeat."
You blinked. Then a laugh escaped you, small and genuine, the kind that arrived without permission. And with it something lifted, not everything, not all at once, but enough. Like a weight that had been sitting between your shoulder blades had shifted slightly and given you room to breathe.
"Well." You exhaled slowly as Riot happily trotted ahead. "That was a tough morning."
The conversation with Rafael had been heavier than expected. Necessary, but heavy.
Jack glanced at you. Then toward Riot. Then back. "I'll make it up to you."
You looked at him. "Then take Riot today."
He blinked. "That's it?"
"Do you think I'd ask for more?"
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "I thought you'd ask for dinner."
You stopped walking. Riot stopped too, looked back at both of you, decided nothing interesting was happening, and went back to sniffing the path. Jack turned toward you. "Or a triathlon bike?"
You smiled. Wide and genuine, the kind that arrived before you could curate it. "Are you going to buy it for me?"
Jack saw it and something settled quietly in his expression. After the weight of the last hour, that smile felt like something worth paying for. "If it could brighten your day," he said simply. "I will buy it."
You tilted your head. "Do you even know how much it costs?"
"How much are we talking? "Three thousand?"
You scoffed. "That's adorable."
He looked offended. "How much?"
"Almost right."
"How is that almost right?"
"You're only missing a few thousand."
Jack stared at you. "Do people pedal gold now?"
You laughed quietly. And damn it, that alone almost made the morning worth it. Jack looked at you for a second longer than necessary. If money fixed that look on your face, he'd honestly consider it.
"You seriously don't want dinner?" he asked.
"Nah." You stretched your arms lightly above your head. "I think I'll run thirty miles and shake the rest of this off."
Jack nearly stopped walking. "You run thirty miles for emotional regulation?"
"Yes."
"That sounds medically concerning."
Before you could reply, Riot suddenly redirected his entire existence toward Jack. Circling him, tail wagging violently, jumping with the energy of an animal who had been waiting for an excuse.
You frowned. "I think you put a spell on him."
Jack looked deeply pleased with himself. "I absolutely have charm." He looked down at Riot. "Even Riot understands quality people."
Riot shoved his nose straight into Jack's tote bag and emerged with half a sandwich.
Jack looked down. "Oh."
You raised an eyebrow. "You brought breakfast?"
"Emergency sandwich."
"Emergency."
Jack nodded seriously. "For low morale."
"Woof."
Riot took a large, satisfied bite. Jack sighed dramatically and looked down at him with the expression of a man who had already accepted his fate. "Seems like I need to start preparing better."
"For?"
"This boy has expensive taste."
You crossed your arms. "Do you even know what to buy if he stays at your place?"
Jack went quiet. Then, with complete honesty, "No."
You laughed. "At least you're self-aware."
Jack looked at you with that casual ease he had when he was about to say something that landed harder than it appeared. "If you stayed too, I probably wouldn't have that problem."
You blinked.
There it was again. That thing he did. Dropping something dangerous into the middle of a perfectly normal sentence and then standing there looking completely unbothered by it, like he hadn't said anything worth noticing.
"Excuses," you muttered.
"Creative problem-solving," Jack corrected.
You rolled your eyes. He smiled. Riot finished the sandwich without apology.
*************
The pet shop happened naturally, the way things did when neither of you had technically suggested it but somehow you were both inside one anyway. Jack had decided Riot deserved better snacks, which was either very thoughtful or a reason to extend the morning, and you weren't going to examine which one too closely.
You stood beside him in the food aisle debating nutrition labels like two people sharing custody of something they both loved and would never admit out loud.
"It feels like the old supply runs," you muttered.
Jack picked up a bag of treats and looked at it with genuine suspicion. "At least this food looks edible."
"Honestly? Better than army food."
"When you're surviving," Jack said seriously, "that stuff tasted like luxury."
"It ruined my tastebuds for months."
Jack grabbed another bag from the shelf. "That explains why you drink hospital coffee."
"You drink the same coffee."
"I'm emotionally damaged." He said it without hesitation. "It's different."
You considered that for a moment. "Fair."
From across the aisle came the very specific sound of someone going completely still.
Princess had not planned on running into anyone from the Pitt today. It was her day off. She was buying cat food. She was minding her own business entirely. Then she heard a voice that sounded familiar and her brain did the thing where it refused to let her keep walking without checking.
