summary: a little girl from the PTMC daycare keeps finding her way to the ED. Jack allows the girl to stick around because he finds her mom very attractive and wants to see her again.
tags: unrealistic negligence of an early education facility, (the hospital would have been on lockdown irl this little girl wouldnt have made it off the floor)
little miracle masterlist
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After the midnight rush of DWIs, the night slows down enough for Abbot to catch up emails and on the computer. He types away in the draft and schedules each of them to come in all at 8am and every 30 minutes after. Admin likes to waste his time so he likes to give them a head ache too.
As he continues, just in front of the nurse's station, he sees a little girl wandering past. She was very small, probably preschool age. Her hair in a ponytail and was dawned in a matching pajama set. She must have come in with her mother and ended up lost. Hopefully someone— a nurse— will help her back to the respective room. He then grabs an tablet and goes to one of the North side rooms to discharge a patient.
After he escorts the patient through the triage doors he passes the Pediatric room and notices the little girl from before. She stands by the wall and traces the mural of the woodland animals. She hums a nursery rhyme in a similar tune to "Mary Had a Little Lamb."
Abbot stands at the door and looks in either direction. He looks in either direction then Dr. Ellis quicksteps past him. "Hey Ellis, do you know if any patients are missing a kid?"
"A kid?" She backs up and looks in the room, "Definitely not. Should I get security?"
"Not yet. I'll find out more. Go ahead." He dismisses her and enters the room.
The girl hears his foot steps and looks up at him curiously. "Hi."
"Hi, I'm Dr. Abbot. What is your name, sweetie?"
"Miracle." She turns back to the fox on the wall.
"What a pretty name." He kneels down beside her on his good knee, "Are you here with your family?"
She shakes her head, "I'm here all by myself."
Abbot purses his lips in worry, "Oh yeah? How did you get here?"
"The elevator." She smiles, "I remember the fox from last time and came down all by myself."
"The elevator…" He thinks for a moment. He notices on her chest as a name tag. Similar to his badge was a photo of Miracle and the words PTMC childcare center. Miracle was not a patient or a child of one but a child of an employee at the hospital. He lets out a sigh of relief, "Well, this is a long way from where you belong isn't it?"
Miracle shrinks and clasps her hands together, "I didn't mean to."
"It's okay, sweetie but we'll need to take you back. Don't want your people to worry right?"
"Uh huh." She nods, "My mommy works in the hospital. She helps really sick people."
"You know, I do that too." He smiles, "Why don't we go sit somewhere and call your mommy? Let her know you are okay."
"Okay!"
Abbot stands up and holds out his hand for the girl to hold but she instead holds up both of her arms with the expectation of him to pick her up. He smiles and obliges, carrying her back to the main nurse's station. "I think I know where some stickers are that you can have. Do you like stickers?"
"Yeah!" She squeals.
Miracle had a smile that could melt the coldest hearts. As they walk, she rests her head on Abbot's shoulder. He tries to steel his resolve but his heart swells at the feeling of her little head on his shoulder.
"Oh my, who is this little one?" Lena smiles at the girl.
"This is Miracle. She is a long way from the daycare upstairs."
"Oh Geez. I heard the bathrooms are broke down on their floor so they have to go to a different one." Lena says, "No wonder this little lamb got lost." She pinches the little girl's cheeks. An infectious giggle comes from the girl as she squirms in Abbot's arms.
He sets her down on a stool and takes a look at her tag. It had her full name on it with a phone number underneath. He recognizes it as the ICU floor. He dials it on the office phone.
A soft woman's voice answers in a quiet tone, "ICU?"
"Hi, this is Dr. Abbot here in the ED. I have a sweet little girl named Miracle down here lost from the daycare."
"Oh my god." He can hear the woman panic. Faintly, she tells her colleague, "Thank you Dr. Abbot. I will be down in just a moment."
Before he can respond the line goes dead. It must have been Miracle's mother on the phone, "Good news, Miracle. Your mommy is on the way."
"What about my stickers?" Oh right…
He snaps and opens a random junk drawer and finds some stickers in the bottom. "Here you are."
She takes them from him and rips off one and places it back on his hand. He smiles down at the sticker.
Just a moment becomes a long while as Abbot and Miracle wait. Although young, Miracle was able to keep herself entertained at the desk. She ran out of stickers and Abbot's arms and face had run out of surface area. His staff laugh and take in the adorable sight of Abbot with the little girl.
"Miracle! Oh thank god, you're still here."
"Mommy!"
Abbot whips his head around and feels his heart leap out of his chest. You come flying down the stairs and jog over to the nurse's station. He can't take his eyes off of you as you come around and pick up your daughter.
"What were thinking coming down here all by yourself?"
"I wanted to play with this fox on the wall."
You shake your head and move your eyes to Abbot's sticker riddled body. "Hi… you must Dr. Abbot."
"You'd be correct." He holds his hands behind his back, "Miracle was keeping me company down here."
"I can see that," You giggle, "You have discovered her obsession with stickers. Sorry."
"Not a problem. Anything to keep her entertained."
"I appreciate it. I really do. She has gotten into this adventurous stage of wandering off and I can barely keep up. I'm glad you were able to keep her occupied." Your smile was just as criminal as Miracle's.
"She's welcome back anytime." He waves it off as he tries not to stutter under your sweet gaze.
"Alright then. Say bye to Dr. Abbot, Miracle."
"Bye Dr…. Abby." She giggles.
"Dr. Abby? You're so silly." You tickle her side then you look at him again, "Bye Dr. Abbot."
"Bye Dr. Abbot." Miracle waves as you carry her back up the stairs to the daycare center.
Abbot watches you go with a longing look. He looks down at his arms and chuckles before he starts to meticulously peel them off. It takes a few minutes to do, a few of the stickers leaving a mark.
He thought that would be the last time he would see you and Miracle. The next night, he looks in the Pedes room longingly before continuing on his way back to the hub.
He stops short just a few feet. Then backtracks and looks into the break room to find a familiar figure. Little Miracle was squatting down in front of the vending machine looking through the slot in the bottom.
"Hungry?" Abbot enters the room.
Miracle sheepishly withdraws from the machine and clasps her hands together. A tell that she did when she thought she was in trouble. She looks at the machine then back at Abbot.
"It's okay." He holds his hands out to her. She approaches him quickly and jumps into his arms. He lifts her and rest her on his hip. "It's a bit late for a sugary snack. How about… some goldfish?"
She nods quickly. He smiles at her and opens one of the pantries where some small snacks were available. He grabs out a package of goldfish and hand them to the little girl. Then he takes her back to the nurse's station.
"Little Lamb!" Lena smiles when she see the little girl then the smile turns shit-eating, "She's taking a liking to you, Abbot."
"She was just hungry. She probably saw the vending machine from the last time she was here." He sets Miracle down on a stool. "You are real sneaky, aren't you?"
Miracle shakes her head as she smirks. She continues to eat her crackers without a word. She was very cunning for her age. Able to get away from the daycare staff and get down to the ED without arousing suspicion of being alone. You must really have your hands full with her.
You were a single mother working as an ICU nurse. You transferred from an ICU clinic out of state due to your toxic ex, Miracle's dad. You had taken the job at the PTMC due to their 24 hour daycare program. You were able to spend time with your daughter during the day and without support at home, she would need to come to the hospital to sleep for the night. It was only a few nights a week so it was hard not to pass up.
Not that Abbot knew your situation. It wasn't like, after that night he met you, he asked one of the medical assistants about you during an ICU transfer.
