Interlude X: So what, we’re just texting casually at 1 a.m. now?
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Of course Robby texts Mara while he’s in Vancouver and she’s on babysitter duty. Unfortunately, he learns that some information changes a man forever.
A/N: I think I'm going to retire the taglist because it's been glitching a lot lately. If you don't want to miss updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (1)
Link to "You stole my cart" master list (2)
Previous chapter: Part 90: You can't lick dogs, sweetheart
--- --- ---
Tuesday night
Robby:
Hey. Heard you’re taking care of Lizzie. Thought you only liked kids when you could hand them back once they start crying or leaking?
Mara:
Who’s this?
Robby:
Wow. Ouch.
Mara:
Ah. Robby.
Mara:
You really thought that was a good opener for a chat?
Robby:
I was aiming for charming.
Mara:
Well, you missed.
Robby:
Anyway. How’s Lizzie?
Mara:
Very much alive.
Robby:
How are you?
Mara:
That felt alarmingly emotionally mature.
Robby:
I have layers.
Mara:
Like an ogre?
Robby:
Is this like a shrek reference?
Mara:
Yeah.
Mara:
Sorry, I’m tired.
Robby:
I bet.
Mara:
She finally passed out on me.
Robby:
Awww.
Mara:
Don’t make this weird.
Robby:
Picture?
Mara:
You’re definitely making this weird.
(She sends a picture anyway. A selfie. Her in an oversized hoodie, Lizzie asleep on Maras chest, tiny fists clutching the fabric.)
Robby:
That’s unfairly cute.
Mara:
Yup.
Robby:
But you’re looking really good.
Mara:
I’m sleep deprived.
Robby:
Still texting me though.
Mara:
Questionable judgment, that’s all.
Robby:
I do like this side of you.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Wednesday to Thursday night, at around 1 a.m.
Robby:
You up?
Mara:
Do you not own a watch? It’s the middle of the night.
Robby:
But you’re up.
Mara:
What do you want?
Robby:
Talking.
Mara:
Oh god. You’re horny and lonely, right?
Robby:
Ouch.
Robby:
But not entirely untrue.
Robby:
Just looked at the picture again.
Mara:
The picture of me with a baby?
Robby:
Well now I sound weird.
Mara:
Yup.
Robby:
No, it’s just…
Robby:
You look kind of hot, being domestic and so.
Mara:
JESUS CHRIST
Robby:
Okay, okay, bad phrasing.
Mara:
Are you drunk?
Robby:
No!
Robby:
Maybe a little.
Robby:
Not the point.
Robby:
It’s just - you’re weirdly attractive like that.
Mara:
Looking like a mom?
Mara:
That’s the stuff you’re into?
Mara:
Good to know you have a mom kink.
Robby:
NO!
Mara:
You sure?
Robby:
Mara.
Mara:
Robby?
Robby:
…
Mara:
Still not sure what you hope to achieve here.
Robby:
Just some nice conversation.
Mara:
Conversation? Feels more like sexting, hm?
Mara:
You’re literally surrounded by pretty women the whole day. Go bother one of them.
Robby:
Absolutely not.
Mara:
Why not?
Robby:
Because I’m thinking about you right now.
Mara:
That was kind of smooth.
Robby:
Thanks.
Robby:
So what, we’re just texting casually at 1 a.m. now?
Mara:
Apparently.
Robby:
I kinda like it.
Mara:
I bet.
Robby:
So just because you mentioned the sexting…
Robby:
What are you wearing?
Robby:
;)
Mara:
Wow.
Robby:
Oh, please, throw a man a bone.
Mara:
An oversized shirt.
Robby:
That sounds… sexy…?
Mara:
Robby.
Robby:
Just saying!
(Mara sends a picture against better judgment. Nothing too revealing - just enough. Soft light from the lamp on the night stand, edge of an oversized shirt, nice lacey underwear visible.)
Robby:
Jesus Christ.
Robby:
Okay, wow.
Robby:
Mara.
Mara:
Have fun being weird about that. Goodnight Robby.
Robby:
You cannot just leave me like that.
Robby:
Mara?
Robby:
HELLO???
Robby:
You cannot just send that and disappear.
Robby:
Oh, come on.
Robby:
Why am I being turned on by you being rude?
Robby:
Anyway.
Robby:
Goodnight.
Robby:
(Respectfully - you're being fucking hot.)
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Thursday morning
Robby:
You know I can see when you read my messages.
Mara:
I know. I just don’t care.
Robby:
Unfair.
Mara:
I’m not even remotely sorry.
Mara:
And don’t think texting at one in the morning becomes a thing now. Or me sending pictures like that.
Mara:
That was just poor judgment.
Robby:
Wow.
Robby:
Okay.
Robby:
What about coffee when I’m back?
Mara:
Counter question
Mara:
Did you find a therapist?
Robby:
Jesus Christ.
Mara:
Well?
(...)
Mara:
Then it’s a hard no.
Robby:
You’re unbelievable.
Mara:
I’m serious.
Robby:
Yeah, figured.
Robby:
So, actual question - you don’t want to have a date with me?
Mara:
Yes.
Robby:
So you wouldn’t care if I hooked up with someone here?
Mara:
No. Must be nice taking your avoidance issues global.
Robby:
Haha.
Mara:
So - bone all you want, buddy.
Robby:
Buddy?
Robby:
Buddy???!
Robby:
Are you serious?
Mara:
Dead serious.
Mara:
Robby, we’re not together. We’re not even dating. You're a free man.
Mara:
Unfortunately for society.
Robby:
Wow.
Robby:
Cool.
Robby:
Love that for me.
Mara:
Oh, wow, are you sulking now?
Robby:
No.
Mara:
Yeah, okay, sure buddy.
Robby:
Fine.
Robby:
Enjoy pretending you don’t care.
Mara:
Thanks. Enjoy Canada.
Robby:
I suddenly feel very motivated to make poor decisions.
Mara:
Honestly? Feels less like a treat and more like a personality trait.
Robby:
Have a nice day.
Mara:
You too, Robby.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Saturday morning
Robby:
Just for the record: I did hook up with someone.
Mara:
Well - congratulations?
Mara:
Did you tell her your real name or some bullshit conference alias?
Robby:
Wow. Offensive.
Robby:
But just to be clear - I used my real name.
Mara:
I’m so very proud of you.
Robby:
You sound unimpressed.
Mara:
I’m just trying to understand why you felt the need to update me like I’m your parole officer.
Robby:
Because you told me to go make bad decisions while being in Vancouver.
Mara:
I said nothing like that.
Robby:
You said “bone all you want”.
Mara:
And you apparently did. At least you felt the urge to text me to announce you had sex like it was some sort of headline.
Robby:
When you say it like that I sound insane.
Mara:
Well…
Mara:
You said it, not me.
Robby:
Anyway. It was fine.
Mara:
Oh, wow.
Robby:
What?
Mara:
You said fine.
Robby:
And?
Mara:
That’s nice for disappointing.
Robby:
NO!!!
Robby:
It was perfectly acceptable sex.
Mara:
Jesus.
Robby:
WHAT?
Mara:
I personally wouldn’t be fine with “perfectly acceptable sex”. If it’s not mindblowing, I’m out.
Robby:
Mara.
Robby:
You can’t just casually say things like that to me.
Mara:
Why not?
Robby:
It makes me weird.
Mara:
Weirder than usual?
Robby:
Rude.
Robby:
Anyway. You know what’s upsetting?
Mara:
Your personality?
Robby:
Wow. But no.
Robby:
Now I’m sitting here reevaluating my standards.
Mara:
As you should.
Robby:
This feels weirdly judgmental for someone who claimed she doesn’t care what I do.
Mara:
I don’t.
Mara:
I’m just saying I personally wouldn’t settle for mediocrity.
Robby:
For the record - it wasn’t mediocre. Or bad.
Mara:
That sounds like something people say right before admitting it was - in fact - bad.
Robby:
You're very sharp today.
Robby:
Different question. Hypothetically.
Mara:
Yes?
Robby:
What qualifies as mindblowing?
Mara:
Absolutely not.
Robby:
Coward.
Mara:
Boundaries.
Mara:
But tell me…
Robby:
Yes?
Mara:
Was she disappointing? Or was it you?
Mara:
I have a guess. I just need confirmation.
Robby:
That’s unnecessarily violent.
Mara:
So I was right?
Robby:
I hate this conversation.
Robby:
But for the record - I’m very capable of pleasuring a woman. I’m choosing to believe she was intimidated by my emotional depth.
Mara:
Emotional depth? You mean avoidance issues?
Robby:
Rude.
Robby:
But honestly? I think we both deserve the opportunity for you to personally evaluate my incredible abilities in bed. Preferably while you're wearing that nice underwear from Wednesday.
Mara:
Jesus, Robby.
Mara:
That was embarrassing. Even for you.
Robby:
Didn’t say no though.
Mara:
I’m choosing not to engage with whatever this is.
Robby:
Coward.
Mara:
No. Adult woman with standards. You’re just not used to that.
Robby:
Ouch.
Mara:
Also… incredibly bold move for a man who just described his own sexual performance as “perfectly acceptable”.
Robby:
Okay.
Robby:
That one hurt.
Mara:
Good.
Robby:
For the record - I think you’d get a much more enthusiastic version of me.
Mara:
Oh my god.
Robby:
You considering?
Robby:
Yes?
Robby:
No?
Robby:
Maybe?
Robby:
Coffee when I’m back?
Mara:
Go to therapy first.
Robby:
You’re unbelievably committed to that condition.
Mara:
Yes.
Robby:
Do you have a therapy kink?
Mara:
Holy mother of Jesus.
Mara:
Go and attend your little doctor conference and stop sexually harassing me over text.
Robby:
First: You kind of started it with the underwear pic.
Robby:
Second: Conference is over.
Mara:
Oh. So now you’re Pittsburgh's problem again?
Robby:
Yeah. Soon.
Mara:
Oh.
Mara:
Great.
Mara:
And that pic? ONE poor decision while sleep deprived.
Robby:
Honestly? One of your better ones.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Saturday (around noon)
Robby:
Important question.
Mara:
No.
Robby:
You don’t even know the question.
Mara:
Still pretty confident.
Robby:
Fine. Hypothetically… would you judge me if I told you I’m currently not wearing underwear?
Mara:
I genuinely can’t believe you’re a doctor.
Robby:
And your answer…?
Mara:
Oh my god. Why are you flirting like a seventeen-year-old boy with a boner?
Robby:
That felt personal.
Mara:
It kind of was.
Robby:
Brutal.
Robby:
Well, then.
Robby:
Have a good day.
Mara:
You too, Robby.
Robby:
(Just to make sure: really no interest in my lack of underwear?)
Mara:
For the love of God I swear I'm blocking you.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Saturday afternoon
(Robby sends a selfie: business class seat, whiskey glass, smug smile on his face)
Robby:
Wanna join me next time?
Robby:
Just spent five days witnessing living proof that work trips can be disgustingly romantic.
Mara:
Yeah, I heard. Apparently there was also a concerning amount of hotel room sex.
Robby:
Wouldn’t exactly say no to that.
Mara:
Wow.
Robby:
You started it.
Mara:
Fair.
Mara:
So… did he ask her?
Robby:
???
Robby:
Who?
Mara:
… you’re joking.
Robby:
I really don’t understand.
Mara:
Jack? The proposal?
Robby:
The WHAT?
Mara:
The proposal??? The one he was planning in Vancouver? The reason I sacrificed five days of my life looking after their child???
Robby:
FUCK WHAT
Mara:
Wait.
Mara:
YOU DIDN’T KNOW?
Robby:
NO??!!!!
Mara:
Oh my god. He didn’t tell you?
Robby:
No?!?
Mara:
Yesterday. At Stanley Park. Picnic. I thought she wasn’t texting because she was over the moon and full of her fiance's dick.
Robby:
Fuck.
Robby:
I was at that picnic.
Mara:
Excuse me
Mara:
You were WHAT?
Robby:
I was there the whole time.
Mara:
OH MY GOD WHAT
Mara:
I genuinely need a minute.
Robby:
WHY DIDN’T HE TELL ME HE WANTED TO PROPOSE?!!
Mara:
Probably because he assumed you’d accidentally ruin it?
Robby:
That feels weird considering I absolutely did.
Mara:
OMG
Mara:
Did you really third-wheel a proposal attempt?
Robby:
I THINK I DID
Robby:
OH MY GOD HE WAS SO QUIET AND I THOUGHT HE WAS JUST TIRED
Mara:
You're an absolute idiot 😭
Robby:
I told him the picnic was thoughtful.
Mara:
YOU DID NOT
Robby:
I genuinely feel sick.
Mara:
Fuck!!!
Mara:
But yeah, you should.
Robby:
FUCK!
Robby:
But really - why didn’t he tell me?!
Mara:
Maybe he wanted to keep this private?
Robby:
HE TOLD YOU
Mara:
Because he needed a babysitter.
Robby:
But I’m his best friend!
Mara:
And yet somehow also his greatest natural predator.
Robby:
I DIDN’T KNOW!
Mara:
You seriously didn’t think it was weird to just… join their romantic afternoon?!!!
Robby:
WE WENT TO THE FUCKING AQUARIUM
Robby:
THERE WERE CHILDREN
Robby:
IT WASN'T ROMANTIC AT ALL
Robby:
I thought we were just hanging out.
Robby:
OH MY GOD I RUINED IT
Robby:
I RUINED THE WHOLE THING
Robby:
I should’ve let the goose murder me
Mara:
???
Robby:
FUCK
Mara:
I'm really torn
Mara:
I really wanna tear you a new one for ruining that because the plan was perfect
Mara:
But I also feel kinda bad for you
Mara:
Even when you've been an absolute fucking idiot
Robby:
I really didn't know!!!
Robby:
I’m considering throwing myself out of the emergency exit.
Mara:
That feels a tad dramatic.
Robby:
I RUINED HIS PROPOSAL.
Mara:
Still. Don’t do that.
Mara:
It'd kind of delay the flight and I really need to be released from childcare duty.
Mara:
Also, I would kind of miss you.
Robby:
Huh?
Robby:
That’s new.
Robby:
I like that.
Mara:
You still ruined your best friend's proposal.
Robby:
😭 😭 😭
~~~ ~~~ ~~~
Sunday evening:
Mara:
Let’s grab coffee sometime soon.
Robby:
Are you asking me out?!!!
Mara:
Nope!
Mara:
I just really wanna hear about you third-wheeling their day in Stanley Park.
Mara:
And I won’t get all the juicy information out of my best friend because she still has no idea you accidentally third-wheeled her proposal.
Robby:
…
Robby:
I really want to have coffee with you.
Robby:
But I never want to talk about that afternoon again.
Robby:
I’m conflicted.
Mara:
Oopsie.
Robby:
You did that on purpose, right?
Robby:
Right?
Robby:
Mara?
Robby:
Unbelievable.
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon. I promise! :)
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Christmas arrives. You expect the worst - and get something better anyway
A/N: I think I'm going to retire the taglist because it's been glitching a lot lately. If you don't want to miss updates, feel free to turn on notifications for my posts! <3
Sequel to:
Part 1: You stole my cart
Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
Part 3: Wanna come over?
Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
Part 6: And you are...?
Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by that
Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess
Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer
Interlude I:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)
Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?
Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?
Part 17: You can't say that anymore
Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway
Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money
Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes
Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move
Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer
Part 23: I've been thinking about something...
Part 24: Hard to predict what'll do in the haze after nightshift
Part 25: I'm not your punching bag
Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs
Part 27: That's not enough time
Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot
Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl
Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime
Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared
Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die
Bonus Chapter: Did you actually think this through?
Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal
Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late
Interlude II: And she called you?!
Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly kiddo
Part 36: She deserves to become her own person
Part 37: I think we made a mistake
Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?
Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything
Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something
Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal
Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy
Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again
Part 44: You had it coming
Bonus chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be
Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there
Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?
Part 46: You wanna tell me something?
Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you
Part 48: That face needs to populate a whole bloodline
Part 49: I know exactly who to call
Part 50: I think I'm more comfortable falling apart in your own apartment
Part 51: It's just a rough patch. Okay?
Part 52: If you think I'm helicoptering - he's next level
Part 53: She's totally judging you
Part 54: I don't need an audience
Part 55: Good call, labeling your boss the department slut
Part 56: I think that's a bad idea, girl
Part 57: I thought things were going well
Interlude II:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
Part 58: Please tell me she insulted you
Part 59: Must be a world record with only one-and-a-half legs
Interlude III:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
Part 60: We're okay. So let's be... okay.
Interlude IV:
Let's talk about it (The Couple Sessions - Part I)
Part 61: And sorry I'm not a woman you could hit on
Part 62: Maybe they think we're having an affair
Part 63: That was the funniest thing you ever said
Part 64: Don't do that girl. Some of us had a rough shift
Bonus Chapter: robbby forced me. 0/10 expeirence. miss you.
Part 65: I feel like we missed a memo
Part 66: So, we are negotiating with terrorists now?
Part 67: I think I could use your help too
Part 68: I'm working nights over Christmas, by the way
Interlude V:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
Part 69: I just need a break
Part 70: That's not a win. That's a warning
Bonus Chapter: A knee to the balls would probably fix that dick-swinging behavior
--- --- ---
Jack was ready to go.
Scrubs on, backpack over one shoulder, coffee in a travel mug. He stood in the middle of the apartment like he’d forgotten something - except he hadn’t. He was just lingering.
You came out of the nursery, Lizzie on your hip. She wore a ridiculous little green elf onesie, tiny bells chiming softly whenever she moved.
Jack blinked. He looked at her, then at you, then back at her.
“That’s… something.”
You smiled faintly. “I think she looks adorable.”
“Yeah, okay, she kind of does.”
He stepped closer, pressing a kiss to Lizzie’s head. Then another. And another. She shrieked delighted.
“... I don’t really wanna go” he said quietly.
You met his eyes. “Well, if these aren’t the consequences to your actions, Jack.”
He swallowed hard. “... yeah.”
For a second, none of you moved. Then he took Lizzie from you, holding her close, tucking her against his chest like he could store the feeling somewhere.
“Hey, bean” he murmured.
She grabbed at his scrub top immediately, shrieking, gurgling - drooling.
You let him have the moment.
When he handed her back, it was careful. Then he leaned in and kissed you - slower than usual, more deliberate.
“I’ll text” he said.
You nodded. “Okay.”
Another second. Then he forced himself to step back, adjusted his bag and left.
You held Lizzie tighter to your chest, inhaling the smell of her, shaking your head slightly. “Your daddy’s an idiot.”