She leaned slowly around the end of the aisle.
Oh my God.
Dr. Abbot. Dr. Y/N. And the dog, sitting in the cart like he belonged there, which apparently he did.
Princess stood very still for approximately two seconds, running the calculations. Then she reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and raised it to her ear with the practiced ease of someone making a very important call that was definitely not a cover for taking a photo.
She was absolutely taking a photo.
She angled it carefully. Got all three of them in the frame. The cart, the matching coffee cups, the dog bed, Jack reading a nutrition label while you pointed at something on the shelf with the focused energy of two people who had done this kind of thing before.
Click.
She lowered the phone, tucked the cat food under her arm, and walked to the other end of the store at a pace that was not quite running.
The message sent before she reached the exit.
The Pitt ER Group Chat had been quiet for exactly four minutes.
It was a good photo, unfortunately. You and Jack standing in the pet food aisle, a shopping cart between you containing a dog bed, two bags of food, and two matching coffee cups that had ended up there without either of you noticing. Riot sitting on Jack's foot. Both of you reading the back of the same nutrition label.
guys. explain this.
The chat woke up immediately.
Whitaker: ????????
Santos: WHY DO THEY LOOK LIKE THEY FILE TAXES TOGETHER
Princess: NO BECAUSE WHY DOES THIS LOOK DOMESTIC
A minute passed.
Robby: Why does this look like a family outing?
Whitaker: DR ABBOTT HAS A SECRET LIFE???
Princess: ARE THEY LIVING TOGETHER???
Jack's phone buzzed. He glanced down at it with the unbothered expression of a man reading something mildly interesting.
Robby: Be honest. Is this what you meant when you said you had plans today?
Robby: Also. Since when do you willingly enter pet stores?
Jack scoffed quietly, the sound of someone privately entertained.
You glanced over. "What?"
"Nothing."
"You made a face."
"What face?"
"The one that means trouble."
Jack put his phone in his pocket and looked at you with the particular calm of someone who had already decided what they were going to do. "Come here for a second."
"Why?"
"Just stand there."
Before you could question it further he had his phone out and the camera open, and Riot, with absolutely no prompting, squeezed himself between the two of you with the satisfied energy of an animal who understood his assignment.
Click.
You frowned. "What are you doing?"
"Making things worse."
"What?"
"You'll see."
He uploaded it before you could look at the screen.
Caption: Buying stuff for our son. Co-parenting is expensive.
The chat responded immediately and without mercy.
Santos: SON??????
Whitaker: WAIT THEY HAVE A KID?????
Princess: I KNEW THEY WERE OLD MARRIED PEOPLE
Dana: I'm muting this chat.
Then, Jack got a message from Robby.
Robby: Jack. Please tell me the child is the dog.
You had no idea any of it had happened until the parking lot.
Your phone buzzed. Then again. Then three times in quick succession. You frowned and pulled it out, opened the notifications, and stopped walking entirely.
The photo. The caption. The comments multiplying in real time.
You stood there for a moment reading it. Then very slowly, with great deliberateness, you turned around.
Jack was opening the car door for Riot with the composed expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and was fully prepared to stand by that position.
"Jack," you said.
He looked up with a calm that was almost insulting. "Hm?"
"Jack Abbot."
The corner of his mouth moved. Just slightly. "You know," he said, turning back to Riot, "that's the first time you've called me by my first name."
You stared at him. "Delete it."
"No."
"Jack."
"Say it again."
You glared at him over the roof of the car. "I hate you."
Jack leaned casually against the door like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving anytime soon. "No, you don't."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out, which was its own kind of answer and you both knew it. Because annoyingly enough he sounded way too sure of himself, the specific kind of sure that came from knowing something for a long time and simply waiting for the other person to catch up.
Jack's smirk widened just slightly. "See?"
You hated that smirk.
Almost as much as how badly you wanted to prove him wrong.
another series master list..... yes, i should be finishing the ones i've started... but here we are.
i have developed an unhealthy addiction to single mom reader fics (im not even a mom, i have no interest in being a mom !! but they go so fucking hard???) i did my BEST to be unspecific but i may have mentioned blush a few times throughout idk.
