A side blog about whatever/whoever I am currently hyper fixated on • Mainly morally grey characters who like the color green Lauren. 32. Main @vipervixxen
Summary: with jack’s mental health deteriorating he tries to pin an accusation on you.
Warnings: mentions of minor injuries, talks of ER/ED, explicit language, angst, age-gap, slow burn, pinning, mentions of widower jack, mentions of mental health/self-harm, yearning/longing, probably some scientific & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 4k+
Author’s Note: here’s my fic in honor of mental health month !! (it’s an angsty one, i fear.) i spent a long time on this one to make it good for you guys & represent mental health for all of us that struggle. i love jack so so much !! i hope you all enjoy this, it’s a very special fic for me. <3
Jack Abbot wasn’t used to living alone. He went straight from his parents house growing up to the army housing—to sharing a place with Robby during med school—to living with his late wife.
The townhouse he occupied now felt too big, too empty, too full of ghosts haunting him from different stages of his life. Still, it beat wandering around the lonely house he had shared with his wife before she passed. He couldn’t stand sitting there any longer, all the what ifs of what life could’ve been followed him through every room.
So he moved into a townhouse, smaller, still two floors, enough room to occupy but still feel empty. Mostly bare of decorations. A few medical textbooks books, pictures from his younger days, his wedding day. Random shit Robby and Dana had bought him to put out when he’d moved in.
He stuck to himself for a while; go to work, to the gym, come home; and sleep until his next shift to do it all over again.
Robby finally snapped him out of it a few months later. He started talking to old friends again, going out more with coworkers when Robby and Dana asked, even if it wasn’t his scene.
Years went by and he fell back into the swing of things. Moved around the ED with as much ease as he had when he first walked through the ambulance bay doors all that time ago. His humor came back, he joked more with residents and mentored better. Things seemed normal, well as normal as they could be after everything he’d been through.
It all came crashing down around him when a new attending walked into his night shift—when you walked in. You, the cheery and kind new attending Gloria hired to have two on each shift. You with the pep in your step, you who always spoke softly to scared patients and took extra time to explain things to them. You who wiggled your way into a spot under his ribs he didn’t even know existed anymore.
But more than that; you challenged him. You were just as quick and witty as he was—taking him aback the first time your sarcasm and teasing was directed at him.
The way it made the ED fall silent around you, all eyes watching as the staff held their breath.
Lena smirked behind you, Shen and Ellis’ mouths fell open.
You were gonna fit right in, even if it kept Jack on his toes—especially if it kept Jack on his toes.
You were at the hub with Lena when it happened—chatting in between patients when he came up behind you. His uneven gait was recognizable from two hallways down. The soft thump of his sneakered prosthesis hitting the floor.
He stood next to Joy, talking about charting and something else you couldn’t pick up on. His voice hit your ears before hers did.
“That’s how we rolled when I was a resident”, Jack smirked.
“Was that in the 1900s?”, Joy jutted back as she looked up at him.
Jack’s smirk didn’t waver; “Yeah, when charts were written by candlelight.”
Your smile was full of mischief now, words slipping out before you could stop yourself; “Written with ink and a feather pen too, Peepaw?”
The room stilled.
Jack let out a noise that almost sounded like a laugh.
Shen choked on his iced coffee.
Ellis let out a “Daammnnnn!!”
Jack just…stared at you. Lips still pulled at the corners, but his eyes were darker now; something lingering underneath that you couldn’t quite place.
“Only until typewriters became popular.”
He was giving it right back.
It continued that way—you and Jack ribbing each other back and fourth. He didn’t know when he realized how much he relied on that, relied on you. It hit him square in the chest; something new he didn’t quite know what to do with, or where to put it.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
To say the past month had been hard on Jack would be an understatement; he was exhausted.
The anniversary of his wife’s death was approaching, Robby had just gotten back from his sabbatical which had thankfully taken some of the work load off of his shoulders—but he was so ingrained in the new routine of constantly being the one on call and working overtime that he didn’t know how to stop.
His leg was bothering him more than usual lately, he could barely sleep at night; his anxiety was through the roof lately and to make matters even worse—there had been an influx of veteran’s coming through the ED like a revolving door.
Jack had lost too many people in his life; patients included.
His wife, his leg, countless numbers of his old army buddies and people he knew in the service. The biological family he had left was scattered. His chest felt tighter than normal, and now when he saw you; instead of immediately succumbing to the excitement in his chest—his blood ran cold.
He felt guilty. Guilty for thinking about anyone other than his wife, guilty for liking you, guilty for you being the best part of his day and looking forward to seeing you; guilty for wanting you.
As soon as he trekked into the ER that night the entire atmosphere shifted. The air around him went tense and cold, settling in the deep crease between his brows. He huffed under the pressure of his prosthesis digging into his skin with each step. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken it off for more than an hour.
He barely grunted a greeting back when Robby approached him, listening through handovers with silence and dark, tired eyes that looked way too sharp and miserable to be the same warm hazel ones he always had.
He’d lost his Jack spark.
When you approached him to sign off on an order of meds he barely moved.
“Doctor Abbot, can you sign these off for me?”, You ask.
A deep puff of air leaves his nose as he slides his readers on, taking the tablet from your hands with a grip that was too tight and stiff.
He didn’t say a word; just signed with his pointer finger after reading it over and handed it back to you.
You frowned; “Is uh, everything ok, Doctor Abbot? You seem upset.”
He inhales sharply; “Fine. Get those meds to your patient.”
No banter. No ribbing or poking fun with you. Just a flat voice empty of any of its usual emotions.
“Are you sure? Is there someth—“
“I said i’m fine”, He cuts you off, squeezing past you; “Get back to work.”
You watch him go with wide eyes and stunned silence.
“Brrr”, Lena says next to you; “Who pissed in his cheerios?”
“I don’t know…”, You trail off, watching him round the corner and disappear; staring at the spot he’d been seconds earlier.
You didn’t have much time to reflect on it or ask him anything further as the noise of the ED picked up. The ambulance bay door kept opening and closing like it was on a timed loop. Your hands were busy.
So were his.
You saw him across the floor a few times, looking down at his feet or off into space while Robby or another doctor talked to him. He still took care of his patients with efficiency; but he didn’t hover anymore.
He stood with his arms crossed, back tight and jaw the same. Lack of emotion. Normally, where he’d make sure he was on the same level as a patient to make them feel comfortable; he now stood towering over them. He didn’t let his hand brush their back or knee to offer comfort, didn’t smile; at least not real ones.
His visit times were quick; barely letting out a few words as he read a patients chart, asked a few questions and got a briefing before he was passing the case off to a med student or intern unless it was an emergency.
He was stiff as he assessed a younger man who had come in from a car accident. Dislocated shoulder, multiple fractures of the leg and arm. He grunted as he helped lift him off the stretcher and onto a hospital bed. A twinge of pain flickering across his face for the briefest second.
His jaw stayed tight as he called out directions and sent the man up to the OR.
He went completely rigid when a veteran a few years older than him came in with a multi-car pile-up. The man was mostly stable until he wasn’t; stats tanking suddenly and alarms blaring. Jack coded him for an hour to no avail. The time of death left his mouth between gritted teeth as he tore his gown off.
Nobody went after him. Nobody dared. Nobody wanted to set him off first.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Jack found a quiet hallway in one of the empty wings of the hospital, back pressed against the cool wall as he slid to the floor. His elbows dug into his knees, heels of his palms rubbing against his damp eyes. His leg burned and sent a jolt of lightning up his spine at the movement. A shuddered and shaky breath left his lips as he tried to regain his composure.
But he couldn’t, not with everything weighing down on him all at once. So he let himself cry softly, quietly in the way he trained himself to; cursed himself under his breath for doing so.
When his breathing lost its shakiness he finally pushed himself up off the floor, one hand pressed against the cool wall as he looked down at his feet—a hand on his hip.
He shook his head with a long exhale; “Come on, Jack…snap out of it already.”
He wiped his face once, forced himself to stand straight despite the still worsening pain in his leg; and walked back into the ED like a man on a mission. Though he wasn’t completely sure what that mission was.
Survive this shift, sounded like a good one.
You caught his gaze by accident as he walked back in. Standing at the hub going through patient lists to update the board, when the familiar sound of his footsteps filled your ears.
You looked up like you always did. His eyes found yours for a second before he looked away. He didn’t stop, didn’t speak; just kept going.
You frowned at the sight of him; cheeks pink and tear-stained. Eyes exhausted and devoid of their usual light. His jaw was ticked and clenched tight. The shift dragging on around him. He puffed his chest out as he walked by in an attempt to seem like everything was normal. But you’d seen him enough, learned things and taken in his very being to know that wasn’t true.
You didn’t know him that well personally, but you knew enough about him inside the hospital to know when things were off. Knew him enough to know there was something charged between you. To pick up on his usual mannerisms or when things were wrong.
Things were definitely wrong right now; but you couldn’t figure out what. Just that Jack Abbot clearly needed help.
You cornered Dana at the hub later; “Do you know what’s up with Jack?”
She took off her glasses, didn’t linger on the fact that you were on first name basis—and got straight to work.
She sighed; “No, but…whatever it is, it’s not good.”
You wanted to laugh at the obviousness of it.
“Have you ever seen him like this?”, You ask.
Her expression goes soft, a little sad; “He usually gets in his head around this time every year…his wife’s anniversary is in a few weeks”, Her brows furrow; “But I’ve never seen him this bad. Not like this.”
Guilt climbs up your spine; his wife. Of course that’s why he’s upset. But Dana’s words linger in the back of your mind; “I’ve never seen him this bad.”
You wanted to help him. Needed to help him. Whatever was going on between the two of you; flirting or not—could wait. You decided right then and there, standing next to Dana; that you were going to do whatever you could to help—to save him before he spiraled too far.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Jack Abbot fully cracked with two hours left in his shift.
Another trauma had come in, bystander in a bank robbery gone wrong. Clinging to life as the alarms split through the room around him.
You were gowned up next to him, following nurses and residents around as they prepped the trauma room. Robby and Jack were standing over the patient, calling out directions as they always did.
Another alarm started going off, Jack’s head whipping up.
“Oxygen is tanking! We need to intubate, get me a tube—now!”
You moved quickly, grabbing all the supplies you needed and getting them to Jack. He took them immediately. The scalpel in your hands slipped before he could get in fully in his grasp; the sound of it clanging against the floor echoed through the trauma room.
The room fell silent except for the sound of metal against linoleum.
Jack stilled, everyone’s eyes on you.
“Doctor Abbot—I’m so sorry! Let me get-“
“No”, He blurted out.
“What?—“
“Clearly you can’t be trusted in this room, and we need people who aren’t going to fuck up saving someone’s life”, He says through his teeth, face almost red.
You’d never seen Jack like this before. He never raised his voice at anyone. Not unless you were a patient threatening his staff or causing problems. Never over something simple like this; never over mistakes.
He’d usually talk lowly to you, reassure you it’s ok and encourage you. Tell you that you’ll do better next time as he guides you through the procedure. But that Jack was not in this room, you weren’t even sure he was in this hospital.
“Doctor Abbot, I-“
“Henderson, get me a new scalpel”, He orders, barely looking at you; “You step back, we don’t need anymore screw ups.”
Screw-up. That’s what you were to Jack in this moment? Just another thing that wasn’t going his way.
Your eyes and face burned. He saw it, but didn’t say anything else. Ignored the twinge of pain in his chest as soon as the words left his mouth; at the look on your face. More guilt hitting him.
“Jack”, Robby warned, making him look up.
“What?”, Jack snapped.
Robby raised his brows, sending Jack a look that didn’t need words. Jack silently got back to work with the intubation as soon as Henderson handed him the scalpel.
Robby’s eyes found yours as you hovered next to him, not sure what to do.
“Go take ten, kid. Get some water and some air”, Robby tells you quietly.
You don’t argue, just nod once in response before pushing the trauma doors open and leaving behind the humiliation of Jack’s words.
Jack watches you go, the pain in his chest doubling. Fuck, he messed up.
“What the hell was that, brother?”, Robby asks.
Jack doesn’t answer, only a sigh leaving his nose as he finishes the intubation.
You don’t know when you ended up in the bathroom splashing water on your face, but here you were.
A few tears lingered in your eyes; but they weren’t from Jack’s words. Sure they hurt, but the only thing on your mind was how worried you were for him.
Never in a million years did you think you’d see the day Jack Abbot snapped at someone during a trauma—let alone at you.
You dabbed at your face with a cold paper towel, taking a deep breath before you walked back out to find your water bottle.
“You ok?”, Dana asked softly.
“M’Fine. But he’s not.”
Both of your eyes found Jack’s figure across the room. Still working in the trauma, still rigid and still making your chest ache.
Jack Abbot hadn’t cracked yet, but he was seconds away from doing so.
The moment it finally happened the ED was filled to the brim, staff were running in every direction. Another vet had come in with chest pains, everything else seemed normal; until he tanked.
Jack moved like he was back in the field; nothing else around him existed except for the man on the table. He coded within a half an hour. Jack immediately started compressions, ignoring the ache in his leg that had turned to jolting pain in the last few hours.
He ignored Parker’s voice at hour one. Just kept doing compressions.
1…2…3…shock.
He ignored Shen’s a half an hour later.
1…2…3…shock.
He ignored Robby’s voice at the two hour mark. The first time, at least.
When Robby stood behind him, so close Jack could feel the heat of his words crawling up his spine; he couldn’t ignore him anymore.
“Jack…there’s nothing we can do, he’s gone”, Robby said softly.
Jack’s eyes stung as he finally, finally removed his hands from the patient’s chest—handprints almost visible in their wake. He took a step back, feet faltering and making him sway for a second. Robby reached out to steady him; but the touch burned him. He pulled away, looking around the trauma room at all the eyes on him.
His gaze landed on you; watching him with wide and concern filled eyes. Almost teary with his own. That stung like a punch; because if you were watching him, so was everyone else—which meant it was bad. Whatever he’d spiraled into, whatever he had tried so desperately to hide; he couldn’t anymore.
He left the trauma room in two wide strides, TOD leaving his lips in a brief huff; the door swinging shut with a loud gust behind him. He didn’t take off his gown or his glasses or the gloves that were sticky against his hands. He just moved to wherever his feet were taking him; wherever they knew best.
The ED paused around him.
Dana watched him rush by with horror and dread donning her face—in all the years she’d worked with him, she’d only seen him like this once. A few weeks after his wife had passed.
She watched him disappear into the stairwell, knowing better than to go after him. The silence following was deafening. She swallowed hard, looking around once before speaking.
“Alright, everyone back to work.”
The ED resumed like the pause had never happened.
But the whispers and concerned gazes remained; because Jack Abbot was a steady beacon in a place that became reckless.
What happens when the beacon itself becomes unsteady?
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
“Where’s Abbot?”, You asked Dana, breathless and cheeks red.
She sighed hard; “…Getting some air.”
You didn’t wait for her to say anything else before you were moving; climbing the same stairwell Jack had only a few minutes before.
Your footsteps were lighter, still just as hurried and charged—but they didn’t carry the same weight that his had.
You swung open the heavy door to the roof with a small grunt; the cool early-morning air smacked you in the face—making your already pink cheeks redder.
Your eyes landed on him immediately. Wrong side of the railing. Stethoscope hanging from the metal behind him. Like he’d already made a decision. You swallowed thick.
“Jack”, You spoke.
No movement except the faintest shake of his head. He didn’t answer, didn’t look at you, didn’t look away from the city below him. He was stuck there like a magnet; like something else was holding him down. Mental weight pushing down on his shoulders harder than it ever had before.
“Jack”, You try again, stepping up behind him but still leaving some distance; “Jack, go home”, You say.
“What home?”, He spits, eyes rimmed red; “I have no home.”
You see his face only for a second; but it’s enough to send your heart down to your stomach and a sudden spike of urgency down your spine.
His hands dig deeper into his pockets, heels of his shoes going with them against the rooftop.
“It’s just an empty fucking box. Too dark. Ghosts of everyone I’ve ever failed to treat that haunt me and keep me awake at night. Makes my head spin and digs me deeper into this fucking…hole that I can’t get out of.”
His chin wobbles now, a scoff escaping his lips despite himself. He turns further away, eyes flicking back across the city line—blurry and glowing behind unshed tears. Face red as he puffs out his cheeks with a breath, shaking his head like it’ll make all this disappear. The thoughts, the memories, the darkness; that fact that you’re seeing him like this. At his lowest. When he’s supposed to be the one there for you.
“I lost two vets today”, He grunts; “Two.”
“That’s not your fault, Jack. You did everything you could”, You say.
He scoffs again, tears still burning as he looks at his feet; his bad leg that echoes like a taunt.
“Are you still seeing your therapist?”
It’s an innocent question, but it hits Jack wrong.
Another scoff; “Yeah, fuck lot of good that’s doing.”
He runs a hand desperately through his hair; “I go in there, every week. It’s the same questions. Same schpiel, same routine….I spit some bullshit back that isn’t true just to get out of there.”
“Jack, you can’t do that…”
“Why not?”, He almost yells, almost, but not quite; “It doesn’t work anyways.”
You hesitate, wracking your brain before you take one small step forward. Just one, enough to test the boundaries. Jack doesn’t step away.
“I’ve seen too much. I’ve seen…so much”, His voice cracks, wavering and wet; “I’ve seen way more than any person should ever have to see. ‘Seen so many people die, slip right through my fingers like nothing I did mattered…”
He’s quiet, then a whisper; “…Maybe it doesn’t.”
You step closer at that, hand resting lightly on his shoulder; “That’s not true.”
He doesn’t look at you; “How do you know?”
“I know because i’ve seen you, Jack.”
He doesn’t say anything back, shuffling his hands back into his pockets, keys jingling quietly between his fingers.
“What you do, matters so much Jack”, You whisper; “You matter, so much.”
He finally looks up now, tear lines streaking his red cheeks—the whites of his eyes just as red. His face heavy and tired and holding the weight of the world in them.
“You’re the safety net, you’re the hope of so many patients. You’re the steadiness and the knowledge and what people need when they’re drowning. You’re kind, and competent and compassionate and caring. So many people see that; including me.”
He takes a deep breath; “Everything I care about, everything I fight so hard for. Fight so hard to protect, goes away. Gets taken away from me…like I was never meant to have it in the first place.”
His shoulders sage under your hands.
“My deployment, my leg…my wife”, He breathes, voice shaking; “It’s all gone…like some big joke.”
You hesitate before you speak; “You still have them Jack. Maybe not physically, but they’re with you all the same. In your heart, in your life story, your experience.”
He shifts his weight a little.
“A wise man once told me that just because you loose something doesn’t mean it’s truly gone. You get to choose how much it stays around.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth turns up the tiniest fraction; “Sounds like a pretty smart guy.”
You smile now; “The smartest guy I know…don’t tell Robby.”
Jack takes a deep breath, still a little shaky as he fully turns to look at you; “I don’t know how to do this without her…to allow myself to live without it feeling like I’m replacing her.”
“What do you mean?”, You ask.
“To allow myself you”, He exhales once, eyes dipping back down to the ground.
His words hit you in the chest hard. You scramble for words, somehow still managing to find the right ones.
“I’m not trying to replace her, Jack. I know I never could, and I’d never want to”, You reassure him; “…But maybe I want to find a different spot to fill.”
Jack softens at that, you see it in his eyes, in his entire face.
“You already have, kid.”
His hand finds your arm, finger twitching softly against your skin.
“Now please, for the love of god; come back on the other side of that railing before I have a stroke”, You say.
That earns a small laugh from him, before he pulls back and ducks under the cool metal—straightening his back when he’s on the other side.
“C’mere”, He breathes, pulling you against his chest without another word.
It knocks the air out of you. Being this close to him, you can smell every layer of his cologne. The sweat that’s lingering on his skin, the sadness. The warmth.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you”, He whispers; “I didn’t mean any of it. I know it was an accident and anyone could’ve done it and I wasn’t in the right space. I know that doesn’t excuse it. I was an asshole and i’m sor-“
“Jack”, You stop him with a hand at his cheek; “It’s ok. I’m not mad at you.”
“You’re not?”, He asks it like his ears are lying to him.
You shake your head; “No”, You tell him; “I’m worried about you.”
He lets his forehead fall against yours for a brief second before pulling away.
“Thank you”, He breathes; “For coming after me.”
You pull back just enough the look at him; “Hey, wasn’t gonna let my best attending think himself off the roof. We need him too much.”
His chest rumbles a little at that. You find his hand with yours, interlacing your fingers to hold him closer, still scared he might change his mind and jump over the railing.
“M’not going anywhere, sweetheart”, He says, voice gruff and low.
You realize then he still has tears on his cheeks, brushing your thumb softly against his skin to wipe it away.
“You know…maybe you don’t have to do it alone”, You start; “Maybe we could go visit your wife together…if you want to.”
You offer it quietly, regret pulling at you when you feel him tense up.
“Unless that’s overstepping it, i’m sor-“
“I’d like that a lot”, Jack says, cutting you off and quieting all your worries with one breath.
He lets his hand find the back of your head, pulling you closer to press his lips to your temple. He lingers there for a moment; letting it ground him and bring him back to the place he matters most.
“I guess we should get back down there”, He finally says, grabbing his stethoscope off the railing and swinging it back around his neck.
You step in front of him; “No”, you say.
His eyes widen and he cocks his head with a disbelieving laugh; “No?”
“You”, You say, “Are going home. Dana’s orders.”
“She’s bossy”, Jack says.
“You’re tired”, You offer; “and in pain.”
His shoulders drop at that, finally letting the full force of his exhaustion show.
“Yeah”, He says; “I am.”
But then he moves closer to you, and you suddenly realize; he doesn’t want to be alone.
“Want to go get breakfast first? My treat”, You offer.
“I’d like that, too”, He says with a small nod and a quirk of his lips to match.
He follows you to the roof door, hand hovering at your elbow; holding the door open for you to step back inside the chaos of the hospital.
“But if you think i’m letting you pay, you’re wrong”, He says, stepping in after you.
The door shuts behind you both, his front pressed up against your back as he steadies you at the waist; big warm hands grounding you.
“Must you argue?”, You tsk.
“Makes things more interesting”, He says, shrugging once before moving you both forward; “Cmon kid, bed’s calling my name.”
You watch him go for a second, how he turns with a brow quirked as if to ask “you coming?” How his face is still slightly puffy from crying, the way he carries himself differently now, more vulnerable. More open.
You realize then that things will be different between you two. Different in the way he lets himself hover near you; touching now instead of holding himself back.
Different in how you end up in his bed that morning after breakfast, holding him close as he drifts off; silent cries and shaking shoulders finally relaxing.
The way he’d eventually kiss you for real, soft and surprising outside the ambulance bay after another stressful night like this one. How he’d start reaching for you when things got hard. How you ground him the way no one else can even get close to.
The remnants of outside air floated around you and Jack in the stairwell, your eyes sweeping over him one last time to make sure he was okay; that he wasn’t going to crumble right then and there.
“I’m ok”, He says softly when you step up next to him; “I’ve got you.”
Your heart clenches once, pushing sweaty curls out of his face with a small smile; because Jack Abbot is safe with you.
I loved how you wrote Jack and how you wrote another side of him that I don’t see in too many fics. So just wow!
Love the mental health awareness and letting everyone know it’s okay to reach out and to lean on people for support when you are struggling. Because it’s very hard to do that sometimes and very easy to try to mask what’s going on with you.
wc: 7k
cw: miscommunication, big unspecified age gap, daddy kink (hate me all u want i don't gaf, I'm living my truth), no use of y/n, dom!Jack, sub!reader, degradation, praise, dry humping, breastplay, fingering, oral (m receiving) unprotected sex , p in v
a/n: a little late, but MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! midterms and finals knocked me outttt cold!! But I am back, and I finally watched The Pitt, hence this fic.
contains: Jack invites you and your father to his lake house for the holidays, where you’re forced to confront an unfinished summer fling and feelings you can't bury anymore.
Snow crunched under your boots as you stepped up to the cabin, your shoulders slumped forward with the weight of your bags. The smell of pine and woodsmoke drifted through the crisp winter air as your father led you up the porch and rang the doorbell.
The door opened almost immediately. Jack stood there in a thick sweater and worn jeans, casual in a way he rarely allowed himself to be, relaxed. For a split second, his expression was polite, familiar, all warmth meant for your dad, until his gaze dropped to you. The corners of his eyes creased with laugh lines that only made him look sharper, more alive when he greeted you. The gray on his hair caught the warm light above him, broad shoulders, a jaw dusted with stubble, hands that moved with quiet, effortless control, every part of him drew your attention, made your chest tighten, made heat pool low and unbidden in your abdomen. Something flickered then, quick and carefully hidden. It was recognition, a reminder of the late summer nights you had shared by the same lake, his hands firm on your waist or between your thighs, his voice low and commanding, with only the water at your feet and the stars overhead to bear witness to his affection.
"You made it," Jack said at last, stepping aside to let you both in, his voice steady. He clapped your father on the shoulder in greeting, easy and practiced, before his eyes returned to you for just a moment longer than necessary. You couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze trailed your body, taking in every inch of you, lingering for just a second on your lips or your cleavage. Your skin felt hot under his scrutiny.
"Long drive?" He closed the door behind you, a hand carefully brushing your waist, guiding you further into the house. The warmth of the cabin closed around you, fire crackling somewhere deeper inside, and for a moment it felt exactly like it had in July, except now there was snow on the ground, Christmas lights in the windows, and the awkward presence of your dad.
He answered for you, laughed about christmas traffic as he kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his coat. Jack's eyes stayed glued to you. You were standing there, beautiful, with snow on your hair and a tired slouch in your posture, you looked slightly older, different in a way that felt sudden and unfair, like time had skipped ahead without asking him, like he should have been there to see it.
You were still the girl who used to trail behind him in the summer, barefoot on the dock, with wet hair and frayed shorts on, showing off your tan. You were still the girl who asked about his job, scrunched your nose at the gruesome details, laughter bubbling out of you at his jokes. Still the girl he'd kissed on a hot summer night when you'd both drank too much.
Jack had missed you, he had missed being able to press you against him, hold you down, hear you whimper his name like you had done in the past, sweet and breathless. He had missed the way your cunt felt around him, warm and tight. He had missed the way you looked at him through your lashes, the way you listened to him, did whatever he told you because he knew better, you had nothing to worry about. But unlike last summer, he hid it— the want, the need for you— not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Because you were standing next to your father. Because it was Christmas. Because the lights glowed in the windows, the fireplace crackled, and all he wanted to do was taste you, but he shouldn't.
"Let me show you to your rooms, that way you can get all set for dinner." He cleared his throat, a futile attempt to clear his mind. The image of you on your knees, mouth open and waiting so sweetly for him, hadn’t left his thoughts since you had last seen each other. It lingered in the back of his eyes when he tried to sleep, stuck in every corner of his brain at the hospital, followed him on dates, and even crept in when he spoke to your father. All he could think about was you.
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
The wind, cold and persistent, howled outside the guest bedroom window rattling the panes and making the room feel even smaller. You laid in bed, the unpacked bags scattered at your feet, mind spinning. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. About Jack. About the way his eyes had landed on you earlier, and then how quickly he’d looked away, too fast, like he was trying to erase the heat he’d clearly felt. Did he still want you, or had it all been a mistake? Was he disgusted with you for what happened during the summer, for the way you’d begged him, the way you’d given yourself over so willingly? Your stomach twisted just imagining it. What if all the sweet words he’d spared for you were only that, words, with no depth or meaning, just a beautiful trap for a dumb girl like you?
Under the dim lights of the bedroom, you thought back to every detail— the set of his jaw, the way he had clapped your father on the shoulder, the soft, almost imperceptible brush of his hand at your waist— trying to find its meaning. What if he hated you? What if he thought you were reckless, stupid, or worse—easy? Every memory of his hands on you, his voice, his touch, rose up in your mind.
You pressed your face into the pillow, willing the thoughts away, but it was no use. You could still feel the ghost of his hands sliding over your skin, still hear the rasp of his voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear.
A sudden knock at the door made you jump, heart hammering. "Dad?" you called, voice shaking slightly.
"Not exactly," came his low, familiar voice, measured but not casual. Your stomach flipped. "Look, kid… we can—we should talk later. But for now, just come downstairs. Dinner's ready."
"Okay," You sighed and got out of bed. Your limbs felt heavy from lack of sleep and an excess of worry, both caused by the man waiting on the other side of the door. When you opened it and your eyes met his, you could have sworn you were back in that one fateful weekend in July.
Jack stood in the hallway, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly tense like he was bracing himself. The light from the stairwell caught the lines at the corners of his eyes, the familiar set of his jaw. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He looked at you the way he always had when he was trying not to give something away, gaze steady, mouth tight with restraint.
"Food’s getting cold," he said finally, voice low, careful. His eyes flicked past you into the room, then back again, lingering on your lips just a beat too long.
He stood to the side to let you pass, his arm quick and careful brushing against yours, guiding you towards the stairs. You followed him down, each step slow, aware of his presence just ahead of you, the broad line of his back, the way his shoulders stayed tense as if he were holding himself in place with sheer stubbornness.
Your father was already at the table when you came downstairs, a drink in his hand. Jack offered you a beer; you glanced at your father, and when he nodded in approval, you nodded too.
Jack crossed the room to hand it to you. His fingers brushed yours as you took the bottle, a spark of heat shooting up your arm at the brief, deliberate contact. Your eyes met for a second before he looked away. You were tired of playing cat and mouse, but you couldn't speak up yet.
Dinner settled into an easy rhythm. Your father talked the most, as he usually did, relaxed in a way you rarely saw him at home. He spoke about work, about long flights and unfamiliar cities, about the exhaustion that came with being a surgeon, about never staying in one place too long. He and Jack fell easily into old stories, med school memories traded back and forth with the comfort of men who had known each other for decades.
You wished you had known him when he was young and reckless, with crooked teeth and ginger curls and a temper just as sharp as it was now. You thought he had made mistakes and taken risks the way you could only imagine. And somewhere deep down, the thought made your pulse quicken, wondering which of that recklessness still lingered beneath the controlled, calm exterior you saw tonight.
You listened, picking at your food, learning things you already half-knew. How they’d met young, how they’d survived brutal training together, how Jack’s lake house had always been the place your father trusted when he couldn’t be around. That was why you’d stayed there last July, used to having the place mostly to yourself, that was why everything had started with you and Jack.
He didn’t say much about it. He let your father talk, nodding along, smiling at the right moments. But every so often, his attention drifted back to you. A glance held a second too long. A knee angled just slightly in your direction, nudging your thigh under the table. Small things, controlled things, that made it impossible to ignore his proximity.
The conversation meandered through work, travel, and trivial updates, but your father’s curiosity eventually took a sharper turn. "So… how did you two get along last summer?" he asked casually, lifting his glass.
You stilled for a second, "Fine, I guess. Jack wasn't home much." You offered a noncommittal answer, simple and concise. A brief smile in Jack's direction, polite, as if to prove a point, to prove that you didn't dislike him, but you hadn't gotten close.
His hand tightened just slightly on your thigh beneath the table, pressing firmly enough that your breath hitched. His eyebrow rose, asking without words, really? Just “fine”?
Your pulse jumped, heat pooling low. You could feel him watching you, could feel him notice every small movement, every flicker of expression. The casual chatter around the table seemed to fade, replaced by the sharp awareness of him sitting just inches away, his warm hand atop your thigh.
Jack leaned back slightly, still maintaining the mask of polite attention, but there was a subtle curve to his lips, a glint in his eyes, that told you he remembered everything, that you had been wrong earlier and he did not regret it, that maybe he was willing to do it again.
Your father continued talking, oblivious, about a case he had handled overseas, but you barely heard him. All you could register was Jack—the brush of his hand, the pressure of his knee, the quiet, deliberate way he made sure you knew he was still in control. He yawned mid-sentence, stretching his arms out lazily. “I think I’m going to call it a night,” he said, voice thick with exhaustion. “You two carry on—see you in the morning, sweetheart.” With that, he pushed back from the table and headed upstairs, leaving you and Jack alone in the dimly lit dining room.
You waited quietly until you heard the soft click of the bedroom door, the final sound of your father disappearing for the night. The room seemed to shrink around you, the low light from the fireplace casting long shadows over the table. Your heart pounded.
Jack leaned back on his chair again, a nervous tic. His knee nudged yours under the table again, deliberate and teasing, and your stomach twisted with the familiar ache you hadn’t dared to feel all week.
"So," you said, hesitant, "we… really need to talk."
He got up from the table, "If we're actually doing this, I need another drink."
Jack moved to the sideboard, grabbing two glasses and reaching for a whiskey bottle. The firelight flickered over his profile, catching the angles of his jaw, the faint lines around his eyes, the silver at his temples—everything you had loved last summer, everything that made your stomach twist just by looking at him.
Jack poured slowly, the liquid catching the light as it filled the glasses. He didn’t rush it. Everything about him felt deliberate now, like he was bracing himself for impact, like there was inevitable heartbreak looming over his shoulder. When he turned back toward you, he didn’t hand the glass right away. He stood there for a moment, studying your face, the way your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the way your lips twitched up with the ghost of a smile when you locked eyes with him.
He sat back down beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. Then he passed you the glass. This time his fingers lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, thumb warm against your knuckles.
"Alright," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the fire rather than you. "Let’s talk."
What now? What were you supposed to tell him? That it had started out as just sex, as summer fun without consequences but you had yet to stop thinking about him? You swallowed, fingers tightening around the glass as if it could anchor you.
"I just...want it to be like the summer again." Your voice shook with nerves, and a sense of impending doom that you couldn't quite shake.
"It's not summer anymore." Jack spoke matter-of-factly, a smirk grazing his lips.
You looked up at him then. "I know," you said softly. "I can read a calendar."
He turned to you, smile fading, his expression turning into something calculated, lacking the warmth he had been showing you earlier. "You’re talking about it like it was a place. Like we can just step back into that same rhythm."
"Well, why can’t we?" you asked, too quickly. You didn’t look away. You refused to. "It worked. We worked."
His jaw tightened. "It worked because it wasn’t real life," He let out a slow breath, setting his glass down with care, like he didn’t trust his hands. "You were on break. You didn’t have responsibilities, expectations. You weren’t thinking past the end of the week."
You frowned. That was what you’d thought too, that it was just a fling with an older guy, something you’d tell your college friends about after the break, something they’d cheer at or gasp over, maybe worry about for a second before laughing it off. That would be it.
You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected to still be thinking about the way his hands, warm and calloused, had roamed over your body, or how thirty minutes apart had felt unbearable. How you’d grown used to the steady heat of Jack beside you, or behind you, the quiet gravity of him pulling you back in, his mouth at your throat, lingering there like he had nowhere else to be.
"And you were?" you challenged.
"Yes. But I was aware it had to be over. Look, you're young, you're pretty, there's probably a line of capable young men waiting to take you out—"
"You say that like I’m supposed to want them."
He glared at you then, brief and sharp. "You should."
You should. The words landed heavier than you expected, they stayed with you, lodged somewhere behind your ribs where it hurt to breathe. He had been so careful, as if you were a child reaching for a hot stove, dangerous and out of reach.
You tried, briefly, to imagine them. Men your age, with sharp tongues only good for lying, with inexpert hands and vacant eyes. It was so hard to want them when you'd had Jack.
Jack, who asked about your feelings and your interests, who listened as you rambled about something he did not care about, and yes, sometimes he'd get distracted when your sweater slipped off your shoulder or when your tongue darted out to wet your lips, but he tried so hard to stay focused, you were just too beautiful for your own good.
And that was the cruelest part of it, how easily your mind catalogued the ways he had ruined you for anyone else. Not in some dramatic, tragic sense, but quietly, through accumulation. Through the way he paid attention. Through the way he made space. Through the way his hand had settled on your thigh earlier, heavy and familiar, like it belonged there. The way he still called you sweetheart, kid, the same soft names he’d used when the days had been long and sun-warmed and uncomplicated. The way his eyes softened when he forgot himself, when he thought you weren’t looking, when you laughed at something small and stupid and he reacted on instinct instead of principle.
It made your chest ache, your heart heavy.
──୨ৎ──୨ৎ──
You thought about that week in the summer, back when it had all started. The cabin smelled different then, of vanilla and sunscreen, of chlorine and lake water.
You remembered waking up before him, padding barefoot across the cool floorboards, the quiet domesticity of it all making your heart feel too big for your body. How you’d stood at the counter with a mug between your hands while he moved around behind you, unhurried, brushing past you just to do it, just to remind you he was there.
You remembered the taste of toasted bread, eaten standing up, shared unceremoniously. The sound of the screen door slamming as you ran down to the dock, the sun already hot on your shoulders. The way he’d watched you swim, not hungry, but caring, attentive. The hungry looks came later, when you climbed out of the water and all but ran towards him in your bikini, wet hair over your shoulder, laughter bubbling out of you easily. Nights spent tangled up on the couch followed, legs draped over his, the television murmuring in the background while his fingers traced patterns on your skin absentmindedly, grounding you. The same fingers that traced your entrance slowly, same fingers that curled up inside you and made your legs shake and your throat sore from screaming his name.
"You make this place feel different," he’d said back then, with your head laying on his chest, breathing soft.
That was what hurt the most. Not just that he was pulling away now, but that he was doing it while everything else stayed the same. His hands hadn’t forgotten you. His eyes hadn’t changed. His voice still softened when he said your name. And yet he spoke like the future was already decided, like you were a chapter he’d enjoyed but fully intended to close.
──୨ৎ──୨ৎ──
"Kid… you should. You really should. I’m not… I’m not the one you should be thinking about." Jack's words snapped you out of your daydream.
"And if I don’t want them?" you asked softly, tracing the rim of your glass with your finger, watching the amber liquid swirl and catch the glow of the fireplace.
Jack’s lips twitched into a half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You don’t understand what you’re asking for," he said, his tone condescending, almost tender.
The fire crackled low, a steady rhythm against the quiet hum of the cabin. Its light threw long, wavering shadows across the wooden floor and the stone hearth, catching the amber of the whiskey in your glass.
"I do understand, Jack, I just don't care. I want to go back to the way things were because I miss it, I miss you."
Jack went very still. You didn't care, you missed him.
It was subtle, the kind of stillness you only noticed if you were looking for it. His shoulders stopped resisting. His jaw unclenched. Even the air between you seemed to pause, thick with unsaid things and firewood smoke.
He looked at you then, really looked. You. Curled beside him on the wooden chair, knees angled toward his, glass forgotten in your hand. The fire cast shadows across your face, gold and amber specks of light caught in your eyes. You looked so sure. Too sure. And God help him, he loved that about you.
"Christ," he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. When he dropped it, his palm rested on top of your thigh. He was casual about it, as if he had placed it there out of sheer luck, as if his heart wasn't threatening to burst out of his chest, as if his cock wasn't waging (and currently losing) a war against the zipper of his jeans— all thanks to you.
"Jack, you’re not being fair." Your eyes stayed glued to his rough hand, kneading the flesh of your thigh. He was playing dangerous, touching you only to pull away again, pushing you back with gentle words and steady eye contact that made your chest ache.
"You sit there," he said, voice tight, "looking at me like that, talking about summer, about fairness like I owe you it, and I’m supposed to… what? Be reasonable?"
You tilted your head, just a fraction, the smallest smile pulling at your mouth. Yes. "I don't know. You’re the one touching me."
Jack had passed the point of reasoning ten minutes ago. Maybe longer. Maybe sometime last summer, when he’d realized the wanting hadn’t faded, only sharpened. Sitting beside you now, feeling the familiar weight of your leg under his hand, he understood the truth with a clarity that scared him. This wasn’t about temptation or nostalgia or bad judgment. It was about the way you saw him. The way you challenged him without fear. The way you filled the quiet spaces in his life without trying.
His chest tightened at the truth he refused to say aloud: he didn’t care about the age gap, or the rules, or the consequences. He wanted you. All of you. Every last piece of you. And he’d spent hours pretending otherwise, pretending that he could hold the line, keep you at arm’s length, act like a reasonable, responsible adult while his own body betrayed him at every turn. The way you looked at him, the tilt of your head, the bite of your lip, the little smirks you threw his way.
Something in his expression changed, his restraint slipped. Not entirely, just enough to lean in closer to you, so close his breath fanned your face. His hand slid an inch higher, then stopped, like he’d caught himself mid-step at the edge of a cliff.
"I’m still trying to convince myself this is a bad idea," he murmured, voice low, nearly strangled by restraint.
"And how’s that going?" Your voice was soft, teasing.
His eyes drifted down to your lips for a second. "Terribly," he laughed.
"I’ve been trying," he continued, voice low, steady, the kind of calm that came right before a decision, "to do the right thing. Give you space, forget about all this."
"Jack, I don't want space, in fact…I would like it very much if there was no space between us right now." You spoke quickly, let the words leave your mouth awkwardly and quickly in a burst of confidence that was now making you blush.
Jack laughed. "Your wish is my command," he spoke against your lips before leaning in and kissing you, soft and tentative at first.
It grew more intense as your fingers threaded through his silver curls, pulling him closer, your tongue pressing insistently against his lips. Jack parted his mouth, letting you deepen the kiss, and drew you onto his lap, his hands settling possessively on your ass. You moaned softly against him, a sound that made him pull back just slightly to look at you, eyes dark, hungry, and calculating.
Jack didn't rush you, his hands stayed put on your lower back and he let you explore, let your soft fingertips trace the veins in his arms, let them move under his shirt and up his chest until they rested on his pecs. That's when he broke the kiss, which you chased with a soft whine, before he spoke.
"Get up." His voice was rough, his breathing uneven, and he looked at you like it would pain him to look away.
You followed his instructions, you always did. Jack stood up too, quietly eyeing you for a minute before he nudged you towards the hallway with a smile.
"You know the way, come on." He murmured as you stepped onto the stairs.
Your stomach flipped, you giggled, like you had last summer.