He picks up the phone and dials the ICU line. "ICU?" It's you again. Speaking softly. A mental image pops up in his mind of you speaking that way to him in the morning.
"Uh, this is Dr. Abbot in the ED."
"Hi, are you looking for a bed?"
"No, actually, I have Miracle down here. She seems to have gotten away again."
"You're joking…" You grumble. You mutter to your coworker again. "i've gotta go… the ED… Miracle… yeah again… unbelievable i know…Are you still there Abbot?"
"I am."
"I'll be down in a minute. I am so sorry. See you soon." You say defeated.
"See you…" The line goes dead and Abbot turns his attention back to Miracle.
She spins on the stool without a care. She finished her goldfish while he was on the phone. He grabs an office chair and sits beside her, "Miracle, your mommy is on her way."
She beams at him, "Yay."
"Do you come down here because you like when you mommy comes to pick you up?"
Miracle shakes her head, "My mommy picks me up all the time. I like when you pick me up and we play."
He leans back, "I see. But Miracle, your mommy and I are busy working. We can't play all the time you know that, right? It's night time and you need rest. So while we work, you sleep."
"But I can only see you at night time. Mommy said so."
Abbot chuckles, "What did your mom say?"
"You work night time at the hospital so that means we can only see you at night time. We can't come in the day time."
"Do you ask to see me in the day time?"
She nods. "You are fun to play with."
"You are fun too." He boops her nose, "Do you like to draw?" She nods rapidly. "How about you draw something for us to put up back here?" He grabs some printer paper and some colored pens from the cup of supplies on the desk.
"You draw too." She hands a pen to him.
"I'd love to sweetie but remember what I said? I have to do my work. It's so I don't get in trouble. Ms. Lena will keep an eye on you."
Miracle pouts like a kicked puppy. It tears Abbot's heart to shreds to look at. He bites down on his bottom lip before looking away. Be strong, be strong, he repeats the mantra as he walks away.
It doesn't take long for him to return though and at the same time that he is back at the nurse's station you come jogging down the stairs. "Hello again," He smiles at you.
"Hi," You return the smile and look at Miracle, "She is going to become a permanent resident by the end of the week down here. C'mon little mama."
Miracle jumps from her stool and hides behind Abbot's legs. "No."
You let out a huff and smile awkwardly, "Heh, Miracle, sweetie it's time to say goodbye to Dr. Abbot."
"No." She grabs onto him. She touches a part of Abbot's prosthesis, she hesitates then moves to wrap both her hands around his other leg.
"God, this is so embarrassing." You mutter then you look up at Abbot, "I'm sorry, she is cranky at this point."
"That's okay." He chuckles, "How about I walk her with you to the daycare?"
"Oh, no it's fine. I'm sure they need you down here being the shift attending and all." You tighten your lips. You didn't mean to reveal that. You may or may not have asked a medical assistant about him during an ED transfer.
"It is not a problem. It's Lena that keeps this place running." He turns to Miracle, "If I come with you will you be good for your mommy?"
She nods rapidly and holds her hands up to him. He picks her up and smiles at you, "Shall we?"
"We shall." You lead them to the elevator. As you enter, you hear Miracle whisper to Abbot.
"What happened to your leg?" She cups his ear to whisper but she wasn't too discreet as you still heard her question.
"I got hurt in an accident. My leg was no good so they gave me a new one." He whispers back.
"Does it hurt?"
"Not anymore." He shakes his head, "I eat good and take care of myself to be big and strong." He tickles her side, making her giggle in his ear.
You can't help but smile. His patience with your daughter warmed your heart. It was something about him treating her like a small person and not a nuisance unlike someone you once knew. She was disrupting him at work but he didn't let it bother him. He seemed to enjoy it, actually.
As you walk back to the daycare, you notice Miracle has gone quiet. You look over and see she had fallen asleep on Abbot's shoulder. "That girl is something else." You shake your head.
"She gives you a run for your money." Abbot whispers.
"You have no idea." You sigh, "She has not been infatuated with anything ever until she met you. I've never heard her speak about someone so highly after meeting them once."
"So she says. She told me, she stays awake to play with me."
"All day, non-stop. 'Mommy, you should invite Dr. Abbot to our house to play.' 'Mommy, Is Dr. Abbot at the hospital yet?' 'I got a booboo, Dr. Abbot should help.'" You laugh at yourself then notice Abbot smiling at you. You avert your gaze and stop at the Pre-K door. "This is her." You scan your ID and open the door for Abbot.
He lays her on one of the cots with the other kids. You tuck her in and kiss her forehead. You apologize to the staff and they apologize too. The bathrooms should be finished by tomorrow so hopefully this is the last time Miracle elopes.
You walk with Abbot back to the elevator, "I really can't thank you enough, Dr. Abbot."
"Miracle is a sweetheart. Just as much as I left an impression on her she's left one on me." He holds his hands behind his back as he walks.
"Hopefully, this will be the last of her hijinks and my blood pressure will lower." You take a deep breath. Abbot purses his lips as his heart wilts. You stop in front of the elevator, "This is where we part ways. You've gotta go down and I've gotta go up." You hit the down button, "I'll take the stairs."
"I'll see you around?" He steps on to the elevator.
"At this rate? I'll be seeing you tomorrow." You joke.
You joke but Abbot hoped that it was a promise.
The next night, Miracle appears again. Abbot makes his rounds when he finds her curled up on the couch in the family room. He almost didn't catch her this time if it weren't for the door being propped open by the janitors. He enters the room quietly and sits beside her.
He rubs her back as he tries to rouse her from sleep. The little girl rises out of her ball like state and crawls into his lap and rests on his chest. He sighs and continues to rub her back and rocks her side to side. He pulls out his hospital phone and dials the ICU.
"ICU?" A firm voice speaks. It definitely wasn't you, "Hello?"
"Yes, hi, this is Abbot down in the ED. I've got Miracle down here and was wondering if her mother was available to pick her up."
"Uh…unfortunately she is unavailable at the moment. Are you able to keep an eye on her for some time? She is tending to a patient at the moment. I will pass along the message as soon as I can." There was a wobble of nervousness in the nurse's voice. It was always life or death in the ICU.
"Yeah, I can. Just let her know when you can." He hangs up the phone and continues to rock her. When he knows he has spent too much time he will carry her to the hub.
"Lena, occupy Central 6 for me." He points to the sleeping girl in his arms, "Her mom might take a minute."
"You got it." She opens a tablet and fills in some random information to occupy the room on the status board.
He lays Miracle on the gurney and tucks her under the covers. "Thank you for making me so special." He whispers to her then shuts out the lights and leaves the room closing the door. Through out the hour he keeps an eye on her.
You come down the stairs looking disheveled. Your eyes were puffy, it looked like you had been crying. Abbot approaches beside you and rests his hand on the center of your back, "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, sorry, where is Miracle?" You sniffle.
"Right in here." He leads you into Central 6. You lower the rail on one side of the gurney and pull up a chair to caress Miracle's face as she sleeps. He can see tears fall indiscriminately from your eyes. "Is everything okay?"
You let out a chuckle, "Is everything ever okay in our departments?" He sighs and pulls up another chair to be beside you. "Just before I come down here, every time, I've had to stabilize a patient, or at least try. A different person each time and afterward I'd come right down here and see the smile on my daughter's face like everything is okay. I have to act like I haven't just witnessed the scariest thing 5 minutes before coming to get her. I don't have to brave it when she's at daycare. In my mind, she seems worlds apart from the madness. Safe. I freak out thinking about her down here. What she might see. As if I didn't just watch someone die minutes ago." Abbot hears your voice waver as you speak but you laugh again, "But even still, with you, she is safe. She's so comfortable in your arms like she's known you her whole short life. You make it look so easy." You lean back in your chair and sniffle, "It makes me think I'm not cut out for this."