You had just fed Lizzie again and were thinking about putting her down so you could take a long, hot bath when the doorbell rang.
You took Lizzie into your arms and walked through the hallway. “I hate unexpected visitors” you murmured toward Lizzie, who gurgled in return.
Then you opened the door a bit.
Robby stood there in scrubs, shoulders slightly hunched, looking like the day hadn’t quite let go of him yet - just really tired. The kind that sat behind the eyes.
“Hey” he said with a smile.
You blinked, properly confused. “Hey? What… what are you doing here? Is everything fine?!”
He tilted his head. “Yeah, sure. Just wanted to come over and keep you company.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“Okay, it wasn't exactly my idea” he said, holding his hands up defensively. “Jack sent me. He was pretty desperate and really adamant that I was coming over. So… here I am. Merry Christmas - can I come in?”
You stared at him for another second, then nodded quickly and stepped aside. He moved inside. His gaze dropped immediately to Lizzie’s outfit. “Okay, wow.”
You smiled. “Right?”
“That’s…” He was looking for the right word. “... ridiculously cute.”
Lizzie waved her arm like she agreed.
Robby huffed softly while taking off his coat.
“So… Jack told you to come?” you asked, still wary.
Robby nodded. “Yep. He told me you'd be alone the whole evening.”
You swallowed hard. “Yeah…”
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Robby hesitated just slightly, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, um - do you mind if I take a quick shower?” he asked, a little awkward about it. “I know that’s… kind of weird. I just had a rough shift. And I smell.”
“It’s not the weirdest thing you could’ve asked for” you said with a smile. “Go ahead. Towels are next to the sink.”
He nodded, relieved. “Thanks.”
“Do you want something to eat? I could fix something real quick.”
He smiled. “That'd be great. Honestly.”
You watched him step into the bathroom. Then you took your phone.
You sent Robby over as an apology?
Jack's reply didn't take long:
Not as an apology. Just don't want you to be alone. I’m trying to do this right.
You hesitated. Your phone vibrated again.
I was a fucking idiot about all of that and I'm still sorry x
Your lips twitched. Suddenly your stomach fluttered.
Seems like there’s still some hope :) Thanks! x
While Robby was in the bathroom, you settled Lizzie into her high chair, then moved around the kitchen, putting something together to eat.
Lizzie immediately took her spoon and bonked it against the chair. Again and again.
You let her.
At least she was an adorable little terror elf.
The apartment filled with the smell of warm food.
When Robby came back, hair damp, hoodie on, he looked like himself again.
Lizzie stilled for a second when she noticed him, then resumed her spoon assault.
He caught it mid-slam without even thinking. “Nope. Just nope, Elizabeth.”
You snorted softly. “Your godfather runs a tight ship, Lizzie.”
Robby grinned. “Feels more like running the Titanic.”
You laughed out loud.
Dinner fell into place easily. It was always easy for you to talk to Robby. And when there was silence, Lizzie filled it with noise. It just… worked.
“Did you have plans tonight?” you asked at one point.
He shrugged, taking a sip of water. “Not really.”
You nodded.
Then your phone buzzed. A message from Jack.
Send me a picture of Lizzie's outfit again. Everyone wants to see how ridiculously cute she is.
You huffed softly. “Jack wants a picture of her outfit.”
“He just wants to show off his child” Robby said, shaking his head. “I get it. I mean - look at her. She’s adorable.”
You nodded proudly. “Yeah. She is.”
You snapped a picture of her and sent it to him.
He replied quickly:
I’m sorry I’m missing that x
You swallowed hard.
Me too x
Later Robby took care of Lizzie’s bedtime without asking while you cleaned up. You listened from the kitchen, his voice soft, steady, repeating the same rhythm until she settled.
You carried a bottle of wine and two glasses to the living room, putting them on the coffee table.
A while later Robby dropped onto the couch with a quiet exhale, like his body finally gave up pretending it still had energy left.
“She’s out” he muttered, leaning his head back for a second.
“Impressive.”
“I have skills.”
“Sure you do” you replied dryly, handing him one glass of wine.
He took it without argument, fingers brushing the stem. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for handling her” You nodded toward the blanket draped over the back of the couch. “Do you want it?”
He glanced at it, then back at you. “Is this one of those things where you pretend it’s optional but actually it’s not?”
“It’s one of those things where I don’t want you to freeze to death in my living room.”
“Okay, fair.” He pulled the blanket over himself, settling into the corner of the couch.
You grabbed another one for yourself, curling into the other side.
“Movie?” you asked, tucking your feet under you.
“Please. But please - no thinking required.”
You reached for the remote without hesitation. “Great, I have the perfect thing.”
Robby watched you scroll for about five seconds before narrowing his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“It’s Christmas” you said, already committed. “We’re watching something festive.”
“That’s not festive” he said immediately, leaning forward slightly. “That is emotional bullshit with fake snow.”
You scoffed. “Excuse me? That’s a classic.”
“You know the fake snow they used was made from asbestos, yeah? They probably all died horribly because of it.”
“Wow. You’re really setting the mood here.”
“Just saying.”
You turned to him. “Okay, what do you suggest then, oh wise one?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Die Hard.”
You blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“That’s not a Christmas movie.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It’s an action movie that happens to take place during Christmas.”
“Which makes it a Christmas movie.”
You stared at him for a second, then leaned back, unimpressed. “You’re Jewish. I don’t think you get a vote here.”
That got a small laugh out of him. “Wow. Okay. First of all - rude.”
“And second?”
“Second of all - I get why Jack wanted to work tonight.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Low blow, Robinavitch.” Then you sighed dramatically, glancing back at the screen. “Fine. We’ll watch your ridiculous action movie.”
“Now it’s my movie?”
“Yeah, it is” you said, waving a hand like that settled it. “I don’t want to argue. And you were so kind coming over after a long shift. So I kind of owe you.”
“You do” he said with a shrug.
“So congratulations. You win.”
You put the movie on and hit play before he could respond.
For a while, neither of you said much. You snuggled into the pillows, sipping on your wine, feeling relaxed for the first time in days. You could feel the alcohol making everything a bit softer around the edges. Not much, just a bit.
Just enough.
Your phone buzzed again. You glanced down - a message from Jack. Or more precisely: a picture.
You opened it - and immediately let out a soft, surprised laugh.
Robby gave you a look, but didn’t say anything.
You held the phone there a second longer, taking it in.
Jack, in full gear - safety glasses, blue gown, both splattered with blood, hair slightly damp at the edges. He looked rough. Tired. Alive in that very specific way he only ever did at work.
Underneath it:
I should have stayed home.
You smiled, already typing:
You’re preaching to the choir, Jack. Also you should try the “Not in the face” thing I told you about :)
You sent it, then huffed a quiet laugh at your own joke.
He took one look - and lost it. A full, unfiltered laugh, head dropping forward slightly.
“Oh wow” he managed between breaths. “That’s… such a bad joke.”
“Right?” You looked slightly smug.
“Didn't know you were so funny” he grinned. “But he deserved that. I mean - the blood. Looks like someone hit an artery.”
You made a face. “Ugh.”
Your phone buzzed again.
Oh boy. Are you drinking? 🍷
You snorted.
Robby leaned back again, shaking his head slightly. “I told him he’s an idiot, by the way.”
That made you look over. “... yeah?”
“Yeah” he said simply. “About the whole Christmas thing.”
You watched him for a second. “And?”
He shrugged. “And nothing. He already knew that.”
A pause.
“Okay, maybe I used stronger words, but yeah, he already knew that too.”
You smiled. “Thank you for telling him off.”
“Sure. My duty. And my pleasure. Can’t let him fuck that up.”
You nodded slowly, but didn’t reply.
The movie kept playing and settled into that steady, loud rhythm - explosions, one-liners, the kind of plot you didn’t actually have to follow.
You were curled up on your side of the couch, blanket pulled up, wine in hand. Robby sat on the other end, one leg stretched out, the other bent, his own blanket slipping off his shoulder. Lizzie was blissfully asleep on the baby monitor.
And then it hit you.
Baby asleep in the next room. Wine. Someone sitting next to you, snuggled up on the sofa. A movie playing.
For a second, it felt like something familiar - just slightly off.
You turned your head slowly, looking at Robby like you were seeing him for the first time.
Robby noticed and glanced over. “What?”
You shook your head slowly. “This is-” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “- this feels strange.”
He frowned slightly. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment. Explain it a bit more, maybe?”
You closed your eyes for a second. “It feels like we’re playing house” you said. “Like - baby asleep, wine, movie night, the whole setup. The only thing missing is… I don’t know… cuddling or something.”
“Where is this coming from?” Robby stared at you for a second. “I'm not here for cuddling. I have no idea what Jack told you but I'm not some sort of big cuddly toy escort thing you can rent.”
You laughed.
“Whoa, woman, now I feel strange. And that was just… deeply unsexy.”
You laughed. “I know.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt less inclined to make a move in my life.”
“Yeah, same.”
He nodded toward the TV. “I mean - not only your terrible flirting but also… we’re watching Die Hard.”
“It was your choice. Maybe it’s your go-to move to seduce someone.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “Trust me, if I’m seducing a woman she’ll notice. Also-” he added dryly. “- if I did touch you, Jack would make sure I’d die hard.”
You laughed again. “Oh my god!” you gasped. “You are disgusting.”
“I’m just saying” he replied with a grin, holding up his hands. “Not saying that’s what I am right now-” He glanced down at his lap. “- just… for the record.”
“Stop it!” You were still chuckling when you turned toward the TV again. “I want to watch the movie.”
“And you think I’ll believe that?”
You chuckled and shrugged. “You have to.”
He huffed. “Okay, I feel less and less inclined to make a move.”
That made you laugh harder again. “Shut up, Robby or I’ll have to tell Jack.”
“Oh, I’d love to see that old grumpy idiot get jealous” he shot back with no hesitation. “Maybe that would set him straight.”
You grinned. “Probably. But not today. I’m really in a good mood right now. I don’t want to mess that up.”
Robby sighed dramatically and looked back to the screen. “Shame.”
You chuckled.
At some point your eyes started to drift. The movie blurred at the edges. The warmth, the wine, the background noises - it all pulled you under slowly. Your grip on the glass loosened just slightly.
Robby noticed.
He leaned over without a word, carefully taking the glass from your hand before it could tip. You didn’t even fully wake up. You just shifted slightly, settling deeper into the couch.
By the time the movie ended, you were properly asleep.
Robby moved quietly. He brought the plates into the kitchen, rinsed the glasses and dimmed the lights a little further. He checked on Lizzie - smiling when he noticed she was still out. He pressed a soft kiss to her head anyway.
Then he headed back into the living room, grabbing his jacket on the way.
He nudged your foot lightly. “Hey” he said. “Go to bed.”
You stirred, blinking up at him, completely disoriented. “Mmh… in a minute” you mumbled, already sinking back into the cushion.
He watched you for a second. Considered it. Then shrugged. “Alright.”
That wasn’t his battle to fight. He grabbed his things and let himself out quietly.
Morning in the Pitt didn’t ease in - it was already in motion.
By the time handover finally happened, it was already late.
Way later than Jack had promised. He knew it. The second the last patient was passed on, the second he stepped away, it settled in somewhere uncomfortable in the back of his mind.
The adrenaline dropped off hard. Jack felt it immediately when he opened his locker - the way his shoulders sank, the way his hands slowed, the exhaustion catching up all at once now that it had somewhere to land.
Robby caught up with him, leaning against the locker next to him. “You look like hell.”
“Jesus… thanks.” Jack couldn't even think of a clever comeback. He closed his eyes for a moment. “How was yesterday?”
Robby shrugged. “Fine.”
Jack cracked one eye open. “Fine? That’s it?”
Robby huffed. “What do you want? A full report?”
“Well… at least more than one word.”
“Your daughter is still cute. We had dinner. Watched a movie. We talked for a bit.”
“How was she?” Jack asked, hesitation in his voice.
“She was fine. And I think she really loves you. Annoyingly loyal.”
Jack nodded once, taking that in. “Thank god for that.”
“... yeah.”
Robby tilted his head slightly. “Not sure if she still loves you today given you’re still here. You should go home.”
Jack didn’t argue. Instead he nodded. “Yeah.”
Robby patted his shoulder, then went right back into the chaos.
Jack grabbed his bag, pushed himself off the locker and made his way toward the exit, the noise of the department fading, the further he got from it.
He was almost at the doors when he saw her.
The resident. Bag slung over her shoulder, heading in the same direction. She noticed him at the same time and slowed down slightly, falling into step beside him without hesitation.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
They walked side by side for a moment, the silence easy.
“You did really well last night” Jack said after a second. “That trauma patient? The airway was a mess and you made it look easy. That was impressive.”
She glanced over, a little surprised.
“I mean it” he added. “You handled yourself. You were confident. You didn’t hesitate. That was really solid work.”
She smiled at that. “Well, thank you.”
They pushed through the doors together, stepping out into the cold morning air. It hit differently after a shift like that - cleaner, quieter, realizing the world had kept moving without them.
He exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly. “God, I could really use a drink right now” he said without thinking.
She glanced at him, blinking.
He then realized what he had just said. What he had implied.
For a second, he could see it. A bar. A conversation that stretched longer than it should. A drink. Maybe two. Laughing. Talking about the cases they worked on together. Her shoulder brushing his when she leaned in to hear him. Her hand briefly on his arm when she laughed. The first sip hitting too well, taking the edge off in a way that made it easy to order another. The moment the conversation drifted - away from work, into something softer, more personal.
But he could also see something else. You and Lizzie in your ridiculous festive outfits. At home. Waiting for him.
You on the couch, TV running low because you didn’t want to miss the sound of the door. Your phone in your hand - just in case he texted. Lizzie asleep in your arms, completely fine. And his side of the couch still empty.
That was where he really wanted to be. He could feel it in every fiber of his being.
He shook his head. “Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say” he said quickly, glancing at her. “I should head home. Have a good one - and well Merry Christmas! See you tonight.”
He turned and walked toward the parking lot.
He couldn’t wait to come home.
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon. I promise! :)
--- --- ---
A/N: I've already mapped out most of the chapters for this story but I'd still love to hear what you'd like to see!
If there's a scene you're hoping for, something you'd like more of (Jack's family, more moments with the rest of The Pitt, fluff, chaos, drama… you name it) just leave a comment or send me a message.
I can't promise everything will fit into the story but I love reading your ideas and they often inspire new scenes.
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Jack tells you the real reason he chose to work Christmas. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
A/N: Please don’t hate the resident - this is 100% on Jack not her 😭
Sequel to:
Part 1: You stole my cart
Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
Part 3: Wanna come over?
Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
Part 6: And you are...?
Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by that
Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess
Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer
Interlude I:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)
Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?
Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?
Part 17: You can't say that anymore
Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway
Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money
Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes
Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move
Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer
Part 23: I've been thinking about something...
Part 24: Hard to predict what'll do in the haze after nightshift
Part 25: I'm not your punching bag
Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs
Part 27: That's not enough time
Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot
Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl
Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime
Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared
Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die
Bonus Chapter: Did you actually think this through?
Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal
Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late
Interlude II: And she called you?!
Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly kiddo
Part 36: She deserves to become her own person
Part 37: I think we made a mistake
Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?
Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything
Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something
Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal
Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy
Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again
Part 44: You had it coming
Bonus chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be
Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there
Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?
Part 46: You wanna tell me something?
Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you
Part 48: That face needs to populate a whole bloodline
Part 49: I know exactly who to call
Part 50: I think I'm more comfortable falling apart in your own apartment
Part 51: It's just a rough patch. Okay?
Part 52: If you think I'm helicoptering - he's next level
Part 53: She's totally judging you
Part 54: I don't need an audience
Part 55: Good call, labeling your boss the department slut
Part 56: I think that's a bad idea, girl
Part 57: I thought things were going well
Interlude II:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
Part 58: Please tell me she insulted you
Part 59: Must be a world record with only one-and-a-half legs
Interlude III:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
Part 60: We're okay. So let's be... okay.
Interlude IV:
Let's talk about it (The Couple Sessions - Part I)
Part 61: And sorry I'm not a woman you could hit on
Part 62: Maybe they think we're having an affair
Part 63: That was the funniest thing you ever said
Part 64: Don't do that girl. Some of us had a rough shift
Bonus Chapter: robbby forced me. 0/10 expeirence. miss you.
Part 65: I feel like we missed a memo
Part 66: So, we are negotiating with terrorists now?
Part 67: I think I could use your help too
Part 68: I'm working nights over Christmas, by the way
Interlude V:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
--- --- ---
Lizzie was finally asleep and the apartment was quiet. Well - except for the argument happening in the living room.
Jack stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, like he already knew this wasn’t going to go well. You sat on the sofa, staring at him.
“... say that again, please.”
Jack exhaled slowly. “It’s not a big deal-”
“No” you cut in sharply. “Not that part. The other part.”
He hesitated.
“Jack.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “One of the residents asked if I’d take the shift.”
You tilted your head. “... what?”
“She’s on nights that week. And she prefers working with me. I-” he shrugged, like that would soften it. “- I didn’t want to disappoint her.”
For a second, you just stared at him. Processing what he’d just said. Then - “You’re kidding.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”
A short, disbelieving laugh escaped you. “You are not telling me that you’re missing your daughter’s first Christmas because some resident prefers working with you?”
“It’s not like that-”
“No, no, explain it to me” you snapped, stepping closer. “Explain to me how that’s more important than being here.”
“It’s not more important” Jack shot back, voice rising. “And I’m still here for most of it-”
“Most of it?” you repeated, louder now. “It’s her first Christmas and you’re giving her what - sixty percent?”
“She’s five months old” he fired back. “She’s not going to remember it.”
“That’s not the point!”
“Then what is the point?” he demanded.
“The point is that I will remember it” you snapped. “That we will remember it. That this is the first time we do this as a family and you just - what - gave it away because you didn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings at work?!”
“That’s not fair!”
“No, it’s not fair” you cut in, your voice breaking now. “It’s not fair that I have to sit here on Christmas night alone because you decided someone else needed you more!”
Jack took a step forward. “That’s not what I said.”
“Probably not, but it’s exactly what you did.”
“I made a professional decision to-”
“Oh, don’t!” you cut in. “Don’t hide behind that. Don’t you dare.”
His expression hardened. “This is my job.”
“And this is your family.”
The words hit hard. There was a brief, heavy silence.
“I’m allowed to care about my job” Jack said in a low voice.
“Yes, you are. And I’m allowed to expect you to care about this too” you shot back immediately, gesturing between you.