Jax's adopted sister by circumstance. I don’t make the rules, but I do write them. Your dating life sucks so your daughter picks a father for herself. I'll be listing the TW part by part this time bc it'll vary per section.
Part 1 - juice
Part 2 - coffee
Part 3 - happy
Part 4 - camera
Part 5 - fever
Part 6 - sunshine (mdni)
Part 7 - fast
Part 8 - surprise
Part 9 - daddy
Part 10 - mommy
Part 11 - jealous
Part 12 - girl
general taglist: @vaugarkel @coffeedreaminanreadin
if you want to be added just lmk
Jack Abbot finds himself feeling oddly protective over the new night shift attending.
He tells himself it's natural.
You were the young widow of a Marine, a military spouse who brought the greatest sacrifice for her country - your husband.
He watched you push on with gritted teeth, haunted by your own demons and trauma, all for the little girl depending on you.
It was only natural.
Any serviceman would feel an obligation towards your well-being.
Any serviceman would want to know you were safe... happy...
So how come, he can't help but feel like he is stealing another man's life?
Ao3
No use of y/n
Tag/Content: 18+, slow burn sexually explicit content, older man/younger (29 y/o) woman, grief, loss, ptsd, yearning, Jack Abbot would be a great girl dad and you can't change my mind, reader is an alt!girly with tats and piercings (more tags to follow as I work on the fic)
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
1 2 3 4 5 6 - ongoing
series synopsis | you’ve known ryomen sukuna practically your whole life. through the years that turned childhood into something messier, softer, harder to define. hot-headed, reckless and steady in all the ways you shouldn’t need him to be. and lately, you can’t tell if he’s crossing the line or if you’re meeting him halfway. [mdni 18+]
chapters
｡𖦹°‧ prologue
｡𖦹°‧ one
｡𖦹°‧ two
｡𖦹°‧ three
｡𖦹°‧ four
｡𖦹°‧ five
｡𖦹°‧ six - coming soon
one-shots
｡𖦹°‧ only a dream | you have a dream you shouldn’t have and sukuna won’t let it go
｡𖦹°‧ four times sukuna almost confessed | four almost confessions, swallowed before you could hear them
｡𖦹°‧ baby, it's cold outside | you and sukuna prepare for your annual drive home for christmas, where tradition is easy and feelings are not (christmas special)
"You hear that?" Dana's hand is up to her ear, cupping it as she laughs softly.
Robby pauses, a smile grows on his face as he realizes- "No I don't."
"Central 20 baby stopped crying."
For the last hour and a half, the Pitt has been graced with the blessed sound of a baby's cry. Non-stop. For the first ten minutes, Robby had felt bad for the kid. After half an hour, he asked Cassie if she needed any assistance on the case. At an hour, his head started to ache. Now, it's positively throbbing.
"Well," Robby clasps his hands together, "In celebration of this momentous occasion, I will be taking a 5 minute break. If anybody needs me- they don't. Send 'em to Langdon."
Dana nods, her nose already in an iPad as she leaves the nurse's station for the hub. Over her shoulder she calls, "Got it, cap."
Robby wills his eyes shut for a moment. He takes a deep breath. Then another. And, because he deserves it, another. It's rare to find moments like this in the ER, when you can rest and feel almost human. When they do come, it's important to savor them while they-
"Dr. Robby!"
-Last.
Cassie appears at his side, leaning against the nurse's station and tapping her foot. "Could I ask for a second opinion on something?"
"If I said no, would that stop you?"
Cassie doesn't smile, "Great. You know the patient in central 20?"
Robby sighs, letting his head drop for a brief moment. The last thing he wants is to see that baby. Lifting his head, Robby says, "While I have not had the pleasure to meet him, I have certainly become aware of his presence."
Cassie cringes, "Yeah. He's fine now. His fever lowered, and he stopped crying."
"Then discharge him."
Cassie sucks a breath in through her teeth. "About that..."
Robby's already shaking his head, walking away from the nurse's station. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” It's lunchtime and he's hungry and, most importantly, Cassie could wait.
"It's his mom."
"She's a patient too?"
"No, but I'm worried for her." Cassie picks at an already-raw nailbed, "She's a single mom with no family or friends in the area to support her. The baby is clearly well-cared for but..." Cassie looks around, lowering her voice, "I'm worried about possible burnout. She's clearly exhausted, spaced-out when I ask questions, and it doesn't sound like she's taking very good care of herself."