"Woah, that is a severe overstatement." He leans forward and takes your hand, "Had you not told me, I would have never known what you've done before coming down here. The first time you came down, you had this infectious smile on your face. And Miracle ran into your arms, you didn't falter for a second. Scooped her right in your arms. If you were scared you never showed it. You are her world. She knows you're there for her. You make it look effortless"
You look down at his hand on yours. He gives it an affirming squeeze. It's warm to the touch. "I bet you say that to all the single mothers." You bite back a smile and pull your hand away.
"Usually when they're here they are preoccupied with… you know an emergency?"
You giggle, "Really? None have made a move on you?"
"I fear that is day shift only. At this time of night, I only get the drunks playing grab ass." He sighs.
"Oh poor you," You rub his shoulder. "And here I thought you were like this dangerous and sexy combat medic that flirted with all the moms."
"Dangerous and sexy?"
"The other nurses on my floor say that, at least."
"So you talk about me to other people."
"I had to. I have to make sure the men in my daughter's life aren't dirt bags." You shrug, "They said you were a flirt too. Any defense?"
"I'm playful." He surrenders, "It's only to liven up this dreadful place."
"Right." You purse your lips into a thin smile, "Well, I should probably be taking her back to the daycare." You remove Miracle from the gurney and rest her on your hip, "You have a good rest of your night, Dr. Abbot."
He follows you out of the room, "I hope my playfulness hasn't scared you away from coming back to work."
"Only time will tell, I guess. Maybe I'll consider transferring to the ED and have some fun with you down here instead. " You shoot him a playful wink. He licks his bottom lip as he watches you walk to the elevator and back upstairs.
"She's got you whipped." Ellis shakes her head.
"Both of them do." Lena smirks, "Forget a work wife, he's got a whole work family."
"It's not like that." He waves them off, "Miracle is a troublemaker and her mom—"
"Is the hottest nurse you've ever laid your eyes on?" Ellis cocks an eyebrow, "You're not the only one with eyes, Abbot."
He averts his gaze to the status board, "Do you have anything better to do right now, Ellis? How does triage for the next hour sound?"
"Sounds like I should keep my mouth shut and get back to work." She leans over and mutters to Lena, "See how defensive he got. Whipped."
It had been a week since Miracle's escape attempts. The bathroom in the daycare was up and running again so there was no way for her to escape. Abbot stares at her drawing she had left behind. He missed that little rascal. He missed you too.
When things get slow enough, he decides to try and take a trip up to the daycare to check on Miracle. It was possible that she was sleeping but just seeing her would keep his spirits high. He tells Lena he's going to be out for a few minutes and hits the elevator button.
When the doors open his eyes widen in surprise. You stand there with a smile on your face and a look of surprise yourself. "Hey, I was just coming down to look for you."
"Oh? What for? Patient transfer?"
"No actually," You beckon him onto the elevator, "Miracle is having a hard time sleeping and misses her friend Dr. Abbot. I was wondering if I can steal you for a few minutes to put her to bed." You hit the button for the daycare floor, "Is that okay?"
"Uh yeah… I was actually going to head there."
"Felt a disturbance in the force, Jedi?" You chuckle.
"I just wanted to make sure she was alright."
"You've spoiled her." You say, "Now she can't live without you. It was inevitable, she's imprinted on you like a little duck. You are her mama now."
He laughs. It's a hearty laugh that warms your chest. You can't help but laugh too. The two of you walk out of the elevator side by side and enter the daycare. Miracle lays in her bed and beams when she sees the two of you from the window.
You both enter and sit beside her bed. "Okay, Miracle, this is a one time thing. Dr. Abbot can't come and go whenever you want while you're here." You explain as you tuck her in, "But he did say he missed you too."
She grins at him, "Do you still have my picture, Dr. Abbot?"
"I do. I look at it everyday." He grabs her hand and squeezes it tight.
"Maybe because you miss me we can play not in the hospital." She pouts.
You purse your lips and nod, "Maybe… But Dr. Abbot is super busy—"
"If your mommy says it's okay, I would be more than happy to."
You swivel your head at him in surprise, "You would?"
"Sure," He shrugs, "We can all play together outside of the hospital."
Your face is cooking as he speaks. Was he saying what you think he was saying?
"But that is for your mommy and I to talk about. You, little one, need to sleep." She nods and shuts her eyes. Your eyes are still on him. He notices and smiles, "Did you want to talk about that now?"
"Uh no I just… thought…"
"I was too sexy and dangerous? Or did you still believe I am too playful?"
You bow your head in defeat, "I guess I did."
After Miracle falls asleep the two of you leave. "I am going to be honest. I fully believed that this would be the last we saw of each other. We would go our separate ways, officially." You confess.
"I knew that wouldn't be the case after second time Miracle came to the ER." He chuckles, "I'd find a way to see you again."
"So were you the one sabotaging bathroom maintenance?" You giggle, "If you wanted to meet with me so bad you could have asked. Like you asked Edgar about me."
"You found out about that…" He winces.
"My good looks get me my way up there." You tease, "I'm kidding. When I asked about you he told me you had done the same. So I asked for more information."
"That's when you got the sexy and dangerous thing from."
"Yes, you are really stuck on that." You nudge him, "Don't believe it."
"I just like the way it sounds coming from you. You believe it."
"I do not."
"For a moment you did. In your mind, there was an image of me next to those words."
You cover your mouth as you refrain from laughing out loud, "Alright, what's it going to take for you to not bring that up anymore."
"When are you free?" He asks, "We can go somewhere and have breakfast after work? Or lunch? Go to the park for Miracle."
"Breakfast sounds good." You take out your personal phone, "How about you put in your number and I'll let you know."
"Promise?" He takes your phone and puts in his number
"If I don't you can put me on blast by calling the ICU and bug me. They all need something juicy to keep them entertained." You smile as he hands back your phone, "But I like you. So I won't keep you waiting too long. How does 10am tomorrow sound?"
"Sounds like a deal."
The two of you stop short of the elevator. You bite your lip before leaning in and kissing Abbot's cheek. "This is where we part ways." You hit the down button, "I'll take the stairs. See you at breakfast."
Abbot's cheeks burn as he watches you jog up the stairs. He tries to control his smile in the elevator as to not tip off the others to his glee. He didn't need them spoiling his fun just yet.
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thank you for reading! likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated!
pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader
summary: After accidentally sending your attending Dr. Jack Abbot a nude, you delete it, panic-text an apology, and spend the rest of your shift waiting for a response that never comes. Jack doesn’t say a word until he gets you alone in his office—and by then, the apology texts are the least incriminating thing between you.
wc: 7.8k
a/n: shoutout to @in-ky and pinky (lol) for beta reading and confirming that yes, unfortunately, this is exactly what should happen when you send your attending a nude by accident. saw jack abbot on his phone and immediately made it everyone’s problem. enjoy the HR violation.
warnings: power imbalance, attending/resident relationship, inappropriate workplace behavior, explicit sexual content, dirty talk, accidental nude (then on purpose >:)), semi-public sex, fingering, handjob, orgasm denial-ish, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, hair pulling, biting/marking, cumplay/eating, clothed/semi-clothed smut, no piv, age gap dynamics
MASTERLIST
You didn’t know a mistake could feel intentional until Jack Abbot stopped replying.