“I do care!”
“Then why didn’t you even talk to me about it first?”
He stopped for half a second. “You’re blowing this out of proportion!”
Your head snapped back like he’d slapped you. “I’m blowing this out of proportion?”
“Yes!”
You laughed - not amused but sharp, hurt.
“Okay” you said, nodding slowly. “Okay, that’s good to know.”
Jack frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I now know exactly where I stand” you said, voice quieter - but way more dangerous. “Because if this is not a big deal to you, then I don’t know what is.”
“That’s not what I-”
“You chose her over us, Jack.”
“I did not-”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake - you did” you cut in, louder again. “She asked and you said yes. You didn’t think about me, you didn’t think about Lizzie, you didn’t even mention it until it was too late to change anything.”
“I didn’t want to make it a whole thing.”
“Well, congratulations” you shot back. “You failed.”
Jack stared at you. He was breathing heavier now. “You think this is about her” he said finally. “It’s not.”
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about you not trusting me” he said.
You blinked, caught off guard. “... are you serious right now?”
“You hear resident and she and suddenly-”
“That is not what this is about” you snapped, stepping closer again. “Don’t you dare turn this into that.”
“Then why bring it up like that?”
“Because you made a decision that affects us without even considering me!” you shot back. “And now you’re standing here acting like I’m the problem for being upset about it!”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I can’t win here.”
“No, you can’t” you said immediately. “Because you already lost the second you decided this wasn’t worth a conversation.”
Jack went quiet.
“You know what the worst part is?” you said, voice shaking slightly now. “It’s not even that you’re working. I get that. I do.”
Jack looked at you. Then why are we yelling, his expression said.
“It’s that you didn’t think of me at all” you finished. “Not once.”
Jack swallowed. “That’s not true.”
You shook your head. “It is. And you know - I would have said yes anyway.”
“What?”
“If you had talked to me” you said. “If you had said ‘Hey, this matters to me, can we figure it out’ - I would have said yes.”
Jack didn’t move. He just stared at you.
“I’m not mad because you’re working” you added, voice tired now. “I’m mad because you made that decision like I wasn’t part of it.”
The silence after this stretched too long.
Jack was still standing there, like he was waiting for something - another argument, maybe. Something he could push against. But you didn’t give him that.
You just turned and walked past him with no explanation.
Jack frowned slightly. “What are you doing?”
You didn’t answer. You just grabbed your coat from the hook. Then your shoes.
“Hey!” Jack stepped closer. “What are you doing?”
You sat down, pulling on your shoes. “Can you watch Lizzie?” you asked, your voice calm. “There’s pumped milk in the freezer.”
Jack stared at you. “... what?”
You stood, shrugging into your coat. “I just need a break.”
“A break?” he repeated, sharper now. “At - what - ten at night?”
You didn’t look at him, but nodded.
“From what?”
That made you pause for a second. “From this.”
Jack took a step toward you. “Where are you going?”
You shrugged lightly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
His voice dropped. “Are you seriously just walking out on me?”
You held his gaze for a second. Then - “Don’t wait up for me.”
Jack blinked. “What?!”
But you were already halfway to the door.
He followed you, frustration rising again. “Are you kidding me right now? You don’t just get to-”
You opened the door and turned back once. “Just… take care of her, okay?”
Then you stepped out and closed the door behind you.
Jack stood there for a second, still tense from the fight, jaw tight, breath a little too fast. His anger was still there - sharp, immediate, easy to hold onto.
“Unbelievable” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Just - walking out like that-”
He turned away from the door, pacing once across the living room, then back again like he could walk it off. Like if he kept moving he wouldn’t have to think about what just happened.
Then - a soft sound from the baby monitor. Jack stopped mid-step and looked at it.
Then he looked toward the door.
And something about the quiet - about how empty the apartment suddenly felt - shifted just slightly under his feet.
“Yeah, great” he muttered, reaching for his phone. “Perfect.”
He opened your chat and typed quickly.
Really? You’re just leaving like that?
He sent it without thinking. Then he stared at the screen.
Nothing.
He exhaled sharply and started pacing again, but slower this time. Less charged. The edge was already wearing off, whether he liked it or not.
He typed again.
At least tell me where you’re going.
Minutes passed.
Jack checked the baby monitor again. Lizzie was still asleep, completely undisturbed, her small chest rising and falling steadily. The normalcy of it felt… wrong, somehow.
He sat down on the couch, then leaned forward immediately, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone like it might give him something back if he looked hard enough.
“Jesus…”
He typed again, slower this time.
Can you just text me so I know you’re okay?
He sent it.
But still - nothing.
His anger has mostly drained out by now, leaving something less comfortable behind. The silence stretched and with that his thoughts started catching up to him - everything you’d said, the way you’d said it, that moment where your voice had gone quiet instead of loud.
That part stuck - if he liked it or not.
He rubbed his face with one hand, exhaling slowly, then looked back at his phone. He typed again, hesitated - then sent it anyway.
I’m sorry, okay?
No response. He could see you read all of his messages but still - nothing.
He swallowed, thumb hovering again before he typed one more.
I shouldn’t have handled that like that.
Then:
Please just tell me where you are.
The baby monitor crackled softly again. Lizzie shifted, letting out a small sleepy sound. Jack glanced over, watching the screen for a moment, grounding himself in that familiar rhythm.
Then back to his phone.
Another message.
Please.
An hour later his phone finally buzzed. He grabbed it immediately.
I’m at Mara’s.
That was it. No explanation. No softening. No reassurance. Just - information.
Jack read it once. Then again.
Relief hit first - then something heaver settled in right behind it. He leaned back slowly, staring at the message, thumb hovering as he typed a response.
Okay. Just text me if you’re coming back tonight.
No reply came.
Jack let his head fall back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The apartment felt off now - too quiet, too still, like something important had shifted and hadn’t settled yet.
From the monitor came a sharp cry.
Lizzie.
Jack turned his head, watching her for a second, then he pushed himself up with a groan and walked toward her room.
At least that was something he knew how to fix.
Jack didn’t remember falling asleep.
One minute he had been staring at his phone, running through every possible scenario - car accident, dead battery, you not coming back, you finding comfort somewhere else - in someone else’s arm. Each one worse than the last.
He had checked the monitor. Checked the door. Checked his phone again.
But still - nothing.
He had brushed his teeth. Taken his prosthetic off. Gotten into bed.
Just for a second.
And then - nothing.
Jack woke when the mattress dipped slightly beside him. He opened his eyes slowly, disorientated, confused - and then he saw you.
You were climbing into bed, already in your pajamas, careful like you didn’t want to wake him.
For a second he just stared. Relief hit him so hard it almost hurt.
“... hey” he whispered, voice rough from sleep.
You didn’t answer. You just pulled the blanket up, settling on your side, facing away from him.
He exhaled sharply and moved closer immediately, one arm sliding around your waist, pulling you against him like he needed to make sure you were real.
“Hey” he murmured into your shoulder. “I thought…”
He didn’t finish that sentence. Instead his hand tightened slightly against you.
“I’m sorry” he said quietly. “I’m really sorry.”
His voice was softer than you’d heard in a long time. Stripped from everything - no edge, no defensiveness. Just… honest.
“I handled that like shit” he added, his breath warm against your neck. “I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve-” He stopped, exhaling. “I messed that up.”
He pressed his face a little closer into you, holding on.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you don’t matter” he murmured. “You do. You and Lizzie, you’re… everything.”
His grip tightened again, just slightly.
“I was wrong” he said. “About all of it.”
Then he went quiet. He waited. For you to turn. To say something. To lean back into him like you always did. But this time - you didn’t. You just lay there. Still. Listening.
Your body in his arms - but not melting into them, not responding, not giving anything back.
Jack felt it immediately. That difference. That distance.
His hand stilled where it rested against you.
“... hey” he said quietly, a little unsure now. “Talk to me.”
Nothing.
He could hear your breathing. Even. Controlled. Awake - but distant.
Jack swallowed. His thumb moved slightly against your side - a small, almost unconscious attempt to soothe something that wasn’t settling.
“I mean it” he added, softly. “I’ll fix it. I’ll figure something out.”
Still nothing.
The silence stretched.
Jack’s chest tightened. “Please.”
Then silence again.
Jack felt it before he saw it. That shift of you moving. Slowly, you turned in his arms. And for the first time since you got back, you faced him.
His breath caught. “... hey” he said softly, searching your face.
You held his gaze for a second.
Then - “I love you.”
You said it quietly. Honest.
And it hit him like relief. Until -
“I just… don’t really like you right now.”
That took him off guard. His face fell slightly. “Okay…” he said, barely above a whisper.
You didn’t look away. “You hurt me” you continued. No accusation in your voice. Just… fact.
Jack swallowed. “I know.”
“I mean it” you added. “You didn’t just mess up. You made a decision that left me out of something that matters. And then you acted like it didn’t.”
His grip on you loosened just a fraction. Not pulling away - just giving you space.
“I get why you’re working” you went on. “I’m not stupid. I even get why you said yes. But… you don’t get to do that without me.”
Jack nodded once. “Yeah. You’re right.”
You watched him for a second, like you were checking if he actually meant that.
“I’ll go along with it. This time.”
His brows pulled together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“It means” you said, steady. “We’ll do Christmas like you planned. I’m not going to fight you on it again.” You paused. “But if this turns into a pattern-” you held his gaze, not raising your voice, not softening it either. “- I’m not sticking around for that.”
Jack stilled completely.
“I’m serious” you added quietly. “I’m not raising Lizzie in a family where one parent makes decisions like that and then expects everyone else to just… deal with it.”
Jack’s throat tightened. “... okay” he said, voice rougher now.
“I mean it” you repeated.
“I know” he said quickly. “I know.”
You shifted slightly, settling back onto the pillow. “Good.”
You lay there for a while. You could feel it - he was still awake. The tension hadn’t gone anywhere, it had just settled into something heavier. Your eyes stayed open as you listened to his breathing.
After a while you shifted slowly.
You moved closer, pressing into him, your face finding that familiar place against his chest like muscle memory hadn’t gotten the memo that things were a bit more complicated now.
He didn’t move for a second - then his arms came around you. His grip was tight.
“Hey…” he murmured softly, his hand sliding up your back.
You breathed him in.
“I love you” he said quietly. “I know I fucked up.”
You nodded against him. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” His hand moved slowly over your back. “I’m not gonna do that again. I mean that.”
You paused for a moment. “I’m sorry too.”
His hand stilled slightly. “For what?”
You shifted just enough to look up at him. “For screaming. And for… leaving like that. That… wasn’t okay.”
Jack frowned slightly, his thumb brushing along your side. “You had a reason to be upset.”
“Yeah” you said. “Still doesn’t make it okay.” You shrugged. “I shouldn’t have just walked out without telling you where I was going.”
Jack studied your face for a second. “I kind of deserved that.”
You huffed a quiet breath. “That’s not how this works.”
You settled back against him again. “I was worried” he said after a moment. “When you didn’t answer.”
You nodded. “I know.”
“I didn’t like that” he added.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
That made him huff softly. “Fair.”
His hand kept moving slowly over your back. Yours rested against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm under your palm.
“Thanks for coming back” he whispered.
You swallowed hard. “Of course.”
He pulled you a little closer. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
“Yeah…?”
He took a deep breath. “Are you still my girlfriend?”
A warm feeling spread through your body when he pulled out your little inside joke. And despite you were still angry, this made you chuckle softly. “Yes. I’m still your girlfriend” you breathed out, closing your eyes. “For now.”
Jack went still for a second. Then he exhaled quietly, his arm tightening around you - not enough to trap you, just enough like he was holding onto something that suddenly didn’t feel as certain anymore.
He pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head, lingering there.
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon. I promise! :)
--- --- ---
A/N: I've already mapped out most of the chapters for this story but I'd still love to hear what you'd like to see!
If there's a scene you're hoping for, something you'd like more of (Jack's family, more moments with the rest of The Pitt, fluff, chaos, drama… you name it) just leave a comment or send me a message.
I can't promise everything will fit into the story but I love reading your ideas and they often inspire new scenes.
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Jack is in serious need of therapy today.
A/N: Another chapter today because the last one was so short :)
Sequel to:
Part 1: You stole my cart
Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
Part 3: Wanna come over?
Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
Part 6: And you are...?
Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by that
Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess
Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer
Interlude I:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)
Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?
Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?
Part 17: You can't say that anymore
Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway
Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money
Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes
Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move
Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer
Part 23: I've been thinking about something...
Part 24: Hard to predict what'll do in the haze after nightshift
Part 25: I'm not your punching bag
Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs
Part 27: That's not enough time
Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot
Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl
Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime
Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared
Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die
Bonus Chapter: Did you actually think this through?
Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal
Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late
Interlude II: And she called you?!
Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly kiddo
Part 36: She deserves to become her own person
Part 37: I think we made a mistake
Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?
Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything
Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something
Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal
Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy
Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again
Part 44: You had it coming
Bonus chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be
Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there
Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?
Part 46: You wanna tell me something?
Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you
Part 48: That face needs to populate a whole bloodline
Part 49: I know exactly who to call
Part 50: I think I'm more comfortable falling apart in your own apartment
Part 51: It's just a rough patch. Okay?
Part 52: If you think I'm helicoptering - he's next level
Part 53: She's totally judging you
Part 54: I don't need an audience
Part 55: Good call, labeling your boss the department slut
Part 56: I think that's a bad idea, girl
Part 57: I thought things were going well
Interlude II:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
Part 58: Please tell me she insulted you
Part 59: Must be a world record with only one-and-a-half legs
Interlude III:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
Part 60: We're okay. So let's be... okay.
Interlude IV:
Let's talk about it (The Couple Sessions - Part I)
Part 61: And sorry I'm not a woman you could hit on
Part 62: Maybe they think we're having an affair
Part 63: That was the funniest thing you ever said
Part 64: Don't do that girl. Some of us had a rough shift
Bonus Chapter: robbby forced me. 0/10 expeirence. miss you.
Part 65: I feel like we missed a memo
Part 66: So, we are negotiating with terrorists now?
Part 67: I think I could use your help too
Part 68: I'm working nights over Christmas, by the way
--- --- ---
(Jack comes into the office, but doesn’t sit right away. He hovers for a second, then drops into the chair.)
Jack: Morning.
Therapist: Good morning Jack.
Jack: So… what are you doing for Christmas?
(A pause.)
Therapist: You sure you want to talk about my plans for three hundred dollars an hour?
Jack: (huffs) Fair.
(A pause again.)
Jack: I’m working.
Therapist: Okay.
Jack: I always work Christmas. That’s… kind of the point, you know? People with kids get to be home.
Therapist: But you do have a kid at home, Jack.
Jack: Yeah, I know, but… she’s like five months old. She’s not gonna remember any of it. It’s not (gestures vaguely) … her holiday yet.
(The therapist looks at him, one eyebrow raised.)
Jack: And I’m still there for most of it. Christmas Eve. Morning. Gifts. Facetime with the family. I’m not missing anything that actually matters.
Therapist: The fact that you bring this topic up instantly brings me to the conclusion that there is currently some tension between you and your girlfriend about this.
(Jack huffs.)
Jack: Yeah…
Therapist: You say - you’re missing nothing that actually matters to you.
Jack: No - objectively.
Therapist: And your partner disagrees?
Jack: … yeah. (rubs his jaw) She asked what she’s supposed to do after I leave for my shift.
Therapist: And what did you tell her?
Jack: That I’d be back in the morning.
Therapist: And that answered her question?
Jack: … no. (pauses) She brought up Robby.
Therapist: In what way?
Jack: Said maybe he could come over. Christmas night. When I’m working.
Therapist: How did that feel?
Jack: (leans back, crossing arms) Great. Why shouldn’t it feel that way?
Therapist: That doesn’t sound like “great”.
Jack: It’s fine. He’s probably free because he doesn’t celebrate Christmas. And he’s Lizzie's godfather. So… great.
Therapist: And you’re comfortable with that.
(Jack hesitates.)
Therapist: I take this as a no. What are you feeling, Jack?
(His jaw tightens and he looks out of the window.)
Jack: I … I don’t like it.
Therapist: Why is that?
Jack: Because… it’s Christmas.
Therapist: Go on.
Jack: It’s a family thing. It’s… not just some random night. And I’m not there and she’s just - what - inviting him over?
Therapist: You sound angry.
Jack: I… probably am angry.
Therapist: At her?
Jack: No! (pauses) Yeah… okay, yeah, a little. She knows I don’t love that dynamic.
Therapist: What dynamic?
Jack: (hesitates, then blurts out) I’ve accused her of cheating with him before. And now she wants him in our apartment. On Christmas. While I’m not there.
Therapist: And that feels threatening.
Jack: Yeah.
Therapist: You also chose to be absent that night.
Jack: I didn’t choose (stops). I mean, I did, but that’s not-
Therapist: Jack, you chose to work. And now you’re uncomfortable with how she fills that space.
(Jack shrugs.)
Therapist: Even though you’re the one creating that space.
(Jack doesn’t answer.)
Therapist: You want her to be alone instead.
Jack: No! I don’t-
Therapist: And you don’t want Robby to be there with her.
Jack: I didn’t-
Therapist: That wasn’t a question, Jack. That was an observation.
(He stares at her, lips pressed together tightly.)
Therapist: So what is the acceptable option in this case for you?
(Silence.)
Therapist: Do you see the double standard?
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: You leave but you don’t want her to replace your present. Even though you’re not there to offer it.
Jack: Yeah. I just… I just don’t like what that turns into, though.
Therapist: What does it turn into?
Jack: This idea that I can’t make decisions on my own anymore.
Therapist: You’ve got the feeling because she questioned this one.
Jack: Yeah because it suddenly becomes a whole thing. Like I should’ve asked or checked or - I don’t know - cleared it.
Therapist: You don’t want to feel like you need permission.
Jack: Yeah. I’m a grown man and I made my own decisions for the last thirty-five years.
Therapist: Did she actually ask you to get her permission?
Jack: (opens his mouth and closes it again after a moment) … no.
Therapist: What did she ask for?
Jack: I don’t know… maybe… like… (pauses) she didn’t really ask for anything.
Therapist: I find this hard to believe. She may not have asked directly, but there was probably something in what she said.
Jack: (pauses) Maybe to be… considered?
(It’s clear he doesn’t like how accurate that word is.)
Therapist: Does this feel different from asking permission?
Jack: It should.
Therapist: But it doesn’t?
Jack: (exhales) It feels like… like I make a decision and then I have to defend it.
Therapist: You have to defend it to your partner because it affects her too.
(Jack shifts in his seat, restless.)