Robby sighs, "Unfortunate, but there's nothing we can do about that."
"We could keep them here longer. Give mom a bit of a break under the guise of further observation.”
"We both know there's not enough beds to keep them here." Robby shrugs, "Connect her with Kiara, she has resources for single mothers that could give her a break."
"I did, but she refused the help."
Robby frowns, "Then there's nothing we can do. If a patient denies-"
"She's exhibiting clear signs of postpartum depression and I'm afraid it'll spiral into postpartum psychosis-"
"Does she want to harm herself? The baby?"
"No, but-"
"How old is the baby?"
Cassie hesitates, "Eighteen weeks."
Robby shakes his head. "The likelihood of a mother developing postpartum psychosis that late is extremely low, Dr. McKay."
"But not zero. Especially if she's sleep deprived, alone, and already experiencing PPD." Cassie pushes her way in front of Robby, right between him and the staff lounge. "At the very least could you talk to her?"
Robby can see the staff lounge through the window over Cassie's shoulder. It beckons him, with its not-so-soft couches and not-so-tasty snacks. It’s at least better than a crying baby.
"If I talk to her, will you listen to me when I tell you to discharge them?"
Cassie lets out a breath, a relieved smile on her face. "Yes."
Robby nods. Later, he tells himself. I'll get that break later.
There's a pep to Cassie's step as she leads Robby to central 20. She's rambling on some more about the patient and his mom. Robby would like to say he's listening, but he's too irritated to pay attention. It's not until he bumps into Cassie's back right outside of central 20 that he realizes how much he had been zoned out.
"I'm gonna go talk to them first," Cassie says, gripping the curtain softly. At Robby's nod, she slips inside. Through the curtain he hears: "Hey there, how's the little guy doing?"
A small voice replies, "Good. Good. He still won't sleep, but..." A weak laugh. "At least he's not crying anymore."
Cassie hums, "Amen to that. Listen," Robby can hear Cassie's slow intake of breath. "I brought our chief attending here to take another look at Elijah. Would that be alright?"
"Is he not okay?" Panic. "I thought you said-"
"Elijah's perfectly fine, but with babies as young as him, we just like to have as many eyes on the case as we can."
"Uh... okay. Yeah. That's okay. He can come in."
There's nothing for a moment, barely the rustling sound of scrubs moving, then the curtain rips open and-
It's you.
Robby knows you. He'd like to say he knows you well, but that'd be a lie. He only met you, knew you, for one night.
He was dead tired, trying to drink away the nightmare that was Pittfest, when you sauntered up with a smooth voice and some cheesy one-liners. It didn't take much convincing on your end once he got his eyes on you. Stress relief. He told himself that back at your shitty apartment, as you writhed and moaned underneath him.
About a year ago now. You had the same nervous smile. Same soft lips. Even the same eyes, not quite matching the big brown eyes on your son.
He doesn't need to run the numbers, the eyes on that kid and the horror on your face is enough, but he does anyways, nausea bubbling in his gut when it matches up. Because of course the numbers match up.
"Dr. McKay," Robby can't hear his own voice, not over the ringing in his ears. "Could you step out while I talk with-" He swallows, "With mom here?"
Cassie stills, looking at Robby like she's worried. He figures she has every right to be.
"Dr. McKay?" Robby prompts.
"Uh, of course, I'm sorry." She looks at you, still utterly terrified, "I'll be right outside, just give a holler if you need me." Then to Robby, softer, "You good?"
Robby nods wordlessly. He doesn't watch Cassie leave, can't, not when his eyes are locked on the baby in your lap. He's searching Elijah's tiny face, trying to catalogue every one of his little features.
You speak first. Your voice is weak and uncertain in a way that makes Robby ill, "Hi again." Your laugh is hollow.
He has to tear his eyes from Elijah to look at you, and Christ. Cassie was right. The lack of care you've been putting in for yourself is evident. Greasy hair. Wrinkled clothes (days old if he had to guess). The bags under your eyes look like bruises. The skin around your nose is red and raw. Robby has to fight every instinct he has not to pull you into his arms.
"Hi," Robby echoes. He needs to focus.
Elijah fusses in your arms. You tense as he babbles, wiggling in your hold, until eventually he settles back down. When a few seconds of silence pass, you exhale. No more tears.
