Summary: You're on assignment with the WHO when an old friend, Doctor Al-Hashimi, reaches out for help. It means going back to PTMC, but not as a patient. As an attending in the Emergency Department, under Doctor Michael Robinavitch. You owe her your life, so six months in her place should be a walk in the park.
Until you and Doctor Robinavitch start butting heads.
CW: Show-normal deceptions of violence and gore, swearing, drinking, workplace disagreements, reader is a sarcastic little shit, age appropriate relationships (reader is mid to late forties), PTSD but everyone is in therapy, post sabbatical Robby, he's still a dick and working on it, more to be added as I post
A/N: First Pitt Fic, first reader fic! This was supposed to be a litte one shot and then it kept evolving because Robby and Reader are way more stubborn than I planned for, so now this is sitting pretty at 25k and I'm not done.
huge fan of how isolated they kept robby in s2 because like. he doesn't have anyone. he didn't have anyone in s1, he doesn't have anyone in s2. not truly, not really. it's not the literally no one is there type of loneliness. it's the fact that you're surrounded by people, and you're still deeply alone.
even the people that help him or confront him or reach out to him the most, he barely has. dana, who is first and foremost a coworker before a best friend, who had no idea about robby's abandonment. jack, who's admittedly closer, but I assume is included in "no one knows", + is avoidant, often working, and hasn't faced most of his own shit. not truly reliable.
I mean, that scene where robby is grinning and refusing eye contact and not reassuring jack he'll be okay... and jack doesn't even follow him. just leaves. and later, when dana is practically begging jack to at least say something. do something. but jack is also closed off, so it took that push. he didn't even truly initiate the reaching out.
even duke's connection to robby gets overinflated, and I think it suits the narrative much better to view it as it is: duke and robby are not particularly close. it's implied it's a recent friendship, mainly over motorcycles, which is a recent development in robby's life. and robby, over and over, has to practically plead with duke to stay, have the CT for him, and is generally difficult.
robby is grasping to this friendship because it's likely one of the only ones he has, possibly the only one. and eventually, yes, duke softens at the desperation and comforts him, but it's still just... they're clearly not very close. robby is desperate for connection and unwilling to let it go, he's crying out for help, whoever will help.
him and noelle clearly aren't that close, including the fact that she gossips about something personal to him to dana without a second thought. it's not even a want for robby, the comfort of a warm body in his bed, it's a need. he knows he can't be alone. he can't handle it. but he doesn't wanna get close enough to anyone to be abandoned, so he always leaves first.
yana kovalenko, who is one of the people who cut through to him emotionally the most, is a patient. cassie, who also checked in on him and made an effort, is his resident. the vast majority of people that are considered his "support system" are his responsibilities as well, or at the very least his coworkers first, which heavily clashes.
that's why he latches on so heavy to duke, why duke gets through to him easily, even though he's... honestly pretty surface level, and I assume knows very little about robby's inner self, just as everyone else. all he really knows, from that day, is wow this hospital is draining. but that was enough for robby. because robby is desperately lonely and duke is not a responsibility or a coworker. and duke is older, and robby is subconsciously always searching for a figure like that. someone to guide him. a mother, a father, a mentor. anyone.
anyways I just feel like most of robby's relationships, (even heather in s1 and sometimes especially her,) get wildly overinflated. and it does a disservice to his character. one of the core parts of his character that explains many of his motivations are how completely lonely he is.
Summary: Jack Abbot is too old for clubs, too tired for Santos’s birthday plans, and absolutely old enough to know better than to stare at the woman in the red top across the room. Unfortunately, knowing better does not help him at all.
Warnings: 18+ only, age gap, club setting, alcohol, sexual tension, heavy making out, public-ish tension, Jack’s restraint being the hottest thing in the room, reader is confident and knows exactly what she’s doing, Robby/Liv side chaos, implied smut.
Author’s Note: Jack Abbot, one black t-shirt, one bad decision, and the unbearable eroticism of a grown man trying to behave. That’s it. That’s the fic.
Xoxo, Del
Jack Abbot was too old for this.
The thought arrived somewhere between the third pulse of purple light across the ceiling and the moment Santos threw both hands over her head on the dance floor like she had personally invented birthdays.
Beside him in the booth, Robby sat with one arm stretched along the backrest, drink in hand, expression fixed in the grim neutrality of a man enduring a hostage situation with decent whiskey.
Jack looked out over the crowd.
Santos had somehow convinced half the department to dance under flashing lights. Mel was laughing with her, bright and easy, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass. Cassie stood near the edge of the floor, amused and observant, watching Whitaker attempt to clap on beat with the same tense concentration he brought to difficult procedures. Javadi was near him, awkward but committed, moving like someone had explained dancing to her from a textbook. Dana hovered near the bar, pretending to supervise while absolutely failing to hide the fact that she was enjoying herself.
Jack took a slow drink.
Robby watched Santos spin in a circle and said, “You know, this is nice.”
Jack turned his head just enough to look at him.
Robby stared at the dance floor for another beat, then amended, “For them.”
Jack looked back toward the crowd. “I’m too old for this.”
Robby lifted his glass. “I’m older than you.”
Jack said, “That wasn’t an invitation to compete.”
Robby took a sip, unimpressed. “You’re here because I’m here.”
Jack looked at him. “I’m here because you lied about the volume.”
Robby glanced at the speakers as if they had betrayed him personally. “I said there would be drinks.”
Jack raised his glass slightly. “There are lights on the ceiling.”
Robby nodded once. “That was not in the briefing.”
Jack huffed and turned back toward the dance floor, trying to settle into the kind of resignation that could get him through another hour. Maybe forty-five minutes, if Santos stayed distracted. Thirty, if Robby remembered how friendship worked and developed a convincing emergency.
It was his night off. That was the worst part. Jack did not get many of those, and somehow he had spent this one in a club with music loud enough to rearrange his organs, watching his coworkers behave like people with functional knees and no sense of self-preservation. He should have been home. He should have been on his couch, showered, clean, half-asleep with a game on low and his prosthetic off.
Instead, he was here, trapped in a booth, wearing a black T-shirt Robby had looked at earlier and called “acceptable,” which Jack had understood to mean, You look less like you were dragged here against your will.
Robby leaned slightly closer and said, “You could try looking less miserable.”
Jack kept his gaze forward. “I could also leave.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “You won’t.”
Jack looked at him. “Watch me.”
Robby nodded toward Santos, who had just caught sight of Jack and waved at him with both hands, delighted and entirely too sincere. Jack stared back at her. Santos pointed at him, then at the dance floor, then made an exaggerated come here motion. Jack lifted his drink in a flat salute. Santos booed him from across the room.
Robby smiled into his glass. “She likes you.”
Jack said, “She has poor judgment.”
Robby’s laugh got lost beneath the bass. Jack looked away from Santos before she decided to physically drag him out of the booth.
That was when he saw you.
At first, it was not even a whole thought.
Just red.
The color of your top caught under the lights as you leaned close to the woman beside you, laughing at something she said. You had one hand wrapped around a drink and the other resting briefly on your friend’s arm, your head tilted to hear her over the music. The club moved around you in a blur of bodies and noise, but you looked like you belonged to the night in a way Jack absolutely did not. Warm. Confident. Bright.
Then you smiled, and the thought landed before he could stop it. Beautiful.
Jack’s grip tightened around his glass. No. The correction came fast and hard. No.
He looked away. He did the smart thing. The grown thing. The decent thing. He looked at Robby. He looked at the table. He looked at the condensation sliding down the side of his glass like it had suddenly become the most important thing in the room.
Too young, Jack thought. Not for you. Absolutely not for you. He told himself.
Robby said something beside him. Jack did not hear it. Because your laugh rose through the music again, bright and easy, and his eyes went back before he gave them permission. You were still near the bar, half-turned toward your friend now. Your red top caught the light every time you moved, the fabric clinging just enough in the room’s heat. Your jeans fit like they had been made to ruin men who were trying very hard to mind their own business. The club lights skimmed over your throat, your collarbone, the line of your top, and Jack’s mind, usually so good at triage, chose that moment to abandon him entirely.
His gaze dropped. Only for a second, not even that. Too long.
He looked back up, and you caught him. Dead-on. Across the room, your smile faded by degrees. Not gone or nervous. Just focused. Your eyes met his through the moving lights, and Jack felt the hit of it low in his ribs. Caught.
You had seen him. Worse, you looked like you liked knowing he was looking.
Jack should have looked away immediately. He did not. Neither did you. The room went strange around the edges. The music kept pounding. Santos kept laughing somewhere near the dance floor. Dana was probably still pretending she had not lost control of the night. Robby was probably still talking.
None of it reached Jack for one full, dangerous second.
There was only you. Your eyes. Your mouth. The faint curve of your lips when you realized he was not recovering as quickly as he should have been.
Then Jack forced himself to look down at his drink. Robby stopped mid-sentence. Jack felt it happen. He did not have to look over to know Robby had followed his gaze.
Robby said, “No.”
Jack stared at his glass. “I didn’t say anything.”
Robby’s voice went dry. “Your face did.”
Jack lifted his drink and took a slow swallow. “Shut up.”
Robby looked across the room again. “She saw you.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “I know.”
The admission came out rougher than he liked. Robby turned back to him, and Jack could feel the amusement sharpening beside him.
Robby asked, “And?”
Jack kept his eyes on the table. “And nothing.”
Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Convincing.”
Jack looked at him then. “Don’t start.”
Robby lifted one hand. “I’m not starting anything.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed.
Robby looked toward you again and added, “Looks like she might, though.”
Across the room, you were still watching him. Not openly enough to be obvious to anyone else, but obvious to him. That was worse.
Liv leaned into your shoulder, saying something near your ear, but your eyes stayed on Jack for half a second longer.
Then your mouth curved, slow and knowing.
Jack looked away before he forgot himself completely.
Beside you, Liv followed your gaze.
She had been mid-sentence, one hand tucked into the pocket of her oversized leather jacket, the black fabric of her dress catching the light beneath it. Her boots made her look taller than she was, sharper somehow, like trouble with good posture.
She looked across the room. First, the man in the black T-shirt. Then at the man beside him.
Her eyebrows lifted. Liv leaned into your shoulder and asked, “What?”
You took a sip of your drink to give yourself a second. It did not help. The man in the booth looked down at his glass like that could save him. Black T-shirt. Broad shoulders. Forearms bare below the sleeves, one hand wrapped around his drink with enough tension in his fingers to make your stomach flip.
You should not have been so pleased. You were.
Liv followed your gaze again, slower this time. Her mouth curved. “Oh.”
You did not look away from the booth. The man in black lifted his glass to his mouth again, controlled and tense and visibly trying not to look at you. He failed, and his eyes found yours over the rim.
Your pulse kicked hard.
Liv watched that happen and made a quiet sound of appreciation. “That one?”
You let your gaze drop to his arms, then back to his face. “That one,” you said.
Liv’s eyes flicked to the man beside him, older, dark-eyed, tired-looking in a way that should not have been attractive and unfortunately was. He was holding his drink like he was mad at the concept of music and half a second away from saying something cutting.
Liv smiled. “Good.”
You glanced at her. She kept her eyes on Robby and said, “I’ll take the other one.”
You looked back across the room. The man in black was listening to the other one now, his body angled away from the chaos, but his attention kept betraying him. Every few seconds, his gaze returned to you like he hated that it had somewhere to go.
You said, “Forearms.”
Liv blinked, then looked at him again. The nickname landed. Liv laughed under her breath. “Accurate.”
You nodded toward the other man. “And him?”
Liv tilted her head, studying the man beside him.
The man with dark eyes said something to the man in the black shirt, and his mouth curved faintly when he shot him a look. The lights caught on his face just enough for Liv to see the dark depth of his eyes, the exhaustion, the amusement, the quiet, handsome irritation of a man who had been through too much and still knew exactly what he was doing.
Liv said, “Brown Eyes.”
You looked at her. “Really?”
Liv lifted one shoulder. “Look at him.”
You did. Brown Eyes was watching Liv now. Not the way Forearms was watching you. Forearms looked like he was fighting a losing battle with himself. Brown Eyes looked like he had just noticed the night might be worth his time after all.
Liv smiled slowly. You laughed. “Oh, you’re already gone.”
Liv glanced at you. “Says the woman eye-fucking Forearms from across a club.”
Your face warmed. “I am not.”
Liv gave you a look. You took a sip of your drink. Liv’s grin widened.
Across the room, Jack watched you laugh, and the sight did something unreasonable to him. It should not have. He did not know you. He had not heard your voice. Not really. Not over the music. He did not know your name, your age, whether you were here with someone, whether you were trouble, whether you were the kind of woman who smiled like that because she knew exactly what men thought when they looked at her.
Actually, Jack thought, jaw tightening, he was starting to suspect the answer to that last one.
You turned toward Liv, still smiling, and the movement shifted the line of your body. Your hips moved with the bass, easy even though you were not on the dance floor yet, and Jack’s mind supplied a thought so vivid and inappropriate it almost made him set his drink down.
What would they feel like under his hands? His eyes closed briefly. Fuck.
Robby noticed immediately, “You all right?”
Jack opened his eyes. “Fine.”
Robby looked at Jack’s glass. “You’re gripping that like it owes you money.”
Jack loosened his hand on purpose. That somehow made him feel more ridiculous.
Robby glanced back toward you and Liv. “They’re looking over here.”
Jack did not follow his gaze. “I’m aware.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “The one in red keeps looking at you.”
Jack stared forward. “Also aware.”
Robby took a slow drink. “The one in black keeps looking at me.”
Jack looked at him. “My condolences.”
Robby’s smile sharpened. “Don’t be jealous.”
Jack snorted. “Of what? A midlife crisis?”
Robby leaned back. “I prefer opportunity.”
Jack muttered, “Of course you do.”
Before Robby could answer, Santos appeared at the end of the booth like a glittering, determined storm system. Her cheeks were warm from dancing, her eyes bright, and she was holding a drink Jack was certain Dana had not approved.
Santos planted one hand on the table and said, “You two are depressing.”
Jack looked up at her. “Happy birthday.”
Santos pointed at him. “Do not weaponize politeness.”
Robby lifted his glass toward her. “We’re celebrating from here.”
Santos looked between them, unimpressed. “You’re sitting in the dark like divorced vampires.”
Jack said, “That’s very specific.”
Santos ignored him and looked toward the bar. Her whole face lit up. “Oh! New friends.”
Jack followed her gaze before he could stop himself.
You and Liv were at the bar now, closer than before. That was his first mistake. Because closer was worse. Jack could see more of you now. The red top. The curve of your waist when you shifted your weight. The way your jeans hugged your body. The way you smiled at the bartender, warm and easy, and then turned slightly like you could feel him looking.
Your eyes found his again. Jack’s stomach tightened. You smiled. Not big, not sweet. Just enough.
Robby made a quiet sound beside him. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
Santos looked at Jack, then across the room, then back at Jack. Her eyes widened.
Jack said, “No.”
Santos’s smile appeared all at once. “Interesting.”
Jack pointed one finger at her. “No.”
Santos was already backing away. “I’m getting birthday shots.”
Robby called after her, “Dana said one.”
Santos turned around, walking backward toward the bar. “Dana says a lot of things.”
Jack watched her go with dread settling over him.
Robby leaned closer. “She’s going to bring them over.”
Jack said, “I know.”
Robby looked at you again. “You could leave.”
Jack took another drink. “So could you.”
Robby’s eyes stayed on Liv. “I’m reevaluating.”
Jack looked at him with disgust. “Pathetic.”
Robby smiled faintly. “Flexible.”
At the bar, someone slid between you and Liv with the immediate familiarity of a woman who had decided the night needed more people in it.
She smiled at your red top and said, “Okay, you look incredible.”
You blinked, then laughed. “Thank you.”
Liv glanced at the woman’s birthday sash, crown, or whatever the club lights had turned into glitter on her outfit, and smiled. “Birthday girl?”
She put one hand to her chest. “Trinity Santos. Officially twenty-eight, spiritually twenty-one, emotionally somewhere around seventy-eight.”
You laughed harder. Liv lifted her glass. “Liv.”
You gave Trinity your name.
She looked between you both, then toward the booth. Her smile changed. You followed her gaze even though you already knew where it would land.
Forearms was watching. Again. This time, he did not look away fast enough.
Trinity looked back at you with delighted suspicion. You tried to look innocent. Liv did not bother.
Santos asked, “Do you two want to do birthday shots with us?”
Liv looked at you. You looked at the booth. The man in black had gone very still.
You smiled into your drink. “Sure.”
Santos lit up. “Perfect.”
Liv leaned closer to you as Santos turned toward the bartender. Liv murmured, “Subtle.”
You kept your eyes on Forearms. He kept his eyes on you.
You said, “I’m not trying to be subtle.”
Liv laughed softly. “Thank God.”
Santos collected the shots with the triumphant focus of someone completing an important medical intervention. Then she looked at the number of glasses on the bar and paused.
“Okay,” Santos said. “I need hands.”
Liv reached for two without being asked. “I’ve got these.”
You picked up another two. “Lead the way, birthday girl.”
Santos looked between you and Liv like you had just passed some private test. “Oh, I like you.”
Liv smiled. “Eventually.”
You glanced across the room. The man in the black T-shirt was watching. Again. This time, he did not look away fast enough.
Santos’s smile widened. “Interesting.”
“Shots,” you reminded her.
“Right,” Santos said, turning toward the booth. “Shots first. Bad choices later.”
Liv leaned close to your ear as the three of you started across the club. “You heard her.”
You kept your eyes ahead. “I’m being helpful.”
Liv looked toward the booth, where the man in the black T-shirt had gone very still. “You’re being something.”
You smiled into the noise. “Helpful.”
Across the room, Jack saw the exact moment Santos recruited you and your friend into her birthday operation. His shoulders sank by half an inch. Robby noticed and smiled like a bastard.
Jack said, “Don’t.”
Robby lifted his glass. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jack watched you walk closer, a shot glass balanced carefully in each hand, Liv at your side, Santos leading the way as if she had personally engineered the collision.
Every step made it worse.
You were smiling, amused by Santos, your shoulder brushing your friend’s as you moved through the club. The lights moved over your face, your throat, the red of your top. Your eyes stayed on Jack just long enough to make it clear you knew exactly where you were headed. Jack set his glass down. Robby leaned back in the booth, looking far too entertained for a man in imminent danger himself. Santos reached the table first.
“Birthday shots,” Santos announced.
Dana appeared beside her immediately, eyes narrowing. “Santos.”
Santos handed her a shot. “Dana.”
Dana looked at the glass, then at Santos. “You think saying my name back to me helps your case?”
Santos smiled. “I think it creates rapport.”
Dana took the shot with a sigh. “That is not what that does.”
Santos turned to you and Liv with unnecessary ceremony. “This is Dana. She’s in charge.”
Dana said, “Against my will.”
Santos pointed toward the others. “That’s Cassie, Mel, Whitaker, and Javadi.”
Cassie lifted her glass in greeting. “Hi.”
Mel smiled warmly. “Hi, random club friends.”
Whitaker accepted the shot you handed him carefully. “Thank you.”
Javadi took hers a beat late, then smiled like she was relieved to have caught the rhythm of the interaction. “Thanks.”
Santos leaned closer to you and Liv, lowering her voice with absolutely no subtlety. “We’re doctors. They’re less weird at work.”
Dana said, “I’m a nurse, and no, they’re not.”
Javadi blinked. “I think I’m slightly less weird at work.”
Whitaker glanced at her. “I don’t know if I am.”
Mel patted his arm. “You’re doing great.”
Santos turned back toward the booth like she had saved the most dangerous introductions for last.
“This is Robby,” Santos said, pointing to the man beside Jack.
Robby looked at Liv. Liv looked him over once, slow and cool. Robby’s mouth curved like he appreciated being assessed.
Santos pointed at the man in black. “And that’s Jack.”
Your eyes returned to him. Jack. The name fit him. Unfortunately. It made him real in a way Forearms had not. Forearms had been safe across the club. Forearms had been a joke you could murmur into Liv’s ear, something low and private and ridiculous enough to make her laugh into her drink. Jack was not safe. Jack was close. Jack had a voice. Jack had hands. Jack was looking at you like he had already tried to talk himself out of wanting you and was furious that wanting you had won anyway.
Santos smiled, entirely too pleased with herself. “And this is Liv.”
Liv lifted her glass slightly. “Hi.”
Robby’s eyes stayed on her face. “Liv.”
Liv tilted her head. “Robby.”
His mouth curved. “You say that like you’re deciding whether it fits.”
Liv looked him over once more, slower this time. “I am.”
Robby huffed a quiet laugh. Santos turned toward you next and gave Jack your name. Jack looked at you when she said it. Not like he was hearing it. Like he was keeping it.
Your pulse kicked hard. You said his name before you could decide whether that was a bad idea. A slow murmur, testing the syllables. “Jack.”
His jaw flexed. It was small, barely anything, but you saw it. The reaction moved through you like heat. Jack took one slow breath through his nose, and for one wild second, you wondered what he would look like if you said his name somewhere quieter. Somewhere darker. Somewhere with his body pressed closer and his mouth near your ear.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Jack said your name. His voice was worse than you imagined. Lower than you expected, rougher.
The kind of voice that made you wonder how it would sound against your skin. Against your throat, or lower.
You hated him a little for that. You hated him more for standing there like he had no idea what he had just done to you. Santos shoved a shot into Jack’s hand, then into Robby’s, then lifted her own.
Jack knew he should look away. He knew it with the same grim certainty he had carried from the moment he first saw you near the bar. It had been difficult from across the room. It was worse now. Up close, there was nowhere for his attention to go that did not make him feel like a worse man.
Your mouth. Your neck. The red of your top beneath the moving lights. The way your eyes had dropped to his arms before snapping back up, like you had been caught somewhere you did not regret going.
He had seen it.
And now his mind was doing things it had no business doing in the middle of Santos’s birthday party. He thought about your hands in his shirt. His hands at your waist. Your hips under his palms. Your body close enough that he would not have to imagine the heat of you anymore.
Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass. Fuck. He needed to stop. Immediately.
You were standing two feet away from him in a red top and jeans, looking at his mouth like you had already imagined what it could do to you, and Jack was trying very hard not to imagine anything back.
Robby leaned slightly toward him, voice low enough that only Jack could hear. “You look calm.”
Jack did not take his eyes off you. “Shut up.”
Robby hummed into his drink. “Noted.”
“To me,” Santos said, delighted, raising her glass.
Dana sighed somewhere beside her. “Of course.”
Everyone drank.
The shot burned warm and sharp, and for one brief second, everyone made the same face.
Santos recovered first.
“Perfect,” she said, setting her empty glass down with the satisfaction of someone who had made several excellent decisions in a row.
Dana looked at her. “That is not the word I would use.”
Cassie smiled into her drink. “It’s her birthday. Let her have delusion.”
Mel leaned toward Santos, already bright with the next idea. “They’re playing your song.”
Santos’s head snapped toward the dance floor. “Oh, absolutely not without me.”
Whitaker looked alarmed when Santos grabbed his wrist. Santos tugged him toward the music. “Come on, Huckleberry.”
Whitaker went with her, careful and resigned. “I don’t think I know this one.”
Javadi followed a beat later, clutching her drink with both hands. “I can learn by watching.”
Dana sighed and looked at Cassie. “We’re keeping them alive?”
Cassie lifted her brows. “Apparently.”
Mel smiled warmly at you and Liv as she backed toward the dance floor. “You should come dance too.”
Liv’s mouth curved. “We might.”
Santos pointed back at you from the edge of the crowd. “Don’t disappear. I just found you.”
You laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then the crew slipped back into the crush of the dance floor, taking the birthday noise with them and leaving the booth suddenly, horribly, wonderfully less crowded.
Robby looked at Liv.
Liv looked at Robby.
You looked at Jack.
Jack looked at you.
For a moment, the four of you stood there with empty shot glasses, warm mouths, and absolutely nowhere safe to put your eyes.
Jack set his glass on the table first. “You friends with Santos now?”
You glanced toward the dance floor, where Santos had already pulled Whitaker into another doomed attempt at rhythm. You looked back at Jack. “Apparently.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours.
“She moves fast,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for one devastating second. Then he looked back up. “I noticed.”
The words were innocent, his voice was not.
Your pulse kicked hard as you tilted your head, letting your smile curve just enough to make his eyes narrow. “You notice a lot?”
Robby made a quiet sound into his drink. Liv’s smile sharpened.
Jack held your gaze. “When it’s worth noticing.”
The bass hit low through the floor, and the room kept moving around you.
Jack’s mouth barely curved.
You felt the answer in your stomach. Across from you, Liv turned her attention to Robby like she had finally decided to stop being polite about it.
“So,” Liv said, lifting her empty shot glass slightly. “Robby.”
Robby looked at her. “Liv.”
Liv’s eyes moved over his face. “You always this cheerful at birthdays?”
Robby glanced toward Santos, then back at Liv. “This is me being festive.”
Liv smiled. “Tragic.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “You judging me already?”
Liv took one small step closer to the table. “Efficiently.”
Robby looked at her as if he were deciding whether to be annoyed or interested. It appeared to be both.
“That working for you?” Robby asked.
Liv’s smile turned slower. “So far.”
Jack heard Robby’s quiet laugh and looked briefly pained. You noticed. Jack noticed you noticing.
His eyes came back to yours.
You looked at his mouth before you could stop yourself. Barely. Just once, but Jack saw it. His expression did not change much, but his gaze sharpened, and your pulse kicked. Jack leaned back a fraction, still watching you like he was deciding whether to let you get away with that.
“You do that on purpose?” he asked.
Your smile came slowly. “Do what?”
Your eyes dropped to his mouth. This time, you let him see it. Heat opened low in your body, slow and dangerous.
Jack’s voice dropped. “That.”
Before you could answer, Santos’s voice cut through the music from the dance floor. “New friends!”
You looked over. Santos had both hands cupped around her mouth and absolutely no shame. She pointed at you and Liv, then stabbed one finger toward the dance floor. “Dance floor! Now!”
