Summary: The only time you get to enjoy your dinner at PTMC is when you head to the roof, only for a certain night shift attending to start joining you.
A/N: Cheesy af and probably done before. Jack is old, yada yada yada. Just over 1k words. Had to get this out of the drafts because idk what else to do with it.
Through His Stomach
The cafeteria food sucks. Everyone knew this.
Except you.
On your first day, you had brought your own lunch to work at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, but hadn’t had a chance to even look at it never mind eat it.
On your second day, you found an opportunity to slip down to the cafeteria for a bite and resolved never to do so again.
On your third day, and every day after that, you brought food from home, sneaking nibbles here and there before getting dragged back into the whirlwind that was PTMC.
But a few months into your time as the hospital’s newest psychologist, you discovered the best place to eat more than two mouthfuls at a time was the roof.
And a few months after that, you discovered that eating on the roof meant you’d have company.
Dr. Jack Abbot. Night shift attending in the ED. He had interrupted one of your evening meals, and seemed put out when he found his spot already taken. His annoyance seemed to fade when you offered him a home made cookie. After that, you found yourself cooking for two.
***
“You know, you can just tell me what you want to eat and I’ll make it” you said, handing him the Tupperware container full of pasta salad.
“You’re not my personal chef, green beans. Besides, I like the surprise” Jack said, taking the plastic tub, his fingers brushing yours.
“Suit yourself” you murmured, but couldn’t help the tiny smile that bloomed when you heard your newest nickname. Every night you saw him, you got a new one to add to your list.
“Thanks, peanut”
“What you got tonight, tiramisu?”
“Not bad, apple pie”
You munched on your food quietly, looking out at the darkening Pittsburgh skyline. You and Jack worked different shifts; you were ending your day while he was starting his, but you never minded staying an extra hour or two if it meant you got to watch the sunset with him.
“You never thought of culinary school?” Jack asked after a moment.
“At one point, I guess. But it’s so stressful. Like, ‘The Bear’ or something” you said, shrugging slightly.
Jack looked over at you, the red glow of the evening dusting his salt and pepper hair with copper. His silence told you everything; he had no clue what you were talking about.
“The Bear. You’ve never seen it? It’s a show about a restaurant and the main guy is like- super stressed and… just watch it, Jack. First season is good” you said, trying to keep your amusement off your face.
“You say it like this isn’t super stressful” Jack said, motioning down to the hospital below them.
“Well, I mean… it is. But, I know what I’m doing” you said, shrugging again.
“You’re one confident doctor” he smirked, enjoying your nonchalance.
“Oh, like you’re not? I know what they call you down there, cowboy” you laughed quietly.
“So you’d be a confident chef too” he said, nodding quickly.
“The second someone sent back a plate, I’d lock myself in the freezer. At least if you don’t like something, you’ve never said it” you snorted, glancing down at his mostly finished container.
“You’ve never made anything I don’t like. Your cooking is the best” Jack said quietly, his voice low and gruff as usual.
“You’re sweet” you murmured, and looked back at the skyline, hoping that the slowly growing orange dusk disguised the flush rising to your face..
A silence fell over you both as you both finished up your meals. Jack always tucked everything back into your little reusable grocery bag neatly, and that night was no exception. Again, your fingers brushed as he took your container from you.
“You gonna watch that with me then?” Jack asked after a long moment.
You look over, a bit surprised. But he’s looking right back at you, his gaze steady.
“You want to watch The Bear with me?” You asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah, green beans. And then we can go out for a dinner you don’t have to cook” he continued, still looking at you seriously.
You paused, blinking quickly. Was Jack asking you out? For real?
“Now, don’t think I’m being a creepy old man-” he began, huffing quietly, his eyebrows quirking up.
“No, no I don’t think that at all- that sounds good. Sorry, I was just surprised-” you said quickly, feeling your heart rate spiking in your chest.
Jack scoffed quietly and looked back at the skyline for a moment before looking back at you.
“I’m not that old, I know what a Netflix and chill is, and this isn’t it-”
“What?” You laughed suddenly, taken aback.
“Yeah, I know. You put on a show and invite a girl over- but I’m a grown man, we can go out for dinner because I like you, green beans, and I’d like to do this properly-” he said.
You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a buoyancy fill you as you took in his words.
“I like you, green beans”
Jack frowned at you, as if offended by your laughter.
“I’d love to watch The Bear and go to dinner with you” you said, unable to keep the smile from your face. You turned back to the view, still feeling the warmth of your blush on your face.
“Alright then, we’ll go. Figure out our schedules” Jack said, looking out at the view as well.
“God, lookin’ at me like I spit out your food” he mumbles after a moment, shrugging slightly.
“I was just surprised, I told you” you said, a quiet chuckle leaving you.
“I don’t know how. I wasn’t climbing these stairs every night just for dinner, I like hanging out with you too, you know-” Jack continued, his eyebrows raising again.
“I know, I know, I like hanging out with you too” you said reassuringly.
A brief silence fell over you again. Comfortable, like usual between the two of you.
“You know, it’s not even on Netflix. It’s on Disney” you quipped.
Can i request a fic where lando and yn have a baby/toddler girl that is asian features like yn but has lando’s green eyes. Lando is very protective and tries to keep her name private but some staff in mclaren leaked the name?
Thanks!
Her Name Was Never Meant for Them
Lando Norris x Girlfriend!reader
Synopsis: A McLaren staffer leaks the private name of Lando and his girlfriend’s toddler, sending Lando into fierce protective‑dad mode as he shields their daughter and fights to keep her world safe and private.
Your daughter has Lando’s eyes — that unmistakable green that looks almost unreal in sunlight. Everyone says so. Fans, commentators, even the drivers who pretend they’re not obsessed with her.
But her name?
That was supposed to be yours. Yours and Lando’s alone.
It started the way most race weekends did: too early, too loud, and with your toddler glued to Lando’s hip like she was born there. She’s in her tiny McLaren hoodie, curls bouncing as she babbles to him in a language only he understands.
He listens like every sound is sacred.
“Dada, look!” she squeals, pointing at a golf cart.
Lando gasps dramatically. “A golf cart? No way. That’s crazy. Should we steal it?”
She nods with the seriousness of a world leader.
You roll your eyes. “Please don’t teach her crimes before breakfast.”
He grins, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “No promises.”
---
The day is normal until it isn’t.
You’re in hospitality when your phone starts vibrating nonstop. Mentions. Tags. Notifications. At first you think it’s just another cute photo someone snapped of Lando carrying your daughter like she weighs nothing.
Then you see it.
A tweet.
A photo.
A caption.
Her name.
Spelled correctly.
Posted by an account that always gets insider info a little too fast.
Your stomach drops so hard you feel dizzy.
You don’t even realise you’ve stood up until Zak appears beside you, concern etched across his face. “Everything alright?”
You show him the screen.
His expression darkens. “Who the hell leaked that?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is tight, your chest tighter. You’d worked so hard — both of you — to keep her name private. Not because you were ashamed. Not because you were hiding her. But because she was a child. Your child. And the world didn’t deserve every piece of her.
You hear Lando before you see him — that familiar laugh, the one he only uses with your daughter. Then he walks in, holding her on his hip, her tiny hand fisted in his hoodie.
He takes one look at your face and freezes.
“What happened?”
You hand him the phone.
His jaw clenches so hard you hear his teeth grind. His arm tightens around your daughter instinctively, protectively, like he’s shielding her from the entire world.
“Who posted this?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Who gave them her name?”
Zak steps in. “We’re investigating. I’ll handle it.”
“No,” Lando snaps. “I’ll handle it.”
Your daughter senses the tension and buries her face in his neck. He softens instantly, rubbing her back, whispering something only she can hear. But his eyes stay sharp, furious.
He looks at you. “I’m so sorry, love.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It is. It’s my team. My environment. Someone here thought they had the right to share something that wasn’t theirs.”
You reach for his free hand. “We’ll deal with it.”
He nods, but you can tell he’s barely holding it together.
---
The fallout is immediate.
McLaren releases a statement condemning the leak.
Fans rally behind you.
The post is deleted — but the internet never forgets.
Lando spends the rest of the day with your daughter glued to him. He refuses to let anyone else hold her. Not staff. Not PR. Not even Oscar, who usually gets unlimited cuddles.
At one point, Oscar approaches with a soft smile. “Hey, can I—”
“No.”
Lando doesn’t even look up from where he’s adjusting her headphones.
Oscar blinks. “Mate, I just—”
“No.”
You place a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “Lan, he’s not the enemy.”
He sighs, guilt flickering across his face. “I know. Sorry, Osc.”
Oscar waves it off. “You’re good. Papa Bear mode. I get it.”
Your daughter reaches out to Oscar with a chubby hand. Lando hesitates, then lets her pat Oscar’s cheek — but she stays firmly in his arms.
---
Later, when the paddock quiets and the sun dips low, you find Lando sitting on the steps behind the motorhome. Your daughter is asleep on his chest, her tiny fist curled in the fabric of his race suit.
He looks up when you sit beside him.
“I feel like I failed her,” he whispers.
“You didn’t.”
“I promised I’d keep her safe. I promised I’d keep her world small until she was old enough to choose otherwise.”
You rest your head on his shoulder. “You kept her safe. Someone else broke that trust.”
He swallows hard. “I hate that people think they’re entitled to her. To us. She didn’t ask for any of this.”
You brush a curl from your daughter’s forehead. “She has you. That’s enough.”
He turns to you, eyes softening. “She has us.”
You smile. “Us.”
He kisses you — slow, lingering, full of everything he can’t put into words. When he pulls back, he looks down at your daughter again.
“I’m going to fix this,” he murmurs. “I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care who I piss off. No one gets to take pieces of her without our permission.”
You lace your fingers with his. “We’ll protect her together.”
He exhales, finally letting some of the tension leave his body. “She really does have my eyes, doesn’t she?”
“She does,” you whisper. “And your stubbornness.”
He smirks. “Poor kid.”
You laugh quietly, careful not to wake her. “She’ll survive.”
“With us as parents? Debatable.”
You lean into him, watching the last bit of sunlight fade. “We’ll figure it out.”
He kisses the top of your head. “We always do.”
And with your daughter sleeping safely between you, the world feels small again — just the way you wanted it.
summary: it was only ever supposed to be casual. convenient. roommates with benefits—two rules: no kissing, no falling in love. but when joaquín returns from a week-long mission and his mother comes to stay, tensions rise, jealousy snaps, boundaries blur, and breaking those rules becomes inevitable.
notes: surprise joaquín fic?! my goodness, i've been working on this for months (so i'm sorry if it feels disjointed). i abandoned it back in july and have been slowly adding to it but just recently got the urge to fully finish it, so here ya go! i hope it's good? i hope it's enjoyable? it was really fun, more angsty than i originally planned, and a little more lyrical than i ever intended? i also did a lot of random research for this fic... so please (as always) let me know what you think!!! (and i made a playlist)
warnings: so many metaphors and similies (like seriously, i'm sorry), nevada slander (i'm sorry, again! i just chose a desert state, i promise there's no meaning behind it), jealousy, tension, a bit of angst, italics, likely incorrect spanish, denial (duh), and SMUT (dirty talk-ish, f oral receiving, making out, unprotected p in v, and sorry if it sucks i feel like i struggled with the last spicy scene) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 18779
It started on a random Tuesday night.
You’d been living with Joaquín for almost six months at that point—after years of friendship forged through comms static and high-stakes calls working for the United States Air Force.
You were his handler back in the day. You worked for a joint taskforce—half independent intelligence, half Air Force—coordinating tactical comms and field support. Joaquín was one of your primary field assets, and you were the voice in his ear. You watched his vitals, fed him real-time intel, and talked him out of some seriously bad situations.
After a while, he stopped feeling like an asset and more like a friend—a good friend. You trusted each other more than anyone else in the field. And even after he got pulled into Captain America's world and rotated out of your roster, you stayed close.
You left the handler life not long after—burned out from too many ops gone wrong, long hours, and the creeping sense that your whole life was passing you by. Now you’re a threat analyst contractor—still intelligence, just less intense. More sane. You pick your own hours, turn down jobs that feel like lost causes, and best of all, you get to do most of it from home.
When Joaquín officially inherited the Falcon wings, he started looping you in again—running contracts through Sam’s office, bringing you back into the fold, piece by piece. The work felt familiar. So did he. And when he brought up the idea of sharing an apartment in D.C., it made perfect sense.
Rent was brutal. Joaquín was gone on missions half the time anyway. And you already knew each other well enough to live in sync—how to read each other’s moods, how to exist in tight spaces without getting on each other’s nerves.
You trust him—always have—and the first six months were easier than you imagined.
Then… that Tuesday night happened.
You were sitting on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some action movie Joaquín had put on while you complained about the lack of fuckable men in your life. Joaquín, of course, acted all offended and joked about how incredibly fuckable he was—at which you snorted, but silently agreed.
There was one long, charged second where neither of you knew what to say.
Then Joaquín said it. He offered. Asked if you wanted to have sex—no strings, just good old-fashioned stress relief between friends.
You hesitated, of course. Torn between tearing off your—admittedly sexy—best friend’s clothes, or telling him that in no way was this kind of arrangement a good idea. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. Living with him was great, and the thought of messing all that up made you nauseous.
But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.
And something deep inside you snapped.
You agreed. With two conditions: no kissing, and no falling in love.
Simple, right?
Well, you thought so. Until you found yourself under him—or on top of him, or beside him, or in some other twisted position—every second night. Panting, whimpering, crying out his name while he made you come with his mouth, his fingers, his very impressive cock. Once you started, you couldn’t get enough.
And slowly—somehow—you started feeling different. About him. About everything. Different in a way that made your heart race, your cheeks flush, and your stomach do weird somersaults every time he flashed that boyish grin.
You haven’t quite admitted it yet, but you’re pretty sure you’ve gone and broken one of those rules.
And not even the one that should have been the easiest to break—because even after almost three months of being roommates with benefits, you still haven’t kissed him. Not once. Not even almost.
The click of the front door lock startles you. You blink hard at the TV screen you’ve been pretending to watch for the past few hours, then crane your neck to peer over the back of the couch. And sure enough, there he is.
His curls are damp from the rain, clothes a little soaked too, and there are deep purple circles beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—but somehow, still gorgeous. Still infuriatingly hot, even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t slept the entire week he’s been gone.
“Hey,” you call, pushing up from the couch.
He drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes. “Hey,” he says, eyes lighting up the second they land on you. “I missed you.”
And God, it doesn’t help when he says things like that.
You roll your eyes and walk around the couch, leaning a hip against the back of it while he shrugs out of his wet jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. The apartment isn’t huge—just an open-plan living and dining space, with the kitchen off to the side—which means there are only a few strides left between you and him.
“Don’t roll your eyes when I say that,” he adds. “I’m allowed to miss my best friend after being forced to spend a week in hell—or Nevada, as the locals like to call it.”
You laugh quietly, folding your arms just to stop yourself from reaching out. Because holy shit, you've missed him—but you’re not about to admit it out loud.
He misses his best friend.
You miss the boy you’re in love with.
It’s not the same. Not even close.
“I almost cried when it started raining on the cab ride home,” he says with a soft chuckle. “The desert sucked. I’m never going back there. I told Sam he can find a new Falcon if he wants to do more recon in a state that’s more red dirt than grass.”
“Wow,” you mutter. “Maybe Sam should find a new Falcon, then. One that complains less.”
He narrows his eyes as he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you.
“You know,” he says, stopping barely a foot away, “this isn’t the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”
You lift a brow. “And what exactly were you hoping for?”
He shrugs, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Candles. Rose petals. Romantic music.” He steps in again, eyes dragging up your body—slow and deliberate. “You. On my bed. Naked.”
Your heart thuds in your throat, and heat blooms across your skin, but you refuse to let it show. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You’re used to this—to him. He was flirty even before you started sleeping together, but now? Now it’s like making you blush is his full-time job.
“Really?” you ask, keeping your voice level. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight. Aren’t you tired?”
“Never too tired for you, baby,” he mutters—low and dangerous—as he closes the space between you entirely.
His hands find your waist and his lips drop to your neck, just above the collar of your shirt—his shirt—where he knows exactly how to make you sigh.
And you do.
Like you’ve been holding your breath all week, just waiting for his touch. And now, with his soft lips and wet tongue drawing a slow bruise into your skin, just above your shoulder—you can finally breathe again.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, “I’m your roommate, not your—”
He shoves his body against yours, the unmistakable, rock-hard length beneath his jeans pressing into your hip.
“Cariño,” he murmurs against your neck, “I’ve been living in a one-bedroom safe house with Sam for seven days. I haven’t come since you made me before I left. If I don’t come inside you tonight, it’ll be into my own hand while thinking about you. And I know which I’d prefer.” He presses a wet kiss just beneath your jaw. “What do you prefer?”
Your eyes almost roll back as he slides one hand beneath your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh at your waist. His lips continue their assault on your neck—sucking, licking, biting, soothing—while you choke back moans and grip the front of his shirt for dear life.
“Come on, baby,” he sighs, breath hot on your skin. “Don’t make me beg.”
You bite back a grin as you tip your head back, breath stuttering. “Maybe I want you to beg.”
He pulls back—lips puffy, eyes glazed, that familiar smirk still very much in place. “Want me to beg?” he echoes, brows lifting. “I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed.”
Then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands slide down your body, igniting fires in their wake and making your pulse stumble.
“I want to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, tongue darting across his lower lip. “Please let me.”
The sight of him makes your knees weak—curls tousled, lips damp, eyes dark with lust and something darker, hungrier. God, if you said no to a man like this, you’d have to be insane.
Your breath hitches as he lifts the hem of your shirt and presses a kiss just above the waistband of your sweatpants.
“Please, cariño,” he whispers. “Please let me fuck you.”
He slowly pulls the grey fabric down, sliding it over your hips until it drops in a pool at your feet—leaving only a lacy pair of pink panties between him and what he wants.
You lean harder against the back of the couch, gripping it like a lifeline as he leans in again, lips brushing the tops of your thighs.
“Gonna need you to say something, baby,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Joaquín, you can f-fuck me.”
He grins up at you—boyish charm and deadly intention—as his fingers hook beneath your panties and slide them down. You gasp at the sudden exposure, and before you can say or do anything else, his hands grip the insides of your thighs and part them. Your grip tightens on the couch before your knees can give out, and you hear him chuckle as your legs shake with anticipation.
“So wet already,” he breathes, face barely an inch away. “Mierda, cariño… ¿todo esto para mí?”
(Shit, baby… all this for me?)
You nod, once, because you know you can’t speak. Not with him on his knees. Not with his mouth so close to your cunt. Not after a whole week of that useless vibrator, waiting for him to get back.
“Been thinkin’ about this pussy all week,” he mutters, eyes locked on the apex of your thighs like he’s praying.
Then he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder—and his mouth is on you.
Warm, wet, and worshipful, he licks a slow stripe through your folds, lips and tongue coaxing every nerve alive. You gasp, fingers flying into his curls, and your back arches as a strangled moan slips free.
He works you open like he’s savouring every second, tongue deliberate and unhurried, lapping up every drop like it means something. A low moan rumbles in his throat—part pleasure, part hunger—and the vibration shoots straight through you.
Your hips twitch. Your grip tightens in his hair. He doesn’t flinch.
One hand steadies the back of your thigh. The other slides between your legs, fingers teasing your soaked entrance while his mouth keeps working, determined and relentless.
“Fuck,” he groans. “She missed me, huh?”
Two fingers push inside you—slow, careful, deep—and your whole body jolts. You cry out before you can stop yourself, head tipped back as he curls them just right, dragging along that spongey spot that makes your knees buckle.
His mouth stays pressed against you, tongue flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with every thrust of his hand.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.
He’s so good at this. Too good. It’s almost unfair—the way he pulls you apart with his mouth and fingers like it’s nothing. Like he was made for it.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, barely able to speak. “I—fuck—”
He hums again, lips sealed to you like he can’t stand to let go. His fingers move faster, deeper, knuckles brushing as he works you open. Your whole body tightens, strung up and ready to snap.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice ruined and reverent. “Come for me, baby.”
It builds fast—hot and sharp and blinding. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pulling you tighter against his face, guiding you against his tongue until you can’t think, can’t breathe.
He sucks hard on your clit, and it hits. You let out a broken cry, hips jerking, grinding against his mouth as your eyes squeeze shut and—
You shatter.
The wave crashes over you, tearing through every nerve, and you collapse forward with a moan caught in your throat. Your thighs tremble. Your lungs burn. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
And he doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally goes slack, and the only sound you can make is a soft, helpless little whimper you don’t even recognise.
He lingers for a beat, lips pressing soft, soothing kisses to your thigh, breath warm against your skin, his hands sliding gently up your sides to steady you. Then he finally pulls back and looks up—curls messy, lips swollen, face glistening. And fuck, he’s never looked hotter.
“That was—”
“Quick,” you mutter, a little breathless, cheeks burning.
He blinks, then grins—slow and wicked. “I was going to say hot. But sure, quick works too.”
“Thanks,” you mutter dryly, eyes locked on the slick shine around his mouth. “You want to clean yourself up, or—”
“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, his brows drawing together just slightly. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”
Before you can reply, he straightens up and grabs the backs of your thighs, lifting you easily. You let out a startled yelp, but your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your arms locking behind his neck.
“It’s my turn, baby,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And then probably your turn again, and again if you’re up for it.” He pauses, ducking his head to brush his lips against your collarbone. “Your vibrator dead yet?”
You frown as he starts walking down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He chuckles. “I figured with me gone all week, you’d be handling things the old-fashioned way. Thinkin’ about me while you—”
You smack the back of his head, which only makes him laugh harder.
“Just because you can’t stop thinking about me doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you,” you say, even though it’s a total lie.
He leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he kicks open his bedroom door and steps inside, stopping at the edge of the bed.
“Okay then,” he says, voice dark with challenge. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you ‘til you can’t think about anything but me.”
Then he drops you.
You hit the bed with a squeal, bounce once, and barely have time to register the ceiling before his weight presses you down. He slots perfectly between your thighs, dragging the hard line of his denim-clad cock along your soaked cunt.
And God, does he fuck you.
He fucks you until you can’t think about anything but him. Until you forget your own name. Until your muscles shake and your lungs burn and your voice is hoarse from moaning his.
And then—after all of it—you fall asleep in his bed. In his arms.
And it’s the best sleep you’ve had since he left.
-
You wake before Joaquín, your nose pressed to his bare chest and his arms wrapped tight around you. One is tucked beneath your neck, the other curled over your shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s holding something precious. His chin is resting at the crown of your head, and he’s softly snoring—a sure sign that he’s still deep asleep.
You wriggle a little, testing. He hums and tightens his hold, but doesn’t wake. He’s hard against your lower belly, and for a second you consider waking him with your mouth—but your bladder protests.
And so does your heart.
God, you should’ve made more rules. You should’ve protected yourself. You’ve always known you were soft for Joaquín—already halfway gone long before this whole thing started. And now? Now you’re all the way gone. Completely fucked. Up the creek without a paddle and regretting that you didn’t make a rule about cuddling, because waking up like this feels a lot heavier than just roommates.
You ease your way down the bed, slipping gently from his grip, being careful not to rouse him. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and you realise just how tired he must be after that mission—yet somehow, not too tired to fuck your brains out last night.
You pick up the nearest item of clothing—his shirt, obviously—and slip it over your head as you pad across the hall to the bathroom. The only bathroom in the apartment, which hadn’t seemed like a problem when you first moved in—at least, not until Joaquín got very comfortable walking in on you mid-shower. Not that it matters much now. But still.
You go to the toilet, brush your teeth, wash your face, and count four new bruises along your collarbone—one a little higher than you’d normally let him get away with. Then you head into the living area to find your sweatpants—still crumpled on the floor behind the couch—and slip them on before starting a fresh pot of coffee.
You’ve got your head in the fridge, looking for the packet of bacon you know you bought the other day, when a knock at the door startles you. You stand up so quickly you bump your head on the way, cursing under your breath as you rub the sore spot and glance at the microwave clock—10:27AM.
It’s Sunday, which means no work, no plans. And you know Joaquín has this week off after the mission—so it definitely isn’t Sam here to collect his baby bird.
Another knock echoes through the apartment.
You shut the fridge, still frowning, and walk across the kitchen toward the front door. Every now and then, it does cross your mind that a dangerous criminal could show up looking for Joaquín—he is a superhero now—but today you decide that even criminals probably take Sundays off.
So you open the door.
“Hola… tú no eres Joaquín.”
(Hi... you’re not Joaquín.)
It’s a woman, late fifties—you’re guessing—a little on the shorter side, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are dark and sharp, dragging up and down your body not with judgment, just curiosity. Her dark brows are drawn slightly, forming two small creases in the middle of her otherwise perfectly tan skin.
She looks familiar. But you know you’ve never met her before.
Oh no.
“¿Tú quién eres y por qué estás usando la ropa de mi hijo?”
(Who are you and why are you wearing my son’s clothes?)
You step back, eyes wide. “Uh, I—I’m sorry, Joaquín is just—”
“¡Mamá! Ay, por favor—¿por qué no me avisaste que estabas en camino?”
(Mom! Oh, please—why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?)
You whip around to see Joaquín—curls messy, shirt only half on—appearing from his bedroom.
“No me dijiste que tenías novia,” the woman—Joaquín’s mother—says.
(You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.)
Joaquín sighs. “No es mi novia, mamá. Es mi roomie.”
(She’s not my girlfriend, Mom. She’s my roommate.)
She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “¿Entonces por qué está usando tu camisa ella?”
(So why is she wearing your shirt?)
“Porque ella solo—” He hesitates, clearly frustrated. “¡Ugh! No importa. Somos amigos. Don’t make it weird.”
(Because she just— Ugh! It doesn’t matter. We’re friends. Don’t make it weird.)
“Lo raro es dormir con una amiga, mijo,” she says with a little smirk.
(What’s weird is sleeping with a friend, my son.)
“¡Mamá!”
She shrugs. “Solo digo. Estas cosas nunca terminan bien. Además, es muy bonita—deberías salir con ella de verdad.”
(Just saying. These things never end well. Besides, she’s very pretty—you should actually date her.)
Joaquín’s brow furrows, not in anger but something like defeat. “No es así.”
(It’s not like that.)
“¡Podría serlo! Quiero nietos.”
(It could be! I want grandbabies.)
“Mamá… ella entiende casi todo lo que dices.”
(Mom... she understands almost everything you’re saying.)
His mother laughs again. “¡Qué bueno! Así sabe que necesito nietos antes de morirme.”
(How good! That way she knows I need grandchildren before I die.)
Joaquín sighs, shaking his head. “Ay, Dios mío. Just speak English. If you're gonna embarrass me, just do it in English.” Then he turns to you with a sheepish smile. “This is my mom.”
You give him a wide-eyed look before turning back to his mother, who’s now grinning at you like you’ve just told her you’re expecting.
“Hi.” You give her a tight smile. “I’m the roommate.”
She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers. “I’m Lucía, but you can call me—”
“She is not call you mamá,” Joaquín cuts in, exasperated. “We’re just friends, ¿sí?”
Lucía rolls her eyes, dropping your hand. “Okay, okay. Just friends.”
“Give me those,” Joaquín mutters, stepping up beside you to take her bags.
You move aside as he takes her things and ushers her into the apartment. Your feet feel heavy, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and your cheeks are burning so hot you wouldn’t be surprised if you spontaneously combusted.
“This place is nice, Joaquín,” Lucía says, her English carrying just the slightest accent. “Though I suppose it has a woman’s touch.”
She glances at you with a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, like she’s already two steps ahead.
“Mamá,” Joaquín says, dropping her bags at his bedroom door, “are you going to be weird the whole time you’re here?”
She gives him a sharp smile. “And are you going to be oblivious your whole life?”
He frowns. “Oblivious?”
She looks back at you and nods. And God, you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
“Joaquín,” you murmur, voice tight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
His cheeks flush pink. “Yeah—uh, Mamá, we’re just going to—”
“It’s okay, mijo,” Lucía says, drifting toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pour myself a coffee.”
Joaquín smiles and nods, his eyes flicking back to you. “Come help me strip my bed?”
His mother chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything else.
You bite back the urge to whack Joaquín square in the chest as you walk past him, slipping into his room with him a step behind and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me your mother was coming to visit?” you snap, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs. “I was going to. I just didn’t get a chance.”
“Oh, so you decided eating me out and fucking me four times was more important?”
His eyes go wide. “Shh! That woman hears everything—she has ears like a bat.”
You step forward, brow furrowed. “Joaquín Torres, I swear to God—”
“I’m sorry, okay?” he cuts in, lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. “I honestly forgot. I didn’t think she’d be here until later tonight. She called last week, said she missed me, and got all upset that I hadn’t invited her to visit since moving.”
“You could have texted me,” you mutter.
“I said sorry. I just—” He pauses, eyes dropping to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “I got distracted. But she’s here now, and she seems to like you. So, that’s a good start.”
You blink. “You didn’t think she’d like me?”