"This is... This is Elijah, my-" You squeeze your eyes shut, almost flinching, "Our... um... yeah."
Robby lets out a laugh, his jaw hanging open in shock. "'Our'?" He already pieced it together, but hearing it confirmed from your very mouth doesn't fail to pull the ground out from beneath his feet.
"Would you like to hold him?"
Robby can't respond, can hardly breathe through the gentle sobs that overcome his frame. He can only nod, begging to hold his-
His son. His son. He has a son.
You place Elijah into his arms, whispering instructions to him. Robby doesn't hear them, only hearing Elijah's soft exhale as he's placed into Robby- his father's -arms.
"Hey there, little guy." It's difficult for Robby to keep his voice so low. Excitement courses through his veins, fighting the rational part of his brain that he couldn't scare Elijah. It would break his heart. "I'm your daddy. Hm? Sorry I-" His eyes flick to you, watching them with tears in your own. "-Sorry I was late to meeting you. Think you can forgive me?"
Elijah coos softly, as if Robby's heart couldn't melt more. "Yeah? You can forgive me." Robby licks his lips, chuckling, "Hopefully your mom will forgive me, too. But, uh... I think that might take some more effort on my part."
You laugh. It's nearly inaudible, but Robby catches it. The sound is music to his ears.
"Don't you worry, kid," Robby says. His eyes are on you and you only. "I think we can work something out."
In some families, the past doesn’t vanish—it lingers like a cigarette burn on celluloid. You came from one of those. Your grandfather’s name is still on soundstages. Your mother won awards she never picked up. You didn’t just inherit money, but myth.
You grew up in rooms curated by people who no longer existed, in houses unchanged since the sixties. You were taught not to need. Still, you did. Spoiled, maybe—but never cruel.
Harry Castillo’s wealth was different...newer, cleaner, all balance sheets and deal terms. His mother built their firm; his father and brother followed. He lived in a Tribeca penthouse so pristine it looked like a set waiting for actors.
He’d just ended things with Lucy Mason, who worked at Adore Matchmaking. It was mutual, more or less. She told him to call, if he ever got lonely in the way men like him sometimes do.
You didn’t know about any of that. You were busy with your own life. You didn’t know your sister had sent in forms to a matchmaking service with your photo and a profile listing all your icks.
series summary: after lucy, harry believed he was destined to be alone. he had given up on his dream to be a father and husband. that is, until he met you who gave him hope for a future he thought was lost.
pairing: harry castillo x fem!reader
series content warning(s): EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), eventual romance/relationship + smut, slow burn, slight age gap (harry's in early 50s, reader is in early 30s), reader is single mom, two different backgrounds, harry's insanely rich, elements of angst, jealousy, insecurity, happy ending! (don't worry), no use of y/n. each chapter will have its own separate warnings!
a/n: so i know i said i'd take a hiatus from writing, but here i am... with another wip for harry castillo bc i'm still not over this man (and the 20-somethin' mins he was on screen for 💀) anyway, i hope y'all enjoy this. gonna try uploading a new chapter every friday, so stay tuned! <3
EX-HUSBAND!RAFE AND EX-WIFE!READER'S MASTERLIST...
after two years of their divorce, the couple seems to be finding each other closer and closer by situations in life. whether that is because of their kids, social lives or themselves, they don't know.
all they know is that they can't seem to get away from each other.
introduction to ex-husband!rafe.
introduction to ex-wife!reader.
introduction to the couple.
introduction to the kids.
CHRONOLOGICALLY ORDERED:
these fics don't exactly affect each other, you can read them separately! if you want a more congruent experience (bc sometimes they might mention details from past fics), this is the order:
Series summary: Dilf. That's what young women think when they see Joel. He doesn't mind. In fact, he welcomes it and uses his status to get what he wants. His scheme works smoothly until he meets you. You seem to be the only one who sees through his bullshit, the only one he should avoid. And now the only one he craves.