Dana, standing near her with her arms crossed, said something you could not hear.
Santos yelled, “Dana says please!”
Dana’s expression clearly said she had said no such thing. Mel waved brightly from beside them. Cassie lifted her drink in invitation. Whitaker gave a small, helpless shrug like he had already accepted his fate. Javadi smiled gently.
Liv looked from the dance floor back to Robby and Jack. Her eyes gleamed.
“Do either of you dance?” Liv asked.
Robby looked at the crowd like it had personally disappointed him. “Not voluntarily.”
Jack did not even look away from you. “No.”
You lifted your brows. “Just no?”
Jack’s eyes stayed steady on yours. “Just no.”
You smiled like that answer had not bothered you at all.
“Okay,” you said.
Jack’s gaze narrowed. That was worse than if you had argued.
Liv looped her arm through yours. “Their loss.”
Robby’s eyes followed the movement before he could stop himself. Liv noticed, and her mouth curved as she turned away. You let her pull you toward the dance floor, aware of Jack behind you with every step. You did not look back right away.
You gave him time to wonder if you would.
The music changed as you and Liv found space in the crowd, something heavier now, slower through the bass. Bodies moved around you, warm and close, the lights cutting over the floor in flashes of purple and blue.
Liv leaned toward your ear. “He said no like he thought that was going to help him.”
You laughed, letting the beat settle into your body. “He’s optimistic.”
Liv’s eyes flicked past your shoulder. “He’s watching.”
Your stomach tightened. You did not turn yet. “Already?”
Liv smiled. “He never stopped.”
That should not have done what it did to you. It did anyway. You let your eyes close for half a second, your body finding the music as Liv moved with you. The club was loud enough to blur the edges of everything, but somehow you could still feel Jack across the room like a hand at the back of your neck.
You turned with the beat, slowly. Not too much. Just enough.
Your eyes found him over the moving bodies. Jack was still in the booth, still trying to look like a disciplined man. But his jaw was tight, his glass untouched, his gaze fixed on you like looking away had stopped being an option.
Good.
You wanted him to look. You wanted him to regret saying no. You wanted that careful mouth to go rough and that controlled hand to finally find your waist.
Jack watched you turn away from him again. His hand tightened around his glass. He told himself not to look lower. He did. Your hips moved with the music, easy and unhurried, the denim hugging you just right when you shifted closer to Liv. You laughed at something she said, tipping your head toward her, and now the heat of the room had touched you properly, a thin shine catching at your throat, your collarbone, the line of your chest beneath the red top.
Jack swallowed. Fuck. This was worse. Across the room had been bad. Up close had been worse.
But this, watching you dance after he had refused you, watching you move like you knew exactly what he had denied himself, was going to kill him.
His mind went right back where it had no business going.
Your hips under his hands. His fingers digging into denim. Your body pulled back against his. Your breath catching when he pressed his mouth to your neck and fucked you from behind, slow enough to make you impatient, hard enough to make that confident little smile disappear.
He wondered what sounds you would make. Whether you would try to be quiet. Whether you would moan his name like you had tested it earlier, only softer, messier, ruined.
Jack’s jaw clenched.
He looked down at his drink like a better man might be hiding at the bottom of it.
Beside him, Robby had gone quiet. That was never a good sign.
Jack did not look over. “Don’t.”
Robby exhaled through his nose. “Brother.”
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “No.”
Robby was staring at Liv. Liv danced like she knew she was being watched and had no intention of rewarding him too quickly for it. She moved with cool, sharp confidence, black dress skimming her thighs, leather jacket slipping off one shoulder as she leaned toward you with a smile.
Robby dragged a hand over his mouth.
Jack said, “No.”
Robby picked up his drink. “Don’t hate me.”
Jack’s expression flattened. “Fuck no.”
Robby downed the rest of his drink.
Jack sat up slightly. “Robby.”
Robby set the empty glass down and stood. “I’m weak.”
Jack looked at him like he had betrayed the country. “You’re pathetic.”
Robby smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt. “Both can be true.”
Jack watched him step away from the booth with open disgust.
On the dance floor, Liv’s eyes lifted over your shoulder. Her mouth curved.
“Brown Eyes is moving,” Liv said.
You turned just enough to look. Robby was making his way through the crowd, focused on Liv like the rest of the club had become background noise. Your gaze slid past him.
Jack was still in the booth, still watching you. Still pretending he was not dying there. Your eyes met his across the room. You raised one brow. Barely. But Jack saw it.
Your look said, Really?
Jack looked down at his drink. Robby had already abandoned him. You were still watching. Your brow remained lifted, your mouth curved with the kind of challenge that made every responsible thought in his head take one careful step back.
Jack muttered, “Fuck.”
Then he downed his drink.
He set the glass on the table with more control than he felt and pushed to his feet. Across the room, your smile changed. Smaller. Hotter. Victorious. Jack saw that too. His eyes narrowed.
Then he pointed one finger at you as he started toward the dance floor.
A warning. A reprimand. A promise.
You smiled wider.
Jack’s mouth tightened like that had not helped him at all. It had not. He kept walking.
You did not move toward him. You made him come all the way to you. The crowd shifted around him, bodies moving between you in flashes, but Jack’s eyes stayed locked on yours like the rest of the room had become an inconvenience.
Robby reached Liv first. He slid into her space with the confidence of a man who had decided shame was not useful to him. Liv did not stop dancing. She looked up at him, mouth curved, eyes bright beneath the shifting lights.
Robby stopped in front of her. “Changed my mind.”
Liv’s eyebrows lifted. “That was quick.”
Robby’s gaze moved over her face, then dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “You looked persuasive.”
Liv smiled. “And here I thought you didn’t dance.”
Robby stepped closer, close enough that his voice lowered for her alone. “I’m versatile.”
Liv laughed once, low and pleased, and let him put a hand on her hip.
You barely caught it.
Because Jack had reached you, and the air changed.
That was the only way you knew how to name it. The club was still loud. The bass still moved through the floor. Santos was somewhere behind you, yelling over the music, and Liv was beside you, looking entirely too pleased with the consequences of her own actions.
But Jack stopped in front of you, and the noise thinned. He did not say anything. Neither did you. He stood close enough for you to see the heat in his eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of whiskey and clean soap underneath the club air. His hand was empty now, his glass abandoned at the booth, his fingers flexing once at his side before going still.
That should not have made your stomach flip. It did. You let your hips move with the next beat, slower than before, your eyes still on his. Jack’s jaw tightened. And there it was. The answer.
He had not come over because he wanted to dance. He had come over because sitting still had finally become impossible.
You smiled, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. His gaze moved over your face, then lower for one brief, controlled second before coming back up.
The look was not innocent.
You shifted closer by half a step. Jack did not back away. The music dragged warm and heavy around you.
A few feet away, Robby bent his head toward Liv’s ear. Whatever he said made her grin and shake her head, as if she were refusing him and enjoying it at the same time. Liv’s fingers touched the front of his shirt once, light and warning. Robby looked down at her hand. Then back at her. His mouth curved.
Bad decisions were forming quickly over there.
Jack noticed too, just barely. His eyes cut toward Robby and Liv for half a second, then came back to you with something dry and resigned in his face.
You tilted your head.
Jack shook his head softly. “Of course.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound caught him. You saw it land. His expression shifted by a fraction, like your laugh had done something even worse to him than your body had.
You moved with the music again, and Jack’s eyes dropped to your waist. This time, he let them stay. Heat moved through you so fast it almost made you miss the beat. His gaze lifted, and you looked at his hands. Then back up at his face.
Jack saw that too. His voice came low beneath the music. “You want something?”
Your pulse kicked. You could have played innocent, but you did not. You let your eyes drop to his hands again, then lifted them slowly. Jack’s jaw flexed. His attention sharpened until it felt like his focus had become a physical thing, warm and heavy against your skin.
You said, “You came all the way over here to keep your hands to yourself?”
Jack stared at you. For one second, he looked almost offended by how well that landed. Then his mouth curved. Barely. Dangerously.
“No,” Jack said.
Your breath caught.
His hand came to your hip. Just one. Careful at first, warm and solid. Heavy enough to make every thought in your head trip over itself. His palm settled against the side of your jeans, fingers spread just above the curve of your hip, respectful enough to be infuriating and intimate enough to make your body go hot from the inside out.
You felt every inch of his hand. Jack felt your reaction. His eyes sharpened. You hated him for noticing. You loved him for noticing.
The song shifted lower, bass pulsing through your feet, and you let your body move into the shape of his hand. Jack’s fingers tightened once. Not much, but enough.
Your breath changed, and his eyes dropped to your mouth. You smiled like you were handling this better than you were. Jack looked like he knew better.
“That all you’ve got?” you asked.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your hip, and your stomach tightened.
His mouth barely curved. “You in a hurry?”
You held his gaze. “You took a while getting over here.”
Jack leaned in just enough for his voice to reach you beneath the music. Not close enough to touch anywhere else. Not close enough to give you what you wanted. Close enough to ruin the air between you.
“I was making a bad decision,” Jack said.
Your pulse stumbled. You looked at his mouth before you could stop yourself. Jack saw it. His hand stayed at your hip. Only there. Nowhere else.
That almost made it worse.
“You always take that long?” you asked.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Depends on the decision.”
You smiled slowly. “And this one?”
His gaze moved over your face. Slow. Controlled. Hot enough to make your skin feel too tight.
“This one,” Jack said, “got complicated.”
You breathed out a laugh. “Because of the dancing?”
Jack glanced down at your body. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“No,” Jack said.
Your mouth went dry. Jack’s hand flexed at your hip again, still the only place he was touching you, still careful enough to make you want to scream.
“Because I’m old enough to know better,” Jack said.
You should have stepped back, but you didn’t. Instead, you moved a little closer, not touching his chest, not pressing into him, just taking one more inch of space until his hand had to settle more fully at your hip. His jaw tightened.
You looked up at him. “That working for you?”
Jack stared at you for one beat. Then another.
“No,” Jack said. The answer hit low.
A few feet away, Liv laughed. You looked past Jack’s shoulder. Liv had her back pressed to Robby’s chest now, her leather jacket loose off one shoulder, her head tipped slightly to the side as he leaned down to say something near her ear.
No. Not say.
His mouth brushed her neck. Just once. Light enough to pass for a whisper if anyone wanted to lie about it. Liv’s smile went slow. Robby’s hand settled at her hip, and she moved back against him with the beat like she had already decided exactly where the night was going.
You huffed a soft laugh. Jack followed your gaze. His expression went flat immediately.
You looked back at him, amused. “They’re leaving together.”
Jack’s eyes returned to yours. “You know that from one look?”
You glanced over again. Liv had turned her face just enough for Robby to speak against her ear, and Robby looked entirely too pleased with the angle he had been given. His fingers flexed at her hip. Liv’s hand came up, sliding briefly into his hair before dropping again like she had remembered there were people around.
You looked at Jack. “I know her.”
Jack’s eyes flicked toward them again. Robby’s mouth brushed Liv’s neck a second time. Jack sighed through his nose. “Unfortunately, I know him.”
Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Jack looked at you when you laughed. Not at your mouth this time. At your whole face. The attention landed differently. Warmer. Still dangerous, but warmer. You felt your smile soften. Jack noticed that too. His hand at your hip gentled for half a second before settling again.
Then Liv appeared beside you, cheeks warm from dancing, lipstick still perfect, expression entirely too calm for someone who had just had Robby’s mouth at her neck. Robby came with her, one step behind, his hand resting at the small of her back like he had earned the privilege recently and intended to keep it until told otherwise.
Jack looked at him. Robby looked back. Neither of them said anything for half a second.
Then Jack’s mouth flattened. “Really?”
Robby lifted one shoulder. “Apparently.”
Liv turned to you and smiled brightly. “We’re leaving.”
You looked at her. “Shocking.”
Liv’s smile widened. “I know. No one could have predicted this.”
Robby glanced at Jack. “I was blindsided.”
Jack stared at him. “Were you?”
Robby’s mouth curved. “No.”
Liv squeezed your hand once. “I’ll text you when we get there.”
You held her gaze. “And location stays on.”
Liv nodded. “Already is.”
You looked at Robby. Robby’s brows lifted slightly, but he did not look offended. Good.
You smiled sweetly. “Bring her back alive, Brown Eyes.”
Robby’s grin came slow. Jack’s eyes flicked to you. Liv laughed.
Robby looked between you and Liv. “Brown Eyes?”
Liv patted his chest. “Before I knew your name.”
Robby looked pleased with himself. “And now?”
Liv looked him over once. “Still accurate.”
Robby’s grin widened.
Jack closed his eyes briefly. “Jesus Christ.”
Liv leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Be smart.”
You said, “You too.”
Liv’s eyes flicked toward Jack. Then her smile turned evil.
“Make Forearms work for it,” Liv said.
You froze. Jack’s gaze sharpened. Robby’s grin appeared immediately. “Forearms?”
Liv tugged him toward the edge of the dance floor before you could stop her. “Goodnight.”
Robby followed her, still laughing. Jack did not say anything. You did not look at him. That felt safer.
Behind you, Robby called, “Good luck, brother.”
Jack’s voice came flat and dry beside you. “Fuck off.”
Robby’s reply came without missing a beat. “That’s the plan.”
Liv’s laughter disappeared into the crowd with Robby’s.
For a second, you did not move. The music filled the space they left behind, bass low and heavy, lights cutting over the dance floor in deep blue flashes. Jack stood beside you. Too quiet. Too close. You did not look at him. That felt safer.
His voice came low near your ear. “Forearms?”
Your eyes closed. “Don’t.”
Jack stepped closer. Not touching. Not yet.
“No,” Jack said. “I think I’m going to need to hear about that.”
You turned your head and found him watching you with the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. It was not a full smile. That would have been easier. This was worse. This was Jack, knowing he had caught you and deciding to enjoy it.
“It was before I knew your name,” you said.
His gaze held yours. “And now?”
Your eyes dropped before you could stop them. Down his shoulder. His arm. The bare forearm below the sleeve of his black T-shirt. Jack saw it. His mouth barely moved.
“Still?” Jack asked.
You looked back up at him, but the damage was done. Jack’s eyes were darker now, amused and heated in a way that made your stomach tighten. You could have made a joke. You could have lied.
Instead, your hand moved. Your fingers found his forearm. Jack went still. Not completely. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you felt it beneath your fingertips, the faint lock of muscle under warm skin as your touch settled over him. You traced one finger slowly down the inside of his forearm, following the raised line of a vein toward his wrist.
Jack’s hand flexed at his side. Your pulse kicked. His voice came lower. “That an answer?”
You kept your eyes on your finger because looking at him felt like a mistake.
“Maybe,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Maybe?”
Your fingertip paused over his pulse. It jumped. Barely. But you felt it. Your eyes lifted to his. His control looked different now. Thinner. Hotter.
You said, “You heard the nickname.”
Jack stepped closer, and the heat of him cut through the club air. “I heard it.”
Your finger was still resting against his wrist. His pulse beat beneath your touch. Steady. Not as steady as he looked. You smiled. His eyes narrowed slightly, but his mouth curved.
“Careful,” Jack said.
Your hand stayed on his arm. “You keep saying that.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. This time, he did not pretend it was an accident.
“You keep needing to hear it,” Jack said.
The music shifted into something slower. Heavier. The kind of song that gave people permission to make bad choices and call it dancing. Jack looked at you. You looked back.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you lifted your brows. “I thought you didn’t dance.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “I changed my mind.”
Your stomach dipped. You should have said something smart. You should have made him work for it. Instead, you stepped closer. Jack’s hand found your hip again. This time, when your body moved with the beat, his moved with yours.
Barely at first. A shift. A sway. A controlled little give that should not have felt as intimate as it did. But then your chest brushed his. Just once. Your breath caught. Jack’s hand tightened. The contact disappeared with the next beat, then came back again, slow and warm and impossible to ignore.
Your body against his.
His body answering yours.
The space between you narrowed until dancing stopped feeling like the right word for it.
Jack looked down at you, and the heat in his eyes made your skin feel too tight.
You wondered what it would feel like if there were nothing between you. No denim. No shirt. No careful inch of public restraint. Just his skin against yours, sweat slicking between your bodies, his hands dragging you closer instead of holding himself back, his mouth rough at your neck while you moved together with nothing left to pretend.
Jack’s thumb pressed into your hip like he had followed the thought somehow.
Like he knew exactly where your mind had gone.
Your eyes lifted to his. His jaw was tight. His control looked thinner now. More fragile. You were not the only one imagining it.
Jack was trying not to think about your body under his.
Trying not to think about your thighs spread around him, your back arching off his bed, your voice breaking because careful had finally become impossible. He was trying not to picture your hands in his hair, your mouth near his ear, telling him exactly how you liked to be fucked.
Harder. Slower. There.
Jack’s jaw clenched. Fuck. He wanted to know. He wanted to hear it in your voice. He wanted to feel the exact second your confidence turned into begging, wanted your body pinned beneath his while you asked for more like he had not already lost his mind giving it to you.
Your hand moved over his forearm again. Slow. Deliberate. You traced the raised line of that vein toward his wrist and felt his pulse jump under your finger. Jack’s eyes darkened.
You smiled softly. “You okay?”
Jack stared at you. “No.”
The answer went straight through you. Your smile faded. Not because you were scared. Because you felt it too. Because the careful press of his hand at your hip had turned into something impossible, something that made you wonder what he would feel like inside you. Whether he would go still at first, jaw tight, eyes fixed on yours while he tried to let you set the pace. Whether he would let you climb on top of him and take what you wanted.
Whether he would last.
You pictured it too clearly. Your knees on either side of his hips. Your hands braced on his chest. Jack beneath you, watching you like restraint had become a physical ache, letting you move until his patience snapped and his hands found your hips. Guiding you. Moving you. Taking over because watching you ride him had finally broken whatever discipline he had left.
Your breath changed.
Jack heard it.
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back, still decent enough for the dance floor, still controlled enough to count as restraint. But it brought you closer. Fully this time. Your body pressed against his, and Jack inhaled once, sharp and quiet.
There. There it was. The thing both of you had been circling all night.
The heat. The shape. The fit.
The terrible, perfect knowledge that this would be worse without clothes.
Better. Worse. Impossible.
Jack leaned down until his mouth was near your ear. His voice came rough beneath the music.
“If I stop being careful,” Jack said, “I’m not stopping here.”
The words moved through you like heat. Your fingers tightened around his forearm. Jack felt it. His hand spread wider against your back, not forcing, not taking, just holding you close enough that your next breath had nowhere to go except against him.
You turned your face slightly toward his. Your cheek almost brushed his. Almost.
“Who said I wanted you to stop?” you asked.
Jack went still. You felt the question land in his body. His control did not disappear. Not yet. But something in it shifted. Something low and dangerous unlocked behind his eyes. He drew back just enough to look at you. The lights moved over his face, cutting along the hard line of his jaw, catching on the heat in his eyes.
“You know what you’re asking for?” Jack asked.
Your pulse kicked. You did not know all of it. Not really. Not the exact weight of him. Not the sound of his voice in a quiet room. Not how his hands would feel when he stopped using restraint like armor. But you knew enough. You knew you wanted him closer. You knew you wanted his mouth. You knew you wanted to hear him lose that careful tone and find something rougher underneath it.
You looked at him. “I’m asking you to dance.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. It should have looked amused. It looked hungry.
“That what we’re calling this?” Jack asked.
Your body moved with his again, slow and close, the friction of fabric and heat making your thoughts blur around the edges. Your hand slid from his forearm to his wrist, your fingers curling lightly there. His pulse beat hard beneath your touch.
“For now,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. The space between you changed again. Thinner now. Hotter. His hand at your back pressed once, just enough to guide you with the beat, and your body followed before your mind could catch up.
You saw him notice that. The way you gave. The way you let him move you. The way your breath went shallow when he took even that much control. Jack’s gaze lifted back to yours.
“There it is,” Jack said.
Your stomach tightened. “What?”
His thumb moved once against your back. Slow. Deliberate.
“The part of you that likes being told what to do,” Jack said.
Your breath caught so sharply you could not hide it. Jack’s eyes darkened. You should have denied it. You should have laughed. You should have done anything except stand there with your hand wrapped around his wrist, and your body pressed to his, letting him feel the truth of it.
But Jack already knew. His mouth came closer to your ear again.
“You can argue if you want,” Jack said. “I’ll still know.”
Your eyes fluttered. “Cocky,” you said.
Jack’s hand tightened at your back. “Observant.”
The word dragged over your skin. Your body moved with his again, and this time, Jack guided it. Not much. Nothing anyone else would notice. Just a subtle pressure at your back, a shift of his weight, a controlled movement that made you follow.
It should not have made you think of his bed. It did. It made you think of his hands on your hips again. Of him watching you from underneath, letting you think you were in charge until your rhythm started to falter. Until your thighs shook. Until you got too needy and impatient and he finally sat up, pulled you down hard, and did the work himself.
Your hand tightened on his wrist.
Jack’s voice lowered. “Where did you just go?”
Your eyes snapped to his. He was watching you too closely. Too carefully. Too well.
“Nowhere,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Liar.”
The word should not have done anything to you. It did. You looked at his mouth. Jack looked at yours. The dance slowed until it was barely a dance at all. Just bodies close together. His hand at your back. Your fingers at his wrist. Your breaths tangling in the narrow space between you. The club was too loud. Too crowded. Too public.
And somehow none of that felt like enough to stop this.
Jack’s gaze dropped again, slower this time, to your mouth. Then your throat. Then back up.
When he spoke, his voice was rough. “You keep looking at my mouth.”
Your lips parted. Jack’s eyes tracked the movement.
“You keep noticing,” you murmured.
His thumb pressed into your back. “Hard not to,” Jack said.
Your body swayed into his. His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he might kiss you right there, in the middle of the dance floor, with Santos and Dana and everyone else somewhere in the crush of bodies around you.
For a second, you wanted him to.
Then Jack looked past you. Not away. Just enough to remember where you were. His restraint came back visibly, and you hated it. You hated how much you liked it too. Because it was not rejection. It was control. It was him wanting you badly enough to need it. Jack looked back at you. His hand slid from your back to your hip again, slower than necessary, like he needed one more second of you before he made himself behave.
“Not here,” Jack said.
Your stomach dropped. For one sick second, you thought he meant no. Then his thumb moved once against your hip, and his eyes dropped to your mouth like leaving it alone was hurting him.
Oh. Not here. Not no. You swallowed.
“Then where?” you asked.
Jack went very still. His gaze lifted to yours. The heat there made the answer unnecessary. He gave it anyway.
“My place,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. The music kept moving around you, heavy and careless, but Jack had gone still in front of you. Waiting. Not assuming. Not taking the answer from the look on your face, even though you knew he could read it.
You held his gaze. “Only if you’re sure.”
Jack looked at you like that was the last decent thought either of you had left.
“I’m sure,” Jack said.
His eyes moved over your face, focused and sober enough to make your pulse trip for an entirely different reason.
“You drive here?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “Liv and I Ubered.”
Jack nodded once. Decided. Simple. “I’ll drive.”
Your stomach dipped. It should not have sounded like that. Practical. Certain. Like he had already made room for you in the rest of his night.
“Okay,” you said.
His hand slid from your hip to the small of your back. Steady. Warm. Guiding, not pulling.
“Come on,” Jack said.
You went with him. The walk out of the club felt longer than it should have. Jack stayed close at your side, his hand at your back as he guided you through the moving bodies, through the pulse of music and spilled neon light, past the bar where Dana glanced over and immediately looked like she had made a very informed decision not to ask.
Santos saw you, and her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. Dana caught her by the arm and said something sharply into her ear. Santos shut her mouth. Barely. Jack did not look over. You did. Santos lifted both thumbs with the subtlety of a fire alarm. You pressed your lips together and faced forward again before you laughed.
Jack leaned closer without slowing down. “Do I want to know?”
“No,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Figured.”
Then the door opened, and the night air hit your skin. Cool. Sharp. A shock after the heat of the club. The music dulled behind you as the door fell shut, becoming nothing more than a low thump through the walls. The parking lot was dimmer, quieter, broken by streetlights and the distant hum of traffic. Your skin felt too warm. Your lips felt too empty. Every place Jack had touched you seemed to remember the shape of his hand.
He kept his palm at your back as he walked you toward his truck. Not low. Not wandering. Still careful. Still Jack. That somehow made it worse. The truck sat near the edge of the lot, dark and solid beneath the yellow wash of a streetlight. Jack stopped beside the passenger door and finally let his hand fall away from your back.
Careful again.
You turned to face him. He had his keys in one hand, his jaw tight, his eyes on you like the walk outside had not cooled him down at all. If anything, the quiet made it worse. There was no music to hide behind now. No crowd. No Liv and Robby. No Santos yelling from the dance floor.
Just Jack. Just you. Just the space between you, shrinking by the second.
You swallowed. “Still think this is a bad decision?”
Jack looked at you for a long moment. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then lifted.
“Worse than I’d like,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped. You smiled before you could stop yourself. “That didn’t answer the question.”
“No,” Jack said.
He stepped closer. Your back met the truck door. The metal was cool through your top, and Jack was warm everywhere he came near you. He did not crowd you all at once. He gave you one last breath of space, one last chance to step away, one last second to pretend either of you was going to make a different choice.
You did not move.
Jack’s hand came to your jaw. Firm. Certain.
Then his mouth was on yours.
Not polite. Not careful. Not like the man who had spent all night pretending he knew better.
He kissed you like restraint had been a punishment and this was the first second of relief.
Your hand caught his shirt, fingers curling in the fabric as your body arched into him. Jack made a rough sound against your mouth and pressed closer, one hand braced beside your head against the truck, the other sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck.
His thumb angled under your chin.
He tilted your face exactly where he wanted it.
The thought should not have made you weak.
It did.
You opened for him, and Jack took the invitation with a low sound that went straight through you. His mouth turned hotter, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours until your grip tightened in his shirt and your knees threatened to become a problem.
Jack pressed you more firmly into the door.
Not hard enough to hurt.
Hard enough to make sure you felt him.
His body lined up with yours, solid and warm, one thigh shifting between yours just enough to make your breath break against his mouth.