For almost a full minute after it happened, you couldn’t move. You just stood in the staff bathroom with your phone in your hand, the harsh white light buzzing overhead, your pulse slamming so hard behind your ears that the whole hospital seemed to muffle around it. The sink was still running because you’d forgotten to turn it off. Water rushed uselessly into the drain while you stared at the thread on your screen and tried to convince yourself that your eyes had rearranged the letters.
They hadn’t.
Jack Abbot sat at the top of the conversation in clean, merciless text.
Below it, the blank space where the photo had been.
You’d deleted it almost instantly, but instantly didn’t mean unseen. Instantly meant your thumb had moved faster than your brain, faster than your lungs, faster than the sick drop in your stomach when the picture appeared in the wrong thread. It meant you’d watched one of the most obscene photos in your camera roll land in your attending’s messages and then vanish under your panicked attempt to erase evidence.
Not erase memory.
Just evidence.
“Oh, no,” you whispered, and the words sounded too small for the scale of the disaster.
The photo had been from two nights ago. Your apartment, your bed, the lamp beside your mattress giving everything that warm, dirty glow. Not soft. Not tasteful. Not a picture you could call accidental in spirit even if the send itself had been. You’d taken it because you were alone and turned on and feeling reckless enough to admire yourself, body angled deliberately across twisted sheets, hair messy, eyes on the camera like you knew exactly what kind of thought you wanted to plant in someone’s head. There was nothing clinical about it. Nothing coy. It was the kind of photo that said look, want, imagine.
And Jack Abbot might have seen it.
Jack, who had corrected your charting that morning with a tired flick of his eyes.
Jack, who had stood behind you at the board, close enough for you to catch the smell of coffee and hospital soap, and said, “Try again,” when your answer hadn’t been specific enough.
Jack, who was older, gruffer, sharper around the edges than anyone had any right to be while still being that unfairly attractive.
Jack, who was your attending.
You turned off the sink with shaking fingers and immediately made the situation worse.
You:
oh my god
that was not meant for you
please ignore that
i deleted it
i’m so sorry
please delete it if it still shows up
i’m actually going to resign and move states
You stared at the messages, then at the empty space above them, then at the messages again. Your face burned. Your throat felt tight. Any other person might’ve replied by now. Any normal person might’ve hit you with a confused question mark, a reassurance, a threat, a joke. Something.
Jack gave you nothing.
No typing bubble. No acknowledgment. No read receipt. Just that awful, professional silence.
It was very Jack of him, which somehow made it worse.
A knock hit the bathroom door. “You dying in there?”
Mel’s voice. Thank God and also absolutely not.
You shoved your phone into your scrub pocket like you’d been caught with something you weren’t supposed to have. “No.”
“You sure? You sound weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re needed in three. Abbot’s looking for you.”
For one second, your entire body went cold.
Then hot.
Then somehow both.
“Great,” you said, and if Mel noticed that your voice came out like you’d just swallowed a battery, she was kind enough not to comment through the door.
You took one last look at yourself in the mirror before leaving. There you were: wrinkled scrubs, tired eyes, badge clipped slightly crooked, mouth pressed into a line that looked almost professional if no one knew you were internally preparing to fling yourself into traffic. You were a doctor. You were an adult. You could walk into a room with Jack Abbot and not immediately confess to everything like a criminal under interrogation.
Probably.
The hallway outside was too bright. Too loud. Too full of witnesses. The hospital had the particular cruelty of continuing to function during personal catastrophes, monitors chiming and carts rattling and nurses calling over their shoulders while your entire nervous system stood at attention. You passed Whitaker near the supply cart, who gave you a distracted little nod. You passed Santos at the board, half-listening to Robby. Nobody looked at you like they knew.
Then you reached trauma three, and Jack looked up.
He was standing at the foot of the bed with one hand braced on the rail, the other holding a chart, short sleeves leaving his forearms bare and his watch stark against his wrist. Stubble roughened his jaw, his hair was slightly mussed from the kind of shift that had been bad before noon and would only get worse, and his expression was exactly what it always was: tired, focused, unimpressed by the existence of chaos.
No guilt. No surprise. No flicker.
That was the first real blow. If he had reacted, you might’ve known how to feel. If he’d avoided your eyes, you could’ve built a theory around it. If he’d looked at you too long, you could’ve hated him or wanted him or both with more certainty.
Instead, he just watched you enter like you were late with labs.
“Nice of you to join us,” Jack said.
Dana, at the monitor, winced under her breath. “Damn.”
You forced your mouth to move. “Sorry.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you a fraction too long. “Are you?”
There was no reason for it to hit the way it did. The words were ordinary. Dry. Annoyed, maybe. But you heard every unanswered text underneath them. You heard the deleted photo. You heard the question he wasn’t asking in front of Dana and a patient with a bleeding scalp.
Your stomach folded in on itself.
“What’s the situation?” you asked, because medicine was safer than silence.
Jack handed you the chart. “Fall from a ladder. Brief LOC. Walk me through what you’re ordering and why.”
You could do this. This was easy. This was normal. You’d done this a hundred times. You moved through the exam, named imaging, neuro checks, wound care, the things you needed to rule out. Your mouth worked. Your hands worked. Your brain mostly worked.
Your body, unfortunately, remembered that your phone remained unanswered in your pocket.
Every time Jack shifted near you, you became aware of him all over again. The low gravel of his voice. The way he stood close enough to take the chart back from your hands without asking. The blunt competence in his movements. The fact that he didn’t soothe, didn’t explain, didn’t give you even one quiet aside to release the pressure building under your skin.
He let you suffer.
Worse, he made you work.
For the next several hours, Jack Abbot became a masterclass in professional cruelty. Not actual cruelty. Nothing anyone could report. Nothing anyone would even notice unless they were living inside your body and could feel the way your pulse kicked every time he said your name.
He asked you questions in front of Robby.
He corrected your note beside the nurses’ station.
He handed you a printout without looking at you and said, “More specific,” in that gruff, flat tone that made you want to argue and obey at the same time.
He touched your elbow once, only to move you out of the path of a gurney, but the contact burned through your scrub sleeve because now there was a version of you in his possible memory that had nothing to do with the hospital. Not capable, not composed, not holding a chart or presenting a patient. You in bed. You in low light. You looking at the camera like you wanted someone to imagine being there.
And Jack still didn’t reply.
At some point, Santos appeared beside you at the counter while you were pretending to review labs and absolutely not refreshing your message thread.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“Like you’re waiting for a disciplinary hearing.”
“I’m busy.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice as if delivering a diagnosis. “You and Abbot have been weird all day.”
Your grip tightened around the tablet. “We have not.”
“You have. He’s doing that thing where he gets quieter when he’s mad, and you look like you’re being hunted for sport.”
“I’m not being hunted.”
“Mm.”
“Santos.”
“What? I’m observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“That too.”
Across the department, Jack stood with Robby near the board, arms crossed, head tilted as he listened. He looked exhausted. Unmoved. Utterly unreadable. Then, as if he felt you looking, his eyes lifted and found yours.
You looked away first.
Santos made an obnoxious little sound. “Loud.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
She grinned, entirely too pleased with herself, and moved off before you could throw something at her.
The shift dragged on. Or maybe it flew. Time had gone strange, measured less by the clock and more by every non-reply from Jack, every glance that might have meant something and might have meant nothing, every brush of proximity that left you a little more humiliated by your own reaction. By the end of rounds, panic had curdled into something hotter and harder to name.
You still wanted to disappear.