He took the steps slowly, deliberately, one behind you, close enough that you could feel him, warm and grounding. When you reached his bedroom, he opened the door just wide enough for you to slip inside before closing it again with an almost exaggerated softness. The click of the latch sounded final, the tension thick and sweet like honey.
The room smelled like him. Clean, like lavender and something woody, musky and familiar. He didn’t touch you right away. Instead, he leaned back against the door, arms crossed, watching you roam around the room like a hunter watches his prey.
You turned around to face him, tilting your head to the side, beckoning him closer with your hands, reaching for him. Jack walked over to you a smile pulling at his lips again, reaching his eyes.
His hands sat at your waist. "You remember how thin these walls are, right?" he asked calmly, his lips grazing your jugular.
You hummed in agreement, the sound barely there.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still firm at your waist. "Use your words."
"Yes," you said, softer now.
"That’s better."
That was slightly better. But not yet what he wanted. Jack could already see where this would end, the way he always could. He knew how easily you folded when given structure, how naturally you softened under pressure. Last summer had taught him that. Taught him exactly how to guide you there, slow and patient, until resistance melted into something sweeter.
You’d get there again. He was sure of it.
"So, you've got to keep it down, 'kay, sweetheart?" He walked you towards the bed, sat you on his lap before his mouth latched onto your warm throat again. Jack's hands slipped under your sweater, tracing a path up your stomach, groping your tits until you moaned, breathy, in his ear.
He took your sweater off and threw it aside unceremoniously, right before pulling off his own sweater. He didn’t slow down after that. His hands slid to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up and over your head in one smooth motion. The fabric joined the rest on the floor.
You barely had time to react before he did the same with his, tugging it off and dropping it without looking, settling back against you again as if this was the only place he meant to be.
Jack pulled you closer against him, his grip iron-tight. You could feel the thick ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, twitching when it pressed into the heat of your clothed cunt. His hands slid up your back, fingers unhooking your bra with practiced ease. The fabric pooled at your elbows, and his mouth was on your tits before it even hit the floor—sucking, biting, proving to you how much he had missed you.
You shuddered, arching your back to rub against him. A whimper tore from your throat as you rolled your hips, grinding your soaked panties against the hard length of him. Jack groaned against your nipple, teeth scraping the peak before he sucked hard enough to make your knees buckle.
Jack unlatched himself from your chest, kissing and sucking his way up your neck. Your breath hitched when he tilted your head to meet his gaze. Jack had always liked holding eye contact, more so if it made you squirm and blush, if it made your heart beat that much faster.
"I missed you," he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. "I missed being able to touch you, to hold you."
"Missed you too..."
Jack's hands slid down your waist, gripping the hem of your skirt and bunching it up around your hips. The fabric of your tights stretched taut against his palms as he traced the curve of your thighs, his fingertips dipping beneath the waistband. "Always so pretty for me," he murmured, dragging his teeth over your collarbone.
You gasped as his fingers pressed harder, the thin material of your tights dampening where his touch teased your clothed cunt. He hummed approvingly, rolling his hips against yours—the friction of his jeans against the lace of your panties, the heat of him trapped beneath layers of fabric.
Jack made a soft, pitying noise as he hooked his thumbs into your tights, peeling them down with exaggerated care. "Oh, look at you," he murmured, fingers brushing your inner thighs as the fabric slipped past your knees and down your legs.
His hips rolled against yours again, the thick ridge of his cock grinding against your soaked panties in lazy, taunting circles. You arched against him with a whine, and he tsked, gripping your waist to still you. "You remember what I said about being quiet? Wouldn't want your dad to hear us, huh?"
"n-no, I mean, yes, I do. Uhm...sorry..."
Jack smirked, slow and deliberate, at the stutter in your voice. He liked that sound—your breath hitching, the way your lashes fluttered when he touched you just right. But he loved this even more—the way you squirmed under his control, the way you struggled to stay quiet when he tested you.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, holding you still as he rolled his cock against you again, the rough fabric of his jeans dragging over the lace of your panties, still soaked from earlier.
"Good girl." He pressed his lips to the hollow of your throat, biting down lightly before soothing the spot with his tongue. "But we can do better than sorry, can’t we?"
You whimpered, arching into him instinctively—only for his grip to tighten, stopping you.
"Ah-ah." He tutted, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, pressing down slightly. "You know what I want to hear."
"Jack..." You whined, face flushed with embarrassment. You knew—of course you did. He’d teased it out of you before, in the dark of his bedroom last summer, when his hands were buried in your hair and his cock was buried deeper inside you. But now—with your father just down the hall—the word felt heavier, more dangerous.
Jack’s hand slid down, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, teasing your slit. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Just wanna hear you say it."
"'m sorry, daddy...didn't mean to be loud." You buried your face against his neck, breathing him in as you ground against him, the friction leaving his jeans slick with your arousal.
He groaned at the feeling, his head falling forward until his forehead was resting against your shoulder. "Just like that," his hand slid from your underwear up to your hair, fisting a handful of it and tugging, just enough to tip your head back so he could look at you—at your wide eyes, full lips, red cheeks.
For a heartbeat, he just watched: the way your pulse fluttered in your throat, how your chest rose with each ragged breath, how your hips kept rolling against him, desperate.
Your fingers bit into his biceps, using them as leverage as your movements grew frantic, that tight coil in your belly winding hotter, sharper.
His fingers dug deeper into your hips, dragging you harder against the rough denim of his jeans with each slow, filthy roll of his body. "Fuck—feel how wet you are?" His lips curled against your ear, breath ragged. "Soaking through your pretty little panties just from grinding on me like a desperate slut."
Jack had never spoken to you this way, it had never been so filthy, so mean yet sweet it was giving you whiplash, and getting you closer to the edge every second that went by.
His hand abruptly slipped between you, two fingers hooking under the soaked lace to press firmly against your clit—circling once, twice—before dipping lower to push inside without warning.
You arched against him with a choked gasp, nails biting into his arms as he worked you open with slow, punishing strokes. He picked up his pace and the moment your whimper hit his ears his free hand moved to cradled your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Shhh, pretty girl, I know…feels good, huh?"
His fingers curled just right inside you, wrenching a sob from your throat as your hips jerked. "That’s it, baby—let me feel you." He pressed his forehead to yours, breath fanning your face as his thumb circled your clit in tight strokes.
"Daddy— I’m so close…" You whined, breathy and soft.
His breath stuttered, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. "I know, baby," he rasped. "I can feel it. Just let go for me."
When you came, your head slumped forward against his shoulder, vision blurring as pleasure crackled through you, electric and overwhelming. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, keeping you close as he murmured against your hair: "Fuck, look at you. So fucking pretty when you come."
You were still trembling when he pulled his fingers free, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead before guiding your hips up just enough—his cock nudging against you, slick and impatient.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he murmured, thumb brushing your lower lip. His voice was rough when he praised you.
"You can take one more, for me. I need to feel you riding my cock just like this."
His cock slid into you with one smooth thrust, your body welcoming him effortlessly. The stretch burned just right, pulling a gasp from your lips as you braced your hands against his chest.
His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath hitch. The sharp pull sent a jolt down your spine, your hips rocking faster in response—like he’d flipped a switch inside you. You chased the friction, the heat, the way his cock filled you perfectly, over and over.
His grip tightened, guiding your pace as his other hand slid down your back, pressing you flush against him. Your lips crashed together, messy and desperate, tongues tangling between panting breaths. Every thrust drove the kiss deeper, your moans swallowed by his mouth.
"feel how deep I am inside you, baby?" Jack panted out, his palm pressed firm against your lower stomach, fingers digging in just enough to make you whimper—each thrust punctuated by the dull ache of his touch, reminding you exactly where he reached. Your hips stuttered, thighs shaking as the pressure built impossibly tighter, every nerve alight.
"Jack—" Your voice cracked, hands scrambling for purchase against his sweat-slicked skin.
"I know, sweetheart," he rasped, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Let go. Fuck, I wanna feel you come on my cock."
And you did—a broken cry tearing from your throat as you clenched around him, his groan ragged against your shoulder while he chased his own release, driving into you deep, deeper, until he stopped abruptly, pulling out of you with a groan.
"Get on your knees for me, baby." He muttered, thumb swiping over your spit-slick lips.
You didn’t hesitate, sinking to your knees as he leaned back against the headboard. His cock was hot against your tongue, already dripping with pre-cum—you swirled your tongue over the tip before taking him deep, one hand working his shaft in quick, tight strokes.
Jack cursed, hips jerking. "Fuck— Just like that...Good girl."
You felt him tense up suddenly, felt him twitch in your mouth when you moaned around it. Your lips stretched taut against him, nose pressed against his skin. His hips jerked, a ragged curse tearing from his throat as he came in your mouth—bitter and thick, but you swallowed greedily, fingers tightening on his thighs.
You looked up at him when you were done, glassy-eyed and grinning.
Jack’s thumb brushed your swollen lower lip, wiping away a stray drop before nudging it back into your mouth. "Christ," he muttered, his voice still wrecked. His other hand slid from your hair to cradle your jaw, calloused fingers tracing the hinge like he was committing it to memory.
You nuzzled into his palm, all lazy satisfaction, while his breathing slowly evened out.
"I should go to the guest bedroom," you said after a moment. "I need to sleep."
"Or," he replied quietly, "you could stay here."
"My dad—"
"Just stay," he cut in, softer now. "For a bit."
You hesitated, then nodded. "Fine."
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
The next morning came slowly, filtered through frost-edged windows and thin curtains that glowed pale gold with early light. You woke up first, to the sound of birds chirping outside, and soft rain pattering against the window.
You were curled against Jack’s side, one leg draped over his thigh without remembering when it had happened, your cheek pressed to his bare chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, warm and grounding. He was stretched out on his back, plaid pajama pants low on his hips, shirtless and snoring loudly, careless and relaxed in a way that made you want to be there forever. One arm was slung loosely around you, heavy and possessive even in sleep, his hand resting at the small of your back. You blinked, disoriented for a second, then it all came rushing back.
The way he'd kissed you like he meant it, fucked you right and asked you to stay in his room. Careful not to wake him, you shifted just enough to look at his face.
He looked different like this. Softer. The lines at the corners of his eyes relaxed, mouth slightly parted, lashes darker against his skin. You traced the shape of his jaw with your eyes, the faint stubble already growing back, the freckles you’d memorized last summer. This was the Jack you never got to see in daylight, the Jack you always missed.
You wondered, briefly, if this was what it would be like to wake up beside him every morning. If you’d get used to the weight of his arm, the quiet hum of his presence. If this feeling, warm and safe and terrifying, could last.
As if he sensed you staring, Jack stirred.
He inhaled slowly, his arm tightening just a little at your back, pulling you closer without waking fully. His chin dipped, brushing the top of your head. You froze, heart racing, then relaxed when he didn’t pull away.
"Mornin’, kid," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. "Morning, daddy."
His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Steady.
"You sleep okay?"
You nodded, "Better than I have in a while."
It was true, you hadn't slept like that in ages, with the comfortable warmth of another body, with a mouth against your collarbones and an arm around your waist. You hadn't been so spent, so tired that you felt weightless, in a long time. And you hadn't woken up beside Jack in months, not since you'd spent the summer there, when your dad was traveling— oh, shit, your dad.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He hummed in response, eyes half-closed, thumb still tracing your back. “Mm?”
“My dad,” you said softly. “He’s… literally next door. Do you think he heard?”
That got his attention.
“He didn’t hear,” Jack said quietly, certainty slipping into his voice like armor. “If he had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. He smelled like soap and sleep and something unmistakably him. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.
Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers, gentle but unmistakably directive. “Hey. Look at me.”
You tilted your face up to see him.
"Here's what we're going to do," he said quietly, slipping back into that calm, controlled tone you knew so well. “You’re gonna get dressed,” he continued, gentle but firm.
"I am dressed."
"Sweetheart the only thing you're wearing is my shirt, it's freezing out, too. I'll go downstairs with your father while you change."
You nodded, even though part of you hated the idea of putting distance back between you. “Okay.”
He leaned down then, pressing a quick, careful kiss to your forehead.
He pulled back just enough to look at you one more time, thumb still warm beneath your chin, eyes steady and serious like he was committing the moment to memory. The house was waking up around you, pipes humming, floorboards settling, reality knocking politely but insistently.
When your attending asks you to house sit while he’s away on a three-month sabbatical, your harmless crush slowly spirals into fantasies you can’t stop. Sleeping in his bed, eating at his table, and living in his space… none of it prepares you for his unexpected early return.
warnings/tags: smut & angst, minors DNI, porn with plot, suicidal ideation, depression, mention of death (from a child patient), mental health issues, complicated relationships, jealousy (hiii Noelle), emotional hurt, age gap (no specified), fingering, piv, no aftercare
You dragged the sleeve of your scrub across your forehead, wiping away a layer of sweat. The ED had been a war zone today, one brutal trauma after another, codes and families collapsing in the hallway. Six hours in and it still felt like the shift was nowhere near over. Your stomach let out a loud, embarrassing growl, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since before dawn. With a tired sigh, you slipped into the staff lounge, desperate for five minutes of peace and the slightly squashed turkey sandwich waiting at the bottom of your bag. The moment you dropped into one of the chairs, the door swung open behind you.
You didn’t need to turn around. The scent hit you first, unmistakably masculine, the cologne he always wore. Then came the familiar rhythm of his stride. Your body recognized him instantly, a traitorous flutter blooming in your stomach despite your best efforts to ignore it.
“Caught you,” Robby said. You glanced over your shoulder and found him leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His eyes flicked to the half-eaten sandwich in your hand. “Eating on the run again?”
You swallowed quickly, offering him a sheepish smile. “Gotta fuel up somehow, Dr. Robby.”
He chuckled, stepping fully into the room. The lines on his face were deeper today, and you wondered if it had anything to do with his sabbatical and how much he needed to rest after years without taking any real time off. Three months away from the Pitt still felt surreal. He’d been your teacher ever since you began your residency two years ago, and with Robby not being here felt like the ED was losing its spine.
He watched you for a beat, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen… I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
You raise an eyebrow, setting the wrapper from your sandwich down. “Shoot.”
“As you already know, I’m heading out for my sabbatical soon. House is just gonna sit empty. Thought maybe you’d want to house-sit for me while I’m gone.”
The words hung there. You blinked, caught off guard. “Me? I thought you’d have someone else in mind. Abbot, maybe?”
Robby shook his head, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “I was gonna tell Abbot, yeah. But then I thought about you. You’ve been crashing with Santos, right? This could be a good way to save on rent for a few months. And you’re responsible. I trust you not to burn the place down or throw ragers.”
You let out a laugh. The offer felt too good, a quiet space, no Santos blasting music at 2 a.m, or worse, hearing her and García going at it for hours when you were trying to rest. You’d have actual privacy, at least for three months. But the offer also felt intimate in a way that made your pulse tick up.
House-sitting for Robby felt like crossing a line you could never uncross. He wasn’t just your boss or the attending who had mentored you through the worst shifts of your life, the patients you lost, the nights you thought you wouldn’t make it through. He was the man you’d been quietly, desperately in love with for the last two years. The man you had watched from a careful distance, with your heart aching in silence, convinced nothing would ever happen. You’d told yourself a thousand times that your feelings were one-sided, that your late-night fantasies would stay exactly that… fantasies.
“So… you want me to live there?” you asked, clarifying the offer. “Not just go there and water the plants and grab the mail?”
He shrugged casually, but his eyes met yours. “You can do what you want. Crash in the guest room, use the kitchen. I’ll give you the keys later and show you around after shift. Just a few rules: No smoking, no parties, no pets, no babies. And if I don’t come back, you’ll have a swinging bachelor pad all for yourself. Deal?”
You froze mid-breath, “If I don’t come back.” Robby had said it so casually, the same way someone might say if it rains tomorrow or if the coffee’s cold. But you heard the weight behind it, like he’d already flirted with the ides more times than you wanted to count. Like part of him had already started rehearsing the absence. Your stomach twisted, you knew that tone, you’d heard it before. You were no stranger to Robby’s shadows, anyone who paid attention could see them if they looked close enough, but you… you studied him. Maybe too closely. The way his smiles never quite reached his eyes anymore, the way he rubbed at the back of his neck when the weight of the department felt like too much to hold.
All the classic signs were there, PTSD, burnout, the creeping depression he tried to outrun, but he hid them so well behind camouflaged jokes and not-so-innocent comments, that most people missed it. You never had, because you couldn’t stop noticing, couldn’t stop caring.
The question slipped out before you could stop it. “But you’re coming back, right?”
Robby paused, looked at the floor, and then he laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll find you after shift to hand over the keys and show you around. Sound good?”
You nodded. He didn’t bother answering your question, just pretended it never happened. But you didn’t push, you cared about him, deeply so, but you still didn’t know him enough to make him talk about something he clearly didn’t want to address. “Sounds good, Dr. Robby.”
He gave you one last look, almost fond, before heading back out into the chaos of the ED. The door swung shut behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Three months in his house. Just you, in his space, with whatever he was leaving behind.
You couldn’t help feeling special, it was almost embarrassing. Robby had thought of you. Not Abbot, the man who was basically his brother, not Dana, who he’d known for years, not any of the senior residents who’d been here longer. Not even Noelle, the case manager nurse you heard from whispers he’d been seeing for at least over a month. He thought of you.
By the time the shift finally ended, Robby found you in the parking lot like he’d promised, shrugging into his jacket. “Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, grabbing your bag. “Yeah. Lead the way, Dr. Robby.”
You trailed Robby through the quiet streets, your hands steady on the wheel as your headlights stayed steady on the taillight of his bike. You kept a careful distance, your heart beating a little faster every time he leaned into a turn. He never looked back, but you knew he was aware of you.
He signaled a turn onto a tree-lined avenue in a nicer part of the city. A few more blocks and he slowed, pulling into a private drive beside a modern building. You parked behind him, the condo complex rose three stories in glass and dark brick. It wasn’t flashy, but it was clearly well-appointed.
He swung a leg over the bike and pulled off his helmet, running a hand through his hair. He glanced over at you as you stepped out of the car.
“Home sweet home,” he said dryly. “For the next three months, anyway. It’s yours.”
You followed him inside. He held the door open for you without a word. The lobby was warm, with polished floors that gleamed under the light, and a long leather bench that sat against one wall. You followed him to the elevator, and the two of you stepped inside. As it rose to the third floor, the small space felt even smaller with him in it. The elevator opened onto a wide, carpeted hallway with only four doors. His was at the end, unit 302.
He unlocked the front door and held it open for you. You stepped inside, straight into a wide living room with high ceilings and hardwood floors. A big sectional couch faced a fireplace, bookshelves lining one wall crammed with books and framed photos you didn’t let yourself stare at too long, but you could catch a glimpse of a younger Robby in them.
“Kitchen’s through here,” he said, flipping on lights as he walked. The kitchen consisted of granite counters and stainless steel appliances that looked barely used. “Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge before it goes bad.”
Upstairs, he showed you the guest room, simple, with a queen bed, a dresser, and a window overlooking the city skyline. “This is yours if you want to stay here. Sheets are clean. You have a set of towels in the bathroom.”
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, with a king bed, dark wood furniture, and a small balcony door leading out to a view of the street. You lingered in the doorway while he pointed out the thermostat, the tricky window locks, and the frequency with which you needed to water the plants.
Back downstairs, he dropped a set of keys into your palm. “Garage code is 1971. Wi-Fi password’s on the router. If anything breaks, text me. I might not answer right away… but I’ll leave you the building’s manager number too just in case.”
You closed your fingers around the keys. He was really leaving. This was goodbye. Three months on the road, on that stupid motorcycle, chasing whatever peace he thought he could find away from the Pitt. He headed for the door, grabbing a duffel bag he’d left by the entryway.
You follow him out to the building hallway. “Robby,” you said quietly as he called the elevator.
He paused, turning back to you. Those eyes, tired, carrying the weight of every person he’d lost, met yours. “Please drive safe,” you told him. “And wear the helmet. I mean it. I’ve seen what happens when people don’t.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. He nodded once. “I will.”
You swallowed hard, then added the rest before he could turn away again. “I’ll be here waiting until you return. The house will still be standing, promise.”
He stood there a moment longer, studying you like he was memorizing the scene, then he gave you a small, crooked smile. “Take care of the place,” he said. “And yourself.”
With that, he stepped into the elevator, the doors closing behind him. You stood in the hallway long after he disappeared, the big empty apartment waiting behind you. Yours for three months, until he came back again.
The first night without Robby felt strangely monumental. You locked the door behind you, and for a long moment, you stood in the entryway, just breathing in the scent of his personal space. You chose the guest room because it felt like the respectful thing to do. You unpacked a few things and showered in the bathroom before crawling under the sheets. Sleep came eventually, but every unfamiliar creak of the house made you think of him, out there on the road, hopefully with his helmet on like you asked, chasing whatever demons he needed to outrun.
By the second night, curiosity won. You told yourself it was harmless. You were just… getting to know the space better. Making sure everything was in order. That was what a responsible house-sitter did, right? After another long shift, you stood at the threshold of the master bedroom, the door already ajar from when he showed you around. You pushed it open fully and flipped on the bedside lamp instead of the overhead light. The room felt more intimate in the warm glow, and it still smelled just like him. The king bed was neatly made, and you hesitated only a moment before sitting on the edge of the mattress.
Your crush on him had been simmering for months, maybe longer. Maybe from the first time he corrected your technique during a procedure, maybe because of the way he looked at you when you were presenting a case, like he was really listening. He was handsome in that lived-in, capable way. And what you loved the most was how brilliant he was, steady when the whole world was falling apart, like he was the one holding all the pieces together.
You stood up and started exploring. The dresser drawers were mostly organized, with socks, pants, and t-shirts folded neatly. In the top drawer, you found a small envelope of old photos: Robby much younger, laughing with friends, with a little kid and a woman, you supposed Jake and Janey. You put them back exactly as you found them.
The closet held a couple of dress shirts, a suit that looked rarely worn, and a leather jacket. You ran your fingers along the sleeve for just a second. Then you moved to the nightstand, the drawer slid open and revealed a couple of books, a spare pair of reading glasses, a small bottle of melatonin, and, tucked toward the back, a box of condoms. An opened box of condoms.
Your face heated instantly. You stared at them longer than you should, imagining things you immediately tried to push away. Robby, capable in every way, apparently.
The thought sent a guilty thrill through you,he’d trusted you with his place, and here you were, snooping through his personal items.
You sat back down on his bed, then lay back against his pillows. The mattress dipped under your weight in a way that felt welcoming, like you belonged there in his bed. You pulled the comforter over yourself, still fully clothed, and just breathed. It was just you, in Robby’s space, surrounded by pieces of the man you’d quietly wanted for so long.
That night, you slept in his bed for the first time. It became a habit faster than you expected. By the end of the first week, you’d moved most of your clothes into the guest room closet, but you were spending every night in the master. You told yourself it was because the bed was better, the room quieter, and the balcony door let in nice morning light. But the truth was undeniable, being here felt like being closer to him.
You woke slowly in Robby’s bed, stretching, your arms reaching across the wide empty space beside you, brushing cool fabric where another body should be. Where his body could be. Your mind, still hazy with sleep, slipped easily into the daydream that’d been growing stronger every night you’d spent here. It started innocent enough, but it never stayed that way for long. Not when it was about Robby.
You imagined him waking up first, he’d roll toward you, sliding one arm across your waist, pulling you back against his chest before you were fully awake. His beard would tickle the back of your neck as he pressed a lazy kiss there. “Morning,” he’d murmur softly, just for you.
You’d feel the solid heat of him all along your back, his hand splayed wide over your stomach, tracing idle circles. Tangled together like that, just the two of you in this big. You turned onto your side, hugging his pillow tighter, letting the fantasy unfold in vivid detail. In the daydream, you’d stay like that for long minutes, your bodies warm, your legs intertwined. Eventually, he’d kiss your shoulder, then your jaw, then your mouth, slow at first, then deeper, the kind of kiss that said he’d been thinking about you all night too. He’d slip his hand under the hem of whatever shirt you’d stolen from his drawer, and you’d arch into him, whispering his name, Michael, because in this version of your life, you got to call him that.
Then came the moment where you two would shower together. In your mind, steam filled the bathroom as he guided you under the spray. He’d wash your hair first, massaging your scalp with surprising gentleness. You’d return the favor, soaping his broad chest, tracing the lines of his soft muscles. His hands would wander down your back, over your hips, pulling you close so you could feel exactly how much he wanted you. The kiss under the water would turn heated as he lifted you just enough to press you against the cool tile, his mouth on your throat, your collarbone, and then lower.
Breakfast would come after, because Robby was the kind of man who made sure you ate. You imagined the two of you in his fancy kitchen, still damp from the shower, wearing nothing but robes. He’d stand at the stove flipping eggs or pancakes, competent here too. You’d lean against the island, stealing bites from his plate, and he’d pretend to be annoyed before pulling you in for another kiss. He’d ask about your patients from the day before, really listen when you vent about a difficult one or a missed diagnosis, offering advice without ever making you feel small. “You’re good at this,” he’d say, the same way he did in the pitt, but here it would mean something deeper. “I see how hard you work.”
The fantasy deepened as the day progressed in your mind. You pictured coming home together after a long shift. Both of you exhausted, walking through the front door at the same time. He’d drop his backpack in the foyer, pull you into a hug right there against the door, murmuring, “You did good today.” Then the two of you would unwind, maybe a glass of wine on the balcony if the weather was nice, or just collapsing on that big couch with takeout and whatever was on the TV.
He’d rub your feet without being asked, those clever hands working out the knots from hours on the floor. Conversation would flow easily, and he’d open up to you in ways he didn’t with anyone else, because you were the one he chose, the one he trusted. And at night… Your breath caught as the daydream turned explicitly intimate. You imagined him fucking you right here, in this very bed. In the fantasy, the room was dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp. Robby would be above you, shirtless, his body moving, kissing down your neck, your breasts, your stomach, murmuring praise against your skin. “That’s it… just like that.” His hands would grip your hips with strength, guiding you exactly where he wanted you. When he finally pushed inside, it would be deep, locking his eyes on yours so you could see every flicker of pleasure cross his face.
He’d talk you through it, telling you how good you felt, how long he’d wanted this, how perfect you were for him. The rhythm would build slowly, then faster, the headboard knocking softly against the wall as you both chased release. He’d make sure you came first, always, because that was who Robby was, attentive, making sure everyone in his care is taken care of. Afterward, he’d pull you against his chest, both of you sweaty and sated, stroking patterns down your spine with his fingers while he kissed your temple and whispered that he loved you.
You lay there in the quiet house, with your heart racing and your thighs pressed together as the fantasy lingered. It felt so real you could almost hear his laugh, almost feel the scrape of his beard against your inner thigh, almost taste the salt on his skin after a long day. In this imagined life, the pitt still existed, but it was not the only thing. There was balance. There was him waiting at home, there was someone who saw how hard you tried, who respected your mind and wanted your body, and chose you every single day.
You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, a secret smile tugging at your lips. You know it was just a daydream. Robby was somewhere on the road, and he had his own complications: Noelle, the weight he carried from work, the reasons why he needed to leave. But God, it felt good to imagine. To pretend the capable, handsome man who taught you everything might one day love you back the way you already loved him.
As the days passed, they blurred together in Robby’s house. Mornings started with coffee in his kitchen, you watered the plants on the windowsill, collected the mail, and kept the place neat, exactly as a house-sitter should. And every few days, you texted him.
You: Plants are thriving. They all have new leaves out.
You: Got your mail sorted. It was mostly junk anyway
You: Shift was brutal today. I hope you’re having a better time than we are, lol
You: I stocked your fridge this morning. Took the liberty of throwing out your expired milk.
No replies, not a single one. The silence gnawed at you more than you wanted to admit. Every unanswered message tightened the knot in your chest. You started keeping your phone volume up at work, checking it obsessively between patients, but the screen stayed dark. By the end of week three, the worry had settled into something heavier, you needed to talk to someone before it ate you alive.
You texted Trinity on a rare mutual off-day: Hey, want to come over for dinner? Robby’s kitchen is actually decent. No ramen for you tonight.
Her reply came fast: Hell yes. Address?
She showed up at seven sharp, carrying a six-pack of beer and a suspicious look on her face.“Damn,” she whistled as she stepped inside, scanning the open living room and kitchen. “Robby’s got taste. This place is way nicer than our shoebox. You’re basically living the dream.”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s temporary. Come on, I made pasta, Robby had this really expensive spaghetti.”
You both ate at the kitchen island while Trinity tore into the food like she hadn’t seen a meal that wasn’t cheap ramen in days. Between bites, she teased you mercilessly about the setup. “So,” she said, smirking as she twirled pasta on her fork, “how’s it feel sleeping in Robby’s bed every night? Bet you’ve got a little shrine to him in there. A picture of his face on the nightstand?”
Your face heated instantly. “I’m not… It’s just a better mattress.”
“Uh-huh.” She leaned forward. “You’ve had a crush on Robby since like, week two. And now you’re living in his house, sleeping in his sheets… Have you gone through his drawers yet? Found anything interesting?”
You thought about the condoms in the nightstand and quickly shoved the image away. “Shut up.”
“Oh, I’m just starting.” Her grin turned wicked. “Be honest. Are you writing little fanfictions in your head every night? Chapter one: Dr. Robinavitch comes home early and finds you in his bed, wearing nothing but his scrubs. Chapter two: He teaches you a very hands-on lesson in anatomy.”
You laughed despite the heat flooding your face. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”
“Uh-huh. So no wet dreams in the sacred chief bed? No imagining him coming back all rugged from the road, pulling you close and—”
“Trinity!” You threw a dish towel at her, which she caught one-handed with a cackle. “We are not doing this.” The teasing faded as you pushed your plate away and finally voiced what’d been weighing on you. “I’ve been texting him updates about the house,” you admitted quietly. “Little stuff. How the plants are doing, mail, and how work is. He hasn’t replied once. Not in three weeks. I’m starting to get worried. What if something happened?”
She waved a hand dismissively, cracking open another beer. “He’s on his magical self-discovery motorcycle trip, right? Riding across the country, finding inner peace, growing a long beard, all that crap. Guy probably hasn’t charged his phone in days. Or he’s in some dead zone in head-smashed-in-buffalo-whatever.”
You fidgeted with the label on your bottle. “Yeah, but… what if he crashed? Or worse? I keep thinking about how tired he looked before he left. He… he didn’t look like himself.”
Trinity leveled you with a steady gaze. “If something happened to him, we would’ve found out by now. Someone from the pitt would know. Abbot, or the hospital admin, someone would’ve called. Relax. He’s coming back. It’s only three months, remember?”
You nodded, but the knot in your chest didn’t fully loosen. Trinity watched you for a beat, then kicked your foot lightly under the island. “Hey. He trusts you enough to give you his keys. That’s not nothing. Just keep the place nice, water the damn plants, and stop spiraling. When he gets back, you can hand over the keys and go back to staring at him longingly like normal.”
You managed a small laugh. “Thanks for the reality check.”
“Anytime.” She clinked her bottle against yours. “Remember, he asked you because you’re reliable as hell and not a total disaster. Not because he wants daily check-ins. Give the man space. He’ll come back when he’s ready, probably with a new tattoo and some profound life lesson about not letting the pitt eat your soul.”
The conversation drifted back to work, to hospital gossip, to Garcia cancelling her last “date”. For a few hours, the big empty place felt less lonely. But later, after she left and you locked the door behind her, you climbed the stairs and slipped into Robby’s bed again. You pulled out your phone one last time.
You: Santos came over for dinner. No crazy parties, just pasta and a few beers. Miss having you around to keep us all in line.
You: Text me back when you see this. Just wanna know you’re safe.
Another week passed. It’d been a month now since you started living in Robby’s place. Every night you slid into his king bed, wearing nothing but one of his old t-shirts you “borrowed” from the closet and a pair of simple panties. The shirt was huge on you, soft from many washes, and you told yourself you wore them because it was just practical. Tonight was no different, you showered, pulled on his shirt, and crawled under the duvet.
Sleep came fast, deep, and dreamless for once. Until it didn’t. A soft sound pulled you out, floorboards creaking in the hallway, the click of the bedroom door opening wider. You snapped your eyes open in the darkness, your heart slamming into your ribs before your brain could catch up. A tall shadow moved near the doorway, someone was in the room.
You screamed instinctively and bolted upright in bed, clutching the duvet to your chest. The shadow froze, and a familiar voice cut through the dark.
“Shit—hey, it’s me. It’s Robby.” The scream died in your throat. He flicked the bedside lamp on a second later, bathing the room in a warm light. And there he was, standing just inside the doorway, his duffel bag dropped at his feet, his motorcycle jacket still zipped halfway, his dark hair tousled like he’d been riding for hours. His beard was a little longer and scruffier than when he left.
Your heart was still hammering inside your chest. “Robby?”
He raised both hands slowly with his palms out. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you’d be staying in the guest room. I was just going to drop my bag and crash.”
You stared at him, your brain scrambling to catch up with all this new information. He was here. He was here early. The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, and it’d barely been one. “What are you doing here? It’s only been a month.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, looking a little uncertain. “I know. I just… decided to come back early. The road was good for a while, but it turned out I missed the noise more than I thought I would.” He flicked his eyes around the room, taking in the book still on the nightstand where he left it, the slight disarray of clothes you’d left draped over the chair, the way the bed was clearly occupied. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that.”
You were suddenly painfully aware of how you looked. Sitting up in his bed, your hair messy from sleep, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt and a pair of black panties underneath. The hem of the shirt had ridden up your thighs. Heat flooded your face as you tug the duvet higher, clutching it like a shield. “I’m so sorry… I just… I liked this mattress better. The guest room one is fine, but this one is softer, and I sleep better after bad shifts and—I swear I was obviously gonna wash the sheets before you came back. I’m really sorry, I know I should’ve stuck to the guest room, I crossed a line—”
“Relax,” Robby said gently. He took a small step closer, then stopped, like he was giving you space. “It’s fine. It’s not such a big deal. You’ve been taking care of the place. The plants look good. It’s still standing. I appreciate it.” He glanced toward the hallway. “I’ll go stay in the guest room tonight. Give you some privacy to… go back to sleep.”
He started to turn, reaching for his duffel. “Wait,” you blurted out, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. The relief crashed over you so hard it stole your breath, because he was here, and he was safe. No wrecked motorcycle on some remote highway, no disappearing into the darkness he was carrying when he left. Just Robby, standing in his own bedroom, looking tired but whole. “I’m so glad you’re back. And you’re safe. I was really worried… You didn’t answer any of my texts. Not once. I thought maybe something happened, or the sabbatical was… I don’t know. I missed having you at the pitt. Everything felt a little off without you there.”
You pushed the duvet aside and climbed out of bed before your brain could talk you out of it. The shirt fell to mid-thigh, but it was obvious what you were wearing underneath. You crossed the room in three quick steps and wrapped your arms around him in a hug. It was awkward. God, it was so awkward. You’d never had any kind of physical interaction with Robby before, not beyond the occasional shoulder brush during a resuscitation or the professional pat on the back after a good save. He was your chief, your mentor, and also the man you’d been secretly fantasizing about while sleeping in his bed.
Your arms went around his waist, pressing your cheek against his chest through the leather jacket, and you held on tighter than you probably should. His body was solid and warm under your hands, broader than you even imagined in all those daydreams. Robby stiffened for half a second with surprise. You felt his hands hovering uncertainly at your sides, not quite returning the hug but not pushing you away either. His breath caught just slightly when he registered exactly what you were wearing: his shirt, and the bare skin of your thighs brushing against his jeans.
He tried very hard not to react, you could tell his jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. But you didn’t let go. The relief of seeing him alive was too big, too overwhelming. He was back, safe and sound, with you. You buried your face a little deeper against his chest. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
You stayed wrapped around him in that awkward, desperate hug. This was it. The only real opportunity you’d ever had to be this close to Robby. Before you could talk yourself out of it, before the rational part of your brain could intervene, you tilted your head up, rose onto your toes, and kissed him.
Your lips met his softly at first, tentative but determined. Robby didn’t react immediately. His body stayed tense under your hands, his shoulders rigid and his arms still hovering uncertainly. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t exactly kiss you back either. His mouth remained still against yours, unresponsive, like he was processing the sudden shift to this unexpected intimacy.
You didn’t stop, this might be your only chance, so you pressed closer, sliding one hand up to the back of his neck, threading your fingers gently into his brown, slightly overgrown hair. Your lips moved against his with soft and slow kisses that begged him to respond.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then full on again, pouring every unspoken “I’ve wanted this” into the contact. You could feel the internal war in the way his breath hitched, but he finally settled his hands lightly on your waist, resting there as if he was deciding what the hell to do with his resident currently kissing him in his own bedroom while wearing his clothes.
The silence between kisses felt deafening, broken only by the soft sound of your mouths meeting and your own quickened breathing. But you kept going, kissing him deeper, tilting your head, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips in a plea. Another kiss, slower this time, molding your body against his taller frame. The hug had dissolved into something else entirely, your chest was pressed to his, one of your legs shifting slightly between his as you tried to get even closer. The fantasy versions of this moment flooded your mind: his big and strong hands on you, his voice murmuring praises, the weight of him in this very bed. You wanted it so badly it ached.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Robby reacted. A rough sound escaped his throat, and his mouth finally moved against yours. He started kissing you back. Tentatively at first, then with growing certainty. He parted his lips, meeting your rhythm, the scrape of his beard intensifying as he angled his head to deepen the kiss. It wasn’t gentle anymore, it felt like pure hunger.
Robby tightened his hands on your waist, then slid them lower, one of them cupping your ass over the fabric of your panties, digging his fingers in with just enough pressure to make your breath catch. He massaged the soft flesh slowly, kneading it in circles that pulled you harder against him. The other hand joined soon after, both palms gripping and squeezing, lifting you slightly onto your toes as he explored the curve with appreciation.
His touch was confident, brushing the edge of your underwear, spreading your buttcheeks to claim more of you. Each squeeze sent heat straight between your legs, your body was responding instantly to the contrast between his rough hands and your soft skin. Robby kissed you harder now, sliding his tongue against yours in a stroke that made your knees weak. The kiss turned messy, heated, as he tilted your head back, taking control of your entire body.
Flushed against his body, you felt the growing hardness pressing through his jeans, and it made you moan softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed by another deep kiss. You tugged his hair with your fingers, hard enough to draw another groan from him.
With surprising strength, he walked you backward a few steps toward the bed. The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you tumbled down onto the rumpled sheets. Robby followed immediately, climbing over you with grace, his taller frame caging you in without crushing you. The weight of him above you was everything you’d fantasized about and more, it felt solid and warm, but most importantly, it was finally real.
He didn’t say a word, but his mouth found yours again in a deep, consuming kiss as he settled his hips between your parted thighs. The denim of his jeans pressed against your bare skin, and you arched up into him instinctively, sliding your hands under his jacket to grip the back of his shirt, but Robby was already moving, breaking the kiss only long enough to grip the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing, and tugged it upward. You lifted your arms willingly as the fabric slid up your body and over your head.
The cool air hit your bare breasts, and he found your nipples already tight from how aroused his kisses had gotten you. Robby tossed the shirt aside without looking, dropping his now dark eyes to your chest with hunger. Still silent, he lowered his head, closing his mouth over one breast, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak before he sucked it deeply. The sensation made your back bow off the bed, a moan escaping you as he worked your nipple with pulls.
His free hand came up to the other side, cupping and massaging your flesh with his large palm, brushing his thumb back and forth over the hardened nipple, rolling it gently before pinching just enough to make you gasp. The contrast was overwhelming, on one side the wet heat of his mouth sucking and licking one breast, while on the other side, his rough hand working the peak in firm strokes.
Your hands flew to his hair, threading through the strands, holding him to you as waves of pleasure rolled through your body. This was Robby, your Robby, not the one from your perfect fantasies, but the real one, the one you’d been in love with for two long years, the one who’d taught you everything you knew, now devouring your tits with hunger.
He switched sides without pause, latching his mouth onto the neglected breast while he continued massaging the first, slick with his saliva. The suction was perfect, deep pulls that made your toes curl, then flicking his tongue rapidly over the bud before he sucking it again, harder. You were panting, soft cries falling from your lips as the ecstasy kept building. This was really happening. The man you’d fantasized about while sleeping in his bed, was finally touching you.
Robby’s free hand began a slow, inevitable descent. It trailed down your side, over the curve of your hip, hooking his fingers briefly under the waistband of your black panties before sliding lower. He cupped your pussy with his palm, over the fabric first, applying enough pressure that made you jerk your hips up into his touch. He rubbed you there in broad circles, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit while his fingers stroked along your covered folds. The fabric quickly grew more and more damp under his touch, and the friction became maddening, teasing, but never quite enough.
It was better than every daydream, every stolen fantasy while you wore his shirts and pretended to be his woman while lying in his sheets. Tears of pure overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes as you moaned his name softly “Robby…” but he still didn’t speak.
He finally slipped his hand inside your panties. Two fingers gliding through your slick folds, parting them with care. He gathered the wetness there, spreading it upward to circle your swollen clit in strokes that got your thighs trembling. The pleasure was sharp, and it made you chase the contact right away, bucking your hips against his hand. Robby responded by pressing harder, rubbing tight circles around your clit before sliding lower again.
One finger teased your entrance, circling it once, then twice, then slowly pushing inside you, stretching you open with a smooth thrust. You cried out in response, arching your entire body as his finger filled your hole. He curled it expertly, stroking that spot inside while his thumb continued working your clit in a steady rhythm. He added a second finger after a moment, stretching you further. Suddenly, the wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of your soaked pussy were filling the quiet bedroom.