Jack: I’ve been doing this job long enough to know what makes sense. That it makes sense that I work Christmas.
Therapist: It makes sense for you. (pauses) You’re adjusting to the fact that “what makes sense” now includes someone else’s experience.
Jack: (huffs) Yeah, well, that part’s new.
Therapist: And it’s uncomfortable for you.
Jack: … yeah. I just… I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal.
Therapist: Because you already decided it wasn’t.
Jack: (annoyed) Well… yeah. Kind of.
Therapist: Let’s look at this differently. How do you think it would have felt if she’d been completely okay with your decision?
Jack: Um… (shrugs) … good. I guess?
Therapist: Because she wouldn’t have questioned you.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: It could’ve felt worse too.
Jack: Excuse me?
Therapist: It could’ve meant she didn’t really mind whether you were there or not.
(Jack’s brows furrow.)
Jack: No, - that’s not the same thing.
Therapist: Isn’t it?
Jack: No.
Therapist: But the outcome would be the same, right? She’d be okay with your decision.
Jack: Yes, but … I want her to care.
Therapist: About?
Jack: Me… being there.
Therapist: And you also want to make the decision without being questioned.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: Those two things can conflict. If she didn’t push back you wouldn’t feel challenged. But you might also feel less important.
Jack: So, am I supposed to be… what? Glad she’s upset?
Therapist: No, you shouldn’t be glad about that. But you should be curious about what the reaction means.
Jack: It means… she wanted me there.
Therapist: I think so too.
(Jack leans back, thinking.)
Therapist: You’ve said a few times that you’re not missing anything important. Do you still feel that way?
(He leans back, eyes drifting for a second.)
Jack: I… I think… it’s not… (sighs) No. (exhales) I mean - that’s what I told myself.
Therapist: And now?
Jack: Now it sounds… convenient.
Therapist: How so?
Jack: Like if I decide it’s not important then I don’t have to deal with what I’m actually choosing.
Therapist: What are you choosing?
Jack: (looks down at his hands) Work.
Therapist: Is that consistent with how you want to see yourself?
Jack: No.
Therapist: So why did you choose work then?
Jack: I already told you. I always work Christmas and Lizzie is too small to remember so-
Therapist: (interrupts) I know what you told me. That’s the explanation. I’m asking for the reason, Jack.
(Jack stares at her for a moment like he wants to murder her on the spot. Then he lets out a long breath.)
Jack: One of the residents asked if I’d work Christmas. She’s on nights and she prefers working with me. I - (shrugs slightly) - like working with her too. Robby can be a bit harsh with her during the day, so she’s more confident when she’s with me. And I… didn’t want to disappoint her.
Therapist: That’s not a bad thing, Jack. You chose to be a mentor to this resident.
Jack: Yeah.
Therapist: Did you tell your girlfriend this?
Jack: (huffs) No.
Therapist: Why not?
Jack: Seriously?
Therapist: Always.
Jack: The resident is a woman. You want me to tell my girlfriend that I chose not to be at home for Christmas because another woman asked me to be at work?
Therapist: I’d suggest talking about that with her, yeah.
Jack: Nope.
Therapist: What are you afraid of?
Jack: I’m not afraid.
Therapist: Jack, please.
Jack: (huffs again) I don’t want to give the wrong impression.
Therapist: What do you mean by that?
Jack: That I’m choosing another woman over her.
Therapist: But that’s exactly what you’re doing, Jack.
(Jack opens his mouth and closes it again. He stares at her.)
Jack: But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like I want to … I don’t know… fuck her or something.
Therapist: (raises an eyebrow) I didn’t suggest you did.
(Jack blushes.)
Therapist: Interesting that you went there. Do you?
Jack: (swallows hard) No.
(A pause.)
Therapist: I’ll ask you again, Jack. Have you ever thought about her differently?
Jack: … that’s not relevant.
Therapist: It might be.
Jack: (pauses) … okay, yeah. A while ago. Before I met… my girlfriend.
Therapist: So it’s probably fair to say you still have some kind of feelings for this particular resident.
Jack: Yeah - I mean nothing inappropriate or anything. I just… care about her. She’s a great physician and I don’t want her to quit just because Robby is… Robby. She works better with me. She trusts me.
Therapist: That sounds like you have good intention.
Jack: Mhm.
Therapist: But not telling your girlfriend about that - minus the wanting to sleep with her in the past (smiles slightly) - creates tension. Because from your girlfriends perspective there’s a piece of information missing. And that can make it seem like you don’t care about her.
Jack: Mhm.
Therapist: So it would probably help to talk with her about that.
Jack: No.
(The therapist looks at him, surprised.)
Therapist: Just - no?
Jack: Yep. Just no. I’m not opening Pandoras box here. Not happening.
Therapist: You are aware that could create bigger problems down the line, yeah?
Jack: It won’t. Because that’s a one-time thing. I already told her I’m taking days off next years.
(A small pause. The therapist studies him for a moment.)
Therapist: You’re avoiding one conversation. (pauses) So let’s look at the one you already had.
(Jack shifts slightly.)
Therapist: When did you tell her about you working over Christmas?
Jack: A couple of days ago.
Therapist: How long have you known you’d be working?
Jack: … a month. Maybe two.
Therapist: Why didn’t you tell her earlier?
Jack: I don’t know. I guess… I didn’t want her to… make other plans.
Therapist: What kind of plans?
Jack: I don’t know.
(He leans back, drags a hand across his face.)
Jack: Maybe fly out. See her family. Take Lizzie with her.
Therapist: Without you.
Jack: Yeah.
Therapist: And how would that have felt?
Jack: Not good. I would have missed it.
Therapist: But you’re missing parts of it now.
Jack: (frowns) It’s not the same.
Therapist: How is it different?
Jack: Because I’d still be… involved. I’d be here for most of it.
Therapist: And if she took Lizzie to her family - what would be different for you?
Jack: I wouldn’t be part of it at all.
Therapist: So you delayed telling her to avoid that outcome.
Jack: (exhales) Yeah. Kind of.
Therapist: Even though it meant she doesn’t have enough time to make a choice now.
Jack: (looks down) I didn’t think about it like that.
Therapist: You were trying to keep your place in the holiday. Without fully committing to being there.
(Jack presses his lips together.)
Therapist: You want to have your cake and eat it too.
(Jack doesn’t reply.)
Therapist: Do you think she felt included in your decision.
Jack: No.
Therapist: And you didn’t tell her early enough to give her a real choice.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: So, she’s reacting to being excluded. And you’re reacting to the possibility of being excluded.
Jack: (frowns) Yeah…
Therapist: Do you see how those things are connected?
Jack: I… didn’t want to be left out. So I made a decision that kind of left her out.
Therapist: Yes.
Jack: (rubs his jaw) That’s not great.
Therapist: No, it’s not.
(A pause.)
Therapist: Do you still have the option to change your plans?
Jack: (with no hesitation) No.
(A pause.)
Jack: I mean - technically, yeah. But I’m not gonna ask someone to cover. That’s… not how I do things. And I don’t want to disappoint my… resident.
Therapist: So you’re choosing not to change it.
Jack: (nods once) Yeah. Seems like it.
Therapist: Then the question isn’t what you’re going to do. It’s how you’re going to take responsibility for the impact.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: What do you think she needs from you now?
Jack: I don’t know. No excuses?
(He thinks.)
Jack: Probably not ‘It’s not a big deal’.
Therapist: No.
Jack: I… I told her I’d be off next year.
Therapist: Yeah, you already said that. How do you think that sounded to her?
Jack: Like… I’m fixing the wrong problem.
Therapist: Yes.
(Silence.)
Jack: I just don’t know how to fix this one.
Therapist: You may not be able to fix it.
Jack: (stares at her, then huffs) Okay, wow, that’s blunt.
Therapist: It’s true. You probably can’t fix it. But you can acknowledge it.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: And you can decide how you want to show up before you leave.
Jack: … yeah. That’s something I can do.
Therapist: There’s something else you can do, Jack.
Jack: Yeah? What?
Therapist: Tell her the reason.
Jack: No.
Therapist: Why are you fighting this?
Jack: I don’t want it to turn into something it’s not.
Therapist: What do you think it will turn into?
Jack: That I’m choosing someone else over her.
Therapist: And you’re not?
(Jack goes quiet.)
Therapist: It does sound like it when you say it out loud.
Jack: But it’s not… the whole picture.
Therapist: Then give her the whole picture.
Jack: It’s not that simple.
Therapist: It rarely is.
Jack: She’s already upset. This is just going to make it worse.
Therapist: Well… not telling her hasn’t made it better.
(Silence.)
Therapist: Right now she’s reacting to a decision she doesn’t fully understand. And you’re withholding the part that explains it. That makes it harder for her to trust your intent.
Jack: So what - I just walk in there and tell her I picked work because a resident asked me to?
Therapist: You tell her the truth.
Jack: That’s the truth.
Therapist: That’s part of the it. What made you say yes?
Jack: I told you.
Therapist: You told me what happened. I’m asking why it mattered.
Jack: It felt right.
Therapist: Why?
Jack: I don’t know It just - (sighs) - she needed coverage.
Therapist: So do a lot of people. What made this different?
Jack: She works better with me.
Therapist: And that matters to you.
Jack: Yeah.
Therapist: Why?
(Jack hesitates, rubs his jaw, looks away.)
Jack: Because I know I’m good at it. I walk in, I know what I’m doing. I can help. I can… fix things.
Therapist: And at home?
Jack: It’s not that simple.
Therapist: So at work you feel competent.
Jack: I am competent.
Therapist: Okay. So at work you are competent. You feel like you are in control.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: And at home?
Jack: I get it wrong. Sometimes.
Therapist: So saying yes felt right because…?
Jack: … it was the easier choice.
Therapist: So you chose the place where you feel competent over the place where you’re needed differently.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: And you avoided a difficult conversation about that.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: And now you’re avoiding another one.
(Jack exhales slowly.)
Therapist: What kind of partner do you want to be here?
(Jack doesn't answer. The therapist flips through her notebook.)
Therapist: When your partner was pregnant we were talking about what kind of father you want to be. Do you remember that?
(Jack stares at her, jaw tight.)
Jack: … kind of.
Therapist: Do you remember what you told me?
(Jack hesitates, then shakes his head.)
Therapist: You don’t remember?
Jack: … no.
Therapist: Okay, then let me help you out. You told me you don’t want to be an absent father. You don’t want to be the one who’s always working. You said you wanted to be a present father. Reliable.
(She looks at him. He stares at his hands.)
Therapist: Are you that kind of father right now?
(Jack doesn’t answer.)
Therapist: Jack.
(He swallows hard.)
Therapist: Could you please answer the question, Jack.
Jack: (very quiet) I’m not.
Therapist: You said earlier Lizzie won’t remember.
Jack: Yeah, because she won’t.
Therapist: But someone will.
(Jack looks up.)
Therapist: Your partner will remember how this felt. Whether she felt included, considered or left out.
Jack: … yeah.
Therapist: So maybe this isn’t just about what kind of father you are. But it’s also about what kind of partner you’re being.
Jack: … so I have to tell her? Even if it makes it worse?
Therapist: It might. But it also gives her the chance to understand you.
Jack: If… if this backfires I’ll blame you.
(The therapist looks at him with a raised eyebrow.)
Therapist: That’s not how this works, Jack.
Jack: It was a joke.
Therapist: Then make it funnier next time.
(Jack opens his mouth, then closes it again.)
Jack: Great. Seems like I’m trying to make every woman around me angry today.
Therapist: Every woman? That’s ambitious.
Jack: Well… not intentionally.
Therapist: That’s rarely the problem.
Jack: … yeah. Well.
(The therapist glances at her watch.)
Therapist: If you want to make four billion other women angry today, you’d better get started - or you’ll fall behind schedule.
(Jack stares at her.)
Jack: Was that a joke? From you? That’s new.
Therapist: Yeah, I’m considering going into stand-up comedy.
(Jack tilts his head, surprised.)
Therapist: That was another joke. Jack. See you same time, next week?
Jack: Um - yeah. Sure. Thank you.
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon. I promise! :)
--- --- ---
A/N: I've already mapped out most of the chapters for this story but I'd still love to hear what you'd like to see!
If there's a scene you're hoping for, something you'd like more of (Jack's family, more moments with the rest of The Pitt, fluff, chaos, drama… you name it) just leave a comment or send me a message.
I can't promise everything will fit into the story but I love reading your ideas and they often inspire new scenes.
Don’t do that, girl. Some of us had a rough shift.
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: Lizzies first Thanksgiving: an extra guest, a questionable amount of food, a brief deep dive into systemic issues and a resident performing turkey surgery. Karaoke may or may not be involved.
Sequel to:
Part 1: You stole my cart
Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
Part 3: Wanna come over?
Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
Part 6: And you are...?
Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by that
Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess
Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer
Interlude I:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)
Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?
Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?
Part 17: You can't say that anymore
Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway
Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money
Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes
Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move
Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer
Part 23: I've been thinking about something...
Part 24: Hard to predict what'll do in the haze after nightshift
Part 25: I'm not your punching bag
Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs
Part 27: That's not enough time
Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot
Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl
Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime
Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared
Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die
Bonus Chapter: Did you actually think this through?
Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal
Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late
Interlude II: And she called you?!
Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly kiddo
Part 36: She deserves to become her own person
Part 37: I think we made a mistake
Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?
Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything
Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something
Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal
Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy
Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again
Part 44: You had it coming
Bonus chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be
Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there
Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?
Part 46: You wanna tell me something?
Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you
Part 48: That face needs to populate a whole bloodline
Part 49: I know exactly who to call
Part 50: I think I'm more comfortable falling apart in your own apartment
Part 51: It's just a rough patch. Okay?
Part 52: If you think I'm helicoptering - he's next level
Part 53: She's totally judging you
Part 54: I don't need an audience
Part 55: Good call, labeling your boss the department slut
Part 56: I think that's a bad idea, girl
Part 57: I thought things were going well
Interlude II:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part IV)
Part 58: Please tell me she insulted you
Part 59: Must be a world record with only one-and-a-half legs
Interlude III:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part V)
Part 60: We're okay. So let's be... okay.
Interlude IV:
Let's talk about it (The Couple Sessions - Part I)
Part 61: And sorry I'm not a woman you could hit on
Part 62: Maybe they think we're having an affair
Part 63: That was the funniest thing you ever said
--- --- ---
The apartment looked put together – for once.
You had spent the last days tidying and cleaning – but when you found yourself on your hands and knees, scrubbing the floor behind the garbage bin, you decided that was enough. You weren’t about to become one of those people who assumed their guest were snooping around, looking for something wrong.
The table in the living room was set properly – tablecloth, aligned plates, polished glasses, candles already lit even though it was a bit early. The food was laid out in a way that suggested effort without quite admitting that most of it came from a restaurant that cost more than it should have.
But – it worked.
It looked like you knew what you were doing.
It was the first Thanksgiving you were hosting – and Lizzie's first Thanksgiving - and even if you didn’t expect many guests, you wanted it to be perfect.
You smoothed down your outfit the third time, glancing toward the table, then toward the kitchen and back again.
Then Jack got your attention when he stepped out of the bedroom, adjusting the sleeve of his jacket. You stared at him for a second, feeling something warm building up in your chest. “Wow.”
He looked up. “What?”
“You look incredibly handsome” you managed while you were still staring, taking in that face, those adorable curls you were so deeply in love with.
He huffed quietly. “I always look handsome.”
You raised an eyebrow, then saw him smirking.
“You don’t look too shabby yourself, you know?” he said, while looking you up and down. “That dress would also look very nice on the bedroom floor.”
You laughed out loud.
Then a small cough from the living room distracted you. “Please don’t have sex when I’m next door” Robby said dryly.
He was on the floor with Lizzie sitting in front of him. Her face was still vaguely orange from what used to be mashed carrots for dinner and Robby held a wipe in his hand.
“Stay still” he muttered, trying to catch her chin with it.
Lizzie let out a shriek and turned her head with impressive determination.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
Jack shook his head. “You know you’re a doctor who knows how to handle a stubborn patient. That skill could be useful here.”
You stifled a laugh.
“Well she doesn’t seem to be impressed with my doctor mode” Robby replied dryly.
After a couple of failed attempts, he managed to clean her up. Mostly, at least.
He leaned back, letting out a deep breath – then he furrowed his brows, sniffing. “You have to be kidding me, Elizabeth.” He turned toward you. “She’s a biohazard.”
You raised your hands. “You have to handle that. I’m on kitchen duty.”
Robby raised an eyebrow. “Convenient. That means… I’m on diaper duty.”
“Exactly.”
He let out a sigh, then picked her up. “Okay, come on, Lizzie. Let’s get you ready before the guests arrive, huh? Not the best first impression to greet someone with a full diaper.”
“You’re speaking from experience?” Jack asked with a smile while putting some bottles of wine on the table.
Robby just flipped him off before hurrying toward the nursery.
A while later the doorbell rang.
You glanced at Jack, then you moved into the hallway. When you opened the door, you could hear Robby’s voice from the nursery.
“… if she kicks me again I’m putting in a formal complaint.”
You laughed and pulled the door open.
Trinity stood there, Melissa just behind her. You stilled for a second because you didn’t expect another guest.
“Hey” Trinity said with a small nod. “Thanks for the invite.”
Mel lifted a hand in a slightly awkward wave. “Hi! I – um – Trinity said it was okay.”
You tried to hide your surprise and smiled, while stepping aside. “Yeah, of course it’s okay. Come in.”
Behind you Jack appeared. He nodded first at Trinity, then at Mel. “Hey. Good to see you.”
Mel stepped inside carefully. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything” she said quickly. “I didn’t know I was coming until – like – well… recently honestly and-“
You shook your head, cutting her off gently. “That’s fine. Really. You’re here. That’s enough.”
Robby stepped also into the hallway, Lizzie on his arm, who was smiling and babbling again. She shrieked when she noticed the guests.
“There we go” he announced proudly. “Crisis contained.”
Mel raised an eyebrow, startled. “Um, sorry, what?”
“Don’t mind him” Jack said. “He’s on diaper duty.”
“Ah.” Mel nodded like that explained everything.
Robby looked at Trinity. “You brought reinforcements?”
“Yeah. And-“Trinity held up a bottle. “- I brought some whiskey.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward Lizzie. “For the adults.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Let’s see if she wants to sleep later on. I might change my mind about that.” Then you turned to Jack. “Could you lay out another plate at the table?”
He nodded. “Sure. But you have to fold the napkin. No way I can make it look like a swan.”