His eyes go wide. “No, no! I knew she’d like you... eventually. She’s just not always warm the first time she meets someone.”
“Joaquín,” you deadpan. “She was talking about me having your babies before you even introduced us. Doesn’t get much warmer than that.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, she did say that.”
You raise your brows. “Do you really think this is funny?”
He shrugs. “A little.”
You sigh out a heavy breath and drop your head into your hands, wishing you could close your eyes and start the day all over again.
“She’s not going to be here long,” Joaquín says. “Two nights, that’s it. Then she’s going to Tía Carla’s in Baltimore.”
You drop your hands. “Two nights?”
He nods.
“Where’s she going to sleep?”
He glances at the bed. “My bed.” Then he looks back at you, smirking. “After I change the sheets.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay. Where are you sleeping?”
“Well,” he says slowly, “I was thinking—”
“No,” you snap. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping with me.”
He frowns. “Why not? We slept together last night.”
“Because your mother is going to be on the other side of the wall!”
He grins—slow and wicked. “I’ve got ways I could keep you quiet.”
Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”
“Okay,” he chuckles, “okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be fine. It’s only two nights.”
You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”
“Besides,” he sighs, turning toward the bed, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”
You step around to the foot of the bed and start helping him pull the sheets up. “Excuse me?”
He flashes you another grin. “You heard me.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s not forget who practically mauled me the minute he got home last night.”
He bundles up the sheets and dumps them in a pile on the floor. “And let’s not forget who couldn’t stand on her own in the shower.”
You narrow your eyes, tongue running along your top teeth, watching him dismantle the bed with a shit-eating grin. You want to walk over there and slap it off his face. Or better yet, you want to shove him on the bed and let him fuck you so full of grandbabies you won’t be able to stand again.
Because like it or not, you’re hopelessly in love with Joaquín Torres—and you’re starting to worry that he might just know it.
After helping him make his bed with clean sheets and picking up all the evidence from last night, you reemerge from his room and head straight into your own. You can hear him and his mother chatting away as you gather fresh clothes and pad quietly into the bathroom.
You take a little extra time showering and getting ready, inexplicably wanting to impress his mother—as if you have something to prove.
Please, Mrs. Torres. Tell your son to fall in love with me!
You roll your eyes at your reflection as you apply a generous layer of lip gloss, then you quickly tidy the bathroom—making extra room on the vanity for Lucía—and step out.
“We could go to La Ventana Roja,” Joaquín says, his voice carrying down the hall.
Lucía sighs. “If I wanted to eat Mexican food, I’d cook dinner myself, chico estúpido.”
You press your lips together to keep from giggling as you drop your dirty clothes in the hamper just inside your bedroom door.
“Why do you come here just to insult me?” Joaquín asks, the pout audible in his voice.
“I come here to make sure you’re alive so you can give me grandbabies one day,” Lucía replies.
You step around the corner and spot them in the kitchen, each standing on opposite sides of the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of them.
“Speaking of grandbabies,” she adds with a grin, “you look lovely, linda.”
You give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Lucía.”
Joaquín clears his throat, eyes flicking up and down your body as you come to stand at the end of the counter. “We’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner,” he says. “Sam’s coming too.”
“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.
He nods. “Italian. I could do Italian.” Then he looks at his mother. “Mamá?”
She smiles. “Yes. Good boy, listening to your novia.”
Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you quickly turn toward the fridge, deciding to distract yourself with food.
“Ay, Mamá,” Joaquín sighs. “Stop saying that. She’s not my girlfriend.”
Lucía just shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee while you keep your attention firmly fixed on the inside of the fridge—though you can feel Joaquín’s gaze burning into the side of your face.
Eventually he gives up on trying to get your attention and dials the Italian restaurant to make a reservation for tonight. You busy yourself making toast while he and his mom continue to catch up, muttering half in Spanish and half in English.
After two cups of coffee, they decide to head to the mall—Miami doesn’t have a Crate & Barrel like D.C., and apparently Lucía loves that place. They ask you to go with them, but your cheeks are still burning and there’s a strange tightness in your chest—because watching Joaquín with his mom, soft and attentive and effortlessly sweet, is making your heart do stupid things. So you decline.
Instead, you spend the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry, taking extra care in Joaquín’s room to ensure Lucía won’t stumble upon any more evidence of your very not-so-friendly relationship with her son. You also take some time to plan an outfit for dinner—you haven’t gone out in a while, and you wouldn’t mind making it a little harder for Joaquín to keep his hands to himself.
By the time you hear them get home, you’re already halfway through getting ready. You’re in your room, sitting at the small mirror in the corner by the window, wondering what colour blush to use—or if you should use any at all. You’re wearing nothing but your underwear, with the silky, dark green dress you picked for tonight laid across the bed.
“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.
“I’m in my room!” you call back.
You can hear shuffling—paper bags, muffled voices—and then footsteps, getting louder down the hall.
You jump up quickly and dart across your room, planting both hands against the door just as the handle turns, stopping it from opening fully.
Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”
“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”
He peers at you through the gap, brows raised, lips twitching. “And?”
You stare. “And we’re roommates. Remember?”
“Right.” He chuckles. “Well then, roommate, are you going to be ready in half an hour? Sam said he’ll meet us there.”
“Yes,” you mutter. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be ready.”
He leans in a little, trying to see more through the narrow gap—like he thinks he’s subtle. “And if I don’t leave you alone?”
You brace yourself harder against the door. “Then you’ll be limping for the next week.”
He grins, challenging. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He snorts. “You barely survived the week I was away. You wouldn’t add another—”
“Mijo, leave the poor girl alone!” Lucía calls from the kitchen. “Come help me unpack, and then you can get in the shower so you don’t smell at dinner.”
You can’t help but smile, laughter catching somewhere in your chest as you watch him roll his eyes and trudge back down the hall. Then you shove your bedroom door shut again and return to getting ready.
You finish your makeup, do your hair, and slip into the dress that slides against your skin like butter. It falls just above the knee—silky and forest green—draped in all the right places with a neckline that isn’t too low, but low enough to tease the smallest sliver of black lace if you lean forward just right. You finish the outfit with a pair of knee-high boots and an oversized leather jacket—for modesty, of course. Nothing to do with wanting to shed the jacket at dinner and make Joaquín choke on his own breath.
Half an hour later, you step out of your room into the bright, pungent cloud of Chanel No. 5 saturating the apartment. The bathroom door is shut, but you can hear Joaquín humming behind it, and at the end of the hall you spot Lucía waiting at the dining table.
“Just waiting on Joaquín?” you ask as you step into the kitchen.
Lucía hums. “Like always. He takes so long with the hair, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
You bite back a laugh. “Neither do I.”
Just as you unzip your purse to look for your lip gloss, you hear the bathroom door squeak open. The fan clicks off, footsteps echo up the hall—and then Joaquín steps into the kitchen like some kind of smug, fully-formed thirst trap the universe handcrafted to ruin your night.
His curls are damp and pushed back off his forehead, dark ringlets dripping slightly onto the collar of a clean, fitted black button-up. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His jeans are dark and well-worn in ways that should be illegal. And of course—of course—his shirt is unbuttoned one extra button more than necessary, exposing just a hint of warm, tanned chest.
Then he sees you.
And he stops.
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, landing squarely on your boots.
“Well,” he says, voice lower than it needs to be, “look at you.”
You fold your arms to hide the way your hands start to shake. “Look at you.”
He hums—soft, appreciative—as his gaze drags up your legs again. “New boots?”
You shrug like your heart isn’t sprinting laps. “Maybe.”
He steps closer, leaning his weight onto one hip and folding his arms to mirror you. “Buy those just for me?"
You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Lucía clears her throat from the dining table, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Ay, por favor. The both of you—stop looking at each other like that. We are going to eat.”
You cough, straighten your jacket, and grab your bag. “Ready to go, then?”
Joaquín just grins—slow, wicked, knowing—and gestures for you to go ahead of him. Lucía sighs, muttering something in Spanish under her breath as the three of you head out the door.
The Uber ride to the restaurant isn’t long—but it feels like hours. With Joaquín’s dark eyes fixed on you through the rear-view mirror, you can barely follow whatever Lucía is saying as she points out the window. The driver tries to make small talk with Joaquín too, but it’s useless. The two of you are somewhere else entirely—a different universe, thick with tension and eye contact, and you’re about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting and leveling half of D.C.
“Oh, we’re here,” Lucía announces at last—and only then do you realise the car has stopped. “Joaquín, ven a ayudar a tu mamá a bajar del auto.”
(Joaquín, come help your mom get out of the car.)
Joaquín shakes his head and fumbles with his seatbelt, mumbling a quick thanks to the driver before stepping out. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to reality, and follow—circling around the rear of the car to find him helping his mother onto the sidewalk.
It’s almost annoying how sweet he is with her. Sure, he’s always polite—you’ve always known he was well raised—but seeing it is something else entirely. And seeing it while trying to ignore the fact that you’re already stupidly, painfully in love with him makes the thorns tighten around your heart. Clawing up your chest. Flower buds blooming in your throat.
“There she is!” Sam throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “How long has it been?”
You roll your eyes even though your lips twitch. “It’s been, like, two weeks, Sam. No need to be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” he echoes. “Try spending a week in the desert with Fly Boy over there.” He jerks a thumb toward Joaquín, whose eyes are slowly widening. “Man would not shut up about you.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”
Sam nods with the weight of someone bearing deep emotional trauma. “Every day. Every night. ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’ ‘Do you think she’s sleeping?’ ‘Should I text her?’ ‘What if she—’”
“Sam,” Joaquín warns.
“No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me,” he fires back. “You were a pain in my ass all week.”
You bite back a smile, heat blooming under your skin. “Wow. I know you missed me, but… that much?”
He shrugs a little too casually. “Sam exaggerates.”
Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”
Joaquín shoots him a glare that peel paint—but Sam just pats your arm.
“Anyway,” he adds with a grin, “good to see you again. Next time, don’t make me suffer through another mission with Lover Boy pining the whole time. You can tag along.”
Lover Boy?
Your heart starts to beat a little faster, heat crawling up your neck as you turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He doesn’t really mean that, right? Lover Boy. Sam’s just joking. Being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of Joaquín.
Right?
You glance at Joaquín, but he refuses to meet your eyes. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his cheeks a little redder than they were a few seconds ago. And when you look back at Sam, he’s already moved on—Lucía has her arm looped through his as they chat like old friends.
You follow them into the restaurant, pausing at the podium while the host checks the reservation under Joaquín’s name. Then you weave through tables until you reach a low booth, bathed in soft gold lighting and tucked away from the rest of the crowd.
Sam slides in first before Joaquín helps his mom onto the end.
“Can I take your coat, ma’am?” the host asks, almost startling you.
You glance at him, nodding. “Uh—yes. Please. That’d be great.”
You slip the leather jacket off your shoulders, and the reaction is instant.
Joaquín freezes.
His jaw drops, eyes dragging down the line of your dress, slow and hungry and stunned. He looks like he’s genuinely forgotten how to function.
“Holy fu—”
“¡Joaquín!” Lucía snaps, swatting the air. “Lenguaje.”
He swallows hard, jaw working as if he’s trying to form a second sentence and failing miserably.
Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amused snort. “Yeah,” he murmurs into his glass of water, “now I see why he wouldn’t shut up about you.”
Joaquín shoots him a murderous glare—but then his eyes flick straight back to you. The humour fades from his expression, leaving something quieter, darker, like gravity pulling between the two of you.
“You look…” His voice comes out rough, quieter than before. “Dios mío.”
Lucía clasps her hands together like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever seen, but Joaquín doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is pinned to you, every muscle in his body tense like he’s holding himself back.
Sam leans back in the booth, smirking. “Just pretend we're not here.”
And that’s when you finally look away—because if you don’t, you’re going to forget how to breathe.
Lucía clears her throat, clearly delighted. “Come, querida. Sit, sit—antes de que alguien se desmaye.”
(Come, dear. Sit, sit—before someone faints.)
You keep your eyes down as you slide into the booth beside Joaquín—not across from him. His thigh presses against yours under the table, warm and solid and definitely intentional. Lucía is already telling Sam about today's trip to Crate & Barrel, but it all washes over you like white noise with Joaquín’s arm brushing yours.
Then the waiter appears.
He’s tall, all clean lines and easy confidence, a white towel draped over one arm. “Good evening,” he says, flashing a very professional—and very appreciative—smile in your direction. “Can I start you all with drinks?”
“We’ll start with a bottle of the house red,” Sam says.
The waiter nods—but his eyes stay on you. “And for you?” he asks.
“Oh—same is fine,” you say quickly, because it’s hard to think when Joaquín is sitting so close.
The waiter offers you another smile—warmer now. “Great choice.”
“Thanks,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Joaquín shifts just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s reclaiming space.
“I’ll grab that bottle for you now,” the waiter says, barely even glancing at the rest of the table.
The second he’s gone, Sam looks pointedly at Joaquín, brows raised like he’s waiting for something. But Joaquín doesn’t say a word—he just clears his throat and busies himself with arranging his napkin on one knee like it’s a tactical operation.
“So, Lucía,” you say, desperate for distraction. “How long are you staying with your sister?”
She sets her glass down with a soft thunk, dark eyes meeting yours across the table. “However long it takes for me to convince Carla to break up with that criminal boyfriend of hers.”
Your brows shoot up, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Oh?”
Joaquín sighs. “Mamá, he’s not a criminal.”
“Yes, he is,” she argues. “He has that awful little—uh, ¿cómo se dice perilla?”
“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.
“Oh!” You giggle, turning to face him. “Weren’t you trying to grow a goatee last month?”
Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”
“That’s right,” Sam laughs. “Looked like he glued pubes to his chin.”
You laugh harder, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like a maniac.
Joaquín scowls at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.
He whips around to you. “You said you didn’t mind it.”
You shrug. “I didn’t hate it, but it—”
“Tickled, I know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.
Your eyes go wide.
“Tickled?” Sam echoes, nearly choking on his water.
You drop your face into your hands. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Joaquín turns bright red. “Oh—no, I— that’s not—”
Before Joaquín can finish digging himself into a deeper grave, the waiter returns—wine bottle in hand.
“House red,” he says smoothly, presenting the bottle to you first. “Should I start you off?”
You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”
He uncorks it with practiced ease, and the whole table goes quiet. Even Sam stops smirking. The waiter pours a small amount into your glass and tilts it toward you with a gentle smile meant only for you.
“Tell me what you think.”
You pick it up and take a small sip. “It’s great.”
“Good,” he says—voice low and a little too warm. “I’ll pour for everyone else.”
He fills the other glasses—Lucía first, Sam second—and when he reaches Joaquín, he finally breaks eye contact with you. Just barely.
Joaquín meets his gaze, unwavering. His fingers tap once against the table. Sharp. Controlled.
The waiter doesn’t notice—or maybe he does, but his eyes slide right back to you anyway. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or should I give you a few more minutes?”
“Um.” You glance down at the menu, unopened on the table. “Maybe five more minutes.”
He nods once, still smiling. “Of course.”
Then he turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back.
Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”
“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.
You slide the menu off the table and finally flip it open. “He’s just doing his job."
Joaquín shifts beside you—his knee knocking yours, elbow brushing your arm—as he flips open his own menu. You glance at his other side, where he clearly has enough room to move over. But no. He’s going to stay right beside you, practically pressed against you, for some ridiculous reason.
Lucía and Sam start muttering about the menu, pointing at dishes and debating what to order. You can barely focus on any of it though—not with the heat still crawling under your skin thanks to Joaquín’s earlier slip-up. Your brain is fried, your whole body too warm, and by the time the waiter returns—not a second more than five minutes later—you haven’t even made it past the appetisers.
“Are we ready to order?” he asks, looking straight at you.
“Oh, um—” You glance at the menu, then back at him. “If you could just give me a couple more seconds, I—”
“Of course. I’ll start with the other side of the table.” He turns to Lucía. “What can I get you, ma’am?”
You drop your gaze again and start skimming the list. You’re not even that hungry—or at least, not for food—but this place has a great reputation, so you can’t not order one of the main dishes.
“You’ll like this one,” Joaquín says, pointing at a pasta dish. “Or that one.” He points to another.
You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you just saying that because you want to try those ones?”
His lips twitch. “Can’t both be true?”
You shake your head, eyes sliding back to the menu. “God, I know you too well, Torres.”
“And for you?” the waiter asks, turning to Joaquín with raised brows, no smile. “Sir?”
“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Joaquín says, handing back his menu without breaking eye contact.
The waiter hums, scribbles something down, then looks at you. He’s smiling again—too warm—and his gaze flicks up to your face just a beat too late as you lift your head.
“Which would you recommend between the pappardelle and the ravioli?” you ask.
“I always recommend the pappardelle,” he says, leaning in slightly. “It’s rich. Creamy. Really indulgent.”
Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.
“Great.” You close the menu and hand it to him. “I’ll get that.”
“Good choice.” His fingers brush yours—lingering just a second too long. “And if you need anything else, just let me know.”
You blink, the small frown between your brows slowly softening as realisation finally hits—he's flirting with you.
With one last smile, aimed only at you, he turns and walks away.
“I think—” you tilt your head, lowering your voice, “I think he was flirting with me.”
Sam snorts, and even Lucía gives a soft little laugh.
“No shit,” Joaquín mutters into his wine glass.
Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.
Was that... jealousy?
No. It couldn’t be. Joaquín doesn’t get jealous. Not over you. Not when this whole arrangement is supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. Just two roommates who occasionally—and far too easily—find themselves tangled in each other’s sheets.
But there’s a tightness in his jaw now, and a stubborn set to his shoulders like he’s holding something back. Like that little brush of the waiter’s fingers just punched straight through something he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge.
And maybe you’re just imagining it.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But the warmth in your chest says otherwise, and suddenly the room feels smaller. His arm is still against yours, warm and steady, like he’s holding you there—or staking a claim.
You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want the weight of it.
But you do.
You want him to be jealous.
“So,” Sam says, looking at you, “how’s work?”
You clear your throat, setting your wine down with an unsteady hand. “Good. Busy. But good.”
He nods, smirking. “Any interesting contracts lately?”
“None you’re cleared to know about.”
His brows shoot up. “Excuse me? I’m Captain America.”
You shrug, leaning back in the booth. “A spandex suit and an oversized frisbee doesn’t give you security clearance.”
Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”
You turn to him, one brow arched. “And what are you laughing about, fly boy? You think a mechanical bird costume is any better?”
“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “You actually managed to insult me twice.”
You laugh softly, fingers curling around your wine glass again. “I’m good, aren’t I?”
Sam rolls his eyes, Joaquín shakes his head, and Lucía just smiles into her sip of wine—like she knows something you don’t.
It doesn’t take long before Sam starts talking about their week in Nevada—joking about how much fun it was while Joaquín launches into a dramatic recount of why he’s never, ever going back. Lucía just laughs, muttering in Spanish about how much of a drama queen he can be.
You stay quiet, keeping your wine glass close to your chin and taking a sip every few seconds just to distract yourself from the warmth of sitting so close to him. From the way his thigh presses against yours, the way his arm keeps brushing yours every time he talks with his hands.
You’re so lost in the heat and the burn of wine at the back of your throat that you almost jump when the waiter steps up beside the table again.
“We’ve got the chicken marsala,” he says, placing a dish in front of Lucía. “And the lasagne.” He sets Sam’s plate down next.
Then he turns to your side of the booth.
He doesn’t announce Joaquín’s dish—he just sets it down without looking at him, then shifts the last plate into both hands and lowers it gently in front of you.
“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.
You sit up a little straighter, creating the smallest sliver of space between you and Joaquín. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”
The waiter leans in—subtle, but noticeable. “It tastes even better.”
You glance up at him. “I bet.”
There’s a beat of silence—a quiet pause where everything at the table seems to still, leaving you and the waiter holding eye contact longer than you meant to.
Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.
“Right.” The waiter straightens, clasping his hands behind his back—but his eyes don't leave yours. “If you need anything else, just wave.”
You tilt your head, lips curving into a small smirk. “Or just read my mind?”
His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”
When he finally walks away, the table doesn’t fall back into easy conversation—not right away. There’s a subtle shift in the air, the kind that buzzes under your skin before you even turn your head.
Sam is staring at you like you’ve just pulled off something mildly impressive and deeply inconvenient for him. Lucía hides another knowing smile behind her wine glass. And Joaquín… hasn’t moved.
You shift a little and reach for your fork. “So… this looks great, right?”
Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh. Sure does.”
You shoot him a look. “What?”
Lucía waves a hand. “Nada, querida. Absolutely nothing.”
But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.
Beside you, Joaquín finally shifts—only just—but it’s enough to draw your attention. His fingers tighten around his napkin, smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, and then he reaches for his fork.
“Eat,” he says softly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Before it gets cold.”
You watch him for a beat, unsure whether he’s annoyed, flustered, or trying very hard to pretend he’s neither. “Okay,” you murmur, twirling your pasta.
The moment you lean slightly forward, his thigh presses into yours again—firmer this time, unmistakable in its intent. And unlike earlier, you don’t move. You let him close that tiny distance between you—and his shoulders visibly relax.
But Sam notices, because of course he does, and he kicks Joaquín under the table.
Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”
Sam just raises his brows, the universal expression for please, I am begging you, get a grip.
Joaquín glares at him, then grabs his wine and takes a long, steady drink—long enough for you to feel the heat gathering in your cheeks again, pooling low in your stomach.
You look back at your plate, stirring the pasta you haven’t even tasted yet, trying—and failing—not to smile.
Because dinner suddenly feels less like dinner… and more like Joaquín’s own personal brand of torture.
The rest of the meal settles into something surprisingly easy. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and the earlier heat simmering beneath the surface evens out into something warm and comfortable—tensions forgotten.
Conversation drifts from Nevada to work gossip to an argument about the best empanada filling, and somewhere between the second glass of wine and Joaquín stealing a forkful of your pasta, the sharp edges of the night soften.
Lucía tells a story about Tía Carla’s neighbour who owns seventeen cats and one very unhappy parrot. Sam nearly spits his wine laughing. And Joaquín mutters something ridiculous about government oversight for bird safety, which makes you roll your eyes so hard your head tips back against the booth.
And all the while, his thigh stays pressed to yours—not tense anymore, not deliberate, just there. Warm. Familiar. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
By the time everyone’s plates are scraped clean and the last drops of wine have been poured, the earlier tension feels like a distant echo. You’re a little flushed, a little full, and dangerously close to believing this moment could last forever.
Then Lucía sets down her glass—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes slide to you with the kind of gentle curiosity that should terrify anyone in a ten-mile radius.
“So, querida…” she begins, voice warm and sweet and laced with landmines, “how long have you and my son been so… close?”
The air stills.
Your pulse skips.
Joaquín goes rigid beside you, wine glass halfway to his lips.
Sam inhales sharply through his nose like he knows exactly how fast this is about to spiral.
And before any of you can even attempt to recover—
“How’s everything going?”
The waiter appears beside the table with a bright smile and absolutely disastrous timing, dessert menus fanned in one hand like this is the best moment in the world to ask about tiramisu.
The waiter hands both Lucía and Sam a menu, then places one on the table in front of Joaquín before turning back to you with a soft smile.
“If you’re thinking about something sweet,” he says, handing you the menu slowly, “the torta al cioccolato is my favourite. Rich. Intense.” His eyes flick to your mouth—subtle, but unmistakable. “And very, very satisfying.”
You let out a soft hum as you take the menu. “Well… I do like to be satisfied.”
Joaquín goes completely still beside you.
The waiter smirks. “Then it’s perfect for you.”
You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “You sure?”
“Positive.” His voice drops. “And if you want, I can—”
“We’ll take the check,” Joaquín says—sharp, controlled, dangerous.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”
“Check,” Joaquín repeats through his teeth. “Now.”
Lucía sighs, dropping the menu on the table. “Ay, Dios.”
The waiter hesitates—only for a second—before retreating in stiff silence, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Sam groans, dragging a palm down his face like he’s aging in real time.
“Este niño…” Lucía mutters under her breath, shaking her head.
You’ve stopped breathing. Completely. All you can do is stare at Joaquín—at his rigid shoulders, clenched jaw, the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.
“Are you—”
“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing his wine and finishing what’s left in one gulp before he sets the glass down harder than he means to. “Totally fine.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s definitely the vibe you’re giving off.”
Joaquín shoots him a warning glare just as the waiter returns with the check, placing it delicately in the middle as if worried someone might bite him. Understandable.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he offers gently.
Joaquín snatches it before anyone else can blink. “We’re ready.”
Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”
“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.
Everyone shuffles out of the booth and gathers their things. Lucía slings her purse over her shoulder, a different waiter—female this time—brings you your coat, and Sam adjusts the waistband of his jeans like he’s eaten far more than he planned to.
You reach for your bag, but Joaquín grabs it before you can. “I’ve got it.”
Then he brushes past you and stalks toward the front of the restaurant, broad shoulders tense, every heavy step barely controlled. The host standing by the register sees him coming and visibly pales, his eyes growing wider the closer Joaquín gets.
Sam whistles under his breath. “Well. This was fun.”
Lucía pats your hand. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s just… feeling something.”
Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
She only smiles—too soft, too knowing. “You’ll see.”
The three of you weave through the tables until you meet Joaquín by the front door—receipt in hand, jaw still set, mouth a tense line.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
There’s no room for argument. No waiting for anyone to gather themselves. He shifts until he's walking behind you, his hand hovering at your lower back but never quite touching—like he wants to guide you out but refuses to let himself.
The walk out is quiet. Heavy. Charged. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, the kind that sinks beneath your skin and twists deep in your stomach. And the moment you step outside into the cool night air, he exhales—sharp, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.
After Sam bids everyone a good night—giving Lucía an extra warm hug and wishing her luck—the rest of you climb into an Uber. The ride home is almost completely silent, save for the soft crackle of the radio. Not even Lucía tries to make conversation. It feels like hours before the car finally pulls up in front of your apartment block, and when you climb out, Joaquín is already offering his mother an arm—just like he had outside the restaurant.
You make your way through the lobby in that same thick quiet, ride the elevator up without a single word, and by the time the doors slide open onto your floor, the silence has turned into something almost suffocating.
Lucía exhales loudly—dramatically. “Ay, por favor. I’m done. I need a shower and a prayer.” Her eyes flick to Joaquín, then to you. “And tomorrow? I expect better comportamiento from both of you.”
Once inside the apartment, Lucía beelines straight for the bathroom, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath as she shuts the door behind her.
The moment the lock clicks, silence settles over the living room. Heavy. Awkward. Ridiculous.
Joaquín stands in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but you. You stay by the door, arms crossed, not moving. Not blinking. Not giving him an inch.
You glare at him.
He pretends not to notice.
From the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on—pipes creaking, water running, Lucía humming softly to herself.
Neither of you move.
Neither of you speak.
You just... wait.
After what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Lucía finally steps out of the bathroom, calls her goodnights, and disappears into Joaquín’s room. You hear the light switch click, the faint rustle of sheets, and then—silence.
Real silence.
Nothing but the muted sounds of the city outside, and the two of you standing in the dimly lit apartment. Still. Tense. Frustrated.
You break the silence first.
“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”
He finally looks at you. “My problem?”
“Yes, your problem. Because you spent the entire dinner looking like you wanted to throw that waiter off a building.”
He steps forward, jaw tightening. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t flirt with someone who can’t read a room.”
“Oh, you mean you?”
“Me?” he snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. “Your mom doesn’t need to hear—”
“My mom just watched you shamelessly flirt with the waiter for two hours straight—I don’t think a little argument is going to shock her.”
“Shamelessly?” you echo, incredulous. “You really think I was the one in the wrong?”
He drags a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired, I just—”
“No,” you fire back. “You've been acting like an asshole all night and you made a whole scene over dessert—so yeah, we’re doing this.”
“I didn’t make a scene.”
“You asked for the check like you were about to arrest him.”
“He was flirting with you,” Joaquín snaps. “Right in front of me.”
You frown. “So?”
He looks away, jaw flexing hard.
You take a step forward. “Answer me, Joaquín. Why is that a problem?”
“Because,” he starts, “we were—I mean, wasn’t it obvious that we’re—”
He stops.
Your breath catches.
“He was being unprofessional,” he mutters, too fast. “That’s all.”
“Oh?” You fold your arms, trying to hide the heat starting to crawl up your neck. “So I’m supposed to believe this is about restaurant etiquette?”
“Yes!” he snaps. “Friends don’t—” He cuts himself off too late, frustration spilling over. “Friends don’t do shit like that.”
The words hit you like a slap—and you go still. Very still.
“Right.” You try to laugh, but it comes out thin, broken. “Okay. You want to talk about what friends don’t do?”
His throat works once—visible, panicked—but he stays silent.
You step in, heat rising, heart beating too hard.
“Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds,” you say, voice low and surprisingly steady. “They don’t shower together, or pin each other against walls, or—God, Joaquín—friends don’t fuck.”
His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.
“And friends definitely don’t get jealous,” you finish, barely above a whisper. “So what exactly are we doing?”
Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“I… I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “I thought we were just... friends. I thought we could do this without it getting too complicated but maybe—maybe we should just stop.”
You feel the words hit like a punch to the ribs.
“Stop?” Your voice is soft—dangerous. “That’s what you want?”
“That’s not—” He drags both hands through his curls, taking a step back, panic rising fast. “Look, I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”
Mistake.
The word hollows you out.
You let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “Wow. That’s great. Really, Torres—thank you so much for finally realising what a mistake I am.”
He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“Save it,” you mutter. “Just... don’t bother.”
Then you turn on your heel, fury and humiliation burning hot beneath your skin as you march down the hall.
Behind you, he calls your name—once, soft, almost pleading—but you don’t look back.
You stop at your bedroom doorway, the last of your patience snapping clean in half.
“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.
Then you slam your door.
Hard.
-
You wake late and lie in bed until you can’t ignore your bladder any longer. The light leaking through your curtains is soft and grey—because of course it’s raining today. The universe would never miss a chance for dramatic ambiance.
When you finally drag yourself out of bed, you avoid the mirror, already knowing you look like heartbreak leftovers thanks to all the crying last night. You shuffle into the bathroom, hearing the faint sound of voices from the kitchen and hating the way your stomach twists with nausea. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and emerge hoping—praying—Joaquín might have left for the day.
But he hasn’t.
Of course he hasn’t.
You step into the kitchen and find him standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messy, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands like it personally offended him. He stiffens when he hears your footsteps, but he doesn’t look up.
You clear your throat. “Morning.”
His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”
Lucía is sitting at the dining table watching with exasperation, her brows drawn, lips pressed, eyes flicking between the two of you—and the fourteen inches of stubborn silence between your bodies.
“Niños,” she mutters into her coffee mug. “You look like you’re in mourning."
You blink, but stay quiet. Joaquín just sips his coffee.
The silence stretches—too long, too heavy—until you finally sigh and step into the kitchen, moving around him like he’s a live wire. You keep your gaze fixed on the coffee machine, every nerve acutely aware of him standing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but stubbornly refusing to look at you—or move away.
Lucía watches you silently, stirring her spoon with the slow, patient judgement of a woman who has already written both of your wedding vows in her head.
“So,” she says, far too innocently. “Did everyone sleep well?”
“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.
“Fine,” you lie right after.
Lucía hums. “Interesting. Because the couch,” she glances at her son pointedly, “is not comfortable.”
Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”
Lucía eyes the both of you one more time, clearly unimpressed with the silence thick enough to spread on toast.
“Voy a cambiarme,” she announces, rising from the table. “Then we go out. I didn’t fly all this way to watch you two stare at walls.”
Joaquín nods without looking up. You nod without looking at him. It’s pathetic. She knows it. You all know it.
When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the apartment slips into that same strained quiet as last night—all sharp edges and swallowed words. You scull your coffee while Joaquín rinses his mug. Twice. Maybe three times. Then, without a word, you head back to your room and try not to cry while you pick something to wear for the day.
Eventually, you all reconvene in the living room. Joaquín grabs his jacket. You grab your keys. And you both follow Lucía out the door like lost ghosts.
She drags you both across D.C. like a tourist seeing the city for the first time—museums, a market stall, a coffee cart where she insists you try something sweet.
Joaquín softens around her. He links her arm in his, laughs when she teases him, smiles without thinking. It hurts in a stupid, petty way. And you can’t bring yourself to walk too close. To join them. You’re just near. Hovering. Following.
Joaquín steals glances when he thinks you’re not looking.
You look away every time, pretending to be fascinated by a city you’ve known for years.
Then there’s lunch—which is worse. Much worse.
Lucía, clearly at her limit with the brooding, decides to try—bless her meddling soul—to lighten the mood.
“So, querida… Juan was very handsome, no? The waiter last night?”
You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.
Lucía smiles like she’s one rude comment away from exploding into laughter.
“Yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at Joaquín. “I guess.”
Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.
And that’s the end of lunch. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.
By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re all exhausted. Not just from walking through the city, but from tiptoeing around whatever fragile thing is hanging precariously between you and Joaquín right now.
Lucía sighs as she kicks off her shoes, then presses two fingers to her temples. “I’m going to lie down,” she murmurs.
Joaquín gives her a soft smile as she starts down the hall toward his bedroom, and when the door clicks shut, silence spreads through the apartment again, heavy like smoke—slow and impossible to ignore. You move into the kitchen just to have somewhere to stand, fingers hovering at the pantry door even though you have no idea what you’re looking for.
Behind you, Joaquín clears his throat. “I can order dinner later,” he says. “If you’d like.”
A peace offering—fragile as glass.
You keep staring at the cereal box in front of you. “I’m not hungry.”
He shifts—the kind of shift you feel rather than see. “You barely ate at lunch.”
“And you barely spoke,” you say before you can stop yourself, finally turning to face him.
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have anything to say.”
“You could’ve tried,” you murmur. “You could have said something.”
He swallows once. Hard. “I’m trying now,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to eat dinner with me.”
It should feel good. It should feel like effort. Growth. Something inching toward reconciliation. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise to check if it still hurts.
You exhale hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t sit across from you and pretend we’re fine.”
He steps closer—barely—but it still feels like too much. “We’re not fine?”
Your eyes flick up, a short, hollow laugh slipping out. “You tell me, Joaquín.”
He doesn’t answer—he just looks at you, apology lingering at the edges of his gaze, swallowed by fear before it can reach his mouth.
“I’m gonna shower,” you say, already turning away. “I’ll... see you later.”
The bathroom door closes behind you without a slam—which is worse, somehow—a gentle surrender instead of rage. A reminder that you’re not angry, not really. You’re just... sad. Heartbroken. Finally at the crossroads you’ve been dreading, where you have to give up what you’ve been hopelessly holding on to.
Because it’s not real.
And you can’t keep pretending it is.
Under the hot spray of the shower, you press your forehead to the wall and let the water hide the tears you swore you were done with. When you emerge thirty minutes later, hair damp, wearing an old t-shirt you’re not even sure belongs to you, you can hear him in the kitchen with his mom—cutlery clinking over quiet conversation.
You hover in the hallway—not eavesdropping, just... overhearing.
Lucía’s voice is low, but not low enough.
“Joaquín,” she sighs gently, “¿Qué te pasa? You were cruel last night. And today? You barely spoke to her.”
“I wasn’t cruel,” he mutters. “I just—it's complicated and it got out of hand.”
Lucía sighs, exasperated. “You are so blind. How do you not see the way that girl looks at you? Desde el momento que abrió la puerta, I knew she was in love with my son.”
Your breath catches. Hard.
A chair shifts, scraping softly against the hardwood floor. You imagine him sitting back, rubbing the back of his neck—embarrassed, uncomfortable, running from the truth like it burns.
“Mamá…” Joaquín’s voice is soft, frustrated—afraid. “You’re reading too much into things. It’s not—we’re not—it’s just casual. Nothing more.”
Your heart lodges in your throat, fresh tears burning your eyes.
Lucía huffs. “Casual? Joaquín, cariño, nothing about the way you look at her is casual.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. You know too well that kind—the kind full of truths that could shatter either one of you if you dared touch them.
You don’t wait to hear more.
Before anyone notices you standing there, you slip silently back to your room and close the door without a sound. You climb into bed, pulling the blankets up like armour, and stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat stutters in your throat.
Because she sees it.
Everyone sees it.
Everyone but him.
You lie there for what feels like hours. Or maybe it’s twenty minutes. Time is strange when your chest feels too tight to hold air properly. You stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift, then you roll over, curl into yourself, unfold again. You toss. You turn. You try to sleep.
But you don’t.
Your eyes burn, and you swipe at them with the heel of your hand like it might stop the ache. But it doesn’t. So you grab your phone, dim the brightness, and scroll mindlessly—news, memes, someone’s engagement announcement you want to be happy for but mostly you just feel hollow. You watch three videos of raccoons washing grapes and read half an article about hair loss you don’t absorb.
Eventually, you hear Lucía’s voice—soft, muffled—saying goodnight to Joaquín. Then a door closes, footsteps fade, and the apartment settles into stillness. The kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts. The kind you wish you could outrun.
You switch off your phone and try again—eyes shut, breathing slow, blanket tucked up to your chin. It’s peaceful for maybe sixty seconds.
Then thunder starts to roll, low and lazy across the night sky. Not dramatic, not a storm—just enough to rattle the window and stir something restless under your ribs. The kind of sound that makes you think of company, warmth, someone’s chest to press your ear against.
You squeeze your eyes tighter. It shouldn’t be like this. You don’t get to think about him right now.
He’s not yours—no matter how much you wish he was.
Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.
You shift onto your back and stare at the ceiling again—heart beating too loud, the air too thick, the walls too close. Every second stretches until you’re sure you could hear a pin drop.
And then—a knock.
So soft, it’s barely a tap.
You stop breathing.
Another knock—gentle, hesitant—the kind that asks for permission instead of expecting it.
You know that knock. You’ve felt it against this door before—late nights, whispered laughter, the weight of a body sliding under the sheets beside yours like it was natural.
“Hey—uh, are you awake?”
Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.
“Um. Yeah.”
There’s a pause—like he’s gathering courage, or trying to decide if he should turn around.
“…Can I come in?”
For a moment, you consider saying no. You should say no. It’d be easier. Simpler. But your heart betrays you like it always does.
“…Yeah. It’s open.”
The door creaks, opening just enough for him to slip inside. The hallway light silhouettes him for a second—messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, uncertainty shaped into a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept either. He closes the door softly behind him, as if a noise too loud might break whatever fragile thing hangs between you.
You sit up, dragging your knees to your chest and hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “What’s up?”
He looks at you, then the blankets, then the window behind you.
“I… heard the thunder,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know if it bothered you.”
You huff a laugh. “It’s just weather, Torres. I’ll survive.”
He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But... still didn’t feel right leaving you alone.”
Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.
You tilt your head toward the foot of the bed. “You can—uh, you can sit. If you want.”
He hesitates—just a second—then sits at the edge of your bed, careful to keep space between you. Not touching, but close enough that the mattress dips toward him. Close enough that you feel him like static.
Silence settles. Not heavy like earlier—but fragile. Delicate. Like one wrong move could shatter everything.
Then Joaquín sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this,” he admits.
Your throat tightens. “Me too.”
He nods, staring at his hands like the words he needs might be written in the lines of his palms.
“I keep trying to figure out what to say,” he murmurs. “But every version sounds wrong.”
You shift, not away from him but toward, the blankets rustling as you pull your knees tighter and wrap your arms around them. “You could try just... talking to me,” you whisper.
He exhales—a long, slow release that softens something rigid in his posture—and when he looks up, his eyes catch yours with a kind of tired honesty that twists something deep in your ribs.
“But what if I say something that ruins everything?”
Your breath stutters, just a little.
He notices—of course he notices. He always does.
Then, slowly, he shifts closer, like gravity is doing the work instead of intention. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel it—not just physically, but in the air, in your bones, in the way your pulse picks up like it recognises something familiar approaching.
His knee brushes yours, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
Neither of you move.
The room is dim—only the glow of moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains, soft and silver, painting the curve of his cheekbone, the soft dent beneath his lower lip where he bit down earlier without thinking. His curls fall messy across his forehead, still a little damp from his own shower, and he’s close enough now that you could count the beauty marks scattered across his skin.
He clears his throat quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he regrets looking—but can’t help it. “Do you remember,” he asks, voice low and too warm, “the rules we made? Back when this was supposed to be simple?”
Your heart squeezes, painfully.
You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”
He leans in a fraction, voice soft with something vulnerable. “What were they again?”
You feel it then—the moment the floor drops out from beneath you, the air thickens, the entire world shrinking down to the fragile space between your bodies and that question sitting between you like a live wire.
He knows the answer.
You know he knows it.
But he wants you to say it.
He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.
And God, it’s intimate.
Intimate in a way sex with him never scared you, but this does.
He waits—eyes searching your face like whatever you say next could ruin him completely.
Your voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. “There were only two rules.”
Something shifts behind his eyes—recognition, regret, something carved deep and unspoken. He leans closer. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something he’s wanted for a long time but never trusted himself to touch.
Your breath catches when his thigh presses flush against your hip, when you can feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. You don’t move away. You couldn’t if you tried.
“What were they?” he asks—soft, coaxing, like he wants you to ruin him.
You swallow, hard, because saying them now feels like prying open your own ribcage and handing him your heart still beating.
“No kissing,” you say, your voice thin.
His gaze drops to your mouth—slow, reverent—as though he’s memorising the shape of the rule he’s been breaking in every touch, every look, every moment he let himself linger. He’s close enough that one tilt of your chin would erase the space between you, and he knows it. God, he knows it.
“And the second?” he breathes.
Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. You lick your lips without thinking—and his eyes follow the movement like he’s starving.
You breathe in once. Shaky. Unsteady. Then you give him the second rule like reopening a wound half-healed.
“No falling in love.”
The words hang between you. Heavy. Bare. Irreversible.
His breath stutters. You feel it—the tiny hitch in his chest, the way his fingers curl into the sheets like he needs to hold onto something before he reaches for you instead. He leans in a fraction closer, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly brush.
“Shit,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. “We really fucked that up, didn’t we?”
Your lips part—but nothing comes out. You’re not sure you could speak even if you tried.
He lifts a hand, slow as forgiveness, fingertips trailing along your jaw in a feather-light graze. A question. A plea. Permission hanging on a breath.
“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.
“And I’m about to break both of those rules.” His voice drops low, wrecked. “Unless you tell me not to.”
The whole world stops.
You don’t say no.
You don’t even think it.
You just breathe his name—soft, helpless, like a prayer you’re tired of choking down. “Joaquín.”
And that’s all it takes.
He moves first—barely—just a tilt of his head, the faintest brush of his lips to yours like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he touches you too quickly. It’s soft, tentative, a question disguised as a kiss. His mouth is warm, careful, almost reverent. Like he’s been waiting to do this for a lifetime and doesn’t want to rush the first second of it.
You inhale sharply—not out of surprise, but relief. Relief so deep it aches. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers curling in the sheets like you need something to anchor you before gravity takes over.
And it does.
Because when you don’t pull away—when you lean in the smallest amount, when your lips part on a quiet, helpless sound he swallows up—Joaquín breaks.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a desperation he’s fought too long to hide. The kiss deepens—slow at first, then hungry, then all-consuming—months of every touch but this, every touch but the one that mattered, breaking open between your mouths like those rules were never meant to exist.
He tastes like mint toothpaste and that fruity soda he had with dinner—familiar and new all at once, like something you’ve known forever and only just realised you were starving for. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, tugging you across the sheets and into him like he needs you closer—closer still—not just next to him, but against him.
You go willingly.
Your knees uncurl, your body shifting until you’re pressed chest to chest, breath mingling, heartbeats stumbling over one another. His curls brush your forehead, damp and soft, and he makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—just pure want.
When you kiss him deeper, his fingers tighten at your waist; when you slide your hand into his hair, he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. The world narrows to mouths and heat and the slow drag of his thumb at your jaw as if he can’t believe you’re real.
He pulls back just a fraction, lips hovering over yours, breath shaky and warm.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
And the way he says it—raw, unguarded, like confession and promise tangled together—makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse leap, makes any distance between you feel unbearable.
You kiss him again.
Harder this time.
His mouth meets yours, deeper this time—no hesitation, no gentleness left unspoken. The kiss steals whatever is left of your breath and gives back something hotter, hungrier. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he goes willingly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to be asked.
As you lay back, his weight settles fully between your thighs—careful, but urgent—and the low sound he makes against your lips borders on a plea. He’s everywhere at once—the warm press of his chest, the slow drag of his palm up the back of your thigh, the way his nose bumps yours when he tilts his head to kiss you harder.
He pulls back only far enough to speak, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispers—like he needs the words to anchor him. “Tell me you want me.”
Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, soft and trembling. “I want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”
Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.
He surges forward, kissing you like he’s making up for every night he talked himself out of this—slow, then deep, then deeper still, like he’s afraid to come up for air in case you disappear.
His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribs, reverent fingertips mapping skin he’s only ever touched in half-dark—never like this, never with your lips and your heart, never sacred.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—really look—eyes glassy like something inside him cracked open and light spilled out.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. “My mom’s still here, we can just—”
“Joaquín,” you breathe, “shut up and fuck me.”
He drops his head and groans against your throat, lips brushing your pulse, each word a confession pressed into skin. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs. “I want every last part of you—I need you."
He lifts the hem of your shirt higher—slow enough to back out if you push his hand away, slow enough for consent to breathe between you—but your hips arch instead, inviting, answering without words.
He exhales a shaky laugh—relief, disbelief, hunger—before pressing a kiss to your sternum through the thin cotton.
He helps you sit up just enough for the shirt to slip over your head, leaving you in nothing but underwear and the soft shadowed light. His gaze drags over you like a touch, slow and adoring, and his voice drops to something quiet and raw.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Then he leans down again, kissing the newly bared skin of your collarbone, then lower—trailing devotion like a rosary he’s repeating in reverse. His hands slide along your waist, your hips, your thighs, guiding you back into the pillows with something between gentleness and possession.
Your hands skim down his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up until you can’t pull it any higher. A soft whine slips from your throat—wordless, pleading. He breaks the kiss only long enough to laugh under his breath, a low sound that vibrates where your palms rest on his skin, and then the shirt is gone—pulled over his head and tossed somewhere you’ll never find again.
He barely has it off before you’re touching him again, palms exploring lower, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach. He exhales like the contact winded him, like your touch is enough to undo him. Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts—hooking, tugging—and his breath catches as he shifts to help, pushing them down over his hips with a quick, desperate motion, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.
Your panties are last. The last thing between you and everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t real. Wasn’t more.
His fingers hook in the waistband, dragging them slowly down your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship—slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough to make your whole body spark. You gasp when his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, a shock of heat rippling through you, arching you off the mattress without conscious thought—just hunger. Just him.
When they’re finally gone, he settles between your legs again—and you gasp, sharp and helpless. He’s already hard, heavy, sliding through your slick with a slow grind that feels like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Like he needs the friction. Like he needs it more than he’ll ever admit.
A strangled, unhinged sound tears out of you when the head catches just barely at your entrance—too close to ignore, not close enough to satisfy. Just torture.
He smiles against your mouth, voice a low murmur of affection and arrogance all tangled together. “Always ready for me, huh, cariño?”
Then he moves lower, his mouth closing over your nipple, and you break—back arching, thighs squeezing around his hips as his tongue flicks and his teeth graze just enough to make you burn. His hand cups your other breast, thumb circling lazily in a rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs.
“Joaquín—” your voice catches when his hips roll, dragging the thick length of him over your clit, slow and deliberate.
“Shh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin as he moves to your other nipple. “Gotta be quiet for me.”
You bite your bottom lip hard—copper blooming faint on your tongue—trying to hold in the sounds clawing up your throat as your body arches beneath his mouth. He’s warm above you, solid and shaking, teasing you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that skim right where you’re aching for him. Heat coils low and deep, tightening with every breath, every touch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers as his mouth trails up your collarbone, voice rough like gravel dragged over confession. “I was jealous last night.”
You let out a sound—half laugh, half desperate moan—nails digging into his back like you need something to hold onto before you break apart under him. Words scatter. Thinking is impossible.
“I wanted to kill that guy,” he breathes, lips brushing along your jaw, voice dark and sinful. “The way he looked at you…” His tone drops lower—a growl you feel in your spine. “You’re mine.”
The word detonates inside you. A shockwave of want. Of relief. Your back arches, thighs trembling as heat rushes through you like a fuse lit too fast. You swallow a moan, shoulders pressing into the mattress.
“P—please,” you pant. “Joaquín, just—”
He shifts, slow and deliberate, guiding himself against you again—teasing, sliding through your slick, dragging pleasure through you in agonising, perfect strokes that make your vision spark.
“Please what?” he breathes, noses brushing, lips hovering over yours. “Use your words, cariño.”
His forehead rests against yours, breaths shared, hot and uneven. You feel him steady himself before sliding along you again, slow strokes that have your whole body trembling, coating himself inch by inch in the proof of how badly you want him.
You whimper, hips tipping up instinctively in invitation, but he still doesn’t push in—not yet. Instead he catches your mouth again, kissing you slow and messy like he’s trying to burn the shape of your desperation into his mind, rocking his hips just enough to drag pleasure through you until your legs shake.
He groans against your lips, the sound deep and unguarded. “Dios, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”
“Joaquín—” your voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you.”
He lets out a sound—half laugh, half pained relief—and shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand sliding between your bodies like he needs to feel exactly how ready you are for him.
“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your eyes like he’s asking for more than just consent—like he’s asking for trust.
Your hands move to cradle his face, holding him there, close. “Joaquín, I’m going to scream if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds.”
His answering laugh is wrecked, soft with something dangerously close to love. “As you wish.”
Then he moves.
He drags himself down, nudging right where you’re open for him, and pushes in—slowly, unbearably slowly—like he wants to feel every inch of you take him. Your body stretches around him, tight and warm, and his breath breaks in a shuddered moan at the sensation.
“Fuck—” he manages, voice thick and ruined. “You feel… Dios… you always feel so good.”
Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer without thinking, legs tightening around his hips like instinct. He sinks deeper, then stills, foreheads pressed, chests heaving together as the moment settles—heavy, holy, too much and not enough all at once.
His eyes open just enough for you to see them—dark, vulnerable, worshipful. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he finally understands it.
Then his mouth is on yours again, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—and then he sinks into you fully, slow and steady, until he’s as deep as you can take him. The sound that escapes the both of you is almost identical—relief, disbelief, something too raw to name.
For one suspended, impossible second, you just hold each other there.
Breathing. Shaking. Whole.
Then—on a breath that brushes your lips—he starts to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Each roll of his hips measured, deliberate, like he’s speaking with the motion instead of words—I love you. I want you. I’m yours. You’re mine.
Your fingers find his back, shoulders, curls, anything you can hold onto as your body moves with his like instinct. Your lips graze his jaw, a half-moaned, half-cracked sound caught in your throat.
“Fuck, Joaquín—”
He answers with a groan that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He pulls back only to return with more intent, more need, and the drag of his body against yours sets your nerves alight. Heat coils low and tight in your belly, slow-building and unstoppable.
“Feels so good,” he whispers against your mouth, voice frayed. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not—God—I’m not gonna last long.”
Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, urging more, and he kisses you again—slow, hungry, desperate—even as his rhythm deepens, pace picking up like he can’t help it. Like you’re pulling it from him.
Each movement has you gasping softly into his mouth, the world narrowing to shared breath and heat and the way he holds you like you’re something holy.
“You’re mine,” he breathes between kisses, voice rough, almost breakable. “All mine. Gonna keep you right here—wrapped around me, making those pretty little sounds.”
You whimper, helpless to stop it. Every inch of him is inside you, moving through you, dragging against that tender spot that makes your vision blur. The tension between you—months of denial and longing—sparks like a live wire, lighting up every nerve in your body.
His thrusts grow harder, quicker—hungry now—each one hitting deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. Heat coils lower in your belly, winding tight, your whole body trembling under the rhythm of him. There’s nothing but the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the drag of his body inside yours. Too much. Not enough. Everything.
“That’s it, cariño,” he groans in your ear, voice rough. “You take me so fucking well.”
You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—something broken, needy—and your hand slides up your chest, fingers pinching lightly at your nipple. His rhythm stutters, a shaky moan falling out of him at the sight.
“Shh,” you breathe, or try to, voice wrecked. “Gotta be quiet—your mom—”
“Fuck,” he gasps, hips snapping harder. “How am I supposed to be quiet when you—God—when you feel like this?”
His hand tightens on your hip, the other pushing your leg open wider so he can drive deeper, like he wants to carve himself into every part of you. Each thrust is devastating—deep and relentless—pleasure building sharp and fast, curling tight behind your ribs.
Skin meets skin in soft, desperate rhythm—wet, breathless, messy—the only sound in the room besides your shared panting, his soft curses pressed against your mouth, your throat, your shoulder.
Your thighs shake where he holds you open, but you barely register anything beyond the pressure building, climbing too fast, too much. Your fingers tug at your breast again, desperate for more, your voice breaking against his shoulder.
“Joaquín—” it’s barely a word, more a prayer. “I’m close. I’m—fuck—I’m already so close.”
“I know, cariño,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”
His pace stutters, then finds a slow, devastating rhythm—deep enough to bruise, tender enough to worship. He kisses you again, sloppy and hungry, like letting go would kill him. You feel how close he is too, can hear it in his jagged breathing, feel it in the way his muscles tremble with restraint.
“Gonna come for me, baby?” he breathes against your mouth, voice raw enough to break you.
You whimper, nodding helplessly. Words are impossible now—your mind gone, your body nothing but nerve endings and him. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, grinding up into your clit with each downward roll of his hips. It’s maddening. Hot. Unforgiving. You’re shaking, eyes fluttering, breath catching in broken gasps.
Your fingers claw down his back, reaching for any grounding you can find, your other hand sliding down your stomach—needing more, needing something—
But he catches your wrist, pushes it away, replacing it with his own hand like he knows exactly what you’re asking for without you saying it. His thumb finds your clit and circles—slow at first, then with steady, knowing pressure that has your breath catching sharp in your throat.
Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”
Your thighs tremble around him, the pleasure twisting tight like a live wire pulled to snapping point. You choke out something broken—half a sob, half a plea. “‘S too soon—”
He lets out a wrecked, disbelieving laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “No it’s not. I’m right there with you. I—fuck—”
You crash your mouth to his, hips rising to meet the next thrust just as his thumb presses down perfectly—
And then everything goes white.
It hits you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through you so fiercely it borders on pain, heat flooding every nerve as your body locks tight around him. You cry out before you can stop yourself, legs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’ll fall through the mattress if you don’t hold on. You pulse around him—slow, deep, relentless—and it feels endless.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked as he buries his face in your neck. He keeps moving through it, slower now but deeper, like he wants to feel every second of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
You don’t even have time to breathe before he breaks too.
His hips falter, then stutter, and he lets out a sound you’re going to think about for the rest of your life—something raw and helpless and entirely yours. He thrusts once, hard and final, and you feel him come with a shudder that shakes through both of you, spilling into you as he gasps out a broken, devastating, “Fuck—I love you.”
You hold him as he falls apart, his body trembling against yours, his breath hot and uneven at your throat. The room is quiet except for your mixed breathing—heavy, tangled, like you’re still sharing lungs.
For a long moment, neither of you move. You just exist in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts trying to beat out of your chests and into each other’s.
Then he lifts his head and kisses you—slow and gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a promise and a confession all at once.
You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.
“I think,” you whisper, “we might have been a little loud.”
A huff of laughter escapes him—soft, breathless—like he’s too wrung out to laugh properly but too happy not to. He presses another slow kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t decide where to love you first now that he’s allowed to.
You both sink back into the pillows, limbs tangled without thinking. His weight settles partially on top of you, heavy in the nicest way—grounding, real. His hand slides under your ribcage and tugs you closer until your thigh is hooked over his hip, your chests pressed together, hearts finally beating in something that feels like harmony instead of war.
He noses your temple.
You smile.
And for a long moment, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Warm. Shared. Safe.
Your fingers trace lazy shapes up and down his spine, memorising him in quiet ways—the dip at his waist, the slope of his shoulder, the tremor still hiding in his breathing. You’re both wrecked. You’re both glowing. You’re both absolutely done for.
“Why now?” you murmur into the dark, voice soft and a little fragile. “We’ve been doing this for months. So… why now?”
He stills—not tense, just thoughtful—his thumb brushing the underside of your breast absentmindedly, like he’s touching you just to reassure himself you’re real.
“I’ve always loved you,” he says finally, voice quiet and unbearably honest. “I just… didn’t let myself say it. Or think it.”
You swallow, chest tightening.
He shifts, just enough to see your face in the low spill of moonlight, curls falling across his forehead. You run your thumb along the curve of his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut like the touch knocks something loose inside him.
“When we were in Nevada,” he admits, “I kept turning over in bed expecting to find you there. I kept looking for you in every stupid moment—at breakfast, in the hall, brushing my teeth—and you weren’t. And it felt like someone carved something out of me and forgot to put it back.”
Your breath catches. “It was only a week, Joaquín.”
“And then last night,” he continues, voice even softer, “watching that waiter look at you like he had a chance—like he could be the one to make you laugh, or hold you, or wake up next to you—I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t share you. Couldn’t pretend this was casual. Not when every part of me already feels like it belongs to you.”
Your eyes burn—warm, aching.
“Joaquín...” you whisper, not sure how to hold everything he’s giving you.
“I don’t know why it took me so long,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles at your hip. “But I know we broke that rule months ago. I just didn’t have the guts to say it.”
You run your hand through the curls at his nape, gentle and slow.
“And now?” you ask.
He kisses you—soft, sure—like the answer is in his breath and not his words.
“Now I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re stuck with me.”
You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, breathing him in—warm skin, mint, something that feels like home. His arm curls around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t plan to let go this time. Maybe ever.
This time, when you shut your eyes, sleep comes easy.