His fingers were thrusting faster now, he was curling and scissoring them gently enough not to hurt you, but deep so you could feel every inch of them. You fisted your hands in his hair, rolling your hips desperately against his hand as moans spilled freely from your lips. You were so wet it was embarrassing, shaking, gasping, whimpering, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure of finally having the man you loved touching you so intimately, so expertly. Tears slipped down your temples from the sheer intensity of it all.
“Oh my God, Robby…” you gasped before your voice broke as the pleasure coiled tighter in your core. “It feels so good… your fingers… fuck, they’re so deep. I’ve wanted this for so long… wanted you for so long…”
He didn’t answer with words, but his response was immediate. He curled his fingers deeper against that spongy spot inside you, stroking it with precision while he pressed the heel of his hand harder on your clit. His mouth switched to your other breast, sucking deeply, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks shooting down your spine.
“I want you so much,” you moaned, tightening your fingers in his brown hair. “You’re so good… so fucking good at this. Please don’t stop… I’ve dreamed about you touching me like this… God, Robby, I’m so close—”
The pressure built until the point of unbearably, until it finally snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you with blinding intensity. A broken cry tore from your throat as waves of ecstasy ripped through your body. Your pussy clenched rhythmically around his fingers, pulsing and fluttering as he kept stroking you through it, drawing out every last shudder out of your climaxing body. Your thighs were shaking violently around his hips, your toes curling, your vision whiting out for a few blissful seconds. It was this intense, and overwhelming bliss taking over you because it was Robby making you cum, it was finally him.
He didn’t stop until the last aftershocks faded, only then did he gradually slow his fingers, gentling their movements as your breathing evened out. Robby eased his hand from your panties, leaving you slick, pulsing, and utterly spent in the best way.
You watched him sitting back on his heels for a moment, looking down at you, flushed, bare-chested, panties askew, legs still trembling. Without a word, he reached for the zipper of his jacket and shrugged it off, tossing it toward the chair in the corner of his room. His shirt followed quickly, revealing the broad chest and arms you’ve only ever glimpsed under scrubs. His chest was dusted with a perfect scattering of silvery-gray hair that looked impossibly soft against his skin. Not too much, not too little, just enough to scream man in the most intoxicating way. Your fingers itched to touch it, to feel the texture of it beneath your palms, to press your face against the heat of him and breathe him in.
Your gaze drifted lower, and heat flooded your entire body. A soft, rounded belly curved gently over the waistband of his pants. God, the sight of it made your mouth go dry with want. You’d imagined this so many times, running your hands over that giving flesh, digging your fingers in just to feel how real he was, pulling him closer until that belly pressed flush against you, skin to skin. A dark, tempting happy trail started just below his navel and disappeared beneath his waistband, leading exactly where your mind had already gone.
Then his hands moved to his belt. He pushed his jeans and boxers down in one smooth motion, kicking them off the edge of the bed. His cock sprang free, looking thick and heavy, and already fully hard. It was huge, both in length and girth, the head flushed dark and glistening with a bead of precum at the tip. The shaft was veined and perfectly proportioned, curving slightly upward in a way that made your mouth water and your freshly-orgasmed pussy clench with need. It was gorgeous. Intimidating and beautiful at the same time, exactly like the rest of him.
Your breath got caught at the sight, the heat flooded your face and core all over again as you stared, unable to look away. This was Robby’s cock, big, hard, and ready for you after all those lonely nights imagining it. He leaned toward the nightstand, the same one where you’d once nervously discovered the box of condoms, and opened the drawer. He pulled out a foil packet, tearing it open with his teeth in a quick motion. You almost wanted to beg him to skip it, to fuck you raw, to feel every inch of him skin-to-skin, filling you completely without any barrier.
The words hovered on your tongue, “Please, Robby, I want you bare… I want to feel all of you,” but they stayed trapped behind your lips as he rolled the condom down his impressive length with steady hands, sheathing himself completely. Once the condom was securely in place, Robby settled back between your thighs, one hand bracing beside your head while the other gripped the base of his cock. The thick head nudged against your slick entrance, teasing your folds with shallow strokes that made you twitch with anticipation.
He finally broke his silence, his voice gravelly from arousal. Robby locked his brown eyes onto yours. “Are you sure?”
You nodded quickly. “Yes… I’m sure. Please, Robby.”
That was all he needed. Robby pushed forward slowly, only the head of his cock parting your slick folds and sinking into you inch by inch. The stretch was intense, his girth filling you so completely that your mouth fell open in a silent gasp. He was huge, and even with the latex barrier you felt every ridge and vein as he pressed deeper, until his hips were flush against your ass and he was buried to the hilt inside your pussy.
A rough groan escaped his throat, the first real sound he’d made since he started kissing you back. He dropped his eyes immediately to your breasts, watching them rise and fall with your quick breaths, the flesh still glistening from his mouth. He stayed there for a long moment, buried deep, letting you adjust to his size while his gaze stayed fixed on the way your tits moved every time you inhaled.
Then he started to move, his thrusts began slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with force. The wet sound of your pussy taking his thick cock filled the room as each stroke dragged against that perfect spot inside you, making moans spill from your lips.
His grip tightened on your hips, his thrusts growing just a fraction harder. “It feels so good,” you whimpered, breathy and broken. “You’re so deep… so big… God, Robby, I’ve wanted you inside me for so long… You don’t know how many times I imagined this.”
He answered with another groan and a particularly deep thrust that made your toes curl. His pace stayed steady, with strong strokes that rocked the bed beneath you, making the headboard tap against the wall in time with his movements.
You craved his eyes on yours. In this raw, breathless moment, more than anything, you wanted Robby to see you. Not just your body, but the way he was unraveling you, the overwhelming pleasure flooding your veins, the terrifying depth of what this meant to you. You wanted to lock gazes with him while he moved inside you, to share this perfect, fragile second and know he felt even a fraction of what you did. But he wouldn’t give it to you. His eyes stayed glued to your chest, mesmerized by the way your breasts bounced and jiggled with every deep thrust.
His jaw was tight, lips slightly parted, breath coming in grunts each time your bodies slammed together. Every so often, he dropped his gaze lower, fixated on the filthy sight of his thick cock sliding in and out of you, your slick, swollen lips stretching obscenely around his shaft, glistening with your arousal. The visual seemed to rip a primal sound from his throat almost involuntary.
The lack of eye contact stung even as it turned you on. It felt like he was hiding. Protecting himself. Keeping this physical, safe, compartmentalized, the same way he kept everything else. Without thinking, your hands flew up to his face. You cupped his bearded cheeks, your palms warm against his flushed skin, and you gently but firmly tilted his head up. For one devastating heartbeat, his eyes met yours. The connection hit like a spark, you saw the storm in him. Your own eyes were glassy, brimming with tears of overwhelming pleasure and emotion. In that single second, everything felt exposed.
Then his lashes fluttered, Robby squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face down again, breaking the connection. His hips never faltered, if anything, they drove into you harder, deeper, as if he could fuck away whatever had just passed between you. He dropped his forehead to rest against your shoulder, while locking his gaze once more onto the hypnotic bounce of your breasts and the joining of your bodies.
Robby suddenly pulled out, making you whine at the sudden emptiness you felt without his cock filling your insides, but before you could complain any more, he was already moving you. He used his strong hands to flip you onto your stomach, then gripped your hips and pulled your ass up so you were on your knees now, with your chest still pressed to the mattress. This new position left you completely exposed, with your ass raised, your back arched, and your used pussy dripping and ready for him.
He didn’t hesitate, just lined himself up and thrusted back in with one powerful stroke, burying himself even deeper than before. Like this, Robby could hit spots inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A moan ripped from your throat as he bottomed out, pressing his hips flush against your ass, his cock was so deep it felt like he was reaching the deepest parts of you.
“Fuuuck—” he groaned. From behind, the fucking became even deeper. “Goddamn it,” the words were barely leaving his mouth as he drove into you harder.
Robby was gripping your hips tightly, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust, until his pelvis met your ass in a punishing rhythm. Each stroke felt long and powerful, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, making the tip of his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot over and over.
You were crying out with every thrust. “Robby—oh God, it’s so deep… you’re so deep like this… don’t stop—”
He groaned again, louder this time, and quickened his pace, snapping forward with more urgency. Robby pressd one hand between your shoulder blades to keep your chest down while he kept the other clamped on your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. He stayed mostly quiet, other than for his broken groans, and occasional curses
“Shit.” He let out when your pussy clenched around him particularly tightly. “Fuck.” The words escaped his lips, almost as if he didn’t mean to let them out.
His breathing grew ragged, the slap of his hips against your ass growing louder and faster. Robby kept staring down, at the way your tits were squished against the mattress and jiggling with every thrust, at the sight of his cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy, your ass rippling every time he bottomed out.
“I’m yours… I’ve always been yours,” you whispered breathlessly as he pounded into you. “Cum for me, please… I need to feel it. Cum inside me.”
“Fuck me…” He cursed under his breath as he lost his rhythm for a moment. This angle allowed the head of his cock to grind against that spot inside you until you were shaking.
The way you shook, the way your pussy fluttered and pulsed around him, it made his rhythm falter more and more, his thrusts were becoming shorter, harder, more desperate. Robby tightened his grip on your hips almost painfully as he drove into you again and again. With a final, deep groan, he finally came.
His hips stuttered and he pressed them flush against your ass, spilling inside the condom. His release was warm, and you could feel the pulses even through the latex. His cock throbbed deep inside you, shuddering as he rode out his orgasm with several shallow and grinding thrusts. Low sounds escaped his throat, groans and curses, while he kept you pinned in place, holding you tight as he emptied himself.
He stayed buried inside you for several long seconds afterward, breathing hard against your back. When he pulled out, the loss of him made you whimper softly, you felt empty once again. You heard the snap of latex as he pulled the used condom off, tying it quickly and tossing it into the trash bin beside the nightstand.
The mattress shifted as he climbed off the bed. His bare feet pad across the floor toward the master bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, but you still didn’t move. You stayed lying there on your stomach, with your cheek against his pillow. From the bathroom, you heard the steady stream as he peed. The faucet running. The rustle of paper towels or a cloth. The toilet flushing. He was cleaning himself up, wiping away the evidence of what you two had done, washing his hands, probably splashing water on his face.
You closed your eyes and let the reality settle over you. This had really happened. Robby came back, he kissed you back, and you two slept together.
The bathroom door opening again snapped you back into reality. Robby walked back into the bedroom completely naked, he didn’t look at you directly, his expression was unreadable… tired, maybe a little distant. He didn’t say anything, simply lifted the edge of the duvet on his side of the bed, and climbed in.
As he settled onto his back, Robbby rested one arm across his stomach, the other by his side. He stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds, there was no reaching for you, no pulling you against his chest, no soft kiss to your shoulder or murmured “come here.” The space between your bodies stayed empty, with several inches of sheet separating you.
You stayed on your stomach, turned slightly toward him, watching him from the corner of your eye. Part of you wanted to scoot closer, to curl into his side, to feel his arm wrapped around you the way it did in all your daydreams. But you didn’t.
Robby’s voice finally broke the quiet, barely above a murmur. “You need anything? Water?”
You swallowed, feeling your throat dry from all the moaning and gasping earlier. “No… I’m okay. Thanks.”
He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. That was it. No further conversation, no questions about what this meant, no acknowledgment of the fact that you were sleeping in his bed, or that you just had intense sex in the middle of the night.
Robby exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting shut. Within minutes, his breathing evened out completely, and he fell asleep fast, just like that. One moment, he was awake beside you, the next his face had softened into sleep.
You lay there watching him for a long time. The king bed felt enormous with the two of you in it, but not touching, no cuddling, no spooning. Just the two of you sharing the same space after something that felt life-altering to you and… something else entirely to him. The fantasy had been so vivid: waking up tangled together, his arms around you, soft morning kisses. Reality was quieter, messier, more distant.
You woke the next morning, and for a disoriented second, the events of last night felt like one of your daydreams. The pleasant ache between your thighs and the faint soreness in your hips confirmed it was real. Very real. But the bed beside you was empty. The sheets on Robby’s side were rumpled but cool, no warm body, no arm draped anywhere near you.
Your clothes from last night were scattered. You found the black panties twisted near the foot of the bed and pulled them on, then located the t-shirt you’d been wearing and slipped it over your head. After running your fingers through your messy hair and splashing water on your face in the bathroom, you headed downstairs. Robby was standing at the island, back to you, dressed in jeans and a plain dark t-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, and his beard looking a little neater than it did when he arrived last night.
He turned when he heard your footsteps. There was no awkward smile, no heated glance over your body in his shirt. Just a small nod of acknowledgment. “Morning,” he said. “House looks good. You took real good care of the place. Thanks for that. Appreciate it.”
The words were simple, professional, the same tone he used when you two were at the pitt. You stepped into the kitchen, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “You’re welcome. It was… nice, getting a little break from Trin… don’t tell her I said that.”
He nodded again, taking a sip of his coffee, leaning back against the counter. You gathered your courage. “Why did you come back so soon? Wasn’t your sabbatical supposed to be three months?”
Robby drifted his gaze to the window, overlooking the backyard for a long moment. He set the mug down, tapping his fingers once against the granite. “Just… wanted to end it.”
You blinked, processing his words. “You mean… the trip to end?”
He stayed quiet for a while, longer than felt natural. You watched the way his jaw clenched, like he was chewing on the words before deciding how much to give you. Finally, he said, simply, “Yeah.” The vagueness sat between you two.
The sabbatical was supposed to help with that heaviness you knew he was carrying, but he never named it outright. Coming back after only a month didn’t feel like success. You leaned against the opposite side of the island, trying to keep your voice light, but you sounded concerned anyway. “Are you gonna start working again? Back at the pitt?”
“Probably,” he answered, still not elaborating.
You nodded, pushing a little more. “Did you… find what you were looking for out there? On the road?”
Robby flicked his eyes to yours briefly, then away. He shrugged one shoulder, the movement tight. “Found some quiet. Some miles. That’s about it.”
The answers were so vague they felt like deflections. You could see the exhaustion lingering in the wrinkles around his eyes, the way his shoulders carried so much tension even in his own kitchen. The worry you’d been holding since his unanswered texts bubbled up.
You softened your voice. “Are you okay, Robby?”
He looked at you then, really looked, with those warm brown eyes that could undo you in just a second. A small, tired half-smile touches his mouth, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m here, right?”
You shook your head gently, not letting him off that easy. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
For a second, something flickered across his face, maybe acknowledgment, maybe irritation at being pushed, but it smoothed out quickly. He picked up his mug again, taking a slow sip before setting it in the sink. “You should get going. You’re gonna be late for shift.”
The dismissal was polite, but clear. He didn’t want to have no deeper conversation, no processing last night. The distance he was putting between you two this morning, and his careful vagueness made everything feel unsteady. “Yeah… okay.” You paused, then added quietly, “I’ll pick up my stuff when I get back from shift.”
“Thank you again for taking such good care of the place. I appreciate it more than you know.” Robby paused, like he was remembering something. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small object, a simple metal keychain with a little buffalo charm attached. “Wait,” he said, holding it out to you. “Got you something.”
You took the keychain, turning it over in your palm. It was surprisingly thoughtful, it meant Robby thought of you enough to pick this up somewhere along the road and bring it back. He brought you a gift. You felt special once again, the way you did the night he first asked you to stay here. “Thank you,” you said softly, closing your fingers around it. “I really like it.”
He gave you a small shrug, almost dismissive, but there was a faint softening around his eyes. “Least I could do.”
You clutched the keychain a little tighter, gathering the courage to say more. “I’m really glad you’re back, Robby. The pitt needed you. It felt… different without you there. We all missed having you around.”
Robby leaned against the island. “I’m sure the place still stood. It’s bigger than just me. You all did fine.”
“Maybe,” you replied, stepping a little closer. “But we still missed you. The place feels steadier when you’re there. I missed you. I was worried when you didn’t answer any of my texts.. I thought maybe something happened on the road. I kept checking my phone like an idiot.”
Robby exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Yeah… sorry about that. Wasn’t really in the headspace for replying. Didn’t mean to make you worry.”
You nodded, accepting the half-apology even though it didn’t fully ease the knot in your chest. “Well… I should leave for work,” you said finally, gesturing toward the door. “Give you the house back. Let you settle in.”
You slipped the keychain onto your own keys, the little buffalo charm dangling beside your apartment key. It felt special, proof that he thought of you while he was gone, but the lack of any reference to the intimacy you shared last night left an empty ache in its place. “Take care of yourself, Robby. If you need anything… I’m around.”
He gave you another small nod. The house felt both familiar after a month living there, but suddenly foreign again. You turned and headed back upstairs to change into your clothes for the day. Last night had felt like a crack in the wall he kept so carefully maintained, but this morning, that wall was back in place.
A week had passed since you’d slept with Robby, and your mind still wouldn’t let you rest. Every quiet moment replayed it like a fever dream you couldn’t shake. The weight of his body pressing you into the mattress. The rough hunger in his hands as they roamed over your skin, like a man who’d been starving for a month on the road and finally found relief. You could still feel the scrape of his beard, the heat of his breath, the way his fingers had dug into your hips hard enough to leave faint bruises you’d traced alone in the shower the next morning. But the memory that hurt the most was the way he’d refused to look at you. Even buried deep inside you, moving with that rhythm that had you crying out his name, Robby never once met your gaze. And when you’d forced him to, just for that fleeting second… he’d shut down. Closed his eyes, and turned you away.
Then came the cold shoulder afterward. The way he’d rolled off you, cleaned up in silence, and acted the very next morning like nothing had happened. Polite but distant. As if the night had been nothing more than a physical release. Now seven days had gone by with no sign of him at work. No one seemed to know he was even back in town, only you and Trinity. The absence gnawed at you constantly, an anxious hum beneath your ribs that made it hard to breathe.
You’d picked up your phone at least a dozen times, your thumb hovering over his contact. What could you even say? “Hey Robby, how are you? You coming back to work anytime soon? Do you still remember the way you fucked me until I cried… because I can’t stop replaying every second of it?”
Every draft felt wrong. Pushy, pathetic, and desperate. If he wanted to talk about that night, about anything, he would have reached out already. You knew him too well. The same man who deflected every question about his month away, who shrugged and changed the subject the moment you tried to ask how he was really doing… that man didn’t want to be reached. He was avoiding you the same way he avoided everything else that mattered.
You arrived early for your shift today, swiping your badge and pushing through the glass doors. You’d barely slept, Robby had invaded your thoughts all night long. You told yourself to focus, you were a second-year, you had patients to see, people whose lives depended on you. You could do this. But the moment you stepped into the ED, you felt the change.. Robby was already there.
He was back in his element like he’d never left, standing at the nurse station, reviewing a chart on one of the computers, giving instructions about an incoming transfer. You kept your distance at first, throwing yourself into your assigned cases, but every time you glanced over your shoulder, Robby was there. It should’ve felt good to finally have him back, to know he was okay. Instead, the memories of your night together twisted something painful in your chest.
Around mid-morning, during a brief lull between patients, you were charting when you heard their voices. Robby and Noelle. They were standing just outside the glass doors of the trauma room, partially hidden from the main floor but close enough that you could hear their conversation if you paid attention.
Noelle was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, a playful smile on her face as she talked to him. “I knew you weren’t gonna last the full three months,” she said teasingly. “Motorcycle, open road, ‘finding yourself’, please. You made it what, five weeks? I should’ve put money on it.”
Robby let out a low chuckle, leaning one shoulder against the wall opposite her, his arms crossed in a mirror of her posture. “What can I say? Figured the pitt would fall apart without me.”
Noelle lauged softly, reaching out to lightly play with the collar of his scrubs. The gesture was casual, intimate in its smallness. She looked comfortable around him, familiarized, like two people who shared history. So different from the way you acted around him. “You should’ve told me you were back. I would’ve brought over dinner or something. Saved you from whatever sad frozen meals you’ve been eating.”
The flirting was effortless, and Robby didn’t pull away from the touch. Instead, he tilted his head, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Dinner sounds better than the leftovers I found in the freezer. But I’m still catching up after a month away. I haven’t finished unpacking, needed a while to get settled.”
Your heart squeezed painfully. You remembered the way his hands felt on your bare skin, the way he touched you while kissing you, the deep thrusts that had you moaning into his pillow. And now he was standing here joking and flirting with Noelle like none of it happened.
Her smile widened. “Well, if you’re free tonight… my place? I’ve got that bottle of red you like. We can catch up properly.”
Robby paused for half a second, then shook his head with a small and regretful smile. “Can’t tonight. Still need to get settled at home. But Saturday… Saturday I’m free.”
Noelle’s eyes lighted up, clearly pleased. “Saturday it is. My place. I’ll text you the time.”
“Sounds good,” Robby replied, lingering his gaze on her a moment longer than necessary. They shared one more quiet laugh before Noelle pushed off the wall and headed back upstairs.
He waas going back to her. The sex between you meant nothing to him. Not enough to mention, not enough to change anything. He’d fucked you, and then he went right back to his comfortable situationship with Noelle like it was the most natural thing in the world. No awkward conversation, no “we should talk”, no acknowledgment that he’d had his cock buried inside you less than a week ago. He gave you a silly little keychain as thanks for house-sitting, and now he was making Saturday plans with the woman everyone knows he’d been seeing.
The sadness hit you like a wave, suffocating. Your eyes burned, making you blink hard to force the tears back before anyone could see. This is what you got for letting the fantasy run wild while you slept in his bed. For believing, even for a moment, that the way he kissed you back, the way he touched you, the way he fucked you meant something more than a momentary lapse after a long, lonely ride home.
Hours later, you stepped through the door of the cramped apartment you shared with Trinity. You’d kept your head down, done your job, and somehow made it through without breaking in front of anyone. But the moment you pulled into the parking lot outside your building, the tears you’d been swallowing all day started leaking out again. You kicked off your shoes in the tiny entryway and dropped your backpack with a thud.
Trinity was sprawled on the couch in the living room, where she had been since you left, enjoying her day off from work with shitty reality shows in the TV she claimed to hate. She glanced up when she heard you, narrowing her eyes immediately. “Whoa. What the hell happened to you?” she asked, sitting up a little. “You look like you’ve been crying. You killed someone today or what?”
You hesitated in the doorway. Trinity was the closest you had to a friend, and right now, you needed someone to vent. “If I tell you,” you said quietly, “you can’t tell anyone. Not a single soul. Promise me.”
Trinity raised an eyebrow, her expression shifting from concern to skepticism. “Look, if you’re gonna be all dramatic and make me swear on my future fellowship or whatever, then maybe just don’t tell me. I don’t do secrets that come with conditions. Either spill or don’t. I’m not a priest.”
You stood there for a long moment, part of you wanted to retreat to your room and cry into your pillow alone. The other part, the part that’d been carrying this alone since last week, needed to say it out loud to someone. You walked over and sank onto the opposite end of the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest.
“I slept with Robby.”
Trinity stared at you. Then she let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, right. Funny. Try again.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted, meeting her eyes. “I slept with Robby. For real.”
She studied your face, her smirk slowly fading as she registered how wrecked you look. “Wait… you’re actually serious? Like, with Robby? Our Robby?”
You nodded, swallowing past the lump in your throat. The words started spilling out slowly, the pace of the night replaying in your mind as you spoke. “The night he came back… I was already asleep in his bed. He walked in late, scared the shit out of me. I screamed, he apologized, we talked for a minute. Then I hugged him because I was so relieved he was safe. And… I don’t know what came over me. I kissed him. He didn’t kiss me back at first. He just stood there, but then he started kissing me and… we… we did it.”
You left out the explicit details, you didn’t need to paint the full picture. Her eyes were wide now, finally catching up on what you were telling her. “Holy shit. You actually slept with Robby.”
You nodded again, feeling the tears threatening to spill again. “Yeah. And the next morning he acted like nothing happened. He thanked me for taking care of the house, gave me this stupid little keychain he picked up on his trip as a thank-you gift, and that was it. No mention of the sex. Not a word. Then today at work… I saw him talking to Noelle.” Your voice cracked on the last part. “They were flirting… laughing, made plans together for this weekend. He’s going back to her,” you whispered, wiping at your eyes. “Like what happened between us meant absolutely nothing. He pretended it never happened, and now he’s making plans with Noelle like everything’s normal.”
Trinity was quiet for a long beat, then she leaned back against the couch, letting out a slow breath. Her tone was blunt, the way it always was when she was being brutally honest, no matter how much it might hurt you. “Okay. Real talk? He obviously regrets sleeping with you.”
The words landed on you like a slap. You flinched visibly, but she continued, not softening the truth behind her words. “Think about it. He comes back from a month on the road, probably horny as hell after being alone with his motorcycle in the middle of Canada. You’re there, in his house, in his literal bed. You basically offered him your pussy on a silver plate. Men are weak. They can’t say no to that, especially not when they’ve been away for weeks. It was a moment of weakness. He took it. And then in the morning he realized it was a mistake. That’s why he didn’t mention it. That’s why he’s acting like it never happened. He’s going back to Noelle because she’s the safe, familiar option.”
You stared at her, fresh tears spilling over. The sarcastic edge slipped out before you could stop it. “Wow. You’re a great friend, Trinity. Really uplifting.”
She shrugged, completely unfazed. “I’m honest. You know it’s true. I’m not gonna sit here and feed you some romantic bullshit just because you’re crying. You wanted the truth.”
You pulled your knees tighter to your chest, your voice breaking. “I thought it had been amazing. I felt… great. I thought he did too. The way he kissed me back, the way he touched me… it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt real.”
Trinity gave you a long, almost pitying look. “He has a penis, of course it felt good for him. Men are simple creatures, you put a warm hole in front of them and they’ll take it every single time. That doesn’t mean it meant anything deep. It was just an easy fuck. He’s an older guy, been around the block dozens of times. He’s probably had plenty of good fucks in his life. This one happened to be convenient because you were literally living in his house. Doesn’t make it special.”
The tears came faster now, and you found yourself incapable of holding them back anymore. They rolled down your cheeks as the weight of her words sank in, mixing with your own exhaustion and the ache in your chest that’d been growing since that night.
“I really love him,” you whispered. “I’ve loved him for so long. Not just the sex. Him. The way he teaches, the way he looks out for everyone, how steady he is even when everything’s falling apart…”
Trinity groaned softly, running a hand over her face. “Are you seriously crying over Robby? Come on. He’s our boss. He’s emotionally unavailable, and clearly still tangled up with Noelle. You slept with him once, and now you’re devastated because he didn’t suddenly fall in love with you? That’s not how this works.”
She didn’t move to hug you, she just sat there, watching you cry. You buried your face in your knees, your shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Trinity sighed after a long minute, softening her voice just a fraction. “Look… you’re gonna be okay. It sucks right now. But crying over Robby isn’t going to change the fact that he went right back to Noelle. You need to decide if you’re going to keep pining after him or if you’re going to pull it together and focus on not tanking your residency because your feelings got hurt.”
You shook your head slowly. “I can’t just let it go now. We slept together, Trinity. It wasn’t some random thing. It was… it was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. The way he touched me, the way he looked at me… I felt like he saw me. Really saw me. Robby’s it for me. I’ve been in love with him for over a year, and now that it actually happened, I can’t pretend it didn’t.”
Trinity stared at you for a long beat, her expression unchanging. She let the silence stretch, and when she finally spoke, it was as if she was explaining a difficult diagnosis to a patient who didn’t want to hear it. “Robby’s just a guy,” she said. “That’s the part you’re forgetting. He’s not some tortured romantic lead in whatever fanfic you’ve been writing in your head. Your brain is doing that thing where it confuses really intense emotions with really good sex. You built this whole fantasy while you were living in his house, sleeping in his bed, sniffing his cologne or whatever. Reality was just a quick fuck. Your hormones are lying to you right now.”
You felt the sting of her words like a slow burn spreading across your chest. “It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t convenient. It felt… real. I thought he felt it too.”
Trinity gave you a small, almost pitying shrug. “That’s the crush talking. You’re romanticizing it because you’ve wanted him for so long. But it was just a convenient nut for him. You really thought sleeping with him once after you basically ambushed him with a kiss was gonna change anything?”
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. “So… he wants nothing to do with me?”
She snorted. “Obviously not. If he did, he would’ve said something that morning instead of handing you a touristy keychain. Let’s be real, he’s probably relieved you didn’t make it weird at work. And it’s kind of a miracle he’s lasted this long with Noelle anyway. The man has the emotional availability of a brick wall. You’re better off pretending it never happened and moving on before you make it awkward for both of you.”
You stared at the floor, tears slipping down your cheeks again, slower now but steady. After a long minute, you lifted your head again. “What does Noelle have that I don’t?”
Trinity let out a dry laugh. “Where should I start?” She shifted on the couch, turning more toward you, clearly settling in for the full list, like she was ticking off boxes one by one. “First off, she’s insanely pretty, put-together in a way we’re not. Noelle shows up at work in actual suits and high heels. She does her makeup, and she has that stupid ponytail with every single little hair in place. We roll in all sweaty and looking like we just ran a marathon and haven’t had a good night of sleep in ages.”
You swallowed hard, wiping at your face again, but you didn’t interrupt. Trinity kept going, her tone matter-of-fact. “She has a good job. She’s closer in age to him, too. He wouldn’t want to deal with the drama of dating someone way younger who’s also his resident. Noelle gives him what he wants without any of the emotional baggage, that’s why he keeps coming back to her. She doesn’t look at him with puppy-dog eyes; meanwhile, you text him worried little updates about his house plants.” Trinity paused before she delivered the final blow. “You? You’re a complication. A big one. You’re emotionally involved. Like, deeply. Noelle is safe. You’re not. He’s not going to choose the complication. He’s going back to easy.”
The words hang in the air between you, each one landing heavier than the last. Your eyes burned again, but this time the tears fell silently, tracking down your cheeks without the full sobs from earlier. Part of you wanted to argue… to insist that the sex was more than that, that the way Robby gripped you and kissed you back meant something, but the exhaustion and the heartbreak made it hard to find the words. So you stayed quiet.
She reached over and patted your knee, a half-comfort gesture, the closest of comfort you could get. “That’s the truth,” she said simply. “Whether you want to hear it or not.”
You felt suddenly exposed and foolish. Robby was back at the pitt. He was making plans with Noelle. And you… You were just the stupid resident who thought one night could change everything.
The next day at the pitt feels like walking through a minefield. Your eyes were still a little puffy from last night’s conversation with Trinity, but you’d done your best with concealer and cold water. You kept repeating her words in your head like a mantra: focus on residency, stop the stupid crush, he’s just a guy. It didn’t help much. Every time you blinked, you still saw flashes of his body over yours.
Robby glanced up as you approached, offering you a small, professional nod. Nothing more. He stood there completely unaffected, while you were quietly falling apart, knowing the sex meant nothing to him.
After working on a patient together, you and Robby were left alone for a moment while the trauma room cleared. You couldn’t stop the words from slipping out, trying to sound normal even though your chest ached with every heartbeat. “How have you been settling back in? It’s… really good to have you back here. The pitt feels different when you’re around.”
“It’s been okay. Still catching up on meetings. It feels weird… being back after a month away.” He offered you a polite smile before turning away, ready to leave the room.
Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you were sure he could feel it. This was it, now or never. Robby was standing right there in front of you, close enough to touch, if you didn’t speak now, you knew you never would. The words would rot inside you, unspoken, until they poisoned everything.
“I was meaning to ask you… Do you have a minute to talk? In private?”
He stopped, turning to face you. His expression was calm, for a split second, you thought you saw something flicker there, recognition, maybe wariness, but it was gone before you could be sure. “Is it about work?” he asked. You hesitated, then shook your head. “Not really.”
Robby exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m really busy right now. If it’s not work-related, it’s going to have to wait. We’ve got three pending admits and a full board. Only work stuff today, okay?”
The dismissal was polite but firm, it landed like a door closing in your face. You felt the sting spread through your chest, he wouldn’t even give you five minutes. Not after everything. You nodded once, forcing your expression to stay neutral even as your throat tightened. “Yeah. Okay.”
You made it through the first half of the shift on autopilot, but that was before the worst part hit. A six-year-old boy, MVC passenger, ejected from the back seat. He came in unresponsive, CPR already in progress from EMS. You threw everything at him, intubated him yourself, pushed epi, called every medication, every intervention. For forty-three minutes, you fought alongside the team. But he didn’t make it.
When Robby finally called time of death, the room went quiet except for the flatline tone that seemed to go on forever. You stood there frozen for a second before you ripped your gloves off and walked outside of the trauma room. You made your way behind the ambulance bay, leaning against the cold brick wall. Your breathing came in short, ugly gasps. Tears streaming down your face, no matter how hard you tried to wipe them away. You just needed a minute. One minute to fall apart before you had to go back inside and pretend you were fine.
You were crying for the boy you couldn’t save, for the innocent life that had slipped through your fingers, no matter how fast you moved, how hard you pressed, how desperately you begged him to stay. But you were also crying for yourself, because everything in your life felt like it was crumbling at the seams. You couldn’t fix the boy. You couldn’t fix the growing distance with Robby. You couldn’t fix the ache in your chest that had only gotten worse since the night he’d touched you like you mattered and then pretended you didn’t. No matter what you did, no matter how much you cared, some things simply refused to be saved. And right now, it felt like you were one of them.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind you. Once again, you didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. “Leave me alone,” you choked out before he could speak.
Robby stopped a few feet away. “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could. I watched the whole code. You ran it clean.”
“I said leave me alone.” The words came out sharper this time. You kept your back to him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like you could hold all the pieces together. “Don’t talk to me. Just go.”
He didn’t leave. “You did good in there,” he said quietly. “Kid had injuries we couldn’t fix. Massive head bleed, internal bleeding… you kept him alive longer than most residents could have. That matters.”
The kindness in his voice, that low tone he used when he was teaching or comforting a family, only made it worse. You spun around suddenly, tears running down your face. “I don’t want you here!” you shouted, your voice breaking on the last words. “Just leave me alone! Don’t talk to me, don’t comfort me, don’t do anything! Go back inside!”
Robby furrowed his brows. He took one careful step closer, searching for your face. “What’s wrong with you? What happened? This isn’t just about the kid.”
You laughed, a harsh, ugly sound that turned into a sob halfway through. “You happened!” The words exploded out of you, it was a mix of two years of longing and the last few days of humiliation pouring out all at once. “You came back early. You walked into your own bedroom and I kissed you and you let me and then we had sex and it was the best night of my fucking life and I thought, I actually thought, it meant something to you. Because why else would you ask me to house-sit instead of Abbot or Noelle or anyone else? I took care of your house, I slept in your bed, I watered your stupid plants, and then you fucked me and the next morning you acted like nothing happened. You gave me a keychain and ignored me after it!”
You were crying harder now, your chest heaving as the words tumbled over each other. “I saw you with Noelle the other day. You two looked fine. Like nothing had changed. You don’t care. You never cared. I was just convenient. I was there, in your bed, throwing myself at you, and you took what was easy. And now I can’t even look at you without remembering how good it felt and how little it meant to you.” Your voice cracked completely on the last sentence. You were shaking, tears dripping off your chin.
Robby stood there, completely still. He opened his mouth once, then closed it. For a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant wail of another ambulance approaching. Finally, he rubbed the back of his neck, the familiar gesture you’d seen a thousand times. “Look… I gotta go back in there. They need me on the floor. We’ve got another incoming.”
He took one step back, then another, his eyes still on you like he was not sure whether to stay or leave. You didn’t say anything else, just turned your face away, pressing your forehead against the cold brick as your shoulders shook with silent sobs. Robby lingered for another few seconds, then he turned and walked back toward the sliding doors, leaving you alone with the sound of your own broken heart, somehow still beating.
Three hours later, the shift finally ended. You clocked out mechanically, and headed toward the locker room to change. You were almost at the doors when a familiar voice stopped you.
“Hey. Wait a second.” Robby said. After everything you screamed at him outside earlier, you expected him to avoid you. Instead, here he was, blocking your path to the parking lot. “Look,” he started saying, like he was delivering bad news to a family. “I’m sorry if I was confusing. Or if you misinterpreted anything that happened that night.”
You stared at him. The apology sounded practiced, he was being gentle, but it still landed like a punch. He continued, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was uncomfortable. “I was tired. Really tired. That’s not an excuse, but it’s the truth. I should’ve said no when you kissed me. I didn’t. That happened, and I’m sorry if it gave you the wrong idea. Or if asking you to house-sit made you think there was more to it. You’re an extraordinary physician. You’re smart, you’re capable, you care deeply. But that’s all there is. I’m not looking for anything right now. I couldn’t even mentally handle anything resembling a relationship.”
The words hang between you, sounding final. You felt your eyes sting again. The grief from the lost patient mixed with the humiliation you were feeling until it was hard to breathe. “Except for Noelle,” you said quietly, the bitterness slipping out before you could stop it. “You seem to handle that just fine.”
Robby let out a surprised laugh. He shook his head. “Noelle and I are not together. At all. We never were. It’s… casual. Very casual. She understands exactly what it is and she’s okay with that.”
“But you still see each other on the daily. You slept with me and didn’t even address it the next morning. You gave me a keychain and talked about the plants like nothing happened. Why is it one way with her and another with me? Why does she get the easy understanding and I get… this? I get nothing.”
He exhaled slowly, looking older than his years. “Look… Noelle knows how this works. She’s not looking for more, and neither am I. What we have is simple. I’m sorry I let things get too far with you. That was my bad. I should’ve stopped it before it started. You’re a resident. I’m your attending. It was a mistake on my part to let it go that far. I take responsibility for that.”
His tone was steady, almost kind, but every word felt like another layer of distance between the two of you. You stood there, watching the man who had you pinned to his mattress, who made you come so hard you cried, now apologizing for “letting things get too far” like it was a procedural error.
Tears pricked at your eyes again, but you blinked them back fiercely. “So that’s it?” Your voice was small. “I was just a mistake because I was convenient?”
Robby’s expression softened just a fraction, but he didn’t reach for you, he kept his hands in his coat pockets. “I’m not saying you’re a mistake. You’re not. But I’m in no place to give anyone what they deserve right now. My head’s not right. Hasn’t been for a while. The sabbatical didn’t fix it the way I hoped. I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of that. You’re a great girl. You are. You’re smart, you’re responsible, you work hard… you’re going to find someone. But that person isn’t me.”
“Yeah,” you said, above a whisper, the hurt turning into something bitter. “I was just convenient. I was there, in your house, threw myself at you, and you took it. That’s all it was.”
Robby looked away for a long moment, then back at you. “It wasn’t… look, I’m barely keeping my head above water right now. The pitt, the department, everything that sent me on that sabbatical in the first place… I’m drowning. I came back early because the quiet out there was worse than the noise here. I can’t deal with this shit on top of everything else. I can’t.” The silence that followed was long and painful. He glanced toward his bike, then back at you. “I gotta head out. Try to get some rest. And… if you need to talk about the kid from today, my door’s open. As your attending.”
The professional offer felt like throwing salt in the wound, but you nodded once, unable to trust your voice. Robby gave you one last look, tired, a little regretful, but final, and then turned and walked away.
Trinity appeared at your side almost immediately, as if she’d been just a few feet away, quietly waiting for the conversation between Robby and you to end. She was unusually quiet for once. “You okay?” she asked, surprisingly soft.
You shook your head, your eyes burning as you watched Robby disappear on his bike around the corner. “No,” you whispered. “Not even a little.”
A/N: Your support genuinely means so much to me. Nothing makes me happier than reading your comments and thoughts about my fics, and if you don’t feel like writing anything, just know that a reblog takes one second and helps writers so much🩷
I’ve had this idea sitting in my brain for such a long time. I thought about it a lot and had so many scenes already fully pictured in my head, and I finally managed to put it into words.
I know the ending might feel a little underwhelming. I’m not really used to writing endings that aren’t happy😭 I honestly don’t know if I’ll write a second part or not, but just know that even when I don’t write sequels, my stories always get a happy ending in my head… because if you’re not happy, then it’s not really the end. I hope you enjoyed the angst, it’s been a while since I last wrote something like this.
I know all of you love unprotected sex and creampies, and trust me, I do too. I don’t think I’ve ever written a fic where the characters use a condom (sue me lol). But in this case, it felt necessary. I wanted the sex between them to feel colder, more distant, more emotionally detached. Using a literal barrier that prevented full skin-to-skin contact just felt perfect for what I was trying to convey. I wanted people to feel some of the same frustration reader was feeling, wanting to feel Robby fully, wanting that closeness, but not being able to have it.
♡ synopsis: when a med student accidentally sticks you with an anesthetic intended for a patient, jack sits with you until its effects wear off to ensure you don't have an allergic reaction. while under the effects of the drug, you make many confessions which he finds to be both entertaining and endearing.
♡ content: pining!robby, medical inaccuracies, reader being under the influence of anesthetics, jack gets handsy on the roof, ogilvie is on night shift for this one bc i say so
♡ a/n: based on this request by @styx03, ty!
Allowing a med student to sedate a patient was clearly not the right course of action. You're not even sure who gave them the order to, or if they just heard a command for an anesthetic to be administered and chose to take it upon theirself to be the one for the job, but either way... You've now become the patient because of their eagerness to impress.
Stumbling back on your feet, your vision swims and the room tilts while raised voices yell. You think one is Jack's. You want to tell Ogilvie that it's okay, because accidents happen and you're sure you'll be fine. Hopefully. Instead, however, your attempted words slur into something incomprehensible while your eyes cross. Just as you descend toward the floor, a strong pair of arms catch you.
Jack most assuredly ripped Ogilvie a new one. He's never been so enraged here at work, since he's a man who prides himself on the trained ability to keep his cool under duress. After all, if he could bark orders while bullets rained down on his unit overseas, then an ED would and has been a cakewalk in comparison.
Until you came along, apple of his eye.
You'd been so shy initially—presumedly because you felt intimidated—but intent on seeking you out, Jack refused to let you slip from his grasp. So he tutored you in field medicine (maybe to show his skills off, even a little), gifted you a beautiful hardback copy of Gray's Anatomy, a fancy carrying case for your stethoscope, and this year for your birthday, a $200 prepaid Visa gift card to spend as you pleased. A present you'd been insistent on giving back, until he threatened to up the amount to $300 if you didn't accept it.