You also wanted to know exactly what he’d thought.
That was the unforgivable part. The part you couldn’t blame on the photo or the send button or exhaustion. Under the mortification, there was want. Ugly, bright, undeniable want. The kind that made you wonder whether he had paused when he saw it. Whether his jaw had tightened. Whether he had deleted it right away or looked long enough to regret it.
You were finishing a note when his shadow fell over your workspace.
You didn’t look up immediately. You knew.
“My office,” Jack said. “Now.”
The words were quiet. No one else would’ve heard them as anything but an attending giving an instruction. Dana barely glanced over. Robby kept talking to Mel. The world did not stop.
Yours did.
You stood carefully. “Okay.”
Jack turned without waiting to see if you followed. The walk to his office felt like a march toward sentencing, except sentencing probably wouldn’t have made your thighs feel weak. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. That made it worse, because it meant he knew you would follow.
His office was dim, cramped, and cluttered in the way all hospital offices became cluttered no matter how hard anyone tried to keep them human. A desk lamp threw warm light over a stack of charts. Half-closed blinds cut the room into narrow bars. His mug sat beside the keyboard, coffee gone cold. The air held the stale sharpness of the hospital layered with something that was just him: clean sweat, soap, coffee, fatigue.
Jack closed the door.
He left it unlocked.
That detail lodged in you. The unlocked door meant this was still a conversation. Still professional, technically. Still something you could leave.
Or something he wanted you to know you could leave.
He leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms crossed loosely, and looked at you for long enough that you started talking just to make him stop.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I already said that in the texts, probably too many times, but I really am. It was an accident. Obviously. I deleted it right away, and I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything if you saw it before then, but I swear I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop.”
You stopped.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “Explain.”
You blinked. “I just did.”
“No. You apologized.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse than anger. “Explain what happened.”
Your face burned. “I sent the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“What thing?”
“Jack.”
His expression didn’t change. “Say it.”
The floor seemed suddenly fascinating. You looked at a scuff near the leg of his desk and wondered if it was possible to die from embarrassment after all.
“A nude,” you said.
The word changed the room.
Jack didn’t move, but something in his face tightened. A small thing. Controlled. There and gone.
“I saw it,” he said.
You closed your eyes for one second. “Okay.”
For a moment, that was all there was. The confirmation. The silence after. The awful, humiliating knowledge that the image had reached him before you could take it back.
“I didn’t keep it,” he said.
Your eyes opened. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
The relief was sharp enough to hurt. It should’ve ended there. It should’ve made everything clean again, or at least survivable. He had done the right thing. He had refused to keep what hadn’t been meant for him. You could apologize one more time, leave his office, and spend the rest of your life avoiding direct eye contact.
But Jack was still looking at you.
And his voice, when it came, was lower.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t look.”
Something low in you pulled tight, panic and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell which one had hit first.
He pushed off the desk, not moving closer yet. Just standing straighter. “Who was it for?”
“No one.”
“No one.”
“I took it for myself.”
Jack’s mouth twitched, not amusement exactly. More like disbelief with nowhere innocent to go. “You take pictures like that for yourself?”
There were a dozen sensible answers. Defensive answers. Clean, professional answers that would’ve made this easier to survive. Instead, you heard yourself say, “Sometimes.”
The tiredness in his face thinned, and beneath it was something intent, almost indecently awake — a look that moved over you with such slow, controlled heat that your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Like the picture had burned itself into his retinas and left him standing there with nowhere innocent to put his hands.
For the first time all day, you saw the effect. Not much. Jack wasn’t a man who gave much away for free. But there it was in the pause, the shift of his jaw, the hand he dragged briefly over his mouth before dropping it again.
“You’re not helping yourself,” he said.
“I thought I was being honest.”
“That’s the problem.”
The words should’ve embarrassed you further. They did. But they also did something else, something low and hot, because he sounded less like your attending now and more like a man trying very hard to remember he still was one.
You took a careful breath. “Why didn’t you answer?”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, and the silence wasn’t empty anymore. It had weight. The shape of all the things he’d refused to put in writing.
“Because if I answered then,” he said, voice lower now, “I would’ve said something I shouldn’t.”
Your mouth went dry. “Like what?”
“Don’t.”
“You brought me in here.”
“To handle it.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
His jaw worked once, and for the first time, his control looked less like indifference and more like effort. “I’m trying.”
“Trying to handle me?”
That did something. You saw it in the brief drop of his gaze, the pause before he pulled it back to your face.
“Trying not to,” he said.
There it was again—that small crack in the professionalism. Not a confession, not exactly, but close enough to make the room feel suddenly too small. Close enough that you felt it move through you before you had time to decide what to do with it.
Jack saw that too.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer, not quickly, not carelessly. Slow enough that you could move back if you wanted. Slow enough that the choice stayed yours.
You didn’t.
“You sent me that,” he said, voice low, “then walked around my department for the rest of the shift like I could just forget it.”
“I didn’t know if you’d seen it.”
“You knew.”
“I hoped you hadn’t.”
“No.” His gaze held yours, steady and merciless in a way that made your skin feel too tight under your scrubs. “You hoped I had, and you were scared I had. Not the same thing.”
You hated him a little for being right. You wanted him more because of it.
“That’s not fair,” you said.
“I didn’t say it was.”
He was close enough now that you could see the fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the controlled set of his mouth. Still Jack. Still gruff and older and dangerous mostly because he looked like he’d spent a lifetime refusing himself the stupid thing, the reckless thing, the filthy thing that would feel good for exactly long enough to ruin him.
“You wanted to know what I thought,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Did I?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes. “You tell me.”
The worst part was that you couldn’t. Not honestly. Because you had wanted to know. Under the embarrassment, under the panic, under every frantic apology you’d typed too fast and regretted immediately, there had been that awful, helpless need to know what he’d seen when he looked at you afterward. If he’d been angry. If he’d been disgusted. If he’d imagined it again.
If he’d wanted to.
Jack watched the silence work through you, watched your breath catch, watched your face give away what your mouth refused to say.
Then he stepped back half a pace.
The loss of him was so immediate your body nearly followed before you could stop it.
“Tell me to forget it,” he said, “and I’ll forget it.”
“You just said you couldn’t.”
“I’ll act like I can.”
That was very Jack. Honest enough to hurt. Restrained enough to be decent. He had refused to keep the photo. He had left the door unlocked. Now he was putting distance between you, giving you a clean exit with the kind of brutal practicality that somehow made you want him worse.
You should’ve taken it.
Instead, you said, “I don’t want you to.”
The room went quiet in a new way.
Jack’s face barely changed, but your body took the look like contact, nerves flaring under your scrubs as if he’d reached across the room and found you bare. For one dizzy second, the clothes felt pointless — like he was already picturing what was underneath and remembering exactly where to look.
“Be clear,” he said.
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t want you to forget it.”
His hand moved to the door.
The lock clicked.
Small sound. Huge consequence.
Not loud. Just final. The kind of sound that doesn’t ask permission. Jack’s hand left the deadbolt, but he didn’t turn around right away. He stood there facing the door, shoulders rising once, falling once, like he was giving himself a countdown.
You were already backed up against his desk. Metal cold through your scrub pants. You watched his back. The way his scrub top pulled between his shoulder blades. The gray hair curling at his nape, damp from twelve hours of running a floor that wouldn’t stop coding.
He turned.
His eyes had changed. Not tired, not distant — fixed on you now with a hunger he’d spent the whole shift forcing down. It had been there through rounds, through the silence, through every clipped order and every time he’d looked at you and then looked away like one more second would give him away.