And when it finds you, it’s tangled together—his fingers laced with yours, your leg thrown over his, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder like a promise.
Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.
Lucía’s door, maybe.
Or fate laughing quietly to itself.
Either way, you fall asleep smiling.
-
Sunlight wakes you before anything else—soft, warm, slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes across the sheets. The first thing you register is heat against your back. A slow rise and fall. An arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours like he anchored himself there in his sleep and never let go.
You turn your head just enough to see him—hair a mess, mouth soft, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks young like this. Peaceful. Like last night cracked something open and let light in.
For a few minutes you don’t move.
You just watch him breathe.
Like a creep—maybe—but you don’t care.
Eventually, he stirs—nose brushing your shoulder, fingers flexing at your hip like his body notices you’re awake before his mind does.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You turn enough for your noses to brush, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret being shared instead of stolen. His hand slides up your spine, fingertips barely there, just tracing, memorising.
It would be easy to stay here forever.
Too easy.
But your stomach growls—loudly. You didn’t eat dinner last night.
Joaquín snorts, his laughter warm against your mouth. “Okay,” he says, “I think that was a cry for food.”
You shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Five more minutes.”
He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips like punctuation marks. “If we wait five minutes, we won’t leave this bed.”
And he’s right—because the way he’s looking at you makes it a dangerous truth. So you groan, flop onto your back, and let him sit up, curls messy and lit by the bright morning sun.
He offers his hand, and you take it.
You both slowly find your clothes from last night, thrown somewhere across the room. It isn’t fast, because every time you get close, you pull each other in for another kiss. Just one more. Which is a lie every time, because after ten minutes of getting dressed, you’re both still only halfway there—sprawled across the bed again, hands roaming, smiles pressed against each other.
By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re both half-dazed, hair scrambled, wearing the kind of glow you couldn’t hide if you tried.
Joaquín moves around the kitchen with that easy familiarity he always has—barefoot, shirtless, sunlight catching the slope of his shoulders as he rummages through the pantry. You hop up onto the counter just to watch him move, legs swinging, hands gripping the counter edge. It’s embarrassingly domestic how natural it all feels.
When he reaches the coffee machine, you feel your skin warm with recognition. His hand brushes your knee on the way, thumb lingering just a second too long. And the moment the button clicks on and the machine hums to life, you wrap a hand around his bicep and tug him closer.
He lets out a surprised laugh but goes willingly—slotting between your legs like he belongs there, looking up at you with those stupidly soft brown eyes that have completely ruined you.
“Can I help you?” he asks, smile lazy and lovesick.
You hum, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw. “I don’t know. Got anything to offer?”
“For you?” His fingers tighten at your hips, warm and sure. “Anything. Everything. Just ask.”
You try to roll your eyes, but it dies halfway with a lovesick grin to match his. “God, you’re cheesy.”
“But you love me.”
You inhale, leaning in until your noses brush. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve got me there.”
And then you kiss him again.
Slow at first—soft and morning-warm—but it deepens quickly, heat sparking under your skin like flint to tinder. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he goes pliant in your hands, mouth parting for you like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact contact.
The kiss turns lingering. Then hungry. Then something sweeter—fed by new honesty instead of tension.
His mouth trails to your jaw, down your throat, kisses slow and sweet and sinful, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses closer, hips nudging against the counter between your thighs. You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound eagerly, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes dark with softness and hunger all at once.
And that’s when—
“Ahem.”
You jolt so hard you nearly knee Joaquín in the stomach.
Lucía is standing at the edge of the kitchen—still in her slippers and robe, smirking like God personally handed her front-row tickets.
“Well,” she says, “glad you two have finally learned how to communicate.”
Joaquín’s cheeks go pink, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“Buenos días, Mamá,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly wrecked.
“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smirk widening as she steps around you both toward the coffee machine.
Joaquín peels himself away from you, strategically keeping his back to his mother as he rounds the breakfast bar to stand on the other side in the world’s most obvious attempt at dignity. His ears are red. His neck is red. He is, in fact, a tomato with abs.
You slide off the counter and drift to his side, like gravity is a concept invented just for the two of you.
“Sleep well, Lucía?” you ask, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
She hums as she pours her coffee. “Very well.”
Then she pauses, takes a slow sip, and turns to face you both—with a smile so smug it should be federally regulated.
“Although,” she says lightly, “I think this apartment is embrujada.”
Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”
She nods, far too innocent. “Sí. I heard… noises… in the middle of the night.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks so violently you’re surprised the lights don’t flicker.
“Oh?” Joaquín replies, edging behind you like the coward he is. “What kind of noises?”
Lucía takes another sip—slow, dramatic, weaponised. Her eyes never leave her son.
“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”
Lucía sets her mug down, eyes twinkling with wicked amusement. You already know she’s about to deliver something lethal—and she does.
“Bueno,” she says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “if you two are finished making the walls shake, maybe we can celebrate properly. A nice dinner? Or…” she pauses just long enough to kill you both, “the engagement party later?”
You choke on air. Joaquín chokes harder, spluttering like someone handed him a live grenade instead of a mug.
“Mamá,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “We literally just—”
She waves a hand, dismissing his suffering. “Ay, por favor. Why so embarrassed? You’re grown adults. You don’t think I know how these things work?”
She pauses—taking another slow, theatrical sip of coffee.
“I know where babies come from, hijo.”
You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.
Heat floods your cheeks and you step back, searching desperately for dignity and finding absolutely none. “I’m—uh—going to… get dressed before I die of embarrassment,” you say, words tripping over each other as you retreat like you’re escaping a burning building.
You make it halfway down the hall when arms wrap around your waist from behind—warm, strong, sure—and a laugh ghosts against your neck.
“You’re really just going to leave me to suffer alone out there?” Joaquín murmurs, voice low, teasing, already smiling.
You try for stern and fail spectacularly. “Yes. Obviously. That's your mother.”
He spins you gently—not dramatic, just enough that your toes leave the floor and you let out a startled squeal you’ll deny later. You land against his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, and he looks at you like last night wasn’t a mistake or a question—like it was a beginning.
His forehead dips to yours, voices low enough that Lucía can’t hear.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you, worshipping you in the simplest way. “Not a chance.”
Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—
“¡Cierren la puerta si van a hacer más ruido!”
(Close the door if you're going to make more noise!)
You bury your face in Joaquín’s shoulder as he walks you backward toward your room, and he’s shaking with silent laughter, kiss landing on your cheek like it belongs there.
The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.
And when he nudges your door open with his foot, you know exactly how your day is going to end—happy, stupidly in love, tangled up in him with no intention of ever letting go.
she’s pregnant, but it’s not out to the public yet. she gains weight/a bump, and then suddenly stops going to GPs. everyone is worried about their relationship status, and some critics even think that lando left her because of her weight gain, when she actually stopped to rest on her final months of pregnancy and postpartum life.
then, a couple months later, she pulls up to a GP with a baby and chaos
The Secret We Kept Safe
Lando Norris x Wife!reader
Synopsis: Lando’s wife disappears from the paddock during her secret pregnancy, sparking breakup rumours and body‑shaming. Months later, she returns to a GP with their newborn, instantly shutting down every headline as the paddock erupts.
Moonlight Radio: this was so cute, I hope u like it!
You disappear from the paddock long before anyone realises they should be worried.
At first, it’s subtle — you skip a race weekend because of “family commitments,” then another because of “travel fatigue.” Lando posts a few photos of you at home, curled into his side on the sofa, your face tucked into his hoodie. He captions one “my favourite place”, and the fans melt.
But then the photos stop.
And the speculation starts.
You’re in your third trimester by then, belly round and heavy, ankles swollen, back aching in ways you didn’t know were possible. Lando is glued to your side every moment he’s not in the car, massaging your calves, kissing your bump, whispering to your unborn baby like they can already understand him.
But the world doesn’t know that.
The world only knows you’ve vanished.
And they notice.
---
THE RUMOURS
It starts with a gossip account posting a photo of you from months ago — a tiny bump barely visible beneath a sundress.
“Has anyone else noticed she’s gained weight?”
“She hasn’t been to a GP in ages.”
“Did they break up?”
“Maybe he finally realised she wasn’t ‘trophy wife’ material.”
Lando sees it all.
He pretends he doesn’t.
But you catch him one night, sitting on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched, phone glowing in his hand. He looks up at you with eyes that are too bright, too angry.
“Baby,” you whisper, waddling toward him, “don’t read that.”
“They’re talking about you like you’re disposable,” he says, voice tight. “Like you’re not the strongest person I’ve ever met. Like you’re not literally growing our child.”
You cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks. “Let them talk. We know the truth.”
He kisses your palm, then your bump. “I just hate that you’re not there to defend yourself.”
“I’m busy,” you say softly, “making a whole human.”
He laughs, forehead pressed to your belly. “Yeah. The most important job.”
---
THE BIRTH
It’s quiet.
Private.
Exactly what you wanted.
Lando cries harder than the baby does. He holds your daughter like she’s made of glass, whispering, “Hi, sweetheart… I’m your dad… I’m so lucky.”
You spend the next weeks in a cocoon — sleepless, messy, beautiful. Lando is obsessed, constantly shirtless with the baby on his chest, humming to her, pacing the house at 3 a.m. like it’s the most sacred duty in the world.
The world still doesn’t know.
And honestly? You don’t care.
Not until you’re ready.
---
THE RETURN
Three months postpartum, you finally feel steady again. Strong. Ready to step back into the world.
Lando is the one who suggests it.
“Come to the next GP,” he says, bouncing your daughter gently. “If you want. No pressure. But… I think you deserve to walk in there and shut everyone up.”
You smirk. “You just want to show her off.”
He grins. “Absolutely.”
---
THE CHAOS
The moment you step out of the car, baby strapped to your chest in a tiny papaya-coloured carrier, the paddock erupts.
People freeze.
Cameras whip around.
Someone screams.
You hear:
“OH MY GOD—”
“IS THAT—”
“SHE HAD A BABY?!”
“LANDO’S A DAD?!”
“THEY WEREN’T BROKEN UP?!”
“SHE WAS PREGNANT THE WHOLE TIME?!”
Lando steps out behind you, one hand on your back, the other adjusting the baby’s sunhat like this is the most normal day of his life.
He kisses your temple. “Ready?”
“Not even slightly.”
He laughs and laces his fingers with yours. “Too late.”
The media swarms, but Lando shields you with his body, guiding you through the chaos. Every driver stops mid‑conversation, jaws dropping.
Carlos is the first to recover.
He jogs over, eyes wide. “You had a baby? A whole baby? And you didn’t tell me?”
Lando shrugs. “You never asked.”
“LAN—”
But then he sees her tiny fist poking out of the carrier and melts instantly.
“Oh my god,” Carlos whispers. “She’s so small.”
“Tell her that,” Lando mutters. “She disagrees at 3 a.m.”
---
THE INTERVIEW
Lando stands in front of the Sky Sports mic, arm around your waist.
“So, Lando,” the reporter says, still stunned, “there were… rumours about your relationship. About your wife’s absence. About her weight gain.”
Lando’s smile drops.
Completely.
“My wife,” he says slowly, “was pregnant. She was resting. She was taking care of our daughter. And anyone who made comments about her body should be embarrassed.”
The reporter swallows. “And how do you feel now that the world knows you’re a father?”
Lando looks at you.
At the baby.
At the chaos around you.
And he beams.
“I feel like the luckiest man alive.”
---
AFTER
The internet explodes.
Fan accounts cry.
Critics delete tweets.
Your name trends for 48 hours straight.
And that night, when the baby is asleep in her travel cot and you’re curled into Lando’s chest in the hotel bed, he kisses your forehead and whispers:
“Thank you for giving me a family.”
You smile against his skin. “Thank you for protecting us.”
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x girlfriend!reader
Warnings: fighting, angst to fluff, pregnancy reveal, near death experience.
Summary: After an argument about Jack’s dangerous new hobby with the SWAT team, he walks out, leaving things shattered. Hours later, Jack realizes that the adrenaline he’s been chasing is nothing compared to the new reason to come back home after his shifts.
✨ based on this request ✨
Jack sat on the edge of the bed, his back a map of fresh bruises and the jagged edges of a new bandage peeking out from under his shirt.
"Just a hobby, Jack? Really?" Your voice was quiet, trembling with a mix of exhaustion and pure terror. "Most people take up woodworking. They bake bread. They don't volunteer to be the first one through a door in a tactical vest."
Jack didn't look at you. "My psychiatrist said I needed a way to channel the adrenaline. To feel useful outside the ER. I’m a veteran, doll. I’m trained for this."
"You were a surgeon in a war zone because you had to be!" You finally snapped, the volume of your voice cracking the silence. "You spent years trying to crawl out of that hole, and now you’re jumping back into another one for fun? I spent six hours wondering if the man down on the news was you."
Jack stood up then, his movements stiff. The coldness in his eyes was worse than bruises. He wasn't the man who kissed you awake this morning.
"I don't need a keeper," he said, his voice flat. "I spent my entire life being told where to go and who to save. This is the first time out of ER that I’ve felt like I’m in control of the chaos. If you can’t handle that, that’s on you. Not me."
"Are you kidding me right now?" You let out a laugh. "You’re bleeding through your shirt, Jack! That isn't control, it's a death wish. You’re choosing the rush over us. You’re choosing the possibility of a funeral."
Jack grabbed his bag from the closet.
"Where are you going?" The panic finally broke through your anger, your heart hammering against your ribs. He still had three hours before his shift started.
"I can't do this," he muttered, swinging the bag over his shoulder. He winced as the strap hit the fresh wound on his shoulder, but he didn't slow down. "I can't come home to a trial every time I have a rough shift. I thought you, of all people, would understand wanting to mean something."
"You mean everything to me!" you screamed at his back as he moved toward the front door. "Is that not enough? Being loved isn't enough for you?"
"Apparently not," he said quietly. "I'm probably going to do a doble shift. Don't wait up for me."
The sound of the door clicking shut behind him was small, but it echoed through the empty hallway like a gunshot. You stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the lingering scent of his cologne and the discarded medical wrappers on the nightstand, waiting for the sound of him coming back.
-
"Abbot, take five," Dr. Shen muttered, catching him by the scrub sink. "You’re vibrating. And not in a good way. How's the bandage?"
Jack didn't look up from his hands, scrubbing until the skin was raw. "I’m fine. It’s just a long shift."
But he wasn't fine. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the way you had looked in the bedroom, the betrayal in your eyes, the way your voice had shattered when he walked out. He had chosen the rush and now the adrenaline had soured into a cold weight in his gut.
"Incoming trauma, Category Red. Single-vehicle MVA. Unresponsive female, massive hemorrhage, suspected femoral artery transection. ETA two minutes."
Jack was already moving toward the bay. When the paramedics burst through the doors, the sound of the gurney’s wheels was deafening.
"Vitals are crashing! We've got a tourniquet on the right thigh, but she’s lost too much. Pressure is 60 over palp—"
The paramedic stepped aside and his world stopped spinning.
It was your face. But it wasn't the face that had yelled at him hours ago. It was pale, waxen, framed by hair matted with blood. Your sweater, the one he’d complained about being too oversized, was shredded and soaked a deep crimson.
"Jack?" Parker's voice sounded like it was underwater. "Jack, step back. I’ve got this. Jack!"
"No," Jack whispered, then louder, his voice cracking with a desperate edge. "No! Get the O-neg! Now! I need a vascular kit!"
"Jack, you can't—"
"I said get the kit!" he roared, his hands hovering over your leg. He was a man watching his entire world leak out onto the floor.
The next hour was pure trauma and terror. He felt the hot spray of your blood on his face as he fought to clamp the artery. He was barking orders, his voice raw, refusing to let anyone else give up on you. When your heart monitor flatlined, his breath stopped.
"Starting compressions," he gasped, his palms over your sternum. One, two, three. "Don't you dare. Fuck, baby, don't you fucking dare."
"Jack, we have a pulse," a nurse called out after a minute, her voice trembling. "We have a rhythm. We need to go to the OR. Now."
He didn't leave your side. He had told you your love wasn't enough, and then he had walked out.
Hours later, you were a haunting sight on ICU. The rhythmic sound of the machines were the only thing keeping the silence at bay. Your leg was heavily bandaged, saved by a fraction of an inch and his own desperate hands.
Jack sat in the hard plastic chair by the bed. He reached out, his fingers hovering inches from your hand, afraid that if he touched you, you’d feel the coldness of the man who had abandoned you.
He thought about the fight, about the SWAT missions, about how he could be so selfish and dumb. It all felt like ash in his mouth. He had sought out danger for the sake of feeling alive, only to realize that life was sitting right here because she had been out looking for him or simply driving with a mind clouded by the grief he caused.
He leaned his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, a broken sob finally escaping his throat. "Please wake up, doll, I'm so sorry."
He stayed there in the dark, waiting for eyes that might never forgive him to open, realizing that he had saved your life but he had already destroyed your heart.
When your eyelids finally fluttered open, you were confused. You weren't on your bedroom. This wasn't your bed. You tried to shift but your right leg felt like it was encased in lead. A hand, warm but trembling, immediately folded over yours.
"Hey, try not to move. You're going to rip out your stitches."
"Jack?" Your voice was raspy. The memories started to bleed back in: the argument, the slamming door, the rain slicked road, his keys. "The... the keys. You left the house keys. I was coming to..."
Jack let out a broken sob, half-laugh. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. "The keys? Doll, you shouldn't have driven in the middle of the storm, you could have sent me a message."
"I didn't want you to be locked out, you know I'm a deep sleeper," you whispered, the anger from earlier completely drained. "I was mad, Jack. But I wanted to make sure you came back home."
He looked up then and the sight of him broke your heart. His eyes were bloodshot. "I’m the one who shouldn't have left. I was chasing a feeling because I was too arrogant to realize I already had everything I needed at home. I was wrong." He squeezed your hand, his thumb tracing your knuckles. "I've thinking about it all night. I’m done with SWAT."
"You finally realized being loved is enough?" you asked softly.
"That's one reason," Jack said, a strange light appearing in his eyes. "But there’s another. We found something during the scans. I- I think you didn't know. You're pregnant, doll."
---------------------------------
The trauma bay was a battlefield. Jack had just finished the primary repair on your femoral artery, his hands slick with the blood of the woman he loved. He was panting as the nurses began to stabilize your vitals for the move to the OR.
"Abbot," Shen said, his voice sharp but confused as he stared at the ultrasound monitor they’d used for a quick abdominal check. "Why the hell didn't you tell us?"
Jack whirled around, his heart in his throat, expecting to hear that your lungs were collapsing or your spleen had ruptured. "Tell you what? Is there internal bleeding?"
Shen pointed to the screen, to a tiny pulse that had absolutely nothing to do with your own heartbeat. "The pregnancy, Abbot. She may be seven weeks along. We need to adjust the meds for the OR."
Jack felt the floor tilt. The world narrowed down to that one rhythmic flicker on the screen. A baby. He had walked out on a family he didn't even know he had started. And suddenly, his hobby felt like a childish whim.
---------------------------------
You stared at him, your breath hitching as the realization settled in. Your hand instinctively moved toward your stomach, though it was blocked by the hospital gown and blankets.
"W-What? I’m... we're...?"
"Yeah," Jack whispered, his voice thick with emotions. "Seven weeks, according to the scans. A little heartbeat. Strong as anything."
"Oh..." was all you could manage. It was a soft sound of pure shock. Your hand, still shaky, instinctively drifted downward, coming to rest over the flat expanse of your stomach beneath the hospital blankets. You tried to process the miracle that a tiny life inside had survived the chaos of the last few hours.
Seeing your hand tremble, Jack reached out. He cupped his palm directly over yours, shielding it, pressing the weight of his love through the layers of fabric.
It was the first time since he’d walked out of the apartment that the tension truly left his frame.
He leaned down, pressing a long, lingering kiss to the back of your hand, right over the spot where a new life was forming.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and steady. "No more SWAT, no more looking for trouble. I've got everything I need to protect right here in this room."
You looked down at his dark hair, then at your joined hands over your middle and emotional happy tears appeared in your eyes.
"You're going to have to learn how to bake bread after all, baby," you whispered with a tiny smile.
"I will, huh?" He let out a laugh, his hand refusing to let go. "I’ll learn whatever it needs. Just as long as I’m doing it with you. Well, the two of you."
Jacks wife is injured and she is brought to the pitt. She requests her husband but she is rudely told no. Jack is hella mad about this once he finds out
Two paramedics pushed a stretcher through, moving fast but controlled in that tight, practiced way that meant things were serious but not yet catastrophic. On the bed was Jack Abbott’s wife.
She was pale in a way that didn’t belong on her. Blood had been cleaned away, but it still marked the edges of the gauze wrapping her arm and the brace stabilising her leg. Her hair was damp against her forehead, her breathing shallow but steady, eyes flicking around the fluorescent chaos as she tried to orient herself.
“Trauma one. Fall from height, possible compound fracture, head strike ruled out in the field but we’re watching it,” one of the paramedics reported.
She swallowed, voice thin but clear despite the pain. “I need my husband.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
The nurse at intake barely looked up. “That’s not how this works right now. We’ll call whoever is listed as emergency contact once she’s stabilised.”
Her jaw tightened immediately. “No. I want Jack Abbott. He works here.”
A brief pause. A glance at the chart. Then a dismissive shake of the head.
“He’s likely scrubbed in or in the middle of a case. We can’t just—”
“I don’t care,” she said, sharper now, breath hitching as pain spiked through her arm. “Get him.”
But the stretcher was already moving.
And just like that, she was swallowed by the ED.
⸻
Jack found out ten minutes later.
It wasn’t even supposed to reach him that way. He was mid-procedure when a passing nurse mentioned a trauma admit insisting on a doctor by name. He barely looked up at first, hands steady, focused, until the name landed properly.
Abbott. His wife.
Something in him went very still.
Then the room changed.
He finished what he was doing with mechanical precision, handed off to his resident, and walked out before anyone could stop him. The calm he usually wore like armour was gone by the time he hit the corridor.
“Where is she?” he asked, voice low.
The nurse at the desk hesitated. “Trauma bay two, but she’s—”
“She asked for me,” he cut in.
A beat. Then, carefully, “We told her you were unavailable.”
That did it.
Jack’s expression shifted—subtle, but dangerous in the way people only recognised when they’d already made a mistake.
“Unavailable,” he repeated flatly.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You told my wife—who was brought in injured, conscious, and asking for me—that I was unavailable?”
The nurse straightened slightly, suddenly aware of how bad this was becoming. “We were following protocol—”
“No,” Jack said, already moving. “You were dismissing a patient who knew exactly who she needed.”
He didn’t wait for a response.
⸻
By the time he reached trauma bay two, the anger had sharpened into something controlled but absolute.
She was there, on the bed, trying not to show how much it hurt when they adjusted her arm. Her face turned toward the door the moment she heard footsteps.
And everything in him shifted.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
That was all it took.
Her breath broke slightly. “They said you couldn’t come.”
“I’m right here,” he replied immediately, crossing the room in a few steps, voice softening as he reached her side.
Her fingers reached for him instinctively. He took her hand carefully, mindful of the IV line, the bruising, the pain she was trying not to show.
“I asked for you,” she said, frustration and relief tangled together. “They just… they told me no.”
Jack didn’t look away from her. But something in his jaw tightened again, controlled fury bleeding back in.
“I’m going to deal with that,” he said quietly.
Her grip tightened slightly. “Don’t leave.”
That stopped him more than anything else.
So he didn’t.
He leaned closer instead, brushing a careful kiss to her knuckles, then her forehead, grounding himself in the fact she was here, conscious, alive.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
A faint, shaky breath that might’ve been a laugh if she wasn’t in pain.
“Good,” she murmured.
Jack finally looked up, eyes flicking briefly to the monitor, the staff, the chart—but his attention never truly left her.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm. Too calm.
“I want the name of whoever told my wife I was unavailable,” he said to the room. “Now.”
Summary: It's his second time racing in Miami, and he's been up since sunrise. You find him wide-eyed on the balcony, overwhelmed in the softest way.
You find him standing on the balcony, barefoot, shirtless and holding a coffee cup with both hands like it's anchoring him to Earth.
It's not even 7am. The Miami sky is already glowing peach, the city below humming to life, and Kimi's staring at it like it's about to swallow him whole.
You don't say anything right away. Just lean against the doorway and watch him, his hair messy, jaw soft, and his curls pushed back from sleep. There's something so soft about him in that moment, so unlike the version the world is already pinning headlines to.
You pad toward him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. "Couldn't sleep?" you murmur.
He shakes his head. "Too many voices in my head."
"Want me to start punching people or just name names on our hitlist?"
That earns you a soft laugh. "Neither. Just... needed quiet."
You press a kiss between his shoulder blades before stepping around to face him, reaching for his cup. He hands it over without protest. You sip, it's lukewarm and a little too strong. "Talk to me."
Kimi shrugs. "It's just... a lot. Press conferences. Expectations. My engineers trying not to make me feel like a child. Everyone's calling this the proving ground though, that I should get a podium here. I got pole in the sprint here last year."
"Because you can," you say honestly. "Not only for you. For them. You done well here last year, you can do well here again with just your driving."
He looks at you. You step in, slide your fingers down the hem of his shorts, thumbs resting on his hips. "You're already the real deal. They're the ones catching up."
He laughs again, a little shyer this time. "You're good at this."
"At hyping you up?"
"At making me feel like I can breathe."
You tilt your head. "Well, you forget sometimes."
"Forget what?"
"That you're allowed to have fun with this. That this was supposed to be the dream."
He swallows. "Feels too big to be a dream."
"Then let's make it small," you whisper, stepping up onto your toes to kiss him.
It's not a long kiss. But it's enough to settle something. To make him press his forehead against yours, his hands sliding around your back, grounding himself in the moment. "I feel better," he says quietly.
You smile. "You smell like espresso and sunscreen."
"I'm half Italian, half SPF 15."
You grin and rest your chin on his chest. "You ready?"
♡ synopsis: a patient presents with alcohol poisoning when she's brought into ptmc after getting rowdy at a bar. jack attempts to treat her & when she gets physical...you see red & go to an extreme length to defend your husband.
♡ content: battery, punching, cursing, jack is smitten w/ reader, robby is pining, mentions of spanking & fingering
♡ a/n: based off this request by @styx03, ty!
"Guess she smashed a bottle over the bartender's head, then went ballistic and starting snapping pool sticks over tables," Langdon says, recounting what the EMT relayed to him but a half hour ago before heading out in their ambulance again.
Blowing a big pink bubble, your gum pops and you start chewing again. "Is he okay? The bartender, I mean?" You ask concernedly while turning back to Frank.
He shrugs. "EMT checked him out. He said he felt fine apparently, and declined a trip to come and see us. Guess if his goose egg starts causing dizzy spells he'll end up on our doorstep eventually. As for this one," he says while nodding. "Once she's been cleared of alcohol poisoning, I wouldn't be surprised if they come and cart her off to jail for drunk and disorderly. Not to mention battery."
You watch from a distance as Jack tries administering an IV to get some fluids flowing through the woman's system other than that of alcohol, but she swats his hand away in irritation.
You take a small step forward.
He shakes his head, says something you can't discern from a distance, despite trying to read his lips, and tries again.
Same thing, only this time, she sneers like a rabid dog.
He plants his hands on his hips and attempts to level her with a disapproving look. An expression which you know all too well. Only difference is, he doesn't actually mean it with you. It's like a silent form of sarcasm.
Such as a few weeks ago when you climbed atop him in bed wearing only one of his Army t-shirts and slid your hands up his chest before submerging your fingers in silken silver curls.
"We need a new dryer," you'd purred before leaning forward and brushing soft kisses along the stubble that coated his upper neck. When you flicked your tongue against his pounding carotid, he'd groaned before grabbing your hips and pushing you back so he could face you head-on.
"And your plan," he'd began while fingering the hem of the t-shirt you'd donned, "is to seduce me for it?"
After wrapping your arms around yourself and pulling it off before finally tossing the garment onto the floor, you'd grabbed his hands and settled them over your breasts. "Is it working?"
He'd pursed his lips—same as he's doing now in Trauma 3—and deliberated for a moment before gently massaging your nipples. "Lay on your back and spread your legs," he'd commanded before sliding off the bed and onto his crutches—headed in the direction of the bathroom for a dose of Viagra.
"You move," he'd called from the other room—followed by the sound of running tap water. "And I'll put you over my knee when I get back in there."
You'd merely giggled before standing and padding toward the middle of the room to see if he'd follow through.
Your bottom stung for two days afterwards. But after many kisses and rub-downs with lotion (which may or may not have ended with his fingers inside of you on more than one occasion), you were more than happy to grant him your forgiveness for the erotic punishment.
Finally, Jack tries one last time—third time's the charm, after all—and all hell breaks loose.
Diving off the bed like a wildcat, she tackles him to the floor and begins smacking him across the face while shouting vulgar obscenities. Threatening to rip his throat out with her teeth is when you see absolute red.
One minute, you're standing next to Frank. The next, you're racing across the ED toward the room she has him trapped in.