The more you bonded, the more the scales tipped from teacher and student to something else that he didn't really have the words for. What is it the kids call it nowadays? He heard it from one of the residents before... Situationship. Obnoxious, but he supposes appropriate.
What else is he meant to call it when he barely even calls you by your name anymore—instead opting for sweetheart, darlin', honey, baby doll, pumpkin; any and all pet names that he can come up with which earn him a sweet, bashful smile in return?
When the two of you are on a case together, he's always at your back or side to supervise your actions and decision making while showering you in quiet praise all the while. And anytime you have a particularly hard day? Jack gathers you in his arms and holds you suffocatingly close while insisting on taking you to a quiet dinner after... Or breakfast. Whatever you wish is his command.
But it's not all heaviness and burnout. It's also joking around by snapping rubber bands at your ass and tickling you until you're begging for a reprieve—lest you wet yourself—because your smile is his favorite sight, and your musical laugh or joyous cackle his favorite sounds.
He's waiting for the day HR comes down on his head like a hammer, but he's also aware that PTMC can't exactly afford to lose his expertise, so he feels pretty comfortable in toeing the line here and there.
So when your body went stumbling back because of Ogilvie acting first and hardly thinking at all, he hit the roof.
A gurney was unnecessary when he cradled you against his chest and carried you into a private room before lying you back on a hospital bed so he could wait at your side for the medication to wear off.
He continually took your vitals every handful of minutes, afraid the substance would wreak havoc on your system. With him being unaware of any possible allergies you may or may not have, sitting idly by while watching the clock simply wasn't an option. He needed to make himself of use somehow.
While running a soothing hand over your forehead is when you finally stir and blink up at Jack from beneath drooping lids.
Loosing a long, ragged breath of relief, the tightness in Jack's chest dissipates. "Hey, sweetheart," he coos quietly. "How you feelin'?"
Your tautly drawn features quickly morph into that of a scrunched nose and a toothy grin. "You're s'handsome," you slur while lifting a wobbly hand toward his cheek.
Practically slapping it against the stubbled skin, you giggle, which is then followed by your eyes suddenly widening to the size of saucers while your lips form a perfect O. "Are you my husband?" you inquire breathlessly.
Are you taking the piss or is the injection still wearing off?
"Honey—"
You toss your head back. "Jus' kidding," you drawl. "Never be that lucky," you mumble with a pout.
Waving your hand floppily that he should lean in closer, he does so with an amused smirk.
"I think 'm in love with you," you murmur while fisting the neck of his shirt and tugging him toward you.
Suddenly pulled out of his seat, Jack stumbles forward and barely manages to catch himself by planting a hand on your hip before you guide his lips down to your own.
Thank God he pulled the curtain around to give you a bit of privacy, because if anybody caught him in such a compromising position?
He jolts when you slip your tongue in his mouth and moan lustfully while exploring the warm, wet lay of it. Not a man to take advantage, though, especially of you, Jack breaks away reluctantly. A gesture which is met with a long, drawn out No from you.
Seating himself again, he tries literally to wipe the smirk from his face by scrubbing a hand from his cheekbones to jawline, but it does him little good.
"You're s'posed to say it baaack," you whine between chattering teeth.
With a sigh, Abbot shakes his head, then reaches over you to grab the remote for the electric blanket he draped over you just incase, until you lift your head and chomp down on his forearm.
Your lips recede into a smile while you nibble on the skin between your teeth.
He barks a laugh, then slips the limb from your mouth while turning the blanket to high heat. "You're somethin' else," he commentates while tucking the edges securely around your shivering form.
"But you love me," you whisper before your eyes flutter closed.
Cupping your cheek in his hand, he smiles softly. "If only you knew how much."
When you come-to, you feel groggy and ran through. Your memory pretty well begins and ends with you passing out just after being injected with something you shouldn't have been.
You've seen the videos—funny little snippets where people divulge hilarious admittances and embarrassing secrets while under the influence—so you of course begin to panic a little when your eyes slowly draw open. What if you said or did something? Maybe you were left alone to recuperate on your own?
When your head lulls to the side, that hope is quickly shot dead at the sight of Robby leaned back in a chair with an iPad held at a bit of a distance.
"Got my test results on there?" you ask quietly.
Lowering the device, the daytime attending studies you from over the rim of his glasses. Robby sets the tablet aside, then leans forward and caresses your cheek with a smile. "How you feeling?"
You blink sleepy eyes. "Tired. Which I shouldn't be if I slept long enough for you to get here."
He snorts quietly. "Being under anesthesia is hardly the same as sleeping. You know that."
You roll your eyes. "It's called sarcasm," you groan while sitting up.
"Easy," Robby mutters while settlings his hands over the crowns of your shoulders to keep you steady.
Hanging your head in exhaustion, you sigh. "Was anybody in here when you clocked in?"
"Abbot."
You wince. "Did I...do or say anything?"
His lips twitch into a smile. "If you did, he didn't tell me as much. Just asked me to sit with you so he could get back to it before his shift ended."
You lift your head. "You don't have to waste your time in here—"
He clicks his tongue while giving your chin a gentle, affectionate tap. "I'd never call it that." Robby slides a hand down the back of your head after standing. "Watching you sleep was the most peace I've gotten in..." he shakes his head while turning and pulling the curtain aside. "Too long," he mutters.
"Could have that all the time if I could only get you to come onto the dayshift with me," Robby states while turning around with hands on his hips. "Might do you some good to see a bit of daylight every once in awhile."
You grin while swinging your feet. "Are you trying to poach me from Abbot's team?"
He meets your smile. "Always." Robby walks over and grabs the iPad again. "It'd give me a reason to look forward to coming in here again every day at least."
Robby offers you a hand, which you take. Once you're standing on two feet again, you take a moment to catch your bearings.
Sliding an arm around your shoulders, Robby slowly leads you toward the door. "You're not just Abbot's favorite, you know?"
You glance up to him. "Oh?"
He presses a kiss to your brow before swinging open the door and holding it for you. "Just something for you to consider. Incase the nights ever get too long."
With your shift at an end, you decide to head in the direction of your locker to gather your things before heading home. A long soak in the tub, followed by plenty of rest sounds pretty nice. Maybe some Chinese takeout while you're at it. Or Thai.
"Robby tells me that you seem to be feeling better."
Clicking your locker shut, you turn and smile at the sight of Jack standing just a few feet away with an easy grin playing on his lips, matched by hands stuck in his pockets.
"Think so," you reply with a quiet, casual shrug.
"You heading home?" he asks while ambling closer.
"Planning on it."
Slipping your bag from your shoulder, he hefts it onto his instead. "How about," Jack begins while leading you in the direction of the elevators with your hand held in his, "You come up on the roof with me now that you're awake and let me watch you for a bit to make sure there's no residual effects."
You huff dramatically. "Jack, I really do feel fine."
Pressing the button that'll lead the two of you up, he cups the crown of your shoulder in his hand and brings you in close. "That is to still be determined."
The elevator dings and steel doors slide apart, inviting the two of you into an empty chamber.
"By me," he concludes while ushering you inside with an encouraging push.
With one arm wrapped around yourself, you settle the other over your mouth to suppress a laugh of disbelief. "Of course you and Robby have folding chairs up here," you remark with a giggle.
Popping one open, Jack nods to it, indicating it as your designated seat. "Could always look into a tent," he states while settling the other beside it. "If it meant getting you snuggled up next to me in a sleeping bag."
Plopping down in the offered chair, you rest an elbow on the fabric arm and your chin in your palm.
Jack tugs off his prosthetic, then leans back with a sigh. "That feels better."
"Maybe we get an extra big one. Or a blow-up mattress," you quip happily.
Jack clasps his hands over his belly. "Why's that, pumpkin?"
You flash a grin. "Maybe Robby can join us."
Hanging his head back, he shakes it from side to side. "Don't tell me he was making moves on my girl while I was busy saving lives this morning."
You shrug while wiggling your brows playfully.
"So..." You begin while picking nervously at your nails. "Did I say anything?"
"To me or Robby?" Jack asks while massaging his leg.
You roll your eyes. "Apart from me asking Robby to take his shirt off," you remark sarcastically.
Jack snickers and his mouth curves into a lopsided grin. "Without me there to see it?"
You remain silent as you wait for him to fess up.
"You, uh..." he trails off, then barks a laugh.
Oh no...
Jack glances at you. "You might've bit me," he says while cringing mischievously in an attempt to downplay things.
"I what?!" you cry while leaning toward him in shock.
Jack throws himself back against the chair and lies his arms palm face up. "Well, after you got done harping on my good looks, you got cold, so I went to switch on the heated blanket that I put you under and you just chomped down," he explains whole gesturing toward his right forearm with his hand drawn into the shape of a claw. "It was more like a nibble, though." He shrugs and bestows a reassuring smile. "You didn't break skin, so don't worry about it."
Burying your face in your hands, you shake your head. "Oh, this is mortifying." Dropping them into your lap, you stare at the skyline. "I'm so sorry."
Studying him from beneath your lashes, you nervously chew your lip. "Anything else?"
Please say no, please say no.
He smiles warmly—almost bashfully, in fact. "Asked if I was your husband. Then you broke character, and let me know you were just kidding."
It can't get any worse, surely.
Doubling over, you rest your elbows on your knees, then press your forehead against the heels of your palms. "Please tell me that's it."
He should let it go—leave things as they are. But Jack can't help it: wanting to hear that it wasn't just because you were high as a kite.
That feelings are mutual, and always have been.
When the sound of silence descends, you raise your head. "Jack?"
He sighs. "I just want you to know that I know it was strictly because you were out of it." Jack turns fully toward you. "That you didn't mean it."
"The more you talk, the more worried I'm getting," you reply with searching eyes.
Clasping his hands together, Jack leans forward slightly. "You..." he sighs. "You told me that you were in love with me."
His eyes flit to yours—attempting to gauge from expression alone whether it was a true utterance, or mere sarcasm. "And then you kissed me."
Your eyes pop wide open. "I—" You clam up.
Is this it? The defining moment that either makes or breaks your and Jack's...situation?
"You know how they say drunk words are sober thoughts?" you ask quietly and with a pattering heart that leaves you short of breath.
Jack's chin wobbles, but only slightly. "Yeah?"
You nod, and a sob breaks last your watery smile.
"C'mere, honey," he commands with a wave of his hand.
Rising from your seat, Jack guides your hips until you're seated on his generous lap. "Can you say it again?" he asks quietly while smoothing a hand across your brow.
You press your forehead to his and hum from the feeling of the rising sun warming your back. "I love you," you whisper while winding soft, gentle hands around his neck. "Jack."
Cupping his own around the curve of your neck, he guides your lips down to his this time. "'Bout damn time we got that outta the way," he murmurs before kissing you the way he's meant to so many times.
Jack teases your tongue with a wet, pointed tip which he slides along the underside of your own.
"How about," he pants. "I take you home just to be safe." A calloused palm scratches its way along the polyester that covers your inner thigh.
"Y-Yours or mine?" you whimper.
Squeezing your hip temptingly, he nips at your chin. "Better take you to mine to keep an eye on you. Help you in the shower," he drawls with a bored shrug. "I have a chair in there. It'll make things more comfortable when I help. Then I can fix you dinner before we go to bed. Together."
Carefully, he prods at the heat which radiates from between your thighs. "Would you like that, sweetpea?"
"Pretty dizzy all of a sudden," you sigh.
"Let me get my leg back on and I'll take you home, baby."
Rising from his lap, you stand to the side and wait for him to store he and Robby's chairs back away before following excitedly along so he can take you home for further eventful flirtations.
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: 4.6k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension, sick abbot payday, tidbits into their past that i dont plan on explaining, reader questioning everything like always
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
A/N: everyone thank @thehawkeyes for the sick jack scene ideas and inspiration <3
It was ridiculous.
You and Jack had gone from barely surviving each other’s presence to falling into routines so naturally it almost scared you.
Almost too naturally.
You woke up tangled together this morning.
It wasn’t intentional, at least not at first. But now after a second morning of waking up half draped over him with his arm locked around your waist like it was any other sunrise, there was no point in pretending otherwise.
The showers had become routine too. ‘Efficient’, supposedly—because Jack Abbot suddenly cared about saving water.
“You won’t even be around to see the world lose its water supply,” you’d said as he handed you the sleek bottle of shampoo.
“Ouch,” he chuckled, sitting up a little straighter against the marble shower bench. “I’m letting you use the expensive stuff and here you are calling me old.”
You rolled your eyes, squeezing some into your palm before scrubbing your hands together.
“Who said I’m using it?” you smirked, stepping closer.
His brows lifted slightly just before your fingers disappeared into his damp hair. And then he went still. Like the act caught him off guard, but in the best way.
You worked the shampoo through slowly, watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes fluttered shut for a brief second, head tipping back just slightly into your touch before he caught himself.
“You would use Redken,” you teased softly. “Boujee bitch.”
A quiet laugh rumbled out of him, low in his chest. “What’s the point of being an attending if you don’t live lavishly?”
Steam curled thick between you both, warm against your skin and fogging the glass around the shower. You tried very hard to focus on what you were doing—your fingers in his hair, the water running over your wrists, the very normal task of washing shampoo out.
Not the fact that you stood between his thighs. Not the toned stretch of his shoulders directly in front of you.
Definitely not the water slowly tracing down his chest and making your brain short-circuit every couple of seconds.
You shifted your footing slightly and nearly slipped down the drain.
Jack’s hand shot out instantly, gripping your thigh to steady you before you could stumble backward.
“You okay there?” he asked, eyes squinting open now, amused.
“Wet floor,” you muttered weakly.
“Mm,” he hummed, not sounding convinced in the slightest. “Careful. This would be the worst way to tell all of our colleagues about us.”
Your heart couldn’t help but flutter at the subtle mention of this stretching beyond quarantine—but you wouldn’t get your hopes up too high. You’d continue with this new routine, taking it one hour at a time. In the chance that, in four more days, this would come to end.
So you focused on what was in front of you: now, breakfast.
You stood at the stove in one of his faded police training shirts and sleep shorts, flipping pancakes while Jack stood at the island cutting fruit with a focus typically used for more intense operations.
It shouldn’t feel this natural, you told yourself.
“You’re burning them,” he said without looking up.
“I’m literally not.”
“You’re thinking too hard. Your pancake technique could use work.”
You scoffed. “My pancake technique?”
“Mhm.”
“You’re incredibly bossy in the kitchen.”
“Hasn’t kept you from it,” he murmured, finally glancing up.
You pointed the spatula at him. “You’re getting cocky.”
“I’ve earned it, haven’t I?” He threw a blueberry into his mouth. “How many times was that last night?”
Your jaw dropped slightly. “Oh my God.”
That earned you a real laugh. Low and warm. It caught you off guard every time.
Because you wanted more of this version of Jack—the one who laughed in his kitchen at eight in the morning, hair still damp from the shower, looking at you like you were something he wanted around.
This Jack felt almost…fake compared to the man you’d spent three years arguing with in trauma bays.
But somehow, both versions of him were real.
And that was something that still kept you on edge, blinking at the ceiling while he snored softly next to you. At what point would that version of him return?
You slid a slightly burnt pancake onto a plate with a huff. “I liked you better when you were emotionally repressed.”
“That’s a lie.”
It was.
“Yep. You’ve gone cocky on me.”
“Not smug?”
“You’ve graduated,”
“Dangerous thing to tell a man,”
And there it was—that intensity in his stare reserved only for you. He looked at you like this in moments of argument, and just recently, in moments of passion. Making you think back to how long he’s been looking at you in this way, and you couldn’t really remember a time when he didn’t.
The realization made you pause for half a second too long. And unfortunately for you, Jack noticed everything.
His brows lifted slightly, satisfaction flickering across his face so quickly most people would’ve missed it.
Which meant he knew he’d won that round.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“That.” You pointed vaguely at his face. “Whatever smug little internal celebration is happening right now.”
“Thought I was cocky?” he murmured.
You rolled your eyes so hard you thought you might actually topple over, which only worsened when he caught you around the waist before you could escape. A noise of protest left you immediately as he tugged you back against him, your shoulders hitting his chest.
“Get of—”
His laugh rumbled low against your ear, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as you attempted to pry his arms off.
“You’re the worst,” you muttered, squirming halfheartedly in his grip.
“You like it,” he said smoothly, tightening his hold just enough to keep you there. “Always have,”
You huffed, stubbornly resisting on principle alone, but his embrace stayed firm around you. Quicker than you’d like to admit, though, you found yourself relaxing, your back settling more fully against him as his chin brushed your temple.
It was ridiculous.
You were standing barefoot in your attending’s kitchen making pancakes while he held you against him like he’d been doing it for years.
But you knew you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.
Later that afternoon, you were stretched across the couch pretending to read.
Pretending being the operative word.
Your book had sat open to the same page for the last fifteen minutes while your attention drifted toward the front windows every couple of seconds. Outside, the sky had turned overcast again, condensation thick on the glass from the faint drizzle that had started twenty minutes ago.
And you missed him. There, you said it.
You could admit that when he said he was going for his afternoon run—the one he did daily, and shouldn’t be a surprise to you—you were slightly bummed. So, here you sat, waiting.
You heard the front door unlock before you saw him. Followed by the soft pad of running shoes against hardwood.
Your eyes lifted immediately.
And your stomach dropped a little.
He looked… off.
Subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But after ten straight days trapped in a house together, years of watching his every move, learning the cadence of his breathing and the look of his face when he was tired versus irritated versus relaxed—
Yeah, you noticed the things most people probably wouldn’t.
His cheeks were paler than usual beneath the flush of physical exertion, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead. His chest rose heavier than it normally did after a run, each inhale sounding rougher, congested somewhere deep in his lungs.
And then he spoke.
“Hey,” he greeted, voice noticeably raspier than it had been that morning.
Your brows pulled together instantly. “You sound terrible.”
He snorted softly, toeing off his shoes near the door. “Very warm welcome home.”
You ignored the flip of your heart at that last word.
“Jack.”
“What?”
You sat up straighter, book forgotten entirely now as he moved toward the kitchen. There was a stiffness to him too, you realized. Like his body ached and he was trying not to show it.
“You’re breathing weird.”
That made him glance over his shoulder, unimpressed. “Breathing weird?”
“Yes,” you said firmly, now standing with your arms crossed. “Like an eighty-year-old smoker.”
“Bit dramatic.”
You gave him a pointed look. “You sound congested.”
“I just ran five miles.”
“I know how much cardio you can do without losing your stamina.”
That earned you a small hmph of amusement, though it dissolved quickly into a cough he tried to hide behind the back of his fist.
Tried.
Failed.
Your expression shifted immediately.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m fine.”
“Where’s your kit?”
“Absolutely not.”
The response came fast and sharp, his voice dropping instantly into that familiar tone of authority that used to make residents scatter.
It almost caught you off guard. Almost.
“Jack, come on. You helped me—”
“I don’t need your help.”
Your brows furrowed immediately, that old spark igniting in your chest so naturally it was almost muscle memory. There he was. Your attending again.
“Oh, you don’t?”
“I don’t.”
“Funny,” you scoffed, crossing your arms, “I don’t remember needing yours the other day either, but you didn’t exactly give me a choice.”
“That’s because you did need the help.”
“Actually,” you fired back, stepping closer, “I manage just fine without you. I do it every single day outside of this quarantine, by the way.”
His lips pursed slightly. “You need me all the time.”
He may as well have dumped a bathtub full of gasoline on the fire in your chest.
You barked out an incredulous laugh. “No, I don—”
“Who’s the first person you come to when you’re questioning a med dosage?”
“That is not—” but he continued before you could recover.
“Who do you look for across the ED after a bad code?” he cut in smoothly. “Who do you hand difficult family conversations off to when you know they’re getting under your skin?”
You could only stare at him, eyes narrowing.
Jack pushed off the counter slowly, stepping closer despite the exhaustion still written across his face.
“And who,” he said quieter now, “goes up to the roof pretending to look for me when really you just want five minutes to breathe?”
Your stomach dropped a little.
Because that one…that one hit too close.
You blinked up at him. “You knew that?”
His expression softened just slightly, though his voice stayed rough from illness.
“You think I don’t know you by now?” He murmured. “‘Sides, I know the look of someone sneaking off to the stairwell,”
Your brows pinched together. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He gave you a look that immediately flipped the question back onto you. “Why didn’t you?”
You shrugged one shoulder, suddenly feeling strangely shy about it. “I figured you’d think it was weird I was kind of hijacking your spot.”
“I always hoped to find you up there at the same time.”
You physically felt some of your irritation thaw at the confession. Warmth slipped into your chest before your brain caught up.
Your gaze narrowed immediately. “No. Absolutely not. You do not get to flirt your way out of this.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Worth a shot.”
“You need to be examined.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
“You can’t treat yourself or family,” you shot back instantly. “You know the rules.”
“Then I’ll make it through the same way I did in the desert,” he said. “Tough it out.”
You stared at him flatly. “Jack.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I’m serious too,” you argued, “Your breathing sounds worse, you’re pale, you’ve been coughing every five minutes, and your voice sounds like you swallowed gravel.”
“Again with the dramatics.”
“You say that every time I’m right.”
That earned you a tired sigh of amusement, but it dissolved quickly when another cough caught him harder this time. He turned away slightly into his elbow, shoulders tightening through it before he exhaled slowly.
And when he looked back at you—
you saw it.
The exhaustion was clear on his face. The effort it was taking to pretend he wasn’t feeling as bad as he clearly was.
Your frustration softened immediately.
“Hey,” you said quieter now.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
Something in his expression shifted at that. Not fully falling apart—Jack Abbot probably wouldn’t know how to do that if he tried—but enough that you could see the crack in the facade.
“You’ve spent your entire career taking care of everyone else,” you continued gently. “Let somebody take care of you for like…ten minutes.”
For once, he didn’t immediately argue.
He just looked at you for a long second, jaw tight like accepting help physically pained him.
“Five minutes?” he asked, voice rough.
Your mouth twitched slightly. “To start.”
A reluctant smile pulled at his face despite himself. “Bossy,” he muttered again.
“Yeah, yeah,” you said softly, guiding him toward the couch. “Sit down, Abbot.”
He obeyed, though, letting you trail after him into the living room as he lowered himself onto the couch with a sigh. His head tipped back against the cushion for a moment before he lifted a hand vaguely toward the closet near the front door, silently directing you toward the medical kit.
You tried not to look too smug about the fact that he’d finally given in.
“Good choice,” you muttered as you crossed the room.
“I take it back already.”
“Too late.”
You found the kit exactly where he’d pointed, still organized in that irritatingly precise only Jack could. Everything was neatly stocked, every compartment was zipped and labeled like he took pride in it. Which, knowing him, he probably did.
By the time you returned, he’d slouched slightly deeper into the couch, muscled legs spread out in front of him, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.
This felt very different than when he’d taken care of you. Then, every touch had been careful. Restrained. Heavy with tension and things unsaid.
Now, you moved toward him easily.
You pulled the stethoscope from the kit, slipping the earpieces in before slowly stepping between his thighs. You knelt down to be at his level from where he sat, but his eyes were downcast to you.
“Shirt up,” you instructed.
One of his brows lifted faintly. “You enjoying this a little too much?”
“A concerning amount, actually.”
A tired laugh rumbled out of him as he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up enough for you to press the diaphragm against his chest.
And there it was again—that irony. The ease of it.
You didn’t even pretend to hesitate the way he had with you. You didn’t hover in anticipation of what touching him might feel like.
Because you knew.
Your hand settled naturally against his side to steady yourself as you listened to his lungs, fully focused now in the way practicing medicine always sharpened you.
Though unfortunately for your professionalism, his body did not help.
Warm skin beneath your fingertips. Damp from sweat still lingering from his run. His breathing deeper now that he was sitting still, chest rising slowly under the stethoscope as you moved it across different points of his chest.
“Deep breath,” you murmured out of habit.
He obeyed, but immediately coughed afterward.
Your expression flattened. “Oh, that sounds fucked.”
”You always speak to patients this way?” He grunted.
“Only my favorite ones.”
“Oh, a compliment. Finally.”
“I’m serious.” You pulled the stethoscope away slightly, brows furrowing as you listened again. “You’re thick.”
Jack tilted his head back against the couch dramatically. “Please never say that to me while sitting like that.”
You stared at him for half a second before a disbelieving laugh escaped you despite yourself.
“Calm down old man, we don’t need you any more tachy than you already are.”
One of his brows lifted lazily. “Then change your position.”
Your eyes narrowed instantly before flicking downward, realizing how you were sitting—half perched between his knees, leaning in close enough to feel the tension rolling off him.
“The best thing you can do right now is rest,” you said, shifting back into doctor mode before he could capitalize on your embarrassment any further. “If yours follows the same timeline mine did, it’ll probably hit hardest tonight.”
His expression tightened slightly at that, subtle. You noticed anyway.
Your voice softened a little. “Want some soup?”
“I don’t need you doing all this.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I just—” He cut himself off abruptly, turning away as another cough hit him harder this time. Lower. Throatier. The kind that made your own chest ache from just remembering how that felt.
When it finally subsided, he exhaled slowly through his nose, clearly annoyed with himself more than anything else.
You watched him for a second before speaking more gently.
“Why don’t you go grab a shower,” you suggested. “I’ll bring you some meds after.”
One of his eyes opened excitedly. “In the shower?”
You stared at him flatly, though heat still crept annoyingly into your cheeks.
“Nice try.”
That earned you a tired grin—small, fleeting, but real. “There she is,”
Despite your attempts, Jack didn’t let you help with much else.
He refused to eat in bed on principle alone, even though the effort it took to sit upright at the kitchen counter was visibly taxing on him. You watched him stubbornly straighten every time his posture started to slump, jaw tight with determination.
“You know you’re not getting graded on this, right?” you’d muttered while setting a bowl of soup in front of him.
“I have an image to maintain.”
“You’re sweating into the soup.”
“I’m persevering.”
The medicine had somehow been worse.
You’d opened the bottle and handed him the appropriate dose only for him to squint at it suspiciously like you were attempting to poison him. As if you didn’t do this for your literal career.
Then he said something that made you believe he didn’t do this for his career: “I’ll sleep off the fever.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Did it all the time overseas.”
“You mean in the military?”
“In the war, yes.”
“In the war.” You repeated, staring at him flatly. “That is the least medically sound sentence you’ve ever spoken to me.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I’m serious too,” you argued, shaking the pills slightly in your hand. “You’re running a fever, your lungs sound awful, and earlier, you coughed so hard I think it was autotuned. Take the medication.”
“I don’t like taking meds unless I absolutely have to.”
You scoffed. “You are literally a doctor.”
“Exactly. I know what side effects they all have.”
That’s how you ended up where you were now: leaning against the side of his bed sometime close to midnight, watching him sweat through a 102-degree fever. Sans medication.
You’d argued all evening over the smallest things. How much water he needed to drink. How many blankets to use. At one point, the two of you had spent a solid five minutes debating if he was technically “chillsy.” Then another two debating if that was even a word.
And somehow, despite the fever burning through him, he still had enough energy to be the exact same Jack Abbot you knew in the PTMC.
Arrogant. Stubborn. Positively infuriating.
“You’re hovering again,” he rasped from the bed without opening his eyes.
You stared at him in disbelief. “You have a hundred-and-two-degree fever.”
“Mhm.”
”You’re burning up. At least take a layer off.”
“You just want to see me without clothes on.”
“So far, I haven’t needed you to be sick to achieve that.”
One corner of his mouth twitched faintly despite the exhaustion dragging at him. His dark hair was damp against the pillow, curls forming slightly at the ends from sweat as he shifted restlessly beneath the sheets.
You watched him for another moment, concern tugging harder in your chest than you wanted to acknowledge.
Because he looked bad now. Not catastrophically bad—you knew how to spot the difference—but bad enough that your brain refused to fully relax.
“You should really take something,” you tried again, softer this time.
“No.”
“Jack–”
“--I don’t need it–”
“You are not invincible!” you snapped.
The words came out louder than intended, sharp enough that his eyes opened immediately, squinting slightly up at you like the size of your reaction had genuinely caught him off guard.
“I know that—”
“Do you?” you cut in, quieter now but no less firm. “Because your hobbies are genuinely lethal, you hang out on the roof for Christ’s sake, and now you’re refusing to take simple acetaminophen for what? To prove some point?”
Jack exhaled slowly through his nose, looking suddenly exhausted, and not from the fever.
“…I don’t need you thinking I’m weak, okay?”
Your face twisted instantly. “Why the hell would I think you’re weak for taking Tylenol?”
“No,” he corrected tiredly, dragging a hand over his face. “The whole thing. Having to do all of this. Take care of me.”
The admission sounded rough coming out of him, like every word had to be pried loose by hand. But you weren’t going to get in the way of something real finally coming to the surface.
He stared up at the ceiling for a second before continuing more quietly.
“I’m already a hell of a lot older than you.” A humorless breath escaped him. “Kind of a turn-off seeing me all fragile and dependent like this.”
This wasn’t about Tylenol. It wasn’t even about him falling sick.
It was about Jack—steady, capable, impossible-to-shake Jack—genuinely believing that needing care from you would somehow make you want him less.
You stared at him for a long moment.
“Jack,” you said carefully, like you were approaching something delicate. “You really think I look at you right now and see someone weak?”
“I’m just…not used to being on this side of it.”
Jack Abbot was the one people leaned on. The one people called into mass casualties because he would know what to do. The one who held the building together so everyone else could fall apart safely around him.
And the man who, at the end of those terrible days, took his suffering to the roof where no one had to witness its depth.
Which begged the question: if he took care of everyone else, who took care of him?
You scooted closer to the bed slowly, now slightly pressed against his torso.
“Listen to me,” you murmured. “You being sick doesn’t suddenly make me stop…” You trailed off briefly, heat rising into your cheeks despite the seriousness of the moment. Hopefully, he would forget about it in the haze of the fever. “Feeling the way I feel about you.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve been trying to show you that all day.”
His eyes dropped for a moment, thoughtful, like he was debating something internally. You watched the conflict move across his face before he finally sighed and glanced back up at you.
“My leg is killing me.”
Your brows furrowed softly, before you realized what he was asking of you. The air surrounding you suddenly felt thicker.
Over the last few days, you’d grown used to the more private realities of Jack’s life. In the emergency department, he was put together. Efficient. Most patients didn’t even know that Jack Abbot was missing a major part of one of his limbs.
But here, in his home, it was more obvious. The extra time it took after showers. The absentminded adjustments he made after long periods on his feet. You’d watched him move through it all with such practice that half the time you forgot there was effort involved at all.
But this felt different.
He’d never let you help. Not when you shared his bed, or when you showered together. This was something else entirely.
Something way more vulnerable.
You held his gaze carefully, giving him every opportunity to take it back.
But he didn’t.
Your head was nodding before your mouth moved. “Okay,” you answered quietly.
Something in his face loosened at your expression alone. His eyes held something close to…hope.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright against the headboard, movements noticeably stiffer now that the fever had settled deeper. Your chest tightened watching him try not to show it.
“You don’t have to—” he started automatically.
“—Jack,” you interrupted gently. “It’s okay.”
He went quiet after that.
Carefully, you shifted closer as he reached down beneath the sheets. There was no embarrassment in the motion, no shame—just habit. Routine. But you still noticed the faint tension in his jaw when he detached the prosthetic, setting it carefully beside the bed.
Like some part of him was bracing for your reaction anyway.
Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.
Nothing about him looked smaller to you. If anything, the trust sitting between you now felt enormous.
“C’mere,” you murmured softly.
He hesitated only briefly before extending his leg toward you slightly.
Your hands moved carefully, mindful and gentle as you worked them along the muscles of his thigh, feeling how tight everything had become beneath your touch. He exhaled sharply through his nose the second your thumbs pressed into a particularly tense spot.
“There?” you asked quietly.
“Mm.”
You glanced up instinctively, only to find him already watching you. It wasn’t guarded, or tense, but it was…soft. Almost reverent.
“You know,” you said lightly, trying to ease some of the intensity suddenly building in the room, “for someone who hates being taken care of, you’re being weirdly cooperative.”
A tired smile tugged weakly at his mouth. “Don’t ruin it.”
You breathed a quiet laugh, continuing to work your hands carefully over the soreness.
And after a long silence, his head tipped back against the headboard, eyes finally falling shut with trust.
You continued for several more minutes, gradually relaxing into the rhythm of it. Your hands moved slower now, more confident, learning him through touch the same way you had in every other aspect of this relationship—attentively listening for every subtle cue his body gave you.
The room had gone quiet outside of the soft rain tapping against the windows and the occasional roughness in his breathing. His fever still flushed his skin warm beneath your hands, but he looked more comfortable now than he had all evening.
You glanced up briefly and found him watching you again, lids heavy with exhaustion.
“What?” you murmured.
His thumb brushed absently against the comforter beside him. “Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
A faint smile ghosted across his face. “You’re very good at this.”
The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.
You looked back down at his leg, focusing on smoothing your hands along the tense muscle there so he wouldn’t see the way your expression softened.
“I’m literally just rubbing your leg.”
“You’re taking care of me.”
The simple way he said it made your chest tighten unexpectedly.
“I, uh…” You suddenly took interest in where your thumbs continued to create circles into his muscle. “I don’t mind it. I like doing it.”
“Thank you.”
That almost undid you entirely.
Because Jack thanked people all the time in the automatic, professional way doctors did. Quick acknowledgments between trauma calls and impossible shifts.
This was so much different.
“You don’t have to thank me for this.”
“I know.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still wanted to.”
Heat crept slowly into your chest at the look on his face.
Not from desire this time, but from something way deeper, that you weren’t ready to name.
You cleared your throat softly, trying to recover first. “Your fever’s making you emotional.”
“Probably.”
“And needy.”
One of his brows lifted faintly, eyes darkening slightly. “Careful.”
You smiled despite yourself, looking back down before he could see too much on your face.
♡ synopsis: when dr. park is called down to the ed for a consult, jack's jealousy is riled when he gets a little too familiar with you, & you're then made to spend the rest of the evening reassuring him that you belong to one man only.
♡ content: park gets flirty, jack is jelly, pining!robby, medical inaccuracies, p in v sex, fluff, reader gets some hickeys
♡ a/n: based on these requests, ty!
"What're we lookin' at, angel?" utters Dr. Park when he enters the trauma bay you and a small team of others are currently assigned to. Though, you imagine for not much longer once Brendon has the patient escorted upstairs when he takes over the case.
You make to explain, until Santos, who's just at the end of her shift, but still wanted to see gnarly, exposed bone before she took off, interrupts. "Angel?" she asks suspiciously.
Brendon levels her with his famous, phlegmatic tone. "As in angelfish," he sneers.
She nods with pursed lips and raised brows, as if to silently say Alrighty then.
Tugging at the hem of your scrub shirt, Jack pulls you to the other side of him and places himself between the two of you with crossed arms as he answers all of Park's questions. Though, his inquisition turns more into grilling when his tone suddenly changes shape into that of utter stoicism which borders on downright unfriendly.
Not unusual for him, but there was a reason you had been asked to be present when he came down: you're one of very few in this hospital that a man as hard and daunting as he has a soft spot for.
Before your choosing to practice medicine, you started out your career as his receptionist upstairs. It being one of your first ever jobs, you had wanted to make a good impression, so you constantly strived to meet his needs before he even gave you orders to schedule this, or check on that, or contact so and so about such and such. Didn't take terribly long before you could read his mind by simply reading his chiseled face.
Your first day in his office started with you handing out cookies and fudge and earning a judgmental glare, but ended with him muttering a quick 'See you tomorrow' as he headed out the door.
You had deemed that a good sign that you weren't fired yet, even if he had scoffed at your cutesy stationary and glittery lanyard.
The job had initially felt a tad demeaning, though, in truth: fetching him coffee and lunch from across the street, or scheduling his haircuts and dentist appointments... Until he went from handing you cash to his black card instead once you earned his trust, and told you to 'get yourself something nice' with a wink whenever you ran his errands thereafter.
When he caught you looking at med school applications on your work desktop a handful of months later, you'd panicked and flew into a fit of apologies for using a work device for personal reasons, until he settled a large palm atop your shoulder and told you that he'd write you a glowing letter of recommendation if you were truly serious about it.
Now that he's lost you to Abbot and the ED, however, he wonders if he made the right choice. He takes little shame in being selfish to get what he wants, but he found himself unable to do so when it came to you.
Just can't help but wonder at times why ortho wasn't your chosen specialty, since he likes to believe that working under him played into your decision to go to med school. That he made that much of a positive impression.
Too bad he never got a chance to make another... Like a swollen belly and a ring wrapped round your finger to show that he had finally made a catch of his very own.
Once the patient is prepped for transport, Park nearly shoulder-checks Jack to get around him and to you before giving your waist a gentle squeeze and a murmured 'Come and see me again some time. New one just doesn't know me like you did', to which you force a nod and a feigned smile of agreement while standing back so the gurney can be taken on its way elsewhere.
When you glanced to Jack, he granted you an uneasy look before moving onto the next case which he insisted you join him on.
"Now, grab an 11 blade and I'll guide you through how to do an incision for a pleural effusion."
You turn to head in the direction of the supply cart, until Toomarian reaches you first with the required surgical tool, which you take with a quiet, grateful thanks.
Bending over the patient again, Jack keeps a steady hand against the middle of your back while his other gestures horizontally the way you need to cut. "Fifth intercostal space," Jack drawls close to your ear. "Posteriorly. Good, good."
Once fluid begins to successfully drain, you glance to him with searching eyes for what you should do next.
He's been very attentive this shift. More so than usual, which is remarkable given that Jack tends to keep you with him for at least half his cases anyway. You don't complain, though, as you're always grateful for not only the education and training, but the attention.
Greedy thing that you can tend to be when it comes to the likes of him, getting it at home clearly isn't enough for you, because seeing him in action is so much more attractive.
"Maybe I should come up with a nickname for you," Jack mumbles while studying a perfusion scan from over your shoulder.
"What?" you ask dumbly while slightly turning your head back to him in confusion.
"Angel," he jeers. "I'm sure I could do better than a damn fish."
You snort while scrolling. "You're joking, right?"
"Something different than just honey, sweetheart, baby doll..."
You sigh and shake your head. "Jack, I share your house and let you between my legs every day. You have no reason to be jealous of a silly little nickname."
"Maybe pumpkin," he grumbles while walking away, as if he didn't hear you.
Handing Jack a protein shake fresh from the fridge, he takes it from you with a peck on the lips and quiet "Thank you, sugar."
You raise a brow while fighting off a smirk that's threatening to overtake your features.
Untwisting the cap, his lips tug into a frown. "No, only sounds about half right," he remarks before taking a swig. Returning the cap to the open bottle neck, he squeezes your cheeks between his fingers—causing your lips to pucker.
You know that making a fish joke right now will only set him off further.
"Just remember whose resident you are, alright?"
You blink. "Okur," you murmur through pouty lips.
He releases you. "Might not have been mine first, but you are now," he states while diving in for a kiss.
Just to finish things up, you and Jack end up hanging around the ED for another hour while dayshift begins to file in, including their own attending who finds you before long for a curious conversation.
"Any reason he's such a miserable bastard this morning? Rough night, or did you two have your first fight?"
Tucking unused supplies back into a storage cabinet, you glimpse at Robby. "Huh?"
"Abbot," he explains with crossed arms. "I don't think I've ever seen that man pout, but when I mentioned that I was looking for some follow-up results from ortho, it's like his mood shifted in a completely different direction."
You roll your eyes upward. "I thought he was over it."
"Park do something?"
You press the cabinet shut, then slide your hands into the roomy pockets of your pants. "Around the beginning of my shift, he was called down for a consult. He called me an old nickname, and for whatever reason, it seems like it's really gotten under Jack's skin. It's stupid."
Robby grins slyly and studies you with an affectionate gaze.
"What?" you ask with furrowed brows.
Robby shrugs slightly. "It's not exactly a hidden secret that Park is fond of you. That the two of you have history."
Unfurling, a brow is instead raised in question. "I was his receptionist. That's it..."
He shakes his head. "The few times I've seen him around you down here, it seemed like something more to me. At least on his end. But I guess it's not surprising that you've failed to notice."
These men and making mountains out of molehills...
"You have no idea," he says quietly. "What it feels like to be in love with you. The kind of jealousy that it can stir up."
Like a fish gasping for air, you open and close your mouth a few times before finally shutting it entirely.
"Just let him take you home," he says while grabbing a pair of nitrile gloves. "And remind him that you're his and his alone."
He gives you a peck on the top of the head. "It's what I'd want if I were in his shoes and thought another man was encroaching on what's mine."
He's very quiet on the ride home. Constantly shifting in his seat, you watch from the corner of your eye as Jack runs a hand through his hair, then rests his forearm against the window to his left before placing his palm atop the wheel.
"You okay?" you ask quietly.
He nods while remaining frontward facing.
"You seem sorta upset."
He sighs. "I'm fine. Just tired."
You chew your lip. "Are you mad at me?"
He shakes his head, then switches on the radio to a country station. "Everything's fine."
"I just don't get," Jack grunts while pulling off his prosthetic. "Why, after all this time, he's still calling you that."
You drop your badge onto the dresser and exhale silently. "If you let on that it bothers you, he's just going to keep doing it."
"It should bother you," he complains lowly. "My damn girl."
Your lips tilt into a smile, but you make sure not to let him see it: that you find his jealousy to be entertaining. "C'mon," you say while padding around the bed and grabbing a crutch before extending it toward him. "Let's take a shower together."
"Sure you don't want a bath so that you can swim around a bit?" he asks snidely.
You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at him.
Pushing off the bed, he throws an arm over the offered crutch. "Alright, that was petty of me."