You felt him smile. Barely.
The bastard.
You nipped his lower lip.
Jack’s hand tightened at your neck.
“There she is,” Jack murmured against your mouth.
Heat rushed through you.
You pulled him back in.
He came willingly.
Too willingly.
His hand left the truck and found your waist, then your hip, then the curve of you like he had been trying not to touch you all night and had finally run out of reasons. His palm dragged over denim, fingers spreading, gripping once when you rocked into him without meaning to.
Jack broke the kiss on a sharp breath.
His forehead hovered near yours. “Careful.”
You were beginning to hate that word. You were beginning to love it.
Your hand slid up his chest, over his shoulder, then down his arm until your fingers found his forearm again.
Jack went still.
You traced the vein there, slower this time.
Meaner.
His eyes darkened.
You looked up at him. “You first.”
Jack stared at you.
Then he kissed you again.
Harder.
Hungrier.
His hand slid to the small of your back and dragged you closer until there was no polite space left between you, no careful inch, no pretending this was anything other than what it was. Your body pressed into his, and the sound he made into your mouth was so rough you felt it in your stomach.
You wanted him inside you.
The thought arrived fully formed, sharp and desperate.
You wanted his control turned loose.
You wanted his hands on your hips, moving you, guiding you, taking over.
You wanted to hear that careful voice go ruined.
Jack’s mouth moved to the corner of yours, then your jaw, then just beneath it.
Your head tipped back against the truck before you could stop it.
Jack froze for half a second.
Then his mouth touched your throat.
Once.
Open and hot.
Your breath caught so sharply it almost sounded like his name.
Jack heard it.
His hand tightened at your waist, and his mouth brushed your neck again, slower this time, like he wanted to learn exactly where the sound had come from.
“Jack,” you breathed.
He pulled back like the name had hit him in the chest. His eyes were dark. His mouth was wet. His breathing was no longer even.
Good.
You wanted him like that. You wanted him worse.
Jack looked down at you, pinned between his body and the truck, and something in his face shifted.
Not regret. Not hesitation. Control. Barely. Painfully.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
“Fuck,” Jack said.
You tried to catch your breath. “What?”
Jack opened his eyes. His hand was still at your waist. His body was still too close. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then dragged back to your eyes like the movement cost him something.
“We need to go,” Jack said.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt. “We are going.”
His mouth twitched, but it did not become a smile.
“No,” Jack said, voice rough. “We need to go now.”
Your pulse kicked. Jack leaned in until his mouth brushed your ear.
“Because I’m trying to do this properly,” Jack said. “And if you keep making those sounds, I’m going to fuck you in the back seat.”
Your entire body went hot.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you.
His jaw was tight. His restraint was hanging by a thread, and you could see every inch of it.
“Understood?” Jack asked.
You swallowed. Then, because apparently you had no survival instinct left, you looked toward the back seat.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
Your mouth curved.
Jack’s hand tightened once at your waist. His voice dropped. “Get in the truck.”
You looked back at him. “Bossy.”
Jack opened the passenger door behind you. His gaze stayed on yours.
category of blorbo called "technically i like them but fanons obsession with them to the exclusion of other characters pavloved me into having a negative reaction whenever i see them"
I genuinely wonder if people realize how many projects get abandoned because the readership "wasn't there", when in reality, the readership just stayed silent. It's a big thing in trad pub that book series get discontinued because readers pirate the books or wait until the series is finished to buy a copy, leading the publisher to think that nobody actually wants the book enough to continue the series, but it happens with indie creators too.
I've discontinued a lot of free, online series because it's not worth putting 3-5 hours a week into posting a project for no readers. Sometimes I finish the series for me but just never post it again, other times I don't finish it at all because it feels more worthwhile to put my time into other things. Sometimes I hear from readers who are sad or upset that I didn't finish something they were liking, but the *reason* it never got finished is because I didn't know anyone liked it. If you like something, tell the creator, tell your friends, make some noise about it. If you would be sad if a story never finished, make that interest known because one of my biggest considerations before discontinuing a series is "will people miss this? Will I be letting people down" and 9/10 times, I come to the conclusion of "no, it doesn't even seem like anyone's reading this" only to learn after I've moved on that apparently someone was.
I've said this before in a different way, and this post said it so well. With real examples.
If you like something, tell people.
If you want more content from an artist or author, if you like their stuff, tell them. It will give them creative fuel to keep going. And often it gives them other resources as well.
Recommend a work to other people. Leave a comment or a review. It doesn't have to be long, just genuine, a sentence or two.
Not many people know that a book's success is judged by book reviews as well as sales. Review the book on Amazon or another site to help it pass the metric of success and be recognized by publishers and retailers.
You are aware that a fictional character is just a rhetorical construct designed to fulfill a narrative/thematic purpose right? That their actions are written by an author who wants to use them to explore complex ideas and moral gray areas within the safe confines of fiction right? That they aren't a real person who has killed real people right?
Working on a Robby/fire captain!ofc and probably no one will read it because OCs don’t do great in this fandom but I am having the best time writing this thing. It accidentally became a bit of a motorcycle!Cinderella story??? With three supportive brothers instead of an evil stepmother and two evil stepsisters.
A prologue and two chapters and it’s 15k+ I got possessed okay
I write for an audience of me and I’m delighted. Hope the fandom will be too because validation is nice.
soft hearts, sharp aches
Mostly Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader fics, series, one-shots, and assorted emotional damage.
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Series
We’re Not Done
Jack Abbot x Reader | Series | Contains smut | Completed |
A charged, slow-burn night shift romance where professional tension finally snaps — and Jack Abbot insists on doing things right, even when both of you are already thinking about everything that comes after.
Part One: Social Work — 7.2k
Part Two: Thinking Badly Enough — 7.2k
Part Three: Pretty Girl — 9.3k
Part Four: Dinner First — 7.5k
Part Five: After — 17.6k
Epilogue — 1.8k
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First Cup
Jack Abbot x Reader | Series | No smut | Completed |
Jack Abbot is usually smooth, charming, and impossible to fluster. Then you walk into the night shift, smiling at him, stealing his pen, and kissing his cheek over coffee. Jack is fifty years old. He is not doing this.
Part One — 9.3k
Part Two — 7.5k
Bonus Chapter: The Return of Dr. Sexy Silver Fox — 8k
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Nothing Casual
Jack Abbot x Reader | Series | Contains smut | Completed |
Chapter One: The Arrangement — 8.8k
Chapter Two: Crumbs — 11.1k
Chapter Three: You Knew What This Was — 6.7k
Chapter Four: The Things That Counted — 3.7k
Chapter Five: Close Quarters — 7.7k
Chapter Six: No Right — 13.6k
Chapter Seven: The Line — 9.5k
Chapter Eight: Too Late — 10.6k
Chapter Nine: Not Pretending — 4.6k
Chapter Ten: How To Stay — 15.8k
Epilogue: Nothing Casual — 2.8k
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You Never Asked
Jack Abbot x Reader | Series | No smut | Completed |
Before PTMC knew you as Child Life and Jack as Abbot, you were already his wife. Quietly married, deeply in love, and expecting your first baby, the two of you have spent years building a life in the margins of the hospital: coffee before shift change, soft check-ins, practical devotion, and a love story everyone else is only just beginning to notice.
The department may be late to the truth, but Jack has known all along.
Prologue: Before The Pitt — 3.3k
Chapter One: Shift Change — 9.6k
Chapter Two: The Follow-Up Questions — 9.2k
Chapter Three: Tiny Abbot — 8.2k
Chapter Four: Owen Henry — 8.0k
Epilogue Part One: Happy Banana — 10.0k
Epilogue Part Two: There She Is — 5.6k
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Trope Anatomy
Jack Abbot x Reader | Series | Contains smut | Completed |
A lake house weekend with the PTMC crew should be relaxing. Unfortunately, Robby assigned the rooms, Shen packed enough snacks for a controlled disaster, and you ended up sharing a two-bed room with Jack Abbot. Technically, nothing is happening. Technically, Jack is just being helpful. Technically, two beds means this is not forced proximity. But then your romance book comes out, Robby discovers tropes, and Jack starts paying a little too much attention.
Day One: Forced Proximity — 10.4k
Day Two: Competence Kink — 8.7k
Day Three: Who Did This To You? — 9.7k
Day Four: Friends To Lovers — 18.4k
Day Five: First Chapter — 8.0k
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The Work Husband Clause
Jack Abbot x Reader | Series | Ongoing | No smut currently
You and John Shen were never fake married. You were contractually betrothed — a perfectly reasonable workplace arrangement formed during years of night-shift friendship, emotional support, and mutual romantic pessimism. Unfortunately for everyone, Jack Abbot does not find this at all reasonable.
The Work Husband Clause — 3.0k
The Best Friend Clause — 7.9k
The Proposal Clause — 9.2k
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The Captain and the Crownfire Heir
Sir Jack Abbot x Princess!Reader | Series | Ongoing | No smut currently
Chapter One: The Oath — 13.1k
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One-Shots
Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader | Standalone fics
Courtship Rocks & Courtship Karaoke
Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader | Two-Part Mini-Series | No smut currently
Courtship Rocks — 6.8k
Courtship Karaoke — 10.9k
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Where The Hell Is My Husband — 6.3k
Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader
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Source Material
Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader | Two-Part Mini-Series | Contains smut
Source Material — 9.5k
Bonus Chapter: Page 212 — 15.8k
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Worth Seeing
Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader | Two-Part Mini-Series | Contains smut
Part One: For Me — 8.4k
Part Two: The Dog Tag Photo — 6.5k
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I Want That One — 12.0k
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader
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Hydrated Justice — 7.3k
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader
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Vacation — 16.8k | Smut |
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader
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Favorite Man in Uniform — 15.2k | Smut |
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
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Leave It On — 11.6k | Smut |
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
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No Place to Put It Down — 10.4k | T.W.-Body Image Issues |
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
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Hands-on Instruction — 15.9k | Smut |
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
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Updated as Tumblr allows me to wrangle this masterlist back from the void.
I've been here for quite some time but I never understood why people tag a&b and a/b- I always thought & meant platonic and / meant romantic
assuming this is about ao3 relationship tag, you understand it correctly.
character A/character B = character A and character B's relationship is romantic and/or sexual (whether or not it's consensual)
character A & character B = character A and character B's relationship is not romantic or sexual. maybe they're friends, maybe they're enemies, maybe they're family, etc. but the relationship is not romantic or sexual.
if an author uses both "/" and "&" for character A and character B in the same work, it most likely means either of these things:
the relationship between character A and character B can be interpreted by audiences as either platonic or romantic/sexual
the relationship between character A and character B shifts from non-romantic/non-sexual to romantic and/or sexual, or vice versa
Jack Abbot with twin daughters in their mid-twenties. He’s Army, one’s a corpsman in the Navy, the other is an Air Force pilot. His late wife was a Marine.
description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
wc: 7.5k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension, some more angst but then repaired with smut and fluff ;)
series masterlist
I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
The blissful ignorance of the night before came to a swift halt the second your eyes flew open.
For a few precious seconds, you simply stared at the ceiling, still in that strange space between sleeping and waking where nothing felt real yet. Then reality caught up.
The argument in the laundry room.
The conversation that had somehow turned years of assumptions inside out.
And, maybe worst of all, the conclusion you’d arrived at afterward.
You groaned softly, dragging a hand across your face before letting it fall back onto the mattress.
The guest bed no longer felt nearly as comfortable as it had yesterday. The room itself had changed somehow. Before, its privacy had felt welcome, even necessary. Now it just felt lonely.
Your eyes drifted toward the closed bedroom door.
On the other side was the hallway. The kitchen. The smell of coffee that was probably already brewing. Jack.
The thought alone made your chest tighten.
Which was ridiculous.
There had been far more days during this quarantine where you’d dreaded seeing him than days you’d looked forward to it. You remembered lying awake in this exact room during the first week, mentally preparing yourself for whatever disagreement awaited you over breakfast. Wondering what sarcastic comment would annoy you first. What criticism would stick with you for the rest of the day.
Before, facing Jack Abbot had felt like a chore.
Now it felt impossible for very different reasons.
You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling again.
The more you thought about it, the more absurd it became.
For years, you had convinced yourself that what existed between you was frustration. Tension. Competition. You had built an entire narrative around that explanation because it was easier than the alternative.
Easier than admitting that his opinion mattered more than anyone else’s.
Easier than examining why you could brush off criticism from another attending but spend an entire evening replaying something he said.
Easier than asking yourself why every shift somehow felt incomplete when he wasn’t there.
The signs seemed embarrassingly obvious now.
Like discovering the answer to a question that had been sitting in front of you the entire time.
You buried your face briefly in the pillow.
“Fantastic,” you muttered.
Because that was the real problem.
Not the quarantine ending.
Not returning to PTMC.
Not even the complicated logistics of whatever relationship the two of you were trying to build.
The problem was that somewhere along the way, this had stopped being a silly crush.
You thought about him standing beside the washing machine yesterday, frustrated in a way you’d rarely seen. About the look on his face when you’d told him what those years had felt like from your side. About the quiet honesty underneath all that annoying confidence when the conversation turned serious.
You thought about how carefully he’d handled you from the very beginning of this. How willing he had been to give you space, even when it clearly wasn’t what he wanted.
And suddenly it felt impossible to dismiss any of it.
You exhaled slowly and sat up, resting your elbows on your knees.
Maybe that was why seeing him this morning felt so daunting.
Because nothing had actually changed.
Jack was still Jack.
The house was still the same.
The quarantine would still end tomorrow.
But now you were different. What you were willing to face about yourself. What you were potentially willing to admit after all this time.
And once a truth like that settled in, it had a way of changing everything around it.
Including the way you looked at the man waiting somewhere on the other side of that bedroom door.
Eventually, the prospect of starving to death became less appealing than facing your feelings.
Barely.
You lingered in your room longer than necessary, going through a morning routine that normally took fifteen minutes and somehow stretching it into forty-five. You reorganized your toiletry bag. Folded a sweatshirt that didn’t need folding. Checked your phone despite there being nothing new on it.
Anything to delay the inevitable.
But eventually there were no more excuses left.
With a deep breath, you opened the bedroom door.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
You padded down the hallway cautiously, as if the truth would manifest itself into some physical, earthly object and jump out at you.
The thought was ridiculous.
You still checked anyway.
The smell of coffee reached you before the kitchen did.
Of course, the man still made coffee after asking to spend the night apart.
When you finally rounded the corner, you found him exactly where you expected.
Jack was standing at the counter with a mug in hand, dressed in a faded PTMC t-shirt and sweatpants. Reading glasses sat low on his nose as he looked over something on his tablet, one hand absentmindedly wrapped around his coffee.
The sight of him hit you like a truck.
Not because he was doing anything particularly remarkable.
Quite the opposite—he looked painfully normal.
Comfortable.
Like this belonged to him.
Like you belonged here with him.
Oh, this was going to be a long day.
Unfortunately, Jack looked up at that exact moment.
His eyes found yours, and immediately narrowed.
You froze.
He froze.
A beat passed.
Then another.
“…Why are you standing like that?”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You look like you’re about to deliver bad news to a patient’s family.”
Offended, you straightened.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
His attention returned briefly to the tablet.
“Is somebody dead?”
“No.”
“Are you dead?”
“No?”
“Then come have coffee.”
The ease of it almost pissed you off.
There he’d been all night in your head, starring in every catastrophic scenario imaginable, and meanwhile he was standing in his kitchen looking concerned only that you hadn’t had any caffeine yet.
You crossed toward the island, trying very hard to act normal—whatever that was.
Jack was already reaching for a second mug before you sat down.
Muscle memory.
The realization struck unexpectedly.
He didn’t ask if you wanted coffee anymore.
He just made it. Exactly how you liked it.
The mug settled onto the counter in front of you.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the mug.
His eyes flicked upward. “There it is.”
Your heart sank.
“There what is?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one you’ve had since you walked in.”
You groaned immediately.
Jack set his tablet down.
“You’ve been awake for approximately ten minutes and you’re already thinking too hard.”
You scoffed. “I’ve been awake for way longer than that.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“I should’ve known. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
You hated that he knew you so well.
Maybe that was the problem.
It wasn’t quarantine or returning to work.
Or the fact that you’d spent half the night realizing you were hopelessly in love with him.
It was that Jack Abbot had become intimately familiar with you.
Not in the way Shen knew your preferred corner of the ED for charting, or the way Ellis could predict the exact face you make when a patient informed you they’d ignored your medical advice in favor of a Google search.
Those were workplace observations. The byproduct of spending long shifts together.
This was different.
Jack knew you.
He knew when you were hungry before you did. Knew the difference between your genuinely angry silence and the silence that meant you were thinking too hard. Knew that when you started cleaning something that didn’t need cleaning, you were anxious. Knew that you always forgot your stupid glass water bottle at home and always had a bottle from the vending machine ready.
More terrifyingly, he knew how your mind worked.
He could predict your next argument before you made it. Could identify the exact moment you started spiraling. Could look at you from across a room and somehow know what emotion you were trying—and failing—to conceal.
You weren’t sure when that happened.
Or maybe the scarier possibility was that it had always been happening.
This familiarity made uncertainty harder.
It made the idea of walking back into the emergency department tomorrow and pretending this hadn’t fundamentally changed both of your lives feel almost impossible.
Your gaze dropped to your coffee.
“Good morning to you too,” Jack said dryly, definitely in tune with the thoughts running through your head as you were too invested in them to respond.
Despite yourself, you laughed.
“Sorry, just… long night.”
“Me too.”
You lifted your gaze back up.
For a moment, your eyes moved between his, searching for something. Some hidden message. Some indication of what his night had looked like after you’d retreated to separate rooms.
Did he lie awake, too?
Did he replay every conversation you’d had over the last two weeks? Did he think about the future? About the hospital? About you?
You tried to find the answers in his expression.
And came up with nothing.
Not because he was cold or guarded.
But because Jack had always been harder to read than most people.
That notion hit you like a ton of bricks.
For someone who knew you so well, you weren’t entirely sure you knew him the same way.
You knew pieces of him, certainly.
You knew he preferred the night shift because he liked the unpredictability of it. You knew he woke up early no matter how late he’d gone to bed. You knew he took his coffee black and that he pretended not to care about holidays despite secretly participating in every department event.
You knew he carried more grief than he ever talked about. You knew he hid pain behind sarcasm. You knew he was kinder than he wanted people to realize.
But there were entire parts of him that still felt unexplored.
You’d spent so much energy trying to survive him that you never stopped to understand him.
Every time you found yourself wondering why he acted a certain way, you’d defaulted to the simplest explanation.
He’s irritated with me.
He doesn’t trust me.
He doesn’t like me.
Those answers had been easier.
Now, sitting across from him with a cooling mug of coffee between your hands, you found yourself realizing just how much of him remained a mystery.
And strangely, that didn’t feel discouraging.
It felt…exciting.
Because for the first time, you weren’t wondering how to make Jack Abbot like you.
You were wondering who he was when he wasn’t your attending.
The thought must have shown on your face somehow.
Which, to him, it usually did.
One of his brows lifted slightly. “What?”
You blinked.
“What, what?”
“You’re staring at me.”
Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks.
“No, I’m not.”
A familiar look settled onto his face.
One that suggested he found your denial deeply unconvincing. One you’d grown to unfortunately love.
“You absolutely are.”
You took a sip of coffee solely to avoid answering.
Unfortunately, Jack knew you well enough to recognize that maneuver too.
His mouth twitched.
And for the first time that morning, you found yourself smiling back.
“Share with the class, sweetheart,”
“Don’t wanna,” you mumbled behind your mug.
“Mm.” His tone softened, but it didn’t lose that quiet insistence. “What’s going on in that beautiful head?”
The words came out too smoothly.
You’d seen that voice work before. Not in theory, not in stories—right in front of you. The way it could cut through tension in a trauma room, steady a panicked patient, bring order to a room that was seconds away from spiraling.
But this version of it wasn’t for patients.
It was for you.
And your body reacted to it like it had its own memory of him, independent of everything your brain was still trying to sort out.
“I just…” You let out a breath, setting the mug down with more care than necessary, elbows coming to rest on the counter. “Worry I don’t know you as well as you know me.”
The silence that followed was immediate.
Jack actually paused.
Not in the casual, teasing way he usually did when you pushed back at him. This was different. His expression shifted slightly, like he was recalibrating what he’d just heard.
And honestly, so were you.
Because you hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not so honestly, anyway. Especially not at nine in the morning, standing in a kitchen with sunlight starting to spill and tension beginning to thicken.
But something about him made honesty slip out of you before you could stop it.
His gaze stayed on you for a long moment.
“Why would you think that?” he asked finally.
You hesitated, then shrugged slightly, eyes dropping to the countertop.
“Because you… notice everything.” Your fingers traced an imaginary line near your mug. “The way I work, the way I think, what I’m going to say before I say it. You’ve always been like that.”
A beat passed.
“And I spent years thinking I had you figured out,” you continued more quietly. “But I don’t know if that was ever real, or if I just… made up a version of you that made sense to me at the time.”
That landed heavier.
You could feel it in the way the air shifted.
Jack set his mug down more slowly than before.
When he spoke again, his voice wasn’t teasing anymore.
“It wasn’t made up.”
You looked up.
His expression was steady, but there was something behind it now. Something a little less controlled than usual.
“I’ve always noticed you,” he said. “That part is real.”
Your breath caught slightly at the simplicity of it.
He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to soften it with humor or deflection.
Just stood there, meeting your eyes like he wasn’t interested in backing away from what he’d said.
“But you’re right about one thing,” he added after a moment.
Your brows furrowed slightly.
“What’s that?”
“You didn’t know me,” he said quietly. “Not really.”
It didn’t sting, per se.
Because he wasn’t accusing you.
He was agreeing with you.
“Doesn’t feel fair,” you huffed a quiet laugh.
“It’s not.” He shook his head once, like he didn’t see any point pretending otherwise. “So I want to even the score.”
That made you pause.
Your head tilted slightly, your attention sharpening in the way it always did when Jack had a proposition. “How?”
His gaze stayed on you for a moment longer than necessary, like he was weighing whether to say it out loud again.
Then he exhaled. “I’ll make you dinner tonight,” he said. “A real date.”
Your chest tightened at the phrasing alone.
“A date?”
“Yes.” No hesitation this time. “So we can get to know each other outside of the ED. Outside of… all of this.”
His hand moved vaguely between you, the weight of quarantine, everything that had compressed the last thirteen days into something neither of you could separate from the rest of your history.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh again, but it didn’t fully form.
“Jack,” you started, then stopped, because you weren’t entirely sure what you were objecting to yet.
The idea itself?
Or how much you immediately wanted to say yes to it.
He noticed the hesitation, of course he did.
But he didn’t backtrack.
“I’m not trying to complicate things,” he added. “I’m trying to slow them down.”
That hit differently.
Intentional. Real.
Not the accidental intimacy of proximity and circumstance. Not the quiet escalation you hadn’t realized you were participating in until it was already happening.
A choice.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug.
“You’re aware we go back tomorrow,” you said quietly.
“I am.”
“Back at PTMC. With our colleagues. Back in the real world.”
“I know.”
The calm certainty in his voice made your stomach flip in the worst and best way at the same time.
Like he had already accounted for all of it.
Like he wasn’t asking you to ignore reality—but just to meet him in it.
Your eyes searched his face again, slower this time. Trying to find the catch. The hesitation. The part where he might pull back and turn this into a joke.
It didn’t come.
Instead, he just stood there, waiting.
Not pushing.
Just offering.
And that, somehow, was what made it harder to refuse.
“Dinner,” you repeated, quieter now.
“A date,” he confirmed.
A beat passed.
“Pick me up at 7,”
God bless Trinity Santos.
You thought in your head, holding up the one black dress she had somehow managed to pack into your duffel like she’d known, on some chaotic, intuitive level, that you would need it.
Casual enough that it didn’t feel like you were trying too hard. Cute enough that it absolutely still counted as effort. And somehow, exactly right for a “real date” with your attending physician in quarantine-adjacent emotional turmoil.
Of course she’d done this.
Of course she’d anticipated something you yourself had been actively refusing to acknowledge until approximately twenty-four hours ago.
You stood there for a moment longer, dress in hand, staring at it like it might offer guidance on what exactly you were supposed to do with the dilemma of either to date your attending or to shove it all back down in a box and light the box on fire.
The answer, unfortunately, did not come.
So you got dressed anyway.
By the time you stepped out into the hallway, you could smell it.
Food.
Not hospital food. Not takeout. Not something thrown together.
Your steps slowed slightly as you moved toward the kitchen.
Jack was already there.
The sight of him made you pause in the doorway without meaning to. He’d changed too—no scrubs, no work attire, just a simple shirt and dark pants rolled at the sleeves like he’d made a decision about this evening and committed to it fully.
The kitchen, meanwhile, looked like a place that had been subtly transformed. Nothing dramatic or staged. Just small, deliberate signs of effort. A pan still warm on the stove. Plates already set out. A bottle of something opened on the counter.
And him.
Waiting.
When he looked up and saw you, there was a brief stillness in his expression that he didn’t bother hiding.
You felt it immediately.
That shift.
Like the version of you in scrubs, in exhaustion, in argument, had been replaced by something he was still learning how to look at.
“You found a dress,” he said finally.
“I had help,” you replied, stepping fully into the kitchen now.
A faint exhale of amusement left him.
“I should’ve known Santos would get involved.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I should be thanking her,” He chuckled. “Because you look beautiful,”
Your chest threatened to explode. Sure, he’d been complimenting you in more suggestive ways the past few days, but this was different. This was intimate. It was earnest.
He turned slightly back toward the counter, giving you a moment that felt suspiciously intentional.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Starving,” you admitted.
“Good.”
There was a pause as he picked up the plate he’d been working on, then glanced at you again.
“Sit,” he added, nodding toward the table.
You hesitated for half a second before doing it, the chair scraping softly against the floor as you settled in.
It felt too normal.
Too much like something you could get used to without realizing it was happening.