Lunging at her with reckless abandon, you dig your nails deep into her scalp and clutch a handful of tangled blonde strands and yank.
Hard.
"I've got twenty on Y/N!" Shouts Parker from the doorway.
"Hula hoop!" You hear shouted from the common area of the ED, but it does little to deter you from following through on making her feel exactly what Jack just did, since she apparently has a death wish.
Leaning over her—now practically seething with rage—you bring your face in close, mere inches from her own. "Shouldn't have put your hands on my husband, you dumb fucking bitch," you spit with venomous scorn before swinging her around.
She clutches desperately at your wrist, but with your refusing to release her, there's little she can do about her current circumstances. Having turned into the strongest claw machine there ever was, you head straight for the other side of the room and toss her against the wall like a bowling ball.
Her head makes a satisfying thud off the drywall, and she slumps into a corner before bawling her eyes out.
Reeling back, you pop her in the nose with a closed fist. It emits a rewarding crack in response, and she begins howling that you've broken it when blood runs over her cupid's bow and down her lips and chin in a blazing river of crimson red.
Just when you've drawn your leg behind you for a swift kick in the ribs, a pair of arms wrap around your middle to haul you away.
You thrash against your captor, until he announces himself. "Calm the hell down or I'll put you both in cuffs!" Robby bellows.
Ahmed advances past and throws a grin over his shoulder that's aimed at Parker. "Frank owes us both a damn pizza and a six-pack looks like," he says with a chuckle while hauling the woman back onto the gurney and fastening the provided straps to her gangly limbs.
"I'll finish what I fucking started, bitch, just try me!" You scream. "I know how to make it look like an accident!"
"That is enough, Y/N!" Robby shouts directly in your ear.
After the adrenaline wears off some time later, you think of lying down on one of the hospital beds for a long nap with a curtain drawn and the lights dimmed, so as to give yourself a bit of privacy. That way, you can stop being stared at like a caged animal in a zoo by curious onlookers who keep passing by the room Robby has relocated you to.
He refuses to let you out of his sight for the rest of your shift, however.
After having you thoroughly wash your hands, Robby wipes your scrapes with alcohol, then soaks an extra large cotton swab in triple antibiotic. As he rolls it over your wounds, you merely watch.
"I shouldn't have done that," you say quietly. "She was drunk, and not in control of her faculties. She was already down after I...threw her against the wall." Tears pool in your eyes. "I assaulted a patient. I could be fired."
He sighs. "Drunk or not, the moment she went after Jack she committed a felony. If you hadn't run in there, I would've." He looks at you from beneath his lashes. "With you being a woman, you'll have a better chance of getting away with how far you took things. Had it been me?" He sucks his teeth and shrugs.
You frown. "Still."
Setting the swab aside, he plants his gloved hands on his knees. "It'll be fine. You did the right thing. With maybe a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, but..." He rolls back and tosses the soiled materials into the trash.
Returning his attention to you, Robby crosses his arms. "Gotta say, I was impressed. Had no idea you had it in you."
You snort. "You and me both."
He chews his lip thoughtfully for a moment before rolling towards you again. "There's two people in this hospital I would go that far for without hesitation."
You lift your chin to meet his gaze.
"Jack is one of them," he supplies.
Your eyes flit between his. "And the other?"
By not speaking, but instead keeping his gaze trained strictly on your own, his answer is made abundantly clear.
"Oh."
He smiles softly. "Not the time and place for that sort of conversation, I imagine," he mumbles before pushing against his knees and standing with a groan.
You remain seated as he heads in the direction of the sink to wash his hands.
"Where is? Or...when?" You shouldn't be asking that—prying at a lid that's best left closed.
Curiosity killed the cat.
He chuckles. "Before your wedding, probably."
Once he's dried his hands, he pulls out a roll of gauze from a nearby drawer and sits once more.
He had been Jack's best man. You'd thought he had spent a bit long looking at you that day as you stood across the aisle from the two of them. And that his touches had lingered when you danced together at the reception.
You suppose you know why now.
Holding out your trembling hand, he begins wrapping it.
"I didn't know," you whisper.
His lip twitches. "Because I didn't tell. Being on night shift, you spent more time with Jack. I saw from a mile away where that was headed from the beginning." He looks at you. "Wouldn't have been right to get in the middle."
You wiggle your fingers to ensure he's not wrapping it too tightly.
"I guess... Thank you for telling me. Better late than never."
He grins. Tucking the tail-end of the gauze neatly away, Robby runs the pad of his thumb along the back of your injured hand. "Jack is lucky to have someone that's so protective of him."
He stands and walks over to the exam room door and jerks his head as indication that you should follow him. "Let's go see him."
You narrow your eyes at Frank who's currently tending to your husband's injuries. "You bet against me," you pout while crossing your arms.
He grits his teeth and cringes. "Had no clue you'd do something like that. You've always been so—"
Docile? you think. Sweet? Quiet? Passive?
"I'm her husband," Jack interrupts. " And I had no idea, so how the hell could you?"
You shift on your feet while biting back a satisfied smirk. Better to be ashamed of yourself for it, and yet...
Frank raises his hands in surrender before slipping past Robby. "Far be it for me to get in the way and be the next victim."
You throw your head back and groan in irritation. "I'm not a psycho."
"Whatever you say, Misses Bateman!" he throws over his shoulder.
You turn and watch him go—heading back toward the lockers, presumably, to gather his belongings and set off for home. Your eyes transfer to Robby next who's leaned against the doorway with crossed arms.
"How're you feeling?" he asks while looking at Jack.
He moans, and you watch as he rotates his arm. "Woman put the smackdown on me, I'll give her that much."
You frown.
Robby chuckles. "Think it safe to say that she got a taste of her own medicine in the end."
Taking a step back, he grabs the door. "I'll give you two some privacy," he states quietly before stepping out and shutting it behind him.
Picking up where Langdon left off, you cup the unaffected side of Jack's face in your hand while patting the scratches on the opposite with a saturated cotton ball. "Are you okay?" You ask softly.
He smirks while sliding a steady palm up the back of your thigh. "Never better."
When he grabs a handful of your backside, you squeak in surprise before taking a step back. "Can you behave yourself for five minutes while I tend to your wounds?"
His mouth curls into a smirk while he pretends to think. Finally, he shakes his head and pats his right knee. "Can't be any worse than losing a limb, so not likely. I've got other things on my mind than ointment and—"
You roll your eyes before stepping forward again. "Keep it up and I'll plaster your face with Hello Kitty bandages when I'm done."
Gripping either of your hips, he scooches forward from atop the exam table he occupies and pulls you firmly between his spread legs. "Honey, after tonight, you can do whatever you like with me."
"Good Lord," you mumble before applying a butterfly bandage to the apple of his bruised cheek.
"What?" He questions. "I'm supposed to lie and say that wasn't hot as hell? You should really bring that kind of energy into the bedroom, sweetheart. I mean, I'm lying on the ground getting my ass handed to me and here you come—running to the rescue. How can I not get off on that?"
You drop your chin and regard him with serious, unblinking eyes. "I assaulted someone, Jack."
He hums, then grabs your hand and guides it between his thighs. "And just think of all the good it's gonna do you once I get you home and shut the blinds."
Glancing down to his growing erection, you shake your head and grin. "Oh, yeah, risk of my right to practice medicine being revoked makes for great foreplay."
He settles a heavy hand against the back of your head. "You're gonna be just fine, baby. Between me, Robby, and the lawyers the hospital keeps on retainer, we'll make sure of it."
Guiding your lips down to his, he grants you an open-mouthed kiss with an exploring tongue that teases your own.
You mewl softly against his mouth while running the heel of your palm up the length of his developing erection.
He sucks in a sharp breath of air, then leans back. "Once I get done with you, we're both going to be sore tomorrow." He nuzzles his nose against yours. "Killer."
Summary: Your husband gets worried when he gets a call that you're in his ED (wc 1.5k)
A/N: Little blurb cause this man has taken over my mind. The stronghold Shawn Hatosy has on me.
“Alright miss-” She stops mid sentence when she pulls back the curtain of the room looking up from her chart. You can tell she’s disappointed.
“I swear if that chart says GSW- It’s a graze that's not even that bad.” You say sitting on the bed.
“Yeah it says GSW. I was wondering why you wouldn't be in a trauma room,” She puts hand under the hand sanitizer dispenser, “thought it would be more interesting.” She puts on gloves to start looking at your arm. You already have your shirt off leaving you in just a tank top to give the doctor better access to, what you would consider, a very small graze that you would argue doesn’t even warrant a hospital visit.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” You quip back at her. You’re finally able to get a glance at her badge, Dr. Santos.
“How did you get this?” The bleeding already stopped a while ago before you got to the hospital. She starts to take the dressing you put on it off. You wince a little at the contact. She says sorry under her breath.
“Occupational hazard.” She quirks her eyebrows up, unsatisfied at your response. “I’m a CSI and I was training a new technician, when the idiots thought it would be a good idea to come back to make sure the job was done. They didn’t realize that the cops had already been called and were there. Anyways guess they got nervous and decided the best course of action was a shoot out. Made sure to cover my new tech and got grazed in doing so.” She swabbed the wound to send for testing, being more careful than she was initially. “I didn’t want to even come here but since it’s work related I was forced too.”
“It doesn’t look bad, I’ll send a sample for cultures just to be sure, clean and dress it for you.” She replies.
“Where is she?!?” You can hear your husband’s voice through the thin curtain. You can only assume Dana points him in your direction cause you can hear him stomp towards your bed. You’re bracing for impact cause you already know he’s upset. He tears the curtain open to see you on the bed with Santos sitting at your side.
“What happened? Are you okay?” His body relaxes a little when he can process that you're fine, but you can tell he’s still on edge.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos stands up stiff as a board.
“What happened.” He repeats himself, still staring at you waiting for an answer.
“It’s nothing, a little graze that’s barely there.” You’re trying to comfort him…it’s not helping a lot.
“Why did I get a call from the hospital that my wife had a bullet graze and not from you?” You can hear that he’s upset by his voice, his eyes never leaving you.
“Wait, wife?” Santos asks, “but the last name…”
“It’s hyphenated, I use my maiden name for legal and work.” You explain.
Jack finally moves towards you once he decides that you look well enough. He glances at the wound and can tell that you were right, it’s not bad. He’s at your other side looking down at you, still checking over your face to see if he missed anything.
“She’s stubborn,” he adds, “why didn’t you call me? I freaked out when Dana told me what happened. Broke a few traffic laws getting here.” He’s quieter now and worry still lacing his voice. His hand goes up to touch your face, making sure you’re still here with him. Reassuring himself that you’re okay. You lean into his touch. He’s always so warm.
“I’m fine Jack,” you move your hand to cover his on your face, “I didn’t want to worry you, and they pushed me into a squad car before I even realized it, left my phone in my jacket at the scene.” You take his hand off your face and just hold it in your lap.
“I know how much you hate those cars.” His other hand goes to tuck a piece of your behind your ear. He’s moving like you're made of glass. “But really how did you get shot?”
“I wasn’t shot, I was grazed.” You correct him. “Apperently the cops don’t know how to close a scene correctly. Perp came back, saw cops and started firing.” You can’t help but roll your eyes at the stupidity of what should have never happened.
He finally takes his eyes off of you and looks over at Santos. “Did you send for culture test?” He’s sterner when he talks to her. You feel bad that she was the one that got stuck with you. Having one of your patients being your attending’s wife can’t be easy.
“Yes. I was just about to start cleaning and dressing it.” You can tell this situation makes her a little nervous.
“Jack, she’s done everything correct, don’t scare her.” His eyes softening when he looks back at you. His stubble is a little longer than usual, and his curls are unruly. He probably jumped out of bed and rushed to his truck as soon as he got the call. He’s wearing a shirt you know was on top of the laundry hamper.
“Just double checking.” At his words Santos goes to clean and dress the wound, very diligently you note.
Jack stays at your side the entire time, hand still in your lap. He squeezes your hand anytime you wince, checking in on you to make sure you’re okay. His eyes are tired from lack of sleep but the look on his face is pure adoration for you. You pull him a little closer so you can lean your head on his broad, sturdy chest. You want to suck all his warmth out of him due to the chill in the ED, and knowing him, he’d let you.
“I was scared.” Jack whispers to you.
“How do you think I feel when you go out with the SWAT team? This is a once in a blue moon for me, it feels like you’re always getting shot at.” You crane your neck so you can look at him while you say that.
“So is date night just dodging bullets for you guys?” Santos says as she’s finishing up.
You and Jack both huff out a laugh. “No, he’s a little more romantic than that.” You reply.
“A little?” Jack pushes away a little to look at you and raises his eyebrows. “If I remember correctly, you bragged to your friends about ‘how romantic’ my proposal was.” He has a smirk on his face at the fact.
“I should have never told you that, it went to your head.” You roll your eyes and pull him back closer to you.
“Yeah but you did.” He kisses your head as he says it. He is one of the most romantic people you know when he tries. You love that about him, how thoughtful he is and how he really sees you. He knows you inside and out. He makes the most mundane parts of life exciting just by being there with you. He’s made you the happiest woman in the world and he knows it. You never miss an opportunity to let him know.
“Okay I’m going to get discharge notes and instructions but I’m sure you don’t need them.” Santos says and she starts to walk out of the room.
“I like her.” You say once she’s out of the room and you start to put your other shirt back on.
Jack steps back a little to give you room to do so. “Santos? She’s one of Robby’s, haven’t been around her too much. He says she’s good though.”
You start to stand up when Jack puts his hand out for you to use to help you up. Once you’re standing next to him, you give him a quick peck on the lips. You step back a little after, but not for long. Jack is quick to grab you by the waist and pull you in for a hug. You instinctively wrap your arms around him and melt into his warmth. His other hand goes up to cradle your head, as he puts his head right in the crevice of your neck.
“I love you. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” Jack mutters into your neck.
“No promises.” He pinches your side when you say that.
“HEY!” You yelp out barely moving due to his grip on you. “I promise to call next time.” You concede.
“I’ll take what I can get.” He replies right before giving you a little kiss on your neck.
…
Trinity walks up to Whitaker at the hub so she can start writing up the discharge notes. “Did you know Dr. Abbot is married?” She asks him.
“Umm, yeah I think so? He wears a wedding ring right?”
“Guess I never noticed,” she hums out, “his wife was just one of my patients. You should see the rock on her hand.”
Summary: A routine ER shift takes a sharp turn when a Jane Doe arrives wearing Jack’s dog tags.
A/N: Requests are welcome! This work is entirely mine and has been proofread with Grammarly.
Masterlist
This day wasn't out of the ordinary for you.
Jack had been called into the hospital, so you decided to run some errands instead. Just another walk through the city, another stretch of pavement leading you towards your favourite café. The street was bustling with lunchtime rush, people brushing past without even looking up, all of it so normal you stopped noticing anything outside your immediate line of sight.
You don’t see the window workers until it’s already too late.
There’s a shout, somewhere overhead, sharp, distant, dismissed instantly by your brain as background chaos.
Then something shifts overhead.
A shadow.
A sudden loss of control.
Like something heavy slipping when it shouldn’t.
You look up.
The bucket tips over the edge, half full, unbalanced, too far gone to recover.
You have no time to react.
It drops straight down.
The impact is immediate and brutal, striking the top of your head with enough force to erase thoughts.
Air leaves you all once.
Your body goes back with force, the concrete of the sidewalks rushing up before you can even register that you’re falling.
You don’t feel the landing.
You’re already gone before your body makes contact.
The ambulance door swings open hard.
Two paramedics rush in with a stretcher.
“Female, roughly mid-thirties–struck by falling debris,” one of the paramedics calls.
Whitaker is already moving.
“Trauma Two is open,” someone shouts from the nurses’ station.
The stretcher rolls in fast.
“Unconscious on scene,” the paramedic continues. “Hasn’t come around yet. GSC eight.”
Monitors are attached within seconds. An IV is started. Hands move quickly, practiced, efficient.
Whitaker is at the bedside now, eyes already scanning your injuries.
“Witness said that the window cleaner’s bucket fell from a height,” A paramedic informs. “She went down immediately.”
“ID?” Whitaker asks without looking up.
“None,” the paramedic says, already reaching into his pocket. “But we found this on her.”
He places a chain into Whitaker’s hand.
Dog tags.
Whitaker’s focus sharpens instantly.
That changes everything.
He takes them without hesitation, already thinking they’ve just been handed the easiest part of the case. A name means history, allergies, blood type, everything they need.
“Good,” he says under his breath, almost relieved. “We got lucky.”
He flips the broken tags over.
And stops.
Abbot. Jack.
O Negative.
Fuck.
For a second, the noise of the room is completely drowned out, as if it had been pulled underwater.
He reads it again, more slowly this time, in case the name changes.
It doesn’t.
“...Jesus,” He mutters, barely audible.
A nurse glances over. “You know her?”
Whitaker doesn't answer right away. His grip tightens slightly on the chain, metal pressing into his palm like letting go of it would make this situation even worse.
Because this wasn’t luck.
This was a problem.
A large one.
But more importantly, a very specific one
“Page, Dr. Robby,” he says, voice sharper now. “And Dr. Abbot. Now.”
The nurse moves immediately at the order.
Whitaker set the tags down carefully on the tray beside you, as if they were the most important thing in this room.
Robby arrives first.
He doesn't rush in. He lets his residents lead, but the moment he steps into Trauam Two, the atmosphere shifts anyway.
“What’ve we got?” he asks, pulling on a pair of gloves.
Whitaker doesn't answer right away.
Not because he doesn't know what's going on, but because he can’t quite find the words that fit.
Instead, he shifts slightly so Robby can see you.
Not the monitors. Not the chart.
You.
Robby’s expression changes instantly. Subtle, but complete. The kind of shift that happens when a doctor stops seeing a case and starts seeing a person.
He steps closer without even thinking.
His hand finds your wrist automatically, checking your pulse. His other hand moves to your eyes, checking pupils, clinical instinct kicking in.
“Found down,” a nurse says quickly. “Struck by falling debris—window cleaner’s bucket. Unconscious on scene, brief loss of consciousness, GCS eight.”
Robby nods, but there’s a little delay in it, like the information is landing half a beat too slow.
His hand stays on your wrist a fraction longer than necessary.
“I paged Abbot.”
“How—” he starts, confused, the word barely out.
He doesn’t finish.
Because Whitaker lifts his hand, the broken chain rests between his fingers.
Just enough for Robby to see it clearly.
Dog tags.
Everything in Robby’s expression shifts. Not shock. Recognition. Then something worse. Like the entire situation snaps into place all at once.
“...Oh no,” he says quietly.
His eyes flick back to you immediately.
Because this isn’t just some random patient.
This is Jack’s wife.
Robby straightened slightly, like his body was trying to catch up with what his brain already knew.
“No,” he says under his breath, already shaking his head once. “No-no, no…”
Whitaker starts to say something. “Robby—”
But Robby isn’t listening anymore.
His attention shifts toward the door like he can feel it before it happens.
“He’s coming,” Robby says, more to himself than anyone else.
A pause.
“Fuck.” Robby exhales through his nose, one hand dragging over his face as he looks back at you again.
You’re still unconscious. Still pale. Still completely unaware of who's about to walk in.
Whitaker tries again. “Robby—”
And that's when it finally clicks in his head.
“He can’t see her like this,” Robby says, firmer now, like he’s locking onto the only thing that matters.
Not like this.
And he’s already halfway to the door, trying to get there before Jack does.
Robby barely makes it halfway across the room before the door pushes open again.
Jack.
He’s already moving fast, eyes ready to assess the situation before anyone even speaks.
“What do we have?” he asks, breath just slightly off from the rush. “You paged me.”
Robby steps in front of him, blocking the doorway without hesitation.
“Hey”
Jack frowns, thrown off more by that than anything else. “What are you doing?”
“Jack-”
“Move,” Jack says, sharper now, trying to step around him to assist the patient.
Robby doesn’t. “You can’t go in there.”
That stops him.
“What?” Jack let out a short, disbelieving breath. “Robby, what are you talking about?”
Behind him, the room keeps moving. Voices, monitors, motion, but Jack can’t see any of it past the barrier in front of him.
“Just—wait,” Robby says, quieter now.
“No,” Jack shakes his head, already trying to step around him. “No, don’t page me and then tell me to wait. Move.”
Robby shifts just an inch, and for a split second, it is enough.
An angle opens up.
Just enough for Jack to see.
There are doctors and nurses,
The bed.
You.
Unconscious.
Blood matted into your hair, dark against your skin. Clothes still damp, clinging in the wrong places.
Everything in him stops.
The sound of the room drops out completely.
“…No,” he breathes.
Robby moves immediately to block his view again.
“Jack,” he says firmly. “You can’t—”
“That’s my wife,” Jack cuts in, voice breaking under it despite his effort to hold it together. “What happened?”
He tries to move forward again. His brain tries to process what he is seeing. His weight shifts subconsciously to his real leg to ground him. But it all hits at once, too fast, too much.
“…No,” he breathes, barely there.
“Jack,” he says, low and steady. “You can’t—”
Robby stops him, hands on his chest this time.
“You cannot go in there,” Robby says, stronger now. “You know that.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know,” Robby answers. “But you will if you make a mistake.”
That lands.
Not because it calms Jack’s nerves, but because it forces clarity through the panic.
If he treats you like this… he could make it worse.
Jack’s breathing is uneven. His eyes keep trying to find you past Robby’s shoulder.
But he can’t.
“Let us do our job,” Robby says, quieter now. “We’ve got her.”
Jack doesn’t move.
Doesn’t agree but doesn't try to push past him again either.
A long, stretched-out second passes.
Then Jack steps back.
Just one step.
Like it costs him more than anything else today.
Robby watches him carefully, like he expects him to surge back towards him.
But Jack just… goes still.
The fight drains out of him all at once, as something snapped.
He turns away without another word.
The roof is silent when Robby and Whitaker find him.
Jack is at the edge, hands gripping the metal railing, shoulder tight. Not leaning over, just holding on. Like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.
The city stretches out in front og him.
He doesn’t turn.
They both know he heard them.
Robby glances once at Whitaker, then back to Jack.
“She’s stable,” he says.
No response.
Whitaker steps a little closer. “Vitals are holding. We’re sending her for CT—possible concussion, maybe a small bleed, but nothing immediately life-threatening.”
Still nothing.
Robby moves a little closer, not too fast.
“She’s going to be okay,”
That gets a reaction.
Barely.
Jack exhales slowly, the sound rough, like he’s been holding it in too long.
He doesn’t turn around.
“…Did she wake up?” he asks.
“No,” Whitaker answers. “Not yet.”
Jack nods once.
Silence returns, wind cutting across the roof.
Whitaker hesitates for a second, then—
“She had your tags on.”
That lands differently.
Something in Jack breaks, just a little.
A quiet, breathless laugh slips out of him, completely out of place against everything else.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough.
He shakes his head once, like he can’t believe it even now. “She hates rings.”
A tear slips down before he can stop it.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
He just stands there, staring out at the city, holding onto the railing like it’s the only solid thing left.
Back in your room, everything is calmer now.
Monitors still beep steadily, machines still running, but the urgency is gone, replaced with something calmer. Controlled
Jack hesitates in the doorway before stepping in.
He takes you in slowly this time, like he’s afraid moving too fast will break the moment.
A sudden movement pulls his focus.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m here.”
Your brows pull together slightly, a small reaction to the sounds of his voice.
Then your eyes flutter.
They open slowly.
Heavy.
Disoriented.
A small sound escapes you when the lights make contact with your eyes.
“Easy, babe,” he murmurs. “Don’t try to move too fast.”
You blink a few times, trying to focus.
Everything hurts. It’s too bright, too loud. Your head is throbbing.
“...Jack?” Your voice is rough, barely there.
“Yeah,” Jack says quietly, catching it. “Head’s gonna hurt. You took a bucket to the head.”
Your eyes finally land on him, and you just stare as if your brain is trying to catch up.
“I’m here,” he says again.
Relief flashes across your face. Small. Real. Your shoulder loosens, and seeing him suddenly makes everything feel less chaotic.
“You look mad,” you murmur weakly. That gets a faint breath out of him, almost a laugh.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I was.”
His hand finds yours carefully, grounding you.
“But you’re okay,” he adds. “That’s what matters.”
Your eyes drift shut for half a moment, exhaustion pulling at you.
“Mm,” you hum faintly. “Feels like I lost a battle.”
Jack huffs under his breath. “You did,” he says. “Badly.”
A faint smile tugs at your mouth, even through the ache.
“Rude,” you whisper.
Then your fingers shift against the sheet.
“Hey,” you say softly.
“Yeah?”
Your eyes flick to his chest.
“…Not on me,” you murmur.
Jack looks down at you. “What?”
“The tags,” you say, voice still rough but more alert now. “They’re not on my neck,”
You expect them to be there; they have been for years.
Jack exhales through his nose, almost amused.
He reaches into his pocket.
Carefully, he pulls out the chain.
His dog tags.
Worn. Familiar. Still his.
He places them gently into your hand.
“That’s how they identified you, Mrs. Abbot,” he says quietly.
That makes your expression shift, softening, something warm and tried underneath it.
Then your eyes drop the break.
The link halfway down snapped from the impact.
“Oh,” you murmur. “It’s broken,”
“Yeah,” he answers. “We’ll fix it.”
You study him for a second, still holding onto the chain lightly as if it grounds you.
“Thankfully,” you murmur, “the government likes labelling properly.”
That gets a quiet breath out of him.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You nod faintly.
“Very official,” you add. “Important documentation.”
Jack shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
“And what,” he says, voice lower now, teasing, “are you properly of?”
You don’t even hesitate.
“You.”
The teasing fades out of his expression for a second, something quieter replacing it.
“…Yeah?” he asks softly.
Your grip on the tags tightens just slightly.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Been that way for a while.”
He holds your hand a little tighter.
“Good,” he says quietly.
Then, softer:
“Keep it that way.”
Your eyes start to drift again, exhaustion pulling at you.
Summary: You didn’t know an abandoned baby was going to lead to a conversation about the future. God, you guys had only started dating a couple of months ago!
Content Warning: Fluff. Kissing. Explicit language. Discussion of your relationship. Secret relationship. Kissing.
Word Count: 1.2k
A/N: You are telling me I woke up at 3am and didn’t write smut? What is this world coming to?
AO3 Link
You both hear Dana at the same time, as she walks around asking the staff about kinship adoption for baby Jane Doe.
Your eyes stay glued to the computer screen in front of you as you chart on your patient, but you feel Jack's eyes on you, the stare like a brand on your skin. You both had agreed to keep your relationship under wraps for now as you had only been dating a couple of months.
You slowly drag your eyes away from the screen in front of you, finding Jack's in an instant. He gives you a ‘we could totally handle a baby’ look.
It stops you in your tracks, your face reacting before your mind has a moment to catch up. The confusion and bewilderment is clear on your face. ‘Absolutely not’ you shoot back at him with your eyes. God damn, you guys had just started dating essentially. He was already thinking about kids?
You jerk your head towards the supply room, motion telling him to follow you, as you log out of the computer and make your way there.
As soon as the door closes behind you, you turn to face him, finger pointed at him. “No! Get that look off your face, Mr. I-like-to-volunteer-with-the-SWAT-team-in-my-spare-time. We are not adopting a baby.”
His smirk is both infuriating and incredibly hot. “I didn't say—”
“You were thinking about it! You think I don't know you? I know you like—”
“What am I thinking right now?” He interrupts you.
“What?” You ask, his question throwing you off your train of thought.
“Tell me. What am I thinking right now?” He crosses his arms, waiting for you to answer him.
You rub your hand over your face, sputtering. “You are thinking that we could take care of a baby! Jack, we just started dating! We don't even live together!”
“Is that such a bad thing? That I think we could handle it?”
You chew the inside of your cheek when someone comes into the supply room, cutting off your conversation. “Dr. Abbott, they need you in trauma one. Another firework wound. Fifteen year old male with open wounds on his face and neck.”
He leaves you in the supply room, your mind still on the abandoned baby and the state of your relationship. You were dating a psychopath. That was the only explanation. A crazy, hot, super smart, sarcastic psychopath.
He finds you later in the room with the baby, bouncing lightly on your feet with the infant in your arms. You didn't even hear him come in as you whisper to the child. “And he is crazy. Even if he is the best person I've ever dated. Batshit crazy.”
He smiles, leaning against the wall, taking in the sight in front of him, as it melts his heart. One day you were going to make a wonderful mother. Make him a father if he has anything to say in the matter. The baby babbles back like she understood every word. Pushing off the wall, he says softly, hands in his pockets. “I'm not sure you should be cussing in front of the baby. You are making me rethink if we could handle this.”
Your body jolts, your grip tightening in the infant. “Jack, you scared me. You need to start wearing a bell. And we were having girl talk. You wouldn't understand.”
He chuckles, pushing himself off the wall to stand behind you, looking over your shoulder, down at the baby. “Girl talk? You are telling her I am crazy.”
You incline your head to look at him. “Am I telling her lies?”
His hand finds your waist, squeezing gently. “She is supposed to figure it out on her own.”