“It’s a turkey” you replied dryly.
Trinity snorted and turned away.
“Well… take off your coats and then come on in” you went on, while Jack disappeared into the kitchen. “What can I get you to drink?”
A while later you were all settled around the dinner table, which was loaded with food. Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casseroles, mac’n cheese, dinner rolls, pumpkin and pecan pies… it was a lot.
Lizzie sat in her highchair, watching everyone. She seemed to be especially fascinated by Mel, waving her little arms every time she looked at her.
Robby didn’t like that. At all.
“I’m the one trying to feed you, you know?” he murmured while trying to get her attention. Lizzie flared her arms and nearly knocked the spoon out of Robby's hand. “I’m the one taking care of your diapers and everything. You could at least be polite and give me some attention.”
Lizzie didn’t seem to care. She let out a high-pitched shriek when Mel gave her a small wave. Trinity flinched and looked at Lizzie. “Don’t do that, girl. Some of us had a rough shift.”
Jack chuckled. “More wine, Trinity?”
She nodded almost immediately. “Please.”
“The turkey looks delicious” Mel said, glancing at all the food that was laid out. “You two outdid yourself.”
You gave Jack a look. “Should we tell them?” you asked quietly.
Robby's eyes narrowed. “Tell us what?”
Jack frowned. “Nothing.”
You chuckled. “We didn’t cook it.”
“We cooked some of it” Jack corrected. “I made the cranberry sauce. Even tried to make it look less like it came out of a can.”
“You bought canned cranberry sauce?” Robby stared at him like he personally offended him. “Nothing beats homemade.”
Jack glared at him. “I’m not having this discussion with you.”
“Because you know I’m right.” Robby shot back.
Jack rolled his eyes and decided to ignore him. “And she made the mashed potatoes.”
Robby still didn’t seem convinced. “And the rest?”
“We ordered it from a restaurant. A very good one. Neither of us has ever cooked a whole Thanksgiving menu and we didn’t think we could pull it off with a baby demanding attention” you explained with a shrug.
Trinity took another sip of wine and shrugged. “That’s fine by me. It’s free food, so honestly - no complaints here.”
Mel nodded along.
Robby huffed.
Jack shot him a look. “Anything to say, Michael?”
He shrugged. “No. I guess I’m just relieved. I never really came back from your cooking attempts when we lived together.”
“Yeah for a while after-” Robby stopped, glancing at Jack.
“I wasn’t in a good place when my wife died” Jack took over. “And I didn’t want to live in the house anymore. So I moved in with Robby for a while.”
You tilted your head. That was also new information for you.
“And he tried to learn to cook” Robby added, raising his eyebrows. “It was quite… memorable. I think I had the kitchen repainted after his first attempt at making lasagna. The tomato sauce was just everywhere.”
“It wasn’t that dramatic” Jack chimed in.
“I found tomato sauce on top of the fridge” Robby shot back.
You couldn’t hold back any longer and burst out laughing. Trinity and Mel followed and Lizzie shrieked along.
Robby and Jack glanced at each other, before starting to grin.
“I’m a pretty decent cook nowadays” Jack said with a serious face. “And I make the best lasagna.”
“He does” you said quickly.
Robby didn’t seem convinced.
“Anyway” you added, looking at the turkey. “Which of you wants to carve the turkey? I’m out. In a room full of scalpel-trained doctors I’m the least competent, I guess.”
Trinity laughed.
“I’m out too” Mel said quickly. “Never done that before.”
“And I’m already quite drunk” Trinity said, sipping on her wine as if to give her statement more weight.
“It’s our job as attendings to teach” Robby said with a grin. “So, Mel, that’s your case now.”
“Yeah, good call” Jack agreed.
Mel’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right?” she asked, glancing between them.
Both of them shook their heads.
“No, it’s the perfect job for an R3” Robby said with a shrug.
Trinity snorted. “Think about it like… I don’t know… cadaver lab.”
“Cadaver-” Mel paused. “Yeah, great, I don’t think I can eat the turkey now.”
Jack handed her the knife.
Mel took it and stood, still not entirely convinced. “So. What do I do?”
Jack leaned back slightly in his chair. “Start at the gap between the leg and the body. Cut right into that line.”
Mel swallowed hard and followed his instructions.
“Use a bit more pressure. It’s tougher than it looks, but it’ll give.”
Robby stood up too, observing her. “Now pull the leg outward while you keep cutting. You’ll hit the joint.”
Mel did as she was told, wrinkling her nose suddenly. “There is some… resistance.”
“Then you’re not at the joint yet - adjust slightly. Don’t force it.”
You stepped into the kitchen to grab your phone, then paused in the doorway, a quiet laugh slipping out as you took a couple of pictures.
Robby and Jack stood on either side of Mel, watching her like she was performing a medical procedure instead of just carving a turkey. She looked deeply focused, brows drawn together. Trinity leaned back in her chair, clearly amused, while Lizzie stared at Mel like she had never seen anything more fascinating.
It looked like some kind of renaissance painting.
It was kind of perfect.
You slipped your phone away and sat back down, taking a sip of your water.
“There - once it loosens, cut straight through. Yeah, very well done - that’s one leg done.”
Mel broke into a big smile, looking at Trinity. “That’s really like cadaver lab!” she said brightly.
Trinity snorted into her glass.
Jack nodded approvingly. “So, same thing on the other side. Find the line, follow it, pull the leg, cut through it. Easy.”
Mel did as she was told and a minute later she was done.
“Okay, so now go for the breast” Robby said.
“You should ask the turkey out before going second base” Trinity interrupted dryly, which made the whole table laugh - including Mel.
“Don’t make this weird, Trinity” Robby said with the attempt of a serious face.
She shot him a look. “I’m making this weird? You’re the one trying to be the attending at a turkey surgery here.”
You laughed out loud. “She’s right, you know? This is weird.”
Robby shrugged.
“Um, what should I do now?” Mel asked, looking a little lost.
Jack cleared his throat. “Slice along the breastbone, right down the center. Keep the knife close to the bone as you cut downward.”
“That’s how you get clean slices” Robby added, glancing toward Trinity as to try to get a reaction out of her.
But she decided to drain her glass instead.
“Yeah, like that. Let the knife do the work. Slow and steady looks better than hacking at it.”
Jack nodded. “I mean a little messy is fine. No one here expects perfection.”
“That’s the same thing he said to me when we first slept together.” It slipped out of your mouth before you had the chance to stop yourself.
Trinity stared at you for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh. I love it. It’s already the best night I had in ages” she hooted.
Jack shook his head, trying to hide his smile. “You didn’t even drink yet” he said, looking at you.
You shrugged, blushing, “I’m just a natural, I guess.”
“Well, that’s something I heard before” Trinity mumbled into her glass.
“Don’t forget to set the wishbone aside” Jack said.
You looked at him, surprised.
“That’s something we always did when I was a kid” he said with a shrug. “I like the tradition.”
“You’re always good for a surprise, Doctor Abbot” you said slowly.
“Don’t call me that when we have company” he replied quietly with a grin. “Or I have to drag you to the bedroom immediately.”
“Please don’t” Robby groaned from the other side of the table. “And your personal conversations are not nearly as quiet as you think.”
A while later the conversation grew quieter because everyone was too immersed in the food. You glanced up and down the table, always on the brink of standing up and running back into the kitchen in case anything was missing.
Jack put his hand over yours. “Relax” he whispered with a smile.
You furrowed your brows. “I’m relaxed.”
Even you could hear how strained that sentence came out. He raised his eyebrows at this.
“Sorry, it’s just…” You bit your lip for a second. “I want it to be perfect.”
“It is perfect” he reassured you in a low voice, so no one else would hear. “And even if not - that’s not the end of the world. Okay?”
You hesitated for a moment, then let out a sigh. “Okay” you said, reaching for your glass.
He watched you for another second, then nodded. “Good girl.”
“Jack!” You stared at him, blushing.
He chuckled softly. “Sorry.” But he didn’t look sorry at all.
Robby, who had admitted defeat in trying to feed Lizzie, was filling his plate for the second time. “By the way - this is the latest Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, that’s on us” Mel said, looking sorry for a moment. “We had to stay for a bit, catching up on charting.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining. Was just thinking about the heartburn I’ll definitely have later on.”
“Sounds like old-man-problems” Trinity said with a shrug and a grin.
Robby shot her a look. “Careful, Santos. I’m still your boss.”
“Yeah. And you’re a man and older…ish” she added after seeing his face. “That probably helped.”
Robby furrowed his brows. “You think I’m in that position because of my gender?”
Trinity shrugged. “I’m just saying - it’s funny that there are more female med students every year, but the higher you go the fewer women you see. Almost like the system isn’t built for them to stay.”
Robby stared at her, for once at a loss for words. You smiled into your glass.
Jack shifted slightly in his seat. “She’s not wrong” he said with a shrug. “It’s a system that rewards people who never have to step back. And who already belong. Like men.”
Robby let out a small breath. “Yeah, that’s true” he admitted. “But I just want to add - I’m pretty good in my job. I earned it.”
“No one questioned that” Trinity said with a shrug. “I’m just saying you being a man probably made it easier to get there.”
“How much did you have to drink?” Robby asked, while eyeing her glass.
“Not enough” she claimed, grabbing the bottle. “Thanks for pointing that out.”
Robby rolled his eyes. “Could someone pass me the gravy?”
A while later it hit you out of nowhere and you froze mid-reach for your glass. “Oh - shit.”
Jack glanced at you. “That doesn’t sound good.”
You blinked, then let out a small disbelieving huff. “We forgot to say what we’re thankful for.”
The table went quiet for a second. Even Lizzie paused - though that might have just been coincidence.
Trinity leaned back in her chair, eyeing you. “Are you serious right now?”
You shrugged, a little sheepish. “I don’t know. It’s just… a thing, right? Feels weird not doing it.”
Mel straightened slightly. “No, you’re right. We can do it.”
Robby nodded once. “Yeah. Why not?”
Jack sighed softly, but there was no real resistance. “Alright. Get it over with before the food gets cold.”
You rolled your eyes at him, then glanced around the table, suddenly aware of everyone looking at you. “Okay. Um… I’ll start.”
You hesitated for a second, then your gaze flicked to Jack, then to Lizzie. “I’m thankful for… this” you said, gesturing vaguely between them. “For Jack. And Lizzie.” Your fingers brushed his without thinking. “And for not having to do all of it alone” you added, glancing toward Robby. “For the help. Even when you pretend it’s nothing.”
Robby huffed quietly.
“And” you looked around again. “I’m really glad you guys came. It makes this feel more like… an actual Thanksgiving. So - thank you.”
There was a small pause.
Jack squeezed your hand once, then cleared his throat. “Alright.” He leaned back slightly. “I’m thankful for Lizzie. And for you. And for you guys in the Pitt. Even when you make my life unnecessarily complicated sometimes.”
Trinity lifted her glass. “You’re welcome.”
Jack smirked, then added: “And that Lizzie is finally sleeping better.”
“Don’t jinx it” you muttered immediately.
“Too late” Robby said.
Mel smiled softly, then shifted in her seat. “Okay. Um.” She wrapped her hands around her glass. “I’m thankful for my sister Becca. And for her boyfriend Adam.” She paused. “She seems really happy and I’m glad about that.” There was something tight in her voice, but she smiled anyway. “And I’m thankful for Trinity and me being friends now.”
Trinity cleared her throat. “Alright, my turn. I’m thankful for the invention of daytime drinking.” She raised her glass slightly.
Jack huffed.
“And I’m thankful for feminism” she added, completely dry.
Robby snorted in his glass.
“That’s it?” Mel asked.
“Well and yeah, for you and me being friends of course” she added with a shrug. “But I guess that’s enough.”
Robby shook his head, then glanced down at Lizzie. “I’m thankful for this one” he said, tapping her gently on the head.
Lizzie shrieked delighted.
“And for not having to work tonight.”
“That’s valid” you said.
A small, comfortable silence settled.
Then you blinked. “Oh - wait. The wishbone.”
You reached for it automatically, turning it in your fingers for a second - then glanced at Jack and held it out. “You wanted to save it” you said with a small smile.
Jack looked at you, a flicker of something softer crossing his face before he took it. “Yeah.”
He turned it once in his hands, then looked up. He held it out toward Mel. “You carved the turkey. You get one side.”
Mel blinked. “Wait - really?”
He shrugged lightly. “That’s how it works.”
“That’s not how it works” Trinity muttered.
“Hard work always pays off” Jack shot back.
Trinity rolled her eyes, then took another sip of wine. Mel hesitated, then reached out, taking her side.
“You have to make a wish first” Robby said.
Both nodded.
Mel went still. For a moment it looked like she might just rush through it - but she didn’t. She actually thought about it. Her expression shifted, just slightly. Something more serious. Then, slowly, she smiled.
“Okay.” She nodded.
Jack adjusted his grip. “On three?”
“Yeah.”
“One - two - three.”
The bone snapped cleanly.
Mel looked down at her hand. She had the bigger piece. There was a brief flicker of surprise - then a big smile spread across her face.
“Guess that means your wish is coming true” you said with a smile.
Mel let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Maybe.” Then she blushed.
“Must have been a hell of a wish” Trinity said with a grin. “And don’t worry, you aren’t allowed to say it.”
“Thank god” Mel muttered, then set the bone down.
The moment slipped and the table filled with voices again.
The apartment had settled into that slow, heavy quiet that always came after too much food and too much talking. The small group had moved from the dinner table to the sofa, tv on, but no one was really paying attention.
You stood in the nursery, at the changing table, trying to wipe Lizzie down as she squirmed.
“Yeah, yeah, I know” you murmured, smiling a little. “I’m just the worst for doing that.”
Then you heard the floor creak softly.
You glanced over and saw Trinity, standing in the doorway, arms loosely folded like she hadn’t quite decided if she wanted to come in or not.
“Hey” you said softly. “Come on in. I could use someone to distract her.”
Trinity hesitated for half a second, then stepped closer. “Yeah, sure. I can do that.”
“Just grab any of the stuffed toys and wave it in front of her. Usually it does the trick.”
She grabbed the stuffed giraffe and started moving it in front of Lizzie's face. She shrieked, delighted and stopped squirming almost immediately.
“Yeah, bad news Mel - she finds a stuffed giraffe just as interesting as you” Trinity murmured under her breath, but she smiled while saying it.
You huffed a laugh. “There’s really no telling what she’ll find fascinating.”
Trinity nodded slowly. “I start to see that.”
There was a small pause.
“How are you?” you asked, glancing up at her.
Trinity shrugged, eyes on Lizzie. “Fine.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that sounded convincing. Wanna try again?”
She didn’t look up. “I’m just… tired.”
“Yeah, that tracks.”
Another small pause.
“Robby told me you’re doing really well in the Pitt” you added, keeping your tone light. “Like - really well.”
Trinity glanced at you briefly. “He did?”
“Mmhm.” You folded the diaper into place. “Said you’re sharp. Fast. Don’t miss much.”
“He said that?” She looked back down at Lizzie again. “I can’t believe Robby is such a tattletale.”
You chuckled. “He isn’t. But we spent a lot of time together recently. So we ran out of other topics to talk about. We were kind of desperate.”
You taped the diaper closed, smoothing it down before reaching for a fresh onesie.
“He also said-” you went on, just as casually. “- that you tend to… do your own thing. Not really asking for help.”
Trinity let out a small breath. “That’s not entirely true” she scoffed. “And also people slow you down.”
“Sometimes” you agreed. “Sometimes they don’t.”
You guided Lizzie’s arms through the sleeves, your movements practiced and gentle while she was still staring at the plush toy in Trinity's hand.
“You know - I used to think that too. That asking for help meant I wasn’t handling things.”
Trinity stayed quiet, but you could feel her listening.
You glanced up briefly. “Turns out, I was just making everything harder for myself.”
She shifted her weight slightly. “Yeah, well… not everyone has people they can rely on like that.” There was no bite in it. Just fact.
You nodded. “That’s fair. But even then” you said, softer now. “it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. I’ve had some pretty bad experiences with that - letting people in. Trusting the wrong ones. Made me really good at doing everything on my own. Even after Lizzie was born. It also made me completely exhausted all the time. And then I had to learn to accept some help. It wasn’t easy and I struggled a lot with it, but… yeah, it helped not to completely wreck me.”
“You always seemed so composed. Even when you looked like shit” Trinity said after a while, glancing at you.
You laughed. “Well no, I was a lot, but I was not composed. Ask Jack how often he found me crying on the nursery floor because Lizzie wouldn’t stop crying while he was on night shift.”
Trinity furrowed her brows.
“And I met you hunched over a toilet in a bar, puking my guts out. And you offered your help instantly, letting me vent about my pregnancy.” You smiled at her. “Making you the first person I told about being pregnant by the way. And I’ll be forever grateful for you listening.”
She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “That’s just girl bathroom code, right? It was just the right thing to do.”
“But nothing you had to do. That was decent of you. And you offered me help.”
“Don’t try to twist this into some zen-learning-moment-bullshit-thing, okay?” She glanced at you suspiciously.
You chuckled. “I didn’t intend to.”
“Did Robby tell you to talk to me?”
You shook your head. “No, he didn’t. Honestly. I just like you. And I don’t want you to burn out before your career really starts.”
She frowned.
“I’m just saying - needing help isn’t the same as depending on people for everything. It’s more like… choosing when you don’t have to carry all of it alone.”
Lizzie let out a small content sound, grabbing after the stuffed toy which was completely out of her reach.
“Okay. Got the message” Trinity said with a short nod.
You lifted Lizzie into your arms, pressing a soft kiss to her head.
Trinity put the plush toy on the changing table. “I like you too, by the way. You’re cool” she said eventually. “I mean - you’re a mom and everything, but not in an annoying way. She’s lucky to have you.”
You looked at her, surprised, then chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. I try to be as non-annoying as I can be.”
“Keep that up. Not for Jack, obviously. He needs someone to annoy him. Otherwise he would be way too smug.”
You laughed out loud. “That checks out, yeah.”
The table looked like a battlefield when you walked back into the living room. And there was still way too much food left.
You handed Lizzie over to Robby, who was sitting on the sofa. Lizzie immediately snuggled against his chest, wide awake and far too entertained by his beard for eleven at night.
You glanced toward Jack, who handed Trinity a glass of whiskey. “This was a mistake” you said, eyeing the sheer amount of food left.
Jack followed your gaze, then huffed a quiet laugh. “You ordered like we were feeding a small army.”
“I thought we were hungry.”
“We were hungry. Just not… starving.”