Jack placed the food down in front of you, then sat across from you, not immediately filling the silence. Not rushing it. Just letting it exist.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The kitchen light was warm. Late-day sun filtering in through the window. Everything quieter than it had any right to be considering what this evening was supposed to mean.
You looked down at the plate, then back up at him.
“This is the part where I’m supposed to say something clever and cute,” you said.
A corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“You usually do.”
“I’m off my game.”
“Understandable,” he replied, almost dry. “You’re on a date with your attending.”
You groaned softly, dropping your head back for a second.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s normal.”
His eyes flicked over you then, steady and unreadable in a way that felt new again.
“It’s not normal,” he said simply.
It was brutally honest, and somehow, more grounding than anything else he could’ve said.
You picked up your fork slowly.
“So,” you said after a beat, forcing a lighter tone, “what exactly is this version of Jack Abbot like outside the ED?”
His gaze held yours for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he leaned back slightly in his chair.
“The honest answer?” he said. “Boring.”
You blinked at him.
“Boring,” you repeated.
He nodded once, unbothered.
“Very.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Well, that I know,” you said, picking up your fork again. “I’m trying to learn new things about you.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted, gesturing slightly with your fork. “Anything that isn’t ‘man who verbally dismantles residents before 7 a.m.’”
That earned a faint huff of amusement from him.
“Fair.”
You took a bite, and for a moment the conversation settled into something easier. Not weightless, exactly, but no longer sharp at the edges either.
“I read,” he continued.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Non-medical books.”
You paused.
“Okay, that’s new.”
His expression stayed neutral, but there was a slight flicker of something like satisfaction.
“Mostly history.”
You leaned forward a little, genuinely curious now.
“Any specific period?”
“Varies,” he said. “Right now it’s post-war reconstruction.”
You studied him for a second, like you were recalibrating the version of him you had in your head.
“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that beneath the emotionally constipated attending persona, there’s a guy who reads about infrastructure rebuilding in his free time?”
A low laugh left him, more relaxed now than he had been all day.
You noticed it immediately. The way his shoulders weren’t quite as tight. The way he wasn’t watching you like he was waiting for something to break.
It made something in your chest ease as well.
“So what about you?” he asked after a moment.
You frowned slightly.
“What about me?”
“This version of you,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Outside the ED.”
You leaned back in your chair, considering that.
“I sleep a lot,” you admitted. “I complain less. I have hobbies that don’t involve watching people actively ignore medical advice.”
“Impressive.”
“Right?”
“Not reading about post-war reconstruction, I assume.”
“Oh, I’ll read,” you said, leaning back slightly in your chair, wine glass lazily in your hand. “But it’s usually some raunchy, enemies-to-lovers thing set in a small beach town.”
That earned a pause from him.
Then, quietly, “Educational.”
You grinned around your bite of food.
“You’d be surprised.”
The ease between you lingered after that, not rushing to be filled. The meal slowly disappeared between conversation and small interruptions—little comments about the food, teasing observations, the kind of back-and-forth that didn’t feel like effort anymore.
It just… happened.
At some point, the plates were empty without either of you really noticing.
Neither of you moved to clear them right away.
Instead, the conversation kept going.
Lighter things first.
Stories from the ED that weren’t arguments. Small absurd moments you both had witnessed but never had time to laugh about before. Patients who said outrageous things. Residents who tried too hard. Nurses who knew everything before anyone else did.
Almost like you were rebuilding a previously thought to be tarnished story.
And Jack laughed more than you expected him to.
Not loudly or performatively. Just enough that it changed the shape of him across from you. Less contained and measured.
And you realized, somewhere in the middle of it, that this version of him wasn’t new.
He had just never had space to exist like this around you before.
Eventually, the conversation slowed without either of you deciding it should.
The silence that followed didn’t feel like an ending. More like a natural pause.
Jack leaned back in his chair slightly, hands loosely clasped in front of him.
For a while, he just looked at you.
Not in a way that made you tense—just in a way that made you notice he wasn’t joking anymore.
“I didn’t talk about this much at work,” he said finally.
Your expression shifted slightly, but you didn’t interrupt.
He exhaled, gaze dropping briefly toward the table before returning to you.
“Loss,” he clarified. “Not in detail.”
Something in your chest tightened, but you stayed still.
“I’ve lost patients,” he continued. “We all do. That part you learn to carry. Or you don’t last long in the ED.”
A pause.
“But there’s a difference between losing patients and…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening briefly like he was choosing his words carefully. “And losing people who were supposed to stay in your life longer.”
You didn’t speak. Not because you didn’t want to. But because you could feel how deliberate this was for him.
Jack didn’t offer things like this easily.
“I had someone early in my career,” he said quietly. “Someone who made the days feel easier. Life felt…lighter. Losing a leg and having a tough job no longer felt as heavy.”
His fingers shifted slightly against each other.
“Then I lost her.”
The admission hung there for a moment.
“When that happened,” he continued, voice steadier now but lower, “I think I started treating everything like it had an expiration date. People. Relationships. Even good moments.”
His gaze lifted to yours again.
“I didn’t want to get comfortable in anything I might lose.”
The honesty of it made your throat tighten.
It wasn’t. dramatic. Or heavy in a way that demanded a response.
It was just what it was.
You let that sit between you both for a moment before speaking.
“So you stopped letting yourself stay in things.”
A faint, almost rueful smile tugged at his mouth.
“I tried.”
You studied him for a second, really studied him, in a way you hadn’t before when you were too busy being frustrated or angry or unsure of what he thought of you.
“And now?” you asked quietly.
His eyes held yours.
“Now I’m trying to be more intentional about what I don’t walk away from.”
The words landed harder than everything else that night.
Outside, the light had shifted further, softening into late evening gold against the kitchen walls. The house felt quieter now, but not empty. Just settled.
You realized you weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore.
You were just… there.
With him.
And that didn’t feel like something you had to escape from.
It felt like something you might not want to leave.
Jack didn’t move right away. Neither did you. The plates were still on the table between you, forgotten in a way that didn’t feel careless so much as inevitable. Like whatever this conversation had become had quietly taken precedence over everything else.
Outside, the light had shifted fully into evening now, stretching warm gold across the kitchen walls. It softened the edges of everything it touched, including him. Including you.
Jack broke the silence first, but not immediately. He looked down at the table for a moment, then let out a slow breath.
“I don’t know what this looks like outside of here,” he admitted.
You watched him carefully.
“I don’t either,” you said honestly.
That seemed to settle between you without tension. Only truth.
He nodded slightly, like that was enough for now.
Another pause passed.
Then his gaze lifted to yours again, and something about it had changed.
“I meant what I said this morning,” he said quietly.
Your heart picked up immediately, but you didn’t interrupt.
His fingers rested loosely on the table now, no longer clenched or guarded.
“When I said I wanted to be intentional,” he continued, “I meant with you.”
The air between you shifted.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of your hands resting still in your lap.
“Jack—”
He shook his head slightly, not cutting you off, just asking you not to rush him.
“I’ve spent a long time not saying things,” he said. “Not because I didn’t feel them. Because I thought it was easier that way.”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“And because I thought if I gave it a name, it would become something I could lose.”
The honesty of it made your chest ache.
You knew that feeling.
More than you wanted to admit.
He exhaled slowly.
“But I’m tired of treating everything like it’s temporary.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, like it cost him something to say it out loud at all:
“And I don’t want this to be temporary.”
Your breath caught.
Because that wasn’t vague. Or careful. Or any of the things you had grown to know about Jack Abbot.
It was right in front of you without the buffer of uncertainty he usually hid behind.
You searched his face for something that would soften it.
It didn’t come.
Instead, he added, even more quietly:
“I think I’m in love with you.”
The words didn’t echo.
They didn’t need to.
Your throat tightened immediately, like your body had decided to respond before your mind could organize anything coherent.
For a moment, you couldn’t speak at all.
All you could do was look at him.
Really look.
At the man who had spent years being your frustration, your challenge, your impossible standard. The man you had misunderstood for just as long as you’d unknowingly been circling something neither of you had been ready to name.
And now he was sitting across from you like it was the simplest truth in the world.
Like it had always been there—it had just finally been said out loud.
You let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, but it didn’t fully form.
“That’s…” you started, then stopped, because your voice didn’t feel reliable anymore.
Jack didn’t push.
He just waited.
So you swallowed again, slower this time, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.
“That’s really unfair timing,” you said quietly.
A faint flicker of confusion crossed his face.
And then you exhaled, shaking your head slightly at yourself.
Because there was no point trying to dodge it anymore.
“Because I think I’m in love with you too.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was full. Of everything that had been building for years without either of you giving it permission to exist out loud.
For a second, Jack didn’t move.
Neither did you.
Then, slowly, his shoulders eased, like something in him had been carrying that weight longer than he’d let on.
A small, almost disbelieving breath left him.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once.
“Yeah.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again, slower this time, as if he was making sure you were still there in front of him and not something he’d imagined into existence over the last thirteen days.
You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned in slightly without thinking about it, closing the already fragile space between you by just enough that it no longer felt theoretical.
His hand came up carefully, pausing for a fraction of a second before settling at your jaw. Just resting there, like he was giving you one last chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
The breath he let out was quiet.
Barely there.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was controlled in the way someone is controlled when they’ve been holding themselves back for far too long and finally stop trying.
Like he’d made a decision and couldn’t afford to undo it anymore.
Your hand found his shirt without thinking, grounding yourself in something real as the world narrowed down to the space between you.
When he pulled back slightly, it was only enough to breathe, his forehead almost resting against yours.
“You’re sure?” He murmured, like he was giving you one last out. One last chance to decide this wasn’t what you wanted.
“I’m very sure,”
And that was it.
Whatever careful control Jack had been maintaining tonight shattered completely.
His hand tightened at your jaw, tilting your face up as he kissed you again, harder this time. Not asking permission anymore. Just taking what you'd both finally admitted you wanted.
Your fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and the sound he made against your mouth sent heat flooding through your entire body.
Years of unspoken feelings.
And now there was nothing left to hold it back.
His other hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress like he needed to confirm you were real. That this was actually happening.
You gasped softly when his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your grip on him tighten involuntarily.
"Jack—"
His name came out breathless, almost desperate, and you felt him pause for just a second against your skin.
Then he pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes darker than you'd ever seen them, pupils blown wide with want.
"Stand up," he said quietly.
It wasn't a command—but there was an edge to his voice that made your stomach flip.
You didn't hesitate.
The chair scraped back as you stood, and immediately his hands were on you again—one sliding to the small of your back, the other cupping the side of your face as he kissed you again, deeper this time.
You met him with equal intensity, your hands finding his shoulders, his neck, threading into his hair and pulling slightly without thinking.
He groaned softly against your mouth, and the sound of it—raw and unguarded—made something inside you snap.
Your back hit the edge of the counter.
Jack's body pressed against yours, solid and warm and real, one hand braced on the counter beside you while the other traced down your side, over the curve of your hip, gripping there like he couldn't help himself.
"All mine," he murmured against your lips, even as his hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your thigh through the fabric of your dress.
“All yours,” you breathed back.
That earned a low, almost disbelieving laugh from him before his mouth found yours again, harder, more demanding.
Your hands moved without thought—sliding down his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, then lower still, tugging his shirt free from his pants so you could finally touch skin.
The moment your fingers made contact with the bare skin of his abdomen, he inhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening.
"Christ," he muttered against your mouth.
You smiled slightly, breathless, and did it again—letting your hands explore the planes of his stomach, his sides, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch.
His hand slid higher on your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress up slightly, and the deliberate slowness of it made your breath catch.
"Jack—"
"I know," he said quietly, his forehead resting against yours for just a moment. "I know."
But he didn't stop.
His thumb traced small circles against your inner thigh, maddeningly close to where you wanted him but not quite there yet, and you made a small frustrated sound that made his mouth curve slightly against your jaw.
"Patience," he murmured.
"I've been patient for years," you shot back, breathless.
That made him pause.
Then he pulled back just enough to look at you properly, his expression shifting into something more serious, more intense.
"So have I," he said quietly.
And then his hand moved higher, finally, and your head fell back against the cabinet with a soft thud as a gasp escaped you.
His mouth found your neck again, kissing and biting gently as his fingers moved with deliberate precision, and you couldn't think anymore.
Couldn't do anything except hold onto him and let yourself feel everything you'd been denying for so long. Something about this time felt…different. Now with everything on the table, you could fully allow yourself to get lost in him.
Your hands found his belt, fumbling slightly with the buckle, and he made a low sound against your throat that might have been your name.
"Bedroom," he managed, voice rough.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.
But neither of you moved.
Instead, his mouth found yours again, kissing you like he couldn't quite bring himself to stop long enough to walk the ten feet to the other room.
Your fingers finally got his belt undone, and his hand caught your wrist gently, stilling you.
"Bedroom," he repeated, more firmly this time.
This time, you listened.
He stepped back just enough to let you move, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together as he led you out of the kitchen.
The walk down the hallway felt both impossibly long and far too short.
The moment you crossed the threshold into his room, his hands were on you again—one sliding into your hair, the other at your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you with renewed intensity.
You walked backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and then you were falling, pulling him down with you.
He caught himself on his forearms, hovering over you for just a moment, his breathing ragged.
His mouth moved down your jaw, your throat, finding that spot just below your ear that he'd discovered days ago—the one that made you gasp and arch into him every single time.
"Still so responsive," he murmured against your skin, and you could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
"And you're still so smug about it," you managed, your fingers threading into his hair.
"I am," he admitted without shame, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "I love how you react to me."
The word love landed differently now.
Made your breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with what his mouth was doing.
He felt it, the slight hitch, and lifted his head to look at you.
"Say it again," you whispered.
His eyes darkened, but his expression softened.
"I love you," he said, deliberate and clear. Then his hand slid up your thigh, pushing your dress higher. "And I love this. The way you look at me. The sounds you make."
Your hands found his shirt, working the buttons open with more coordination than you'd had in the kitchen. He helped you shrug it off his shoulders, and then your palms were on his chest, sliding down, relearning the terrain you'd mapped thoroughly over the past week.
When your fingers traced the line of his prosthetic, he didn't tense this time. Just watched you with an intensity that made your chest tight.
"I love you," you said, meeting his eyes as your hand moved deliberately along the edge where metal met skin. "All of you."
He exhaled roughly, then captured your mouth again, kissing you hard enough that you felt it everywhere.
His hands made quick work of your dress, the zipper sliding down with practiced ease. You lifted your hips to help him pull it off, and he tossed it aside without ceremony.
"Better," he muttered, his gaze raking over you in just your underwear.
"Your turn," you said, reaching for his belt again.
This time he didn't stop you.
You got his pants open, and he shifted to kick them off with his prosthetic, the movements efficient and unselfconscious in a way that made your heart squeeze.
When he settled back over you, there was nothing between you but thin fabric and intention.
"Come here," you said softly, pulling him down.
He went willingly, his weight pressing you into the mattress as his mouth found yours again. The kiss was deep, thorough, the kind that made you forget where you ended and he began.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your mouth.
"You're going to kill me," he muttered.
"Good," you said, rolling your hips deliberately.
His hand slid between you, fingers finding you through your underwear, and the touch was confident, knowing exactly where and how to press.
You gasped, your head falling back, and he took advantage, his mouth moving down your throat, across your collarbone, lower.
"Jack—"
"I know," he said, his voice rough. "I know what you need."
And he did.
He knew how to touch you, how to build the tension until you were trembling beneath him. Knew when to go slow and when to push harder. Knew the exact moment to slide your underwear down your legs and replace his fingers with his mouth.
"Fuck," you gasped, your hands fisting in his hair.
He made a low sound of approval against you, and the vibration nearly undid you.
It didn't take long—it never did with him—before you were gasping his name, your thighs trembling around his shoulders.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth was curved in that rare, genuine smile that you'd only started seeing in the past few days.
"I love watching you come apart," he murmured simply.
You pulled him up to you, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his lips.
"My turn," you murmured against his mouth.
But he shook his head slightly.
"Not yet," he said. "I want—"
He paused, and something shifted in his expression. Something vulnerable.
"I want to be inside you," he said quietly. "I want to look at you. I want—"
"Yes," you interrupted, understanding immediately. "Yes, Jack."
When he settled back between your thighs, he paused, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to you.
"Look at me," he said softly.
You did.
His eyes held yours as he pressed forward, slow and deliberate, and the stretch of him was familiar now but no less overwhelming.
"Fuck," you breathed, your hands finding his shoulders.
"You feel perfect," he said roughly. "Every single time."
He started to move, and the rhythm was immediately familiar—the pace you'd learned together, the angle that made you both gasp.
But something was different now.
The way he looked at you. The way his hand found yours, lacing your fingers together and pressing them into the mattress. The way he said your name like it meant something more than it had before.
"I love you," he said again, the words coming easier now. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you gasped, your free hand sliding down his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he moved. "Jack, I—"
"I know," he said, his forehead dropping to yours. "I know, sweetheart."
The endearment made your chest ache.
His pace increased, and you met him thrust for thrust, your body knowing exactly how to move with his.
"Harder," you said breathlessly.
He obliged immediately, his hips snapping forward with more force, and the sound you made was obscene.
"Like that?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Yes—just like that—"
His hand released yours to slide between your bodies, finding where you were joined, and the added pressure made you cry out.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
You were close—so close—and he knew it, could read your body like he'd been doing it for years instead of days.
"Come for me," he said roughly. "I want to feel it."
The command, the intimacy of it, the way he was looking at you like you were everything—it pushed you over the edge.
You came with his name on your lips, your body clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, his face buried in your neck as he groaned your name.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just stayed there, breathing hard, hearts racing against each other.
Finally, he lifted his head to look at you, and his expression was soft in a way you'd never seen before.
"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't stop saying it now that he'd started.
You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
"I love you too," you said. "So much."
He kissed you then, slow and tender, before carefully pulling out and standing to walk over to the bathroom.
When he came back to bed, he cleaned you off before pulling you against him immediately, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you.
"Stay," he said quietly.
You smiled against his skin.
"I'm not going anywhere."
His hand traced idle patterns on your shoulder, and for a while, you just lay there in comfortable silence.
"This changes things," he said eventually.
"I know."
"I don't know what it looks like when we go back," he admitted. "But I meant what I said. I want to figure it out."
You tilted your head to look up at him.
"So do I."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Good."
Outside, the evening had fully settled into night, but inside, everything felt warm and settled and right.
Like maybe, despite everything, you'd both finally found something worth holding onto.
This was inspired by those stories you hear every now and then, where a married couple are going through childhood photos and discover that years before they properly met, they just happened to have both been in the same place, at the same time, and, as it turns out, even ended up in the same photo.
Or, Robby raids Jack’s embarrassing childhood photos and spots some surprisingly familiar faces in one of them.
(the rest of the baby!Jack unfortunate childhood photos are below the cut for those who are interested. Because I had too much fun sketching them 😂)
Summary: Jack said the hardcover budget was flexible. That was his first mistake. After a bookstore trip that gets slightly out of hand, you come home glowing, carrying new books and reorganizing your red-tabbed archive like it is a sacred academic collection. Jack is amused. Fond. Far too pleased with himself for a man who should know better. Then he notices the one book that did not come from the bookstore. An old one. One you have read before. One with the red tab you almost took out. Page 212 is not like the others. It is not about Jack taking control, or guiding you, or making you ask for what you want. This time, it is about you wanting to learn him. And Jack, very dangerously, tells you to.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established marriage, Source Material bonus scene, oral sex, riding, teasing, orgasm denial, masturbation/watching, praise kink, reader taking control, Jack being absolutely wrecked, prosthetic intimacy/care, dirty talk, consent-heavy power exchange, aftercare, Jack Abbot losing his entire mind over his wife
Author's Note: You all were very normal about Source Material, so obviously I had to make page 212 everyone’s problem. A lot of you asked in my inbox and comments what actually happened on page 212, and I am nothing if not committed to public service. So… here it is. This is what happened after the bookstore. This is why Jack was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, repeating that it was incredible, like page 212 had personally rewired his brain.
You’re welcome.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Previous Part: Source Material
Jack had said the hardcover budget was flexible. That had been his first mistake. His second mistake was smiling when you took him seriously.
By the time you got back from the bookstore, the paper bag handles had stretched thin from the weight of your very reasonable, very necessary purchases. There were two hardcovers, three paperbacks, one special edition you had gasped over so dramatically that Jack had put it in the basket without checking the price, and one book you insisted was “for emotional support,” which had made him look at you with mild horror in the middle of the romance aisle.
“You have seven emotional-support books at home,” he had said.
You had clutched the paperback to your chest. “This one is specialized.”
Jack had looked at the cover, then back at you. “Specialized.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“For?”
You had smiled sweetly. “You’ll find out if you behave.”
That had been his third mistake. He had behaved.
Mostly.
Now, Jack carried the bookstore bag upstairs like a man hauling evidence. You followed him into the bedroom and immediately kicked off your shoes. “I need to change first.”
Jack set the bag on the bed. “For book organization?”
“Obviously.”
His eyebrows lifted. “There’s a dress code?”
You reached for the hem of your sweater. “There is a mobility requirement.”
Jack looked at the bag. Then at you. “For paperbacks.”
You narrowed your eyes. “For systems, Jack.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Of course.”
He stayed near the foot of the bed while you crossed to the dresser, still in his jeans and soft black T-shirt, watch on his wrist. Covered. Composed. Very pleased with himself for a man trying not to look pleased.
You, on the other hand, were out of your bookstore clothes in less than a minute. Jeans first. Sweater next. Then you pulled one of Jack’s old shirts from the drawer and slipped it over your head. The cotton fell soft around you, hem brushing your thighs, nothing but underwear beneath it. Comfortable. Mobile. Bare-legged in the middle of your bedroom while he stood there fully dressed, watching you with the careful restraint of a man who knew better than to comment too quickly.
You turned around and found his eyes on you. Not crude. Not even obvious. Just enough. Your skin warmed. Jack looked at your legs. Then, at the books. Then back at your face. “That seems excessive.”
You tugged the hem of his shirt down with great dignity. “I have to be comfortable and mobile.”
His gaze dropped briefly again. “For organization.”
“Yes.”
Jack nodded slowly. “I see.”
You raised a brow. “Do you?”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m starting to.”
You pointed at him. “Do not make this weird.”
Jack’s eyes came back to yours, warm and dry. “I’m not the one reorganizing smut in my underwear.”
You lifted your chin. “I’m wearing a shirt.”
“My shirt,” Jack replied.
You grinned happily. “That’s because you have excellent attire for organization.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. There it was again. That quiet, private look. The one he always tried to hide when he was too pleased with himself. It sat in the corners of his mouth, in the softened line of his eyes, in the way his attention stayed on you like your happiness was something he had managed to bring home in the bag with the books.
And maybe he had.
Maybe that was the dangerous part.
The books landed on your bed with soft, papery thuds, glossy covers, and crisp spines spilling across the comforter. The room still smelled faintly of rain from the window cracked open earlier, but now there was bookstore scent too: paper, ink, dust, new pages, the sharp sweetness of unread books waiting to become everyone’s problem.
You were radiant.
Jack was trying very hard not to look proud of that. He failed quietly. “This is a lot of books,” he said.
You pulled a paperback from the bag and set it carefully beside the others. “This is an appropriate number of books.”
Jack glanced at the pile. “For a library.”
You looked up at him. “Exactly.”
His mouth barely moved. You saw it anyway. “Don’t act like you’re not proud of yourself,” you said.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “For enabling you?”
“For supporting your wife’s intellectual and emotional development,” you corrected him.
His gaze dropped to the shirt again. His shirt. Your bare thighs. The red-tabbed books already waiting near the nightstand. Then his eyes came back to yours. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
You held up one of the new books. “This one has dragons.”
Jack nodded once. “Intellectual.”
You held up another. “This one has political intrigue.”
“Emotional development,” Jack replied.
You lifted the third. Jack looked at the cover. Then back at you. “That one has a shirtless man holding a sword.”
You hugged it to your chest. “Cultural enrichment.”
Jack’s mouth curved.
You looked down before your face could get too warm. “I need to reorganize.”
Jack exhaled through his nose. “Of course you do.”
“You can’t just add new books without creating space.”
“No?” he asked.
You gave him a look over your shoulder as you crossed to the bookshelf. “That is how chaos starts.”
Jack sat on the edge of the mattress, bracing one hand behind him. “Wouldn’t want that.”
“You mock me now,” you said, pulling three paperbacks from the lower shelf, “but when civilization collapses, you’ll be grateful someone in this house understands systems.”
Jack’s eyes followed you as you crouched near the shelf. You felt the attention. You were the one half-dressed, bare legs folded beneath you, hem of his shirt shifting every time you reached for another paperback. He was still dressed. Still covered. Still sitting there like control was something he could put on as easily as a black T-shirt and jeans. But his thumb had gone still against the comforter. That was the first sign.
You pretended not to notice.
Jack cleared his throat. “You’re going to save us with alphabetized smut?”
You glanced back at him. “Genre, then emotional damage level, then author.”
He stared at you. You smiled. Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m in too deep.”
You shrugged. “You married me.”
“I did,” Jack said with a soft smile.
“You had warning.”
He looked at the bed, at the new books, then at the old stack of red-tabbed paperbacks still sitting near your nightstand from earlier. His mouth twitched. “Not enough.”
You laughed, soft and pleased, and began moving books. Old ones came off the shelf first. Bent corners. Cracked spines. Covers soft from being opened too many times. Then the newer stack. Then the archive, because if the night had become an academic investigation into your red tabs, at least it deserved proper handling. Jack watched from the bed while you rearranged his entire understanding of your nightstand. You sat on the bed and sorted the books into piles across the comforter.
Jack pointed at that pile. “That category concerns me.”
You nodded in agreement. “It should.”
He looked at the stack of red-tabbed books. “And those?”
You followed his gaze. The archive sat in a loose line near his thigh. The books you had already shown him. The pool house. The cabin. The bar bathroom. The supply closet. The bedroom. The hotel mirror. His chair.
A timeline of ideas.
A timeline of trust.