You scoff, looking at the baby as she stares to drift off to sleep. She really is adorable. “Jack. This isn't like adopting a pet. This is a life changing decision.”
He nods in agreement. “Definitely.”
“We would be stuck together for eighteen years.”
“Good thing when I think about the future, you are all I see.”
You set the baby down in the warmer. There is no way you heard him right. “What did you just say?”
Jack pulls you in front of him. “When I think about tomorrow, you are there. When I think about next week, you are there. A year from now? Five years from now? Sweetheart, you are still the one I picture with me. Waking up next to me. Complaining about how much coffee I drink and that I left my socks on the floor.”
He steps closer, fingers brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen in your face, fingers lingering on your cheek. “Ever since my wife died, I didn't want to think about my future for a long time. It felt like I was treading water just trying to get through each day. But now? You have given me a future I didn't think I would get to have again…and now I'm praying I'm not scaring you off by saying all that.”
Your hands reach for his face before you can think about how bad of an idea it is to be kissing him at your place of work, lips crashing together, both gentle and desperate. Your fingers tangle in his soft, short, gray locks as his arms wrap around you, bringing you closer, so there isn't an inch between the two of you.
When you finally pull back, you smile at him. “I guess I didn't realize how serious you were about me.”
He smirks down at you. “Since when do you think I do things half way?”
You scoff and he kisses you again, slower this time. Like you both have all the time in the world. Like you aren't in the emergency department of PTMC on the evening of the fourth of July. Arguably one of the busiest nights in every hospital in the United States of America.
“You are crazy.”
“Crazy for you.” He counters, and you roll your eyes in response.
“Are you really asking me to move in and foster a baby with you? After dating for three months?” You whisper, your hands having found their way to rest on his chest.
He glances back at the baby, asleep behind the two of you. “When you say it like that it sounds crazy.”
“No shit.”
“I take it back. You keep cussing around the baby. Clearly, this isn't the environment I want her to be raised in.” He teases.
You slap his chest playfully. “Says the man who curses more than me.”
“She would have no chance between the two of us, huh?” He whispers, his fingers slipping underneath the hem of your scrub top, rubbing against the skin of your waist. “Okay. Maybe we won't adopt the baby. But maybe you should try moving in?”
You bite your lip. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.” He murmurs. “But you stay at my place at least three to four days a week, already…just saying. Practically halfway there.”
The sound of the door opening has the two of you jumping away from each other. Dana pokes her head in, eyes suspicious as she looks between you and Jack. “How is baby Jane Doe?”
“Asleep.” You squeak.
“Then get your asses back out here. There is plenty of work to do!” She chastises.
“Yes, ma'am.” You say, saluting her as you move past Jack out into the chaotic mess you call work, leaving Dana and Jack alone.
“You gonna marry that girl?” Dana asks point blank, looking up at the older attending.
Jack just watches you as you go into a patient room. “You have no idea.”
Pairing: Jack Abbot x ex wife!reader Word Count: 5.1k
Description: Years after your separation, life throws you back into Jack Abbot’s orbit in the worst way possible, carrying a devastating diagnosis that could be the reason your marriage fell apart in the first place: a tumor that may had erased the part of you that fell in love with him all those years back. And he’s not ready to lose you twice.
Tags/Warnings: Ex!wife reader, no specific age but they were together many years, ANGST, hurt/comfort (trust), talks about divorce, reader has big ex wifey energy, resulting in a bitter Jack, mentions of a tumor in the head and seizures but the medical aspect is very superficial, bad prognosis, suggestive comments and couple’s banter.
Note: This is the result of angsty thoughts invading my head at 2 am, so enjoy (it gets better trust) 🤍
Part 2 - Masterlist
My hand was the one you reached for all throughout The Great War.
There was a time where you believed you were tied to Jack Abbot by an invisible string.
Despite the crazy life he’d chosen, the long hours, the abrupt calls that took him away from you, the terrors of nightmares and traumas you couldn’t take away from him, you’d managed to love him through it all.
You loved him through the military years, and the consequences he carried home. Through the transition of losing a part of himself, and made sure that what was left wasn’t damaged by it. Loved him through the process of going back to emergency medicine. Through the night shifts and the missed holidays and anniversaries.
You loved him when his haircolor changed like the seasons. You loved the man in uniform and the man in scrubs and the man who sometimes came home too tired to even speak.
You loved and loved and loved him until…something snapped.
You…started calling him out more. For the hours and the absence and for the way he could be right there and still feel a thousand miles away. And Jack, who had spent most of his life learning how to stay calm under pressure, tried to be patient. Tried to love you through the sharpness, just like you’d loved him through his, even if he didn’t understand where yours was coming from.
He tried and tried and tried until…the invisible string between you snapped in pieces he couldn’t tie back together.
Time passed, and none of you survived the war you’d started in your own home. So you left. Sent out divorce papers that you never signed. You didn’t understand why back then, but now…you kind of do.
You take a deep breath as the ambulance bay doors slide open in front of you. People who take this entrance are usually bleeding, or screaming, or being rolled in on a stretcher, but you walk in with your head high and a pep on your step. Cashmere coat on, boots clicking the floor, a purse perched on your shoulder.
Seeing the ED after all these years hits you like a deja vu. From bringing Jack something he forgot in the middle of the night, to showing up at the ass crack of dawn still half asleep but smiling, waiting for him to finish charting so you could eat something together. Your memories are a little fuzzy these days, but there was a time where you knew this place almost as well as he did.
You reach the nurse’s station with a small smile on your face, only for it to widen when the face behind is not the one you expected.
“Well, what do we have here?” You say, coming to stop in front of her.
Dana looks up from the papers she’s holding, and her eyes go wide for a second. The look of surprise gets quickly replaced by one of her signature smirks, placing one hand on her hip.
“Well, I could ask the same damn thing, darling,” she says, amused.
That makes you laugh, and Dana’s face lightens up. Because despite everything, despite the years, despite the absence, you always had a soft spot for each other.
“I thought Lena was on the night shift,” you tease. Dana sets the papers down and huffs, looking at you through her glasses.
“Please. It’s not weird to see me covering someone for the right price,” she says, not being subtle about looking up and down at you. “Now what is strange as hell, is seeing you walk in here after all this time.”
“Why? I’m just here to see my hubby,” you say casually. “Is it a quiet night, or do I have to wait like the good old days?” You ask, feigning innocence with a single shoulder shrug.
“Oh, don’t you start! don’t you jinx my shift like that,” she says, almost offended, making you laugh harder. She narrows her eyes at you playfully, shaking her head. “You evil, evil woman.”
“So I’ve been told,” you snicker, checking something on your nails. “It’s good to see you, Dana,” you add after a moment, and she pretends not to notice the way you pick on the skin of your thumb.
“You too, hun,” she says fondly, trying to search for your eyes. “Now, are you going to tell me what brings you to my ED or do I have to waterboard it out of you?”
Before you can think of a way to evade the question, you hear a voice behind you that makes everything inside you stop.
“Let me know when the labs are back, Mateo.”
You turn to the source, and for a moment you can’t control the look on your face when your eyes land on him. Jack Abbot is walking out of Trauma Two with a nurse, too focused on pulling off his gloves to realize you’re standing frozen by the nurse’s station. You clear your throat and straighten up quickly, putting on that nonchalance mask back on again as Dana just smiles to herself.
Jack’s head finally snaps up and his mouth opens, probably ready to tell something to Dana, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees you there. He doesn't have a good time controlling his emotions either. He blinks a few times to make sure he’s seeing right, and that you’re not a cruel product of his imagination. It’s too early in the shift for that.
But you’re there. You are there. Wait–you’re there?
The confusion quickly gets replaced by anger. It’s been a long time. Three years of nothing, and this is how you show up? Looking polished, composed, infuriatingly beautiful, like you didn’t leave a hole in his chest he was never able to stitch back together.
“Are you lost?” The words coming out his mouth are sharper than he expected, but the coldness is familiar to you.
“Jack,” you say, forcing a plastic smile and tilting your head. “Is that the way to greet your wife?”
“My wife…” Jack mutters with an incredulous laugh.
He looks at Dana all scandalized, offended. She just shrugs unimpressed, not interested in getting involved in whatever messy drama is about to unfold.
She will totally watch, though.
“If you’re here to tell me you finally signed the papers, then you wasted a whole trip. You could've just mailed them,” he says sharply, too blinded to notice the way your smile faltered at that.
“I’m not here for that,” you say, holding tighter to the bag on your shoulder. “There’s-”
“You know you’re not supposed to walk in through the ambulance bay unless you’re dying,” he continues, before giving you a head to toe assessing look that ends with a bitter huff. “And by the looks of it, seems like the devil has taken care of his own.”
You chuckle, because it’s the only thing you can do at this point. Because if anyone in the world has earned the right to call you a devil, it’s Jack.
For the last year of your marriage. For every sharp word, every time you didn’t want to listen, every fight that left him standing there wondering when loving each other had become something exhausting instead of home. For the way you ended things. For how you walked away and never came back.
“Dr.Abbot?” A male voice coming from the trauma room breaks the tense moment between you.
You look at the doctor, one you remember seeing last as a first year resident, trailing behind your husband with a notepad and an iced coffee in hand. You can’t recall his name, but he looks like he got his attending position after all.
Jack turns to him, “I’ll be there in a second, Shen,” he says gently, then back to you, more impatient, “I’m busy. So if you’re done making your little grand entrance, you can leave the same way you came in. You seem to be pretty good at it.”
The way he talks to you shouldn't hurt this much. You deserve it, for how unkind you were with him in the first place. For how badly you hurt him. For how you ran his endless patience thin. Now, in hindsight, there are many things you wish were different.
But wishing won’t make the medical records in your purse change. And even though you’ve earned every blow he throws at you, you still square your shoulders. Shrug it off like it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't matter.
“I’m not leaving until I speak to you…privately,” you say, turning back to Dana with a smile. “Break room’s still the same way, right?”
“Down the hall to the left, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head with a chuckle.
You blow her a playful kiss as gratitude, one she pretends to dodge, rolling her eyes playfully as she walks away to continue with her duties. You round the nurse’s station, and walk straight past Jack, close enough that the heavy fabric of your coat almost brushes his arm, but it’s your scent that hits him like a punch to the stomach.
Your perfume. The perfume. The one you wore to all your dates, the one you married him with, and the one he had to scrub off his clothes like a toxic chemical when he talked himself into getting you out of his head after you left.
Dammit.
He sees you stroll to the break room with that sway of your hips that used to keep him up at night, trying to gather the courage to invite you out when you first met. Fucking dammit. You ruined his life. You keep doing it.
“Dr. Abbot!” Shen calls again, a little sharper even for him.
Jack sighs deeply, turning defeated to the trauma room, as the same question pounds his head over and over again.
What on earth could you possibly want?
The second you shut the door of the break room and you’re alone again, your shoulders sag and the mask slips right off. The exhaustion in your bones makes you take a seat as soon as you see it, placing your bag on the chair next to you and pulling out the black folder you’ve been carrying around for months. You place it on the table, and look away as if that would change the contents of it.
Your eyes meet your reflection on the microwave sitting on the counter, and you can’t help the sigh that leaves your lips. You did well making yourself look like the ex wife who’s thriving and has her life together.
What a joke.
You slump back into your chair, and wait.
Jack makes you wait a long time. You figure it’s his petty way of getting back at you somehow, or maybe he’s just trying to ease off his anger before he walks in. But hey, at least you were able to reassemble yourself. By the time he walks in, you’re sitting at the table with your legs crossed neatly, coat still on, folder placed in front of you. Composed enough to make him think that this is still some kind of performance.
You hate that your brain keeps telling you to push more. To make him snap. The string has been broken for a while. Why do you still feel the need to pull?
Jack doesn’t sit, even if his leg would thank him for it, he just stands with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at you impatiently.
“What, you’re not joining me?” You tease, pushing open the chair across from you with your boot.
“I’m not staying long,” he says flatly, ignoring the seat. “So whatever this is, start talking.”
You hum in feign amusement, leaning back a little. “Why? Seems like a quiet night for me.”
Jack closes his eyes, shaking his head, thinking about every single self regulation method his therapist had taught him. Five things you can see, four things you can–
“Relax,” you say.
Wow. How didn’t he think of that? Could've saved him thousands in therapy.
He realizes the only way to get this over with, is getting it over with. So he opens his eyes, and this time they land straight on the folder in front of you. Whatever restraint he was trying to hold on to, spills out in a humorless laugh.
“What is that?” He nods to it, “A list of what you want to keep?”
“Jack, that’s not–”
“I already told my lawyer you can keep everything,” he says anyways, letting the words spill, because he’s been bleeding over this for years and he’s sure as hell not stopping now. “The house. The cars. Even the goddamn bedsheets. You can keep it all, I don’t want any of it,” he says calmly, like he isn't still losing sleep over it every day. “I moved out a while ago anyway, it doesn’t mean anything to me.”
It gets harder to keep your resolve, especially with the sharp pain throbbing in your head. But of course he doesn’t want it. Why would he want the remnants of a home you poisoned? A marriage you turned sharp and miserable and impossible to hold together?
A lump forms in the back of your throat, but you swallow it down like every bad news you’ve heard over the course of the last months.
“It’s not about the divorce, I already told you that,” you say quietly.
Jack just stares at you, exasperated. Every second you’re in front of him burns his insides. Every second you share the same oxygen he can’t breathe. Every second of your presence is just a reminder of the greatest thing he’s fucked up in his life.
You just pick up the folder and hold it out to him. He hesitates at first, but you have no bitchy remarks left on you. The faster you get it over with, the faster it will all be over, so you shake it for him to take it, until he finally does.
Your gaze stays on him as he flips through the papers inside; lab results, endless consult notes, imaging reports. The annoyance doesn’t disappear right away, but his salt and pepper brows furrow together as his brain catches up with what he’s reading. He digs for the actual CT, and comes across a series of images that back up everything the reports say.
He instinctively steps closer to the chair, eyes still fixed on the papers, sitting down mindlessly as he spreads everything on the table. The only thing he can focus on is your name printed on every paper. Abbot here, Abbot there. When he finally looks up at you, all the color has drained from his face.
“What is this?” He asks. Because what the fuck kind of bad joke is this.
“Well,” you clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest, “you did say I shouldn’t walk in through the ambulance bay if I wasn’t dying.”
“This isn’t funny,” he says, frustrated. God, you forgot how intense his eye contact was. “What is this? How–when did this happen?”
You play with your fingers on your lap, and sigh, “Ten months ago, I…I had a seizure at work,” you say softly, forcing yourself to keep going. “They did the scans, and it–it didn’t take long to find it.”
It.
Jack stares at it on the CT, then his eyes drift to the reports. Mass. Tumor. Inoperable. Terms that have always been technical to him, medical, now seem like the cruelest words ever written by man.
“I’ve seen a couple of neurosurgeons,” you continue, “and they all came to the same conclusion–”
“No.”
“Jack, they said they can’t take it out–”
“No,” he cuts you off sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not–I don’t agree.”
“You don’t have to agree,” you don’t raise your voice, just smile sadly. It’s something you’ve been telling yourself over and over. “Guess the devil doesn’t look after their own in the end.”
“Stop, don’t…” Jack sighs, dropping the papers just to run his hands roughly across his face. “I didn’t mean that–fuck. I didn’t mean any of that–”
You haven’t even gotten through the worst of it, and you’re already exhausted. God, these timebombs suck your energy right off. You reach for the water bottle on your purse, and drink away the premature grief building in your throat.
Jack watches you carefully, and for the first time since he saw you again, he allows himself to see past the veil of hate he’d tried to see you through. He sees the crack in your smile, the shadows under your eyes, the real strain and exhaustion you can’t quite dress up with a fancy coat.
He sees he wasn’t there to hold you through it.
“Why didn't you call me?” He asks, and you fear it’s the most devastated you’ve ever heard him.
You sigh, and set the bottle down. Because how do you even explain that? What even was it? Pride? Shame? Guilt? Love?
Fear.
How do you tell the man you wrecked that you did think of him first? That even after years apart, even after every awful thing, he was the first person you needed when the ground fell out from under your feet?
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit.
I was scared.
“Bother me?”
“After everything that happened, I thought…I thought I should solve it on my own,” you shrug.
I didn’t think I deserved your help.
“You didn’t think that your husband, a doctor, would want to ‘solve it’??” he snaps. Offended, yes. Furious, yes. But underneath all of it…it’s the hurt that speaks.
“You’re not a neurosurgeon,” you laugh bitterly, more defensive than you want to. “Your opinion is not gonna change–”
“It’s not just my opinion!” He says, standing up because his frustration is going to make him burst if he stays still. “It’s–it’s me being there. You went through all of this alone.”
The only sounds in the room are both your heavy breaths. You keep your rigid posture, even if every part inside of you is breaking. Jack runs his hand through his curls, once, twice, then tugs a little on the third time.
“Jack…” you call out softly, but he doesn’t look at you. His gaze darts to other five things he can see, hands on his hips as he grounds himself. “I’m not here to fight. And I’m not here for you to solve it…there’s just something I wanted to talk about.”
He finishes his little exercise and looks at you again, bracing himself for an impact he’s not sure if he can take. You know he can’t. So you take another deep breath before speaking.
“The doctors said the tumor is in an area that affects behavior. Like my moods and personality. They said it may have been growing for years.”
There’s a tremble in Jack’s lower lip that makes you hesitate, you know he already knows what it means, yet you keep going.
“They think it might explain why I was so…particular these last few years,” you let out a broken little laugh, shaking your head quickly to try to fight the tears prickling your eyes. “I know it’s not an excuse, maybe it wasn’t that,” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks angrily. “Maybe I was just a bitch.”
“Hey–no, honey, don’t say that,” he says, the endearment falling out of his lips so naturally.
Jack doesn’t think twice to step closer and drop to one knee in front of you, groaning at this prosthetic but still reaching for your hands on your lap. You try to retreat back so fast your chair screeches against the floor, but he doesn’t let you pull back, instead he interlocks his fingers with yours, almost hissing at how cold you are.
You shake your head, tears flooding your cheeks now. “Don’t–don’t speak to me like that, you can still be mad at me,” you sob, but he keeps his warm grip firm. “You have every right to be, I was so mean to you, Jack. I snapped at you for everything. I made you feel like you were always doing something wrong. I turned our house into somewhere awful and I knew you were trying, and I kept pushing anyway.”
He has tears in his eyes now too, but he lets you get it out of your system. Lets the years of regret spill out of you all at once, god knows his therapist has heard him many times.
“Jack you’d come home exhausted and I’d always find something else to pick apart. Something else to be angry about. And you looked at me like you didn’t recognize me anymore, and I hated it because I thought you were wrong. Even then. I knew I was hurting you and I kept doing it. I made you carry all of it. So maybe now I deserve to carry all of this alone.”
There it is. Jack breaks completely at your confession. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, catching the tears that won’t stop coming.
“Sweetheart…you should’ve called me,” he says again, but he’s not angry this time. He’s grieving. “You should’ve called me.”
“I know.”
“You should not have done this by yourself.”
“I know,” you cry out, he just keeps caressing your cheek with his thumb. “My–my memory is not the best now and I just…I needed to tell you I was sorry while I still could.”
You try to smile through the tears, you really do, but he looks so frightened. So wrecked. Your hands fly to his wrists now, clinging instead of pulling away.
“I’m scared, Jack,” you confess.
He remembers you saying that on a holiday when he hauled you up deep into the sea, just so he could hold you in his arms. He remembers you saying that when he put on a horror movie just so you could hide behind his biceps. He remembers you saying that before trying a new dish at your favorite diner instead of the usual you ordered.
All those times were said with a laugh, or a cheeky smile. But this? This is pure, unadulterated fear. He is scared. He’s terrified. So he does what he always did best: hold you.
He lifts himself up just enough to wrap his arms around you. You let yourself go instinctively, realizing how much you’ve needed this the past few months. He holds you so tight, so desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing your back. You bury your face in his neck and sob. You feel the way Jack shifts, pressing his lips to your hair while he whispers sweet nothings.
“I’m here. I’m here, honey. I got you.”
“I don’t–”
“Don’t tell me what you deserve right now.”
That makes you cry harder. He rocks you a few times, just like he used to on the worst nights. Just like he always vowed to.
“I loved you through all of it,” he confesses. “Even when I was angry. Even when I thought you hated me. I never stopped. I never stopped.”
“I’m so sorry,” you sniffle.
“I know, honey, I know.”
“I loved you the whole time too, I swear,” you keep going. “That’s why–that’s why I never signed the papers. My heart didn’t want to let you go. It never did.”
“It’s okay–“
“No it’s not.”
“But it is,” he insists. Firm and honest. “You were sick, and I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something–“
“No. Don’t blame yourself for this too,” pulling yourself apart from him enough to look into those beautiful hazel eyes. “Leave the regretting to me.”
“Sweetheart–“
“Jack.” You narrow your eyes at him, and it brings him back to all those times you won even the most pointless of arguments with just one look.
He huffs a teary laugh, dropping his head in defeat. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” he says, lifting his head again. There’s a new spark in his eye trying to make its way past the previous devastation. “Then you leave the rest to me.”
You look at him, eyebrows furrowed, but he just pushes a strand of hair from your face.
“I’m getting you admitted here,” he says, you immediately tense, but he speaks before you can refuse. “No, listen to me. We have some of the best neurosurgeons in the country connected to this hospital. I am going to pull every string I have, call in every favor I can, and get every set of eyes possible on this.”
“I can’t do this again,” you shake your head.
“Yes, you can.”
“I’ve already seen so many people, Jack. I’ve heard it all. I’ve made peace with it.”
“No you haven’t, and that’s okay. You came here because some part of you knew I would never let this go. So don’t ask me to. It’s offensive, honey.”
Well shit. Seems like your husband of years seems to actually know you better than you know yourself.
“I’ve accepted it, Jack. Memento mori.”
Liar liar pants on fire.
He grins. “Then I guess we’re both liars.”
You look at him confused, but he just sighs.
“I told you I moved out…but I didn’t,” he admits. “I still live in the house I built for you. I still sleep in our bed, on my side of course, cause I know you never liked the way I dipped your side of the mattress,” he laughs at the memory, making you smile. “Your books are still on the nightstand. I never moved them.”
You imagine all the things he never brought himself to move. The way time stopped running in a house that was once filled with laughter and love. So much love. Jack just does a helpless shrug.
“You left…but you never really left me.”
Yeah. That’ll do it. You’re crying again before you even realize it. Your hands go to cover your face, but he intercepts them midway.
“No, no, honey. No more hiding from me,” he says, so softly it doesn’t exactly help your situation. “We’re in this together now.”
You nod, his thumbs reach out to dry your tears.
“I know I’m not the type of surgeon you need. I know I can’t fix this with my own hands. But I’m still a doctor,” he explains softly. “And most importantly…I’m still your husband. So I will be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to figure this out. We are going to try. Oh honey we are going to ask questions. We are going to make the smartest people in every room look at this until they are sick of seeing my face.”
That makes you laugh. He delights at the sound.
“Jack…”
“I know you’re tired, my love,” he continues, his voice turning even softer. “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve been carrying this by yourself for too long and the idea of starting over with new doctors makes you want to crawl out of your skin. But you do not get to give up before I even get a chance to fight for you.”
The weight in your chest that has been dragging you down lately eases, if only a little, letting you breathe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all of this would’ve been easier if he’d known from the start. Maybe it can be easier now. Even if he can’t solve it…you’ll let him try.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he nods. “You’re coming home with me tonight, and we’ll deal with this in the morning. We’ll start here, and if it doesn’t work there’s always New York, I can cash a few favors in Washington too–“
“But your job–“
“Can wait,” he states without hesitation. “Sweetheart, I've been here for a long time, and I’m going to use that to my advantage. Maybe it’s time for my sabbatical, yeah? That way I can take you everywhere you need to be. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“…a sabbatical.”
“Robby took one,” he shrugs. “Three months away and it didn’t kill him. I’m willing to take whatever time they allow me.”
“What about SWAT duty?” You push. He lets out a chuckle.
“I know you might miss the uniform–“
You slap his arm weakly.
“Alright, alright,” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Just–don’t worry about it, okay? I meant it when I said I got you, honey.”
You sigh, but it’s more out of relief than anything. How you needed to hear those words. How you needed him.
“And in the meantime, you can tell me your favorite memories of us…so I can keep them safe for you while we figure this out.”
Jesus Christ. How could you have ever walked away from this man? At this point you’re gonna have to sign the papers just to marry him again.
“Jack…”
“Come on, from the hip, give me one,” he says playfully, and you know he’s not letting this go.
You tap your chin and glance away, pretending to think. Your eyes light up when a very specific memory pops into your head.
“I remember our naked yoga sessions very fondly,” you say, completely serious, but it manages to get a genuine surprised laugh from him.
“Of course you do,” he laughs, throwing his head back at the memory. He still does it, at sunrise when he’s not working, with your mat still next to his. “You always ended up bouncing on me.”
“Jack!!” You say, heat creeping up your face in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
You both laugh about it for a moment, then fall into a quiet that could never be described as awkward. Not between you. Not anymore.
“I missed this,” he says quietly, those intense hazel eyes piercing into yours. You loved those eyes. You still do. “I missed you.”
You smile sadly, cupping his face with your hands. “You missed nice me.”
“I missed my wife.”
Your heart skips a beat at that. So many years he’d called you that, until you threw it all away. Or, well, the thing in your head did? Whatever. It is what it is.
Your eyes travel all over his face. Damp lashes, tension in his jaw even if he tries to hide it with a cheeky grin, all the wrinkles time has carved into him while you were apart.
“I missed my husband,” you finally say, just as soft.
He smiles at that. You loved that smile, you still do.
“Then let me take care of you, honey.”
We can plant a memory garden
Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair
There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair
And we will never go back to that bloodshed
Part 2 - Morning Glory.
Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 💋
summary: as jack's soon-to-be ex-wife, you never expected to see him again. until you land in his ER.
wc: 1831
tags/warnings: jack abbot x reader, hopeful ending, not really angst/not really fluff, robby, shen, and lena make an appearance, medical inaccuracies galore
notes: i wanted to write something to get a taste of jack and his character so this is pretty short! also i imagine this happens pretty early on in the night which is why robby is just meandering around.
Robby’s is the first face you see once the EMTs roll your gurney onto the concrete of the ambulance bay. He looks at you with surprise mixed with the slightest bit of disgust. If this is how he’s reacting, you imagine Jack’s will be similar, if not more repulsed. You’ve had the entire ambulance ride to picture the way his mouth might press together. You also spent the entire ride praying to anyone that would listen that tonight would be Jack’s rare day off.
“I begged them to take me anywhere else. They have good morals apparently. They couldn’t even be swayed with a hundred dollar bill,” you reason with Robby.
“She passed out and hit her head on a lab bench. Regained consciousness on our way here,” the EMT with the shaved head announces.
“I told them I’m fine. It’s just a concussion,” you interrupt.
Robby ignores you again, discussing with a younger doctor about the course of action. Throwing your head back onto the pillow, you stare up as the night sky morphs into fluorescent lighting. Shen materializes at the side of the bed, the ever-present coffee cup latched to his hand.
“John!” When you sit up suddenly, the numb pain strikes the back of your skull. Your hand cradles the spot and John’s hand slowly pushes you back to relax.
“I know you’re excited to see me but slow down there,” John teases.
“You know you were always my favorite resident,” you say with your eyes closed.
“Attending now,” he corrects you.
Your eyes snap open to look at him. “No way! Congrats!”
He thanks you as you wheel past Lena. “Hey, you. South 15’s open.” She points towards the back of the unit.
You wave at her, “Can you please tell them this gurney is dramatic? I can walk.”
She shakes her head, “Hospital policy.”
You’re transferred to the bed and you look back at Shen, “We really don’t need an attending for this. Maybe like an R1 even.”
“Jack would kill me if I let an R1 anywhere near you,” John snorts, sipping on his Dunkin. A nurse snaps a pulse-ox to your index finger and blood-pressure cuff around your bicep.
Your intestines flip at the sound of his name. It’s another reminder that he might be roaming these halls. You swallow down what you truly want to say. That Jack would probably let an MS1 perform open-heart surgery on you. “He won’t know if you don’t tell him.” You try to bargain with John.
“He’ll find out when he sees your name on the board.” He matches the sing-song tone you started. There’s the confirmation that he’s working tonight. “We’re going to run a CT to rule out a TBI. I’ll be back!”
He disappears behind the curtain and you’re left with the gut-churning knowledge your husband will burst into the room any second now. The smell of antiseptic confines you in both severity of scent and the memories that drag themselves out of you.
The times you’ve stopped by the hospital with snacks just to have a reason to see him.
The barbeques you both hosted for the night shift and the rare day shift tag-alongs in your backyard.
The life you had constructed together that had crumbled under the weight of distance.
The door creaks and the air in the room suddenly thickens. The unsteady gait you have come to memorize echoes in the silence. He swipes the curtain open and you fight the urge to hide underneath the blanket as if he might forget who’s laying in the hospital bed.