“Stand up.”
You did. Your thighs hit the desk edge behind you. He crossed the space in two strides and then he was there, close enough that the heat of him hit your skin before his body did, close enough that you could smell the antiseptic and coffee and something underneath — just him, just warm skin and a long shift.
His hand found your hip. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain. His thumb pressed into the bone there and you felt it in your teeth.
“You sent me a picture,” he said.
His voice was low. Not the attending voice. Not the one that cut through chaos in the trauma bay. This one was quieter. Worse.
“I know.”
“You tried to take it back.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it anyway.” His thumb moved—just a fraction, just a small circle against your hip bone through the thin cotton. “You know I saw it.”
Your throat was dry. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Bullshit.” The word landed soft, almost kind. “You knew. You watched me not look at you for six hours and you knew exactly why.”
You couldn’t answer. He was too close. His other hand came up, slow, and his fingers found the edge of your jaw. Not gripping. Just resting there, his palm warm against the side of your throat, his thumb tracing the line of your chin like he was memorizing bone.
“Describe it,” he said.
“What?”
“The photo. Tell me what you sent me.”
Heat crawled up your neck. Your chest. Your face. He felt it — his thumb was right there on your pulse, and you watched his eyes flick down to your throat, watched him feel every beat of your heart slamming against his palm.
“I can’t.”
“You can.” His grip didn’t tighten. It didn’t have to. “You took it. You sent it. Say it.”
You swallowed. His thumb rode the movement. “It was — I was on my bed.”
“Go on.”
“On my stomach. The camera was — it was angled down. You could see my back. My shoulders.” You stopped. Breathed. He waited. “My ass. I was wearing—”
“Nothing,” he said. “You were wearing nothing.”
The word hit your stomach and clenched there. “Yes.”
“And your legs were spread.”
Not a question. He’d seen it. He’d looked at it long enough to know exactly how you were positioned, exactly what was visible, exactly what you’d offered up without saying a word.
“Yes.”
“And between them.” His thumb traced down your throat, just a whisper of pressure. “What could I see.”
“Everything.”
He exhaled. It was the first crack you’d seen — just a shiver of air through his nose, his jaw tightening, his eyes going darker. “Everything,” he repeated. “You sent your attending a photo of your pussy and you want me to believe it was an accident.”
“I panicked. I deleted it—”
“After it delivered. After I saw the notification. After I opened it in the middle of rounds and had to stand there with a patient’s chart in my hand and your pussy on my phone.”
Your knees nearly buckled. He said it so flat. So clinical. Like he was naming an anatomical structure, except his voice dropped on the word, roughened, and his grip on your hip tightened once before releasing.
“Jack—”
“Dr. Abbot.” His eyes snapped to yours. “In this hospital, I’m Dr. Abbot. You don’t get to call me Jack until I tell you to.”
Your breath stuttered. "Dr. Abbot."
"Better." He stepped closer. Your bodies touched—chest to chest, his scrub top against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric. His thigh pressed between your legs and you made a sound before you could stop it, small and humiliating and honest.
"There it is," he murmured. His mouth was near your ear now, stubble scratching your temple. "That's the sound. That's what you wanted me to hear."
You grabbed his arm. You didn't mean to—your hand just found his bicep and held, fingers digging into muscle, and he let you. His arm was solid under your grip, hard from years of compressions and lifting and holding bodies together while they bled.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"Are you." He pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was close—you could see the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the gray threading his stubble, the way his mouth was set in something that wasn't quite a frown. "Or are you just scared I know what you look like when you want someone."
You didn't answer. Couldn't. He was right and you both knew it.
His hand left your jaw. Slid down. Found your wrist and lifted it between your bodies, his thumb pressing into your pulse point, feeling the blood hammer under your skin.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I know."
"Good."
He kissed you.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. His mouth hit yours with the same certainty as his hands—hard, demanding, his stubble scraping your lip and his tongue pushing past your teeth before you'd even registered the impact. He tasted like black coffee and something sharp, something that burned going down, and you opened for him immediately, helplessly, your whole body sagging into his grip.
His hand left your wrist and grabbed your other hip. Both hands now, fingers digging into the meat of you, pulling you against him so hard the desk edge bit into your thighs. His cock was hard already, pressing against your stomach through his scrub pants, and the knowledge of it—the fact that he'd been hard, maybe this whole time, maybe since he saw the photo, maybe since he locked the door—made you moan into his mouth.
"Quiet," he said against your lips. "The walls are thin."
You bit his lower lip. Harder than you meant to. He inhaled sharp and something flashed in his eyes—surprise, and then heat, and then his hands were moving, one sliding up your back under your scrub top, palm rough and hot on your spine, the other fisting in your hair and yanking your head back until your throat was exposed.
"You bite me again," he said against your pulse, "and I'll make you regret it."
"Maybe I want that."
His teeth found your neck. Not a kiss—a bite, real pressure, his incisors denting the skin just above your collarbone. You gasped and your hips bucked against his thigh and he held you there, teeth still clamped, tongue pressing flat against the mark he was making.
When he pulled back, his mouth was wet. His eyes were wrecked. "You want it," he said. "You want a lot of things. That's the problem."
Your hands moved. You didn't decide to—they just went, desperate, grabbing the front of his scrub top and pulling until the V-neck stretched, your knuckles brushing the sweat-damp hair on his chest. His skin was hot. He was hot, all of him, furnace-hot and solid and real against you.
"Touch me," you said. It came out wrecked. "Please."
"Please what."
"Please—fuck." You couldn't think. His thumb was rubbing circles into your spine, his other hand still fisted in your hair, his thigh a solid line of pressure between your legs. "Please touch me. Dr. Abbot."
His eyes flared. "That's right. That's my name. You remember that."
"Yes."
"And you remember who you're with. Not some resident. Not your ex. Me."
The jealousy landed like a slap. Your mind flicked back—the photo, who it might've been meant for, who he thought it was meant for—and you opened your mouth to explain, to tell him there wasn't anyone, but then his hand was sliding around to your stomach, fingertips tracing the waistband of your scrub pants front to back, and words dissolved.
"I don't share," he said quietly. "Whatever this is. Whatever you thought you were doing. You don't send something like that to more than one person. You don't get to."
"I didn't. It was only—"
"Only me." His fingers dipped under the elastic. Not far. Just the first knuckle, the rough pad of his index finger dragging through the hair below your navel. "Good. That's good. That's how it stays."
You nodded. You would've agreed to anything. His finger moved lower, just a centimeter, and your hips lifted toward his hand like a reflex.
"You're soaked," he said. Not surprised. Not smug. Just observing. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're soaked through your pants."
"I know."
"Say it."
"I'm—" Your face burned. His eyes didn't leave yours. "I'm wet. Soaked. Is that what you—"
"That's what I wanted." His finger withdrew. You nearly cried. But then both his hands were at your waistband, thumbs hooked in, and he was pulling your scrub pants and underwear down together, one sharp motion, the fabric scraping your thighs and pooling around your ankles.
He didn't look down. Not yet. He kept his eyes on your face while his hand found your knee and pushed—firm, steady—until your legs fell open, his hips slotting between them, the rough fabric of his scrub pants brushing your bare cunt.
"There," he said. "Now you're exactly where you should be."
You grabbed his shoulders. Needed to. Your fingers dug into the muscle there, the solid bulk of him, and he let you hang on while his mouth came back to yours, still brutal, still messy, teeth and tongue and the scrape of stubble that would leave your chin raw.
His hand dropped between your bodies.