Your chest warmed at the sight of them, ridiculous and intimate across the bedspread. A whole row of glossy covers and tiny red flags that had somehow become the story of you learning to ask for things and Jack learning, over and over, how to receive the asking. “Those stay together,” you said.
Jack’s eyes came back to your face. The teasing faded by a degree. “Yeah?”
You nodded, touching the nearest spine with two fingers. “They earned it.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then his gaze shifted. Not to the new pile. Not to the archive. To the book near your knee. You had almost forgotten it was there. Almost.
It was older than the ones from the bookstore. Older than the glossy new stack now spread across the comforter. The spine was creased white in three places. The corners were soft. The front cover bent slightly near the edge where your thumb had pressed it open too many times. A red tab stuck out near the middle. Small. Bright. Accusing.
Jack looked at it. Then at you. “That one didn’t come from the bookstore.”
Your hand paused on the book you were moving. “No.”
Jack’s gaze dropped back to the red tab. “You’ve read it before.”
“Yes.”
His attention stayed there, steady and too observant. “And it didn’t make the archive.”
The room went quieter. Not silent. The rain still tapped faintly against the window. The heater hummed. A paper bag shifted softly near the foot of the bed, where it had collapsed against Jack’s discarded shoe. But the air between you changed.
You looked down at the old paperback. “It didn’t fit the timeline.”
Jack did not answer right away. That was worse. He only looked at you, patient and warm and impossible to lie to. Then he said, softly, “Baby.”
One word. That was all it took.
Your shoulders dropped. “I know.”
His expression did not turn smug. That was how you knew he understood this was different. He glanced at the book again. “Try again.”
You sat back on your heels, the hem of his shirt slipping higher on your thighs. The old paperback rested beside your knee, untouched now, like it was waiting to see whether you would finally tell the truth about it. You were the exposed one. That should have made him the steady one. But Jack’s eyes were on the red tab now, and something about the page you had almost hidden seemed to reach beneath all that composure. Beneath the black shirt. Beneath the jeans. Beneath the calm, observant patience he wore so well. He had asked for the archive earlier, like a man prepared to conduct research.
Now he looked like he understood this was not research.
This was an offering.
You brushed your thumb over the comforter. “I almost took the tab out.”
Jack went still. Not tense. Still. The kind of still that meant he had heard the thing under the thing. “Why?”
You looked at the red tab. The paper near it had softened from your thumb. The edge curled slightly upward, bent from being opened and closed and opened again. “Because I knew if you saw it, you’d ask.”
Jack’s hand rested on the bed near your knee. Not touching the book. Not touching you. Just there. “And now?”
Your throat tightened. You hated that he always knew which question mattered.
Now.
After the books were spread over the bed. After the archive. After the chair, the pool house, the cabin, and the mirror. After he had listened to every explanation without making you feel foolish. After he had thanked you for trusting him with all of it. After he had taken you to the bookstore, like the red tabs were not something to be embarrassed by, but something to be funded.
Now.
You looked up at him. His face was calm, but not careless. There was a softness around his mouth, a focused quiet in his eyes. Jack, waiting. Jack, giving you room. Jack, making the choice yours before he ever reached for the page.
“Now I think I want you to,” you said.
Jack’s gaze held yours for a long second. Then it moved to the book. The red tab. Back to you.
His voice was quiet. “Can I read it?”
Your breath caught. Not because the question surprised you. Because it didn’t. Because of course, he asked. Because the first time, earlier that night, he had stolen a look at your book with the gleeful confidence of a husband who had decided marital clinical curiosity was a valid research method. He had been nosy and amused and half-smug about discovering the red tabs.
But this was not that.
This was the one you had almost hidden.
He knew the difference.
You nodded. Jack waited. Right. Words. “Yes,” you said. “You can read it.”
You picked up the paperback before you could change your mind. The cover bent naturally in your hand, familiar from rereads. The pages fell open almost on their own, not to the beginning, not to the last place you had stopped, but to the middle.
Page 212.
The paper was softer there. Worn at the corner. The red tab was slightly bent from your thumb.
Jack noticed that too. But he did not tease you for it. He only took the book when you offered it, his fingers careful against yours. His thumb slid beneath the red tab, holding the page open like it mattered. Like he understood, before he even read a word, that this one had cost you more than the others. “Thank you,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “For letting you read smut?”
His mouth curved faintly, but his eyes stayed soft. “For trusting me with the one you almost hid.”
The words landed low and warm in your chest. For a second, you could not make a joke.
Jack did not ask you to. He looked down at the page. And began to read.
Jack read the page once. Then again. The room did not change. Not really. The new books still sat scattered across the comforter in glossy, innocent piles. The bookstore bag still sagged near the foot of the bed, one handle twisted where Jack had carried it upstairs. Rain kept tapping lightly against the window, soft and patient. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light over the bed, catching on the red tabs, the bent corners, the crisp spines, the old book open in Jack’s hands.
But Jack went very still. That changed everything. His thumb stayed beneath the red tab, holding page 212 open with a care that made your chest feel too tight. His eyes moved slowly over the paper. Not skimming. Not reading for plot. Reading like the page had shifted into something else entirely in his hands. Evidence. Invitation. Confession.
You sat on your heels near the middle of the bed, wearing his shirt and underwear, bare legs folded beneath you, surrounded by the archive you had already given him and the new books he had just funded with far too much dignity for a man who should have known better.
You were the one exposed. That was the obvious thing. Jack was still fully dressed. Held together in all the ways he knew how to hold himself together.
And still, somehow, he looked like the page was undoing him.
Not loudly. Jack did not do loud when something mattered. It was in the small things. His thumb stilling against the paper. His jaw shifted once. The slow breath he took through his nose did not quite let out evenly. The way his eyes paused halfway down the page, then returned to the top, like he needed to make sure he had understood it correctly.
You tried to keep organizing. That had been the plan. Move the new books into their rightful piles. Make room on the shelf. Slide the older ones back where they belonged. Do something with your hands so you did not have to sit there and watch Jack Abbot read the page you had almost hidden from your husband.
You picked up one of the new paperbacks. Set it down again. Shifted a hardcover half an inch to the left. Then immediately moved it back. Jack’s eyes stayed on the page. You hated him a little for reading silently. You loved him more for it. There was no teasing. No immediate dry comment. No twenty-two-year-old-with-shadows complaint. No marital clinical curiosity. No smug little lift at the corner of his mouth. This was not the chair. Not the pool house. Not the cabin or the bar bathroom or the supply closet or the hotel mirror.
This was page 212.
And Jack knew it.
Finally, his eyes reached the bottom. He did not look up right away. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, where it rested over your thigh. Jack noticed. His gaze flicked to your hand. Then back to the page.
His voice, when it came, was quiet. “This one isn’t about me taking care of you.”
The words landed low.
Your throat tightened. “No.”
Jack’s thumb shifted beneath the red tab. Not restless. Careful. Like he was holding the place for both of you. He looked down again, not reading now. Thinking. His brow barely drew together, just enough that you knew he had stopped seeing the fictional scene and started seeing the shape beneath it. Restraint had been easy for him to understand. Control, too. Praise. Waiting. Asking. Being seen. Worship. Those had all been things you had trusted him to give you.
This one was different.
Jack lifted his eyes. “It’s about you wanting to know what it feels like to take.”
Your breath caught. There it was. No judgment. No surprise.
Just Jack, finding the center of the thing faster than anyone had any right to.
You looked down at the comforter. The red tabs blurred at the edges of your vision. “I think so.”
Jack was quiet. You felt the weight of it. Not pressure. Never that. Just attention. The same kind he gave you when you asked for something clearly. The same kind he gave patients when they were scared enough that the truth had to be handled carefully.
His voice softened. “That’s why you almost took the tab out.”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
Jack set the book open on his thigh, page 212 facing up. He did not close it. He did not turn it over. He did not hide it for you. He left it visible. A little red-tabbed truth between his jeans and the comforter.
You picked at a loose thread near your knee. “It felt different.”
Jack’s hand rested on the bed beside the book. Open. Still. “How?”
You let out a small laugh that held little humor. “I don’t know.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. Patient. Waiting.
You huffed softly. “I hate when you do that.”
His mouth barely moved. “Do what?”
“Wait like that,” you answered.
Jack shrugged a shoulder. “You usually tell me the truth when I wait.”
You glared at him. “That’s annoying.”
“I know,” Jack replied with a soft smile.
The warmth of the exchange loosened something in your chest. Only a little. Enough.
You looked back at the page. At the red tab. At the book you had read months ago and carried around in your head like a secret with a glossy cover. “It wasn’t just about sex,” you said.
Jack did not move.
“I mean, obviously it was about sex,” you added.
His mouth twitched faintly. There he was. Barely.
You breathed a little easier. “But not only that.” Your fingers smoothed over the hem of his shirt. “The other pages were about things I wanted you to do. Or things I wanted to ask for. Or things I wanted to feel.”
Jack’s eyes stayed steady on yours. “This one wasn’t like that.”
“No,” you said. “This one was…” You stopped. The word stuck somewhere behind your ribs.
Jack waited. The room seemed to gather closer around the silence. Rain against the window. The heater hummed low. The faint smell of bookstore paper still clinging to the new stack. The warm cotton of Jack’s shirt against your skin. His knee near yours, his body fully covered and still somehow more vulnerable than you had ever seen him with clothes on.
You looked at him. “You always know what I like.”
Jack’s expression softened. “You make that sound like a complaint.”
“It isn’t.”
“No?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No. I love that you know.”
His eyes changed. Small. Devastating.
You kept going before you could lose your nerve. “You know how to touch me. How to talk to me. How to make me ask for things. How to make me wait.” Your face warmed, but you did not look away. “You know when I’m about to get shy. You know when to push and when to stop. You know when I’m hiding.”
Jack’s hand shifted slightly against the comforter. You noticed because you were watching him now. Really watching him. “And I trust that,” you said. “I trust you with that.”
His voice came out lower. “I know.”
You smiled faintly. “I know you know.”
Jack’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. You looked back at the page again. “This one made me think about what it would feel like if I got to know.”
Jack’s thumb went still against the comforter. There. You saw it. Your pulse kicked. He did not speak. So you did. “I don’t mean know like…” You let out a shaky breath. “I know you, Jack. I know you. But I mean like that.”
His gaze did not leave your face. You pressed your fingers into the comforter. “I wanted to know what it would feel like to learn what makes you lose your breath. What makes you stop trying to look calm. What makes your hands tighten. What makes you say my name like you didn’t mean to.”
The room went very still. Jack’s eyes darkened. Not in the easy way. Not in the playful, teasing way he let you see when he wanted you to know he was affected. This was quieter. Deeper. The kind of reaction he could not turn into a joke fast enough.
Your own courage startled you. Maybe it was the shirt. Maybe it was the red tab. Maybe it was the fact that Jack was sitting in front of you, fully dressed and absolutely undone by the possibility of being known in return.
You looked at his mouth. Then back at his eyes. “I wanted to know what it felt like to tease you.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. One small movement. A crack in the stillness. You noticed.
His voice was rougher when he answered. “Yeah?”
You nodded. The word was easier now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at page 212 again.
This time, when he read the lines, you knew he was not reading them for information. He understood. This was not about him taking control. This was not about him giving you an experience. This was about you wanting to create one. About you wanting to have his reactions under your hands. His restraint beneath your mouth. His patience tested by you, for you, because he had made wanting safe enough that you had started to wonder what else you could do with it.
Jack closed his eyes for one second. Just one. But you saw it. Your breath caught.
When he opened them again, his gaze came back to you slowly. “You were afraid to show me that.”
Your fingers tightened in the comforter. “Yes.”
“Because you thought I wouldn’t want it?”
“No.” The answer came fast. Too fast.
Jack’s brows lifted slightly.
You shook your head, embarrassed now for a different reason. “No. I knew you’d want it.”
His mouth curved faintly. There he was again. A little.
Your face warmed. “I mean, I hoped. I thought. I—”
“Baby.”
You stopped. Jack’s eyes were soft now, but the heat in them had not gone anywhere. “You knew.”
Your pulse jumped. The confidence in his voice should have annoyed you. It did not. It made your stomach flip. “Yes,” you admitted. “I knew.”
Jack leaned back slightly, one hand braced behind him now, the other still near the open book. He looked too calm again. Almost. Only almost. His breathing was different. You had learned that much already. You looked down at his hand on the comforter. Long fingers. Steady hands. Hands that had held you still, made you wait, praised you, touched you carefully, worshipped you in his office chair until you had understood what the book had only tried to describe.
Those hands were not touching you now. For some reason, that made the air feel hotter.
Jack followed your gaze. Then looked back at you. “This one is about you wanting control.”
Your throat went tight. “Maybe.”
His mouth softened. “Not maybe.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaky at the edges. “Fine. Not maybe.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over the comforter. “You want to watch me.”
Your breath caught. “Yes.”
“You want to tease me.”
Your throat went tight. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You want to see what happens when I don’t get to touch first.”
The heat went through you so fast you almost looked away. Almost. Jack watched the answer cross your face before you said it. “Yes.”
The room held still around the word. Jack did not reach for you. That was what made your chest ache. He could have. Easily. He was close enough. You were kneeling beside him in his shirt, the hem high on your thighs, books scattered everywhere, page 212 open between you like a dare. But he did not move. He only looked at you like he understood the shape of the trust being asked of him now.
Not your trust this time.
His.
Slowly, Jack took the book from his thigh and set it on the bed beside him. He left it open.
Page 212 facing up.
The red tab bent slightly toward the lamp. That was the first real sign. Not his breathing. Not his stillness. The book. The care of it. The deliberate placement, like whatever happened next, required his full attention and both hands free, even though he had not yet been given permission to use them.
Your pulse stumbled. Jack turned back to you. His expression was calm.
His eyes were not. “Okay,” he said.
Your voice came out soft. “Okay?”
His hand came to rest palm-up on the comforter between you. Not reaching. Offering. “You showed me.”
Your throat tightened. “Yes.”
Jack’s fingers flexed once against the blanket. “And you want to try.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
He looked at you for a long second. Long enough that the room seemed to warm around the edges. Long enough that you felt the shift happen: the page moving from paper to possibility, the old fantasy stepping out of a book and into the dim gold light of your bedroom.
Then Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Not yet. Something slower. More dangerous because it was softer.
“Use me,” he said.
Your breath caught.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Tease me.”
The words went through you like a spark.
Jack’s hand remained open on the comforter. Waiting. “Take your time.”
Your pulse beat everywhere. He leaned back against the pillows, still fully dressed, still covered, still giving you the choice while the air between you went thick enough to touch.
His voice dropped. “See what happens.”
For one second, you could not move. Jack watched you absorb it. Every word. Every permission. Every inch of trust he had just handed you.
Then his mouth curved faintly. There. A little smug now.
A little Jack. “You wanted page two hundred and twelve, baby.”
His fingers relaxed against the comforter. “Come find out.”
For one second, you could not move. Jack’s words stayed in the room between you.
Use me. Tease me. Take your time. See what happens.
They settled over the bed with the scattered books and the warm lamplight and the rain tapping softly against the window. Page 212 stayed open beside him, red tab bent toward the light like it was watching too.
Jack leaned back against the pillows. Still dressed. Still covered. Still waiting. He looked almost calm.
Almost.
That made your pulse trip. You moved closer on your knees. Slowly. The mattress dipped beneath you. One of the new paperbacks shifted against your shin, and you nudged it aside without looking away from him.
Jack watched you come to him. He did not reach. That was the first thing you noticed. The second was how hard it was for him. Not because he said anything. He didn’t. Jack stayed quiet, eyes on your face, mouth relaxed enough to lie. But his hand flexed once against the comforter.
Only once.
You saw it.
His eyes flicked down to his hand, like he had caught himself too. Then back to you. Your courage warmed by a degree. You settled beside his thigh, close enough that the hem of his shirt brushed your skin, close enough that his knee nearly touched yours.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. You leaned in and kissed him. Softly at first. Familiar. Safe. His mouth met yours with a slow warmth that almost made you forget the rule before you had even started. Jack kissed like he had time. Like he had spent years learning patience and had decided to use all of it on you. His breath moved against your cheek, his mouth parting under yours, his body steady beneath the kiss.
Then his hand lifted. Habit. Instinct. A warm reach toward your waist.
You caught his wrist before he touched you. Not hard. Just enough.
Jack went still. His eyes opened.
For one suspended second, neither of you breathed.
His gaze dropped to your hand around his wrist. Your fingers looked smaller there, wrapped around him. He could have moved through your hold easily if he wanted to. He did not. He looked back at your face.
You swallowed. “Not yet.”
Jack’s expression shifted. Not surprised exactly. Recalculation. Like the words had just moved from idea to rule. Then his breath left him in a rough, quiet laugh.
“Fuck,” he murmured. “Okay.”
The sound went straight through you. He let you guide his hand back to the bed. Not limp. Not passive. Willing. That was worse. You placed his palm against the comforter beside his hip. His fingers spread over the blanket, tendons shifting under his skin. You looked at his other hand, still resting near his thigh, and then back at him. “Both.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. The corner of his mouth moved, barely. “Both?”
Your face warmed, but you held his gaze. “You said I could tease you.”
His jaw twitched. “I did.”
You leaned closer. “So let me.”
The room seemed to tighten around the words. Jack looked at you for one long second. Then he set his other hand down on the bed. Still. Given. Your breath caught at the sight of it. Jack noticed. His mouth curved faintly, but his voice was lower when he spoke. “There you go.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded like praise.”
“It was.”
You shook your head. “You don’t get to guide.”
His mouth curved a little more. “No?”
“No.”
Jack’s fingers flexed once against the comforter. Then relaxed again. “Okay, baby.”
The obedience in it hit you harder than the pet name. You stared at his hands on the bed.
Jack Abbot’s hands.
Hands that had held you still in the pool house. Hands that had made you wait in front of the fireplace. Hands that had touched you carefully in his office chair like you were something he had been trusted to worship. Hands that had guided, steadied, praised, taken care.
And now they were staying where you put them. Because you asked. The knowledge moved through you slowly. Warm. Dangerous.
You bent and kissed him again. This time, you let yourself linger. Jack did not touch you. His mouth did. His breath did. His attention did. But his hands stayed flat on the comforter. You pulled back just enough to look at him. Still calm. Still mostly composed. You wanted to ruin that.
The thought should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
Not as much as you expected.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. His skin was warm beneath your lips, faintly rough with the shadow he doesn’t shave off. You felt the slight movement of his throat when he swallowed. There. You kissed there next. Jack’s breath caught. Small. Quick.
You paused.
His eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling for half a second before they lowered to you.
Your mouth curved against his skin. “Oh.”
His jaw shifted. “Don’t.”
You lifted your head. “Don’t what?”
His hands remained on the bed, but his fingers had curled slightly into the quilt. “Sound so pleased with yourself.”
You looked at his hands. Then back at his face. “I think I am pleased with myself.”
Jack let out a low breath that might have been a laugh if it had not sounded so strained. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”
That made something bold unfurl in your chest. You returned to his neck, slower now. Learning. That was the point, wasn’t it? Not performing. Not proving. Learning him in a new way. You kissed beneath his jaw and felt his head tilt, almost unconsciously, giving you more space. More access. More of him. The gesture hit you harder than you expected. Jack, who usually made space for you with hands and instruction and quiet command, was making space for you with his own body now.
You kissed the newly exposed line of his throat. His hands twitched. Both of them. He caught himself before you said a word. You saw it. So did he. For one second, his jaw clenched, and the muscle there jumped beneath his skin.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he said.
His voice was calm. Too calm. You kissed lower, to the place where his pulse was beating harder now. “Doing what?”
Jack’s breath moved out slowly. “Finding places.”
You smiled against him. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?”
His chest rose beneath your hand. “I told you to take your time.”
“You did.” Your fingers slid to the hem of his T-shirt. “And to tease you.”
Jack went very still when your nails brushed the line of his stomach through the fabric. You felt it before you saw it. The tightening. The way the muscles beneath your touch pulled firm. The way his breath paused in the middle and had to be restarted. You lifted your eyes. Jack was watching you now. Not the ceiling. Not the books.
You.
His hands were still on the bed, but they were no longer relaxed. His fingers had curled into the comforter, forearms tense, veins standing out beneath freckled skin. The sight of that, of his body obeying you even when it clearly wanted to do something else, made your pulse stumble. “You okay?” you asked softly.
Jack’s mouth curved. A little rough. A little wrecked. “I’m good.”
You believed him. You dragged your nails gently down again. This time, lower. Over the soft cotton. Down the center of his stomach. Jack’s abdomen tightened under your touch. His hips shifted. Not much. Enough. A small, helpless movement toward your hand before he caught himself and went still again.
The room changed. Your breath caught. Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he knew exactly what you had noticed. You looked at him. Then at where your hand rested just above his waistband. Then back at him. “Oh,” you whispered again.
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “Baby.” The word came out low. Not a warning. Not really. More like he had reached the edge of his own composure and found your name there.
You touched the waistband of his jeans with one finger. Just the edge. The denim was rough beneath your fingertip, warm from his body, and beneath it, impossible to miss now, was the hardness of him.
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack saw. His jaw clenched. For all his stillness, all his control, all his careful obedience with his hands pressed into the bed, his body had already answered you. The realization moved through you slowly.
He wanted you.
Not theoretically. Not gently. Not in the safe, familiar way you already knew. He wanted you so badly he was lying there trying to survive one finger at his waistband.
Your pulse kicked hard. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “I know.”
You slipped one fingertip just beneath his waistband. Barely. Hardly anything.
Jack’s hips bucked.
Only a little. A sharp, involuntary shift up into your touch before he caught himself. Then he froze. So did you. For one breath, the room held perfectly still. Rain at the window. Books on the bed. Page 212 open beside him.
Your finger beneath his waistband.
Jack’s hands gripping the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him from reaching for you. His eyes found you. Yours were already on him. You had never seen him look exactly like that before.
Strained. Dark. Still in control because he had chosen to be, but only just.
You swallowed. “That was new.”
Jack exhaled through his nose. Rough. Almost amused. Almost not. “That was me trying to be good.”
The words went straight through you. You looked at his hands again. Still there. Still listening. Still not touching you.
Your chest warmed so sharply it almost hurt. “You are being good.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. Something in his face shifted. The praise landed. You saw it. You actually saw it. His mouth parted slightly, then closed. His grip tightened once in the bedding. His stomach went tight beneath your hand. Oh. That did something to him too. Your courage flared hotter. You moved your fingertip again, slow along the inside edge of his waistband.
Jack’s head dropped back against the pillows.
His throat worked. His eyes stayed open this time, but only barely.
“You like that,” you said.
His laugh came out quiet and disbelieving. “You asking?”
“No.”
Jack’s gaze found yours. You held it. “I’m telling you.”
The air shifted. His hands flexed. “Yeah,” he said, voice rougher now. “I like that.”
You bent and kissed the center of his stomach, where the muscles were still tight beneath your mouth. Jack’s breath broke. Not enough to be dramatic. Enough to make you dizzy with it. You kissed him again, a little lower, over the cotton bunched where his shirt had ridden up from your hands. Your fingers pushed the fabric higher, slowly exposing warm skin inch by inch. Freckles. A faint line of old scar tissue near his ribs. The firm shift of muscle beneath your palm. You had seen him shirtless hundreds of times by now. In bed. After showers. In the pool house. Half-asleep in the morning, searching for coffee with the tragic seriousness of a man on a medical mission.
But seeing him like this was different. Because he was letting you look. Letting you take your time. Letting you be curious about him without turning that curiosity back on you. You pushed his shirt higher. Jack lifted his shoulders slightly to help.
Then stopped.
His eyes found yours. Waiting. You loved that he waited. You hated how much you loved it. “Take it off,” you said.
Jack’s expression changed. Just a little. But you caught it. The words moved through him the way his commands sometimes moved through you. His hands left the bed for the first time, but not toward you. Only to grip the back of his shirt and pull it over his head.
He did it slowly. Not because he had to. Because you were watching. The black cotton dragged up his stomach, over his chest, over his shoulders. His arms lifted. His biceps flexed. His forearms tightened, veins straining under the warm lamplight. Then the shirt was gone, tossed somewhere near the bookstore bag, and Jack was bare from the waist up, sitting beneath you with his hands returning to the comforter exactly where you had told them to stay.
Your breath caught. Jack saw. His mouth curved faintly. “There,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re not allowed to sound smug.”
Jack exhaled a soft laugh. “I took my shirt off on command.”
“Jack.”
His smile deepened. “It’s new for me.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. The sound softened his face for half a second. Then your hand settled against his bare chest, and the softness changed into something else. You kissed him there. Once. Slow. His skin was warm under your mouth. His chest rose carefully, like he was trying not to breathe too hard and give you more evidence. You followed the line of his collarbone, nipped lightly where his shoulder met his neck, and felt his whole body answer.
A breath caught. A hand twitched. His jaw clenched. You learned. You kissed the spot again.
Jack’s eyes shut. “Fuck,” he said softly.
The word was quiet enough to disappear into the rain. It did not. It stayed in your chest. You kissed lower, mouth moving over the freckled skin of his chest, down the center, over his ribs. Every place got an answer if you paid attention. A hitch of breath near his collarbone. A tightening low in his stomach when your nails followed. A rough exhale when your teeth grazed gently beneath his jaw. His head tipping back when you kissed his throat, giving you more before he seemed to realize he had done it.
That was your favorite part.
Not the sounds.
Not even the way his body reacted, though God, that was something.
It was the offering.
The unconscious little yes of his body before his composure could catch up.
You returned to his neck because of it. Jack tilted his head again. More this time. The movement was slow, almost reluctant, but there. A deliberate surrender of space. Your lips parted against his skin. You kissed him there, right over the place his pulse was beating harder now, and let your nails trail down his bare stomach again.
Jack’s hips shifted under you. Another small movement. Another loss. You smiled against his throat. He felt it.
His voice came rougher. “Don’t start.”
You lifted your head. “I thought that was the point.”
His eyes were dark now. Not calm. Not even pretending very well. “You’re learning fast.”
Your heart kicked. You looked at his hands.