“You’re back in Pittsburgh and you never said anything?” is the first thing you hear your husband say.
“I’ve only been back for a few weeks. There’s no protocol for when you tell your ex you’re home again.” You sit up in bed.
“I’m still your husband. I never signed those papers,” he reminds you, arms crossing over his chest.
The metal around his finger glimmers like it’s taunting you. Like it wants you to remember the vows you made years ago. Jack catches where your gaze stops and in return, he looks down to where your hand is resting on the blanket. It all happens too quickly for you to conceal the bare spot on your finger. His lips purse together at the corner of his mouth. You recognize that look. The anger that disguises the overarching feeling of hurt. It was the same expression you were worried his face would permanently contort into during arguments.
“We can drag it out as long as you want. It doesn’t change the fact we’re still breaking up.”
“I haven’t seen you in person in two years. Don’t you think you should look someone in the face when you’re serving them divorce papers?” Jack shuffles closer to the bedside.
You don’t have an answer to that. It was intentional – having your lawyer serve the divorce papers while you were in Seattle.
You weren’t spiteful.
You were pathetic.
You didn’t know if you could look into the hazel eyes that have burned themselves into your retina and say the words, “I want a divorce.”
But you don’t tell Jack that. “Is this really the best time to discuss our relationship’s implosion?”
You lean your head back, shutting your eyes as the lighting suddenly seems brighter. The freezing pain radiates around your skull and you can do nothing but bring your hands to your head.
“I’ll be back with pain meds.” Jack says as he lingers by the door. You hear it open and shut. You’re left with your thoughts again and the headache you can’t decide is the concussion or the reunion.
Sleep tugs you into a brief reprieve. You dream of sunny days alongside Jack – not a memory but familiar enough that it could have been your future. He smiles at you, lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. You kiss the wrinkles that were evidence of happiness present and past. The elation that defined your married life had been taken for granted but here, in your dreams, you could hold on to it for as long as you could.
At least until a tech knocks alongside a nurse informing you that they’re taking you up to CT.
The migraine has seemingly disappeared with no possible explanation other than Jack coming in while you were asleep. That thought makes your stomach swoop. There’s an intimacy in seeing someone in their most vulnerable state. A level of intimacy you haven’t shared in a year since the separation. If you closed your eyes and really tried, you could only barely remember what he looked like sleeping. His gray-streaked curls would stick up every which way and he’d never admit it but his snores were reminiscent of a steam train. The memory warms you for a minute.
When you finally get the confirmation of your diagnosis, it’s not John but Jack.
“It’s a concussion. No brain bleed or any other damage. You need to take it slow for a day or two.” Jack relays, tablet cradled in his hold.
“Yes, Dr. Abbot. Got it.”
“Just confirming, Mrs. Abbot,” he shoots back. The name hits you square in the chest.
“Low blow,” you mutter, adjusting your position on the stiff bed. Jack scoffs and opens his mouth, no doubt to retort, but you raise your hands in surrender.
“I’m sorry. For all intents and purposes, I still am Mrs. Abbot. I shouldn’t take offense to my own name.” You pat the mattress. “Can we just talk?”
Jack glances back at the door like he might be praying for a 12-car pileup to come through. He eases down leaving more than enough space between the two of you.
“How’s…Seattle?” he asks hesitantly like it pains him to speak the name of the city that whisked you 2,000 miles away.
You pull at a loose thread on the blanket, “It’s a pretty place. I loved being close to the mountains. You would’ve liked it too.” The latter statement rolls off your tongue before you can think about it.
He twists his ring around – a nervous motion you had adopted when you regularly wore yours.
You answer the question he wants to ask, “I came back two weeks ago. Turns out moving cross-country for a job doesn’t guarantee you won’t be a victim of layoffs,” you say sardonically paired with a dry laugh.
“Should’ve told them that it cost you your marriage,” Jack adds on, the side of his mouth rising.
That startles a laugh deep from your diaphragm. His eyes twinkle and his chuckle coils around yours. “I didn’t try that tactic. I’ll remember that next time I’m laid off.”
When your amusement slowly dies down, Jack rests his hand over your covered thigh, “You worked real hard for that job.”
The thin blanket does little to cool the heat of Jack’s touch. Married for 6 years and he still reduces you to a puddle like a teenage girl. “Eh, it’s okay. You can say I deserved it for letting the distance come between us.”
His eyebrows furrow, “Do you think I’m an asshole? Divorce or not, you didn’t deserve that.”
You hum and he keeps his hand on you. You hope he never moves it. “Why didn’t you sign the papers, Jack?” you whisper. The question had been tugging on your mind since he stepped into your room.
Your husband watches you like he’s tagging every small change. The only one you could pinpoint in the mirrors yourself were the bags darkening under your eyes. “Tell me to my face you want a divorce and I’ll sign whatever you want me to, baby,” his voice is low and you’d be lying if you said goosebumps didn’t rise on your skin.
This was your chance. He could sign those papers and you wouldn’t be Mrs. Abbot anymore. It’d be simple. Just three words and your connection to Jack would be severed forever. But it was easier said than done.
“Jack…” you breathe out.
He runs his hand over your head, “‘S okay. We’ll talk about this when you’re all better. I’ll call you a ride when you’re ready to be discharged.”
It’s more instinct than not when you tilt your head to brush your mouth against his wrist. Jack’s shoulders drop in an exhale. It seems like the weight on his chest has been lifted for the first time in months; it most likely has.
The exhaustion of the night catches up with you in a tidal wave. “You’ll be here when I wake up?” He works here. You know he’s not going anywhere. But he humors you anyway.
“They’ll have to pry my dead body out of this room, honey.” He captures your hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the spot on your finger your ring used to be. You fall asleep that night, the closest you’ve been to your husband in a long time.
in this one, reader is also an attending (so same post as Robby and Abbot, but she just is second under them, rotating between day and night shift so two attending are there) but yet, she's still younger and wittier, and won the contest in the who love's more Jack Abbot contest.
The July 4th incident in Trauma One, also known as the uniform incident.
Your shift has been so far, let’s say, chaotic. It was Robby last shift before his sabbatical and who will be your new colleague Dr. Al Hashimi, was already trying to change the Pitt - yes, you would still call it that way because a 6 year habit can’t go away in a day - and was putting your friend’s patience to the test.
The ER was full, yet Dana could still find places to put gurneys and wheelchairs, as Westberry was down for the day (you bet 20 on a system failure) and everyone was running on fumes, not the mention the med school doctors who were slowly trying to kill you.
You had just finished with a patient and were in need of a well deserved break (at this point, just sitting down would be considered a break.) But of course, chance was never on your side as Dana called you.
“Go to Trauma One with Robby. Cop got shot.”
You don’t even answer her, just nodding before taking some gloves, and walk your way there, without assessing who was in the room, only hearing beeping and voices overlapping.
“What do we have here ?” you finally ask, looking up and-
“Oh my God…” Jack Abbot was there, treating his fellow, his uniform on. You stay still at the entry of trauma, taking it all in. The cargo pants, large but still fitting him like a champ, the Kevlar vest on, making him even more muscular that he already was, and the whole military pattern on him was just… my gosh, he was sexy.
He looks up at you, already knowing what thought was running wild into your head, and he just… smirks.
“It stays on Abbot,” you finally say, a hint of teasing in your voice. “Trust me. You could’ve warned me, I would’ve taken my panties off before coming in there.”
He just laughs, the others in the room too focused on the patient to care - or maybe they were just used to the flirty/dirty banter between the two of you.
He was about to respond before his eyes go wide and just puts his attention back on the man laying by him. That was weird, he had never turned away a good comeback. You were about to say something when a throat cleared behind you cut you off.
“I think Dr. Robinavitch and I got this doctor,” finally says Al Hashimi. “How about you go treat other patients ?”
You stay silent as you watch Jack snickers down, then turn around and go to leave.
“Of course, right away.”
Just before you pass the threshold, you glare at Abbot who just winks at you.
Bastard… Sexy but bastard anyway.
The Christmas bet
Ah Christmas, the calmest day ever in the ER… yeah, if you still believed in Santa and the freaking Grinch. You don’t know why, but holidays tend to make people do stupid things, and of course, stupid things lead to the ER, and so, to you.
So far, you’ve had Legos stuck in noses (twice actually), wrapping papers incident (a man who wrapped his attributes to make a surprise, only for him to do an allergic reaction to it) and other incidents.
Ahmad, to make the shift go smoothly and in joy, started a bet. : “Who will kiss under the mistletoe he put up in the break room ?" You could match nurses, doctors and even paramedics, along with the time it would happen. You were waiting until the you couldn’t bet anymore to put yours in the game, mostly waiting to see when Jack would come to take his shift.
$800 were in the pot, and more were to come.
You had a plan, a real one, to take it all and finally buy that new mattress you’ve eyeing on for ages (a Christmas present by you, for you). But for that, you needed Jack.
Just as you were about to give up on your new memory foam mattress, the man arrived, backpack dangling off his shoulder, his eyes assessing the room. They finally landed on you, and the frown he had on disappeared, replaced by a soft smile.
You beamed back, smiling at him before taking off running to Ahmad.
“$20 on me and Abbot in 10 minutes,” you say, already giving him the money.
“My, my, my… someone is wishing for something” he trades off, moving his eyebrows subjectively while writing your choice.
“Yeah, a new mattress.” You run back toward Jack, watching him look at charts. He looks up when he feels you next to him.
“Hey, how was it today?” He asks, putting the charts down and angling his body toward yours.
“Good, the usual…though I had a patient coming in with a rash on his penis because he wrapped it up for his girlfriend… even had a bow on.”
“What ? Seriously ? Why do I always miss the funny ones ?”
“I don’t know, but believe me, that rash is going to haunt me forever.”
“I don’t doubt you on that.” Seeing that you weren’t leaving or explaining the rest of your day, he keeps going. “Do you need something ?”
“Actually yeah… I uh, I broke the coffee machine.”
“Again ?!”
“Yeah, and you’re the only one who knows how to fix it, and I'm in desperate need of caffeine right now… please ! I’ll do anything you want !”
“Don’t you finish your shift in like, an hour ?” he asks suspiciously, but still take off to the break room, followed by you.
“Yeah, but I also broke mine at home.” One of the biggest lies you’ve ever told him, but you’ll do anything for $800 and a kiss for Jack Abbot… even felonies if you had to.
“Okay, let’s see what I can do,” he searches down for the machine, turning it at every angles possible. “What happened ?”
“I put the water in, along with the filter and the coffee, pushed the button but then nothing ! No coffee in the making.”
“Huh, that’s odd… wait… why is it not plugged ?”
“Oh, really ?” you ask a little too brightly, trying to hide that you unplugged it, just to get him right there.
At your tone, he turns around and eyes you septically, trying to read you like he knows how to. “Did you plan this just to have my attention ? Because you don’t need that.”
“…no but thanks for letting me know. I planned this just to get you right under the mistletoe and oh ! Look at you ! Just beneath it ! We have to kiss now !” you say in an exaggerated manner.
“The fuck ? What ?” he asks, trying to understand you.
“Listen, I have two minutes left before I’m screwed so say no if you want me to back down okay ?”
“But why do you want to kiss me right here and right now ?”
“Duh ? You’re sexy as hell… and I kinda bet on it so, 800 dollars cash ?”
“You want to kiss me just to win a bet ?”
“And cause you’re sexy ! Listen, I know it sounds horrible saying it out loud but I'm not using you, well I am, but my back really needs that new mattress.”
“How much is it ?” At your questioning look, he specifies. “The mattress, how much does it cost ?”
“Uh, like 650 dollars ?”
“Fine, we kiss and I get the 150 dollars left.”
You look at him, trying to see if he was serious or not.
“And why would you do that for me?”
“150 dollars cash, you’re sexy and it’s a tradition ; we have to kiss under the mistletoe.”
“Okay, deal.” You shake hands before he pulls you by the said hand, meeting your lips in a quick kiss before pulling away.
“That’s good ? Or it needs to be longer ?”
“No it’s… uh… it was… yeah… no… uh…. great. It was perfect… thanks. My back thanks you.” you stutter, trying to wrap your mind around what just happened.
“You know, I know a few yoga poses that helps a lot with back pain.”
“Don’t you do yoga naked ?”
“Yeah, it’s even better if you wanna watch or need help sometimes.” At that, he leaves you red as a tomato, turning around back to the ER. For a minute, you collect your thoughts and calm before you barge back in Central.
“Guess who just won 800 dollars ? ME ! Suck that losers !”
summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.
Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.
“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”
The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.
But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.
The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway.
The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.
“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”
You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.
Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.
“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”
“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.
Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”
You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.
“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta— buy him some time till we get him a room.”
“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”
Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.
You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”
“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”
Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him.
So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.
Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.
“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”
You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.
“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.
“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”
You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”
Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”
You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”
“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”
“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”
“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”
“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”
Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.
“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”
“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”
“On?”
“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”
“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.
“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”
“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”
“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”
“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”
You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”
“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.
“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”
His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”
“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.
“And what happens if I pass?”
You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.
A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”
The glass door across the room swings open without warning.
Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.
His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.
“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”
“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.
Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.
Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”
The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.
The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.
You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.
“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender.
His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant.
“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”
The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room.
Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.
“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”
Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”
“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”
“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.
You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.
“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”
“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”
“Then let me do something about it—”
Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.
“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”
“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”
The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.
A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”
“I said— tell her— to stop!”
His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click.
“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”
“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”
Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”
The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.
“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”
“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”
He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief.
“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”
The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood.
Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.
“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”
Another step forward.
“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”
Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.
The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop.
“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”
The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.
Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.
“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?”
Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.
Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.
Two shots ring out.
You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.
The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.
Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.
It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.
And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.
The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!”
None of it feels all the way real.
It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.
Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.
“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.
Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”
Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room.
You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.
You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.
The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.
“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.
“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.
“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”
“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.
“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”
The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.
He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.
Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.
“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”
He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.
He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”
You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”
“That I’d make a good case…”
Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”
“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps.
His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”
You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder.
You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you.
The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness.
“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”
“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”
“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”
Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”
Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.
“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”
“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”
“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”
You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”
“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”
Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.
The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment.
“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.
Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.
“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”
The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.
Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”
Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.
The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.
Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.
You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling.
You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.
The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.
You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.
“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.
Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.
You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.
Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR.
His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.
“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”
You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time.
“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”
You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist.
Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.
“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”
“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.
“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”
You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.
“You sure?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”
He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him.
“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”
You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors.
You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.
Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.
Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”
“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”
“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”
You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”
“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”
You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.
Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”
You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”
“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”
“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.”
Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.
“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”
“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…”
Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.
His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.
Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.
“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”
“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”
“Want me to go grab her for you?”
He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”
“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”
The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip.
The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.
The door creaks softly open.
Something tightens in his chest.
You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief.
The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.
Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.
“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.
“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”
You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.
“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.
You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”
“Fair point…” he nods.
“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”
Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”
That almost gets a real laugh out of you.
“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”
You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them.
Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.
He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.
“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.
“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”
His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.
“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”
Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.
“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”
“No.”
His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.
“I guess I was just thinking about you…”
The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall.
Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.
“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”
Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”
“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”
Your breath hitches.
Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.
“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”
His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”
“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”
Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”
That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.
You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.
“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”
Your features screw, hardly convinced.
“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”
You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.
“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”
“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.
“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."
jack abbott x reader who adopted her nieces (toddler and older maybe six or eight?) after their parents died (sister and brother in law) and none of her coworkers knew until the older got injured and had to go to the ER w/ babysitter and little sister . everyone thinking she has a secret family and her having to clarify those are her nieces - jacks heart just getting all fuzzy seeing her being all soft with her nieces ?!
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 ♡
This is such a cute (and kinda sad🥺) idea!!
Jack Abbot x resident!reader || Masterlist || Spotify
summary: The night takes a turn when Jack finds you in the ER hallway with two little girls who look unmistakably like you. He realizes there’s a whole part of your life he never knew about. But maybe, if you let him, he’d really like to understand it.
word count: 8.0k
warnings/tags: No use of y/n. Hurt/comfort. Angst and fluff. Canon typical medical traumas. May contain medical inaccuracies. I usually prefer not naming kid characters in my stories, but reader's nieces are named in this (I found it too difficult writing two unnamed child characters in the same scene, hehe)
Jack is looking at the board with a slight crease between his brows, eyes scanning the patient list like he’s expecting something to suddenly appear. It’s an unusually quiet night, which, in Jack’s experience, usually means something is about to go down.
He shifts his weight slightly, arms folded over his chest as he studies the list like it might suddenly rearrange itself if he watches long enough.
A couple of minor injuries. One patient waiting on labs. Someone in observation who probably should’ve been discharged an hour ago. He can’t remember the last time the board looked this manageable.
“Don’t stare at it too hard,” a well-known voice says from behind him. “You might scare the calm away.”
Jack glances over his shoulder.
You’re leaning against the counter. You look tired, yet you still have that small, sweet smile on your face, the one he’s noticed shows up most when the shift is at its worst, like you’re stubbornly refusing to let the place grind you down.
It’s a smile he has begun to rely more on than he probably should. It’s subtle. Easy to miss if someone isn’t paying attention. But Jack always notices.
It’s steady, reassuring. And somewhere along the line, Jack realized he looks for it now. Which is a bit of a problem. You’re his resident, which means he probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that, but he just can’t help it.
He shouldn’t be cataloguing the way your smile softens the hard edges of a shift, or how the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction when you walk into a room. He shouldn’t be aware of the way your voice sounds when you’re explaining something gently to a patient versus when you’re arguing with an elderly patient about why they really do need to stay for observation.
But he does. He notices all of it.
“Calm’s a myth,” he says after a moment. “Just means the ambulance bay’s about to light up.”
You hum softly behind him. “Optimistic as always, Abbot.”
“Just speaking from experience.”
“Sure.” Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s something softer under it that Jack can’t quite place.
You have been a little different lately. Jack noticed it before he meant to. It’s just in glimpses, short moments where you linger a little longer than usual after a hard case. Your usual optimism is by no means gone, but it seems like you’re fighting a little more for it. The smile is still there. Still warm, still steady. But sometimes it takes a second longer to show up.
Sometimes he catches the moment just before it does. The quiet breath you take before turning back to a patient. The way your shoulders drop when you think no one’s looking. The way you stare at a chart a little too long after delivering bad news. Most people probably wouldn’t notice, but he does.
You push yourself off the counter and walk up beside him, leaning slightly so you can see the board better. Your shoulder brushes his arm for half a second before you settle next to him. Neither of you mention it.
“Got anything good for me?” you ask, leaning a little closer, eyes bright even though your body is clearly tired.
“I got a dislocated collarbone in room twelve,” he offers.
You’re studying the list, brow slightly furrowed now, that little smile still sitting at the corner of your mouth like it belongs there. It’s ridiculous, honestly, how much it steadies him.
“Yeah, we better get that fixed,” you murmur, voice low, almost to yourself, but loud enough that Jack hears.
He glances at you, smiling despite himself. “You know cherrypicking is against hospital policy, right?”
“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, eyes glinting.
Jack snorts softly, shaking his head. “That’s called careful evaluation. Strategic thinking.”
“Strategic, huh?” you tease, leaning just a little closer, it makes you brush your shoulder against his side again. It’s just the slightest touch, but it’s still enough for him to notice. “If you say so,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, “but I think we both know you just like standing here watching me pick the fun cases.”
Jack shakes his head, though a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You finish your notes on the chest pain in four?”
“Yep,” you say. “Negative trops, normal EKG, probably reflux. I set up discharge and told him to follow up with his PCP.”
Jack nods once, approving.
You glance sideways at him. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Just checking.”
“You’re so reassuring,” you deadpan.
Jack’s mouth twitches faintly, like he’s trying not to smile and mostly failing. “Part of my job description.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t move away. If anything, you settle a little more comfortably beside him, shoulder still brushing his arm every now and then when one of you shifts. It’s easy like this, too easy.
“Yeah,” you murmur after a beat, voice softer now, “it’s… nice to have a good attending.”
Jack glances at you, caught slightly off guard by the softness in your voice. He opens his mouth to respond, he doesn’t even know what to say, but he is cut off when your phone suddenly rings. The sound slices clean through the quiet moment.
You blink, startled, and pull it from your pocket, glancing at the screen. Your expression changes immediately. The teasing ease disappears. Your shoulders stiffen just slightly. You frown, glancing at the screen. “Sorry, I really need to take this.”
You turn and begin walking away with quick steps, your thumb swiping over the answer button almost instinctively. “Hello?” Your voice is calm, but there’s an undertone of alertness now, of attention fully focused.
Jack watches you as you disappear down the hall. He gives a soft shake of his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off the sudden shift from warm ease to professional focus. Then he turns back to the board, pushing his thoughts aside.
But he barely has time to refocus before Lena appears at the board, her expression tense but professional. She doesn’t waste words. “We’ve got a trauma coming in. Motorcycle accident, one patient, multiple injuries. Five minutes away.”
That’s all it takes for him to snap fully back. “Do we have vitals?”
“No.”
“Okay, room prep. Get trauma two cleared, full protocol, you know the drill,” he says, already moving. “Vitals on arrival,” he calls out as he reaches the bay.
The patient is in rough shape upon arrival, but he pulls through and after working on him for half an hour he’s finally stable and on his way up to surgery.
Jack peels off his gloves, the latex snapping softly as he drops them into the bin, and as he washes his hands the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. Warm water runs over his fingers as he scrubs methodically, gaze fixed somewhere on the tiled wall in front of him
The patient had made it. Stable enough for surgery, that counts as a win in the ER. He steps out of the trauma bay and stops short.
You’re in the hallway near triage. On your hip is a toddler, she can’t be more than two years old, sleepy, fighting a great fight to keep her eyes open, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest. In front of you, perched on a gurney with an ice pack pressed to her head, is a little girl who looks suspiciously like you. Same eyes, same shape to the mouth. Even the tilt of her head when she looks up at you feels familiar. She looks to be about five or six years old.
For a second his brain just stalls, and then it does something unhelpful. Oh… she has kids. It’s absurd how hard that thought lands. Around him, whispers start immediately.
“Did you know she had kids?”
“Since when?”
“Wait, is she married?”
Jack hates how tight his chest feels. You never mentioned a partner. Never mentioned children. He’s spent so long memorizing all the little things about you, the way you take your coffee, the way you sigh after long shifts, the way you rub your temples when you’re overwhelmed, and somehow missed an entire family?
He watches you press your forehead to the little girls on the gurney’s, murmuring reassurances. The toddler tiredly pats your cheek like she’s comforting you too. Jack feels something in his chest rearrange.
Ellis raises a brow at him. “Did you know?”
“No,” he mutters, unable to look away.
Jack watches the scene like he’s accidentally stepped into someone else’s life.
You’re standing there in the harsh fluorescent light of the ER hallway, still in your scrubs, just like he has seen you hundreds of times before, now you’re just holding a toddler like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your hand is rubbing slow circles on her back while you lean down toward the older girl on the gurney.
Jack stands there longer than he should. Long enough to feel vaguely like he’s intruding on something private. Because the version of you he knows exists in trauma bays and chart rooms and late-night coffee runs. The version of you who stubbornly smiles through brutal shifts and argues politely with patients who want to leave against medical advice
This version of you is… different. Soft in a way that makes something in his chest pull tight. But then he pulls himself together. Because standing there staring isn’t helping anyone. And the whispers behind him are getting louder.
“Did she ever mention kids to you?” someone murmurs.
“Nope.”
“Do we know who the dad is?”
Jack’s jaw tightens. He steps forward before he can think too hard about it. You turn your head in his direction as he approaches. For a moment your expression freezes, but you recover quickly, shifting the toddler a little higher on your hip as her little head droops against your shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “What have we got her?”
You glance down at the little girl on the gurney before answering, your voice automatically shifting into the calm, clinical tone Jack is used to hearing during rounds.
“She fell out of bed and hit the corner of the nightstand,” you finish gently, brushing a stray piece of hair away from the little girl’s forehead. “She cried right away. No loss of consciousness, no vomiting. Babysitter said she seemed a little dizzy after, but she’s been alert the whole time.”
“I just had to pee,” the little girl insists, her lower lip wobbles a little.
You give her a soft smile immediately. “I know you did,” you murmur gently, brushing your thumb across her cheek where a tear had started to slip down.
The toddler on your hip lifts her head a little at the sound of your voice, blinking slowly like she’s trying very hard to stay awake. Her tiny hand pats your shoulder once before she tucks her face back into your neck, rabbit still clutched tight.
Jack feels something strange twist in his chest.
“Let’s get her to peds and have a look,” Jack says gently.
You nod immediately.
The next five minutes pass in a blur, the kind of blur that only comes from moving quickly but carefully, every motion practiced and precise. You walk beside the gurney, still cradling the toddler, while Jack guides the gurney towards the pediatric room.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” Jack begins, his voice calm but firm, as he closes the door behind them, shutting out the harsh fluorescent buzz of the main ER. He glances at you, taking in how naturally you balance the toddler on your hip while keeping an eye on the older girl. “Is it okay if I take a look at your head and ask a few questions?” he says gently as he pulls, first a chair for you to sit beside the gurney, before rolling a stool for himself to sit on the other side.
You whisper a small thank you as you settle, carefully shifting the toddler from your hip to your lap, letting her slump a little as her eyelids droop.
“Okay,” the little girl on the gurney whispers.
You give her a soft nod, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Dr. Abbot is just going to check your head and make sure everything’s okay, alright? He will be super gentle, I promise. He’s really, really good at this.”
Jack feels a strange mixture of awe and something heavier, something private, almost fragile, coil in his chest. He swallows hard, keeping his voice low and steady, though his chest feels just a little too tight. “Yeah, I’m gonna be super gentle, promise.”
Jack wheels his stool a little closer to the gurney, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening the way you would with any nervous pediatric patient. The little girl watches him carefully, her small fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.
“Alright,” he says softly, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “First things first, what’s your name?”
“Sophia,” she says in a small voice.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and warm. “Hi, Sophia,” he says, like they’re just meeting under normal circumstances and not in the middle of a late-night ER visit. “That’s a really good name. Means wisdom, right?”
“Mhm,” she nods seriously, like this is very important information.
Jack smiles faintly. Your thumb brushes gently over her ankle through the blanket. “Alright,” Jack continues gently, shifting a little closer on the stool. “I have this flashlight,” Jack says, pulling the small penlight from the pocket of his scrub top. He clicks it on, letting the beam shine briefly against the wall first so Sophia can see it. “I’m just going to use it to look at your eyes, okay?”
Sophia watches the light with cautious curiosity. “Okay…” she murmurs.
“Perfect,” he says, offering her a small, reassuring smile. Jack keeps his movements slow and predictable, the way he would with any nervous kid. “Can you look right at my nose for me?” he asks gently.
She is very cooperative, squinting a little as she focuses hard on the middle of his face.
“Perfect,” Jack murmurs. He lifts the penlight and shines it briefly into one eye, then the other, watching the pupils carefully as they react to the light. “Great job,” he murmurs. “You’re really good at this.”
That seems to make her proud. Her shoulders lift just a little, like she’s sitting a bit taller on the gurney. Jack notices and lets the moment sit for a second before continuing.
“Alright,” he says gently, clicking the penlight off and slipping it back into his pocket. “Now can you follow my finger with your eyes, not your head.”
Sophia nods solemnly, clearly taking the task very seriously. Jack lifts a finger in front of her face and begins to move it slowly from side to side. Sophia’s eyes track it carefully, her brow furrowing in concentration.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Now up here.” He moves his finger upward, then down, watching closely as her gaze follows smoothly. “Great job.”
Sophia’s shoulders relax a little at the praise.
“I heard you felt a bit dizzy after you fell,” Jack continues gently. “Does your head feel spinny right now? Or do you feel nauseous at all?”
Sophia thinks about it very seriously, her brow scrunching as she considers the question.
“A little before,” she admits quietly. “But not now.”
Jack nods once, calm and reassuring. “Okay, that’s good.”
But the little girl shuffles slightly on the gurney. “But I still have to pee…” she says quietly.
You sigh, closing your eyes a brief second, the sound carrying a mixture of exhaustion and guilt. “You never got to go to the bathroom, did you, sweetheart.”
“No,” she says, her voice small.
The sound of your voice wakes the toddler on your lap, her eyelids fluttering as she takes in her surroundings. Her eyes land on Jack wide and curious, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. You shift slightly, holding her securely against your chest while keeping one hand free to guide Sophia.
The little girl in your lap lifts the stuffed rabbit in her hand and points it vaguely in Jack’s direction.
“Bun,” she informs him.
Jack nods very seriously. “That’s a great bunny.”
She seems satisfied with that. Her little frown turns into the sweetest, little tentative smile, and she wiggles slightly against your chest, the rabbit still clutched tight.
“Let’s go find a toilet,” you murmur softly, shifting the toddler gently so she’s more comfortable against your hip, but her little feet kick lightly, a little whiny sound of disapproval leaving her mouth, like she isn’t willing to move so shortly after being woken up. “Sweetie, Sophia has to go to the bathroom,” you murmur gently, tilting your head so the toddler can see your face. Her little frown deepens, and she lets out another small whiny sound, hugging her bunny a little tighter.