First touch: his middle finger sliding through your folds, just parting you, just feeling. The sound it made—wet, obscene—filled the tiny office. He groaned into your mouth, a low vibration you felt in your chest.
"Jesus," he breathed. "You're dripping. You've been dripping all shift."
"For you."
"I know." His finger circled your clit—once, light, barely there—and your whole body jerked. "I know you have. Every time I looked at you. Every time I didn't."
He did it again. Slow circle. Then again, harder. Then his finger slid lower, found your entrance, and pressed in.
Just one. Just to the first knuckle. You clenched around him instantly, a helpless spasm, and he laughed—low, dark, right against your ear.
"Tight," he said. "Tight little pussy. And you sent me a picture of it. What'd you think would happen."
"I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You were." His finger pushed deeper. All the way in, slow, until his knuckle pressed against your entrance and his palm cupped your clit. "You wanted me to see. You wanted me to know. You wanted this."
He curled his finger.
Your vision whited. Your head fell back, throat bared again, and he took the invitation—mouth on your neck, sucking hard, his stubble a bright burn while his finger found that spot inside you and pressed.
"There," he said. "Right there. That's what you wanted me to find."
"Yes. Yes. Fuck—"
"Quiet." His voice was steel. "I said quiet. You can be quiet or I can stop."
You bit your own lip so hard you tasted copper. His finger pumped—once, twice, slow and deep, the wet sound of it filling the room. Then his thumb found your clit, pressed down, and you nearly screamed into your own mouth.
"Good girl. That's good. You can listen."
He pulled out. Your cunt clenched on nothing, empty and aching, and you made a noise of protest that he ignored. His hand came up between your faces, his finger glistening, slick coating his knuckle all the way to his palm.
"Look at this," he said. "Look at what you did."
You watched him bring his finger to his mouth. Watched his lips close around it. Watched his eyes flutter shut for just a second while he tasted you, his tongue cleaning his own skin with an obscene thoroughness that made your stomach drop.
"Sweet," he said, pulling his finger free. "I knew you'd be sweet."
"Please. Please, I need—"
"I know what you need." His hand was back between your legs before you finished, two fingers this time, sliding through your slick and then pushing in, stretching you open, filling you so fast your breath caught and held.
"Breathe," he said. "Breathe through it. You can take it."
You could. You did. His fingers were thick—surgeon's fingers, strong and precise—and they knew exactly what to do. Pumping deep, curling, finding that spot again and again while his palm ground against your clit and his mouth covered yours to swallow every sound.
The kiss was sloppy now. Desperate. You were breathing into each other, sharing air, his tongue pushing past your teeth at the same rhythm as his fingers. You could taste yourself on him—salt and musk and something sweeter underneath—and it made you wild, made your hips buck against his hand, made you ride his fingers like you'd die if you stopped.
"That's it," he growled. "Fuck my hand. Show me how bad you want it."
Your fingers clawed at his shoulders. Found his neck. Dug into the short hair at his nape and pulled, and he hissed, and his fingers drove deeper, faster, the wet slap of his palm against your clit turning filthy and loud.
"You're close," he said. "I can feel it. You're clenching—yeah, like that. You're gonna come on my fingers. Right here on my desk. And you're gonna be quiet while you do it."
"I can't—"
"You can." His lips brushed your ear. His breath was ragged now, finally losing that iron control. "You can because I'm telling you to. Because you're a good girl. Because you want to be good for me."
The words hit somewhere deep. Somewhere you didn't know existed. Your cunt spasmed around his fingers and he laughed again, dark and pleased, and then his thumb pressed hard against your clit and circled and his fingers curled and—
You came.
Silent. Or close enough—a gasp that died in your throat, your whole body locking up, your cunt milking his fingers in rhythmic pulses you couldn't control. He held you through it, hand steady, murmuring something low against your temple that you couldn't hear over the roar in your ears.
When you came down, your forehead was pressed to his shoulder. His scrub top was wet—sweat, tears, spit, you didn't know. His fingers were still inside you, still, just resting there, letting you feel the fullness.
"Good girl," he said again. Quieter now. Almost gentle. "That's my good girl."
You lifted your head. His face was inches away, dark eyes searching yours, and for a moment the mask slipped—just a second of something raw, something that looked almost tender before he blinked and it was gone.
"Now you," you said. Your voice was wrecked. "I want to—let me."
He didn't stop you. His fingers slid out of you, slow, and you felt the loss like a physical ache. Your hand dropped to his waist, found the drawstring of his scrub pants, and pulled.
His hand caught your wrist.
You froze. Waiting. His grip was tight but not painful—just stopping you, holding you still while he looked at your face like he was making a decision.
"This has to be quick," he said. "Someone's going to notice we're both gone."
"Then quick."
He held your eyes for another beat. Then his grip loosened. "Go on."
You untied the drawstring. Your fingers were shaking—from the orgasm, from the adrenaline, from the sheer impossibility of this moment—but you managed. His scrub pants sagged, and when you pushed them down his hips together with his boxers, his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
He was bigger than you expected. Not just long—thick, the kind of thick that would hurt in the best way, the kind that made your cunt clench just looking at it. His shaft was veined, curving slightly toward his stomach, the head a deep angry red and slick with pre-cum.
"You're staring," he said.
"I'm admiring."
"Admire faster."
You wrapped your hand around him. His breath caught—loud, sharp—and his hips jerked into your grip before he controlled himself. His cock was hot in your palm, silk-soft skin over iron-hard flesh, and when you squeezed, a bead of pre-cum welled at the tip and dripped down over your knuckle.
"Fuck," he breathed.
You stroked him. Slow at first—learning the weight, the shape, the way he twitched when your thumb pressed against the underside just below the head. His hand came up and fisted in your hair again, not pulling, just holding, like he needed an anchor.
"Faster," he said. "Come on. Faster."
You sped up. Your wrist found a rhythm, twisting on the upstroke the way you knew felt good, and his head dropped forward, forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and uneven on your lips.
"You've done this before."
"A few times."
"Not to me." His hips were moving now, fucking into your fist, uncontrolled in a way that made heat pool low in your belly all over again. "Not—like this—"
You squeezed harder. Twisted faster. His hand in your hair tightened, the other slamming down on the desk beside your hip, and the sound of his palm hitting wood was loud enough to echo.
"Look at me," you said.
His eyes opened. Glazed. Desperate. His mouth was wet, lips parted, and he looked nothing like the cold controlled attending who'd locked the door. He looked ruined.
"I want to watch you," you said. "I want to watch you come in my hand."
"Jesus—"
"Come on." Your voice dropped, mimicking his from earlier. "Come for me. I want to see it."
His hips stuttered. His cock pulsed in your grip. And then he was coming, silent, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tendon stand out in his neck, his cum spilling hot over your fingers and dripping down your wrist in thick white ropes.
You stroked him through it. Milked every pulse, every spasm, until he was shuddering and oversensitive and his hand shot down to grip your wrist and stop you.
"Enough," he rasped. "Enough."
You stopped. Your hand was a mess—his cum coating your palm, your fingers, dripping between your knuckles. You could smell it, salt and musk and him, and without thinking, without planning, you lifted your hand to your mouth.
He watched.
Your tongue touched your palm first. The taste was sharp—bitter and salty and undeniably male. You licked a stripe up to your wrist, gathering the slickness, and then you wrapped your lips around your own index finger and sucked.
His pupils swallowed what was left of the thin blue rings.
You pulled your finger free with a lewd pop and licked your lips. "Tastes like you."