Still on the bed. Still tight. Still not touching. Then back to his face. “I have a good teacher.”
Jack’s expression softened and sharpened at the same time. “That right?”
You nodded. Then your fingers found his waistband again. This time, Jack’s breath caught before you even touched him.
Your smile came slower now. More certain. “Yes,” you said. “But I think I want to learn on my own for a little while.”
Jack stared at you. For one second, he looked like he might say something. Something controlled. Something Jack. Then your fingertip slipped under his waistband again, soft and maddening and barely there, and whatever words he had found disappeared.
His hips bucked into your touch. A little stronger this time. His hands gripped the comforter so hard the fabric pulled tight beneath his fingers. His jaw clenched. The veins in his forearms stood out. And you watched him. You watched him try to stay still. Try to listen. Try to let you have this.
Your whole body went warm with it. Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. Strained. Hungry. Proud, somehow. Wrecked already and still giving you exactly what he promised. You bent down and kissed his chest again. Softly. A reward. Then you whispered against his skin, “Good.”
Jack’s breath left him in a broken, disbelieving laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
You smiled.
And took your time.
Because he had told you to. Because he had offered it. Because every second you spent learning him seemed to pull another thread loose in Jack’s careful control. Jack was still propped against the pillows, bare from the waist up now, jeans still on, hands still on the quilt where you had put them. Mostly. His fingers had started curling into the blanket more than relaxing against it. His forearms were tense. The veins there stood out under freckled skin, and every time your mouth found a new place that made his breath catch, his grip tightened like he was anchoring himself to the bed.
It was mesmerizing.
Jack Abbot, who could keep his hands steady in the middle of chaos, was lying under you trying to survive being kissed slowly.
And you were doing that.
You.
The thought made you bold enough to lift your head from his chest. Jack’s eyes opened. They found yours immediately. Not because he hadn’t wanted to look. Because he had been trying not to look too affected.
He was failing.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
His jaw shifted. “Don’t,” he said.
The word was rougher now. You sat back slightly on your heels, still beside him, still close enough that your bare thigh brushed the denim of his jeans. “Don’t what?”
Jack looked at you. Then at the place where your hand still rested near his waistband. Then back to your face. “Look like that.”
Your smile widened. “How am I looking?”
His hands flexed once on the bed. “Like you just learned something dangerous.”
Heat bloomed low in your stomach. You let your fingers drift once more over the line of his waistband, light enough to be maddening, slow enough to feel his body go tense beneath the attention. Jack’s breath caught. There. Again. You were not imagining it. You were learning him, newly. His eyes narrowed slightly, dark and strained, but he still did not reach for you. Still did not take over. Still did not pull you down and turn this into something he knew how to control. He had promised. He was keeping it.
The realization did something strange to your chest. Something warm. Something powerful. Something tender enough to hurt. You moved your hand away from his waistband.
Jack noticed immediately.
His stomach tightened, then released on a slow breath, like he was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
You shifted in front of him. Not beside him now. In front of him. The mattress dipped beneath your knees as you settled between his legs, far enough back that he could see all of you, close enough that his body seemed to register every inch of distance as an insult. His gaze moved over you slowly: bare thighs, his shirt loose on your body, one shoulder already slipped low, the hem bunched high from the way you had been kneeling over him. You were still the one half-dressed. Still the one physically exposed. But Jack’s eyes had that look now, the one that made you feel like he was the one without cover. Because he could not touch. Because you had told him not yet. Because he was letting you decide.
Your fingers curled around the hem of his shirt. Jack went still. Not tense. Waiting. You felt his attention move over your hands, your thighs, your face. The rain tapped softly against the glass. The new books sat in neat little piles across the bed, abandoned completely now. Somewhere near your knee, one paperback cover bent slightly, and you would have cared if there had been any room left in your head for normal thought.
There wasn’t. There was Jack. Jack watching. Jack waiting. Jack breathing carefully because you had not told him what came next. You pulled the shirt higher. Slowly. His eyes followed the movement. Your pulse jumped at the sight of his expression. Not smug now. Not teasing.
Hungry.
Focused.
Almost stunned.
As if he had not quite understood, until this exact second, that you were going to let him see you too. Your courage wavered. Only a little. Enough.
Jack saw it immediately. His face softened. “You don’t have to.”
The words were quiet. No command. No pressure. Just an open door. You looked at him. His hands were still pressed to the quilt. His body was still tense from everything you had done to him. He wanted you. God, he wanted you. You could see it in every line of him. But he still gave you the out first. That was what made you keep going.
“I know.” Your voice sounded softer than you expected.
Jack’s thumb twitched against the blanket, like he wanted to reach for you and had to remind himself not to. You noticed. So did he.
Your mouth curved. “Hands stay there.”
His eyes darkened. The command moved through him. You saw it land. Jack’s fingers curled deeper into the quilt. “Yes, ma’am.”
A surprised laugh slipped out of you. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m trying to be seductive.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re doing fine.”
“Fine?”
His gaze moved over you again, slow enough to make your skin heat. “Better than fine.”
The words settled over you like a touch. You pulled the shirt higher. His shirt. His old PTMC shirt, the cotton soft from years of washing, smelling faintly like laundry and him. You lifted it over your head and let it fall onto the mattress beside you, soft and careless among the books and red tabs and evidence of every other brave thing you had ever learned to ask him for.
Jack went utterly still. For one second, he did not even breathe. You were in front of him now in nothing but your underwear. One hand moved behind you, bracing against the mattress. The position changed everything.
It opened you to him.
Made you feel the air against your skin, the warmth of the lamp, the weight of his eyes as if they were hands he was still not allowed to use. Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. Not like he was taking. Like he was being given something and knew better than to rush it.
His throat worked. “Baby.”
One word. Low. Rough. Almost reverent. Your breath shook. His eyes came back to your face, checking. Always checking. Not with worry. With care. With the kind of attention that had made every red tab safe enough to become real.
You nodded once. “I’m good.”
Jack believed you. He did not ask again. You let that belief settle over you. Then your fingers slipped to the edge of your underwear.
Jack’s hands tightened in the blanket. Immediately. Your eyes dropped to them. So did his. His fingers relaxed by force, then curled again anyway.
You hooked your thumbs under the fabric and lifted your hips just enough to slide it down. Slowly. Jack’s breathing changed. The sound of it made your whole body feel warm. Not because you were performing for him. Not because you felt like you had to be perfect. Because Jack was watching you like there was nothing else in the world he wanted more than permission to touch you, and still, he did not move.
You drew the fabric down your thighs. Past your knees. Off. It landed beside his shirt. Another piece of evidence. Another layer gone. You settled back in front of him, bare now, one palm braced behind you on the mattress, your other hand resting lightly over your stomach while you gathered the courage you had started to find with every hitch of his breath.
Jack stared at you. He looked wrecked already. You had barely started. That thought should have made you shy. Instead, it made you breathe deeper.
You looked at him. “I want you to watch.”
Jack’s hands went utterly still. Not fisted now. Still. Like the words had struck something too deep for immediate reaction.
His voice came out lower. “I am.”
“No,” you said softly.
His eyes stayed on yours.
You let yourself smile. “I mean really watch.”
Jack took one slow breath. The kind he took when he was trying to stay composed. It did not work. Not fully. His eyes moved over you again, hotter now, unguarded in a way you had never quite seen. He looked at your face first. Then your hands. Then the way you leaned back, one palm braced into the mattress, body open to him because you had decided to be. Then back to your eyes, like he wanted to make sure you were still with him.
You were. More than with him. You were leading him. That realization made your hand steadier when it moved.
You touched yourself slowly, still watching Jack watch you. His whole body changed. Not dramatically. Worse. A slow tightening from the inside out. His shoulders pressed harder into the pillows. His stomach went taut. His hands gripped the quilt again, fingers pulling the fabric tight. His jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
The word was barely there. You felt it anyway. Your own breath shook. You liked this. Not just being watched. Watching him watch. Watching Jack try not to come apart from the sight of you wanting him and not asking him to do anything about it yet. The power of it went through you warm and bright. You moved again, a little less uncertain.
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. Then dropped. Then snapped back up like he had remembered himself.
You smiled. “Eyes on me.”
The command surprised both of you. The air changed around it. Jack stared at you. Then his mouth curved slowly. Not smug. Wrecked. Proud. “Yes, ma’am.”
Your breath caught. The phrase should have been funny. It was not. Not with his voice like that. Not with his hands white-knuckled in the quilt. Not with his body hard and tense beneath jeans he was not allowed to ask you to remove yet.
You kept your eyes on him. And kept going. Jack watched your face now because you had told him to. His gaze did not drop, not even when his breath started catching in uneven pieces, not even when his hips shifted helplessly beneath the denim, not even when you heard the rough sound he swallowed before it could fully escape.
He listened.
God, he listened.
The trust of it hit you all over again. You were the exposed one. But Jack was the one letting himself be directed. You were the one bare in front of him. But Jack was the one gripping the comforter like surrender had teeth.
Your voice came out softer. “Do you like watching me like this?”
Jack nodded. One rough, immediate movement.
You kept your hand where it was. “Answer me.”
His breath broke. His eyes stayed on yours. “Yes, baby,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I like watching you like this.”
Heat tore through you. Your body answered before you could decide what to do with the words. Jack saw that too. A broken sound left him. “Jesus.”
You kept your eyes on him. Kept your hand where it was. Kept the rule. Jack did not touch you. But the room felt full of him anyway. His gaze. His breathing. His restraint. His wanting.
You moved slowly at first, learning the shape of being watched. Your breath caught on the first real wave of feeling, and Jack’s entire body reacted to the sound. His stomach tightened. His hands gripped the comforter harder. His mouth parted on an inhale he did not quite finish. Your hips shifted against your hand. Small. Instinctive.
Jack saw. His eyes flared darker. The sight of his reaction made you do it again. This time, the movement was less careful. A little more honest. Your hand braced harder behind you, fingers pressing into the mattress as your body began to rock against your own touch.
Jack’s breath grew uneven. Not loud. Not theatrical. Worse. Controlled breathing, failing one piece at a time.
You watched him watch you, and something reckless stirred beneath your ribs. “Do you know what I think about,” you asked, voice softer now, “when I touch myself like this?”
Jack’s jaw clenched. His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, you thought he might answer. Then he shook his head once. Not because he did not want to know. Because he wanted it too badly.
Your hand moved again. Your breath broke.“You.”
Jack’s hands pulled the comforter tight beneath his fingers. The single word hit him like a touch. You saw it. Felt it. Loved it.
“You,” you said again, because you could, because he was there and listening and still not touching you even though every line of his body begged to. “Your hands.”
Your hips jerked against your hand as you said it, the memory of those hands moving through you so sharply your eyes nearly closed. Nearly. You kept them open.
Jack’s breath punched out of him. His fingers flexed against the bed.
You knew what he wanted. God, you knew. You kept going. “Your mouth.”
Jack’s head tipped back against the pillows for half a second. Only half. Then he forced himself to look at you again. His eyes were darker now. Less controlled. More honest.
Your movements grew less precise, less careful, your body chasing the memory as much as the feeling. Jack’s mouth at your throat. His hands on your waist. His voice near your ear. The way he could make you feel wanted like wanting was something sacred and filthy and safe all at once.
Your breath came faster. Jack heard every bit of it. He reacted to every bit of it. A shift of his hips. A tightening low in his stomach. A rough sound swallowed before it could become your name.
“How good you fuck me,” you whispered.
Jack broke. Not completely. Not yet. But enough. “Fuck—don’t.”
The words tore out of him rough and helpless, halfway between a warning and a plea.
You stopped moving for one second. Jack looked at you, breathing hard, hands still where you had put them, jaw tight enough to make the muscle jump. Your pulse thundered. “Don’t what?”
He stared at you. Gone enough that the question seemed to undo him twice. His laugh came out low. Wrecked. Then his eyes dropped briefly to your hand before dragging back up to your face. “Don’t stop.”
The words moved through you like fire. You did not. Your hand moved again, and this time your hips followed without restraint, rocking into the feeling while Jack watched like every movement cost him. Your breath turned uneven. Your moans slipped out softer at first, then less soft, each one making his grip tighten, his forearms strain, his body go harder and stiller beneath the effort of not reaching. “Jack,” you breathed.
His eyes lifted to yours immediately. “I’m here.”
The answer came fast. Grounding. Ruined. Still Jack. Your body clenched around the sound of it. You were close now. Closer than you expected to be from this alone. But it was not this alone. It was him. His eyes. His restraint. His wanting. The way he looked at you, like you had opened a door inside him and he did not know whether to pray or curse about what he found there. Your hand pressed harder into the bed behind you. Your hips rocked again. Jack’s name caught in your throat once. Then again.
He made a sound like it hurt. “Baby.”
You shook your head, not refusing him, just overwhelmed. Your eyes stayed on his because you had told him to keep his on you, and some part of you needed to be just as brave.
Jack’s hands stayed on the bed. Still. Gripping. Shaking now. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful.”
The praise hit differently now. Not guiding. Not taking over. Just truth spilling out of him because he had no other place to put it. That was what did it. The restraint. The want. The way he watched you, like he had never seen anything more beautiful and had never been asked to survive anything worse.
“Fuck—Jack—” Your body went tight, then shook apart, pleasure moving through you in hot, helpless waves. Your hand pressed hard into the mattress behind you. Your hips rocked once more, then stuttered as your breath broke open around his name.
Jack made a sound. Low. Broken. Like watching you finish without touching you had done actual damage to his ability to function.
Your hand slipped from your body to the bed beside you. For a moment, you could only breathe. The room came back in pieces. Rain. Lamp light. Books. The red tab. Jack’s breathing. When you opened your eyes, he was still exactly where you had left him. Hands on the mattress. Body tense. Completely undone. He stared at you like he had just watched something sacred and obscene and did not have a category for either.
Your mouth curved, exhausted and shy and pleased all at once. “You okay?”
Jack blinked. Once. Then his laugh came out rough and disbelieving. “No.”
Your smile widened. His eyes stayed on yours. “But keep going.”
The words stayed between you. Rough. Breathless. A little ruined. You were still trying to breathe. Still bare in front of him. Still shaky from your own body, from his eyes, from the sound he had made when you came apart without his hands on you. For a moment, neither of you moved. Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. Not your body now. Your face. Like he was checking where you had landed. Your chest softened. You shifted closer on your knees, and his hands tightened immediately. He caught himself. You saw it. His mouth curved faintly, but there was strain in it now.
You leaned down slowly, one hand bracing on the mattress beside his hip. You stopped just above him, close enough that your hair brushed his chest, close enough that his breath warmed your mouth. “You did a good job watching me.”
His whole body went still. The praise landed. You felt it in the way his breath caught. Saw it in the flex of his hands against the quilt. The tightening in his stomach. The flicker of surprise across his face, like he had not expected the words to go through him the same way they had gone through you. Your smile softened. “Oh.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Don’t.”
You touched one finger to the center of his chest. “You like praise.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I think I’m enjoying it the right amount.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and strained. “Professionally, I disagree.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. Soft. Brief. Then you pulled back before he could deepen it. His head followed yours by half an inch before he caught himself and stopped. That tiny movement did something terrible to your confidence. Something wonderful.
“You did so good,” you murmured again.
Jack closed his eyes. Just for a second. “Baby.”
The word was rough now. Not a warning. Not a plea. Something in between. You kissed his jaw, then the side of his neck, feeling the place where his pulse jumped beneath your mouth. His hands stayed down. Barely. Your fingers drifted to his belt. Jack’s eyes opened. The room changed. Not because you rushed. Because you didn’t. Your fingertips found the buckle slowly, tracing the edge before you touched the metal. Jack’s stomach tightened beneath you. His breathing had gone careful again, which meant he was trying to act like he still had any reasonable amount of control.
You looked up at him. He looked back. Silent. Dark-eyed. Waiting. You smiled faintly. “Still no touching.”
His mouth barely moved. “I remember.”
The buckle came undone with a quiet metallic sound that seemed far too loud in the room. Jack’s hands gripped the quilt. You dragged the leather free one loop at a time. Slow. Deliberate. Every pull made the denim shift lower on his hips. Every soft scrape of leather through fabric made his jaw tighten a little more. You set the belt aside near the open book. Jack glanced at it. Then at you. Your fingers found the button of his jeans, and you undid it slowly. The zipper next. Jack inhaled through his nose. You heard it. You loved hearing it. The denim opened beneath your hands, and the hardness of him was suddenly closer, clearer, still covered but impossible to ignore.
Your mouth went dry. Jack saw. His voice came lower. “You okay?”
You looked up at him. This time, the question did not make you feel small. It made you feel held. Even now. Especially now. “I’m okay.”
Jack nodded once. Then you sat back enough to tug at his jeans. “Hips up.”
Jack froze. Only for half a second. Long enough for you to see the words land. Then he obeyed. His hips lifted from the mattress, controlled but not steady, and you pulled the denim down over his hips. The movement made his hands flex hard in the quilt. Made his chest rise. Made his jaw clench when your fingers brushed skin and fabric and restraint. You drew the jeans down his thighs. Slow because you could. Slow because he had told you to take your time. Slow because every inch of exposed skin felt like another piece of him being given back to you. You continued pulling the jeans down and off, setting them over the edge of the bed near his shirt.
You paused as you looked at him. The heat softened. Just a little. Enough for the room to change shape. Jack noticed immediately. His eyes sharpened. “What?”
You looked down at his prosthetic. Then back at him. Your hand rested lightly near his knee. “Can I?”
He knew what you meant. Of course he did. The question settled between you differently than the others. Quieter. Older. More intimate than teasing. Jack’s throat worked once. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You can.”
Your chest tightened. You moved carefully. Not because you were afraid of doing it wrong. You knew the sequence, you’d done it a few times. You had seen him do it a hundred times. After showers. Before bed. In the early mornings when he sat on the edge of the mattress, half-awake and stubbornly pretending he did not need coffee more than oxygen. But knowing did not make it casual. This part of him always deserved care. The fastenings first. Then the socket. The practiced adjustments, the familiar mechanics, the quiet trust of Jack lying still while you handled something he usually handled himself. He watched your face the whole time. Not your hands. Your face. Like there was something there he needed to see.
When it came free, you set the prosthetic beside the bed exactly where he liked it. Within reach. Stable. Ready for him when he needed it again. Then you turned back to him. Jack was staring at you. His face had changed. The heat was still there. God, it was there. But something else sat under it now, softer and more dangerous because it mattered. “What?” you whispered.
He shook his head once. “Nothing.”
You looked at him. “That wasn’t nothing.”
Your throat tightened. You leaned down before he could say anything else and kissed his thigh. Softly. Just once.
Jack shook. Not a little breath this time. Not a controlled inhale. His whole body gave one rough, helpless tremor beneath your mouth.
You lifted your head. His eyes were closed. His hands were still in the quilt. White-knuckled. “Jack.”
His throat worked. “I’m good.”
His voice was rough enough to make your chest ache. “That just—” He stopped. Jaw flexing.
You kissed him there again. Slower.
His breath broke. “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “That.”
Warmth moved through you. Tender and hot at once. You pressed one more kiss to his thigh, and his eyes fluttered closed. Now he was down to his underwear. Now you were not the only one exposed. Jack seemed to realize that at the same time you did. His eyes opened. You looked at him. He looked at you. The room went quiet again. Not soft this time. Waiting.
You let your hand rest over his hip. “Still good?”
His mouth curved faintly. “You asking because you care or because you like hearing me answer?”
You tilted your head. “Yes.”
A rough laugh left him. “There she is.”
You smiled, then hooked your fingers under the waistband of his underwear. Jack’s smile vanished. His hands twisted hard in the comforter. You moved slowly. Down over his hips. Down his thighs. Off. The final layer joined the rest of his clothes.
For a moment, you only looked at him. Not because you had never seen him naked before. You had. You knew him. You loved him. You had known his body in morning light and hotel rooms and after long shifts when both of you were too tired for anything except slow hands and quiet mouths. But this was different. Because he was letting you look without turning the attention back on you. Because he was still not touching you. Because everything about him was open now: his body, his restraint, the wanting he had stopped trying to hide.
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful. He looked like he trusted you. You bent and kissed the line of his stomach. His breath caught.
You smiled against his skin. “You’re doing good now too.”
Jack’s laugh came out broken. “Glad to hear it.”
You kissed lower. His laugh stopped. The shift was immediate. His body went taut beneath you. His hands tightened. His hips lifted slightly, then pressed back down into the mattress like he had to make himself stay where he was. You looked up at him. “Hands.”
“They’re down.”
“Barely.”
His mouth parted on a rough breath. “Still counts.”
You smiled. Then you gave him your mouth. Jack’s whole body went rigid. For one second, all the careful breathing stopped. Then his head dropped back against the pillows, and a sound tore out of him. Low. Rough. Entirely uncontrolled. It moved through you like heat. You took your time. Because he had told you to. Because this was Page 212. Because he had watched you, and now you wanted to watch him try to survive you.
You learned quickly. What made his hands grip the blanket. What made his stomach tighten. What made his breath break into pieces. What made his hips shift before he caught himself. What made him say your name like it had been pulled out of him against his will. You gave him enough to make him shake.
Then pulled away. Jack froze. His eyes opened slowly. Dark. Disbelieving. You kissed his hip. Then his thigh. Then the line of his stomach, where his muscles were still tight from trying not to move. His voice came out rough. “You’re teasing me.”
You looked up at him. “Yes.”
His laugh was wrecked. Completely. “Right.” His head fell back again. “Page two hundred and twelve.”
You smiled against his skin. Jack looked back down at you. His eyes were ruined. You let your hand move lightly over his hip. His breath caught. Your smile widened. “You’re doing a very good job.”
His eyes closed. “Fuck.”
The praise landed again. You were starting to love that. So you gave him more. Your mouth returned to him, slow and careful and maddening enough that his fingers fisted in the comforter until the fabric pulled tight. Jack tried to stay still. You could feel it in every line of him, the effort of holding back while your mouth learned him the same way your hands had learned him earlier. He got quiet first. That was the warning. Not silent. Quiet. Breathing too hard. Jaw clenched. Eyes half-closed when you looked up, like keeping them open had become its own separate kind of work. Then his hips shifted. A little. Then more. You felt the change in him before he said anything. The way his body went tight beneath you. The way his breathing caught and stayed caught. The way his hands gripped the quilt so hard his forearms strained. Jack’s hand lifted from the bed. Only a few inches. Instinct. Need. A reach toward you before thought could catch up with wanting.
Then he froze. You froze, too. His hand hovered there, suspended between you, fingers slightly curled like he could already feel your skin under his palm. For one breath, neither of you moved. Then Jack dropped his hand back onto the bed hard enough to make the quilt shift. “Fuck.” The word tore out of him rough and frustrated and so completely unguarded that heat rushed through you all over again. His eyes were squeezed shut. His jaw was clenched. His chest rose hard, every line of him tense with the effort of staying where you had put him.
You lifted your head. “Jack.”
His eyes opened. Dark. Wrecked. Still listening. “I know,” he said, voice strained. “I know.”
Your mouth parted softly.
He dragged in a breath through his nose, then let it out like it hurt. “I’m trying.”
The honesty of it made your chest go warm. You shifted closer, kissing the inside of his thigh once, soft enough to make him tremble. “I know,” you whispered. “You’re doing good.”
Jack’s laugh broke out of him, low and helpless. “Baby.”
You smiled against his skin. Then you pulled away again. His entire body reacted. A sharp breath. A helpless shift. A hand that twitched against the quilt and then stayed down because he was trying so hard. You watched him. You watched Jack Abbot, your husband, the man who had taught you how safe wanting could be, lie there, undone and obedient and furious with restraint because you had asked him to let you have this. The sight nearly broke you. You bent back to him. Jack’s eyes opened again. You took him back into your mouth.
This time, Jack swore. Not softly. His hands twisted in the blanket. His shoulders pressed back into the pillows. His breath came in rough pieces as you built him up again, slower than before, then faster, then slow again when his body started going too tight beneath you. You felt every warning. Every near-loss. Every little break in his control.
And every time he got close, you pulled away. Once. Twice. By the third time, Jack made a sound that was almost your name and almost something worse. His eyes opened, and there was nothing calm left in them. “You’re killing me.”
You kissed the inside of his thigh again. “No.”
You looked up. His chest rose hard. “I’m learning you.”
Jack went still. The words hit him somewhere deeper than the teasing. You saw it happen. The way his face changed. The way his breath caught for a reason that was not only physical. The way his hands loosened for one second in the comforter, then tightened again. Your throat warmed. Then you lowered your mouth again. This time, he was already close. Too close. You felt it in the way his whole body locked beneath you, in the rough catch of breath, in the helpless lift of his hips before he forced them back down. His hands stayed on the bed, shaking now, gripping the blanket like restraint had become the last language he had left. “Baby,” he breathed.
You did not stop. Not yet. His breath broke. “Fuck.”
His head fell back against the pillows. “I’m—”
You pulled away. For good. Jack froze. Completely. For one impossible second, the room went silent except for the rain and the harsh sound of his breathing. Then his eyes opened. Slowly. Dark. Stunned. Almost offended. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and smiled. A little breathless. A little ruined yourself. A lot proud.
Jack stared at you. His hand lifted again. Just barely. Then dropped back to the bed. Hard. “Fuck.”
This time, it sounded like surrender. You crawled up his body slowly, over the ruined line of him, over his tight stomach, over his chest still rising too hard. Jack watched you come closer like he did not trust himself to blink. You stopped with your mouth just above his. His hands were still on the bed. Still shaking. Still not touching you. You brushed your lips over his. Barely. “You don’t get to come yet.”
Jack’s laugh came out broken. Disbelieving. Desperate. “Okay.”
You kissed him again. A little deeper this time. Then pulled back. His eyes stayed on yours. Gone. Proud. Wrecked. “You’re a menace,” he said.
Your smile softened. “You told me to tease you.”
His throat worked. “I did.”
“You told me to see what happens.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly, but the expression looked like it cost him. “And?”
You settled carefully over his hips, close enough to feel his body tense beneath yours. You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “Now I want to see what happens when you finally get to touch me.”