Mel took a sip of her ginger ale, looking at the table with mild disbelief. “What are you planning to do with all of that?”
You shrugged. “Eat it for the next five days?”
Mel nodded. “Sounds reasonable. Or…” She stopped, looking uncertain all of a sudden.
“Or?” you pressed.
“We could bring it to the Pitt. For night shift.”
Jack blinked. “Right now?”
“I was just thinking” she paddled back. “I mean there’s a chance they didn’t have a Thanksgiving dinner today.”
You looked between them, narrowing your eyes slightly. “You’re suggesting we all… I don’t know... do what exactly?”
“She suggests a drunken field trip to work” Trinity chimed in, waving the glass in her hand. “I think it’s a great idea.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea” you replied.
Robby shrugged. “They’d appreciate it.”
“They definitely would” Jack confirmed with a nod.
You stared at him. “You’re on board with this?”
He shrugged. “I usually worked on Thanksgiving. If someone had brought free food at eleven p.m I probably would’ve kissed their feet.”
You let out a small laugh. “Are we really thinking about visiting your workplace?”
Lizzie let out a happy squeal, kicking her legs like she fully supported this idea.
You looked down at her. “Of course you would love a walk.”
“She’s clearly on my side” Jack said with a smug smile.
“Traitor” you muttered.
Robby downed his glass, while softly holding Lizzie in place with his free hand. “Alright.” He put the glass down and stood, lifting her up his arm. “Decision made.”
“Wait-” you started, but it was too late.
Everyone was already moving.
Food was stored in containers and then placed in bags. Mel grabbed some extra napkins “just in case” and suddenly the whole thing had momentum you couldn’t really stop anymore.
You looked at Jack, half-amused, half-resigned. “We’re really doing this.”
He nodded. “Yeah, come on - let’s make the less fortunate a little happier.”
“Less fortunate? You’re talking about your colleagues” you reminded him with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m not working tonight and they can’t enjoy my presence. So they are less fortunate” he explained with a shrug.
You laughed and shook your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
He pulled you in and kissed you. “That’s why you love me, right?”
“Topic for later” you murmured, then turned toward Robby to help him dress Lizzie.
The Pitt at that hour was all bright lights and controlled chaos - exhaustion and adrenaline humming under the surface.
You walked straight into it with far too much noise and far too many bags. Everyone was carrying food - except for Robby who had Lizzie tucked against his chest. The stroller stayed outside.
Lena looked up from central the second she heard you. “You’ve got to be kidding. What is this - an ambush?”
Jack grinned, lifting one of the bags. “No. Better.”
“Is that actual food?” she asked, staring.
Parker stepped out of a trauma bay, eyeing the group. “What the hell is going on here?” A beat. “Did you just bring leftovers to flex on us?”
Jack shrugged. “I can take it back if you don’t want it.”
“Don’t you dare” she shot back immediately. “Please tell me there’s turkey in there. I could murder someone for a decent piece of turkey.”
You glanced at her. “That’s a concerning thing to hear from a doctor.”
She shrugged, but she was smiling. “And yet.”
You laughed, nudging Jack lightly. “Okay. This was a good idea.”
“Of course it was” Jack said, nudging your shoulder lightly.
Robby looked around. “Okay, let’s put this in the breakroom.”
“I’m just getting this done and then I’m coming” Parker announced, slipping back into the trauma bay.
“Thank you, Jack!” Lena said.
Jack turned toward her. “It was Mel's idea.”
“Thank you Mel!”
Mel blushed, lifting her thumb in a small awkward gesture.
Robby led the group toward the break room, Lizzie giggling in his arms, waving wildly at nothing in particular. He stepped inside first - and stopped.
“Oh” he said, staring. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“That doesn’t sound good” Mel said.
Robby grinned and jerked his head toward the room. “Come see.”
The group crowded in behind him - then froze.
Dennis Whitaker was sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling off the side, completely out cold. An untouched energy drink sat on the table in front of him.
For a second no one said anything.
“Is he dead?” Trinity asked. “If so I’ll need a new roomie.” She paused for a second. “Mel, you’re interested?”
“He’s not dead” Jack said, rolling his eyes. “He’s just…”
“Exhausted?” Mel offered.
Robby snorted. “Man didn’t even make it home. Didn’t you think to check on him before leaving?” he asked toward Trinity.
“I’m not his babysitter” she replied with a shrug. “I had plans of my own. I thought he wanted to go to Amy's tonight.”
“Are they still… a thing?” Robby asked sharply, his eyes glancing back to Dennis.
Trinity shrugged. “Well, yeah - The Simple Life got renewed for another season.”
Robby opened his mouth to say something, when Dennis stirred.
He blinked awake and looked at all of you crowded in the doorway. “What…?”
“Food delivery” Jack said, holding up the bags.
Dennis pushed himself up, rubbing his face then glanced at his watch. “Fuck!”
Trinity grinned. “Amy will be pissed.”
Dennis groaned and closed his eyes. “I should probably call her.”
“Yeah, you should.” Robby’s voice was calm, but you could hear a certain dangerous tone underneath it.
Dennis blushed a little. He was probably thinking about the conversation Robby had with him almost a year ago.
He pulled out his phone. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Did you clock out?” Robby asked him, eyebrows raised.
Lizzie shrieked and took the chance to grab at Robby’s beard. He flinched.
“Tell her you got stuck in a code” Jack murmured as Dennis passed him. “Couldn’t get out. Give her my number if she wants it confirmed.”
“If she fact-checks that, you should probably just end it” Trinity said.
You nodded. “Honestly? Yeah.”
Dennis glanced from Trinity to you and then back to Jack. “Appreciate it, Dr. Abbot” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute. I smell stuffing and I love stuffing.”
Then he slipped out.
“I should talk to him again” Robby growled, while Lizzie continued to put her sticky hands on his face. She shrieked, delighted when she was able to grab his nose.
“No, you shouldn’t” Jack said quietly. “That boy’s private life is none of your business. And you’re drunk. And holding my daughter. Three good reasons to let it slip.”
Robby shifted Lizzie slightly in his arms, then let out a long breath.
“We should go out” Trinity announced, leaning at the counter. “There’s a karaoke bar still open.”
Mel beamed. “It’s a really good one.”
“You go there often?” you asked, one eyebrow raised.
Trinity and Mel shared a look. “Occasionally. After a rough shift.”
Jack groaned softly. “No way.”
“Yes” Trinity said. “Absolutely yes. And honestly - I don’t care if anyone else joins us. Mel and I are rocking this with or without you.”
Robby glanced at Jack. “What do you say? Like back in the old days?”
“Mmmhm.”
You looked at Jack, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not seriously considering this, right?”
He hesitated, which was answer enough.
“How much did you have to drink?” You huffed a quiet laugh. “Okay, wow - Trinity, Mel, please record it when he decides to actually sing in front of strangers.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Trinity shot you a look.
“I can’t.” You glanced at Lizzie, who was snuggled against Robby's jacket, chewing on his drawstring with heavy lidded eyes. “I think she’s about to crash. And if I don’t get her home soon, I’ll regret this for the next twelve hours.”
“Fair” Trinity said after a second. “Sucks though.”
You laughed. “Yeah. But next time. Take Jack instead as an offering.”
“You sure?” he asked quietly. “If you want I can come home with you and-”
You stepped closer, pressing a soft kiss on his lips, stopping the attempt immediately. “It’s fine” you said, after pulling back. “Go. Have fun. Blow off some steam. Make sure Robby gets home safe.”
He studied your face for a second, then smiled softly. “You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me, you know that?”
You chuckled. “Keep me updated, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t call me that. In public” you added, quietly, blushing.
“Sorry” he said, again not sounding sorry at all.
You kissed him once more, then stepped back. “Don’t embarrass yourself too much.”
“He can’t promise that” Robby called from behind.
Trinity clapped her hands. “Alright, karaoke. Let’s go.”
You shook your head when Robby handed you Lizzie. She immediately snuggled against you, her eyes already closing again.
“Have fun guys” you said.
“Thanks again for dinner!” Mel said, waving at you. “And for the invite.”
Jack squeezed your free hand once before letting go. “Text me when you’re home, okay?”
You nodded.
He gave Lizzie a kiss on top of her head. “See you later, kiddo.”
Then they were gone - loud, laughing. already arguing about song choices.
"Let's find Whitaker! I guess he'll need a drink" you heard Trinity shout.
You chuckled, then glanced down at Lizzie.
“Thanks for rescuing me, baby” you whispered. “I couldn’t hold a tune if my life depended on it. You saved me from the biggest embarrassment of my life.”
Lizzie yawned softly.
“Okay, let’s get you home.”
And with a small smile you left.
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon. I promise! :)
--- --- ---
A/N: I've already mapped out most of the chapters for this story but I'd still love to hear what you'd like to see!
If there's a scene you're hoping for, something you'd like more of (Jack's family, more moments with the rest of The Pitt, fluff, chaos, drama… you name it) just leave a comment or send me a message.
I can't promise everything will fit into the story but I love reading your ideas and they often inspire new scenes.
IF YOU'RE MUTUALS WITH @fivequartersoftheorange AND GET A DM SAYING THAT SHE HAD TO REPORT YOUR BLOG BC SHE THOUGHT IT WAS SCAM DO NOT FALL FOR IT. HER BLOG HAS BEEN HACKED AND IS USED TO SCAM PEOPLE
Series Summary: Jack came back to Boston shattered. His leg was gone, and he was dumped by his girlfriend, who was unable to handle his new reality. Suddenly... he’s alone, grieving the life he thought he’d return to, and wondering if he's even fit to be a doctor anymore. And then he meets you...his annoyingly persistent physical therapist who refuses to let his bad attitude scare you off.
Chapter Summary: You meet a patient who’s kind of an asshole… who are you kidding? A total asshole.
Warning: slow burn (its not exactly love at first sight lol), language, medical trauma (essentially mentions of the loss of his leg), mentions of war, angst, grief of a failed relationship, emotionally guarded jack (grumpy/gruff jack), reader is a badass, i think that’s it for now
A/N: I'm excited for this one and really challenging myself with writing this style of fic. This story is told between two major timelines:
2016 - The "present" time in this story
2006 - When you and Jack meet
Masterlist | You're reading Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
2016 - Hanover, New Hampshire
Jack had been running an errand in town, picking up the tailored suit he’d finally gotten around to having adjusted for his brother Tom’s wedding in a couple of days. The tailor had insisted on one last fitting, and Jack wasn’t about to risk showing up with sleeves an inch too long in every photo Tom’s future kids would one day laugh at.
He stepped out of the shop, garment bag slung over his shoulder, already mentally checking off the next thing on his list, when he heard someone say his name.
"Jack?"
Turning around slowly, his eyes widened in disbelief because standing before him was what could only be have been described as a ghost. He stared slack-jawed at the person in front of him, his heart racing wildly within his chest, pounding in a way it hadn't in quite a while. The shock was predictable… the hurt, though, landed like a punch.
"Is that you?" the woman asked, her voice ringing in his ears as he stood there and stared. She still looked so much like the woman he remembered, yet unmistakably different.
"A-Amy?" he said, and there was a question to it. He knew it was her, but he needed the confirmation.
Amy's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she took a hesitant step forward. Her voice trembled, thick with emotion. "Oh my god, it's been so long." Her lips quivered, and a single tear escaped down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away.
Jack felt his throat tighten, words catching in his chest. He nodded slowly, trying to fight back the emotion he was feeling. "Yeah… it has."
"You look amazing."
He was 40 now—still young, but it was definitely a birthday that had made him feel a little older, a reminder that time was moving faster than he liked. His hair, once a uniform color, was now just salt and pepper. The faint lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened into something more permanent, the kind that stayed even when he wasn’t smiling. Even his shoulders felt different, a little tighter in the mornings, as if they needed a moment to remember how to move.
He felt it in his body too. His easy metabolism had slowed, leaving him more aware of what he ate and how often he exercised. His knees complained after long days on his feet, and his lower back had developed a habit of reminding him when he’d slept in a strange position. None of it was dramatic, just the subtle, accumulating signs that time had passed, whether he’d been paying attention or not.
Jack paused, unsure how to respond, so he defaulted to the polite, automatic script people used when they ran into someone they hadn’t seen in ten years.
"You too," he said, offering a small, careful smile. There had been a time when he’d pictured what it might be like to run into Amy again, but in all the versions he once thought up, he never expected it to happen here… like this.
"Are you here visiting your parents?" she asked.
"Uh, yeah," he replied, hesitating just a moment before adding, "something like that… what are doing here?"
"I'm here on a girls' trip this weekend," she explained. She paused for a moment before adding, "I haven't been here since—" she trailed off, and he knew exactly what she was referencing. "I haven't been here since forever. I forgot how beautiful it is."
"Right."
The sight of her was still startling, a reminder that they’d lived entire lives since then, grown in different directions, become different people. And yet, beneath it all, what he also saw… was the woman who had once held his heart.
2006 - Boston, Massachusetts
You strode into the PT clinic wearing your navy blue scrubs, feeling confident and ready to start the day. Your wired headphones were snug around your ears, and you had your iPod Nano securely clipped to your pocket. As you walked, you hummed along to "Pon De Replay," the infectious beat from Rihanna’s debut album that you had been obsessed with since it came out last year. The music energized you, setting a lively tone for the day ahead.
You approached the front desk with a friendly smile, catching the receptionist's eye as she looked up from her cluttered desk. "Good morning, Isabelle," you greeted warmly. She smiled back, her hair neatly pinned back. "Hey there! Ready for another busy day?" she replied.
"Oh yeah," you winked.
You headed over to your locker, opening it to stash your backpack and lunch. You slipped your things inside, taking a moment to bend down to adjust your shoelaces. Returning to the main area, you noticed Patrick, your boss (it was his private practice) approaching you. He held a folder in his hand and nodded as you approached. "Hey, I’ve got a new patient for you," he said, handing over the file. Flipping it open, you scanned the details.
"Name: Dr. Jack Abbot," he said, tapping the top corner of the page as you read it. "Thirty years old."
You turned the page, taking in the black‑and‑white scans—X‑rays, surgical notes, the clean geometry of a transtibial amputation. Patrick continued, "Injured in Afghanistan two months ago. IED blast. He was deployed with a medical unit."
You paused on a scan showing the residual limb, the surgical shaping neat but still clearly in the early stages of healing. Patrick nodded toward it. "He spent a month recovering and was fitted with a temporary prosthetic overseas. Not great quality. Did what it needed to, but it wasn’t going to take him far."
You flipped to the next section to scan intake notes, discharge summaries, and noticed a brief psychological evaluation.
"He’s been medically discharged and recently returned to Boston. He’s going to need real support adjusting to the new proper prosthetic he received last week." You closed the folder halfway, your thumb holding the place as you looked up at him.
"Just so you know… I haven’t worked with many amputees yet. Definitely not a transtibial case. Mostly upper‑extremity. Transradial, during school. And even then, it was only a handful," you said, and Patrick could sense you second‑guessing yourself.
You’d only been out of your DPT program for a little over a year, meaning you were still new enough that some days felt like you were sprinting to keep up. Your clinical rotations had been great, full of hands‑on experience, but they’d been heavy on injuries and post‑op cases, not long‑term limb‑loss rehab.
"That’s fine," he said, waving off the concern like it was expected. "You’ve got solid instincts, and you’re not alone here. Dan handles these types cases all the time." He nodded toward the back hallway where Dan usually camped out in his treatment room. "You can lean on him, and learn from him. That’s what he’s here for."
"Then… why assign this patient to me?"
"Because you’re good at what you do," he said simply. "And Dr. Abbot is going to need someone with a good attitude. He’s going to need someone who can read people. Someone who knows when to be empathetic and when to give a shove in the right direction. And let’s be honest—Dan’s brilliant, but empathy isn’t exactly his strong suit." Dan had been with the clinic for a decade. He was quiet, not particularly warm, but exceptionally good at what he did. "You, on the other hand? You’ve got the highest patient satisfaction scores in the clinic. People trust you. They open up to you. And when they need a reality check, you’re not afraid to give it to them."
"What was your initial consult with Dr. Abbot like?"
"He’s got a long road ahead of him. These cases… they hit people in ways that are tough. Not just the pain or the rehab. It’s everything else. The identity shift. The loss of control. The uncertainty about what life looks like now." He paused, searching for the right words. "It can be just as mental as it is physical. Sometimes more."
"He must be so scared," you murmured, the thought slipping out before you could filter it.
"That’s why he’s going to need a support system. A real one. And right now? That starts with his rehab."
"Okay," you said, gripping the folder a little tighter.
You pushed the treatment room door, the folder tucked under your arm, and you found a man with auburn hair sitting on the edge of the exam table, shoulders squared but tense, his gaze fixed on the floor. He wore a fitted T‑shirt that clung to a broad chest and well‑defined biceps, and freckles dusted his forearms.
When he finally looked up, the first thing you noticed were his eyes—piercing hazel, sharp and assessing, like he was bracing for something before it even happened.
"Dr. Abbot," you said with a warm, professional smile, stepping forward. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."
You extended your hand towards him and introduced yourself.
He stretched out his hand, shaking your hand, a scowl etched on his face. "I wish I could say the same."
You pulled your hand back slowly, trying not to make the movement look as awkward as it felt.
He probably didn’t mean it the way it sounded, you reminded yourself. He’s been through hell. He’s hurting. This isn’t about you.
You’d handled difficult patients before—people in pain, people angry at their bodies, people who needed someone not to take their reactions personally. He was no different. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you stepped further into the room. He sat stiffly, track pants hanging around his hips, his jaw tight enough to suggest he’d been clenching it long before you walked in.
You cleared your throat gently. "I’ve read your file, and Patrick brought me up to speed."
He gave a curt nod.
"I’ve also reviewed the recommendations from your surgeon. My goal today is to get a clear picture of where you are and what you need moving forward."
"Let’s get this over with, then."
"Are you wearing shorts underneath?"
"Yes."
"Alright. Please remove the pants and then lie down on your back. I’ll give you some privacy."
You turned away, facing the counter, giving him space. Behind you, you heard the soft rustle of fabric, the uneven shuffle of someone adjusting their position with one leg and a prosthesis that didn’t quite cooperate. Then the faint thump of him settling back onto the exam table.
You turned around only once the sounds stopped.
"Okay," you said gently, stepping closer. "I’m going to start with an assessment so I can get a sense of what your treatment plan should look like." Patients did better when they knew what was coming. "First, I’m going to check your hip alignment first," you said, placing your hands lightly near his pelvis. "Then I’ll move down to the residual limb. After that, I’ll remove the prosthesis so I can—"
"You don’t need to narrate every single step," he cut in sharply, his eyes flicking away from yours, clearly annoyed.