“Here,” Jack says, reacting on instinct more than thought, holding his arms out gently toward the toddler. “Want to come to me for a sec?”
Your eyes finds his, a tired, thankful look in your eyes as hand the little girl over her tiny body shifting hesitantly into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, one hand under her bottom, the other supporting her back, letting her hug her rabbit close against his chest. The toddler relaxes slightly, leaning into him as if she’s known him far longer than a few minutes.
Jack gives a soft, reassuring hum, careful not to startle her. “There we go,” he murmurs gently, adjusting her so she’s comfortable.
“Okay, let’s find you a toilet,” you murmur to Sophia, gently squeezing her hand. “Are you okay to walk?”
She nods and you help her down fram the gurney, your hands steadying her as she plants her small feet on the floor. “We will be back in a minute,” you say, looking at Jack.
Jack gives a small nod, his arms still steady around the toddler. “I’ve got her,” he says softly, his voice low and calm, like he’s afraid any sudden sound might startle her.
You glance at him, the weight of the night and the exhaustion in both of you hanging between you for a moment. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly, the tired gratitude threading through the simple phrase.
Jack meets your eyes for just a second, his expression softening in a way that makes your chest tighten slightly. “Of course,” he murmurs, his tone steady and gentle, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Anytime,” he says gently, shifting the toddler slightly so she’s snug against his chest.
You make it to the door, Sophia’s hand in yours, your gaze lingers for a moment, grateful and weary, before you turn your attention back to Sophia and leave the room. The toddler shifts a little in his arms, pressing her cheek more firmly against his chest, and Jack instinctively rocks her just a fraction, careful and deliberate.
Jack adjusts her tiny weight slightly, settling her more comfortably against him. Her small sigh of contentment is almost inaudible, but it’s enough to draw a faint, careful smile across his face. He rocks her gently, slow and steady, as if the motion itself could smooth out the rough edges of the night.
He glances down at her little hand clutching the stuffed bunny, the way she presses it to her chest like it’s a lifeline. Even in the chaos of the ER, this small, quiet connection feels grounding. His eyes flick up briefly toward where you’ve just disappeared with Sophia, and there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his chest, acknowledgment, relief, admiration.
For a few seconds, it’s just him and the toddler, the world outside the room fading to the soft rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of hospital life beyond the walls. Jack rocks her just a little more, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of calm, letting himself breathe into it, too.
He had no idea that you had children, but seeing you now, so effortlessly caring, so present even under the harsh glare of the ER lights, shifts something in him.
The image of you juggling a little tired toddler on your hip while gently guiding Sophia, your voice soft and steady, imprints itself firmly in his mind. It’s not just admiration or curiosity, it’s a quiet, sinking awe that someone so capable, so brilliant, also carries this other life, these tiny, fragile humans who rely on you so completely.
“I never got your name,” he murmurs, careful, low, his voice soft as if saying it too loud might shatter the fragile calm between him and the toddler. The little girl in his arms shifts slightly, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, and he instinctively rocks her just a fraction more. She is clearly too tired to answer, but he wasn’t expecting her to do so anyway.
Her small hand twitches, brushing against the edge of the stuffed rabbit, and he tightens his hold just a little, letting her feel secure. The simplicity of it, her trust, her quiet presence, anchors him more than any adrenaline rush or successful trauma ever could.
For a few minutes it’s just him and her, the faint hum of the hospital, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the gentle sway of his arms. Jack exhales slowly, letting himself sink into the strange, grounding calm.
When you come back the world shifts again, snapping into motion with the same gentle urgency that fills every corner of the ER. Sophia’s hand still clasped in yours, her steps small but determined. The little girl in Jack’s arms stirs slightly at the sound of your voice, lifting her head and blinking up at you with sleepy, trusting eyes.
Jack straightens just a fraction, still careful, still protective, as if even a slight motion might break the fragile bubble of calm. “We’re back,” you murmur, voice soft but steady, like a bridge between the chaos outside and the tiny universe he’s holding. “Did you fall asleep again, honey?” you murmur gently, tilting your head slightly so the toddler can see your face.
The little girl in Jack’s arms lets out a tiny, sleepy yawn and snuggles closer, her grip on the rabbit tightening just a fraction. Jack shifts her slightly as he stands up, easing her into the curve of your shoulder as you step closer. “She’s been a really good girl,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, careful not to startle her. “Just got herself a little nap.”
You smile softly down at the toddler, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I see that,” you murmur, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head before looking at him again. You smile softly, warmth threading through your tired eyes. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice gentle but carrying that quiet, exhausted gratitude that Jack can feel in his chest more than he can hear.
He meets your gaze, just for a moment, his expression softening in response, the small crease between his brows easing. “Anytime,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, a faint, careful smile tugging at his lips as he adjusts the toddler slightly so she’s snug against your shoulder again.
The little girl presses her face into your chest, and you can’t help but hum softly in response, rocking her gently.
Jack feels that quiet, twisting mix of awe and something warmer, something protective, settle deeper in his chest. He has to look away as if to reset himself, to stop his thoughts from spiraling too far. The sight of you, so effortlessly present with the toddler and Sophia, so gentle and patient, so human, feels like it’s pulling at something inside him he wasn’t sure he still had room for.
He turns his attention back to Sophia. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft and steady, “let’s see how your head’s feeling now.”
Sophia nods, her weary seemingly fully gone, her weariness seemingly fully gone now, replaced with that careful, attentive focus that comes from trying to do exactly what she’s asked. Jack helps her up onto the gurney just enough so she’s sitting comfortably, his hands steadying her small frame. “Good job,” he murmurs, his voice calm, low, gentle. “Did you hit anything besides your head when you fell? Anywhere else it hurts?”
Sophia thinks seriously for a moment, brow furrowed. “No… just my head.”
Jack nods slowly, his voice still calm and gentle. “Okay, that’s good to know.”
Jack’s eyes soften as he examines the small gash on Sophia’s forehead. It’s shallow, just enough to bleed a little, but nothing alarming. He keeps his tone calm, gentle, and steady, aware of how closely you’re watching.
“I’m gonna clean this up, okay?” Jack murmurs softly, leaning slightly closer so Sophia can see exactly what he’s doing.
“Okay,”she whispers, her small voice tentative but trusting.
“And then I’m gonna close the wound with a little bit of medical super glue,” Jack continues gently. Keeping his voice is calm, low and steady, the kind that makes scary things seem small.
Sophia’s eyes widen just slightly at the mention of glue, and she leans back a fraction. Jack notices immediately and gives a reassuring smile. “Super glue?” she whispers, her voice tiny and uncertain, brows furrowing.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and steady. “Yeah, but it’s not the kind you use at home. This is special hospital glue. It helps the skin stick together so it heals really fast. You won’t even feel it much, I promise.”
“It’s true,” you murmur softly, brushing a stray curl from Sophia’s forehead, your voice gentle and reassuring. “And Jack is really good at this, and the glue helps your wound heal so it doesn’t leave so bad of a scar.”
Sophia blinks up at you, confusion knitting her small brows together. “Who is Jack?” she asks, her voice small but genuinely curious.
“I mean Dr. Abbot,” you correct yourself, looking a little sheepish as you glance back at him.
For a moment Jack pauses, he can’t help but like the way his name sounded when you said it. It sounds easy coming from you, natural in a way that settles somewhere warm in his chest before he has time to think about it. The corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement.
“Jack is fine,” he says gently, his voice warm as he crouches slightly so he’s more at Sophia’s eye level.
Sophia studies him very seriously, her small face thoughtful, for just about half a second before she then gives a small, decisive nod. “Okay.”
Jack’s smile softens at her approval. “Okay,” he echoes lightly. “Now let’s get that wound cleaned.”
Sophia nods again, a little braver now that she knows what’s going to happen. It’s a quick, careful process. Jack works with practiced ease, dabbing gently at the small cut while keeping his movements slow enough that nothing startles her.
“There we go,” he murmurs softly. “This might sting a little.”
Sophia scrunches her nose a little at the cool antiseptic wipe but holds perfectly still, her small hands gripping the edge of the gurney.
“You’re doing amazing,” Jack adds quietly, genuine approval in his voice.
Beside the gurney, you shift the toddler slightly against your shoulder as she stirs, humming softly until she settles again, her cheek pressed into your chest and the stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. The quiet rhythm of it fills the small space between the four of you.
Jack finishes cleaning the wound and straightens just a little, reaching for the small applicator of medical glue. “Alright,” he says gently. “Now for the tiny bit of glue we talked about. This part is really quick.”
Sophia nods solemnly, eyes fixed on him, trusting. It’s a quick fix, and he’s sure the scarring will be minimal. “And… done,” he says softly after a second, leaning back.
Sophia’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “All finished?” she asks hopefully.
Jack smiles. “All finished.”
A small proud smile spreads across her face, and she happily accepts his offer of a high five when he lifts his palm. Sophia beams, as her small hand connects with his in a perfect, confident high five. The sound echoes softly in the room, and Jack can’t help but mirror her grin, warmth threading through the exhaustion of the night, and when Jack glances at you, there’s that same quiet warmth in your eyes that makes his chest tighten in a way it probably shouldn’t, but he just can’t help it.
That warmth in your eyes lingers for just a moment too long. Jack notices it immediately. He notices everything about you lately, which is exactly the problem.
Sophia is still smiling proudly, clearly thrilled that the entire ordeal ended with a high five instead of something scarier. The toddler in your arms has sunk back into that half-asleep state, her cheek pressed against your shoulder, rabbit tucked beneath her chin.
And it hits Jack all over again how strange it feels to see you like this. That he hasn’t known this part of you. Not in passing conversation between patients. Not in the quiet moments over stale coffee at two in the morning. Not in the long shifts where people start sharing pieces of their lives just to stay awake.
And yet here you are, like this has always existed just outside the edges of the world he knows. Sophia swings her legs a little where she sits on the gurney, clearly pleased with both the praise and the attention.
“See?” you murmur softly to her, brushing a curl back from her forehead. “Told you he was good.”
Jack pretends not to notice the way you said that, like it’s something you’ve known for a long time.
Sophia nods seriously. “Mhm.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “Well,” he says lightly, pushing himself up from the stool, “I had a very good patient.”
Sophia sits a little taller at that, visibly proud of herself. The little girl stirs faintly against your shoulder, her small fingers tightening in your scrubs as she shifts. You instinctively rock her a little, one hand coming up to steady the back of her head while the other rests against her back.
The movement is automatic, practiced. Jack notices that too, of course he does.
You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and murmur softly. “We should probably go find Lauren,” you say with a small smile to Sophia before you look at Jack to explain. “She’s their babysitter, she was panicking when they came in, so I told her to take a snack in the cafeteria.”
Jack nods. “It’s never fun being the babysitter when accidents happen.”
“Yeah, it feels like a big responsibility to take care of other’s kids…” you mumble, your gaze turning briefly to the toddler in your arms. Jack follows your glance down at the little girl in your arms, who’s nuzzled comfortably against you, and his chest tightens just a fraction.
Your gaze turns to Sophia. “Are you okay going home with Lauren now? I will be back for breakfast.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Jack interrupts softly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the toddler in your arms.
“I would really like to follow up on my asthma patient,” you murmur quietly, voice low but firm, glancing at Jack. “Is that okay?” you ask, now turned to the girl on the gurney.
Sophia nods solemnly. “Mhm,” she says, trusting, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He holds the door open for you as you leave the pediatrics room. You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and pause just outside the door.
“Can you say goodbye to Dr. Abbot,” you murmur softly to Sophia, brushing a curl from her forehead.
Sophia looks up at him and lifts her hand in a tiny wave. “Bye, Dr. Jack,” she says clearly, her voice proud and earnest.
Jack crouches slightly, meeting her gaze with a soft, warm smile. “Bye, Sophia. You were so brave tonight.”
Sophia beams at the praise, then lifts her hand for a high five. Jack feels a warm molten feeling rise in his chest as he raises his own hand to meet hers, holding it steady at her height. Her small palm smacks against his with a crisp confidence, and she grins like she’s just won something important.
“Alright,” he murmurs with a soft chuckle, lowering his hand again. “Perfect high five.”
The little girl’s grin only widens at that, clearly thrilled with herself. She rocks a little on her heels, still glowing with pride.
Jack’s eyes meet yours as he straightens again, and for a moment the hallway feels quieter than it should, the distant noise of the ER fading into the background. There’s a softness in his expression he doesn’t quite try to hide.
You give him a small, tired smile in return, shifting the toddler slightly, the movement, and the chance from the quiet room to the hallway waking her. She blinks sleepily, brow knitting for a moment as she lifts her head, still clutching the stuffed rabbit beneath her chin. Her eyes drift around the hallway before settling on him.
For a second she just stares at him, heavy-lidded and quiet, trying to place where she is. Her fingers tighten a little in the fabric of your scrubs, rabbit still tucked under her chin.
Jack’s expression softens even more at the sleepy focus of her gaze. “Hey there,” he murmurs gently, careful to keep his voice low.
A small, sleepy smile tugs at the toddler’s lips at the sound of his voice, slow and uncertain but unmistakably there. She blinks at him once more and her smile widens, the kind that belongs entirely to half-awake toddlers who haven’t quite decided if they’re still dreaming.
She lets out a sleepy giggle, soft and warm, the kind that seems to fill the small space between you all. The soft giggle seems to catch him completely off guard, and his smile widens despite himself.
“Oh, you are a real charmer, aren’t you,” Jack murmurs quietly, voice warm as he watches her fight sleep. Jack tilts his head slightly, studying her for a second before glancing up at you.
“What’s her name?” he asks softly.
“Her name is Rosa, but we call her Rosie the most,” Sophia says quickly, clearly pleased to be the one answering. A small smile touching your lips as you glance down at the toddler. Sophia rocks a little beside you, clearly proud of the introduction she just delivered.
“Yeah, you’re our little flower, right?” you murmur softly, brushing your fingers lightly over Rosie’s cheek.
Jack’s gaze lingers on the two of you, something warm and thoughtful settling in his expression.
Rosie lets out one more tiny, breathy giggle before she suddenly leans toward him, her tiny hand reaching out curiously. Without thinking, Jack steps closer and lets her grab one of his fingers.
Jack stills for a second when her tiny hand closes around his finger. Her grip is warm and unexpectedly strong for someone so small and half-asleep. Rosie peers at their joined hands with slow, fascinated focus, like she’s just discovered something very important.
Jack watches her for a moment, careful not to move too quickly. “Well,” he murmurs softly, glancing up at you with a quiet, amused smile, “that’s… a pretty firm handshake.”
“Yeah, she’s tougher than she looks,” you say softly, a quiet hint of amusement in your voice, though there’s something else there too, something more subdued, almost melancholic. Jack notices it. “And so are you Phia,” you murmur quietly, shifting your gaze down to the older girl, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
It’s as he stands there, watching the three of you, with Rosie’s tiny fingers still curling lightly around his, that Lena comes walking down the hallway. Her steps are light but purposeful, an ipad tucked under one arm.
“Dr. Abbot we need you in room four,” Lena calls softly as she approaches, her voice gentle but carrying that unmistakable urgency. She glances at the scene before her, Rosie still holding Jack’s finger, Sophia’s small hand in yours, and the quiet warmth between you all, and offers a small, understanding smile.
Jack gives Rosie one last, careful squeeze of her tiny hand before letting go, to let her curl her fingers back around your scrubs. “Duty calls,” he murmurs softly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he straightens.
Rosie blinks slowly when his finger slips from her grasp, her tiny hand hovering in the air for a moment as if she’s trying to understand where it went. Then her fingers curl again, to bunch into the fabric of your scrubs instead. She lets out a small, sleepy hum and presses her cheek back against your shoulder, rabbit still tucked beneath her chin.
Sophia watches the exchange with great seriousness before giving Jack another small wave. “Goodbye,” she says earnestly.
Jack’s smile softens. “Bye, Sophia,” he replies gently. “Take care of your sister, okay?”
Sophia nods like she’s just been entrusted with something very important. Jack’s gaze flicks back to you then, lingering for a quiet second.
“I’ll be back on duty in sec,” you say quietly, almost apologetically, shifting Rosie a little higher on your hip so her head rests more comfortably against your shoulder. The words half directed to Lena, who pauses a step behind Jack, her expression softening with understanding.
She gives a small nod. “Take your time,” she says gently.
Jack’s eyes linger on you for another moment, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly as he watches you adjust Rosie against your shoulder, the toddler already drifting fully back into sleep.
For half a second he doesn’t moment, he doesn’t move. “See you back on the floor,” he says finally, his voice low but warm, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He gives the girls a last wave then he turns with Lena, the two of them heading down the hallway toward the ER rooms, already slipping back into the rhythm of the shift.
The shift hums around him again, he checks his watch briefly before slipping back into the flow of patients and charting.
It’s not until the end of the shift that he gets a chance to speak with you again. It’s quiet now, the ER settling into the slower rhythm that comes in the early morning. You’re at the nurses station, finishing up the last of your charting while chewing lightly on your lower lip. He walks up to the station, settling his forearms on the counter, learning slightly toward you as he watches you work.
He watches you for a quiet moment, the hum of the ER soft around the two of you. “You know lip chewing can lead to inflammation,” he says quietly, the teasing edge in his voice soft but present as his gaze lingers on you.
You glance up quickly. “Of course, I’m a doctor,” you say with a small, mock-offended smile, tilting your head slightly. “And I’m not chewing my lip,” you mumble, though the small twitch betrays you. “But I am finishing my charting,” you say, pushing the last key with a satisfying click. You push back slightly from the keyboard, letting your shoulders relax, and finally look up at him fully.
He offers you a small, amused smile, the kind that lingers more in his eyes than on his lips. For a moment neither of you says anything. The quiet of the early morning hums around you, monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall.
The events of the night seem to hang quietly between you for a moment. Rosie’s sleepy giggle and Sophia’s bright smile, seems to linger in the air, like soft echoes. But that underlying melancholy he has noticed earlier still lingers faintly beneath it all.
His expression softens a little as he watches you, though the hint of amusement never fully leaves his eyes. “Been a long night,” he says quietly.
You nod once, letting out a small breath. “Yeah.”
For a second the two of you just stay there in the quiet hum of the ER. Then you glance toward the clock, push your chair back, and stand.
“Walk with me?” you ask casually, nodding toward the hallway that leads to the staff lockers.
“Sure,” Jack replies easily, pushing himself away from the counter.
He falls into step beside you as you head down the quieter hallway toward the lockers. For a moment neither of you says anything. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward, just tired after a long shift.
“Thank you for being so gentle with them earlier,” you say after a few steps, your voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
Jack glances over at you, a little surprised by the sudden sincerity in your tone. “Of course,” he says softly, his voice low but steady. “And it wasn’t hard, they’re great kids.”
You glance at him briefly, catching the subtle warmth in his expression, and then look away, letting a small smile tug at your lips. “I just… appreciate it. They have had a hard time, and they don’t usually warm up so quickly to new people.”
Jack gives a small, easy shrug. “Guess I got lucky.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, lucky for them… and for me.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you like a soft blanket after the chaos of the shift. Then you reach the lockers the two of you stop, letting the quiet stretch for a beat longer.
“You never told us you have kids.” It comes out rougher than he means it to.
You blink up at him, your tired eyes catching his, those pretty, pretty eyes of yours. “It’s also relatively new… they’re my nieces,” you say quietly. “My sister and her husband...” Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard before continuing. “They were in a car accident five months ago.” The words settle heavy. “I adopted them.”
Jack swears the air gets knocked out of him. The resemblance clicks into place in a different way now,
“I didn’t know.”
You shrug, offering him a sad smile.“I haven’t told anyone here.”
Jack blinks, his expression softening as he processes your words.
“I guess, I needed to have a place, where things just were ,as they used to,” you continue quietly. “I didn’t know how to tell you guys without breaking down, and I can’t do that, I have to be there for the girls.”
Jack’s eyes soften even more, the air of playful teasing that often hangs between the too of you is gone completely now, replaced with steady, quiet understanding. He shifts slightly closer, careful not to crowd you, letting his presence speak more than words.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says softly. “I don’t think most people could handle what you’ve taken on… but you-you’re doing it. And you’re doing it so well.”
You let out a small, shaky breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “I try,” you mumble, your voice barely above the quiet hum of the hallway. “But some days… it feels like I’m just holding everything together by a thread.”
Jack doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He simply shifts a little closer, his presence steady and grounding, the kind of calm that doesn’t demand anything from you. “I get that,” he says softly. “It’s a lot to carry, but you’re carrying it with so much care. And if you need anything,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “you can always ask. No judgments, no questions.”
You blink up at him, the words settling around you like a warm, quiet reassurance. “I… thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of genuine relief. “It means a lot… just knowing that.”
Jack gives a small, steady nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re never alone,” he says softly. “Even when it feels like it, you’ve got people who care. And I’ll always be one of them.”
For a moment, the hallway feels almost suspended in time, the soft hum of the ER fading into the background as the two of you simply stand there. You let out a small, shaky laugh, the kind that carries both exhaustion and a touch of gratitude. “I guess I’m pretty lucky then,” you say quietly.
“Maybe,” Jack replies, a hint of warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But mostly… you’ve earned it.”
You glance at him, meeting that steady, unspoken understanding in his eyes, and for the first time in hours, it feels like you can finally exhale.
“I would ask you if you wanted to grab a quick coffee before heading out, but I promised someone I would be home for breakfast,” you trail off, a small, wry smile tugging at your lips. “But some other time, maybe?” you add softly, tilting your head toward him, voice casual but carrying a quiet hope and just a hint of your usual teasing edge.
Jack lets out a quiet, warm laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Yeah, I would never say no to that,” he says, his voice low and easy, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Great,” you murmur, a small, relieved smile tugging at your lips. You finally unlock your locker, grabbing your bag and jacket.
“Get home safe, okay?” Jack says softly, his tone gentle but carrying that quiet weight of care.
You give a small nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I will.”
“Good. And I’ll look forward to that coffee,” he says, the faint teasing edge returning to his tone.
You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Me too.”
For a second neither of you moves, but the quiet between you isn’t awkward, it’s warm, steady, like something gently settling into place.
Jack nods once, that small smile still resting at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says softly.
You pull your jacket on and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The exhaustion of the shift is still there, the tired gaze still lingering in your eyes, but it doesn’t seem quite as suffocating as it did earlier.
As you step past him, he shifts slightly to give you space, but his hand briefly brushes your arm, light, almost absent-minded, the kind of touch that lingers for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You glance back at him.
“Seriously… you’re doing a great thing,” he adds, voice low but certain.
You give him a smile, the kind that’s tired but genuine, your eyes softening just a little. “I hope so,” you say quietly. “And thank you, Jack.”
“Of course,” he replies softly. For a moment he just looks at you, debating with himself if he should say something else but decides against it. Instead he gives you a small nod, the kind that carries quiet certainty. “And you’ve got this,” he adds simply.
You hold his gaze for a second longer, something warm and steady passing between you. Then you shift your bag a little higher on your shoulder.
“I’ll see you around,” you say, a faint smile touching your lips.
“Yeah.”
He leans back lightly against the lockers, watching as you start down the hallway toward the exit, the soft morning light already creeping in from the far glass doors.
“Get some sleep,” he calls after you gently.
You glance back over your shoulder with a tired smile. “I will, after breakfast duty.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
And as you disappear out the doors, Jack stays there a moment longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, the faintest smile still on his face, already looking forward to that coffee.
𝓲⠀ ⦂ you're a famous pop star and the internet is convinced you're dating every f1 driver except the one you're actually with.
content. fem!rea, smau, sabrina carpenter fc, established relationship, fluff, dating rumors, reader gets "shipped" with other drivers throughout this story
liked by tatemcrae, landonorris, and 2,847,392 others
yourusername: monaco nights hit different 🎰
user1: MOTHER IS IN MONACO
user2: wait isn't the monaco gp this weekend
user3: she's at a race weekend???
user4: lando in the likes i'm sat
user5: i'm starting a rumor.
yourbestfriend: THATS MY WIFEEEE
yourusername: our wedding is next week babe
user6: she's so effortlessly cool i'm obsessed
user7: im connecting dots im connecting shit
liked by 47,283 others
f1gossip: Pop star @ yourusername spotted in the paddock at Monaco GP! She was seen chatting with several drivers. New WAG alert? 🚨👀
user8: my girl is just networking leave her alone
user9: LANDO AND HER WOULD BE SO CUTE
user10: you guys ship her with everyone istg
user11: can we let her exist without making her date every man she talks to
user12: im calling it rn she's dating someone in f1
user13: maybe she's just there as a fan???
user14: SHES SO PRETTY OMG
user16: ariana what you doing here
user16: wait who is she
user 17: only the biggest pop girlie rn, where have you been
liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, and 2,847,920 others
yourusername: first f1 race was kinda insane ngl. thank you for having me 🏎️
user18: she's gonna become a paddock regular i can feel it
alexandramalenaleclerc: need you back immediately
yourusername: omw to move to monaco
carlossainz55: great to see you!
yourusername: you too!! 💌
user19: OHHHH SHE WANTS TO BE AN F1 WAG SO BAD
user20: girl go back to making music
liked by maxverstappen1, lilymhe, francolapinto and 3,002,847 others
yourusername: paris night 2 je t'aime 🤍 thank you for singing every word
user21: why are so many f1 drivers in her likes
user22: bc she's iconic duh
user23: I WAS THERE TONIGHT BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE
user24: the best performer of our generation idc
user25: paris loves you!!
francolapinto: 🙌🙌
liked by creator
lilymhe: still not over it
liked by creator
kikagomes: you were incredible 💕
liked by creator
user26: she's being adopted by the wags i'm crying
user27: the f1 girls love her this is so cute
liked by 89,234 people
f1gossip: franco colapinto just followed yourusername on instagram and she followed back immediately
user28: the way yall are weird about women having male friends
user29: oh you guys are REACHING
user30: they'd be cute though
user31: wasn't she just linked to lando last week lmfao
user32: yall switch up so fast 😭
user33: f1 driver and pop star the ultimate crossover
liked by 127,493 people
f1gossip: @ yourusername at a gala in monaco 🏎️ new f1 friendship alert?
user36: no bc why is she EVERYWHERE
user37: maybe because she's literally famous???
user38: she's friends with everyone this girl gets around
user39: charles seems like he'd be fun to hang out with tbh
user40: she's collecting f1 drivers i swear
user41: i'm here for this duo actually
user42: charles is actually so fine i don't blame her
liked by yourusername, redbullracing, and 1,923,847 others
maxverstappen1: Pole ✅ Good day 👌
yourusername: congrats!! 🎉
user43: WHY IS SHE HERE
user44: simply lovely
user45: she commented on max's post but not lando's race recap... interesting
user24: wait since when do max and y/n follow each other
user25: they've been mutuals for months actually
liked by maxverstappen1, yukitsunoda0511, and 2,934,756 others
yourusername: this weekend 🏎️
user45: RED BULL GARAGE???
user46: oh we're switching teams now
user47: she's really living every f1 fan's dream
redbullracing: the garage looks right to us 💙
liked by creator
maxverstappen1: 🔥
liked by creator
user48: "🔥" is so low effort though like what does that mean
yourusername: @ user9 it means fire i think
user49: okay but why is she at so many f1 races
user50: because she's friends with them?
user51: WHOS'S HAND IS THAT
yourusername: my uber driver
f1gossip: WAIT... pop star and max verstappen posted from the same restaurant and were spotted exiting the restaurant together 👀 the two have been seen in the same locations multiple times over the past few months
user52: max verstappen and y/n was not on my 2026 bingo card
user53: you guys have linked her to like 6 drivers this month
user54: I NEED ANSWERS
user57: CAUGHT IN 4K
user58: they're literally together i'm calling it
user55: this makes so much sense actually
user56: maybe focus on the actual racing?
user59: she's dated like 5 drivers this month according to you guys
user60: #reverseharem
liked by yourusername, landonorris, danielricciardo, and 4,928,374 others
maxverstappen1: my favorite fan
user59: OH MY GOD
user60: we're so stupid
yourusername: i want a refund on my paddock pass
liked by creator
maxverstappen1: no refunds
user61: this is the best day of my life
user62: HARD LAUNCH OF THE CENTURY
user63: EVERYONE OWES ME MONEY
user64: the internet owes them an apology for all those dating rumors
redbullracing: our favorite couple 💙
liked by creator
user65: they're so in love it's disgusting (affectionate)
liked by maxverstappen1, alexandramalenaleclerc, and 5,847,392 others
yourusername: my world champion 🏆 (he's also pretty okay at driving i guess)
victoriaverstappen: cutest couple ❤️
liked by creator
user66: i'm devastated i thought it was lando
user67: girl shut up and be happy for them
maxverstappen1: just alright?
liked by creator
yourusername: don't push it verstappen
user68: i'm going to need 3-5 business days to process
user69: i'm obsessed with them actually
user70: MOM AND DAD
user71: max verstappen won on and off the track
author's note : happy (late) birthday to @callikari >< i love you so much