Jack went still beneath you. Completely still. For one breath, the whole room held there. The rain at the window. The warm lamp. The scattered books. The red tab. The two of you on the bed with every piece of page 212 spread open between you like a dare that had turned into something much more dangerous than fiction. Jack’s hands tightened in the comforter. He did not move them. Not yet. That was what ruined you a little. He was bare beneath you now, undone by your mouth, your hands, your waiting, your no, your not yet. His breathing was rough. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark enough that looking at him felt like stepping too close to an open flame. And still, he waited. He waited because you had not told him he could stop.
You kissed him. Slow. Deep. Your hands slid over his chest, and his body answered under your palms. Heat. Muscle. Freckled skin. The hard, uneven beat of his heart beneath your hand. Jack kissed you back like he was starving and disciplined enough to hate it. His mouth opened under yours, rough and warm, and for one second, you almost let him pull you into the rhythm he knew. The one where he took care of you. The one where his hands found your waist and his voice found the exact words that made you soft for him. But his hands stayed on the bed. Because you told them to. Because he was still letting you have this.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes opened slowly. You felt the exact moment he realized where you were going. His breath caught. You lifted yourself above him. Jack’s whole body went taut. His hands fisted harder, but he still did not touch. You watched his face as you slowly sank down onto him. The effect was immediate. His head dropped back against the pillows. His eyes squeezed shut. His mouth opened around a sound that did not quite become your name. His hands jerked against the mattress. Stopped. Stayed. “Fuck,” he breathed.
The word was broken. Your own breath shattered in your chest. For a moment, neither of you moved. You couldn’t. He was everywhere. The feeling of him beneath you, inside you, holding himself still by force alone. The heat of his body. The hard rise and fall of his chest. The restraint trembling under your hands. You looked down at him. Jack looked utterly ruined. Ruined in the quiet, devastating way of a man who had been made to wait too long and then given exactly what he needed.
Your palms pressed to his chest. “You okay?”
His laugh came out rough as he closed his eyes. “No.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
Jack opened his eyes. The heat in them nearly took you apart. “I’m good,” he said, voice wrecked. “But no.”
A breathless laugh slipped out of you. That made his mouth curve. A little. Barely.
Then you moved. Just once. Slow. Testing. Jack’s hands dragged against the bed but stayed there. His whole body answered the movement, hips shifting beneath yours before he forced himself still again. “You’re still not touching me,” you whispered.
His jaw flexed. “You haven’t said I can.”
Your chest tightened. There it was. That was the thing that made your throat ache even now. Even with your body tight and hot around him. Even with his breathing wrecked and his eyes dark and his control fraying so badly you could see every loose thread. He still waited. Your hands slid from his chest to his wrists. Jack went very still. You lifted one hand from the mattress. Then the other. His fingers were tense in yours. Warm. Shaking.
You brought his hands to your waist. “Now.”
His eyes locked on yours. “Now?”
You nodded, breath catching. “Touch me.”
Jack surged up. The movement stole the air from your lungs. One second, he was beneath you, hands waiting where you had placed them. The next, he was sitting up into you, both arms around your body, mouth crashing into yours with a sound so raw it made you shake. His hands spread over your back, your waist, your hips, everywhere at once like he had been denied oxygen and found it in your skin. He held you like touching you was relief. Like he had been waiting there for hours. Like permission had struck him harder than any command.
You let him. You let him have the first desperate press of his mouth. The rough slide of his hands over your back. The way his fingers dug into your hips, not taking control exactly, just holding on with everything he had not been allowed to use before. Jack kissed your jaw. Your throat. Your shoulder. His breathing was hot against your skin. “Baby,” he rasped.
You curled one hand into the back of his hair. His body shuddered beneath yours. “Jack.”
His mouth found yours again. Messy now. Less controlled. You let him kiss you until you felt his rhythm start to shift under you, until the part of him that always wanted to take care of you began to rise on instinct, hands tightening, body trying to guide. Not selfish. Never that. Just Jack. Trying to give. Trying to make it good. Trying to turn his own undoing into something useful. Your hand moved to his shoulder. You pushed gently. Jack stopped immediately. His eyes opened.
You held his gaze. “Lie back.”
The words moved through him. You saw them land. For one second, his arms tightened around you as if the idea of letting go again might actually hurt. Then his grip loosened. Slowly.
His jaw flexed. “Okay.”
He lowered himself back against the pillows. Not because he wanted distance. Because you asked for it. Because page 212 had teeth now, and Jack had given you permission to bite. You followed him down just enough to keep him inside you, your hands on his chest, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands returned to your waist this time, allowed now, but careful. Waiting for what you wanted them to be. That was somehow worse than no touching. The restraint still lived in him. Only now it was under your hands too. You started to move. Slow at first. Too slow for him. You knew because Jack’s eyes closed for half a second, because his hands tightened at your waist, because his breath caught and came back rougher. You leaned forward, palms braced against his chest. “You can touch me,” you whispered. “But I’m still leading.”
Jack’s eyes opened. Dark. Gone. “Yeah.” The word was barely there. Then his mouth curved faintly, wrecked and proud. “Yeah, you are.”
Heat moved through you at the sound of it. You moved again. This time, you let yourself search. Not for what would make him react. You already knew too much about that now. For what felt good for you. The realization made your breath catch. Jack felt it immediately. His hands tightened at your waist. Not pulling. Not directing. Holding. You shifted your hips. Once. Then again. The first angle was good. The second was better. The third stole a sound from you so sudden you almost lost your balance.
Jack’s eyes snapped to your face. “There?”
You swallowed, unable to find words. He felt your answer in the way your body clenched, in the way your hands pressed harder against his chest, in the way your hips tried to chase the same place again before your mind had finished catching up. His grip changed immediately. Not taking over. Holding you there. Helping you keep it. “Use it,” he said, voice wrecked. “Use me.”
The words went through you like fire. There it was again. The whole page. The whole point. Not him doing it for you. Not him taking back the rhythm. Jack beneath you, hands on your waist, holding you steady while you took what you wanted from him and watched what it did to both of you. You moved again. Found it. Stayed there. Your breath broke. Jack’s did too. His hands flexed over your hips, rough now but still following you. Every movement dragged a sound out of him. Every time you shifted over that perfect angle, he felt it. You knew he did. His whole body went taut beneath yours, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on your face like he was trying to survive every answer you gave him. You started to lose the rhythm when the pleasure built too quickly. Jack felt that too. His hand slid up your back, steadying you. Not guiding. Grounding.
“You’ve got it,” he whispered.
Your eyes fluttered. “Jack.”
“I know.” His voice cracked around it. “I know, baby.”
You kept moving. Slow. Then less slow. Your hips found the rhythm your body wanted, and Jack let you have it. He held your waist when you needed balance. He slid one hand over your thigh when your leg trembled. He watched you like the whole point of his body was to be something you could take from and come back to. You were close again. Already. It should have embarrassed you. It did not. Not with Jack looking at you like that. Not with his hands finally on you after all that waiting. Not with the memory of his voice breaking under your mouth still warm in the room. Jack’s breathing changed beneath you. You felt it. The warning. The tightening. The way his body began to strain under yours, his control already worn thin from everything you had denied him before. His hand gripped your hip. “Baby.”
Your eyes found his. He looked almost pained. “Close?”
He let out a rough laugh. “Yeah.”
You slowed. Just enough. Jack’s head dropped back. “Fuck.”
You leaned down, chest brushing his, mouth near his jaw. “Not yet.”
His hands tightened on you. For one second, you felt the reflex in him. The urge to pull you closer. To move. To take. Then he stopped himself. A broken breath left him. “Okay.”
The obedience in it nearly undid you. You kissed his jaw. Soft. Proud. “Good.”
Jack’s eyes closed. His whole body clenched beneath you. “Oh, that’s not fair.”
You smiled against his skin. “You told me to tease you.”
“I regret nothing.” His voice was rough. Barely steady. “Also everything.”
A laugh broke out of you, helpless and breathless. The laugh turned into a moan when your hips shifted again and found the angle harder. Jack’s hands tightened at your waist. His eyes opened. “There.”
You nodded, breathless. “There.”
He held you through it. Letting you use the rhythm. Letting you set the pace. Letting his own restraint shake apart under you while still keeping you exactly where you needed to be. Your movements grew less controlled. More honest. Your body chasing the pleasure now, chasing him, chasing the way his hands finally felt on your skin after being denied for so long. Jack watched your face. He did not look away. Not once. Even when his own breath started breaking. Even when his hips began to move under you in tiny, desperate shifts he could not fully stop. Even when his mouth parted around words he had not found yet.
You gripped his chest. “Eyes on me.”
His gaze snapped fully to yours. Immediate. Listening. Still. Always.
Your pulse kicked hard. “Tell me,” you whispered.
Jack’s brow drew together, strained and ruined. “Tell you what?”
You slowed again. Just enough to make his breath catch sharply. His hands gripped your hips. “Don’t.” The word came rough. Then he caught himself. His eyes closed for half a second. “Fuck.” He opened them again, wrecked. “Don’t stop.”
Your mouth curved. “Then tell me.”
Jack stared at you. For one second, he looked like he could not decide whether to curse or kiss you. Then his voice dropped, breaking at the edges. “You’re driving me crazy.”
Heat bloomed through you. Your hips moved again.
Jack groaned. “You’ve been driving me crazy since you showed me that damn page.”
You moved faster. His hands slid up your sides, then back to your hips, holding on like he was trying not to lose the last pieces of himself. “You made me watch you,” he said, voice rough and breathless now. “Made me wait. Made me—fuck—made me want you so bad I couldn’t think.”
Your breath broke. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed locked on yours. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”
You nearly faltered.
His hands held you steady. “Beautiful,” he said. “So fucking beautiful.”
Your body answered the words immediately. Jack felt it. His eyes darkened further. “Yeah,” he breathed. “There. Take it.”
You did. You took the rhythm. Took the angle. Took the feel of his hands and his voice and his body under yours, the way he had offered himself and then let you make something of him. Pleasure built fast now. Bright and hot and impossible to slow down. Jack was close too. You could feel it in every line of him. His breathing was wrecked. His hands were shaking on your hips. His body moved beneath yours now, unable to stay fully still, meeting you in small, desperate movements that made your own pleasure sharpen.
“Baby,” he said. Your name followed, rough and broken.
You leaned down until your mouth brushed his. “Wait for me.”
His whole body went tight. A sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost pain. “Trying.”
“I know.” Your lips brushed his again. “You’re doing good.”
Jack swore. The word broke out of him, low and helpless. Your body clenched around the sound. His hands gripped you harder. Not enough to take over. Enough to tell you he was there. Enough to tell you he was barely holding on. You moved once more, and the angle hit perfectly. Your breath caught and stayed caught.
Jack saw it. His eyes did not leave yours. “There,” he said, voice wrecked. “There, baby. Stay there.”
You did. You stayed with it. Rode it. Used it. Used him. Used the way his body held you, the way his voice broke, the way his eyes stayed open because you had told him to look.
The pressure built and built until your arms shook against his chest. “Jack.”
“I’m here.” His voice cracked. “I’m right here.”
That was what tipped you over. The words. His hands. His restraint finally breaking into need under you. Your body went tight above him, pleasure rolling through you hard enough that your eyes almost closed. Almost. You kept them open. You watched him watch you fall apart. Jack’s face changed. The last of his control went with it. “Oh fuck,” he breathed.
Your hands clenched against his chest. His hips moved up into you, rougher now, not taking over but gone enough that the rhythm became both of yours. “I’m gonna come.” His voice broke. “Oh god, baby, I’m gonna come.”
You nodded, still shaking. “Yes.”
The sound of him losing it pulled another wave through you. He was trying to keep his eyes on yours. Trying to stay with you. Trying to be good even while he came apart. “You’re doing so good,” he breathed, voice ruined. “So good. Fuck, baby, you’re doing so good.”
Then you felt it. The exact second Jack let go. His body locked beneath yours. His breath caught. His hands gripped your hips like he needed somewhere to put the force of it, and then the restraint that had held him together all night finally snapped loose. His hands tightened at your hips. “Oh—fu-fuck.”
He came apart under you. Not controlled. Not composed. Jack. Shaking. Breathing your name. Face open in a way you had never seen, as if every piece of him had risen to the surface at once and trusted you enough to stay there. The sight made your chest ache.
You collapsed forward against him before your arms could give out. Jack caught you immediately. This time, he was allowed. His arms closed around you hard, pulling you down against his chest as the last of the pleasure moved through both of you in shaking, uneven waves.
For a while, there was only breathing. Yours. His. The rain. The books. Page 212, open beside him on the bed, smug and ruined and absolutely never going back to being just a page in a book again. Jack’s hand moved slowly up your back. Then down. Then up again. His chest rose beneath your cheek, still too fast. You could feel his heart pounding. You stayed there until your body started to remember gravity. Then, with a soft, exhausted sound, you rolled off him and collapsed onto the bed beside him. Not gracefully. Not even close. One arm fell over your face. Your hair spilled across his pillow. The sheets were twisted low around your hips, and your chest rose and fell like you had just survived a natural disaster with excellent lighting. Beside you, Jack was somehow worse. Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head. Mouth parted. Eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was waiting for language to return from wherever it had gone. The book was open near his hip. Face-down now. Spine bent. One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually. Probably.
When your lungs worked again. For now, neither of you said anything. Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully.
Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound. “That was incredible.”
Request - not officially a request but l've just been thinking about finally getting comfy enough in your relationship with Robby to sneak self care rituals into his routines...starting small with upgrading his sleep habits and getting a good moisturizer for his ultra-dry-from-constant-sanitizing hands...then slowly working up to you massaging his hands, getting him a heating pad for his back, maybe even convincing him that those baths you take are nice and calming and he should try it too?? knowing you can't jump in too quickly because he won't be on board, but even if he won't admit it, he likes it
The first time you realized Robby was sleeping on a crime against humanity disguised as a pillow, you were halfway through making his bed while he showered after a particularly ugly shift.
You stopped. Stared. Picked it up. Then immediately dropped it again.
“What the hell is this?”
Robby’s voice drifted from the bathroom. “What?”
You held the pillow up like evidence in a criminal investigation.
“This.”
A pause.
“My pillow.”
“You call this a pillow?”
“It is a pillow.”
“It has the structural integrity of a tortilla.”
The shower shut off. A few moments later Robby appeared in the doorway with a towel slung around his neck, damp hair sticking up in every direction. He looked exhausted. Beautiful. And entirely too pleased with himself.
“You have strong feelings about my pillow.”
“Robby.”
“It works.”
“It is flat.”
“It supports my head.”
“It is literally folded in half permanently.”
He shrugged.
“It knows my neck.”
You stared at him. He stared back. Then he smiled. That tiny smile he only gave you. The one that made arguing significantly more difficult. Unfortunately for him, not impossible.
Two days later a new pillow appeared on his bed. One that actually resembled a pillow. He walked into his bedroom after work, stopped short, and immediately knew who was responsible.
“No.”
You looked up from the book in your lap.
“No what?”
“No.”
“Excellent communication skills.”
“I’m not using that.”
“You haven’t even touched it.”
“I know what it is.”
“You know it’s a pillow.”
“I know it’s replacing my pillow.”
“Your pillow belongs in a museum.”
“My pillow is fine.”
“You have chronic neck pain.”
“I work in an emergency department.”
“You sleep on drywall.”
Robby pointed at you.
“You are not winning this.”
You smiled sweetly.
“You say that now.”
Three weeks later you arrived at his apartment after work and found him changing the sheets. The old pillow was nowhere in sight. Instead, the replacement sat squarely in the center of the bed.
You raised an eyebrow. Robby froze. You smiled. His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you’re about to do.”
“Looks like somebody likes his pillow.”
“I tolerate it.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it aggressively.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell over. Robby grabbed your waist before you could. His hands settled on your hips. His forehead dropped against yours. And though he was pretending to be annoyed, you caught the faintest hint of a smile. A smile that grew when you whispered,
“Told you.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
His hands squeezed your hips.
“You keep showing up.”
The pillow stayed. Neither of you mentioned it again. Except for the fact that several months later when Robby spent the night at your apartment, he showed up carrying it. Like it was completely normal. Like you wouldn’t notice. Like you wouldn’t immediately burst out laughing. You loved him so much.
******
The Hand Cream
You noticed Robby’s hands long before he did. Not because he was oblivious. Because he simply did not care. There was a difference.
The man spent twelve hours a day washing, sanitizing, gloving, scrubbing, and repeating the process until most normal people’s skin would have surrendered entirely. By the end of a shift his knuckles were dry enough to crack, the skin along the backs of his hands rough and irritated from constant exposure to sanitizer.
When you first brought it up, he looked down at his hands. Then looked back up at you.
“They’re hands.”
“That’s your medical opinion?”
“They function.”
You stared. He stared back. Then took another bite of takeout. Conversation apparently over. You waited. You knew better than to push.
Robby was a lot like a stray cat someone had accidentally put through medical school. Move too quickly and he’d bolt. So instead you filed the information away. And waited.
The opportunity came two weeks later. You were sprawled across his couch with your legs draped over his lap while he finished charting. His laptop balanced precariously on one knee. Reading glasses perched on his nose. One hand moving across the keyboard. The other absentmindedly resting against your calf.
You watched him rub his thumb over one knuckle. Then wince. Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But noticeable. You reached over and grabbed his hand.
“What?”
You turned it over. The skin around his knuckles had split. Tiny angry cracks. Red. Tender. Painful.
You looked up. Robby immediately looked guilty. Which told you everything.
“You knew.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s bleeding.”
“It happens.”
“Robby.”
He sighed. The sigh of a man who knew he was losing.
“It’s winter.”
“You work indoors.”
“The sanitizer.”
“There it is.”
His shoulders slumped. You smiled.
“Aha.”
“I don’t like that face.”
“You should.”
“I really don’t.”
The next day you showed up carrying a small paper bag. Robby saw it and immediately looked suspicious. Which honestly should have offended you.
“What’s that?”
“A gift.”
“No.”
You laughed.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“I know it’s trouble.”
You sat beside him and pulled out a bottle of hand cream. The look he gave you could only be described as betrayed.
“Absolutely not.”
You nearly choked.
“Absolutely not?”
“No.”
“It’s moisturizer.”
“It’s lotion.”
“Correct.”
“I don’t use lotion.”
“You should.”
“I’m not starting now.”
You held up the bottle. Robby looked at it like it contained live explosives. Then looked at you. Then back at the bottle.
“No.”
You set it on his coffee table.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You aren’t arguing.”
“You already know my position.”
“You have a position on lotion.”
“I have a position on your hands splitting open.”
“They’re fine.”
You leaned forward and kissed one cracked knuckle. Robby froze. Completely froze. Every muscle in his body locking up. You kissed another. Then another. The tension in his expression melted almost immediately.
“You fight dirty.”
You smiled.
“I know.”
The lotion remained untouched on the coffee table for nearly a week. Or so he claimed. Then one night you arrived at his apartment after a late shift. Robby was asleep on the couch. Television still on. Reading glasses crooked. Blanket half fallen onto the floor. And beside him sat the bottle.
Cap off. You smiled. Carefully lifted one of his hands. The skin already looked better. Not perfect. Better.
The stubborn man had clearly been using it. Regularly. Probably in secret. Because heaven forbid anyone know he participated in self-preservation.
You were still smiling when Robby’s eyes cracked open. His voice rough with sleep.
“What are you doing?”
“Holding your hand.”
“Why?”
“Checking something.”
His eyes dropped to where you were examining his knuckles. Then immediately away. Like he’d been caught. You bit back a laugh.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You’ve been using it.”
“No.”
“Robby.”
A pause. Then another.
“A little.”
Your grin widened.
“A little?”
“It was there.”
“It was there.”
“My hands hurt.”
The admission came so quietly you almost missed it. Your smile softened instantly. Because that was really the thing about Robby. He wasn’t stubborn because he thought he was invincible. He was stubborn because somewhere along the way he’d convinced himself discomfort wasn’t worth mentioning. That taking care of himself wasn’t important enough to bother with.
You squeezed his hand. The one that already felt softer. Healthier. Warmer. And watched his eyes drift closed again. Half asleep. Half gone. Still holding your hand. Still letting you hold his. And before he fully drifted off, you heard him mumble something into the couch cushion.
“What was that?”
One eye opened. A look of resignation crossing his face.
“The lotion works.”
You laughed so hard he groaned. And pulled you down onto the couch beside him. As if that would somehow stop you from being unbearably pleased with yourself.
******
The Water Bottle
The problem with dating Robby was that he was simultaneously one of the smartest people you had ever met and one of the dumbest when it came to his own body. Not patients. Never patients. Robby could spot dehydration, exhaustion, stress, and burnout in another human being from twenty feet away.
Himself? Hopeless.
You discovered this one Tuesday afternoon when you stopped by the emergency department during a slower stretch and found him standing at the physician station with a coffee in one hand and another coffee sitting beside him. You stared. Then stared harder. Robby noticed. Immediately regretted noticing.
“What.”
You pointed.
“Is that your second coffee?”
“No.”
You looked at the coffee. Then looked back at him. Then looked at the coffee again.
“It’s not my second coffee.”
“Okay.”
“It’s my third.”
You closed your eyes. Behind you, you heard somebody choke. Probably Collins. Maybe Javadi. Definitely somebody enjoying this entirely too much.
When you opened your eyes again, Robby was watching you cautiously. Like a man observing an approaching storm.
“How much water have you had today?”
“No.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is an answer.”
“It isn’t.”
“It answered the question.”
“It absolutely did not.”
Robby sighed. Long. Suffering. Dramatic. The sigh of a man burdened by unreasonable expectations.
“You are exhausting.”
“You’ve had three coffees.”
“They’re small.”
“They’re not.”
“They feel small.”
You pointed at him.
“That sentence alone should disqualify you from making medical decisions.”
The residents immediately disappeared. Cowards. All of them. Leaving Robby to fend for himself. Which was exactly where you wanted him.
That evening, you arrived at his apartment carrying a box. Robby saw it. Groaned. Actually groaned.
“What now?”
“Present.”
“No.”
You laughed.
“Why are you like this?”
“Because every time you say that, my life changes.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“The pillow.”
“Improved your life.”
“The lotion.”
“Improved your life.”
“The fancy tea.”
“You sleep better.”
His expression darkened. Which was confirmation. You shoved the box into his chest. He opened it reluctantly. Then frowned.
“A water bottle?”
“It keeps drinks cold.”
“I have cups.”
“You have forgotten cups.”
“I know where my cups are.”
“You left one in your car for six days.”
Robby looked offended.
“You don’t know that.”
“I found it.”
“…”
“It had become sentient.”
His head dropped back against the couch. You laughed so hard you nearly cried. For several weeks the bottle became a recurring battle. Every morning you filled it. Every evening you checked it. Every evening Robby claimed he had been drinking water. Every evening the evidence suggested otherwise.
One night you held the bottle up. Still nearly full.
“Explain.”
“I was busy.”
“You forgot.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“You forgot.”
“I remembered it existed.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It counts.”
“No.”
“It should.”
“No.”
He pointed toward the kitchen.
“You want dinner?”
“Nice try.”
“It usually works.”
You narrowed your eyes. The bastard smiled. Because it usually did work. Months passed. The arguments continued. The bottle became a permanent fixture. On his desk. In his car. At the hospital. By his bed. Everywhere.
Until eventually you stopped mentioning it. Not because you gave up. Because you noticed something. One particularly awful night you got called in unexpectedly. The emergency department was overflowing. Everyone looked tired. Everyone looked stressed. And in the middle of the chaos sat Robby.
Hair a mess. Sleeves rolled up. Charting furiously. You approached quietly. Planning to steal a kiss. Maybe convince him to take a break. Instead you stopped.
Because without even looking up from his computer, Robby reached for something. Unscrewed a lid. And took a long drink. Water. Not coffee. Not energy drinks.
Water.
You smiled. He looked up immediately. Caught. The bottle halfway to his mouth. Your eyes met. Robby froze. Then visibly realized what had happened.
“Oh don’t.”
You couldn’t help it. The grin spread anyway.
“Don’t what?”
“I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The look.”
“The one where I’m right?”
“The incredibly annoying one.”
You laughed. Robby pointed the water bottle at you. Threateningly. Or at least as threateningly as someone could point a giant insulated floral-colored water bottle you had specifically chosen because it annoyed him.
“You are impossible.”
“And hydrated.”
He groaned. Actually groaned. Then took another drink. Just to spite you. Which unfortunately only proved your point. And later that night, after the shift finally ended and the department quieted down, you found him sitting alone at the station. Exhausted. Spent. Running on fumes.
His water bottle beside him. Nearly empty. You slid into the chair next to him. His shoulder immediately bumped yours.
“You okay?”
Robby nodded. Then reached for your hand beneath the desk. Holding it tightly. The way he did when he was tired enough to stop pretending he didn’t need things. You squeezed back. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Then he glanced at the bottle. And muttered something so quietly you almost missed it.
“What?”
His eyes closed briefly. Like he hated himself for what came next.
“I think I get fewer headaches.”
You stared. Robby stared at the desk. Clearly hoping death might arrive before this conversation continued. Your heart nearly burst. Because there it was.
The thing underneath all the arguing. The thing underneath all the teasing. Trust.
Not in the bottle. Not in the water. In you. And as much as Robby would complain about every change you brought into his life, he kept accepting them for one simple reason. You had never once tried to change who he was.
You just wanted him around long enough to enjoy being him. His fingers tightened around yours.
“You don’t get to be smug.”
Too late. You were already smiling.
******
The Heating Pad
You discovered Robby’s back pain entirely by accident. Not because he told you. Of course he didn’t tell you. Robby could be actively falling apart and still insist he was “fine.” No, you discovered it because one Saturday morning you woke up in his apartment before he did.
Which was rare. The man was usually awake before sunrise, operating on some bizarre internal clock developed through decades of emergency medicine and poor life choices.
But this morning he was still asleep. Face buried in his pillow. One arm thrown across your waist. Breathing slow and even. You smiled. Then you felt it.