"Understood," you said simply. You gently placed your hands just above his pelvis, feeling for any asymmetries or irregularities in his hip alignment. You moved slowly, palpating each side to compare muscle tone, joint positioning, and any areas of tenderness or swelling. Your fingers traced the contours of his residual limb, and you noticed the way certain muscles fired even when he was trying not to tense. A few involuntary twitches told you he was bracing more than he realized.
"Relax," you murmured.
He actually listened. You felt the shift beneath your hands, the subtle softening of his abdomen. Next, you prepared to remove his prosthesis, and when you reached for the release mechanism, you felt him stiffen again…not the defensive tension from before, but something far more self‑conscious. The moment you detached it, he turned his face away, a muscle in his jaw twitching. You continued your assessment and noted areas where the prosthetic socket had rubbed. You pressed gently along the limb, identifying spots of hypersensitivity and pressure points that would need careful management. As you went further, you felt the faint pull of scar tissue beneath the surface, the slight drag of skin adhesions, the uneven textures that told the story of healing still in progress. These were the areas that would require special attention.
Dr. Abbot stayed silent, but the tension in his body told you everything you needed to know.
"Alright," you said, keeping your tone even. "Based on what I’m seeing, here’s what I think your treatment plan should look like."
His eyes flicked toward you, guarded.
"We’ll start with desensitization and scar mobilization," you continued. "You’ve got some adhesions that are limiting mobility, and a few pressure points from the socket that we’ll need to address. We’ll also work on hip stability and gait training once we—"
"I’m not exactly falling apart here," he interrupted, brow furrowing, as he pushed himself upright. "I’ve been walking fine."
"You’ve been walking," you corrected gently. "Not efficiently. And not without compensation."
He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know how to walk."
"I’m not saying you don’t," you replied, keeping your voice calm. "I’m saying your body is doing extra work to make up for the areas that aren’t functioning optimally."
"Don’t talk to me like I’m clueless. I know exactly what my body’s doing."
You continued, unfazed. "We’ll also work on strengthening the hip flexors and abductors. They’re firing inconsistently, and that’s going to affect your gait pattern and your socket fit. Your plan will include muscle re‑education, pain‑management strategies, and functional training to get you moving efficiently again."
"Perfect. A whole syllabus. Should I be taking notes?"
You ignored the jab. "Given your age and athletic build, I don’t anticipate you needing a full year to get back to high‑level physical ability. I’d expect solid progress in 4 to 6 months."
"Do you rehearse these speeches," he drawled, his tone dripping in sarcasm, "or do they just come naturally?" You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, frustration bubbling up as you clenched your jaw, trying to keep your composure. His dismissive attitude was infuriating.
"Well," you said, shaking your head lightly, "I shouldn’t be surprised."
"What?" he hissed.
"Doctors make the worst patients," you shot back, your voice sharper than intended, your fists clenching at your sides.
Dr. Abbot’s mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Or maybe you don’t know what you’re saying," he shot back. "You get someone walking first—that’s the priority. Everything else is secondary." He gestured vaguely at his prosthesis currently laying against the exam table, irritation sharpening his voice. "Strength work? Fine. But half of what you’re listing is busywork. I don’t need pain‑management strategies, I don’t need you retraining muscles I’ve been using my whole life, and I definitely don’t need a checklist of pointless exercises that won’t change anything. Honestly—what kind of program did you graduate from?"
Your eyes widened in disbelief, outrage flashing across your face. You wanted to scream at him for his disrespect, but you held back, though your furious glare spoke volumes.
"Look...I know this must be a challenging time—"
“Spare me the pity,” he snapped. "I don’t need your bullshit 'sympathy', and I don’t need some incompetent PT pretending like she understands what I’m dealing with."
"Who the hell do you think you are?" you could feel the heat rising up your neck, a tight, pulsing pressure settling right behind your eyes. "Listen, dude, I’m from the fucking Bronx. I’m not some delicate New England princess who folds the second someone says something shitty to me," Dr. Abbot’s expression flickered just enough to show he hadn’t expected that shift in tone. "You’re not my commanding officer, and I’m not your subordinate. I’ve dealt with people far scarier than you for most of my life. I’m not someone who gets rattled by a bad fucking attitude." His posture straightened a fraction, and he was clearly taken aback by your outburst.
"And I’m not someone who thinks I have to tiptoe around a patient to get the job done. I expect respect in this room. You don’t have to like me, but this is my recommended treatment plan. If you have a problem with it, you’re welcome to work with someone else."
Dr. Abbot just stared at you, his eyes still flashing with anger, unsure how to respond.
You didn’t wait for his response, and turned on your heel, the air in the room still crackling with everything he’d thrown at you—and everything you’d finally thrown back. Your pulse was hammering, your breath tight in your chest as you strode toward the door, and opened it harder than you meant to, and stepped out into the hallway.
Well, your patient satisfaction scores were definitely going to suffer after that interaction.
The next day, you were working with one of your favorite patients—a 12-year‑old girl who’d broken her leg during one of her gymnastics meets, slipping off the balance beam mid‑routine. Somehow, she managed to treat the whole ordeal like an adventure. She was the kind of kid who radiated optimism without even trying, and decorated her crutches with glitter stickers.
You’d just wrapped up your session, and she was beaming at you.
"Did you see that?" she asked, breathless with pride. "I didn’t wobble at all that time!"
"You didn’t," you said, matching her smile without even thinking about it. "You were solid. Strong. And your balance is getting better every single week."
She grinned so wide her cheeks practically swallowed her eyes. Moments like this, the uncomplicated joy, and the tiny victories were the reasons you loved your job. She hopped carefully off the mat, grabbing her water bottle and chattering about her team’s new leotard colors, the meet she was determined to compete in once she was cleared.
You walked her to the door, listening, nodding, letting her excitement wash over you. When her mom arrived, the girl waved at you with both hands, nearly dropping her crutches in the process.
"Bye! See you next week!" she called.
"See you then," you said, warmth settling in your chest as they left. She was so fucking precious.
For the first time since yesterday’s disaster with Dr. Abbot, your shoulders loosened, and your breath came easier. Patrick had ripped you a new one yesterday. There was no gentler way to put it. In public, he defended you when Dr. Abbot marched out of the exam room and informed him he "would no longer be needing the clinic's services," but when Patrick pulled you into his office, he told you the way you handled the situation had been unprofessional. That letting a patient get under your skin (no matter how abrasive they were) crossed a line. He told you that escalating with him, matching his tone, letting your frustration show… it wasn’t acceptable.
And hearing it out loud stung. Because he was right.
He told you to take the rest of the day off, and you’d gone home furious at first. You were furious at Dr. Abbot, furious at the whole situation, but once the adrenaline faded and you had space to breathe, the embarrassment crept in. You replayed the moment over and over, realizing exactly where you’d lost control. You’d been bracing yourself for the worst when you walked in this morning—half convinced you were going to be fired, or at the very least suspended.
But Patrick surprised you.
He told you that patients could be messy. That some could come in angry, scared, defensive, or hurting in ways they don’t know how to articulate. That it wasn’t an excuse for their behavior, but it was part of the job. And that one bad encounter didn’t define you as a PT.
"Learn from it," he reminded you this morning. "But don’t let it follow you into every session after this." You’d nodded, still mortified, but grateful.
You wrapped up the last of your notes for the day, the clinic finally settling into that late‑afternoon quiet where the hum of the vents felt louder than the conversations. A couple of your colleagues were gathering their things near the lockers, laughing about something that had happened during a session earlier.
"Hey," one of them called over, "we’re grabbing drinks tonight if you want to come."
Another chimed in, "Yeah, you should come. You look like you could use a night out."
You appreciated the offer, but the thought of loud music, crowded tables, and pretending you weren’t still carrying yesterday’s embarrassment like a weight in your chest… it was too much.
"Rain check," you said gently. "I think I’m just going to go home and decompress."
They nodded, understanding immediately.
"Totally fair."
"Get some rest."
"See you tomorrow."
You said your goodbyes to the rest of the team and quick waves, tired smiles, plus the usual end‑of‑day chorus of "Have a good night" occurred. Then you pushed open the clinic door and stepped outside, and you were halfway down the steps when you stopped short and were surprised to see Dr. Abbot standing there.
Your brows pulled together before you could stop them. You glanced behind yourself, half expecting he might be here for someone else. But when you turned back, his eyes were fixed on you.
"Hi," he said, voice low, almost cautious.
You blinked. "Um… hi." Your hand tightened around the strap of your bag. "Are you looking for Patrick?"
He shook his head once. "No. I'm looking for you. The receptionist told me you’d be done at five."
As you made your way down the front steps, your pace was steady but hesitant, the weight of the day still lingering in your shoulders. You glanced briefly at Dr. Abbot, noticing the serious expression on his face and the way he was standing at the bottom of the stairs. When you reached him, he looked at you, his eyes intensely searching yours.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Your brow furrowed slightly, unsure but curious. You looked around and spotted a nearby bench with a simple, wooden structure nestled against the wall. You nodded toward it.
"If this is because of my leg, I’m fine," he muttered.
You shook your head, already stepping toward it. "Trust me," you said, lowering yourself onto the seat with a tired exhale, "this is more for me than it is for you. I’ve been on my feet all day."
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, and slowly made his way toward the bench, moving carefully on his leg. He lowered himself onto the seat, while you reached into your bag and pulled out your water bottle, unscrewing the cap and taking a sip.
"I was unforgivably rude to you yesterday," he admitted. You couldn't help but start laughing, almost spitting out your water, and reminded yourself to swallow before responding.
"I think what you're trying to say is that you were a grade-A asshole," you teased, raising an eyebrow.
"Correct."
"It's okay," you said softly. "Well, it's not okay. But, honestly, it wasn't exactly my finest moment yesterday, either," you took a deep breath and glanced away for a moment. "I should have been more patient and understanding. I’m not going to pretend I know what you’re going through right now, and honestly, if the roles were reversed, I probably would be a complete mess," you paused, giving him a small, empathetic smile. "You’re just doing your best."
"Yeah… well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, "doing my best hasn’t exactly looked great lately." He stared ahead for a moment, jaw working like he was chewing on the words before letting them out. "I shouldn’t have talked to you the way I did." His voice was quieter now, stripped of the bite he held yesterday. "I’m disgusted with my behavior, and you didn’t deserve that."
You glanced over, surprised by the sincerity threading through his tone.
"I was angry at something that happened before I came for the appointment, and I took it out on you." His fingers nervously tapped against his leg. "I’m… sorry."
"Apology accepted. And, I’m sorry too," you hesitated only a second before asking, gently, "What… happened before the appointment?"
Dr. Abbot’s jaw tightened, like he regretted bringing it up, so you remained silent, letting him work through his thoughts.
"My girlfriend—well, I guess my ex‑girlfriend was picking up some stuff," he said, eyes fixed on a crack in the pavement, sounding like he could barely say the words. "We were together for 4 years, and we were living together before I got deployed. And then… all this happened." His hand gestured vaguely toward his leg. "When I came back, it was too hard for her." He swallowed, the movement sharp. "Too different. Too… everything. So, she ended things a few weeks ago."
He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite a sigh.
You felt your breath catch as you listened; the pain was clear as day on his face, and it was making your chest ache. You stared at him for a long moment, processing everything because this wasn’t just trauma, it was heartbreak layered with loss, and he was still trying to hold himself together through it all. Fuck, this guy had been through some shit.
"Shit," he added quickly, shaking his head. "That’s probably way more information than you needed."
"That… fuck, that fucking sucks," you said honestly. "I’m really sorry you had to go through that on top of everything else. It’s always painful when the people we love disappoint us. It’s like… a part of us gets broken, even if it’s just a little. And then there’s the anger, the confusion. It’s all tangled up together. No shame in feeling that way."
"Yeah, I guess so."
You shook your head. "You’re allowed to feel angry. You’re human. You’re allowed to be pissed, sad, whatever you need to be. It’s okay to not be okay."
He looked down, scratching his jaw, the motion tight and restless.
"But right now," you said gently, "you need to focus on your rehabilitation. You need to get cleared for work, right?"
"Yeah," he said, exhaling. "I need to finish my last year of residency."
"I don’t really know much about the military. No one in my family has served, and the only people I’ve ever known who did were friends of friends." You gave a small shrug. "So, sorry if I sound ignorant, and I might be totally off here, but… did they really deploy you during residency? You’d think they’d try to avoid disrupting training."
"They do try to, honestly. The military tries to shield residents from being pulled away, but since the wars, everything’s changed. The surges in deployments have been relentless. The military’s been pulling residents more often than before, especially during the peaks, regardless of what stage you’re in."
"What’s your specialty?" you asked, genuinely curious
"Emergency medicine. I’m focusing on trauma."
"Will you be done with school after residency?"
"I’ll have to complete a two-year surgical critical fellowship. And then after that, I guess, I can call myself an attending."
As he explained, a thought flickered through your mind. Being a doctor was so fucking complicated. Layers of schooling, training, exams, rotations, certifications… and then more training on top of that. You’d always known it was intense, but hearing it laid out like this made it feel even more overwhelming. There was always another step, another hurdle, another thing demanded of them before they were 'done'—if they ever really were.
"Then that’s what you’ve got to focus on," you said, narrowing your eyes at him.
"I don’t even know if I want to be a doctor anymore," he managed to croak out.
"You don’t actually believe that."
“You don’t even know me,” he said angrily.
"You’re right," you said, not flinching. "I don’t. But I’m going with a gut feeling here."
He shot you a skeptical look.
"You’re a surgeon. And surgeons love to cut. They love the rush. You people get high off fixing things. It’s like a personality trait. Or a disorder. Hard to tell." Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched. "So... no…I don’t know you. But I know enough to call bullshit when I hear it."
"I don’t know who I am without my leg." his nostrils flared, and he took a deep breath. "I don’t know how to be… me, or how to be a good surgeon."
"Losing a part of yourself, especially something as integral as your leg…it must feel like losing a piece of who you are," you said, your heart breaking at the expression on his face. "Your leg was a part of you. But it doesn’t have to define your entire existence. You’re more than just a limb." He dropped his chin to his chest. "and… I know that’s really hard to believe right now."
"Apparently, limbs matter to some people," he mumbled, his whole posture seeming to collapse inward after the words slipped out.
"Look, this ex of yours? Forget her," you spat, unable to hold back any longer.
His head lifted slightly, not offended. Just curious where you were going with it.
"I mean it," you continued. "The best thing you can do is to make it to the finish line. That’s the best revenge. Get through rehab. Get cleared. Finish residency. Do that fellowship and become the attending you’ve clearly worked your ass off to be. Because… fuck her for not sticking it out with you. That’s on her. Not you."
Anger flared in your belly, because who did this to the person they supposedly loved? Seeing them hurting, seeing them fighting their way back from something life‑altering… and deciding it was too much?
"You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’re young. This—" you gestured lightly toward his leg, "—this is not the end."
He rubbed his hands over his face roughly. "You make it sound simple."
"It’s not," you said immediately. "It’s going to be hard as hell. But hard doesn’t mean impossible. Your ex…she made her choice. And now you get to make yours."
"What choice is that?"
You swallowed the lump in your throat. "You get to choose you. Your recovery. Your career. Your future. All the things that are still yours, even after everything."
He stared at you for an awkward moment, seeming to consider your words.
"If I promise not to be an asshole, will you consider being my PT…again?" he asked, ticking his jaw to the side.
You were stunned for a moment, unsure how to respond, and decided to take another sip from your water bottle (mostly to buy yourself a second), then slid it back into the side pouch of your backpack.
"Your treatment plan makes complete sense, by the way," he added quickly, the words tumbling out. "What do I know? You’re the expert here. Again, I’m so fucking sorry for what I said yesterday," he continued, clearly anxious.
"Yeah," you finally squeezed out, "that's fine, we can start next week, Dr. Abbot."
"Jack," he corrected gently. "When I’m not in the hospital, I prefer to be called by my name. Dr. Abbot is my father…and my mother."
"Oh god," you let out a dramatic gasp as you rose from the bench, "there are three of you?"
He actually chucked, and as he did, he pushed himself up from the bench to join you. For the first time, you realized you were actually seeing his teeth. He had a gorgeous smile.
"My father is a dentist. He used to be a Navy dentist, actually. Now he just works with civilians."
Service was clearly embedded in his family’s DNA. You realized some people were born into that life, raised with it, and shaped by it. You couldn't help but wonder, though…did he truly want to serve, or was it just assumed, an unspoken family tradition that he never really questioned? It was wild, in a way, how some people just stepped up, signed on, and showed up, driven by a sense of duty that seemed to pass effortlessly from one generation to the next.
You raised your brows. "So, he traded sailors for PTA moms. Got it."
"Pretty much. And my mother is a PhD."
You were fucking impressed.
"Wow. So you come from a whole family of overachievers. No pressure or anything."
He gave a small, almost shy shrug, like he wasn’t used to talking about his family.
"I’ll see you next week, Jack," you said, stepping forward and heading toward the parking lot. You’d only made it a few paces when you heard his voice behind you. "See you next week."
Without turning around, you lifted your hand in a small wave, so he’d catch it over your shoulder.
2016
Jack arrived at his parents' house, the late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the yard, and he stepped out of his car, pulling his keys from his pocket. As he made his way around to the backyard, he noticed the sounds of laughter and splashing.
He slipped through the back gate, the smell of fresh-cut grass and summer air greeting him. His mother was nearby, sitting on a chair under the shade of the umbrella, watching the kids, a book resting on her lap. She looked up, eyeing his garment bag as he approached.
"Oh, thank God, they finished your suit. How does it look?" his mother asked, a warm smile spreading across her face as she looked up from her chair.
"You'll see in a few days," Jack grinned, shrugging slightly.
His mother rolled her eyes, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "It's so like you to wait until the last minute to get these things done," she chuckled, setting her book aside as she reached out to give his arm a light squeeze.
"Hey, Dad," his son called out from the pool, the twins' faces lit with excitement. They were splashing each other, already in their swimsuits.
He paused at the edge of the pool, watching them, then called out, "Hey, guys! Looks like you're having fun!"
His daughter turned, her face bright with happiness. "Are you going to swim with us?" she asked eagerly, bubbles escaping as they splashed.
"Yes, princess, I just have to get my swimsuit on first," he said, and the twins cheered in unison.