Series warnings: 18+ mdni | smut | angst | fluff | smutty slow burn | switching pov | age gap (Joel’s in his late 40s, reader is in her early 20s) | no outbreak | Sarah is alive | alcohol consumption | fingering | m/f!oral | protected/unprotected piv | slight daddy kink | m!masturbation | parental abuse | mention of a parent’s death | daddy issues | mention of infidelity | smoking | swearing
series summary: Tommy Miller has never been good at moderation. He drinks too much and smokes too much and has made every bad decision with full lucidity. When he sees his likeness in Joel's new foul-mouthed stepdaughter, Tommy can't seem to kick the habit of your affection. He knows it's twisted and filthy and depraved, but in true addict fashion, he keeps going back for more.
pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader
warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (reader is 20/21, Tommy is late 30s), alcohol and marijuana consumption, allusions to addiction, yearning, size difference, praise kink, angst, tooth rotting fluff, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV (specific warnings at the beginning of each chapter)
[series playlist] [main masterlist] [AO3]
part one! - feel so close
part two! - pearl necklace
part three! - sunshine & synchronicities
part four! - luck of the draw
part five! - her or the sun
part six! - two peas in a pod
extras!
convincing uncle tommy to bring home a stray kitten on your honeymoon
for visuals, @feelherlove has made some absolutely beautiful tiktoks inspired by uncle tommy so make sure you go check them out!!
If ya'll got any ideas/comments, feel free to put them in my inbox
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.
THE LENGTHS (SERIES)
➥ summary: When Jack's forced to work with you, the new (young, bantering, dreadfully beautiful) nurse on the night shift, he develops an all-too-close work friendship that he denies is anything more than a flirtatious and healthy professional relationship. But when he can finally get rid of his degrading thoughts referring to him as an old sad fuck who doesn't deserve the sunshine of the E.R? When the two of you experience the tension and bond that only the walls of the Pitt can close in on? You tell him you have a boyfriend. But Jack knows there's something about the claim that isn't adding up. Others believe, that it's only him attempting to cling to you without admitting it, but when situations arise with their sunny nurse becoming someone they can't recognize, they find they have no choice but to let Jack protect you. But what happens when the protection consumes him? There's no telling.
PART ONE: GUILTY CUBICLES ||・Jack meets the new nurse Robbie's been fawning over, only to then take the next couple of nights to pathetically cope with what he's feeling for the peppy, sunny young woman he's just met. ・。
I spell Abbot with two t's in this, it's so bad, but I'm procrastinating the editing I'd have to do, so my bad guys.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.
CRASH (SERIES)
➥ summary: When Jack catches you out walking to work in 30-degree weather alone in the fucking dark, he has no choice but to realize his feelings for you are far past romantics and hurdling towards possession. That only becomes more apparent when he catches you on Robby's motorcycle after.
PART ONE: CRASH ||・summary above. WC: 15.7k
PART TWO: AND BURN ||・As you fight for your life after the graphic accident on Robby's bike, the Pitt has to deal with Jack's innate, desperate need to never let you go again. WC: 13.3k ・。
PART 2.5: SPARK (PREQUEL COMING!) || What did Dana mean when she told Jack the Pitt knows that you two are becoming? Well, there are two dozen instances of him spiraling for you to explain that. They should've called HR down to the ER a long time ago・。➥ PREVIEW OF PREQUEL
PART ???: CARRY MY PAIN || When everyone flakes on a night out at the bar, Jack is left to ache with restraint at the fact that you're too drunk to let him finally have you. Still, it's a "date" where he's amused by the beauty of you plastered, but when all it takes is a thoughtless comment about his leg while he's carrying you to ruin the night, you and Jack have to have a heavy heart-to-heart to make up for it.
This series could be read as part of "THE LENGTHS", as I wrote Crash with the characterizations of that Jack and Reader in mind (even though it's only one part rn lol), but you don't have to read that part of that series to read this.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.
MISC ONE-SHOTS n' DRABBLES
AUTHOR MASTERLIST (Lalo Lover Lol)
SHIFTING ||・When witnessing you "flirting" with Robby, Jack attempts to cope with the way you, or the feelings he has for you, are changing him.・。
FIRECRACKER ||・During a chaotic Fourth of July double shift in the Pitt, you watch Jack grapple with a flood of trauma patients whose injuries trigger memories that you both can name, but won't dare say out loud. You try to become the one person who steadies him, even as he tries to deny how much he needs you...but when a simple loud noise is the thing to get Jack's composure to fracture, you simply and quickly pick up the pieces.・。
blurbs n thoughts
➥ Jack insinuating that you have an eating disorder