You wait for him to go around you before you slap his ass hard enough to make your palm sting.
"Hey! Behave yourself back there, young lady."
You pinch it next. "No, thanks, old man."
Giving Jack head in the shower didn't exactly go as planned. Due to how long it took to help him develop an erection without the aid of medication, the water was cold by the time he was finally there.
So now he's tired, horny, and irritated. And above all, absolutely a pouty puss.
Dinner is eaten in silence, but at least he finishes the meal you place before him. While he's busying himself with cleaning up the kitchen, you scamper off to the bedroom to throw on a thin piece of lingerie that's seen minimal use since its purchase some time ago, and you wait in a staged, sultry pose upon the bed for him.
And when he pulls back the door, he turns right back around to go get his Viagra with a shit-eating grin on his face.
You're absolutely soaked and throbbing between your legs where he has his cock bottomed-out against you.
Sucking on the tender skin of your neck, Jack's full weight is lain atop your body while he gently rocks his hips against yours.
"Ah, ah, please," you pant needily with arms wrapped around his neck and legs thrown over the backs of his thighs.
Releasing your carotid with a pop, he licks his way to the other side to get to work there next. "That feel good, pumpkin?"
He nibbles on your chin, then kisses your neck again. "Hm, sugar?"
Oh, not the names again...
You know what? Whatever, you're not complaining.
"Talk to me, baby doll."
You nod while sinking your fingers into his sweaty grey curls. "S-So good. Can't get enough."
He withdraws until just his bulbous tip remains against your soaking entrance, then slams back in in one brutal thrust that causes you to cry out his name in ecstasy.
"That's my girl," he purrs. "Enjoy my cock, baby." he leans back and brushes sweat from your brow with his palm. "Because I'm definitely enjoying the pussy that belongs to me."
You squeeze around him and he dips his head to suck on the hollow of your throat.
"Think I might finally have a name for you," he murmurs while gently nipping at your breasts.
"O-Oh?" you sigh.
Bracketing his arms on either side of your head, he leans in close to the shell of your ear. "Mrs. Abbot," he growls.
Your walls flutter around his swollen cock.
"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" he mutters before sucking on your chin.
You nod slowly; noting how lightheaded you feel. "Yes," you whimper.
"So that's a yes? You'll marry me?" Jack bites your earlobe. "Take my name so everybody knows whose property you are?"
God, he's never been so possessive before, even in bed.
You very much like this side of him.
"Really?" you whine in disbelief while opening blurry eyes and gazing up at him.
"Really," he confirms while thrusting his hips against yours. "Awful romantic of me to ask while we're making love, huh?"
You grin with an adorably scrunched-up nose before agreeing wholeheartedly between excited giggles.
"Oh yeah," he says while roaming your soft, naked body with calloused hands. "All of this is mine."
"Jack, what the hell did you do?!" you cry incredulously from the bathroom.
Utterly sated and content, he remains lying back in bed while thumbing through an old western novel without granting a reply.
Roaming your naked skin with a tender palm, you press gingerly against the numerous hickeys that litter your body with hesitant fingertips.
They're absolutely everywhere—your neck, your chin, your breasts, your clavicle. Jack has covered you in signs of him wherever he could reach that would be visible.
Stomping back into the bedroom, you fill with fury at the sight of the lazy grin that's plastered on his smug face. "I can't go to work like this!" you shout. "It's almost July, Jack, so I can't exactly wear a turtleneck to hide these!"
He shrugs while flashing a toothy smirk. "Had to mark you as mine somehow." He settles the novel atop his bare chest. "Which reminds me." He nods toward your shared closet while maneuvering over the edge of the bed. "Your engagement ring is in there."
You throw your head back and groan in irritation... But your anger is soon supplanted by happy tears and a full heart as he retrieves the gleaming piece of jewelry before seating himself on the bed again and asking you with a practiced speech if you'll be his forever.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me, man," Robby says, nearly doubled-over with laughter as you march past with a huff to reach your locker.
You grit your teeth at the sound of him howling behind you.
"You were that jealous over a dumb little nickname?" he cries.
Jack shrugs while tossing down his backpack. "You got any cases I could page him down here for before you take off?"
Robby swipes tears from his cheeks while smiling broadly. "I think I might have one."
summary. — fucking with your attending? bad idea. fucking with your attending in the break room? even worse idea.
warnings. — smut, implied age gap, semi-public sex, english isn’t my first language, idk
a/n. — im lwk on fire. i think i even like this one. someone tell me if it’s actually any good.
you know it’s wrong. you knew it was wrong when it began. but your poor moral compass and knowledge of boundaries didn’t stop you then, and it sure as hell won’t stop you now.
it wasn’t that bad when it first happened. he wasn’t your superior back then. he wasn’t your attending. for the most part of your career at the PTMC you worked the day shifts, always under Robby. truth be told you hadn’t even met Jack for the first few months here, somehow missing him each time the staff changed.
the two of you started sleeping together when you still covered the day shifts, and the first time it had happened you called it a drunken mistake after a coworkers night out at a local bar. until it happened again, stone cold sober, one night a couple of weeks later. your car broke down that day, and he so conveniently came in early for his shift, so he offered to give you a ride. you fucked in the back of his car then, right outside your block.
that night turned into another, and another, and another, and before you knew it, it became a regular occurrence. neither of you labeled it as anything, simply colleagues enjoying each other during their time off work. it wasn’t deep, it wasn’t love. at least that’s what you told yourself.
then things changed. family got messy, circumstances forcing you to switch to night shifts just as you started your last year of residency. you and Jack had to work together all the time now, pretending not to be anything beyond an attending and his resident. you had to be professional, distant, careful not to let anyone notice how close you actually were. Jack wasn’t much of help with that.
and he definitely isn’t helping now, having you pressed against the wall in the break room, his hands trailing down your body. the door isn’t locked, it never is, and anyone could walk in on you two at any given moment. sure, you’re in the corner of the room, one that is the least visible when someone enters, but that doesn’t really mean anything. even if the ER is surprisingly calm tonight, only two traumas having rolled in since your shift started, and it’s already well past 3am. it’s still risky. but you’re just as pent up as he is, and honestly you cannot bring yourself to care about the consequences of anyone catching you.
„fuck.” you breathe out as Jack’s fingers thread through your hair, holding a fistful of it, yanking your head back only the slightest. your front’s pressing against the cold surface, scrub pants already down to your ankles.
he only chuckles, the sound low and husky in your ear, and continues to pepper soft kisses from your jawline to the back of your neck. soft turns open-mouthed, sucking in lightly on the side of your neck. he’ll leave a hickey for sure, but in this moment it feels too good for you to even think about telling him off. his other hand is wandering down your side, fingers ghosting over the skin on your stomach, before it sinks down your thong. a sigh escapes past your lips at the sensation, his hand stills.
„gotta keep quiet for me, sweet girl. can you do that?” he whispers into your ear, planting a trail of wet kisses along your earlobe, his hand resuming its movement.
his fingers circle your clit, the touch slow, teasing, barely there. just enough to make you whine and arch into him for more, but not enough to make you feel much. he knows what he’s doing, hell he’s got at least twenty years on you considering experience in this stuff, he knows exactly what to do to make writhe against him. he teases you like that excruciatingly for what seems like ages, taking his sweet time with getting you all worked up. the shuffle outside is what reminds him that he doesn’t have that time, and he’s swift with hooking his arm under your knee, bending you just as he pleases.
„we have to hurry, okay? don’t have much time.” his words, so much softer and landing so much sweeter than they do when he’s out there barking out orders and taking control of the ER running smoothly, make your knees go weak. you hear him pulling down his pants behind you, and soon you can feel his hard length press against your back.
you were surprised how well endowed he was the first time you hooked up, and still, even after all those months you sometimes struggled to take him fully.
Jack’s quick with his actions though, knowing you two are running out of time, and after swiftly adjusting your position, he pushes in. it’s not gentle, not anymore, he’s not giving you time to get used to his size. you let out a moan, too loud, and his hand covers your mouth.
„quiet, sweet girl, remember?” his voice is hoarse, hips snapping as he sets a harsh pace, rocking into you with steady rhythm. the sound of wet skin slapping against one another resonates throughout the space, accompanied by your muffled moans and Jack’s hushed groans.
it turns sloppy when his other hand starts rubbing your clit again, making your vision go all blurry and you bite down on his fingers curled around your lips. it only spurs him on more, resulting in him picking up the pace, and you can feel the knot forming forming low in your belly. and he hasn’t even been inside you for longer than ten minutes.
„fuck- Jack, im gonna- don’t stop.” is all you’re able to mutter out without screaming, your hands reaching behind you to wrap around his neck, pull his face closer. he’s relentless in fucking you, kissing and nipping at your neck, wanting to make you feel the best he can.
„yeah? then, c’mon. don’t hold back, baby.” he’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear, dirty, as he gets close as well, rutting into you with no abandon. „c’mon, cum for me, sweet girl.”
the last pet name is what pushes you over the edge, your cry of pleasure muffled as you shake from the sheer force of your orgasm, and after a few more snaps of his hips he reaches his peak too, not bothering to pull out. not that you care, you’re on the pill anyways.
you slump against the wall as he steps back, pulling his pants back on and ruffling his hair, flashing you a boyish smirk. he leans in to press a lingering kiss to your lips before completely stepping aside, giving you a once-over.
„trauma rolling into bay 2.” he clears his throat, going back into doctor mode and moving towards the door. he looks at you again, raising his eyebrows, and adds before walking out. „you have a minute to get your pretty ass there.”
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
part 2
wc: 8.9k (oof)
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
summary: when the doors of the pitt swing open to reveal you on the gurney, dr. jack abbot’s world shatters, forcing him to fight for two lives he didn't know were at stake.
c.warning: angst with happy ending; established relationship (married); major medical trauma; graphic depictions of injury; mentions and discussions of abortions in the past; mentions of pregnancy/pregnancy loss scare; jack abbot crashing out; mentions of car accident; near-death experience; never mind the medical accuracy or lack thereof (i tried my best but i’m still not a doctor)
a/n: this got out of control. it was supposed to be a usual 3k one-shot but then i kept writing and well here we are now. also shout out to my friend paula that helped me do all the medical research for this one so i didn’t embarrass myself with all the inaccurate doctor talk. love u girl <3
masterlist | requests
the fluorescent lights of the hospital always seem to hum a little louder when the er is quiet. it’s a sterile, buzzing vibration that grates on jack’s nerves more than the usual cacophony of sirens and shouting.
he leans against the nurse’s station, a lukewarm cup of bitter black coffee forgotten in his hand. he checks his watch. 2:14 pm. the numbers blurring slightly from sheer exhaustion. his shift was supposed to have ended hours ago, but the universe had other plans.
first, a multi-car pileup at dawn bled into a series of critical post-ops. then, every time he had tired to reach for his coat, another “one last thing” tethered him back to the floor. now, nearly ten hours into a forced double, the walls feel like they’re closing in. all he wants right now is to be through his front door, to shed the smell of antiseptic and the weight of the hospital, and to finally disappear into the quiet comfort of his home, where you were probably already waiting for him.
“it’s too quiet,” dana mutters as she organizes a stack of charts.
jack offers a ghost of a tired smile. “don’t say the ‘q’ word. you’ll jinx us.”
his mind drifts, as it often does during these rare lulls, back to you. he thinks about the way you looked when he left. half-asleep, tangled in the duvet in your hared bed, grumbling about the warmth leaving you as jack got out of the bed. he’d kissed your forehead, whispered that he’d be home by eight, in time to share breakfast with you, and headed into the belly of the beast. as he walked into the hospital, he felt a rare pang of guilt; he’d been working so many double shifts lately that your shared home felt more like a hotel.
i’ll make it up to her, he thinks. maybe he can take you out to that new sushi bar you showed him on your phone the other day. no, you’ll probably prefer thai. you’ve always loved-
the thought is cut short by the sharp, rhythmic chirp of the trauma radio. the sound like a physical blow to the silence.
“dispatch to mercy trauma, we have a level 1 activation. multiple vehicle collision, pileup on the i-579. initial reports suggest a jackknifed semi and at least six passenger vehicles. multiple red-tags. first eta is four minutes. lead bus is carrying a female, blunt force chest trauma, unstable vitals, gcs of 6.”
the er transforms in a heartbeat. the “slump” dies instantly, replaced by the practiced, frantic choreography of a trauma team who’s been through this million times.
robby, that was contrasting the lab results from one of his patients jumps into action.
“abbot, i need you in trauma. we need to get bays 1 and 2 ready. i want respiratory on standby. grab the o-neg. if this is a pileup, we’re going to be drowning in ten minutes.”
“let’s go!” jack barks, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register that defined him as he signals some of the residents to follow him,
the coffee is now discarded and forgotten on dana’s desk as jack pulls on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoing against the white, bright walls of room. here, in the chaos of trauma 1, he’s in his element. he’s dr. abbot, the man who’s used to holding the line between life and death. he feels the familiar rush of adrenaline, the narrowing of his world until only the patients matter.
“eta one minute!” someone shouts.
robby stands at the ambulance bay doors, peering through the glass. a faint rain has started. a cold, miserable drizzle that blurs the red and blue lights of the approaching sirens.
the first ambulance screeches to a halt and the back doors swing open. immediately, a paramedic jumps out, already pumping a manual respirator. “female, trapped in the driver’s side for twenty minutes. we had to use the jaws. bp is 80 over 40 and dropping. she’s trending toward traumatic arrest!”
robby’s breath catches for a fraction of a second. his eyes scan the familiar face, noticing all the blood, the cuts and bruises.
no, he thinks. please, let it not be true.
“get her to bay 1!” he orders, returning to reality as he steps forward to catch the side of the gurney as it flies past.
as robby pushes the gurney, he refuses to look at the patient’s face. but when he walks past dana’s desk, he looks devastated, and she notices. rounding her desk, she walks next to him, matching his quick step.
“i need abbot out of that room,” he says. “now.”
frowning, dana walks next to him.
“what? why?”
robby just shakes his head. “i need you to take him to trauma 2. anywhere, really. just… away from…”
but it’s already too late.
jack’s eyes are locked on the gurney, tracking the way the patient’s body jolts with every bump of the wheels, noticing the blood-soaked bandages on her chest.
“on three! one, two, three!”
the paramedics help slide the patient onto the trauma table. and it’s only then, as one of the them pulls away the oxygen mask to swap it for the hospital’s ventilator, that the world truly stops spinning.
the air leaves jack’s lungs as if he’d been punched.
“jack…” robby tries, but he doesn’t look at him. he can’t react at all.
the female with blunt force chest trauma and unstable vitals isn’t a stranger.
it’s you.
your face is ghostly pale under the smears of blood and road grime. your hair, which he’d smoothed back just hours ago in the quiet of your bedroom, is matted with glass shards. you lay limp, your chest barely moving, a hollow shell of the person he loves.
“jack?” dana’s voice comes from a distance, sharp and concerned. “jack, what are you doing? we need to intubate!”
jack abbot, the man who never flinches, who doesn’t shake under stress, no matter how hard or critical the case, now stands frozen. his hands, usually as steady as stone, are shaking so violently they seem to rattle against the metal railing of the bed.
robby glances at dana over his friend’s shoulder, shaking his head.
“no,” jack whispers, the word catching in his throat. “no, no, no…”
“okay, “robby mutters to himself. “abbot, i need you to get out. now.”
but jack still can’t react, he doesn’t even flinch when dana closes her hand around his forearm, trying to pull him out of the room.
robby pushes past him. “she’s crashing! i need a central line now! jack, get out of the way!”
robby grabs a scalpel, his movements clinical and fast. he doesn’t stop to consider who is on the table. to him, right now you are just a ‘red tag.’ he can’t allow himself to think of anything else.
right now, you can’t be the woman who has quickly become one of his closest friends, one of the main supports on his hardest days. the woman he proudly considers family, the same one he shared secrets and past anecdotes with when he came by to yours and jack’s house for dinner every month.
dana is still trying to get jack out of the room, threatening to call security on him when the attending’s weak whisper makes her stop in her tracks.
“stop,” jack rasps, his voice cracking. he lunges forward, shaking dana’s hand off, too desperate. “stop. that’s… that’s my wife.”
the room goes dead silent for a heartbeat, save for the screaming of the heart monitor. robby looks up, nothing but pity for his friend boring in them.
“jack… you can’t be in here, brother. you know the protocol.”
“i am not leaving her!” jack roars, his voice echoing off the trauma bay walls, raw and heartbroken. “my wife is dying. i am not leaving her!”
“you’re making it worse!” robby hisses back. “you’re compromised! you’re going to kill her if you don’t let us work!”
jack looks down at you. he sees the blood. he sees the way your heart rate is flickering on the screen like a dying candle. a cold, terrifying clarity suddenly washes over him. the panic doesn’t disappear, of course it doesn’t, but he forces it down into a small, dark box in the back of his mind.
he steps back slightly, chest heaving. but his hands stop shaking, the roaring in his ears slows to low hum, enough for him to hear his own thoughts again.
“fuck the protocol. i’m staying,” jack said, his voice now terrifyingly low and steady. “robby, get the chest tube. and i need 10 of epi. now!”
he doesn’t look at his colleagues as he works. he looks only at you.
“stay with me,” he whispers, so low only you could have heard it if you were awake. “don’t you dare leave me, do you hear me? stay with me.”
and so the chaos begins in the trauma bay. robby and jack, along with a couple of residents and some extra hands work together, in synchronicity.
“i need a fast exam, now!” jack’s voice cuts through the noise, steady but edged with desperation, focused on the monitors, on the jagged green lines of your heart rate, the terrifyingly low oxygen saturation. he tries not to look at you, knowing that if he did he’d see your eyes, closed and bruised, and he would shatter.
“jack, i’ve got the ultrasound,” rabby says, his voice softer now, cautious.
he moves the probe over your abdomen, eyes flicking between the small screen and your still form.
you’re so still. the woman who loves dancing in the kitchen to grainy jazz records is now buried under layers of medical plastic and blood-stained gauze.
“we’ve got internal bleeding,” robby mutters, his brow furrowing. “she’s bleeding out into her peritoneum. jack, we need to get her to or immediately.”
“wait,” jack says, eyes falling to the darkening bruise on your lower belly. “check the pelvis. i want a full sweep. if there’s a pelvic fracture we didn’t see—”
“i’m on it,” robby replies. he moves the probe lower, his movements clinical.
the room seems to go silent, though the machines are still screaming. jack watches the ultrasound screen, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating surgical approaches, estimating blood loss, praying to a god he hasn’t spoken to in years.
then, the image shifts.
robby freezes. the probe stops moving.
on the grainy, black-and-white screen, nestled deep within the shadows of your body, is a small, unmistakable flicker. a pulsing light.
jack’s breath hitched. his world, already tilted on its axis, began to spin violently.
“jack…” robby’s voice was barely a whisper. “is that…?”
“no,” jack breathes, the word a plea. “no, it can’t be.”
he grabs the probe from robby’s hand, his fingers slick with ultrasound gel. he presses it down again, his eyes wide and frantic as he searches the screen. and there it is. a gestational sac. maybe ten weeks. perhaps older. a tiny, fragile life tucked away inside the chaos of your broken body.
a life he didn’t know about. a life you hadn’t told him about.
“she’s pregnant,” robby breathes from the bedside, his hand flying to his mouth.
the realization hits jack like a physical blow to the chest. this isn’t about just you anymore. it’s about both of you. every choice he makes in the next ten minutes will not just decide the fate of his wife; it would decide the fate of their child, too.
“we can’t use the standard protocol, jack,” robby says, his voice rising in panic. “the meds we were going to use for the induction, the ct scan, the radiation…”
“i know!” jack roars, the sound raw and guttural. he drops the probe and it hits the floor with a dull thud.
the “doctor mode” he has spent years perfecting, the emotional armor he wears like a second skin, cracks wide open. the image of that tiny, flickering heartbeat burned into his retinas. he sees you then; not as a patient, not as a ‘red tag,’ but as the mother of his child, dying on a cold metal table because of a patch of ice and a moment of bad luck.
the room begins to tilt. the bright fluorescent lights turned into blinding white spots. the sound of the ventilator—hiss-click, hiss-click—is like a ticking time bomb.
“jack, look at me,” robby says, stepping into his line of sight, grabbing jack’s shoulders. “jack, you’re hyperventilating. you need to step back.”
“i… i didn’t know,” jack stammers, his legs suddenly turning to lead. “she didn’t… we couldn’t…”
he looks back at you. your face is a mask of trauma, but in his mind, he sees you the way you were hours ago when he left you cold on your shared bed. the way you smiled at him. did you know then? maybe you were waiting for dinner to tell him.
the grief and the shock collide in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. jack’s knees buckle.
“he’s going down!” robby cries, catching him under his arms before he hits the floor.
jack doesn’t fight him. he can’t. his strength is gone, evaporated. he slumps against the wall, his head in his hands, the bloodied plastic of his blue gown crinkling as he collapses.
“get him out of here,” robby orders, his voice firm as he takes over the lead position at the bed. “now! someone, please, get him to the breakroom. i’ll take her up. i promise you, jack, i will do everything. just go!”
jack feels hands on him, a strong grip pulling him up, guiding him away from the bed. he tries to resist, tries to reach out for you, but his body simply won’t obey.
as he’s led through the swinging doors, the last thing he sees is the team swarming around you, the red light of the blood bags hanging over your head, and the ultrasound screen, displaying that tiny, flickering heart once more.
the doors click shut, leaving him in the hallway, the rapid beat of his heart a deafening roar in his ears.
he’s a doctor. he’s a husband. and now, he’s a father.
and he might lose everything before the sun went down.
jesse lets go of his arm when they arrive at the breakroom, and with a quiet “i’m sorry” and a gentle nod he leaves jack behind and returns to the room where the rest of the team is still fighting to save you.
you and the baby.
god, the mere thought raises tears to jack’s eyes.
a baby.
his baby.
biting the inside of his cheek, jack thinks of the previous times when he heard these news. of the sound of your excited, cheerful voice the first time you came up to him with a positive test.
unfortunately he also remembers your heartbroken wails as he hold you tight to his chest, both of you sitting on the bathroom floor at home. he remembers how he bit his lips, forcing himself to stay strong for you but wanting nothing more but to crumble into pieces right there.
you had stopped trying after the second miscarriage. a decision none of you wanted to made but that you needed in order to protect your own hearts and your sanity.
and now… now you’re laying on a cold, metal exam table, closer to death than you’ve ever been and jack has everything to lose.
the breakroom smells of stale coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. it’s a room designed for brief reprieves, for five-minute naps and hurried meals, but right now, for jack, it feel like a cage.
he seats on the edge of a vinyl chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands, at dark, shiny band on his left hand.
you are pregnant. the thought keeps looping in his mind, a frantic, broken record. how could he miss it? he’s a doctor, for god’s sake. he is trained to notice the smallest shifts in physiology, the subtle cues of the human body.
he thinks back to the last few weeks; your sudden preference for tea over coffee, the way you’d been falling asleep on the couch before the 11 o’clock news. he’d chalked it up to stress, to the gray pittsburgh winter, to his own grueling schedule and the fact that he didn’t seem to have time to spare, time for you.
he closes his eyes and sees you in the kitchen three days ago, laughing at the ridiculous apron he usually wears when he cooks. you looked so vibrant, so incredibly alive. now, you have been reduced to a series of vitals on a monitor, a problem to be solved by people who don’t know the sound of your laugh or your favorite movie from your childhood.
“god, please,” he whispers into the empty room. now, jack abbot is hardly a religious man, but the silence of the hospital is demanding a sacrifice. “take me. just… don’t take them. please.”
the door creaks open and jack bolts upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. dr. robby, his best friend, his brother, stands there. he’s stripped off his bloody gown, but his scrubs are darkened with sweat. somehow, he looks older than he did twenty minutes ago.
“jack,” robby says, his voice level, cautious.
“tell me,” jack demands, his voice cracking. “please, tell me. is she… are they-”
“she’s still on the table,” robby says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “we’ve stabilized the splenic bleed, and the chest tube is draining well. but jack…” robby let’s out a long, heavy sigh. “ the situation is complicated. you know the physiology as well as i do.”
jack slumps back into the chair, the “doctor” part of his brain forcing its way through the grief. he does know.
in a trauma patient, pregnancy changes everything. the blood volume increases by 50%, which means a woman can lose a massive amount of blood before her blood pressure even begins to drop. by the time you see the “crash,” it’s often too late.
“her vitals are brittle,” robby continues, leaning his back against the vending machine. “because of the pregnancy, her heart is already working overtime. and we’re struggling to keep her map high enough to perfuse the placenta without blowing out the repairs we just made.”
“and the baby?” jack asks, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue.
“the fetus is roughly twelve weeks,” robby says. “at this stage, there’s no ‘saving’ the baby independently. the only way to save the pregnancy is to save the mother. but the vasopressors we’re using to keep her pressure up… they cause vasoconstriction in the uterus. we’re effectively starving the baby of oxygen to keep her brain and heart alive.”
it’s the ultimate medical catch-22. to save you, they had to risk the baby. to save the baby, they might lose you.
“the ultrasound showed some subchorionic hemorrhaging,” robby adds softly. “with the impact of the steering wheel, the placenta might be starting to detach. if that happens, she’ll bleed out from the inside faster than we can pump blood into her.”
jack buries his face in his hands. he knows the statistics. he knows that in maternal trauma, fetal demise is as high as 40-50% depending on the severity of the crash.
“i should have been there,” jack groans. “i should have driven her. she told me the brakes felt ‘soft’ last week and i told her i’d look at them on my day off. i didn’t… i didn’t look at them, robby.”
“jack, stop,” robby says firmly, walking the few steps separating him from his friend and crouching in front of him. “the police report said a semi hydroplaned across the median. it wouldn’t have mattered if she was driving a tank. don’t do this to yourself.”
jack looks up, his eyes bloodshot and raw. “how can i not?i’m the one who’s supposed to fix people. i spend twelve hours a day stitching strangers back together, and the one person who matters,” his voice breaks. “i didn’t even know she was carrying our child.”
robby sighs, his expression softening. “she’s a fighter, jack. we both know that. she’s held on this long. but i need you to stay here. if you go back in there…. i can’t worry about you too. i need to focus on them.”
“i can’t just sit here, man,” jack says, his voice rising. “i’m going crazy in this room.”
“then go to the chapel. go for a walk. or go home. but do not come back to that room,” robby warns. “i’ll send dana or jesse out when we have another update.”
as robby turns to leave, jack calls out, “wait.”
robby pauses at the door.
“the heartbeat,” jack whispers. “was it… was it still there when you left?”
robby hesitates for a fraction of a second, a beat that feels like an eternity to jack.
“it was,” robby says. “faint. but it was still there.”
and with that, the door clicks shut, leaving jack alone again.
the breakroom remains too quiet for far too long. jack paces the narrow strip of linoleum between the coffee machine and the round table, his mind a minefield of memories. he keeps seeing you in the passenger seat of his car, laughing at some stupid joke he told, the sun reflecting the stars in your eyes. he keeps thinking about the baby, whose existence had already rewritten the map of his future, even if they haven’t met yet.
then, the overhead speaker crackles. it’s a sound jack hears a dozen times a shift, a sound he usually meets with professional focus.
“code blue, trauma 1. code blue, trauma 1.”
the world doesn’t just tilt; it shatters.
trauma 1. your room.
jack is moving before his brain can even process the command. he throws open the breakroom door, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a bang that echoes down the corridor. he doesn’t care about protocol. he doesn’t care about robby’s orders. he doesn’t care about his own career.
he runs.
the hallway feels miles long, the floor slick under his clogs. he passes a group of residents who scramble out of his way, eyes wide as they see night shift attending sprinting with a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face.
he bursts through the double doors of the trauma bay, his lungs burning.
“jack, wait!” a nurse shouts, trying to grab his arm as he reaches the scrub sinks.
he doesn’t even look at her. he pushes the doors open with his shoulder, crashing into the room like a storm.
the scene inside is a nightmare rendered in high-definition. the rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator has been replaced by the frantic, high-pitched scream of the heart monitor. a flat, unwavering ekg line that slices through the air like a blade.
robby’s standing on a step-stool over your body, his hands locked, his weight throwing everything into the rhythmic compressions of your chest. crunch. crunch. the sound of ribs giving way under the pressure—a sound jack has heard a thousand times—feels like it’s his own bones that are snapping.
“jack, get out!” robby yells, not breaking his rhythm. his face is drenched in sweat, his eyes fixed on the monitor.
“what happened?” jack screams, stumbling toward the foot of the bed. “what the fuck happened?!”
“she went into v-fib, then pea,” dr. santos shouts over the noise. she was at your side, her hands pressed firmly against the left side of your abdomen, pushing your pregnant belly toward the left.
jack’s medical brain registered it instantly. in a pregnant woman in cardiac arrest, the heavy uterus compresses the inferior vena cava, blocking blood from returning to the heart. if they don’t push the baby aside, the compression robby is doing will be useless. there’s no blood to pump.
“charging to 200!” the tech shouts. “clear!”
robby jumps back. your body jolts off the table as the electricity surges through you. jack watches your hands, the same hands he loved to hold while you both were cuddling on the couch on a slow saturday, flop lifelessly back onto the sterile drape.
the line stays flat.
“again!” jack roars, stepping up to the bed, his voice raw. “increase to 300! charge it again!”
“jack, she’s lost too much blood,” robby pants, resuming compressions. “the acid-base balance is gone. her heart is too tired.”
“don’t you say that! don’t you dare say that!” jack lunges forward, grabbing the paddles from the tech’s hands. his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. “move, robby! move!”
robby hesitates for a second, then steps aside, hands raised in surrender, letting jack take over.
jack looks down at you. this close, he can see the gray tint creeping into your skin. he can see the way the light in the room seems to be fading out of you.
“you do not leave me,” he hisses, the words a jagged prayer. “you hear me? you stay. you stay for me, and you stay for this baby. do not do this to us.”
“charged!”
“clear!” jack slams the paddles against your chest.
thump. your body arches. the monitors wail.
silence.
one second. two. three.
then, a tiny, erratic blip on the screen. then another.
“i have a rhythm!” dr. santos cries, her fingers pressed to your carotid artery. “i have a pulse! it’s weak, but it’s there!”
the room seems to exhale all at once, but the tension doesn’t break. it just shifts.
“we need to get the bleeding under control now,” robby says, his voice shaking. “jack… she can’t take another arrest. if she codes again, we won’t get her back. the fetal heart rate is in the 60s.”
robby doesn’t finish the sentence, but jack hears is loud and clear.
you’re both dying.
jack stands there, the paddles still in his hands, staring at the flickering green line of your heart. he’s covered in your blood, his gown torn, his soul laid bare in front of his entire team.
he looks at robby, and for the first time in his career, michael sees the “great jack abbot” looking utterly broken.
“save them,” jack whispers, his voice barely audible over the hum of the machines. “whatever it takes, i don’t care. just… don’t let them… save them. please.”
robby nods slowly. “we’re going to try a high-risk embolization to stop the deep pelvic bleed. it’s the only way to avoid more surgery, but the radiation… it’s dangerous for the pregnancy.”
jack looks at your stomach, then back at your face. the choice is impossible.
life or life.
“do it,” jack says, his voice hardening into a cold, desperate resolve. “save her. save my wife. we’ll deal with the rest when she wakes up.”
as they begin to prep the specialized equipment, jack doesn’t leave. he backs into the corner of the room, his back against the cold tile. he watches them work, his eyes never leaving the monitor, counting every single beat of your heart as if he could keep it moving through sheer force of will.
the icu is a different kind of purgatory than the er. in the er, death is a screaming, bloody predator you could fight with a scalpel and a shout, something loud and violent. in the icu, death is a shadow. something silent, patient, and impossible to pin down.
it’s 11:45 p.m. hours have passed since you were moved up from the er.
now you lie in the center of a web of plastic tubing and wires, the steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator the only thing keeping the room from falling into a grave-like silence. a cooling blanket draped over your legs to keep your temperature regulated, and a specialized fetal monitor strapped across your bruised abdomen, its screen showing a jagged, persistent little line
142 bpm.
jack is sitting in the hard plastic chair pulled flush against your bedside. he hasn’t changed out of his scrub bottoms, though someone forced him to put on a clean gray hoodie to cover the bloodstains on his undershirt. he looks older, tired. devastated. the harsh overhead led lights catch the new lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.
he’s holding your hand, the only part of you that isn’t covered in bandages or sensors. your skin feels paper-thin and cold.
“i’m here,” he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. “i’m not going anywhere.”
he checks the fetal monitor. that sound, the rapid thump-thump, thump-thump of the baby’s heart, is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever heard. it’s a ticking clock. every beat a miracle, but also a reminder of how much he stands to lose.
“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles, the stone crowning you ring finger cold and harsh against his skin.
were you scared? were you waiting for the ‘right’ moment? god, he would have given anything for that moment to have been over dinner, or in bed, or literally anywhere but on a trauma table.
he leans his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, his eyes closing.
“i went through our messages while i was waiting for you to come out of the or,” he admits, a ghost of a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “i looked for clues. i looked for a hint. and all i found were grocery lists and you telling me to come home early because you missed me. but i didn’t come home, did i? i stayed for that extra shift. i stayed to fix people i didn’t even know while you were… you were growing a life.”
his guilt is a physical weight, a cold stone in his stomach. he’s dr. jack abbot. he’s supposed to be the one with all the answers, the one who sees the things no one else notices. but he has been blind to the most important thing in his own world.
a nurse slips into the room, her movements practiced and quiet. she checks the bags hanging from the iv pole, her eyes lingering on jack with a mixture of pity and professional concern.
“the baby’s heart rate is holding steady, dr. abbot,” she says softly, nodding toward the fetal monitor. “and her map is at 70. she’s stable for now.”
“for now,” jack repeats, the words feeling like ash. “stable is just another word for ‘waiting for the next crisis’ in this building, and you know it, claire.”
“from what i’ve heard, she’s a fighter, jack,” the nurse replies, mirroring robby’s words from earlier. “and so is the little one. i’ve seen people come back from worse.”
“not many,” jack mutters, but he squeezes your hand a little tighter.
when the nurse leaves, the silence rushes back in. jack stands up, his joints popping, and leans over you. he carefully places his hand on your stomach, right over the sensor. closing his eyes, he tries to feel through the layers of skin and muscle, trying to connect with the tiny being inside you that he had only just met through a grainy ultrasound screen.
“hey,” he whispers to your belly. “i’m your dad. i’m… i’m a bit of a mess right now, but i’m here. and i need you to do me a favor. i need you to keep fighting. i need you to give your mom a reason to wake up. because i don’t think i can do this without her. i know i can’t do this without her.”
before he can realize what’s happening, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down his cheek and landing on the sterile white sheet.
“i’ll be better,” he promises, his voice cracking. “i’ll be home. i’ll fix the brakes. i’ll learn how to be whatever you both need me to be. just… don’t let go. please, don’t let go.”
outside, the rain continues, now heavier, fiercer. but inside the room, time remains frozen. jack abbot, the man who usually held the city’s lives in his hands, now seats back down and waits for the only life that truly matters to come back to him.
from time to time, doctors filter into the room, checking vitals, checking on jack. robby comes up from the er a couple of times to share a sympathetic smile with him, to promise that everything will be fine.
jack sighs, “i’m a doctor too, robby. you can’t lie to me.”
“and i’m your friend and i know that a bit of hope is what you need right now.”
he stays for a while, keeping jack company until his pager calls him back to action.
“shouldn’t you be home already?” jack asks. “your shift was over hours ago.”
robby only shrugs. “people need me around here.”
at that, jack’s eyes regain that teary shine. nodding, he promises robby to call him if anything changes and waves his fiend goodbye before leaning back again on the chair, his eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest.
the world doesn’t come back all at once. it returns in fragments. first, the rhythmic hiss of a machine, the smell of antiseptic, and a heavy, weighted warmth on your left hand. your eyelids feel like they had been leaded shut, but the persistent, low hum of the icu finally pulls you toward the surface of consciousness.
you groan, the sound catching in the back of your throat, dry and scratchy from the tube that has only recently been removed.
then there’s the faint scratch of a chair scraping against the floor.
“hey… hey, look at me. open your eyes, sweetheart.”
that voice. you know that voice better than your own heartbeat. it’s the same voice that whispers sweet nothings into your ear at night, the same one that you hear in your warmest dreams. except now it sounds rough, exhausted, and trembling with a hope so fragile it feels like it might shatter any moment.
you force your eyes open. the light blinding at first, a sterile white haze, but then it focuses. jack. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his hair is a mess and his eyes, usually so sharp and clinical, are now swimming with tears.
“jack?” you rasp, your voice coming out as barely a breath.
“i’m here. i’m right here.” he leans over, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long moment as he takes a shuddering breath. “you scared the hell out of me, love.”
you try to move, but a sharp pang in your abdomen makes you wince. memories start to bleed back in. the rain, the blinding headlights, the screech of metal. you instinctively try to reach for your stomach, but your arm feels like lead.
“the… the accident… jack, i…”
“it’s over,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your temple. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”
a few minutes pass by until the door pushes open quietly. robby walks in, followed by an ob-gyn specialist you didn’t recognize. robby looks at you, a genuine, relieved smile breaking through his professional mask.
“welcome back,” robby says, checking the monitors. “you’ve had a hell of a day, but your vitals are finally starting to behave.”
the ob-gyn, a woman with kind eyes that introduces herself as dr. pauline , steps forward. “we need to talk about why you’re feeling so much pressure in your abdomen, besides the surgical repairs.”
jack’s grip on your hand tightens. he looks at you, his expression a complicated map of wonder and fear.
“you’re pregnant, dear,” dr. pauline says softly. “about twelve weeks. the accident was severe, and the trauma to your body was significant. we had to perform some emergency procedures that were high-risk for the pregnancy, but as of twenty minutes ago, the fetal heartbeat is steady.”
the world stops right there and then.
you look from the doctor to jack, your mouth falling open. “pregnant? are you sure?”
dr. pauline nods and you have to bite your lip to keep it from trembling. jack’s grip on your hand tightens.
“it’s going to be a long road,” dr. pauline continues, her tone turning serious but encouraging. “you have a lot of healing to do. your ribs and the internal repairs, plus the blood loss. and for the baby, we’re going to have to monitor you both every hour. there’s some bruising near the placenta, so it’s going to take hard work, absolute bed rest, and a lot of time before we can say we’re completely out of the woods. but right now? right now, you’re both winning.”
“thank you, doctor,” you whisper, voice so small it makes jack’s chest squeeze. “and thank you, michael. jack told me you were the one who took care of me when i arrived.”
robby gifts you with a small, soft smile. grabbing your free hand, he gives it a squeeze.
“i’m glad i could help. but i don’t think i could’ve done it without my team. or without dr. abbot’s aid.”
that has you snapping your attention back to jack.
“you were there?” he simply nods, eyes glued to your hand, to the ring on your finger. “i thought you guys had protocols for that kind of thing.”
“we do,” says robby, nodding.
“fuck the protocol,” barks jack at the exact same time. “my wife was dying. what was i supposed to do? go home? i did what i had to.”
when your eyes finally connect with his again you see it, the utter exhaustion, but behind that there’s something more. something raw and vivid.
“i’m so sorry,” you whisper. “i’m sorry you had to see that, jack. i can’t even imagine…”
“shh…” leaning forward, jack offers you the safe space of his shoulder to cry. “what matters is that you’re alive, love. you both are.”
after the doctors finish their checks and leave the room, a heavy, comfortable silence settles over the two of you. jack doesn’t let go of your hand. he seats on the edge of the bed, staring at you as if you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.
“jack,” you whispered, your voice a little stronger now. but you still feel the pressure of your tears threatening to spill at any given moment.
the thought of jack having to bring you back to life, your blood covering his gloved hands… knowing that he had to find out about something you had been suspecting for a couple of weeks through a scan in a trauma room in the er…
“twelve weeks,” he says, his voice thick with his own tears. “and you didn’t… you didn’t tell me.”
there’s no accusation in his voice, only a profound, echoing confusion.
you look down at your hands, the plastic hospital bracelet stark against your skin. “i didn’t know, jack. not for sure.”
jack doesn’t speak, he holds on tight to your hand, dropping a feather like kiss on your knuckles.
“i was suspicious,” you admit, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “but i told myself i was just imagining it. that my brain was playing some twisted tricks on me. but then i started feeling so tired. then there was the coffee. god, the smell of it started making me nauseous about two weeks ago. i’ve been drinking tea ever since.”
jack lets out a short, wet laugh, rubbing his face with his free hand. “i’m a doctor, i should have seen it. i should have known.”
“how could you?” you reach out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “we stopped looking for the signs a long time ago, jack.”
the air in the room shifts. the “last two times”, two years of hope, two positive tests that ended in heartbreak before the first trimester was even over. they were the shadows that had lived in the corners of your apartment, the reason you both had stopped talking about possible names or color palettes for the nursery. you had both quietly agreed to stop trying, to protect what was left of your hearts.
“i didn’t want to say anything until i was certain,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes. “i couldn’t handle seeing that look on your face again if it didn’t stay. i was going to buy a test this weekend, i promise. i just… i wanted to be sure before i gave you hope again.”
jack leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. his breath hitches. “hope is all i’ve had for the last few hours, watching you on those monitors. i don’t care about the timing. i’ve got you two now. and that’s all i need.”
he moves his hand, sliding it under the hospital blanket to rest flat against your stomach. his palm is warm, steady, and large enough to cover nearly the entire area where the new life rests tucked away.
“we’re going to do the work,” he vows, his voice low. “whatever the doctors say. whatever it takes. i’m not losing either of you. we’ve fought too hard to get here.”
for the first time since the sirens started screaming hours ago, the tension in jack’s shoulders finally breaks.
you rest your head on his shoulder, the steady thump-thump of his heart syncing with yours. it isn’t the perfect, easy ending. there are months of recovery ahead and a thousand medical hurdles to jump but for now, in the quiet of the icu, the three of you are together.