He didn't say anything. Just stared, chest heaving, cock still wet and softening against his thigh.
Then he kissed you. Not fast this time. Not punishing. His mouth dragged over yours with a filthy kind of patience, tongue sliding in like he was tasting himself there and hated how much he wanted more of it. His hand stayed at your jaw, thumb pressed beneath your chin, holding you still while he licked into your mouth again, deeper, making the kiss feel less like an ending than a promise he had no business making in his office.
When Jack finally pulled back, it wasn’t because either of you had cooled off. It was because whatever sense he had left had finally clawed its way back to the surface.
You stayed on the edge of his desk, breath wrecked, fingers still curled in his scrub top. He looked almost composed, which would’ve been insulting if his mouth weren’t swollen from yours, if his chest weren’t moving with too much effort, if his gaze didn’t keep dropping to all the places he had just touched. For a second, he only stared at you, taking in the mess he’d made: your loosened scrubs, your bare thighs, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your body still hadn’t figured out how to stop wanting him.
Then he reached for his phone.
You went still.
He saw it immediately. Of course he did. Jack caught everything.
“No,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Not unless you say so.”
The phone stayed low in his hand. He didn’t lift it. Didn’t angle it. Didn’t take anything just because he could. That was the worst part, maybe—how badly he wanted and how clearly he still made it your choice. He stood there with his scrub pants retied badly, his hair mussed, your taste still on his mouth, and waited like permission mattered more than whatever filthy thought had put the phone in his hand.
“I got rid of the first one,” he said.
“I know.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
Your throat tightened.
His gaze moved over you again, not detached, not clean, not pretending. “This one would be.”
The words went through you with a fresh, obscene little twist. The first photo had been panic and accident, a naked image thrown into the wrong hands. This one would be different. You were still open on his desk, still marked by his mouth, still shaking from what he’d done to you and what you’d done to him. This wouldn’t be a mistake sitting in a thread. This would be proof. Permission. Something given on purpose.
Jack watched your face. “Say no, and I put it away.”
You looked at the phone, then at him. “Yes.”
His jaw tightened. “Full sentence.”
Your face burned, but you didn’t look away. Not after everything. Not with his cum still barely wiped from your skin and your body still aching from his fingers.
“You can take a picture of me.”
For a second, he didn’t move.
Then he lifted the phone.
He only took one.
That made it worse somehow. Hotter. No posing you over and over. No making a show of it. Just one photo in the dim office light: you perched on the edge of his desk, wrecked and unmistakably touched, your scrubs shoved out of place, his hand visible at your thigh like a signature he had no right to leave. The first photo had been you alone in your bed, naked and deliberate. This one had him in it without showing his face—the watch at his wrist, the edge of his sleeve, the possessive press of his fingers against your skin.
Jack looked at the screen.
Whatever he saw there hit him. You watched it happen in the clench of his jaw, the pause in his breathing, the way his thumb hovered before he locked the phone like he needed to put the image away before he did something stupider than taking it.
“That one stays?” you asked.
His eyes lifted to yours.
“That one stays.”
The words settled low and dirty, right where his voice had already ruined you.
After that, he fixed you with the same practical attention he gave everything else. Scrub top straightened. Badge adjusted. Hair smoothed back into place, though his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary. It should’ve felt clinical. It didn’t. It felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache a little.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded.
His brows drew together. “Words.”
A small, breathless laugh escaped you. “I’m okay.”
He studied you for another moment, then handed you the water bottle from his desk. “Drink.”
You did, because saying no felt pointless when your legs were still unreliable and he was looking at you like he would stand there all night if that was what it took to make sure you could walk out without falling apart. When he was satisfied, he took the bottle back and set it down.
Then the mask started returning.
You watched him pull himself together piece by piece. The rough edges tucked away. The heat banked. The attending sliding back over the man who had just ruined your ability to think clearly. By the time his hand reached the lock, he almost looked like himself again.
Almost.
Before opening the door, he turned back. “No more accidents.”
Your pulse jumped. “No?”
His gaze dropped once to your mouth. “You want my attention,” he said, low enough that only you could hear, “you ask for it properly.”
Then he opened the door, and the hospital rushed back in.
The fluorescent light felt obscene after the dimness of his office. Voices, alarms, wheels, footsteps, the relentless machinery of the department grinding on like nothing had happened. Jack stepped out first. You followed a few seconds later, trying to look normal with your pulse still everywhere it shouldn’t be.
At the nurses’ station, Mel glanced up. “You good?”
You picked up a chart mostly to have something to do with your hands. “Yeah. Fine.”
Across the department, Jack didn’t look at you once, but that almost made it worse. He didn’t have to. The proof was already in his pocket, locked behind his passcode, tucked against his body while he moved through the rest of the shift like nothing had happened. You watched him speak to Robby near the board, watched him take a chart from Dana, watched him disappear behind the curtain of trauma two with that same gruff composure he’d worn all day, and all you could think was that there was a photo of you on his phone now.
Not the accidental one. Not the one he had deleted because it hadn’t belonged to him.
The other one.
The one you had given him.
That thought followed you through sign-out and the locker room and the cold shock of night air when you finally stepped outside. It sat low and warm in your stomach on the ride home, getting worse every time you remembered the way his jaw had tightened when he looked at the screen. By the time you unlocked your apartment, the silence felt different from the one he’d given you earlier. Not cruel this time. Anticipatory.
Your apartment was dark except for the lamp by your bed. The same bed from the first photo waited at the end of the room, sheets still rumpled from the morning, low light spilling over the fabric in a way that made your heart skip. Last night, that room had been private. Tonight, it felt altered, like Jack had already been invited into the idea of it.
You dropped your keys into the bowl by the door and stood there for a second, still in your scrubs, looking at the bed.
Your phone buzzed.
You turned it over.
Jack Abbot:
Home?
Your mouth went dry.
You:
Yes.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. You stood in the dark with your scuffed Dansko clogs still on, heart beating too hard over a text message from a man who had spent all day saying nothing. Then his reply came through.
I love fingers in mouth 🥹🥹 I know you've written a blurb about casual finger sucking with Robby but with Jack is it more common?
18+ mdni idk about more common but he def indulges your lil oral fixation too!! he’ll notice you chewing your lip or your nails while you’re focusing on your book and he’ll bring his finger to your mouth with a “You need somethin’ in your mouth?” He slides them past your lips and presses gently in your tongue, urging you to suck gently. “There, babygirl. No more biting yourself.”
n he always has a pack of gum in his pocket when you two go out if he notices you getting fidgety… and has a bag of hard candies in his truck… he’s so tuned into your needs <3
and he’s constantly offering you his fingers while he fucks you of course <33 he’ll have you in his lap, your back to his chest, and will reach up to grip your face and press a kiss to the side of your head then slide his pointer and index fingers past your lips. His cock twitches inside you at the feeling of your wet, hot mouth. “Fuck, sweetie, such a perfect little mouth.” ….He’ll be fucking you missionary with his head right next to yours, murmuring praise in your ear. then his thumb will come up from your tit and swipe across your pillowed lower lip. “What’s this pout for, huh? Here, doll, let daddy make it better.” and he feeds his thumb into your mouth and coos when he feels it vibrate with your pleased hum. “Good girl. That’s it.”
And he does this thing that makes your tummy all fluttery where he'll walk up to you wherever you're sitting and grab you by the jaw, his warm chubby fingers smushing the plush of your cheeks together, forcing your lips to pucker. He'll press a peck to them and squeeze your cheeks playfully saying "how we feelin' today, baby cakes?"
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