The way he shifted in his sleep. The tiny grimace that crossed his face. The way his hand instinctively moved toward his lower back. Even unconscious. Even asleep. Something hurt.
You filed that information away immediately. And waited. Because experience had taught you that confronting Robby directly was rarely effective. You needed evidence. Unfortunately for him, evidence arrived that very afternoon.
You were both grocery shopping. A perfectly normal activity. Until Robby bent down to grab something from a lower shelf. Then froze. Only for a second. Most people would have missed it. You didn’t. His jaw tightened. One hand immediately pressed against his lower back.
Then he straightened. And pretended nothing happened. You stared. Robby stared at the cereal boxes. Neither of you spoke.
“How long?”
His eyes closed.
“How long what?”
“The back pain.”
“I don’t have back pain.”
You laughed. Actually laughed. A nearby shopper looked alarmed. Reasonable.
“You literally just winced.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You touched your back.”
“I was stretching.”
“You made a face.”
“I have a face.”
“Oh my God.”
Robby immediately started pushing the cart away. Coward. You caught up beside him.
“Robby.”
“It’s fine.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The phrase.”
“What phrase?”
“The one that means something is absolutely not fine.”
He sighed. Then kept walking. Which was all the confirmation you needed.
Three days later a package arrived at his apartment. Robby called you immediately.
“No.”
You grinned.
“What?”
“I know this was you.”
“What was me?”
“The heating pad.”
“Oh.”
“The heating pad.”
“You got it.”
“You bought me a heating pad.”
You leaned back on your couch. Completely unrepentant.
“I did.”
“I’m not eighty.”
“No.”
“I’m not using a heating pad.”
“Okay.”
His silence immediately told you he’d expected more resistance. Interesting. Very interesting.
“So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You aren’t arguing?”
“Nope.”
Another pause.
“Why not?”
You smiled. Because now he was curious.
“Use it.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Then don’t.”
The call ended. You gave it forty-eight hours. The heating pad survived twenty-six.
You arrived at his apartment after work and let yourself in. The television was on.nThe lamp beside the couch glowed softly.nThe apartment was quiet.nSuspiciously quiet.nThen you rounded the corner.nAnd nearly burst out laughing.
There sat Robby. Fast asleep.nHead tilted back. Reading glasses halfway down his nose.nHeating pad stretched across his lower back.nThe remote dangling loosely from one hand.
You actually had to bite your lip. Because if he woke up and caught you laughing, he’d never forgive you. You carefully sat beside him. Trying not to wake him.
Unfortunately, Robby possessed the survival instincts of a feral animal. His eyes opened immediately.nThen narrowed.
“Oh no.”
You smiled.
“Oh yes.”
“No.”
“You’re using it.”
He glanced down. Realized exactly what he looked like. And immediately looked annoyed.
“It’s temporary.”
“Mhm.”
“My back hurt.”
“Mhm.”
“I was trying it.”
“Mhm.”
His eyes narrowed further.
“You are insufferable.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“The word you’re looking for is right.”
“It is not.”
“It absolutely is.”
The heating pad remained. Of course it did. Just like the pillow. Just like the lotion. Just like every other thing he’d initially rejected with great enthusiasm.
Soon it became part of the routine. Something he would never admit. But something you noticed anyway. Especially after difficult shifts. The bad ones. The ones that left him exhausted. The ones where he came home carrying too much.
One particularly brutal night you found him standing in the kitchen staring blankly at the counter. Still wearing his scrubs. Still wearing his badge. Barely moving. Your heart squeezed immediately.
“You okay?”
Robby nodded. Too quickly. Which meant no. You crossed the room. Wrapped your arms around his waist. Rested your cheek against his chest. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then you felt him exhale. The kind of exhale that came from somewhere deep. The kind people only gave when they felt safe. Your hands rubbed gently along his back.
“You don’t have to talk.”
Another breath. Another moment.
“It was rough.”
You nodded.
“I know.”
Neither of you moved. Neither of you needed to. A few minutes later you disappeared into the living room. Returned carrying something. Robby immediately rolled his eyes.
“No.”
You laughed.
“Come sit down.”
“I don’t need—”
“Robby.”
That did it. The tone. The one he secretly liked. The one that meant someone was taking care of him whether he wanted it or not. Grumbling under his breath, he sat.
You plugged in the heating pad. Draped it carefully across his back. Then settled beside him. Your hand finding his automatically. For several minutes neither of you spoke. The apartment quiet around you. The television forgotten. The day slowly draining away. Eventually Robby’s shoulders relaxed. Then relaxed again. The tension easing little by little. Until his head finally tipped sideways onto your shoulder.
You smiled softly. Because there it was. The real victory. Not getting him to use the heating pad. Not proving yourself right. Not winning.nIt was watching someone who spent his life carrying everyone else finally allow a little of the weight to be carried for him.
Even if it came wrapped in fabric and plugged into a wall. And after another few minutes of silence, you felt his fingers tighten around yours.
“Thank you.”
The words were so quiet you almost missed them. But they were there. And somehow that tiny whisper meant more than every argument that had come before it.
******
The Hand Massage
The first time Robby let you massage his hands, it happened entirely by accident. At least that was what he would claim later. You knew better. Because by then you had learned something important about Robby. If he truly didn’t want something, it didn’t happen. There was no convincing him.
No sweet-talking him. No negotiating. The man possessed the stubbornness of a mountain. Which meant every little allowance he gave you was exactly that. An allowance. A choice. A quiet act of trust.
The evening started innocently enough. Chinese takeout. A movie neither of you were actually watching. Robby stretched out across your couch while you sat tucked against his side beneath a blanket.
Domestic in a way that still occasionally caught both of you off guard. The honeymoon phase had long since settled into something deeper. Something steadier. The kind of love that lived in grocery lists and spare toothbrushes and knowing exactly how someone took their coffee.
You were halfway through stealing dumplings from his plate when you noticed him flexing one hand. Then the other. Slowly. Repeatedly. The movement immediately caught your attention.
“What are you doing?”
His eyes remained on the television.
“Nothing.”
“You are absolutely doing something.”
A sigh.
“My hands hurt.”
The admission came casually. Like it wasn’t important. Like it wasn’t worth mentioning. Which meant it probably had been bothering him for days. You sat up slightly.
“Let me see.”
“They’re fine.”
“Robby.”
“They’re attached.”
“Robby.”
“They function.”
You held out your hand. The universal signal. After a moment of dramatic suffering, he finally surrendered one of his hands.
You turned it over carefully. The skin looked much better these days. The lotion had helped. The cracks were mostly gone. But the muscles looked tight. Tired. Overworked.
Which made sense. Thousands of procedures. Thousands of charts. Thousands of tiny repetitive movements. Year after year after year.
Without a word, you placed his hand in your lap. Then started pressing your thumbs gently into his palm. Robby immediately looked up. Suspicious.
“What are you doing?”
“Massaging your hand.”
“No.”
You smiled.
“There it is.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even given it a chance.”
“I don’t need a hand massage.”
“You literally just said your hands hurt.”
“They’re tired.”
“Exactly.”
“They’ll recover.”
“Or.”
“No.”
“Or.”
“No.”
You continued anyway. Because by now you knew the difference between a real no and a Robby no. A Robby no was usually followed by him staying exactly where he was.
Which was precisely what happened. You worked quietly. Pressing into the muscles of his palm. Working your thumb along the base of his fingers. Massaging the tension you could actually feel sitting there.
At first he watched suspiciously. Then cautiously. Then not at all. Because somewhere around minute three, his shoulders started relaxing. Minute five, his head tipped back against the couch. Minute seven, his eyes closed.
You bit the inside of your cheek. Trying very hard not to smile. The man looked downright offended by relaxation. Which only made it funnier. When you switched to the other hand, he didn’t even argue. Just automatically handed it over. Eyes still closed. Trusting you. Your chest tightened. Because this felt different.
Smaller than some of the other things. But somehow more intimate. There was no joke. No teasing. No distraction. Just your hands holding his. Taking care of him. For no reason other than wanting to.
Eventually you felt his fingers twitch. Then relax again. His voice came quietly. Eyes still closed.
“That feels nice.”
You froze. Robby’s eyes immediately opened. Realization hitting him instantly. The mistake. The confession. The evidence. His expression shifted to horror. Yours shifted to delight.
“Oh my God.”
“Don’t.”
“You admitted it.”
“Don’t.”
“You admitted it felt nice.”
“It slipped out.”
You laughed so hard tears formed. Robby groaned. Then grabbed your wrist. Pulling you across the couch and into his lap. Mostly to stop your laughing. Possibly to punish you. Definitely to kiss you.
His mouth found yours immediately. You smiled against his lips. Which only made him grumble.
“I mean it.”
“You mean what?”
“You are never bringing this up again.”
You kissed him once.
“Okay.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You are lying.”
You kissed him again.
“Probably.”
He sighed. Then wrapped both arms around your waist. Pulling you closer. Holding you there. The movie forgotten entirely. The takeout growing cold. Neither of you caring.
After a while his chin settled on your shoulder. Your fingers absentmindedly threading through his hair. The apartment quiet around you. And just before drifting toward sleep, Robby’s voice appeared again. Soft enough that you almost didn’t hear it.
“You know.”
“Hm?”
His arms tightened slightly.
“My hands really did feel better.”
You smiled into his shoulder. Because there it was again. Not surrender. Not defeat.
Trust.
The kind that only appeared when the lights were low and the world was quiet. The kind that said I know you’ll be gentle with the parts of me that hurt. And for Robby, that might have been the most intimate thing of all.
******
The Bath
The bath conversation started exactly how you expected it would. In fact, it started with Robby standing in your bathroom doorway looking genuinely concerned about your life choices.
You were buried beneath a mountain of bubbles. A book rested in your hands. A candle flickered on the counter. Soft music drifted through the apartment. The entire scene looked like the physical embodiment of relaxation. Robby looked at it like he’d discovered a cult meeting.
“What are you doing?”
You looked up from your book.
“Taking a bath.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
He crossed his arms.
“You’ve been in there for forty-five minutes.”
You blinked.
“Have you been timing me?”
“No.”
“Robby.”
A pause.
“Maybe.”
You laughed. The man looked genuinely baffled. Like he could not comprehend voluntarily sitting in water for an extended period of time.
“Don’t you get bored?”
“No.”
“How?”
You held up your book.
“I’m reading.”
“You could read on the couch.”
“I could.”
“You could read in bed.”
“I could.”
“You could read literally anywhere else.”
You smiled.
“I like baths.”
Robby shook his head. Still unconvinced.
“You sit in hot water.”
“Yes.”
“For fun.”
“Yes.”
His expression suggested he was witnessing civilization collapse in real time. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your book.
For the next several weeks, the subject became recurring entertainment. Every time you took a bath, Robby had questions. Questions that somehow always sounded accusatory.
“You’re taking another one?”
“Yes.”
“You took one three days ago.”
“Correct.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“You already took one.”
“It’s not a vaccine.”
The look on his face nearly killed you.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I genuinely don’t.”
Then came the worst shift of the month. The kind that seemed determined to squeeze every ounce of energy from a person. You knew it had been bad the moment Robby walked through your front door.
His shoulders sagged. His eyes looked tired. Not sleepy. Tired. The deeper kind. The kind that settled into your bones. He barely made it through saying hello before collapsing onto your couch. You sat beside him immediately. One hand brushing through his hair.
“Rough?”
He nodded. You waited. He didn’t elaborate. You didn’t ask. After a few minutes you stood. Robby glanced up.
“Where are you going?”
“Bathroom.”
“Okay.”
A few minutes later he heard running water. Then more running water. Then suspicious silence. A few moments later he appeared in the doorway. And immediately frowned.
“What are you doing?”
You smiled. The bathtub behind you was full. Steam curled through the room.
“You know exactly what I’m doing.”
“No.”
“Yes you do.”
“No.”
“Robby.”
His eyes narrowed. Then widened. Then narrowed again. Absolutely horrified.
“No.”
You laughed.
“Oh come on.”
“No.”
“It’ll help.”
“No.”
“You’ve had a terrible day.”
“I don’t need a bath.”
“You’ve never tried one.”
“I know enough.”
“You really don’t.”
He pointed dramatically at the tub.
“People sit where they wash.”
You stared. Then laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter. Robby looked deeply offended.
“That’s a valid concern.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
“It could be.”
You couldn’t breathe. The man was impossible. Eventually he retreated. Victorious. Or so he thought.
The next week brought another difficult shift. And another. And another. Until one evening you found him sitting at your kitchen table rubbing both hands over his face. Exhausted. Worn thin. Barely functioning.
You approached quietly. Placed a mug of tea beside him. Then kissed the top of his head.
“Bath.”
“No.”
“Bath.”
“No.”
“Bath.”
Robby sighed dramatically. Then looked up at you. Too tired to argue properly. Which was your opening.
“Twenty minutes.”
“No.”
“Ten.”
“No.”
“Five.”
His eyes closed. You could practically see the internal battle happening.
“Five.”
You immediately pointed.
“Aha.”
His eyes opened. Realization hit. Too late. The agreement had been made. The trap had closed.
“You’re the worst.”
“You love me.”
“I question it regularly.”
You kissed his forehead.
“You absolutely do not.”
Twenty minutes later you found him in the bathroom. Still in the bathtub. Still soaking. Still alive despite his earlier concerns. You leaned against the doorway quietly. Watching. Robby’s head rested against the edge. Eyes closed. Shoulders relaxed.
The tension that usually lived between them noticeably reduced. For once he looked peaceful. Not physician peaceful. Not pretending peaceful. Actually peaceful. You smiled softly.
“Five minutes?”
His eyes opened. Then immediately narrowed.
“You said you weren’t keeping track.”
“You’ve been in there twenty minutes.”
A pause.
“The water’s still warm.”
You nearly burst into laughter.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It absolutely is.”
Robby looked away. And for a moment he actually looked embarrassed. Which was somehow adorable. You crossed the room. Knelt beside the tub. Brushed damp hair away from his forehead.
His eyes softened immediately. The way they always did with you.
“You okay?”
For a moment he simply looked at you. The exhaustion. The affection. The trust.nEverything sitting quietly in his expression. Then he nodded.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“I kind of get it.”
Your smile grew.
“Kind of?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
You laughed. Robby reached out immediately. Water dripping from his hand.nCatching your wrist before you could pull away.nThen bringing your knuckles to his lips. A quiet kiss.nThe kind people only gave when they felt completely safe. And as ridiculous as it was, as much as you’d tease him forever about becoming a bath person, that wasn’t the moment that stuck with you.
It was the fact that for the first time since you’d met him, Robby wasn’t trying to recover from a hard day by simply enduring it. He was actually allowing himself comfort. Allowing himself rest. Allowing himself care. Even if he’d complain about it tomorrow. Even if he’d deny enjoying it. Even if he’d swear the entire thing was a one-time occurrence. Because the next week, when you arrived at his apartment unexpectedly and found a brand-new bottle of bath soak sitting beside his bathtub…
Well. That was evidence enough.
*******
The Night Routine
The realization hit Robby on a random Thursday night. Which was fitting. Because most of the important things in life seemed to happen to him when he wasn’t paying attention. The two of you had been together long enough now that routines existed. Not consciously. Not intentionally. They had simply formed. Like roots growing underground. And somewhere along the way, you had apparently infiltrated every single one of his.
The discovery happened after a particularly long shift. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing dramatic. Just twelve straight hours of emergency medicine. Twelve hours of people needing things from him. Twelve hours of making decisions. Twelve hours of carrying responsibility. The kind of day that left him feeling stretched thin.
Robby walked into his apartment. Dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. Kicked off his shoes. Then immediately froze. Because without thinking, he’d started doing things. One after another.
His hand reached for the water bottle sitting beside the sink. He finished half of it before even realizing what he was doing. Then he refilled it. Set it beside the coffee maker for the morning.
Robby stared at it. Suspicious. Then walked into the bedroom. Changed clothes. Reached for the heating pad. Plugged it in. Placed it on the couch.
Automatic. Again.
His eyes narrowed. Something was happening here. Something concerning. Something deeply suspicious.
Twenty minutes later you arrived carrying takeout. The moment you opened the door, you found him sitting on the couch staring into space. Heating pad across his back. Water bottle beside him. Looking like a man experiencing an existential crisis. You immediately started laughing.
“What?”
Robby pointed at himself.
“I have concerns.”
“Oh no.”
“I think you’ve done something to me.”
You dropped onto the couch beside him.
“This should be good.”
He pointed toward the kitchen.
“I refilled the water bottle.”
“Wonderful.”
“I didn’t even think about it.”
“Oh no.”
“The heating pad was already plugged in before I realized I grabbed it.”
You covered your mouth. Trying and failing to hide your smile. Robby looked genuinely disturbed.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It absolutely is.”
“You’ve altered my behavior.”
You laughed. Hard. The kind that made tears form. The kind that made Robby look even more offended.
“I am serious.”
“You sound like you’ve been brainwashed.”
“I have.”
“You bought lotion voluntarily last week.”
His expression immediately darkened.
“Don’t.”
“You did.”
“I was out.”
“You bought more.”
“I needed more.”
You collapsed against his shoulder. Absolutely losing the battle.
“This is incredible.”
Robby groaned. Then pointed at you. As if pointing somehow strengthened his argument.
“You are not taking this seriously.”
“Because it’s ridiculous.”
“It isn’t ridiculous.”
“It kind of is.”
His eyes narrowed. Then he crossed his arms. The posture immediately reminded you of a stubborn toddler. Which unfortunately made you laugh even harder. Robby looked personally betrayed.
“I used bath salts.”
You stopped. Then looked at him.
“What?”
His expression suggested he’d just confessed to a felony.
“I used bath salts.”
Your jaw dropped.
“You bought bath salts.”
A pause.
“They were on sale.”
You lost it. The laughter echoed through the apartment. Robby closed his eyes. Clearly regretting every decision that had led him here.
Eventually you managed to compose yourself enough to wipe tears from your eyes. Then you leaned over. Rested your chin on his shoulder. And smiled.
“You know what I think?”
“No.”
“I think you like being taken care of.”
The words settled between you. Robby didn’t answer immediately. The joking disappeared. The teasing faded. His eyes dropped toward his hands. You waited, watching him. Because sometimes the most important things with Robby happened in the silence.
Your heart squeezed. Because there it was. The thing underneath all of it. The reason this mattered. The reason every pillow and heating pad and bottle of lotion had become something bigger.
You reached for his hand immediately. Threading your fingers through his. Robby squeezed back. Looking at your joined hands. Not at you. As if the honesty was easier that way.
“My exes used to tell me to slow down.”
You listened quietly.
“Friends have told me.”
Another pause.
“My family…what’s left of them…has told me.”
His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
“But you’re the first person who actually noticed when I didn’t.”
The emotion hit you unexpectedly. Because that was exactly it. You hadn’t set out to fix him. You couldn’t. Nobody could. Robby would always be Robby.
Stubborn. Self-sacrificing. Terrible at asking for help. Beautifully, frustratingly himself.
You just noticed things. The headaches. The exhaustion. The sore back. The cracked hands. The moments he needed someone. Even when he didn’t know how to say it.
You leaned forward and kissed his temple. Then rested your forehead against his.
“Well.”
His eyes finally met yours. So full of affection it nearly hurt.
“Well what?”
You smiled.
“I noticed.”
For a moment neither of you moved. The apartment quiet around you. The television forgotten. The food growing cold. Neither of you caring.
Then Robby looked around his living room. At the water bottle. The heating pad. The lotion on the side table. The throw blanket you’d bought because his old one felt like sandpaper. The tea in his cabinet. The better pillows. The bath salts. All the tiny pieces of you scattered throughout his life. And a slow smile appeared. A small one. Only for you.
“You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
His fingers tightened around yours. That smile growing just a little.
“I can’t tell where my habits end and you begin anymore.”
Your heart absolutely melted.nAnd judging by the way Robby immediately pulled you into his lap before you could get emotional about it…
He knew exactly what he’d done.
******
The Payoff
The thing about taking care of Robby was that eventually it stopped feeling like taking care of him. It just became loving him. The routines no longer felt deliberate. They simply existed. A thousand tiny things woven into the fabric of your lives together.
The water bottle. The lotion. The heating pad. The tea. The baths. The better sleep habits. The pillows. The blankets.
All those little acts of care that had started as gentle nudges had somehow become part of the architecture of his life. And because of that, the moment that finally broke your heart happened on an entirely ordinary night. A terrible shift. But ordinary. The kind that left everyone exhausted. You had your own shift that day and didn’t get to see him until almost midnight.
By the time you unlocked the door to his apartment, the place was dark. Quiet. You frowned. Normally there would at least be a lamp on. The television. Something. Instead there was only silence. For a brief moment concern flared.
Then you stepped farther inside. And immediately stopped. Because there he was. Curled up on the couch. Asleep. The heating pad stretched across his lower back. The blanket you’d bought draped over his legs. The water bottle sitting on the coffee table. Half empty. Hand cream beside it. A mug of tea abandoned nearby.
The lamp casting a warm golden glow across the room. You stared. Your chest tightening unexpectedly. Because every single one of those things had once been an argument. Every single one. And now he reached for them without thinking. Not because you’d forced him. Because he’d learned they helped. Because somewhere along the way he’d decided he deserved comfort.
You stood there for a long moment just looking at him. At the man you loved. The man who spent every day pouring himself into everyone around him. The man who still occasionally forgot he was worthy of the same kindness he offered strangers.
Then quietly, you crossed the room. Robby woke almost immediately. Of course he did. Years in emergency medicine had turned him into the lightest sleeper on Earth.
His eyes opened. Found you. And instantly softened.
“There you are.”
The words came rough with sleep. Your heart melted immediately.
“Hi.”
He reached for you automatically. Still half asleep. Still waking up. Still wanting you close. You smiled and slipped onto the couch beside him.
The moment you did, his arm wrapped around your waist. Pulling you against his side. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d been missing a piece.
You settled against his chest. Listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. His chin resting on top of your head. Neither of you speaking for several moments. Neither of you needing to. Finally you glanced around. At all the evidence surrounding him. Your smile grew. Robby immediately noticed.
“No.”
You laughed.
“Oh yes.”
“No.”
“You used all of them.”
His groan vibrated through his chest.
“I was tired.”
“You used every single thing.”
“It was a bad day.”
“Every single thing.”
Robby buried his face against your hair. Apparently hoping he could hide from this conversation. You found this adorable.
“I mean look at you.”
“Don’t.”
“You practically created a self-care checklist.”
“I hate that phrase.”
“You absolutely do not.”
His fingers pinched your side. You yelped. Then laughed. Then cuddled closer. The warmth between you settling into something comfortable.
After a while the teasing faded. The room growing quieter. You felt Robby’s hand sliding lazily up and down your back. The absent-minded touch of someone who loved having you near. Eventually his voice broke the silence.
“Today sucked.”
The honesty surprised you. Not because he never talked. Because he usually filtered things first. Protected people from the weight of them. Including you.
Tonight he sounded too tired for that. You turned slightly. Looking up at him. His eyes looked exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that lived deeper than sleep. You brushed your fingers along his jaw.
“What happened?”
Robby sighed. Then told you. Not everything. But enough. The difficult patient. The loss. The family. The impossible choices. The endless pressure.
You listened quietly. Your hand never leaving his face. Never interrupting. Never trying to fix it. Just listening.
When he finished, the room fell silent again. His forehead dropped against yours. Eyes closing. You could feel how tired he was. How worn down. How much he carried.
“I hate days like that.”
“I know.”
A pause. Then another.
“You know what was weird?”
“What?”
His eyes opened. Looking directly at you.
“I got home.”
You waited.
“And without even thinking about it…” A faint smile appeared. “I started doing all the stuff.”
You laughed softly.
“The stuff?”
“The stuff.”
“Very specific.”
“You know what I mean.”
You did. Of course you did. The little routines. The tiny acts of care. The things he’d once resisted. The things he’d once rolled his eyes at. The things he’d once insisted were unnecessary. His thumb brushed across your cheek.
Then his expression softened. Until there was nothing guarded left. Nothing hidden. Just Robby. Just the man you loved.
“You know what the worst part is?”
You smiled.
“I thought we already covered the worst part.”
“No.”
His hand cupped your face.
“I have a new one.”
“Oh?”
He studied you for a moment. Like he was trying to memorize something. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Then he smiled.
That rare smile. The one that belonged only to you.
“The worst part is now I miss you when you’re not there to nag me about it.”
You laughed. A genuine laugh. Bright and happy. Robby’s eyes immediately lit up at the sound. Like they always did.
“I do not nag.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I lovingly encourage.”
“You nag.”
“I encourage.”
“You nag.”
You leaned forward and kissed him. Ending the argument. The way you usually did. His hand slid into your hair immediately. Holding you there. Not demanding. Not urgent. Just wanting. Just savoring.
When you finally pulled back, he followed. Forehead against yours. Nose brushing yours. His eyes never leaving yours. And for a moment the entire world seemed to disappear.
No hospital. No stress. No responsibilities. Just this.
Just you. Just him.
Then his voice came quietly. So quietly you almost missed it.
“Nobody’s ever taken care of me before.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’d said all night. Because he wasn’t talking about the lotion. Or the pillow. Or the heating pad.
He was talking about being seen. About someone paying attention. About someone noticing when he was hurting before he had to say it out loud. Your throat tightened. You reached up. Brushed your hand through his hair.
“Well.”
His eyes closed briefly beneath your touch. The smallest smile appearing.
“Well what?”
You leaned forward. Kissed his forehead. Then his cheek. Then the corner of his mouth.
“I plan on doing it for a very long time.”
For a moment he simply looked at you. The emotion in his eyes almost overwhelming. Then he pulled you into his lap. Wrapped both arms around you. And held you there.
Like something he’d never willingly let go. The heating pad eventually shut itself off. The tea went cold. The apartment grew quiet. But neither of you moved. Because sometimes love wasn’t grand gestures. Sometimes it was a stubborn emergency physician finally letting himself be cared for. And the woman who loved him choosing, every single day, to keep showing up and doing exactly that.