“i love you,” he whispers into your hair.
“i love you too,” you breath, finally letting your eyes drift shut. “both of us.”
the transition from the icu to the step-down unit was supposed to be a victory. it has been ten days since the crash. your chest tube is out, your color is returning, and jack has finally stopped vibrating with the manic energy of a man haunted by ghosts.
but the “pitt” never let anyone relax for long.
jack is sitting in the armchair, his laptop open as he tries to catch up on charts while staying by your side. you are propped up on pillows, picking at a bowl of fruit, when a sharp, searing cramp radiates across your lower abdomen.
it isn’t like the dull ache of your healing surgical incisions. this is different. cold. deep.
“jack,” you gasp, the plastic fork clattering onto the tray.
he’s at your side before the fork hit the floor. “what is it? where’s the pain?”
“cramping. hard.” you grip his forearm, your knuckles turning white. “it feels… it feels like the last times, jack.”
the color drains from his face, but the doctor in him takes the lead before he can panic. he throws back the blankets. and there it is. a small, terrifying smear of crimson on the white sheets.
“pauline! anyone! i need a fetal doppler in here now!” jack shouts toward the hallway, his voice cracking the quiet of the ward.
minutes felt like hours. dr. pauline rushes in, her face set in a grim mask of professional focus. jack stands in the corner, his hands pressed against his mouth. unfortunately, he knows too much. he knows all the signs, just like he knows that post-traumatic subchorionic bleeds could trigger labor or a final, fatal abruption.
the room is filled with the static sound of the doppler searching.
whoosh. whoosh.
the sound of your own pulse, too fast, too frantic.
then, a silence that feels like a death sentence.
“come on,” pauline whispers, moving the probe. “come on, little one.”
thump-thump-thump-thump.
the sound burst into the room. fast, rhythmic, and stubborn.
“heart rate is 150,” pauline exhales, a visible wave of relief washing over her. “the cervix is closed. it’s a ‘threatened’ event, likely just the hematoma from the accident draining. but we are increasing your progesterone and you are on strict, absolute bed rest. no sitting up, no laptop, nothing but breathing.”
jack doesn’t move for a long time after she leaves. he just leans his head against the wall, his chest heaving. the setback lasted only ten minutes, but it had aged him a decade.
“jack,” you call his name softly, patting the free space next to you on the bed.
he walks over and sat on the edge, taking both of your hands in his. “we almost lost the light,” he whisper. “i can’t… i don’t know that i could take it if it happened again, sweetheart.”
“we didn’t lose it,” you said, pulling his hand to your cheek. “they’re still here. we’re still here.”
jack sighs with relief, nodding. he leas down to press a soft, careful kiss to your lips.
three weeks later, the air in pittsburgh finally shifts from the bitter bite of winter to the hesitant warmth of early spring.
you’re not wearing a hospital gown anymore. instead, you wear one of jack’s oversized soft hoodies and a pair of leggings, sitting in a wheelchair by the large windows of the garden pavilion. you are still weak, and your gait is a slow, painful shuffle, but today is the day the doctors, your husband included, have circled in red on the calendar.
week 14. the beginning of the second trimester. the safe zone.
jack walks into the pavilion carrying two cups of herbal tea and a small, rectangular envelope. he looks different today. he’s actually shaved, and for the first time since the night of the pileup, the haunted look in his eyes has been replaced by a quiet, steady glow.
“happy second trimester,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.
“we made it,” you breathe, looking out at the budding trees. “i honestly didn’t think we would.”
“i have something for you,” he says, sitting on the bench beside your chair. he hands you the envelope with a bright smile.
you open it with trembling fingers. inside isn’t a medical chart or a bill. it is a high-resolution 3d ultrasound from that morning’s check-up.
the image is vividly clear. you can see the curve of a tiny nose, the miniature perfection of ten fingers tucked near a chin, and the long legs that robby joked would make the kid a track star.
“look at that nose,” jack whispers, his finger tracing the print. “that’s your nose.”
“yeah. that’s your chin, though,” you laugh softly, a tear of pure, uncomplicated joy sliding down your face. “the abbot stubbornness is already visible.”
while you are still contemplating the small piece of warmth and joy that was still growing inside of you, jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. you look at him, confused.
“jack? we’re already married.”
“i know,” he says, opening the box to reveal a delicate band with a tiny, shimmering stone on top. the birthstone for the month the baby was due. “but the night of the crash, i realized i’d spent so much time being a doctor and a provider that i forgot to be a good husband. i forgot to celebrate the life we were building.”
he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger next to your wedding band.
“this is a promise,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “no more double shifts when i don’t have to. no more missed dinners. from here on out, it’s the three of us.”
you lean your head back against the headrest of the wheelchair, looking from the ring to the ultrasound, and then to the man who quite literally pulled you back from the edge of the grave.
the trauma is still there, the scars on your body and the stiffness in your limbs would be reminders for a long time, but as the sun warms your skin, the angst of the past month finally begins to dissolve.
“jack?”
“yeah?”
“i think i want thai food tonight.”
jack laughs. and it’s a real, booming abbot laugh that echoes through the garden. “you heard the boss,” he whispers to your stomach. “thai it is.”
bonus
the spare bedroom at the end of the hall had spent years as a storage space for jack’s medical journals and your half-finished art projects. it had been a room of “maybe someday,” a door you both tended to keep closed, preferring to keep the bad memories on the other side.
now, six months after the rain-slicked pavement nearly took everything, the door stands wide open and the scent of paint lingers in the air. a soft, muted sage green that jack spent three weekends perfecting because he refused to let anyone else touch the walls.
you seat in the newly assembled rocking chair, your hand resting atop the prominent, solid curve of your stomach. the baby is active today, a rhythmic tapping against your ribs that feels like a secret code. you are thirty-four weeks along, a milestone that, for a long time, felt like a destination on a map you weren’t allowed to reach.
“i think the crib is slightly crooked,” jack mutters, kneeling on the floor.
he was wearing an old pittsburgh steelers t-shirt, his hair disheveled, looking less like the formidable dr. abbot of the er and more like… like you husband, who was utterly determined to defeat a piece of furniture.
“jack, it’s perfect,” you laugh softly. “the level said it’s straight. you’ve checked it four times.”
“five,” he corrects, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. he walks over to the crib, shaking the railing with enough force to test a bridge. “i just… i need it to be steady. everything has to be steady.”
you reach out, taking his hand and pulling him towards you. immediately, he sinks onto the ottoman at your feet, resting his head against your knees. the fierce, protective energy he carries is a byproduct of the trauma; a lingering shadow of the man who collapsed back in that trauma room. but it was softening, replaced by a deep, quiet anticipation.
“oh. i just remembered. we haven’t opened michael’s gift yet,” you say, pointing to the changing table.
sitting atop a stack of colorful onesies is a beautifully wrapped box with a heavy silver bow. next to it is a card embossed with the university of pittsburgh medical center logo.
according to jack, robby dropped it off at the nurse’s station for him to bring home.
“he said if he had to hear me talk about ‘fetal heart rate variability’ during a trauma shift one more time, he was going to quit, so he bought this to shut me up,” he said as he lay the box on the changing table the other night.
you open the card first. in robby’s cramped, hurried physician’s handwriting, it read:
to my dear friends (and my future favorite abbot),
i’ve known you two for a long time and i truly can’t think of anyone better to take care of each other. i also know that kid will be so lucky to get to call you two mom and dad. i can’t wait to meet the little one.
congratulations on the final stretch!
— robby
inside the box is a high-tech, medical-grade infant vitals monitor, the kind that synced to a smartphone. it’s exactly the kind of gift dr. robby would give: a way to keep watch even when the lights were out. underneath the monitor was a tiny, hand-knitted sweater with a small stethoscope embroidered on the pocket.
“he’s a softie,” you whisper, running your hand over the wool.
“don’t tell him i said so, but he’s the reason we’re sitting in this room,” jack said, his voice drops into that low, honest tone he saved only for you. he looks up at you, his eyes reflecting the soft nursery light. “when i saw you on that table… i forgot how to be a doctor. i forgot how to breathe. he held the line until i could find my way back.”
jack stands up and leans over you, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your forehead before moving down to press his ear against your belly. he waits, silent and still, until the baby delivers a sharp kick right against his cheek.
“hey there,” jack whispers to the bump, a grin breaking across his face. “i hear you. we’re ready for you. everything is ready.”
he stands back, surveying the room; the crib, the sage-green walls, the gift from his brother, the man who helped save your lives, and the woman who was his entire world. the angst of the pitt, the screams of the monitors, and the cold terror of the icu feel like a lifetime ago. they are just scars now. like faded, silver lines that proved they survived the storm.
“do you think the baby will like the room?” you ask.
jack wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out at the quiet pittsburgh street below.
“she’ll love it,” jack promises.
the sun begins to set outside the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the nursery, turning the sage walls into the color of a new spring. you’re a survivor, jack is a father, and in just a few short weeks, the pitt would be nothing more than a place where jack went to work, while his real life, his whole life, waited for him right here, at home.
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: 4.4k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, simp!abbot, level headed reader (derogatory), mutual pining, munch!abbot if u squint
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
You stirred softly.
Your eyes opened slow, blurry at first, the room coming together in pieces as you lifted your head from the pillow. For a second, it felt like any other morning—quiet, warm, like a new start.
And then it hit you.
Last night. The doorway. The way he’d looked at you. The way you’d finally stopped pretending.
Your breath caught slightly as it all came rushing back—his hands, your hands, the way everything had unraveled so fast it almost didn’t feel real.
The laughter after. The way you both melted from something professional to something comfortable. And then… not stopping there.
At some point, the kitchen getting water had turned into his bedroom–which is where you were now. You sat up abruptly, the motion sharper than you intended as reality fully settled in with the morning light creeping through the windows.
“Shit,” you whispered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.
The sheet slipped slightly with the movement, a rush of cold air brushing over your skin, which, to your surprise, was completely bare. Your cheeks heated instantly at the way his sheets were soft against your naked skin.
You grabbed it quickly, pulling it up and around yourself as your heart started to pick up for entirely different reasons now.
Slowly, you glanced beside you.
And there he was.
Jack.
Still asleep on his back, one arm thrown loosely across the bed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm like none of this had shaken him the way it was currently shaking you.
Your gaze lingered for a second longer than it should have.
Because he looked different like this. Soft, vulnerable, and disgustingly domestic.
A version of him you weren’t supposed to see—and definitely weren’t supposed to wake up next to.
Your stomach flipped, not entirely from panic. But not entirely from anything else, either. You slowly slid back under the sheet, propping yourself up on your elbow as you stared at him.
Any longer and this was going to cross into creep territory.
You reached out–and poked him.
He stirred slightly, brow twitching—but didn’t wake.
So you poked him again.
And again.
And again—until his eyes finally cracked open.
The second they did, they landed on you. And stayed there.
You tried—really tried—to ignore the way his pupils blew out almost instantly.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep, lower in that way that sent a very familiar feeling down your spine.
“Um… morning,” you echoed, suddenly very aware of everything again.
His gaze dipped down, brief, but not subtle. They flickered to the sheet, to what was now hidden but previously on full display for him.
“Hey, so—”
“No,” he groaned immediately, dragging a hand over his tired face.
Your brows shot up. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“My eyes have been open for ten seconds,” he muttered, voice muffled, “and I can already see the gears turning in your head.”
You stared at him for a beat.
Then, flatly, “We had sex last night.”
He didn’t even blink as his head turned toward you again. “We did.”
“Like…on purpose,” you added.
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Abbot.”
He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the pillow, a slow, lazy smirk pulling at his mouth like he was entirely too pleased with himself.
“Three times, if my count’s right.”
“Jack.”
“Mmm.” His eyes flicked back up to yours, half-lidded now. “Yes, sweetheart?”
You felt that newly appointed pet name low in your stomach, and you knew he could tell. Especially considering you’d spent a significant portion of last night reacting to that exact tone, that exact name, like it had been designed to unravel you.
“Jack!”
That only made the smirk worse.
You stared at him for a second longer, like maybe if you looked hard enough, he’d suddenly match your level of panic.
He didn’t. Not even a little.
Which is how you knew you were about to spiral alone.
“We broke every rule ever,” you said abruptly, sitting up straighter, sheet clutched tighter around you like that could demand any semblance of professionalism.
Jack didn’t move. He didn’t even look remotely alarmed. Just stayed right where he was, head resting comfortably on the arm behind his head. You were doing a fantastic job of keeping your eyes on his and not the protruding vein in his bicep.
“Did we?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
You blinked at him. “Did we?” You mocked.
He shrugged slightly against the pillow. “Feels like a lot of rules. Hard to keep track.”
“Jack,” you snapped, dragging a hand through your hair. “You’re my attending.”
“And you’re very aware of that, apparently,” he said, glancing at you with the amused look you’d unfortunately grown so fond of.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re smirking.”
“That’s different.”
You gaped at him for a second, in disbelief. “We—” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, like the motion alone would convey the magnitude of the situation, “—last night—multiple times—”
“Oh, I remember,” he cut in calmly.
“Oh my God,” you muttered, dropping your face into your hand. “This is a disaster.”
He finally shifted then, propping himself up slightly on one elbow, the sheet barely moving as he looked at you more directly.
“You seem very certain of that.”
“Because it is,” you insisted, peeking at him through your fingers. “There are, like, …policies. Ethics. Rules about this exact scenario.”
“Mm.”
“Mm?” you echoed. “That’s your response?”
He studied you for a second, quieter now. Less teasing. Not entirely serious—but not dismissive either.
“You regret it?” he asked.
The question landed differently. He wasn’t teasing, no, you knew that tone of his. This was…direct. No bullshit.
Your mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
Because that wasn’t the problem.
And you both knew it.
“No,” you admitted finally, softer now. “That’s not the issue here.”
“Thought so.”
“That doesn’t mean this isn’t a mess,” you shot back, regaining momentum. “We still have to go back. To the ED. To real life. To pretending like we didn’t just—” you cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “This is complicated.”
He didn’t argue with that. Which, usually, would be a win for you. But now, you wanted him to argue with you more than you ever had before.
Instead, he just watched you for a second longer, like he was granting you the gift of spiraling about sleeping with your attending uninterrupted.
Then, once you were silent for a moment longer, “We’re still in quarantine.”
You stared at him.
“That’s it?” you asked. “That’s your big plan?”
“For now?” he said simply. “Yeah.”
You let out a disbelieving huff, shaking your head as you dropped back against the pillow.
“Unbelievable.”
“Mm.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“So you’ve told me.”
You turned your head to look at him again, ready to keep arguing—and stopped in your tracks.
Because he was still watching you.
With that painfully, infuriatingly, annoyingly amused look that both boiled your blood and stopped your heart.
“You’ve been so adamant about not crossing a line,” You continued. “And then we cross it, and you’re just…chill. About breaking rules,”
“Because now I’ve tasted the line, and I’m forced to take a different stance.”
Your stomach dropped.
"That's not…" You started, but the words died somewhere between your brain and your mouth.
Because he was looking at you differently now. Something darker in his eyes, something...hungrier.
"Not what?" he prompted, voice dropping lower as he shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.
You swallowed hard. "That's not fair."
"No?"
"No," you managed, though it came out weaker than you intended. "You can't just say things like that."
"Like what?" he asked, and there was that rasp again. The one you only heard sometimes, when he lowered his voice in a way that made your pulse spike. You were starting to think he did it on purpose. "The truth?"
"Jack—"
"You want me to pretend I didn't spend half the night learning exactly what makes you fall apart?" he continued, closer now, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. "That I don't know what you sound like when you—"
"Enough," you cut in, breath catching.
He did.
But only barely.
His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing along your jaw, tilting your face toward his.
"Tell me to stop," he said quietly, eyes locked on yours. "And I will."
Your heart was hammering now. Because you should stop—write last night off as temporary insanity, the inevitable result of nine days cooped up with a coworker who, under any normal circumstance, wouldn’t have even made your top ten list of preferred roommates.
You absolutely should, the voice in your head spoke. The one who usually stopped you from making any bad decisions. This was already complicated enough without adding more to the pile of things you'd have to rationalize later.
But then his thumb traced your lower lip, the way he’d done last night in the kitchen, and every logical thought you'd been clinging to scattered like smoke.
"I—" you started. “Ah, fuck,”
And then you kissed him.
Hard.
Jack made a low sound against your mouth—something between a groan and a laugh—before his hand slid into your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you as he kissed you back with the kind of intensity that made your entire body melt.
The sheet slipped. You didn't care. There wasn’t an inch he hadn’t explored at some point last night, between the guest room, the kitchen, this bed, the floor–
His other hand found your waist, fingers splaying across bare skin as he pulled you closer, and suddenly you were shifting, rustling under sheets until you were straddling him, coverage forgotten entirely as his hands mapped every inch of you like he was committing it to memory.
"Still a disaster?" he murmured against your mouth, breathless, smirking now.
"Shut up," you shot back, nipping at his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss.
"You gonna make me?"
One thing about you and Jack Abbot–when he challenged you, you rose to that challenge.
Your hands found his chest, nails dragging lightly as you kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, until he was the one groaning, hips shifting beneath you in a way that sent heat pooling low in your body.
"Fuck," he muttered, head falling back against the pillow as your mouth moved to his jaw, his neck, finding the spot just below his ear that made his grip on you tighten. "You're going to kill me."
His pupils were still blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath your palms as you sat up fully, still straddling him. The shift in position made you both groan—him from the sight of you above him, you from the way he was already hard under you.
"Jesus," he breathed, hands rough as they slid up your thighs. "Look at you."
You didn't answer, just kept your eyes on his as you reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him, watching his jaw clench as you positioned yourself.
"Shi—" he started, but whatever he was going to say died the moment you sank down onto him.
You took him slowly, letting the drops of precum allow you to slide around him, inch by inch. Taking him in until you were seated fully in his lap, both of you breathing hard, adjusting to the tight, encompassing fit.
"Fuck," Jack groaned, head pressing back into the pillow, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck, you feel—"
You rolled your hips slowly, cutting off whatever he was going to say, and his whole body tensed beneath you.
"What was that?" you asked, voice breathless. "Couldn't hear you."
His eyes snapped open, narrowed and focused as they locked on yours. Your lips had a mind of their own as they slid into a smirk, enjoying the sight of the high and mighty Jack Abbot so speechless under your touch.
"You're enjoying this," he managed, though his voice was strained.
"Very much," you confirmed, rising up slowly before sinking back down, setting a rhythm that had both of you breathing slightly more strained.
The angle was perfect—deep, intense, hitting exactly where you needed him—and you could feel the tension coiling tighter with every movement.
Jack's hands roamed everywhere—your thighs, your waist, up to cup your tits as you rode him, his thumbs brushing over sensitive skin that made your back arch further.
"God, look at you," he muttered your name, almost like spoken in prayer. "Taking what you want."
"You said—" you gritted your teeth as you ground down harder, "—to make you shut up."
"Not complaining, sweetheart," he groaned, hips bucking up to meet you now, matching your rhythm. "Fuck, not complaining at all."
You braced your hands on his chest, nails digging into his clavicles as you moved faster, chasing the burn in your thighs. Your hair swept over your shoulder, falling into his face as he twisted his fist around the strands, pulling tightly.
You hissed, spiteful of the way he still tried to regain control. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, followed by ragged breathing and broken moans.
"That's it," Jack encouraged, voice rough, one hand sliding down to where you were joined, thumb finding you soaked and swollen. "Take it. Take everything."
The added sensation made you cry out, your movements becoming more desperate, less controlled.
"Jack—"
"I know," he said, watching you with an intensity that made everything in your vision explode. You hated when he watched you perform–now you decided you’d die if he looked away. "I can feel you. So fucking tight. You're close, aren't you?"
You couldn't form words anymore. You could only manage to nod, riding him harder, faster, chasing that sweet release.
"Then come," he commanded, thumb circling with a calculated pressure. "Come on me. Let me feel you."
And you did—shattering with a sharp cry of his name, body clenching around him as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Jack groaned low and deep, hips jerking up as you pulsed around him, his own control fracturing.
"Fuck, I'm—" he warned, but you didn't stop, didn't slow, riding him through it until he came with a broken curse, fingers holding you tight enough to leave marks as he spilled inside you.
You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you trembling, gasping for air. His arms came around you immediately, holding you close as you both came down.
"Okay," he said after a long moment, voice wrecked. "You're definitely going to kill me."
You huffed a breathless laugh against his neck. "Worth it?"
"Absolutely."
Not wanting to overstay your very obvious welcome in Jack’s bedroom, you retreated to your room after cleaning off.
You let yourself take a long, pensive shower, the events of the last twelve hours playing like a movie reel in your brain. Every look, every word, every moment where things could’ve stopped—but never did.
By the time you stepped out, skin warm and hair damp, you didn’t feel better but… steadier. Aware in a way that made your chest feel tight. Like you couldn’t hide under the covers or in the darkness anymore.
You dressed slowly, choosing something simple, something that felt neutral enough to pass as normal. Like that might help reestablish some kind of baseline.
It didn’t.
Because your lips were still swollen from how hard he kissed you. Your collarbone still reddened from where he ground his teeth last night when he had you pressed beneath him. Your goosebumped skin from just the thought of his face between your legs on his bedroom carpet.
There was no dancing around it. You had to face him, and more importantly, reality.
The house was quiet when you made your way downstairs, late morning light spilling through the windows in a way that felt almost too calm for your liking. You paused just outside the kitchen, hand hovering for a second like you could still choose to avoid this.
Then you exhaled and stepped in anyway.
Jack was already there.
He stood at the counter with his back half-turned, coffee maker still dripping behind him, one hand wrapped loosely around a mug. He looked… put together. Not in his usual professional way, but in that same controlled, grounded way he always did—like nothing ever managed to knock him off balance.
Your footsteps made him glance over, and there it was again—that flicker of awareness that he always looked at you with. Like your presence was always on his mind.
“Hey,” he said, voice easy.
“Hi,” you returned, a little more carefully as you moved further into the room.
There was a pause—not awkward, but not easy either. Like you were both feeling out the shape of something new without naming it yet.
He turned back to the counter, grabbing another mug without asking and pouring coffee into it like it was routine. Like you’d spent hundreds of mornings coming into the kitchen, freshly showered and awaiting coffee he made using milk bought just for you.
“Coffee?” he asked, holding it out.
You nodded, stepping closer to take it. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Your fingers brushed his for half a second when you took the mug, and while the contact was brief, it was loaded. Those fingers knew you intimately now, and like it or not, there was no going back to when they didn’t.
You pulled your hand back a little too quickly, wrapping both hands around the cup instead, grounding yourself in the heat.
If he noticed, he didn’t call it out. He simply leaned back against the counter next to you, taking a sip of his own coffee, watching you in that quiet, assessing way that always made you feel like he was seeing more than you wanted him to.
You let out a small breath, staring down into your cup for a second before speaking.
“This is… weird,” you admitted.
The corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a reaction. “A little.”
You glanced up at him, incredulous. “A little?”
“Things are different now,” he said, like that was a sufficient answer. “It’s going to take a second to adjust to that,”
You shook your head, a soft exhale leaving you as you leaned your hip lightly against the island. “You’re taking this way too well.”
“I’m taking it as it is,” he replied, not defensive, just matter-of-fact.
“And what is it?” you pressed, meeting his gaze.
This time, the pause stretched longer.
He held your eyes, something more serious settling in now, the earlier ease giving way to something heavier. “Something we’ll figure out.”
You nodded slowly, even if your stomach still hadn’t quite settled since you woke up.
Because it wasn’t just what happened that had you thrown off. It was how easily it had happened. Sure, it had been nine days of tension and peeling back layers–but when it came down to it, you both caved in what felt like seconds.
“How long?” you asked.
He swallowed the sip of coffee he’d just taken, buying himself a second. “Pardon?”
“Last night,” you clarified, forcing your voice to stay even. “You said you’d been wanting this for a very long time.”
Something in his posture shifted. He took a deep inhale, deliberate, like he knew this answer mattered.
Then he set his mug down gently, the soft clink of ceramic against marble sounding way louder than it should have in the quiet kitchen.
“You want the honest answer?” he asked.
You huffed lightly. “Is there another option?”
“Yeah,” he said, a short breath of amusement leaving him. “When Robby and HR inevitably ask, I’ve wanted this since you quarantined at my house and we discovered there’s more to our emergency department tension than just competitive medicine practice.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.
“And the honest answer?” you pressed.
This time, he didn’t deflect.
He just looked at you—really looked at you—in that steady, unflinching way that he used when he was about to say something he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear.
“From the second you walked into PTMC.”
The words landed heavy. You felt your grip falter, the mug nearly slipping before you caught it, fingers tightening instinctively around it.
“That’s not funny,” you said quietly, though there wasn’t any real humor in your voice.
“I’m not joking.”
Your eyes searched his, like maybe you’d find some version of exaggeration there. Something that made it less… intense.
Less real.
But there wasn’t anything like that.
His voice held nothing but certainty. And something else underneath it—something that had been there all along, whether you’d noticed it or not.
“You didn’t even know me,” you said, softer now, almost like a case you were trying to make sense of, so you needed to verbalize all the information you had.
“Didn’t need to,” he replied, just as quietly. “I knew enough.”
You let out a small breath, shaking your head slightly, more to ground yourself than anything else.
“God,” you murmured. “And you just… what? Sat on that for three years?”
His jaw ticked, just once.
“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”
You stared at him, something in your chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with panic this time.
Because that changed things–not the fact that something had happened between you. But the fact of how long it had been building before it ever did.
And suddenly, last night didn’t feel impulsive anymore.
It felt inevitable.
“I think you knew,” he continued, quieter now. “And up until a few days ago, I thought it was one-sided.”
“I didn’t know,” you shook your head, the denial coming instinctively. “And up until a few days ago, I thought I hated you.”
“I thought you did too.”
The admission wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even bitter.
Your expression softened before you could stop it, something in your chest pulling tighter in a way you hadn’t expected. Because he didn’t sound hurt saying it. He didn’t sound surprised.
He sounded like he’d made peace with it a long time ago. Like he’d not only decided that you hated him, but accepted it.
“I just don’t understand,” you said, head tilting as you studied him. “In the ED, it always felt like you disapproved of everything I did. Every other resident could do no wrong, but me…”
Jack went still at that. He didn’t become dismissive. He just looked…guilty.
“I was hard on you,” he admitted. “Harder than I should’ve been.”
“That’s an understatement,” you muttered.
“I know,” he repeated, steadier this time.
You crossed your arms slightly, still watching him. “Why?”
Another pause.
This one felt heavier. Because whatever answer you expected, it wasn’t what he actually said.
“Because I couldn’t afford not to be.”
Your brows pulled together. “What does that even mean?”
His gaze met yours, direct now. No hint of deflection left.
“It means,” he said slowly, “I couldn’t risk letting how I felt about you bleed into how I worked with you.”
The words hit harder than anything else he’d said that morning. For a moment, your head spun. Years of wondering why, feeling like you weren’t enough, and now, you were getting the answer.
“I knew if I gave you even an inch,” he continued, quieter now, “it wouldn’t look like I was pushing you because you were good. It would look like I was going easy on you because I—”
He cut himself off briefly, jaw tightening.
“Because I had a bias,” he finished.
You just stared at him. Your mind scrambled trying to catch up.
“So your solution was to… what? Overcorrect?” you asked.
“Yes.”
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even look the least bit sorry about it either.
“I held you to a higher standard than everyone else,” he said. “Because I trusted you could meet it. And because I needed to make damn sure no one could ever question why you were doing well.”
Your stomach twisted.
“That doesn’t make it feel any better,” you said, softer now.
“I know it doesn’t,” he replied. “It wasn’t supposed to.”
That… stung. But not in the way it used to. Not in the way you’d walk out of a shift wound tight and frustrated, replaying every interaction, trying to figure out why the one person who was supposed to back you never seemed to.
But now you understood what had been sitting underneath it.
“You made me think you didn’t like me,” you said, a laugh almost escaping you at how juvenile you sounded.
“I was trying very hard not to,” he admitted.
That knocked the breath out of you a little. Trying, not succeeding.
“I was really happy to move to the night shift,” you admitted, voice softer now. “Because I actually respected you. I’d heard good things about you around the ED. I was… excited to work under you.”
His expression shifted at that. Like he was realizing in real time the impact his armor had on you. The armor he thought was protecting you.
“And because I may have had a teeny crush on you,” you added quickly, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hid slightly behind your mug.
A breath of a laugh left him, quieter now, like relief slipping through the cracks. He set his mug down and leaned in just slightly, closing the space between you.
“Yeah?” he murmured. “That so?”
“I got over it pretty quickly,” you said, trying for casual.
“Mm,” he countered immediately, a faint smirk returning. “I don’t think you did.”
You lifted a brow. “Oh, please. You think very highly of yourself.”
“Do I?” His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Because I catch you looking at me all the time.”
“In disgust,” you shot back without missing a beat.
“That doesn’t sound like disgust,” he said mildly. “Especially if you think about me when you’re fucking other people.”
That earned a sharp look from you—heat rising instantly to your face despite yourself. “I’ll never forgive Santos,”
His mouth quirked. “You should thank her.”
You frowned. “Why?”
“Because that’s when I knew this was going to be an… eventful quarantine.”
“That was days ago,”
“I’ve waited years,” He lowered his head toward you, mouth dipping to your ear. “Couple more days wasn’t going to kill me,”
You giggled, letting him place your coffee mug on the counter while he lifted you onto it. Your legs dangled off the edge as he stepped between them, his hands settling on your waist.
"But I'm glad you didn't make me wait any longer,"
Balancing your final year as a resident while raising a five-year-old is hard enough. Co-parenting with your ex Michael Robinavitch? That’s a whole different challenge.
warning/tags: smut, minors DNI, porn with plot (lots of plot), age gap (but reader’s age isn’t disclosed) jealous!robby, co-parenting, Robby is sooo girl dad coded, attempt of slowburn, they're down bad for the other, inadequate medical terms, longing, unprotected piv, pussy eating, fingering, handjob, creampie, multiple orgasms
“Robby,” you repeated for the millionth time, staring at the way his focused eyes stayed glued to the computer screen. “Robby, are you even listening to what I’m saying?” Your words went in one ear and straight out the other. His attention was completely locked on the patient charts, as if the world had temporarily ceased to exist.
You let out a quiet sigh, then reached over the nurse station counter, fished a latex glove out of the open cardboard box, and with a quick movement, snapped it right against his back.
“Ouch!” Robby exclaimed, finally jerking his gaze away from the screen. He rubbed the spot where the glove had stung him, looking equal parts surprised and betrayed. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because I’ve been trying to talk to you!” You fought to keep your voice from snapping, though the frustration was definitely leaking through. “Did you call the bouncy castle people already?”
He nodded, leaning back in his chair with a groan. “Yeah, already did. They’re charging me two hundred extra for switching from the unicorn castle to the capybara one with less than a week’s notice, by the way.” He tried to sound annoyed, but it didn’t quite land. Michael loved his daughter far too much for that. If he had to build a goddamn capybara bouncy castle with his own two hands so she could have whatever she wanted in the entire world, he would do it without hesitation. Instead of irritation, his expression softened into something almost endearing, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smile at her latest demand.
“And you’re paying for it without complaining because you’re a great father,” you said matter-of-factly, unable to hide the fond smile tugging at your own lips. “Remember, the party’s at three. You still good for setup?”
Robby exhaled through his nose, the sound almost a laugh but not quite. "They're delivering the capybara monstrosity at one-thirty. Said they'd set it up in the backyard." He rubbed a hand over his jaw as if he was remembering what other arrangements he’d made. "Also confirmed the balloon guy with a helium tank, should be there by two."
You nodded, feeling the relief you always felt whenever Robby managed to take care of everything. Co-parenting with Robby has always been like this, efficient, practical, and competent. No missed pickups, no forgotten appointments. He'd never once let your daughter down, even when work tried to swallow him whole.
"And the cake?" you asked because you can't help it, even though you knew the answer.
He gave you a side-eye, the one that said do you even have to ask? "Chocolate with vanilla buttercream, extra sprinkles. Pickup at two-fifteen, I'll swing by after my shift ends, already talked to Shen and he’ll cover for me.”
Five years ago, you were a fourth-year med student rotating in this very department, terrified of screwing up in front of the mighty Dr. Robinavitch. Then Dr. Robinavitch slowly became Dr. Robby to you… and eventually he was just Michael when you were moaning his name under the weight of his body in his bed.
What you and Robby once had was simple, and you both liked it that way. It was the comfort of each other’s company after a brutal shift when neither of you wanted to be alone. No strings, no labels, no complications of being a real couple. No whispered rumors in the hospital about Robby seeing a med student outside of work. No pressure on Robby’s well-known inability to commit to anything more than passionate sex at night and coffee in the morning.
But simple things didn’t always stay simple, especially not when two adults knew exactly how risky it was to keep skipping protection, and neither of you ever felt much enthusiasm about pulling out. “Fuck, this is the last time, Michael,” you’d said more than once, breathless and frustrated. “Why are you nagging me?” he’d reply with a half-smirk, still catching his breath. “I had every intention of pulling out before you wrapped your legs around me like that.”
And that’s exactly how, six months after the first night you slept in Robby’s bed, you found yourself staring at the most terrifying sight you’d ever witnessed in your life: two pink lines on a plastic stick.
The conversation that followed was painfully awkward. You told Robby you were pregnant, and Robby, being who he was, decided it was time to put on his big boy pants and play his cards right. Life had handed him something he never thought he’d get, a baby, a real chance at a family. So he did what any traditional man would do in his position: he settled with you.
You’d moved into his house, and Robby and you had settled into a routine, not as two people who casually slept together on lonely nights, but as partners, and soon-to-be parents.
Robby took you to every single appointment. He insisted on every test to ensure his child’s safety, blended you the best prenatal smoothies, disgusting carrot-and-spinach concoctions that made you gag but that he swore were just what you needed, and even pushed hard for you to take early maternity leave. But of course, you refused, determined to finish your last year of med school before the baby arrived.
The day your daughter was born was the happiest day of Robby’s life. Even now, it still brought him to tears whenever he thought about it, the moment his entire life changed forever, the day he met his greatest love, his reason to keep going, to keep living, to try harder every single day.
But even as Robby put in his best effort to be a boyfriend, it didn’t take long for the fantasy to crumble. It wasn’t all sunrays and paradise, and after endless long shifts in the ED, endless diapers, and all-night cries that never seemed to stop, you were both running on fumes. It became painfully clear, day after day, that the only reason Robby had decided to settle down with you was because he’d gotten you pregnant.
You could see how unhappy he was. He barely spoke a word to you when he got home from work. He’d just sit on the couch with distant, lost eyes staring at the wall like he was the most miserable person alive. The only times he laughed or smiled were in the presence of his daughter. You couldn’t help but feel crushing guilt for trapping him in a relationship he never truly wanted. Robby had longed for a family and for company, but once he had it, he didn’t know what to do with it.
That’s why, after five months of fights and desperate trying, you decided it was time to do the most noble thing you could: let him go. Set him free instead of keeping him trapped beside you in a pretend marriage he’d only started because he was too considerate to let you raise his daughter alone.
Hannah Robinavitch had never once envied her friends whose parents were still married. She never got sad or asked why the three of you couldn’t just be a normal family. Because she already knew you were one, a little different from the others, maybe, but still a family nonetheless. And having separate parents actually had its perks. It meant two houses, twice as many birthday presents, and two different vacation destinations every single year.
Sunlight slanted through the tall maple trees lining the backyard fence, painting patterns across the grass. Your yard was huge, the short green grass always perfectly maintained, and the swimming pool sparkled with crystal-clear water that seemed to catch every ray of light. It was the kind of house you could never have afforded on a resident’s salary in a million years. But Robby had made sure you and Hannah had it anyway the moment the two of you decided to part ways and break up. He’d never blinked at the money when it came to his daughter. If giving her (and you) the nicest possible place to live during your half of the week with her, in a safe, beautiful neighborhood full of every comfort meant making his baby girl happy, then he would do it without hesitation.
Because fuck, Robby was such a good father. The kind who puts his little girl first and everything else second. He finally had a real reason to take days off work and actually go on vacations. He finally had something to look forward to, a future worth living for: taking care of his daughter, watching her grow up, teaching her things, just being needed by this helpless little angel who still demanded he check under the bed for monsters every single night.
You’d read once that when it came to having children, women should look for a man who would make a good father, not necessarily a good husband. Because love could run out. People broke up. They got divorced. But a child was a lifelong commitment. And you’d won the lottery with Michael, even if sometimes you still wished he could have been as good a partner as he was a father.
The enormous capybara-themed bouncy castle Hannah insisted on dominated the grass as screams of delight and the rhythmic thump-thump of small feet echoed from inside it. All her kindergarten friends chased each other in circles as their parents clustered near the patio tables, drinking iced tea and making polite small talk about preschool and summer camps.
You were on snack duty, refilling the chip bowls, and right on cue, the side gate swung open. Robby stepped through, wearing dark jeans and a button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, the sleeves catching on the muscles of his forearms, revealing Hannah’s name tattooed on his wrist.
He was carrying a large gift box wrapped in shiny silver paper with a bright red ribbon tied around it. The second Hannah’d spotted him, the entire backyard might as well have disappeared.
“Daddy!” She launched herself down the slide so fast the inflatable nearly tipped. She was sprinting with her bare feet on the grass before she even landed properly.
Robby dropped to one knee just in time to catch her as she collided into his chest like a missile. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her clean off the ground for a second, even though she was getting too big for it. She squealed and buried her face in his neck.
“You came! You came!”
“Wouldn’t miss it, babygirl.” He set her down but kept one hand on her shoulder. “Happy birthday.”
She was s already eyeing the box. “Is that for me?”
“Depends.” He raised an eyebrow. “You been good?”
“Super duper good! Ask Mommy! I only ate two cupcakes and I shared my shovel in the sandbox with the other kids!”
You caught his eye over her head, and Robby gave you the tiniest smirk, yeah, he knew “two cupcakes” was probably an undercount.
“Guess it’s yours then.” Robby set the box on the grass, and Hannah attacked the paper. A brand-new bike glints in the sunlight, purple with whitewall tires, training wheels already attached, and even a little bell shaped like a flower.
Hannah froze for half a second, then let out a shriek that made half the parents jump. “A BIKE! Daddy, a BIKE!”
She flung herself at him again, hugging him so hard he had to brace himself. He laughed again, softer this time, and rubbed a hand over her back. “Figured it was time for you to have some riding lessons.”
“I can ride it now? Right now?”
He glanced at you for a quick check-in, the way he always does when big decisions happen, and you nod once.
“Yeah, angel,” you said, walking over. “But helmet stays on, and daddy’ll hold your seat until you’re steady.”
Hannah was already trying to climb on, so Robby steadied the bike with one hand, using the other to guide her foot to the pedal. She wobbled the second her weight hit the seat, but she was grinning so wide it looked almost painful.
Robby shot you another look and then crouched beside Hannah again. “Ready?”
She nodded furiously, and Robby started walking her forward, keeping one hand on the seat, the other hovering near her shoulder to steady her in case she fell. She pedaled hard, poking her tongue out in concentration. The bike lurched, straightened, and lurched again. Robby kept pace easily as you watched from the patio steps. The man who once told you, half-asleep after a fifteen-hour shift, that he wasn’t sure he knew how to be anyone’s dad, was now the same man who walked backward in front of a wobbling five-year-old, talking her through every turn.
“Push harder with your right foot… there you go. Look where you want to go, not at the ground. Yeah, just like that.”
Hannah laughed when the bike finally held a straight line for more than three seconds, and Robby let go of the seat, just for a heartbeat, and then grabbed it again when she tipped.
“I did it! I almost did it!”
“You’re doing it,” he corrected her, encouraging like he’d read in so many parenting books. “Keep going.”
They made a loop around the bouncy castle. Parents pulled out phones to snap pictures of her, and someone even started clapping, making Hannah beam like she was crossing a finish line. You felt eyes on you, Robby’s, briefly. He didn’t say anything, but the look told enough: we made this kid. Look at her.
After another lap, he slowed her to a stop near the bouncy castle. She was flushed and sweaty, but utterly triumphant. “Can we take the training wheels off?” she asked immediately.
Robby exhaled a laugh. “Tomorrow, maybe. Today we celebrate the fact you didn’t eat pavement.”
He ruffled her hair, then stood, brushing grass off his jeans. Robby walked over to you, watching Hannah show off her new ride to anyone who’ll listen.
“You good?” He asked you. “You’ve been running this circus solo all afternoon.”
“I’m fine. Exhausted, but fine.” You paused, then added softly, “She’s having the best day. Because you’re here.”
He looked at you then, and something about his eyes reminded you of the way he used to look at you when you were falling asleep on his couch with a newborn between you. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
Hannah zoomed past again, ringing the little flower bell. “Five,” he muttered, almost to himself. “How the hell did that happen?”
You didn’t have an answer, you just stood there beside him, your shoulder almost brushing his, watching your daughter ride circles around the backyard.
Two hours later, you were cutting slices out of the chocolate cake while Robby stood right next to you, handing them out to the sugar-desperate kids swarming the table.
You passed another slice to Robby. He took it from your hands, brushing his fingers against yours for a brief second.
“You know, I didn’t see Vet Guy over here,” he said, pulling on a dramatically disappointed face. “Bummer. I was really hoping to finally meet the guy.” You decided to ignore the sarcastic, obviously ill-intended comment. Robby, never one to let silence win, kept going. “I suppose he was busy. Did he have a labradoodle to give a haircut?” He let out a loud, self-satisfied chuckle that rumbled into a deep “Ha!”
“That’s a pet esthetician, you know?” You mumbled, aggressively slicing the knife through the cake. “Vets don’t do haircuts.”
“Oh, you’re right,” he mock-apologized, not even pretending to drop the subject, not when he had weeks’ worth of jokes lined up. “Then I guess he had some high-risk procedure. Open-heart surgery on a hamster, maybe?”
“You’re hilarious, Michael,” you said with your biggest deadpan face. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”
“Oh, I have plenty more where that came from,” he replied, grinning. “Do you even call him Doctor? I mean, vets aren’t even real doctors.”
“Of course they are!” you shot back with sudden, exaggerated respect for the veterinary profession, purely to piss him off.
Vet guy was nice. You’d met him at the hospital after he came in with a nasty dog bite on his leg. You’d tended to the wound while he respectfully flirted with you, not too hard, not desperate or aggressive, but just enough to make you feel seen. He asked genuine questions about you, shared funny stories from his own job, and somehow managed to pull real smiles out of you even after a brutal shift.
When he asked for your number, intending to take you to what he swore was the best Thai restaurant in Pittsburgh, you’d hesitated. You didn’t need more distractions from residency and motherhood. But Dana had insisted you accept. She said you needed to spend time with adults outside the hospital, to do something just for yourself, and to let yourself be treated nicely for one night. Secretly, you knew she was cracking up at the way Robby’s jealousy flared every time Vet guy flirted with you, the way he clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and rolled his eyes like a petulant child.
You’d gone out with him a couple of times. It was fun. He was a gentleman, smart, funny, handsome, the type of man most women would be thrilled to stumble upon. But then your stupid, stupid brain did that awful thing it always did whenever you started seeing someone new: it compared him to Robby. Robby would’ve ordered that. Robby would’ve said that. Robby would’ve done that. As if your brain had never gotten the memo that you and Robby had broken up. That it hadn’t worked. That you were supposed to be looking for a guy who wasn’t like him at all.
“Oh, please. WE are doctors. They’re frauds.” Robby scoffed. “What’s that guy’s biggest life achievement? Getting vomited on by a dog?”
“You’ve clearly thought a lot about a guy I’ve only gone out with like two times,” you offered him your fakest smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the one dating him, not me.”
Robby’s expression, which up until that moment had been mocking and sleazy, changed completely. His smile flattened into a thin, straight line, and his eyes turned serious. “Funny,” he mumbled as he handed another slice of cake to a waiting kid.
“And to answer your question, no, I wasn’t gonna bring some random guy I had dinner with a couple of times to my daughter’s birthday. You know me better than that.”
He didn’t say anything else. Robby knew you were right, you weren’t the type of person who introduced someone new into Hannah’s life unless it was truly serious. But behind all the mockery and cheap jokes, there was something dangerously close to jealousy. The thought of you deciding another man was better than him, more worthy of your time and interest, the idea of Hannah ever having a stepdad, of him no longer being the only male figure in both your lives… it infuriated him.
Was he an asshole for wanting to keep you all to himself when he had no right to demand to be the only man in your life? Maybe. Was he stupid to pretend that a gorgeous, smart, and amazing woman like you would stay single forever, living on the memory of what you two once were, waiting for him to finally grow a pair of balls and give you what you deserved? The same thing he’d had every chance to give you years ago, but had been too scared to reach for, letting it slip away Definitely.
As the party came to an end, kids hugged, and parents collected backpacks and stray shoes, mumbling thank yous to you and Robby.
You stood by the gate, waving and promising playdates. Robby was on Hannah duty now, helping her say goodbye to each friend, crouching so he was eye-level, reminding her to say “thank you for coming.”
Most of the crowd thinned out quickly, a few stragglers lingered, one of them was Ethan, father of Mia, one of Hanna’s closest friends from the four-year-old room. Divorced last year, or so the gossip went. Nice enough guy. Tall, with an easy smile. He was hanging back near the patio table, helping stack chairs while his daughter ran one last lap around the bouncy castle.
You walked over to grab the last of the empty cups. “Great party,” he said, straightening up. “Hanna’s in heaven. That bike was a killer gift.”
“Thanks. Robby picked it out.” You smiled, tossing cups into the trash bag. “She’s been begging for one since she saw the big kids riding at the park.”
Ethan nodded, lingering his eyes on your face for a second. “Smart move.” He paused, then added, softer, “You pulled this off like a pro. Solo hosting a kindergarten party? Respect.”
You laughed lightly. “Not entirely solo. Robby’s been here all afternoon.”
“Yeah, I saw.” His tone was casual, but there was a flicker of curiosity there, maybe appraisal. “You two seem… good. Co-parenting goals and all that.”
“We manage,” you said neutrally.
He stepped a little closer, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Listen, if you ever want a break from… all of this. I just… figured it might be nice to talk to someone who gets the single-parent thing.” He smiled warmly. “Mia talks about Hannah nonstop. Be good for them to have more playdates. And for us to… catch up. Maybe you could give me some tips for this whole co-parenting lifestyle.”
It wasn’t subtle at all. The way he held eye contact a beat too long, the slight lean, the casual brush of his hand against yours when he handed you a stray napkin. You felt heat creepong up your neck. It wasn’t interest, exactly, just the awkward awareness of being seen that way.
You opened your mouth to deflect politely. But before you could, behind you, a voice cut in.
“Ethan, right?” Robby was there suddenly, casual as anything, holding Hannah’s new helmet in one hand. “Mia’s dad.”
Ethan straightened, his smile faltering only a fraction like he’d been caught red-handed. “Yeah. Hey, man. Good to see you.”
Robby nodded once. “You too.” He flicked his gaze to you, then back to Ethan. “We’re starting to clean up over here. You need help finding her shoes? Think they’re by the slide.”
Ethan blinked, then laughed it off. “Nah, we’re good. Just saying goodbye.” He looked at you again. “Think about what I said, okay? No rush.” He waved, called for Mia, and headed toward the gate.
You exhaled slowly, but Robby didn’t move. He was quiet for a long minute, then: “Sooo. Ethan.”
You snorted as you started gathering stray plates from the patio table. “Yeah?”
Robby followed, picking up cups without being asked. “Seemed chatty.”
“He’s friendly.”
“Very friendly.” Robby stacked the cups. “Animated, even.”
You glanced at him. His face was neutral, almost too neutral, a sign of how secretly annoyed he was. “Robby.”
“What?” Innocent. It sounded too innocent.
“You’re being nosy. First with vet guy, and now again.”
“I’m making conversation.” He set the stack down. “Guy was all secretive talking in your ear. What’d he want?”
You laughed despite yourself. “None of your business.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”
“Not bad. Just… standard divorced-dad. He wanted to organize some playdates. The usual.”
Robby nodded slowly, like he was filing that away. “Huh.”
You waited, but he didn't elaborate. Instead, he picked up a stray balloon string, winding it around his fingers. “Guy’s got some nerve. Hitting on you in the middle of our kid’s birthday party.”
Our kid. He didn’t say it possessively, just as a fact. You turned to face him fully. “Jealous, Robinavitch?”
He met your eyes without flinching. “Curious,” he corrected. “Big difference.”
“Sure.”
He didn’t deny it. “Anyway,” he said, his voice back to normal without the edge of jealousy in it. “I’ll help deflate that monstrosity in the yard before it blows away. Then I’ll get out of your hair.”
After Robby had helped the bouncy castle guys, he hauled the last of the folding chairs back to the garage and carried out three trash bags without being asked. He stepped back into the kitchen through the sliding door. “Hannah's out cold,” he said, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake her. “Tried to get her to brush her teeth, but she rolled over and kept sleeping.”
You laughed under your breath. “She’ll be up at six tomorrow demanding to ride the bike again.”
“Good luck trying to talk her out of it.” You felt the weight of his gaze as he pushed off the counter. “Anyway, I should head out. Early shift tomorrow.”
You turned the faucet off, drying your hands on a dish towel. “Thanks for everything today. Seriously. She had a great time thanks to you.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Thanks to both of us. We’re a good team.”
You walked him toward the front door. At the door, he stopped, with one hand on the knob as he turned back to you. For a second, he just looked, not at your face, but at all of you.
His eyes started at your bare shoulders where the thin straps of your sundress sat, tracing the line of your collarbone, then they dropped deliberately down the front of the dress. You felt suddenly aware of every inch it covered, and of every inch it didn’t. Robby lingered his gaze on your waist, the flare of your hips, and the hem brushing just above your knees. Then lower, to your legs, and back up again, slower this time, until he met your eyes.
There was heat in the way he looked at you, nothing subtle about the way his eyes roamed your body. It was the look of a man who was remembering exactly what you feel like under his hands, what you tasted like, what sounds you used to make when he was inside you. The kind of look that said he wanted to back you against the nearest wall, hike that dress up around your waist, and fuck you until the only thing either of you could hear was your own breathing and the wet sound of skin against skin.
He didn’t say anything, there was no need for words. Your mouth went dry as the heat coiled in your lower belly, the same way it had many nights before. Five years since you stopped sleeping together. Five years of boundaries, separate beds, separate lives. And still one look was enough to make your body remember.
He exhaled through his nose, almost an incredulous laugh, “Happy birthday to her,” he said quietly, nodding toward the living room. “We made something good.”
“Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to. “We did.”
The weeks slid by in the same rhythm you’d grown accustomed to: long shifts at the hospital, trying to be a present mom whenever you weren’t buried in charts, and the handoffs with Robby at your house.
It was a Saturday afternoon, the day of Hannah’s ballet recital. You arrived a little early because she had been buzzing about it for weeks, her first real performance after long months of practice. Plus, you appreciated every rare opportunity life gave you to wear something that wasn’t scrubs. You’d gotten your hair done, put on soft makeup, slipped into a nice dress and high heels, and for once you felt like a whole different person. Someone confident. Someone who could take on the world.
You loved Hannah. You loved being a mom. But sometimes you missed the person you used to be before all of this. You missed being seen as more than just “Mom.” You missed conversations with adults that didn’t revolve around kindergarten, tantrums, or pediatric appointments. You were still young, and even though you’d always been mature for your age, you’d had to grow up fast the moment you became a mother. You had never imagined yourself with a child before you even became a doctor. You certainly hadn’t pictured managing residency at the same time you were raising a tiny human being.
But even if life hadn’t turned out the way you’d once planned, you didn’t regret any of the decisions that had brought you here in this auditorium, about to watch your daughter’s ballet recital.
You spotted Robby near the front row, saving seats for the two of you. When he saw you, he stood, waving you over with a half-smile. “Hey,” he said as you slid into the seat beside him. “She’s backstage, losing her mind. Kept asking if both of us were coming.”
You laughed softly, settling your purse on the floor. “Wouldn’t miss it. Was she nervous?”
“Not one bit. She made me practice clapping in the car.” He glanced at you, his eyes lingering a second longer than necessary. “You look nice.”
You couldn’t avoid feeling the heat creeping up your neck, but you brushed it off. “Thanks. You cleaned up nice, too.”
Before he could reply, the lights dimmed, and the ballet instructor, a woman in her sixties, welcomed everyone, and then the curtain slowly parted.
There she was. Hannah stood front and center in her pink leotard and tutu, her hair,the same brown shade as Robby’s, pulled into a slightly lopsided bun secured with a sparkly clip. She immediately scanned the audience, spotted the two of you sitting side by side, and her whole face lit up like sunrise. Forgetting every rule about staying still, she waved at you both with both hands.
The routine was equal parts adorable and chaotic, little arms waving with enthusiasm, a few spins that turned into giggles, and tiny dancers bumping into one another. But when it came time for her part in the middle, Hannah nailed it, twirling with maximum concentration, poking out her tongue slightly the way it always did when she was trying her hardest.
You were grinning so hard your cheeks ached as you recorded the whole thing on your phone, careful not to miss a single moment. Beside you, Robby was doing the same, leaning forward in his seat like he was afraid to miss even one second of his little girl shining under the stage lights.
When it ended, the room erupted in applause. You and Robby were on your feet first, clapping loud enough to drown out half the parents. Hannah beamed, blowing kisses at the audience, then bolting offstage the second she was allowed.
Backstage, Hannah launched herself at you both at once, her arms around your legs and Robby’s in a group hug.
“Did you see me twirl, Mommy? Daddy, did you see?”
“We saw everything,” Robby said, scooping her up in his arms. “You were the best one up there, angel. Hands down.”
“You were perfect,” you whispered, leaning to place a big and loud kiss into her hair. “So proud of you, baby.”
Hannah tugged at your hand. “Can we get ice cream? To celebrate?”
Robby raised an eyebrow at you as if awaiting to see what your answer would be, and silently hoping it’d be a yes.
You smiled. “Ice cream sounds perfect.”
He set Hannah down on the floor, then crouched so she could climb onto his back. She wrapped her little arms and legs around him tightly, her favorite perch. With a soft grunt and an easy smile, Robby straightened up, carrying her like she weighed nothing.
The three of you headed for the exit together. You walked beside Robby, close enough that your shoulder brushed against his every few steps, but neither of you pulled away. There was something about the way the three of you looked, almost like a picture-perfect family to anyone glancing from the outside. It made your mind loosen the reins on old fantasies: how different life would have been if the three of you had managed to make it work. If being together had been a choice made out of love instead of obligation, the only option he felt he had at the time.
God, how much you still wished things had worked with Robby. What wouldn’t you give to see him truly happy to be with you, instead of miserable the way he looked every time the two of you came home from a long shift.
The ice cream shop had a neon sign flickering “OPEN” in red letters, sticky vinyl booths, and the widest variety of ice cream flavors you’d ever seen. Hannah insisted on extra sprinkles and chocolate sauce on her cone. She was perched between you and Robby on the bench seat, swinging her legs and recounting her ballet routine for the third time.
“I did the spin and everyone clapped SO loud! Did you hear it, Daddy?”
“Loudest ovation in the room,” Robby said, wiping a streak of chocolate from her cheek with his thumb. “You owned that stage, babygirl.”
You watched them as you ate your strawberry ice cream cone drizzled with hot fudge. It was uncanny how much Hannah looked like Robby, like he had been cloned into a tiny, feminine version of himself. The same soft brown hair, the same big, puppy-brown eyes that were easily the warmest you’d ever seen in your life. Eyes you could never say no to, because one single look from them melted your heart every time.
She was already slowing down, the adrenaline from the recital and the sugar rush from the ice cream finally catching up with her. Her head rested heavily against Robby’s shoulder as she munched the last bites of her ice-cream, her little eyelids starting to flutter.
The walk home was only ten minutes, but Hannah's steps turned sluggish halfway there. Robby scooped her up without a word, and she curled against his shoulder as she’d always belonged there, tucking her head under his chin as she fisted her little hand on his shirt.
At your front door, Hannah was completely out, her rosy cheek smooshed against Robby’s collarbone, with her mouth slightly open. You unlocked the door quietly and stepped inside.
Robby carried her upstairs like she weighed nothing. You followed, watching the careful way he lowered her to the bed, tugged off her ballet slippers and pink tutu, and pulled the covers up.
Downstairs again, you were suddenly aware of how quiet the house was without her chatter filling it. He stopped a few feet away. “She’s wiped..”
“Yeah.” You smiled. “She had a big day today.”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you… in that dress. You’re punishing me. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Robby.”
He didn’t back off. Just looked at you in the same way he did the night of the birthday party. Tracing his eyes over the neckline of the dress, the way it hugs your waist, the bare skin of your breasts.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you said, but your voice came out quieter than you intended. As if part of you didn’t really want him to stop. You longed for the validation, for knowing you were still the woman who drove him insane, the one who made him feel things no one else could, his soft spot, his weakness.
And for Robby, you still were. Until this day, you were the only one who could bring out the most vulnerable side of him. It wasn’t just the physical part, though God, your body drove him insane. He could still feel the ghost of your skin against his every night when he closed his eyes. It wasn’t the sex either, though in fifty-four years of life he’d never found anyone who felt quite like you did, anyone who made him feel so many things, who woke up the most primitive, most virile part of him.
It was simply you. Your strength when you carried a pregnancy and still worked your ass off for your career. Your quick mind and the way you could deliver a witty comeback that put him in his place when he deserved it. Your competence, something he found extremely attractive, both at work and as a mom. And watching you raise his daughter with a patience and love only you could give, loving her so fiercely with every bone in your body… it made him feel things he’d never felt before.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me alive.”
He huffed a half-laugh as he stepped closer. “Can’t blame a guy for looking.”
You swallowed, using all the self-restraint you had in your body to stop yourself from jumping into his arms. “Every time we’re close like this, I have to remind myself why this is a bad idea.”
He tilted his head. He knew you too well, he could see how much you were trying to be strong and how much you wanted it too. “And why’s that, exactly?”
“Because we tried. We crashed. We hurt each other. We’ve got a kid now, it’s not just us we gotta think of, but her. And we’ve got a good thing going on, we’re good at this.” You gestured between you. “At being her parents. At not screwing it up. Adding… whatever this is… risks that.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Don’t think. Just do what you want.”
You stared at him. “Is that your new motto? ‘Don’t think, just do it?’”
He took another half-step, close enough you could smell the mint from his ice-cream on his breath. “One night,” he said. “Doesn’t have to mean more. Doesn’t have to change anything tomorrow. We used to be so good together. You remember that? Because I do, I remember it every single night.”
Your pulse hammered in your throat, a rhythm that matched the sudden heat blooming in your belly. You remembered it too, every vivid and overwhelming detail.
The kind of chemistry you and Robby had in bed had been like nothing you’d ever experienced before. The way your bodies responded to each other was like they were made for it, instinctive, almost frightening in its intensity. Every single touch felt magnetic and electrifying, sending sparks racing across your skin even from the lightest brush of his fingers. The way he knew exactly how to unravel you, and how you could do the same to him. You had both cried out in pleasure every single time, sounds that echoed in the dark of his bedroom, your bodies slick and trembling, chasing that peak until the world narrowed down to nothing but the two of you.
It was the kind of fire you only find once in a lifetime. But you couldn’t do it.
You couldn’t risk setting that fire loose again and burning down the delicate, carefully manufactured system you had built together. For Hannah’s sake, you needed to keep Robby exactly where he was: your co-parent, your reliable partner in raising your daughter, not your lover anymore. One wrong move, one night of giving in to the pull that still crackled between you, and everything could crumble, the peaceful handoffs, the shared birthdays, the stability Hannah thrived on. You refused to gamble with her sense of security just because your body still remembered how perfectly he once fit against you, how his voice sounded when he fell apart because of you.
“Of course you’re horny. You just want a quick fuck. I should’ve known.”
His expression flickered, showing a little of something that looked like hurt in his eyes. “Come on. It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?”
“Okay, fine. Maybe I do want sex,” Robby admitted, “but come on, don’t pretend you don’t want it too. You remember how much fun we used to have.”
He found your waist, pulling you gently against him. You gasped softly as he slid his palms lower, cupping your ass through the fabric, possessive squeezes that send sparks straight through you. He massaged your flesh deliberately, pressing his thumbs in just the right spots, drawing you closer until you were flush against his chest.
“God, I want you,” he murmured against your ear. “So fucking much. Always have. Always will, probably.”
He dug his fingers a little harder into the curve of your ass, kneading the soft flesh with confidence. You were so close that you could already feel the hard outline of his cock pressing insistently against your lower stomach. He was hard for you, just from being this close, just from a few lingering touches. It took every ounce of willpower you had not to give in, not to reach down and palm him over his pants until he groaned into your mouth the way he used to.
“Keep your hands where I can see them, Robinavitch,” you warned, trying to sound threatening. It came out breathy and weak instead. You couldn’t fool anyone, least of all him. You wanted this, maybe even more than he did.
“You don’t want my hands where you can see them,” he replied with that stupid, cocky tone he always slipped into when he knew he had you right where he wanted you. “You want them in places you can’t see. You haven’t forgotten how good I am with them, have you? Nah… some things these hands did to you are impossible to forget.”
You bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling. Cocky motherfucker.
Finally, with the last scrap of self-control you could muster, you pushed him away. “You had your fun. Time for you to leave.”
“I was barely starting to have fun,” he said with a wicked smile as he took a step back, rubbing one hand over his face. “You, cruel, cruel woman.”
“You’ll live,” you muttered. “Go chase some nurses. They love you. Well… the ones who don’t actually work with you do.”
“You hurt me,” he exclaimed dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I don’t have any nurse to chase. And even if I did, nobody could compare to us. You know that.”
“You broke things off with the last one?” you asked in mock surprise, playing dumb. “What was her name? Nora? N… Natalie?”
You knew Robby had had his fair share of affairs throughout the years, nothing too serious, nothing that ever deserved a real conversation, and definitely nothing meaningful enough to introduce to Hannah. Still, it stung. You couldn’t exactly throw it in his face, you’d gone out with people too. But you wished the asshole would keep his flings away from the hospital, away from the place where you had to watch him flash those stupid little smiles and do his little shoe-lace trick for whatever nurse had caught his eye this month. The same way he’d once done it for you.
“I won’t answer to those accusations against me,” he said, shaking his head with a low chuckle. Robby stepped closer again and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Have a good night. I’ll see myself out.”
You couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at your lips as you watched him walk toward the door and finally leave the house. Five years later, and your body still caught fire whenever his hands were on you. Five years later, and you still loved your silly arguments and the way he could make you laugh even when you were pretending to be mad at him. Five years later… and you were still deeply enamored with Michael Robinavitch.
The clock on your nightstand glowed 2:17 a.m. when the first cry cut through the dark.
It wasn’t not the usual sleepy whimper or the “I had a bad dream” whine. It was a sharp sound, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of vomit hitting the floor.
You were out of bed before your brain fully registered it, rushing down the hall. Hannah’s room light was already on, and she was sitting up in bed, with the bedsheets twisted around her legs, her face shiny with sweat, and her eyes glassy because of the tears. There was a small puddle of bile on the rug beside her, and another streak down the front of her pajama top.
“Mommy—”
“I’m here, baby.” You dropped to your knees beside the bed, lifting your hand to her forehead. She was burning, her skin hot enough to make your palm sting. “Oh, sweetheart.”
She leaned heavily into you, her body trembling as another wave hit her. This time it was dry heaves because there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up. You lunged for the small trash can under her desk just in time, holding it steady beneath her chin while your other hand gathered her soft brown hair back from her face. With gentleness, you rubbed slow, soothing circles on her back, murmuring the same comforting nonsense you always did in moments like this.
Your voice stayed calm and steady for her sake, but inside, your mind had flipped into full doctor mode, racing through the mental checklist at lightning speed. Fever. Persistent vomiting. She had been fine at bedtime, tired from her long ballet practice, a little sniffly maybe, but nothing that had raised any red flags.
“Mommy… tummy aches,” Hannah mumbled weakly.
Your heart clenched so hard it hurt. You scooped her up immediately, blanket and all, and carried her to the bathroom. You ran a washcloth under cold water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to the back of her neck, hoping the chill would bring some relief. Then you offered her a small sip of water from the cup on the sink. She took it obediently, but almost instantly spat it back out, coughing and whimpering.
Reaching out for the thermometer from the medicine cabinet, you grabbed it and slipped it under her tongue, holding her close while you waited for the beep. 103.8. You managed to get a dose of Tylenol into her, but she could barely keep it down, her whole body shuddered as she fought the nausea, and her teeth chattered from the fever chills as she curled into you even tighter, shaking hard.
Helpless, that’s how you felt, completely helpless. And as a mother, feeling helpless was the worst torture imaginable. You were a doctor, and yet here in your own house, with your own child, there was only so much you could do. The cold washcloths weren’t bringing her temperature down fast enough. The medicine wasn’t staying in her long enough to work. Nothing seemed to help.
You couldn’t stand seeing your baby like this: so pale, so tired, her usual bright energy drained away, her little body trembling in your arms.. In this moment, more than anything, you wished Robby were here. Robby would know exactly what to do. He always did. He’d take one look at her, assess the situation and figure out what was wrong with Hannah right away. He’d fix it the same way he fixed dozens of people every single day in the pitt.
You sat on the edge of the tub with her in your lap, rocking her slowly, trying to keep her calm while you dialed Robby.
He picked up on the second ring. His voice was rough with sleep, but instantly alert when he realized you wouldn’t be calling this late at night if there wasn’t something really urgent going on. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Hannah’s sick. Fever’s 103.8, she’s been vomiting for the last twenty minutes. Won’t keep anything down. She’s shaking.”
There was the rustle of sheets and the immediate creak of a bedframe on Robby’s end. He was already moving, even half-asleep. You could practically see him sitting up in the dark.
“Okay,” his voice came through the phone. “Did you give her Tylenol?”
“Yes.”
“Motrin too? You should alternate if the fever’s that high.”
“I only have children’s Tylenol here,” you answered. “Motrin’s at your place.”
There was a brief pause, then a quiet “Okay… okay. Alright.” You heard him exhale slowly, the sound of fabric shifting as he moved. “Cool clothes? Cold washcloth on her neck or forehead?”
“I’m trying the cloth right now, but I’m not seeing any changes. The fever won’t come down at all.”
“Are you hydrating her? Give her small sips of water, tiny amounts so she doesn’t throw it right back up.”
“I am,” you said, glancing at the half-empty cup on the bathroom counter. “She’s spitting most of it back up. She can’t keep anything down.”
Another pause stretched between you. Even for a man who could keep ice-cold composure during the most chaotic live-or-die codes in the ED, something in Robby’s voice betrayed how uneasy he really was. You heard the rustle of clothes being pulled on quickly, then the unmistakable jingle of keys.
“So, fever’s still not budging?” he asked.
“Not yet. She’s miserable, Robby. Keeps saying her tummy hurts, and the dry heaves are getting worse. She’s shaking so hard her teeth are chattering.”
You heard loud, hurried footsteps crossing his floorboards, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing with a firm sound.
“Take her to the ER. Now.” There was no hesitation left in his words. “I’ll meet you there.”
Your stomach dropped. “You think it’s that bad?”
“I think 103.8 in a five-year-old who can’t keep meds or fluids down is worth getting checked. Could be viral, could be something else. Better be safe.”
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay. I’ll get her dressed. We’re leaving in five.”
“I’m already in the car. Text me when you’re on the road.”
He hung up, and you moved fast, changing Hannah into fresh pajamas, wiping her face, and wrapping her in the softest blanket she owned. She was listless now, her soft head lolling against your shoulder as small whimpers left her lips every time the nausea rolled through her again. You grabbed her insurance card, your wallet, a spare change of clothes for her, and the little stuffed unicorn she’d been sleeping with every night.
You placed Hannah in her car seat, with her blanket tucked around her. You buckled her in carefully, kissing her hot forehead. “We’re going to see the doctors, okay? Daddy’s meeting us there. You’re gonna feel better soon.”
She just nodded with her eyes half-closed. The drive to the hospital was only fifteen minutes at this hour through the dark and empty streets. You kept one hand on the wheel, and the other reaching back to hold hers. She was quiet except for the occasional gags into the bowl you’d wedged beside her seat.
You pulled into the ambulance bay lot, killed the engine and unbuckled Hannah. She was burning up, her usually light body now felt heavy and limp because of the fever. You wrapped the blanket tighter around her and lifted her carefully into your arms as you hurried toward the sliding glass doors.
They whooshed open, and Lena, the night-shift charge nurse, looked up from the desk. Her face immediately softened with concern the moment she recognized you.
“Hey… oh, honey.” Her voice dropped gently. “Is that Hannah?”
“Fever hit 103.8 at home,” you rattled off, shifting your daughter’s weight higher on your hip, trying to keep your voice steady, as if you were presenting a case, not describing your daughter’s symptoms. “Persistent vomiting, abdominal pain. I gave her Tylenol twenty minutes ago, but no improvement at all.”
Lena nodded briskly, already waving you over. “Bay six. We’ll get vitals right away.”
“Who’s on tonight?” you asked, walking fast down the familiar hallway. “Shen?”
“Dr. Abbot. I’ll send him your way as soon as he’s free.”
“Oh, thank God,” you exhaled, the relief hitting you so hard it made your shoulders sag for a moment. If there was anyone in this entire hospital you’d trust with Hannah besides Robby, it was Jack, Hannah’s godfather. You still remembered the day Robby had asked him to be his daughter’s godfather. The way Jack’s eyes had filled with tears, the two men pulling each other into a tight hug like brothers, like two men who were the only ones who truly understood the weight of this life, the long shifts, the losses, and the rare moments of hope like that one. Abbot had promised right then that he’d always have her back, no matter what.
You were halfway down the hall when Robby rounded the corner. The second his eyes landed on Hannah in your arms, his entire expression shifted to fatherly fear.
“Hey, angel,” he said softly, stepping close. He brushed a gentle hand over her back. “Mom said you’re not feeling good, huh?”
Hannah managed a weak, cracked little “Daddy…” before turning her face back into your neck, hiding from the bright lights and the unfamiliar sounds.
Robby flicked his gaze up to yours, doing that assessing scan he always did, checking not just Hannah, but how you were holding up. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you whispered, though your voice trembled as the tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. “Just… scared. I hate seeing her like this. She’s never been this sick.”
He nodded once. “I’ve got her.”
You handed her over without hesitation. Hannah clung to him immediately, wrapping her small arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder like he was her safe place. Robby carried her the rest of the way into the bay. He laid her down gently on the hospital bed, keeping one hand resting protectively on her stomach while the other smoothed damp strands of hair off her forehead with tenderness.
One of the night-shift nurses stepped in right away and rechecked her temperature. “It’s up to 104.1 now.” Her oxygen saturation was still holding steady, but she was clearly dehydrated, her lips cracked and dry, her eyes a little sunken, her usually rosy cheeks pale.
A couple of seconds later, Abbot strode into the bay, sweeping his eyes over the scene: little Hannah lying on the bed, Robby standing guard on one side, you on the other.
“Hey,” Abbot said, pulling Robby into a quick, one-armed brotherly hug, clapping his back once, and giving you a nod. “Heard our girl was here. Sorry, I was tied up with a gunshot wound, perforated lung. It’s chaos tonight.”
“She’s been throwing up everything, couldn’t even keep the Tylenol down,” Robby reported, giving the facts the way two attendings would, except this time his voice carried an edge of helplessness he rarely showed. He wasn’t the doctor tonight. He was the father. “Fever’s up to 104.1. We should get an IV going, more Tylenol, Zofr—”
“I’ve got this,” Abbot interrupted gently but firmly, keeping his tone calm and reassuring as he stepped closer to the bed. He looked down at Hannah with the softest smile, dropping his voice into that sweet, playful tone he saved only for kids. “Hey, Hannah Banana… we’re gonna get you feeling brand new before you even realize, okay?” He offered her a warm smile and the gentlest pinch on her cheek.
“Uncle Jack…” she mumbled, her voice cracking pitifully as another wave of nausea rolled through her.
The nurse started the IV in her tiny hand. Hannah cried out at the poke, a heartbreaking whimper that twisted something deep in your chest. Robby was right there, holding her other hand tightly, talking her through it in that calm voice he used with every scared kid who came through these doors. “Just a little pinch, angel. You’re being so brave. Almost done… that’s my good girl. Daddy’s right here.”
You stood on the opposite side of the bed, holding her foot gently in both hands and rubbing soothing circles over her ankle with your thumb, as if your touch alone could somehow absorb her pain and make it yours instead.
“We’ll keep her under observation for a while, wait for the fever to come down,” Abbot told you both. “I’ll come back in fifteen to check on her again, but she’s in the best hands tonight with the two of you right here.”
“Thank you, Jack,” you said quietly with gratitude. He gave your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before stepping back.
“Thanks, brother,” Robby added right after you, his hand never leaving Hannah’s hair.
Robby didn’t leave her side for even a second. He didn’t glance at his phone, didn’t step out to grab coffee, didn’t let himself get distracted by anything else. He stayed right there, anchored to the bed, resting one large hand gently on Hannah’s forehead, occasionally stroking her damp hair back from her skin. Every few minutes he’d lean in and murmur soft, ridiculous nonsense to her sleeping body, telling her she was tougher than any superhero, that the doctors here were the absolute best because they all knew her dad, and that meant she was getting the royal treatment, the best care in the house. You watched him from the corner of your eye. Even after everything, this was still who he was when it mattered most: steady, devoted, completely focused on the tiny human you’d made together.
The hours dragged, and eventually, after the second round of meds, Hannah’s fever finally started trending down. It had dropped to 100.7, and for the first time all night, some color began creeping back into her pale cheeks as her chest rose and fell more peacefully under the blanket.
You and Robby were slumped in the two chairs pulled up beside her bed. Robby broke the silence first. “I know what you’re thinking. You did everything right.”
You let out a shaky breath, staring at Hannah’s sleeping face. “Maybe I should’ve brought her sooner. She would’ve gotten better faster.”
He shook his head slowly. “You waited until it was warranted. You’re a doctor. You know the signs.” He reached over without hesitation, covering your hand with his on the shared armrest. His palm was warm and grounding in a way that made your throat tighten. “It’s just viral. She’s gonna be okay.”
Without thinking, you turned your hand over beneath his and laced your fingers through his, holding on tightly. For a moment, you didn’t care what it meant, or what anyone walking past the bay might think if they glanced in and saw the two of you like this, exes, co-parents, sitting together holding hands. The exhaustion of the night had stripped everything down, and right now, all that mattered was that Hannah was improving and Robby was here.
“Thanks for coming,” you whispered, even though you knew the words weren’t really necessary. Robby would drop everything and be anywhere either of you needed him, that had never been in question.
“Always.” He brushed his thumb slowly over your knuckles, a gentle motion. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
By the 6 a.m. check, Hannah’s fever had already dropped to 99.8. The IV fluids had done their job, and she hadn’t vomited anymore, even managed a few sips of apple juice without it coming right back up.
She shifted under the blanket, blinking up at you both. “Mommy? Daddy?”
“Hey, sweetheart,” you whispered, leaning forward to brush her hair back. “How’s your tummy?”
“Better,” she mumbled. “Did uncle Jack cure me?”
“He did.” You smiled, feeling a wave of relief flood through you. “You’re doing great now.”
Robby reached over, stroking his thumb over her cheek. “Morning, angel. You scared us.”
She managed a tiny smile, then winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He kissed her temple, lingering there for an extra second. “Just glad you’re feeling better.”
Jack came back a moment later for a quick exam and a review of vitals and labs, thankfully nothing alarming. Viral gastroenteritis, most likely, with a febrile response.
“Thanks for curing me, Uncle Jack,” Hannah said softly with that radiant smile that could melt absolutely anyone in seconds. “You’re the best doctor ever.”
Abbot grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her. “Well, thank you, Hannah Banana. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
Robby cleared his throat dramatically from the other side of the bay, crossing his arms. “Second best,” he corrected, raising an eyebrow at his daughter.
“Second best,” Hannah agreed immediately, turning that same sweet, dimpled smile toward Robby now, like she was bestowing him with the highest honor.
“Don’t worry, Hannah,” Jack said, leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I won’t tell your dad that you actually think I’m the better doctor.” He glanced sideways at his best friend with a mischievous glint. “A man with a fragile ego like him couldn’t take it.”
Robby let out a low, genuine chuckle, shaking his head. “Is she clear to go back home?” he asked, his tone shifting into something more serious, though the corner of his mouth still twitched. “See? I’m asking for your professional opinion and everything.”
Jack nodded, glancing once more at the monitor readings before looking back at both of you. “I’d say she can go home. Fever’s trending nicely downward, and she’s keeping fluids down now. Just keep checking her temperature regularly to make sure it stays down. If she starts vomiting again or the fever spikes back up, bring her straight back, but you two already know that better than most.”
Robby stood, stretching his back with a low groan. “I should head out,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Shift starts in thirty. Gotta change, grab coffee, pretend I’m human.”
You looked up at him, still holding Hannah’s hand. “You’re going in?”
He shrugged, like it was obvious. “Someone’s gotta run this place. You—” He nodded toward Hannah, then you. “—should take the day. Go home with her. Get some sleep, keep an eye on her. She’s fine now, but she’s still wiped. And you’ve been up all night.”
You opened your mouth to argue, out of pure habit, mostly. The words were already forming on your tongue, something about not wanting to burden the team, about pulling your weight like everyone else. But they died the instant your eyes landed on Hannah.
She was curled up small on her side in the hospital bed, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. You couldn’t stay away from her, not today. The thought of leaving her for twelve long hours, of being stuck in the ED while she was at home, possibly starting to feel worse again without you to notice the fever creeping back up made your stomach drop. You wouldn’t be able to focus. You wouldn’t feel at ease for even a second. Every patient you saw would be overshadowed by the constant fear that Hannah might need you and you wouldn’t be there to catch it, to bring her right back in.
And honestly… part of you simply wanted the day off. You wanted to take her home, wrap her up in her favorite blanket, and spend the whole day curled together on the couch. Just the two of you. A Disney marathon playing in the background while she rested her head on your chest and you stroked her hair.
So instead of arguing, you closed your mouth and let the silence settle. The decision had already been made the moment you looked at her.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Okay.”
Robby nodded, satisfied. He leaned down to kiss Hannah’s forehead again. “I’ll come by after shift to see how you’re doing.” He straightened and hesitated for half a second, then reached out and squeezed your shoulder, brushing the side of your neck, just once, before he pulled back. “Text me updates. I’ll turn off silent mode.”
“Will do.”
He lingered for another beat, like he didn’t quite want to leave the room, then turned toward the door. “See you later, angel,” he called softly to Hannah, who was already drifting again.
“Bye, Daddy,” she mumbled, half-asleep.
He gave you one last look, longer than necessary, before slipping out into the hallway. You exhaled slowly, while Robby and Jack handled the last few details with the nurse, you gathered Hannah’s things.
Home sounded like the best idea you’d had in hours. If there was one thing you truly hated about this life, it was how little time work left you to be the kind of mom you desperately wished you could be. Residency had already demanded so much, and motherhood had taken the rest. Every free moment you managed to carve out, you longed to spend it with Hannah. You didn’t want her to grow up one day and feel like you had missed it, like you weren’t there for the special moments. You didn’t want her to remember a childhood where her mom was always rushing, always tired, always halfway out the door.
By the time you pulled into your driveway, Hannah was already dozing in her car seat again. You carried her inside and laid her gently on the couch. The house felt wonderfully quiet after the night chaos of the ED. You changed into new pajamas, made her a nest of pillows and her favorite fuzzy blanket, then crawled in beside her, pulling her body against your chest. She stirred just enough to wrap one arm around your waist and mumble, “Mommy, will you stay today?”
“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Today is just us.”
The rest of the day unfolded slowly. You started with her favorite movie, Encanto, because she never got tired of singing along to every song, no matter if she was just recovering. Hannah curled up with her head in your lap, as you gently played with her hair while she hummed to the songs.
When the movie ended, you made a simple lunch together, something easy on her stomach, a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and strawberries. She only ate half, but she kept it down, earning praises from you. After lunch, you moved on to Moana. She sat cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in her blanket like a burrito, occasionally lifting her head to point at the screen and say, “Look, Mommy, the ocean! Can we go to the beach too?” You laughed softly and pulled her closer, letting her rest her cheek against your shoulder.
Robby’s shift ended late, as usual, and by the time he signed out, he was bone-tired, but the pull to check on Hannah overrode everything else. He texted you: Just got off. Coming by to check on her. You home?
Your reply wasquick: Yeah. She’s asleep. Door’s unlocked.
He let himself in quietly, finding you on the couch where you were curled up with a blanket. “Hey,” you whispered. “She crashed about an hour ago. Fever stayed down all day, no more vomiting.”
Robby exhaled, shrugging out of his jacket and walking over. “Good. That’s good.”
You nodded toward the hallway. “You want to peek in on her?”
He did, already heading to Hannah’s room. She was sprawled on her stomach, with one arm flung out and her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. Her breathing was deep and even, Robby stood in the doorway for a long minute, just watching her chest rise and fall.
When he came back to the living room, you’d poured two glasses of water and set them on the coffee table. He sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that your knees almost touched, far enough to keep the boundary.
“She looks so much better,” he said quietly. “Color’s back.”
“Yeah.” You tucked your legs under you, pulling the blanket tighter to your body. “I was terrified last night. Thought… I don’t know. Worst-case scenarios kept running through my head.”
He nodded. “Me too. When you called, my heart stopped for a second.”
You took a breath, then another. “You’re a great dad, Robby. You know that, right?”
He glanced at you, surprised by the sudden moment of honesty. “Trying to be.”
“No. You are.” You met his eyes so he could see how much you meant every word that left your lips. “I always knew you would be. Even back when… everything was a mess. When we were still figuring out how to be parents instead of just two people who accidentally made a kid. I saw it in the way you held her the first time. You stepped up. Every single time.”
He looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over a callus on his palm, like he didn’t know how to take the compliment.
“We might not have planned her. But Hannah got the best possible dad out of the deal.”
Robby swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the movement of his throat. His voice came out rough when he finally spoke. “I’ll always be grateful to you for that. For giving me her. For making me a dad when I didn’t even know I could be one. When I didn’t even know if I wanted to be alive.” He exhaled, sounding almost like a laugh without humor. “I look at her sometimes and think… how the hell did I get this lucky? She’s smart, she’s kind, she’s fearless. And half of that’s you. But the other half… I get to be part of it. Every day. Because of you.”
The air between you thickened, it was full of years of shared history, good, bad, messy, beautiful. “I still love you for that,” he said quietly. “Not like… not trying to cross lines. Just… I’ll always have love for you. Because you gave me the best thing in my life. And you trusted me with her. That means more than I could ever express.”
“I know. I feel the same way.” You rolled your head to the side, trying to loosen the knot that’d been building since last night. The motion made your neck crack loudly, and it pulled a wince out of you.
Robby lifted his brow. “You okay?”
“Just the couch napping. My neck’s killing me.”
He didn’t hesitate, standing up right away. “Come here.”
You did hesitate for half a heartbeat, long enough to consider the offer. You were too tired to argue, and you knew how good Robby’s hands were, so you stood up from the couch, then turned so your back was to him. He stepped in behind you, close enough that you felt the warmth of him before his hands even touched you.
He settled his fingers on your shoulders first, pressing his thumbs into the muscles along the tops of your traps, working in slow circles. You couldn’t help dropping your head forward on a soft exhale, closing your eyes as the pressure hit exactly where you needed it.
“God,” you murmured. “You’re still really good at that.”
He huffsed a quiet laugh against your hair. “Muscle memory.”
Robby moved his hands, working down the column of your neck, tracing the tense line on either side of your spine, then out across your shoulders again. You melt into it without meaning to, dropping your shoulders and slowing your breath as the ache unwound thread by thread.
For a minute, it was just that: his hands on your shoulders. Then he slid his palms lower, intentionally, until they settled at your waist. He pulled you back gently, just enough that he had your back pressed against his chest.
He brushed his lips along the side of your neck, teasingly soft at first. Then, firmer in a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.
Your pulse jumped immediately at the contact of his lips against your skin. “Robby.”
He didn’t stop. Another kiss, lower this time, along the curve where neck meets shoulder. He tightened his hands on your waist, slipping his thumbs under the hem of your top, grazing your bare skin.
“This is a bad idea,” you whispered but it came out unsteady.
Robby moved his mouth over your skin. “Then why does it feel so good?”
You didn’t have an answer, you couldn’t think of one that made sense. He kept going, trailing kisses along the side of your throat, sliding one hand up your side, splaying his fingers across your ribs, the other staying firm at your hip, holding you against him.
You tipped your head back against his shoulder in instinct, and he took the invitation, kissing the exposed line of your throat. Robby drifted his hand higher, brushing the underside of your breast through the fabric. Your hands came up in response, half to stop him, half to hold on, and they landed on his forearms, gripping them.
He murmured against your skin. “Tell me to stop.”
You didn’t stop it. Not one single part of you wanted to. Maybe if you weren’t so bone-deep tired, physically drained from years of resisting him, of constantly convincing yourself that you didn’t want this, that you weren’t aching for this every time he got too close, you might have found the strength to push him away again. To remind yourself of all the careful boundaries you’d built for Hannah’s sake. To remember why this was dangerous.
But right now, none of that mattered. Right now you needed Robby. You needed his warmth, you needed his touch, those large, capable hands that knew every inch of your body better than anyone else ever had, or ever would. You needed the intoxicating pleasure only he could ever give you, the rumble of his voice in your ear, and the way he could make you forget every careful reason you’d built to keep him at arm’s length.
The resistance you’d been carrying for years suddenly felt too heavy to hold anymore. In this quiet moment all you wanted was to let go. To stop fighting the pull that had never really gone away. To let Robby remind you, just for tonight, how good it felt to be wanted like this.
Under your shirt, one of Robby’s hands cupped the swell of your breast through the fabric of your bra. He traced slow circles over the peak, teasing the nipple into a tight point, making you arch without meaning to, and he rewarded you with a soft bite at the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuck,” you whispered, the curse slipping out before you could stop it.
Robby exhaled a rough laugh against your throat. “There she is.” He sounded proud of getting this reaction out of you, of remembering your body even if it’d been years since the last time he’d touched you.
He palmed your other breast now, both hands working in tandem to knead your flesh, brushing his fingers back and forth until the friction through your bra was almost too much. Your nipples ached, already feeling oversensitive, and every pass of his fingers sent heat straight between your legs. You could feel him behind you, his thick cock rigid, pressing against the small of your back through his jeans. The size of him, the heat of him, the way he rocked forward just enough to let you feel every inch, made your thighs clench.
You should stop this. You knew you should. But your hands were already reaching back, curling into the fabric of his shirt at his hips, holding him closer instead of pushing him away.
He growled with approval, leaving one of your breasts to slide his hand down the front of your body. He was slow, giving you every second to say no.
“When was the last time someone fucked you the way you deserve?” he murmured against your neck, slightly tightening his fingers once he reached your thigh, dangerously close to the waistband of your shorts.
You stayed silent, like part of you didn’t want to admit the truth. Robby didn’t pull back, he kissed your neck again. “Tell me, baby. When was the last time you were properly fucked? Deep and hard like I used to… Until you couldn’t think straight?”
You swallowed once, then answered honestly, barely above a whisper. “I haven’t slept with anyone since the last time we were together. About four years ago.”
Robby stilled completely. He lifted his mouth from your neck like he was waiting for the punchline. “You’re joking.”
You shook your head. “I’m not.”
He stared at you for a moment, processing the new information. Then he let out a slow, disbelieving breath. “What about those guys you’ve dated? The vet? That other guy a year ago, what was he? An engineer? What about him?”
“Two dates, maybe three at most with any of them,” you said quietly. “Never went further. Never slept with any of them. Being a mom and a resident… there’s no time. Between Hannah’s schedule, shifts, studying, and trying to keep everything together, sex just wasn’t a priority.”
Robby tightened his jaw, and a fix of emotions flashed through his face, surprise, heat, and a fierce kind of possessiveness. “Fuck,” he muttered. “You can’t just tell me you haven’t been fucked in four years and expect me to act like it’s nothing.”
Before you could respond, he dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, then under the elastic of your panties. “Four years. Four fucking years without anyone touching you the way you need. Without anyone filling this perfect pussy. I’m gonna leave you so fucking wet and satisfied when I’m done with you tonight. You’re gonna be ruined for anyone else after this.”
There was no hesitation now. He parted your pussy with two fingers, finding you already slick with arousal, your lips swollen, and he dragged his digits up through your folds in one long stroke, making your knees nearly buckle.
“Jesus,” he whispered against your ear, already sounding wrecked. “So fucking wet for me.”
Robby circled your clit, it was light at first, his touch feather-soft, just enough to make your hips jerk. Then it turned firmer, pressing down in tight circles the way he always knew you liked. The exact pressure, the exact rhythm. Muscle memory for him too, apparently.
You tipped your head back against Robby’s broad shoulder, fluttering your eyes shut so you could focus entirely on the intense pleasure flooding through your body. A shaky breath escaped your lips as his fingers worked you open with precision.
He kept his other hand on your breast, tugging your bra down roughly so he could give your nipples the attention they craved. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and tugging in perfect time with the slick strokes between your legs. The dual sensation was devastating in the best way, making your pussy clench and flutter around nothing.
He slid one thick finger inside you, stretching you carefully, opening you up with a patience that drove you insane. When you pushed your hips back greedily, silently begging for more, he added a second finger, sinking them deeper. You were so tight, clenching hard around the intrusion, and Robby let out a guttural groan against your ear, like the feel of you was almost painful for him too.
“Still so fucking perfect,” he rasped with want. “Fuck… the way you grip me. Like you never want to let go.”
He curled his fingers deliberately, hooking them forward until he found that spongy spot inside you that made your vision flash white for a second. A broken moan tore from your throat as he started stroking your g-spot with every thrust. The sound was loud enough that you both froze for half a heartbeat, listening for any noise from upstairs. The house stayed quiet. Hannah was still fast asleep. Robby didn’t waste another second, he resumed his movements, going deeper now, fucking you steadily with his fingers while his thumb kept the pressure on your clit.
Robby alternated the pace just to torment you, slow and deep, then faster and harder, then dragging it back to that torturous slow rhythm again. Teasing you right up to the edge without ever letting you fall over it.
You rocked back against his hand, chasing the pleasure, chasing him. Every curl of his fingers and every swipe of his thumb made your clit throb and your walls flutter around him. You were soaking his hand, the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping pussy filling the quiet room.
Your breathing turned ragged. Small and desperate sounds slipping out despite your best efforts, whimpers, half-moans, his name once or twice when he hit the spot just right.
He kissed your neck again, sucking lightly and then soothing with his tongue. Robby couldn’t stop his hips from rocking against your ass in shallow thrusts, matching the rhythm of his fingers, allowing you to feel how hard he was, painfully so.
Your thighs started to tremble. The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. You were close, so close, and he knew it, still remembered how your body shook, how your pussy pulsed and clenched when you were about to let go.
“Come on,” he murmured against your ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.” He pressed his thumb harder on your clit, and crooked his fingers again, stroking that spot in quick pulses. “Let me feel you cum. Please, baby, I want it so bad.”
It hit you like a wave. As you orgasmed around his fingers, your back arched, throwing your head back against his shoulder, opening your mouth on a silent cry that turned into a choked moan when the pleasure finally broke. You came hard, shuddering and clenching around his fingers. He had to tighten his arm around your waist to keep you upright when wave after wave of pleasure hit you, until your legs felt like liquid.
Robby’s arms stayed locked around you for a long moment after you came down. Slowly, he turned you in his arms until you were facing him. Your legs felt unsteady, so he steadied you with his hands on your waist.
When he lifted the hand that was inside you, the one still slick and shining with you, he brought it to his mouth without breaking eye contact with you.
Robby licked his fingers slowly, first one, then the other, dragging his tongue flat and thorough, tasting every bit of you.
“Fuck,” he murmured, humming as if the taste of your slickness pleasured him. “Still taste the same. Sweet. So goddamn good.”
Heat flooded your face, your chest, everywhere. You couldn’tlook away, the sight of him, with his lips wet and his eyes locked on yours, while he savored you like that, made your core clench again. It felt so aching and empty without him inside you, and you desperately needed to be filled again, to feel the stretch of his cock impaled inside you, to have his weight over you while he made you feel owned.
The words slipped out before you could think them through. “Fuck me, Robby.”
His mouth curved almost predatory. The words he’d longed to hear for so long. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, allowing you to feel his hot breath on your lips. “Ask nicely.”
You narrowed your eyes with defiance even through the haze of want. “Go to hell.”
He laughed, the same laugh he used to give you in stolen moments years ago, when you’d push back just to watch him unravel. “Still stubborn,” he said, almost fond. “Good to know some things don’t change.”
Robby didn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion, his hands were under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nd your arms around his neck, as he carried you up the stairs. His mouth found your neck again on the way, kissing and nipping while he navigated the familiar hallway in the dark.
He pushed open the door to your bedroom with his shoulder, kicking it shut behind him, and turning the lock with a click. Robby set you down on the edge of the bed but didn’t step back. He stood between your spread thighs, looking down at you with an expression that made your stomach flip.
“Fuck… I feel like I’m dreaming,” he cupped your face, stroking his thumb over your cheeks. “You, here, letting me touch you again after all this time. After everything.”
Then he was on you, Robby climbed onto the bed, his knees bracketing your hips, and pressing you back into the mattress with his weight. He crashed his mouth down on yours in a desperate kiss while he ran his hands over your body.
He groaned like a man starved, staring at your chest. “These tits… God, I missed them.” His mouth descended immediately, devouring you with almost frantic need. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue roughly around the peak before he sucked it hard, hollowing your cheeks. He kneaded the other breast, digging his fingers in, flicking and pinching the neglected nipple until you arched off the bed with a loud moan. He switched sides, licking and biting, sucking marks into the flesh like he wanted to claim every inch. His stubble was scraping deliciously against your skin, making you whimper and thread your fingers through his brown hair, holding him to you.
He was almost desperate in the way he worshiped your body, groaning against your skin, grinding his hips down against your thigh so you could feel how painfully hard he was. “So fucking perfect,” he mumbled between sucks and bites. “These tits were made for my mouth. Look at how pretty they look. I love sucking on them… fuck, baby.”
You were panting, pushing your chest further into his face as pleasure shot straight to your cunt. Robby spent long minutes there, alternating between teasing licks and rough hungry suction, until your nipples were swollen, sensitive, and glistening with his spit.
Then he started moving lower. His mouth trailed wet kisses down your sternum, over your stomach, pausing to nip at the soft curve just below your navel. He settled between your spread thighs, pushing your shorts the rest of the way down to bunch around your ankles. For a moment, he just stared at the damp spot on your panties with eyes full of lust.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his hot breath right against your dripping pussy. “You’re making such a big mess for me. You ruined your panties… so fucking soaked.”
He leaned in and mouthed at your pussy over the thin fabric, pressing kisses along your slit, dragging his tongue slowly from your entrance up to your clit through the soaked cotton. He sucked gently on your clit through the material, making your hips jerk. Then he pulled back just enough to blow cool air over the damp spot before diving in again, licking broad stripes, nipping at your folds, mouthing at you like he was trying to taste every drop of your arousal through the barrier.
You moaned louder, with your thighs trembling around his head and your hands fisting the sheets as he teased you mercilessly. Robby hooked his arms under your thighs, holding you open while he continued the torturous worship of his mouth. Every time you tried to grind harder against his mouth, he pulls back slightly, keeping you right on the edge, whimpering and desperate.
“Robby… please…” you gasped, but he only groaned against your pussy and keept teasing, determined to drive you insane before he finally gave you what you both needed.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, gleaming with satisfaction. Robby hooked two fingers into the thin cotton at your hip and ripped. The sound of fabric tearing filled the quiet room. You only had a second for the cool air to hit your bare, dripping pussy, because right away Robby’s mouth was on you, aggressive and devastatingly skilled.
He devoured you like a man who’d been starving for years. There’s no gentle buildup or teasing licks. He buried his face between your thighs with a hunger that bordered on feral. He drags his tongue broadly, giving you flat strokes from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, lapping up every drop of your arousal like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
He groaned deeply into your pussy, the sound was filthy. “Fuck, baby… you taste even better than I remembered,” he said against your folds before diving back in.
He ate you out with aggression, swallowing your clit into the heat of his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bundle of nerves before releasing it with a filthy pop. The sudden loss of suction made you whimper, only for him to immediately flick the tip of his tongue rapidly against your clit as his stubble scraped against your inner thighs with every movement of his head.
Robby alternated between deep licks that plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow strokes that had you dripping down his chin, and tight suction on your clit that made you curl your toes hard.
Every time you tried to muffle your moans, he only doubled down, sucking harder, licking deeper, devouring you like he’d been dreaming about this exact taste for years. He gripped your ass, spreading you wider for his mouth, holding you firmly in place so you couldn’t escape the assault of his tongue.
“Oh my God… Robby—” Your voice cracked as he flicked his tongue rapidly over your clit. “Fuck, right there, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
He ate it like he loved it. Like he needed it. His hands weren’t idle either. One arm banded across your lower stomach, holding you down when your hips started bucking too wildly. The other hand reached up to palm and squeeze your bare breasts, making you moan louder.
You pushed up onto your elbows, desperate to watch him. The sight was both obscene and intoxicating, Robby’s head buried between your thighs, his shoulders flexing as he worked, eyes closed in pure bliss while his mouth devoured your cunt. His jaw was moving with every lick and every suck, his lips and chin already shiny with your wetness. When he glanced up and caught you watching, his eyes darkened even more.
He pulled back just enough to spit directly onto your swollen pussy, a thick glob of saliva landing right on your clit. The warm sensation made you gasp, asd he watched it drip down your folds for half a second before he drove back in, spreading the spit with his tongue, mixing it with your own slick until everything was messy and glistening.
“God, look at this pretty pussy,” the words came out muffled against you. “So fucking wet for me. Been waiting four years to taste you again.”
He continued his relentless assault on your clit, and you couldn’t look away. The sight of this strong man, completely lost between your legs, eating your pussy like it was his favorite meal, was almost too much.
“You’re so fucking good at this… shit, your mouth—” A broken moan escaped you when he sucked hard on your clit again. “I’m gonna… I can’t! Robby, I’m close already…”
Your second orgasm built fast, and it crushed over you without mercy, making you bow your back off the bed, tearing a broken cry from your throat as the pleasure peaked. Robby didn’t let up for a second, he sucked your nub harder, drawing the orgasm out until it felt endless.
Your vision whited out, tears spilling down your cheeks as the pleasure rolled through you while he kept licking you through it greedily.
You sobbed his name, “Robby… fuck—oh god,” as your body shook uncontrollably, clamping his thighs around his head when the intensity bordered on too much.
He finally eased off only when your cries turned into overwhelmed whimpers, your body limp and trembling on the bed. But even then, he didn’t pull away completely. Robby continued placing soft kisses to your folds, licking up every drop of your release like he couldn’t bear to waste any of it. His hands soothed your thighs, rubbing circles while you came down.
Robby lifted his head, letting you admire his lips and chin glistening with your cum between your spread thighs. “Four years… and you still taste like heaven.”
When he finally started kissing his way up your body, his mouth was soft, reaching your mouth and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He pulled back, hovering his face above yours. “You okay, baby?” he asked with an edge of worry in his tone, cupping your cheek with one hand, brushing away a tear. “Talk to me. Was that too much?”
You managed a shaky nod, still catching your breath. “I’m… fine. Just… holy shit, Robby.”
He chuckled softly, pleased with himself after seeing the effect his mouth had on you. “You’ve got the most perfect pussy in the world, you know that? So fucking pretty when you cum. And look at the mess you made…” He glanced down between your bodies at the soaked sheets, a proud and filthy smirk tugging at his mouth. “You still soak everything when I eat you out. God, I love how wet you get for me.”
Your voice came out breathy, needy, honest in a way you haven’t been with him in years.You were finally embracing what you truly wanted. “I need you, Robby. All of you. Please.”
Something possessive flashed in his eyes. He didn’t make you ask twice this time, just sat back on his heels and stripped in a rush, yanking his shirt over his head, then shoving his pants and boxers down his thighs in one impatient motion. His cock sprang free, looking every bit as thick as you remembered it, with the head already flushed in a dark red, leaking precum.
He was rock-hard, with the veins standing out along the shaft, curving slightly upward the way you loved, because it hit your g-spot so easily. He knelt between your spread thighs, pressing his into the mattress, and looked down at you with hunger. “Stroke it a little,” he asked you. “Let me feel your hand on me first.”
You sat up just enough to reach him, wrapping your fingers around his impressive length. He felt hot in your palm as you gave him a firm stroke from the base to the tip, swirling your thumb over the leaking head to spread the precum. Your touch made Robby groan deeply, twitching his hips forward into your touch.
“Fuck… It’s so big,” you whispered, locking your eyes on the way your hand looked around him. “I need it so much, Robby. I’ve missed this cock. Missed how full you make me.”
He watched your hand move, his breathing growing increasingly ragged with every stroke. “Slow, baby. Just like that. Real slow.” His voice was strained, like he was already fighting not to cum from your touch alone. “Shit, I’m close already. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this… your hand feels too fucking good.”
You kept stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, squeezing just the way he’d always liked. Robby's head fell back for a moment, a moan rumbling in his chest, before he looked down again, watching your tits move with each stroke, watching your slick pussy still glistening from his mouth, waiting for him.
He reached down and gently took your wrist, stilling your hand. Then he shifted forward, gripping the base of his cock and rubbing the thick head up and down your soaked slit, coating himself in your wetness. The pressure against your clit made you whimper.
Robby leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other still holding his cock against your entrance. He locked his eyes onto yours. “Should we.. uh… grab a condom?”
You didn’t even hesitate, spreading your legs wider for him, sliding your hands up his arms to grip his shoulders. “I’m on the pill,” you whispered. “Go raw. I want to feel all of you.”
A deep groan escaped him as he notches the head of his cock right against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch without pushing inside yet. He cupped your face with his free hand, brushing your lower lip while he held himself right there, waiting for the moment he finally sank into you after four long years.
When he finally pushed forward, you felt the blunt pressure increasing, letting you feel every inch as he sank into you. You both moaned at the same time, he was thicker than you remembered in the haze of memory, and the stretch was intense, bordering on overwhelming after so long without anyone inside you. Your walls parted around him, fluttering and clenching as he slid deeper, inch by slow inch, until his hips were flush against yours and he was buried to the hilt inside you.
The fullness was perfect, almost too much, pressing against that deep spot that made you curl your toes instantly. “Fuck… baby,” Robby groaned, dropping his forehead to yours for a second. “You feel… Jesus Christ. So tight. So fucking wet and warm. I missed this pussy so much.”
He stayed still for a heartbeat, letting you adjust, both of you just breathing each other in after four long years. Then he started to move. The first thrust was slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with a wet sound. The second was a little harder. By the third, he’d found a steady rhythm, long and powerful strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. The drag and stretch were incredible, every time he bottomed out, the head of his cock kissed that deep place that made sparks explode behind your eyes.
“Oh my God… Robby,” you moaned, already trembling, and he’d just started. “You’re so fucking deep.”
It felt amazing for both of you. For you, it was like waking up after years of numbness, every nerve lighting up, pleasure flooding your body in waves with every thrust. For Robby, the groan that left him is guttural, almost pained with how good it felt to finally be inside the only place that’d ever made sense in his life.
His hips snapped forward harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the bedroom as he fucked you with measured strokes. You were trying so hard to stay quiet, bringing your hand to your mouth to bite down on the side of it, muffling the moans that kept trying to spill out. You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, then fluttered them open again. Robby was watching you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, flicking his gaze between your face, your lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure, to your tits bouncing with every thrust, and down to where your pussy was stretched wide around his cock.
He watched himself disappear inside you, the shiny wetness coating his shaft every time he pulled back, your folds clinging to him greedily. “Fuck, look at that. Your pretty pussy taking me so well after all this time. Stretched so tight around my cock… making such a mess on me.”
You bit harder into your hand as a particularly deep thrust made you whimper loudly. Robby’s rhythm started to pick up, snapping his hips with more force, the perfect angle to hit your spot inside you over and over, making you clench around his length.
“Shit… right there,” you whimpered. “That spot… fuck! I can feel every inch. God, I’m so full.”
“Stop squeezing like that,” he groaned, almost pleading, tightening his grip on your hips. “You’re gonna make me cum already if you keep clenching around me like that. This pussy is too perfect… so fucking good. Feels like heaven. I’ve dreamed about this for years… being buried inside you again.”
He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your muffled moans, before he suddenly gripped the backs of your thighs and lifted your legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders. The new angle let him sink even deeper, and the next thrust punched the air out of your lungs as he bottomed out completely, pressed his hips tightly against your ass, grinding his cock against that deepest spot.
“Oh my god—Robby!” You gasped against your hand, rolling your eyes back. “Like that! Like that… Please don’t stop.”
He fucked you harder now, making the bed creak softly beneath you. “So perfect,” he panted between thrusts. “You feel so fucking perfect. This body… these tits… this tight little pussy squeezing me. I missed you so much. Missed fucking you like this.”
He slid a hand between your bodies, finding your swollen clit with his thumb and rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation was pushing you toward the edge fast.
“Cum for me, baby,” he growled. “I want to feel you cum around my cock. Let me feel it.”
When the pleasure started cresting, your words turned into fragmented, needy whimpers.
The combination of his deep strokes, the pressure on your clit, and the overwhelming fullness after four years was too much. Your third orgasm of the night crashed over you even harder than the other two. Your back arched violently off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat despite your teeth sinking into your hand. Your pussy clamped down around him like a vice, pulsing and fluttering rhythmically as waves of intense pleasure ripped through you.
Robby groaned loudly, his hips stuttering as he felt his own impeding orgasm approaching. “That’s it—fuck, yes—milk me, baby. I’m cumming—”
He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself as far as he could go, and finally allowed himself to cum. You felt the thick pulses of his seed as he filled you up, rope after rope of cum flooding deep inside you, so much that you could feel it spilling out around his cock where you were stretched around him. Robby kept grinding his hips against you through his orgasm, drawing it out, making sure every drop stayed inside you as long as possible.
He stayed buried deep while you both came down, breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat. Your legs were still over his shoulders, your pussy still gently fluttering around his softening cock.
“Four years,” he whispered hoarsely against your lips. “And you’re still mine.”
An incredulous chuckle rumbled out of his chest, utterly satisfied. His brown eyes were in disbelief, like he genuinely couldn’t believe he just got to be inside you again after all this time. The lines around his eyes crinkled deeply as he smiled. “Jesus Christ,” he murmured, sounding a little husky fro the exertion. “I can’t believe I just got to be inside you again. That was… fuck. That was the best fuck of my life. Better than I remembered. Better than anything.”
He stayed there a moment longer, savoring the connection, before he finally pulled out of you. You both groaned at the loss, a thick of his cum leaking out of you onto the already-soaked sheets. Robby rolled off you and onto his back beside you, reaching out with one arm to pull you against his side
He turned his head to look at you, brushing damp strands of hair off your forehead with gentle fingers. “How was that for you, baby?” he asked softly. “Tell me. Was it okay? Did I hurt you at all?”
You huffed a small, tired laugh against his collarbone. “You already know the answer.”
He hummed, but didn’t let it drop. “Say it anyway.”
“Robby.” You tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Stop fishing for compliments. You already know exactly how good it felt. It was amazing. More than amazing. I don’t even have words for it. I came so hard I— God, I needed that.”
He smiled again with a satisfied grin, and pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Good. That’s all I wanted, to make you feel as good as you made me feel.”
As the afterglow started to fade, and reality started to creep back in… the sleeping five-year-old down the hall, the careful co-parenting boundaries you’ve both worked so hard to maintain. You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him.
“You should get going now. It’s late. Hannah will be up early, and I don’t want her to wake up and find you here. It might make things weird or confusing for her.”
Robby let out a genuine laugh, rolling onto his side to face you fully. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You use me to break your four-year celibacy, three orgasms, mind you, and now you’re kicking me out?” His eyes sparkled with humor, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Cold, woman . Real cold. I give you the best, and only, dick you’ve had in years, and this is the thanks I get? Straight to the door?”
You couldn’t help but laugh with him, swatting lightly at his chest. “I’m serious. You know how she is. If she comes in here looking for me in the morning and sees you in my bed, she’ll have a million questions. Or she’ll think we’re back together and get her hopes up. We can’t do that to her.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, too, mirroring your position, still grinning that cocky grin that made him look ten years younger. “Three orgasms,” he repeate, holding up three fingers like he was making a point. “I ate that pussy until you were crying and shaking, then fucked you so deep you saw stars, and now I’m being evicted? Harsh, really harsh. I feel so used right now.”
“Robby,” you said, trying to sound stern but failing as another laugh bubbled up. “Come on. You know I’m right.”
He sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the pillow but keeping one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer so your bare breasts pressed against his chest. “I don’t want to go. Not yet. I want to stay here and cuddle you. Just hold you for a while. I promise I’ll leave early tomorrow morning, before Hannah wakes up. I’ll set an alarm, sneak out. She’ll never know I was here. Please, baby. Let me stay. I missed this. Missed holding you after.”
You hesitated, chewing your lip. The warmth of his body against yours, the beat of his heart under your palm, the way he kept tracing circles with his fingers on your lower back… it all feels dangerously good.
He sensed your wavering and leaned in, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, then to your lips. “You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses. “So fucking perfect. The way you took me tonight, the way you came for me… You made me feel whole again. Nothing in my life has ever compared to this. You and Hannah… you two are the best things that ever happened to me. Being inside you again, hearing you moan my name… it reminded me how much I still need you. How much I’ve always needed you.”
He tightened his arm around you, pulling you fully against his chest so you were tucked into his side, resting your head on his shoulder. Robby slid one of his legs between yours, tangling you together under the messy sheets. He kept kissing you, your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, then back to your mouth in lingering presses.
“I mean it,” he whispered against your hair. “You made me the happiest man alive when you gave me Hannah, but nights like this… being with you like this… it completes something in me. I feel alive. Whole. Like the missing piece finally clicked back into place. No one else has ever made me feel this way. No one else ever could.”
You melted into him despite yourself, and the night passed in fragments of deep sleep, the kind you haven’t had in years. Robby’s arm stayed across your waist the whole time, with his fingers splayed over your stomach like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. His chest rose and fell against your back in an even rhythm, and the snoring… God, the stupid snoring you’d missed so much.
You woke slowly, first to the weight of him, then to the ache between your legs, the reminder of last night still dried on your inner thighs. You felt him stir behind you as consciousness returned. You could practically hear the smile before you even turned your head.
When you did roll over, he was already looking at you with his eyes half-lidded, sleepy, and crinkled at the corners. And yeah, there it was, that stupid and contented grin spreading across his face like he’d just won the lottery.
“Stop smiling,” you muttered. “You’re creeping me out.”
He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, didn’t even try to dial it back. If anything, it got wider. “Can’t help it,” he said. “Woke up next to the most gorgeous woman in the world. Kinda hard not to smile about that.”
Heat climbed up your neck despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. “Flattery at six a.m. is a cheap move, Robinavitch.”
“Fuck,” he breathed, roaming his eyes over your face like he was seeing it for the first time. “Look at you.”
He dropped his gaze appreciatively, taking in the messy hair spilling across the pillow, the sheet tangled around your bare hips, the faint marks his mouth left on your collarbone last night. He reached out, tracing one with his thumb, gently.
“Don’t even think about it, Michael,” you warned him. You’d had your fun last night. It had been amazing, even better than you remembered sex with Robby ever being. But it had been one time. One stupid lapse of judgment, one moment of weakness that couldn’t repeat itself again. You couldn’t let it. Not when the delicate balance you’d fought so hard to maintain for Hannah was so stable. You refused to risk your daughter’s sense of security just because your body still craved the man who used to know every inch of you better than anyone else.
Robby snapped his eyes back to yours, looking equal parts hungry and amused. “You know how I get when you call me Michael.”
“Last night was a relapse. I was tired, and… Emotional. Not happening again today. Not happening again ever, as a matter of fact.”
“Yeah?” He laughed before he shifted, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. His body came down over yours, caging you under his weight. Robby braced his forearms on either side of your head, his knees bracketing your hips. “You sure about that?”
You pushed at his shoulder. “Robby… get off.”
He stirred above you, lifting his head. For a moment, he didn’t move, but you kept pushing, gentle but insistent, until he finally rolled off you with a sigh and propped himself up on one elbow.
“All of this… It was a mistake,” you sat up and pulling the sheet up over your bare chest, suddenly too aware of your nakedness.
Robby reached for you instinctively, but you shifted away, scooting back against the headboard. “Why?” he asked. “It felt fucking amazing for both of us. You know it did. We’re good at this, we’ve always been good at this.”
You shook your head, the memory of his hands, his mouth, the way your bodies still fit together like they remembered every single time before… it made your resolve weaken. “You know why not. I can’t just think about ourselves anymore. We have to think about Hannah. We can’t hurt her. We already crashed once, and I’m not putting her through big changes, through the uncertainty, the chance that everything falls apart all over again.” You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “I know you, Michael. In a month you’re going to regret this. You’re going to need space, and your head won’t be in the right place for commitment. I won’t do that to her. I won’t do that to any of us.”
Robby sat up fully now, the playful morning haze completely gone from his face. “It’s different this time. The first time… everything was happening all at once. You know how fucked up I was… After Covid, after… everything that happened. Having to take care of the whole ED… I was drowning. I couldn’t be what you needed. But I’m not that man anymore. You know I’ve changed. You’ve seen how much being a father changed me.” He leaned forward slightly. “I want you. I want this. I want the family. I want the commitment.”
You swallowed hard, and for one dangerous moment, you let yourself imagine it, waking up like this every morning with his warmth beside you, the three of you as a real family, lazy weekends and shared dinners and Hannah running between you both. The picture was so beautiful it hurt, but reality settled back in fast.
“You should go,” you whispered, looking away toward the window so he wouldn’t see the tears gathering in your eyes. “We shouldn’t keep talking about this anymore.”
Robby exhaled, running a hand through his messy, sleep-tousled hair. “It’s not fair.”
You let out a bitter little laugh. “A lot in life isn’t fair, Robby. You know that better than anyone else.”
He watched you for a long moment. The silence stretched between you until he finally swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. You stayed under the sheet, trying not to watch the familiar way his muscles moved as he gathered his clothes from the floor and got dressed.
When he reached the bedroom door, he paused, turning back to you with that half-smirk that you knew meant trouble. “You can try, but I know you can’t stay away from all of this for too long. I’m a real catch.”
You couldn’t help the tired laugh that escaped you. “Goodbye, Michael.”
He gave you one last long look full of affection before he slipped out of the room and down the stairs. The sheets still smelled like him, your skin still remembered his hands, nd you were left alone with the echo of everything you wanted but couldn’t let yourself have.
A/N: Oh my god, I finally wrote something!!!😭 I’d had this idea sitting in my brain for so long, and the other day I finally felt the urge to start it. After about a week, and using all the free time I have between work and college, I actually managed to finish it. Finally something with a bit of plot, lol.
I really hope you enjoyed this idea! I’d love to write a second part, but with my schedule… that could be anywhere from two weeks to a year from now. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything, so it’d be really nice to hear your thoughts, if you liked it, your favorite parts, anything really🫶🏻
Help I loved this soooooooooo much!!! I love Robby as a dad omgggggg. I also probably would’ve folded immediately to getting back together with him…. I am WEAK for this man
You get a 'J' tattooed just over your rib cage and surprise your husband Jack with it (think Zendaya's 't' tattoo)
Jack is 50, reader mid to late 20s
You don’t tell Jack.
Not when you book the appointment.
Not when you sit in the chair, heart thudding a little too hard for something so small.
Not even when the artist wipes it clean and hands you the mirror.
It’s simple.
Just a tiny, delicate J—inked just over your ribcage, fine-lined and subtle, tucked somewhere private. Not for the world.
Just for you.
Just for him.
You’re home before he is.
Changed into one of his shirts—because of course you are—bare legs, bare face, trying (and failing) to act like you didn’t just permanently mark yourself with his initial.
Your nerves don’t hit until you hear the front door open.
Heavy footsteps. Familiar. Grounding.
“Hey,” Jack calls out, voice rough with the end of a long shift.
“In here!” you reply, maybe a little too quickly.
He finds you in the bedroom, already loosening his watch, eyes scanning over you in that quiet, assessing way he has—like he’s checking you’re okay without asking.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say, smiling. “I’m good.”
He hums, stepping closer, hands automatically settling on your hips, grounding himself the way he always does when he gets home.
It’s instinct for him now.
For both of you.
“You eat?” he murmurs.
“Mhm.”
“Rest?”
“Jack,” you laugh softly, “I’m fine.”
His thumb brushes absent circles against your side, his body finally starting to relax.
Then he frowns slightly.
“Why’re you… twitchy?”
“I’m not twitchy.”
“You’re twitchy,” he says, matter-of-fact.
You bite back a smile.
“Okay, maybe a little.”
His eyes narrow just slightly—not suspicious, but curious. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“…you definitely did something.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, stepping back just enough to grab the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.
“Don’t freak out,” you warn.
That alone makes his expression shift. Not alarmed—but attentive. Focused.
“I’m not gonna freak out,” he says.
“You say that now.”
“Just show me.”
So you do.
You lift the shirt slowly, just enough to reveal the small mark along your ribcage.
For a second—nothing.
He just… looks at it.
Processes.
His brow furrows slightly, eyes tracing the delicate line, the placement.
Then it clicks.
“…is that—”
“A ‘J’,” you confirm, suddenly a lot more nervous than you were five seconds ago.
Silence.
You rush to fill it. “It’s small! And subtle! And I thought—well, I wanted—”
“You got my initial tattooed on you.”
It’s not a question.
You swallow. “Yeah.”
Another beat of silence.
And then—
His hand comes up.
Slow. Careful.
Like he’s approaching something fragile.
His fingers hover for a second before finally, gently, brushing just beneath the ink—like he’s making sure it’s real.
His jaw tightens slightly.
“You serious?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“Permanent.”
“Last I checked.”
He exhales through his nose, something shifting in his expression—something deeper than surprise.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you reply just as soft. “I wanted to.”
That makes him look at you.
Really look at you.
There’s something heavy in his eyes now. Not bad—just… full.
“You like it?” you ask, a little more vulnerable than you meant to sound.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, his hand slides to your side, thumb brushing just beside the tattoo again—more certain this time.
Then, slowly, he leans down.
Presses his lips right over it.
The contact is warm. Lingering.
Not rushed.
When he pulls back, his voice is rougher.
“Yeah,” he says. “I like it.”
Relief floods through you, followed quickly by a small, teasing smile. “You didn’t freak out.”
“Didn’t say I wouldn’t later,” he mutters.
You laugh, but it cuts off when his grip on your hips tightens just slightly, pulling you closer.
“Do you have any idea,” he starts, voice low, “what it does to me, knowing you did that?”
Your breath catches. “Jack—”
“Marked yourself with me,” he continues, not harsh, just… intense. Honest. “Like I’m yours.”
You meet his gaze, steady. “You are.”
Something in him snaps—quietly, but completely.
His forehead drops to yours for a second, like he needs it.
Grounding.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
Your hands come up to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. “Too much?”
“No,” he says immediately. “Not even close.”
Then his hand slides back to your side again, covering the tattoo fully this time.
Protective.
Possessive in that quiet, restrained way he has.
“You don’t hide this from me,” he adds, almost like an afterthought.
You blink. “What?”
“This,” he says, tapping lightly over the ink. “You don’t go showing it off to people.”
You raise a brow, amused. “It’s literally on my ribs, Jack.”
“Good,” he mutters.
You laugh softly, but it fades when he leans in again—pressing another kiss to the mark, slower this time.
More deliberate.
“Mine,” he murmurs against your skin.
Your heart stutters.
“Yours,” you echo, just as quiet.
And the way his arms tighten around you after that—
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.
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining
A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. It’s fun and it’s my fanfic I’ll cry if i want to and u know you’d quarantine in abbot’s house too if given the chance
AS OF 4/9/26 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
exposure || day 1 || day 2 || day 3 || day 4 || day 5 || day 6 || day 7 || day 8 || day 9 (12am) || day 9 || day 10 || day 11 || day 12 || day 13 || day 14 ||
author's note: wrote this one in response to this lovely ask i received earlier today:
"Omg but like, the reader being so flirty with jack all the time (secretly is in love with him) amd he just smiles and shakes his head but he loves the attention from her then one day she sees him ask dr al hashimi for beers and she assumes he asked her out on a date and she backs off and stops flirting and barely even looks him in the eye because if she does she'll fall apart and abbot doesn't understand why she stopped flirting and tries to give her openings for her usual flirty lines but she doesn't bite anymore and just the she fell first, he fell harder stuff it's soooooogood😭😭"
thanks so so much to the lovely @stuffingbuttsandshit for this message (i fw your username sm) and i hope i did it justice. please never be afraid to send me a request, and thank you for all the support, it means the world !!! also, i'm back into my teaching job tomorrow, so this will be the last of what you'll hear from me for a couple days <3
pairing: jack abbot x resident! reader
word count: 4.1k
warnings: miscommunication/misunderstanding trope! medical inaccuracies, reader is a resident but no mention of age, no specific phsyical attributes to certain gender mentioned, also not proofread!
songs i listened to while writing this: so easy (to fall in love) by olivia dean, easy by the commodores, purple by wunderhorse, when we are together by the 1975
description: You flirt with jack every shift like that's what you spent years in med school studying for. When you overhear a conversation between him and another attending, you decide to pull yourself together and face the music - no amount of one sided love would ever change your relationship. At least, that's what you think.
It started out as a joke at first.
It wasn't a calculated one. Not even a particularly brave one. It was a way to find a bit of fun in the middle of a 12-hour shift that tested every line of the Hippocratic oath that you had taken against your better judgement. It was the kind of dumb thing that slipped out of your mouth during a long shift that should have died an embarrassing death right then and there.
It was harmless flirting. Something to take the edge off. Maybe you should have taken a less, well, serious victim.
"Careful, Dr Abbot," you'd said lightly, half leaning against the nurses station while he was in the middle of catching up on charting. "If you keep looking that good under fluroescent lighting, people are gonna start accusing you of witchcraft."
Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.
Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.
"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."
That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.
So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.
And then again.
And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."
You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.
You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.
You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.
You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.
The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.
He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.
But Jack was Jack.
Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.
And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.
It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.
It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"
Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.
Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.
"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."
And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.
Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.
So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.
Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.
"There you are," he said.
You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.
Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.
Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.
"Dana needs your signature on this."
Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine-
You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."
His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.
The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he said, "You sick or something?"
You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."
"Then why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not acting weird?"
Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.
Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."
But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.
At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.
You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.
You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.
Instead, you said, "Thanks."
Jack stared at you.
"Thanks?"
You blinked at him. "What?"
"That's all I get?"
You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."
"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."
You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."
He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.
Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.
"This is sooo much worse than I thought."
Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"
"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."
Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."
Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."
You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.
Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.
Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.
By the end of the week, Dana got involved.
She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.
"What'd you do to him, hon?"
You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"
Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."
"He doesn't sulk"
"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."
You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.
"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."
You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.
"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"
Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.
You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"
"You are a total idiot."
"Dana."
"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."
Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.
"Sorry, what?"
Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."
Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.
Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"
You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.
Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."
You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.
"What?!"
That made everything worse. So, so much worse.
Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.
That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.
He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.
"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"
You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.
"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.
"Try again."
"Shouldn't you be working?"
"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."
Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.
Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.
"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.
"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"
The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!
You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."
Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.
"That's why?"
You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."
"That wasn't a date."
"It wasn't a date."
"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."
"Oh."
"Yeah," Jack said.
He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"
You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously."
You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.
You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"
Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.
Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."
Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.
"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.
Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?
"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"
"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.
Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.
“You thought that was one-sided?”
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”
Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.
“I never stopped you.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I wait for it.”
You blinked.
His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.
“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”
Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.
Jack took one more step closer.
“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”
That did it.
That cracked the whole thing open.
You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.
You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”
You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.
“You are a disaster,” you said.
“So are you.”
You smiled despite yourself.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.
Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”
“What?”
“One of your lines.”
You stared at him.
Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.
“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”
A laugh caught in your chest.
Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”
Jack shut his eyes for half a second.
When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.
It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.
You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”
“Good.”
You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“Don’t start.”
“You do.”
He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”
“Yes.”
He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.
“You realised it first” he said.
You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”
Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.
“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”
Something in your chest melted completely.
You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.
When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.
“Are they in there?”
Damn it Trinity.
You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.
“You coming back down?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
You smiled. “Very romantic.”
“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”
“Wow.”
“You started it.”
You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.
As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.
Her eyes went wide.
Then narrowed. Then widened again.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”
Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”
Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”
Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”
She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”
Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that you felt it.
And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.
You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.
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