He turned and made his way toward the house, heading inside where the inviting aroma of lunch filled the air. The potato salad was already sitting on the counter, chilled and ready, while you stood at the stove seasoning the chicken you were about to drop into the pan, humming softly as you worked. The moment Jack entered, you turned around, your eyes catching sight of his garment bag leaning against the wall.
Your gaze immediately flicked to him, and a mischievous smile curled on your lips. You reached up, fanning yourself dramatically with your hand, letting your eyes sweep over him with exaggerated appreciation. "Oh, you know exactly what you in a suit does to me."
He ducked his head, just long enough for the color to bloom across his cheekbones. He tried to hide it by looking away, but the blush crept all the way to the tips of his ears.
"How was your morning, handsome?"
He cleared his throat. "Uh… it was fine."
You looked over your shoulder, still seasoning the chicken. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." He shifted his weight, glancing toward the window like he needed somewhere else to look. "Busy."
"Busy," you echoed, amused. "That’s very descriptive."
"Mmhm." he gave a noncommittal sound.
You turned fully then, leaning a hip against the counter, studying him. His brow furrowed slightly as he observed you, a flicker of something crossing you face. "You okay?" you asked softly, stepping closer, noting the slight pallor in his cheeks.
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged with a faint smile. "Uh, yeah… I think I’m just dehydrated. I need to drink some water," he said, voice a little strained but trying to sound casual. Before you could respond, he placed a gentle kiss on your cheek and whispered, "I’ll be back in a minute, just need to change upstairs. I’m gonna join the kids in the pool."
He moved swiftly, climbing the stairs two at a time. Once upstairs, he hurried into the bedroom, grabbed his swimsuit from the dresser, took off his clothes, and carefully peeled off his prosthetic leg. He replaced it with his water-resistant one, making sure it was secure. He then slid into his swimsuit, the fabric fitting snugly against his body. After a deep breath, he slipped on a t-shirt over his swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and put it over his shoulder.
When Jack descended the stairs again, he entered the kitchen and was happy to see a tall, clear water bottle already placed on the counter by, filled to the brim with cold water. Without a word, he reached out and grasped it, bringing it to his lips. The moment the cool liquid touched his tongue, he tilted his head back and drank with a kind of urgency, as if he was desperately trying to quench more than just his thirst. The water disappeared in what felt like five seconds, leaving him slightly breathless and blinking rapidly as he lowered the empty bottle.
"Are you sure you're okay?" you asked, stepping closer, your brow creasing as you saw the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead and the quick, uneven breaths he was taking.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to compose himself. "Yeah," he said, voice a little hoarse. "It was just a weird morning."
"Weird how?" you pressed, crossing your arms gently.
"I bumped into someone," he said, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index finger. There was another long silence, and he could tell you were waiting for him to give more context. "And, I guess, it just took me by surprise." He raked his fingers through his already tousled curls, his eyes moving up and down your face.
"It was Amy."
Her name hung in the air, and he watched your face carefully. At first, you seemed to display only polite confusion, as if you were mentally flipping through a list of names that didn’t ring a bell. Then, suddenly, he saw the exact second when realization snapped into place for you. He could see it in your eyes with the subtle lift of your eyebrows, the slight parting of your lips, and the way your entire expression shifted to understanding in an instant.
"Oh," you said, reaching over and turning the stovetop down, the flame lowering with a soft click.
"Yeah," he mumbled, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his t-shirt. You took a slow breath, your gaze softening as you looked at him.
"That must have been hard for you."
Jack felt the words land somewhere deep, somewhere he didn’t want to poke at too long. Hard? Yeah, that’s putting it lightly. He gave a small shrug, casual on the surface, but he could feel the tension in his shoulders betraying him.
Bumping into Amy was like being shoved back into his old skin for a split second… only to realize it didn’t fit anymore. Sometimes, on hard days, he’d replay those moments… who he was before and who he’d become since. Part of him feared that, deep down, he still mourned that version of himself. Him before his accident. He didn’t want to stand here dissecting feelings he barely understood himself. So he cleared his throat and pivoted.
"I should, uh… probably put on some sunscreen," he muttered, his skin felt warm, and when he glanced down at his forearms, he realized they were a little red. "Guess I’ve been outside longer than I thought."
You nodded, trying to come off nonchalant, but he saw right through it. However, he appreciated that you didn’t push or ask him if he wanted to talk about it.
He grabbed the bottle of sunscreen from the counter. "I’m gonna go join the kids."
He stepped out onto the patio, the sunlight hitting him full in the face. The twins were already calling for him. His mind was swirling, and he felt guilty because he forgot to mention that he and Amy had gone out for lunch after running into each other. Not because there was anything to hide. He would tell you. But in that moment, he didn’t have it in his heart to explain how sitting across from Amy, even for a short meal, momentarily transported him back to a time before the accident, before the pain, and before everything changed.
And it felt nice.
Masterlist | You're reading Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
If I have made any mistakes with my research for the PT stuff, I apologize. The world of Google was used for the injury / physical therapy stuff, so let’s just pretend everything I’m saying makes sense. Also, trying to figure out whether active‑duty medical residents can actually get deployed has been difficult throughout my research. With Jack’s age, it’s totally possible he could’ve been sent out during the Iraq/Afghanistan years while still in residency. From what I’ve read, programs prefer not to pull residents out for deployments, but during that 2003–2007 window, there were so many deployments that it could have happened anyway. Basically, I did my best to keep things realistic, but I’m sure I got stuff wrong.
And yes, I named Jack’s ex Amy because of Animal Kingdom, so I’m totally imagining that actress as Jack’s ex lol.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
Dr. Jack Abbot x (female) reader | Dr. Jack Abbot x you
Summary: What starts with a new member in the baby group turns into jealousy - and ends in an insufferable ego boost.
Sequel to:
Part 1: You stole my cart
Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
Part 3: Wanna come over?
Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
Part 6: And you are...?
Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by that
Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
Part 13: I'll be right here and clean up the mess
Part 14: Reminds me of my time in Afghanistan, just a bit nicer
Interlude I:
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part I)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part II)
Tell me about it (The Jack Sessions - Part III)
Part 15: What's next? Bungee jumping?
Part 16: Grief-induced rebound-shag? Did he really say that?
Part 17: You can't say that anymore
Part 18: I'm not Santa but I brought gifts anyway
Part 19: You shouldn't be worrying about money
Part 20: The eyes, Jack. The eyes
Part 21: Didn't know your dad was here helping you move
Part 22: I'm a hopeless romantic trapped in the body of a slightly sarcastic boomer
Part 23: I've been thinking about something...
Part 24: Hard to predict what'll do in the haze after nightshift
Part 25: I'm not your punching bag
Part 26: Not my fault you can't keep it in your scrubs
Part 27: That's not enough time
Part 28: Congratulations on the degree, Dr. Abbot
Part 29: I didn't know she was your girl
Part 30: You guys act like he committed a crime
Part 31: You never have to apologize for calling me or being scared
Part 32: It's about the fact that I don't want you to die
Bonus Chapter: Did you actually think this through?
Part 33: You had a problem. I fixed it. No big deal
Part 34: Sorry for being so fucking late
Interlude II: And she called you?!
Part 35: You did so fucking brilliantly kiddo
Part 36: She deserves to become her own person
Part 37: I think we made a mistake
Part 38: You two do realize you're not a couple, right?
Part 39: I don't know what to do. I don't know anything
Part 40: I'm glad he finally stuck with something
Part 41: It's not against you, darling. It's just... personal
Part 42: I get it. Family isn't easy
Part 43: I don't want you thinking about my sister the first time we have sex again
Part 44: You had it coming
Bonus chapter: You don't get to decide what kind of woman I should be
Part 45: I didn't think it was all battle royal out there
Bonus chapter: Wow. Not even hypothetical me gets any freedom?
Part 46: You wanna tell me something?
Part 47: But now listen carefully - Daddy's first important life lesson for you
--- --- ---
The apartment door clicked shut behind you. You paused, listening into the silence of the apartment - it was quiet except for a soft groan coming from the bedroom. You looked down at Lizzie, who was strapped to your chest - she was asleep, making the most adorable sounds.
You slipped out of your shoes and walked into the bedroom.
Jack lay half buried in the sheets, one arm thrown over his eyes, hair a mess, completely disoriented. He looked very handsome, even in his dishevelled condition.
“... hey” he muttered.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” you whispered, already feeling guilty.
“Mhm. Don’t think so.” He paused. “No idea what time it is.”
“Three-ish.”
“Jesus. That’s offensively early.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, unpacking Lizzie from your chest, easing her down into the crib. She stirred, then settled again. Jack opened one eye to look at his daughter, a slow smile on his face.
“How was group therapy?” he asked with a grin.
You shook your head. “Mock me if you want, but it does feel like therapy” you said, stripping down to your underwear because of the heat in the apartment. “And it was actually really good. There is someone new in the group, Tracy.”
A low hum from him. Acknowledgement, not quite interest.
“We kind of clicked” you went on, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Like immediately. Same humor, same level of chaos. Very important, honestly.”
“Mhm.”
“And the baby - oh my god, so sweet. Like suspiciously calm. I don’t trust calm babies. I guess he’s the antichrist but my goodness, so cute.”
That earned you the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“And Tracy actually knows stuff. Like useful stuff. Not just ‘sleep when the baby’s asleep’ bullshit - actual tips. Like this swaddle-thing and Lizzie didn’t even scream.”
That got a little more of his attention. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded once, slow and heavy with sleep. “Good” he said. “Glad you’re making friends.”
You smiled. “Me too.” You paused, hesitating. You wanted to let him sleep but… you were just too giddy. “It’s just easy, you know? No judgement. No weird comments. Just - normal.”
Jack made a quiet approving sound.
“And the baby - the antichrist? Eli? - is really adorable. Like proper chubby cheeks. Just lays there and stares at you like you owe him money. Like the mini version of the Godfather.”
Jack snorted softly.
“Right?” you grinned. “And Tracy, my god, he is SO funny.”
Silence.
A beat.
Jack opened his eyes again.
“He?”
You blinked at him. “Yeah?”
Jack pushed himself up slightly, blinking like he was trying to wake up properly now. “Okay.”
You tilted your head, watching him. “Okay?”
“Yeah” he replied, dragging a hand over his face. “You met someone you like. That’s good.”
You studied him for a second. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re very awake all of a sudden.”
“Coincidence.”
“Of course.”
He didn’t take the bait. He just looked at you, expression steady. You watched him for another moment, then smiled. You reached out and brushed your fingers lightly through his curls.
“You should really go back to sleep” you whispered.
He caught your wrist before you could pull away. “Mhm. What about you joining me? Cuddle me back to sleep?”
You smiled. “That sounds like a great idea.”
You crawled into bed beside him, cuddling up to his warm, firm body. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.
You closed your eyes, smiling, breathing him in. Then you felt his hands already working at your bra.
“You wanted to sleep” you murmured, still smiling.
He huffed. “I just want to cuddle properly.”
“And I need to be braless for this?”
“No.” He paused for a moment. “You need to be naked for that.”
You laughed out loud. “Jack.”
“I’m serious.” He managed to pull off your bra. Then he nudged on your panties. “You feel amazing when you’re naked. Not my fault.”
You were still laughing, offering no resistance. He rolled you on your back, then lay on top of you, while pushing himself up on his elbows. He looked at you with a very smug expression, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear.
“You’re beautiful” he whispered, before kissing your neck.
You moaned softly. “Jack” you murmured.
You could feel him smiling against your skin. “I just want to kiss you a bit. Feel you.”
“Mhm.” You thought for a moment about protesting, but honestly? It was way too nice. And you were way too invested.
So you let him.
The room was warm. Too warm. The hot August sun was shining through the windows and even the curtains didn’t make any difference.
Eight parents in a circle, babies in various states of calm or complete meltdown, cups with decaffeinated coffee everywhere. One mother told a story and didn’t even flinch while her baby screamed its lungs out.
And you were actually enjoying it. These were your people. Probably the people you felt closest to right now.
“- and then he just screamed for forty minutes straight” Fiona said, who was sitting next to you, feeding her baby. “I know we are not supposed to call our babies asshats, but God, he really was one. He did it on purpose, I swear.”
You laughed, while nodding sympathetically. Lizzie was lying in front of you on the floor, staring at the ceiling like she was on something. You couldn’t even look at her without bursting into laughter.
Across from you, Tracy was grinning, shaking his head. “I think we should totally be allowed to call our kids what we want. Eli is an asshole sometimes. And I love him to pieces.” He paused for a second. “And when he’s older I’m going for a different nickname. No worries.”
You laughed again.
The door opened. You glanced up automatically - and froze.
Tracy saw your shocked face and turned.
Jack stepped in and paused for a second, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was interrupting. His shirt slightly damp, his hair still a mess from sleep, a big bakery box in one hand. He gave a small polite nod and waved awkwardly. “Hey.”
Then he saw you - and smiled genuinely. He walked over to the circle of people and placed the box down in the middle of the circle, like he was feeding a group of stray dogs. That got everyone's attention.
“You must be Jack!” Fiona said with a wide smile on her face.
Xena leaned forward. “And you brought donuts!”
Jack shrugged a little, almost awkward under the sudden focus. “Yeah. I was just around the corner and thought… it might help.”
“I love you” Xena said, while helping herself to one glazed donut. “I don’t care if I just had my husband’s baby. I love you. And if you want to run away with me - I’ve got my bag.”
“You’ve got three bags, actually” Tracy said dryly.
You laughed. “No running away. He’s mine.”
He smiled in your direction, then walked toward you. He lowered himself down beside you - careful, a little heavier on his leg - and leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.
“Hey kiddo” he murmured.
“Hey. I’m surprised you’re here. And awake.”
He shrugged. “I’m always good for a surprise.”
“That’s true.”
Lizzie made a small sound and he instinctively brushed his fingers over her cheek. She shrieked. He smiled, then leaned back again. He was quiet, present, answered when spoken to. Charming even in that low-key way that didn’t demand attention but still got it.
You beamed at him, proud because this hot piece of ass was actually your boyfriend and the father to your child. He stroked your hand absent-mindedly.
But every now and then his gaze flicked across the circle to the only other man in the room.
To Tracy.
Of course.
You rolled your eyes and continued your chat with Fiona.
A while later Jack’s phone buzzed. He looked down at the screen, then frowned.
“Sorry, it’s Shen. I have to take it” he murmured, giving you a quick kiss, then pushed himself up with a groan. He took the call, voice low and stepped outside.
“Your husband is hot” Fiona said with an approving nod while she bounced her baby on her knee. “I get why you’re so in love with him.”
You blushed. “We’re not married.”
“Not yet” Tracy said with a grin. “He’s totally gonna propose soon. I mean - he couldn’t stand being apart from you for two hours and he brought donuts to the seventh circle of hell. He’s head over heels for you.”
You let out a small laugh, rubbing your nose. “Yeah. Maybe.”
But your mind was racing. Did he actually think about getting married again? Your heart was pounding so fast against your chest, it hurt.
“But don’t say anything to him, okay?” you pleaded, looking at them. “I don’t want him to think I’ve got expectations. We’re only together for … well, a year.”
Tracy grinned. Then he stood, taking Eli aside to change his diaper.
Fiona let out a quiet whistle. “Well, you guys seem to like the fast pace. So…”
You laughed and opened your mouth to say something, when you saw Jack walking back into the room. He lingered near the entrance for a second, finishing whatever he was saying, then slipping his phone back into his pocket.
He glanced toward you then noticed Tracy, who was about to finish Eli’s diaper change. He gathered Eli back into his arms and stood. Then he said something to Jack, who looked wary.
And then they actually started talking.
You could hear Tracy laugh. And then you saw Jack’s mouth twitching in response. Tracy gave him a small clap on the shoulder.
You blinked, but before you could stare any longer, Lizzie demanded your attention. She began crying - like full-blown crying, fists clenched, tears streaming down her reddening face - and you scooped her up immediately. You unhooked your nursing bra. She fussed at your breast for a couple of moments longer, then began drinking.
“She’s got quite the voice, eh?” Fiona said, who was nursing her baby as well.
You shrugged with a half smile. “I think she just wants to hear her own voice.”
“She wants everyone to hear her voice” she replied and you laughed.
You were utterly exhausted as you walked home through the park. Jack pushed the stroller, his hands steady on the handle, while Lizzie was gurgling, kicking her arms and legs and shrieking.
You leaned your head on Jack’s shoulder just for a moment.
“So” you said.
“So” he repeated with a small grin.
“You stayed longer than expected.”
“Yeah.” He paused for a moment. “I got pulled into a conversation.”
“With Tracy.”
“Yeah.”
You looked at him, searching his face. “And? Are you still jealous?”
“No.”
You could see something in his face. An expression you didn’t see too often. He was smug.
Very smug. You furrowed your brows.
“Oh, we had a great conversation.”
“What does that mean?”
He exhaled through his nose, clearly trying - and failing - not to smile. “He’s very friendly.”
“Yeah he is” you said, warily.
He paused for a moment.
“Apparently” he said then. “You’ve been underselling me. Significantly.”
You stopped mid-step. “What?”
“Yeah. It seems like your description didn’t really meet the reality.”
You stared at him. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
“Also” he continued. “I’ve apparently been robbed of multiple opportunities. If I were single and you weren’t as charming as you are that conversation would have gone in a very different direction.”
“Oh my god.”
He glanced ahead, then back at you. “Tracy and his husband Phoenix are apparently in a committed open relationship and don’t care if someone else is tagging along.”
You covered your face for a second. “Jack.”
“I’m just relaying what was said-” he said with a shrug, then added “extensively.”
“Of course you are.”
“Did you know about his husband?” Jack asked.
“Yeah, sure. We talked about it. They had a surrogate” you said.
He blinked. “You knew?”
“Sure” you said simply. “And just for the record - you’re enjoying this way too much.”
He shrugged. You bumped your shoulder against his.
“You loved it.”
“Didn’t hate it” he said with a small shrug.
“Good for your ego, eh?”
“Very good” he agreed.
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You grabbed it and glanced at the screen. A message from Tracy:
You NEVER told me your boyfriend’s a total smokeshow?!?!?!?!?!!!! This face? These arms?!! I thought we’re friends! I mean - hello?!?!?!
You snorted, then laughed properly. Beside you Jack slowed the stroller just a fraction.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah” you said quickly, still smiling at your phone.
“Why did you laugh?”
“Funny message” you said with a shrug, then looked back at him. “So are you coming with me next week or are you going to just keep dropping off baked goods like some kind of mysterious benefactor?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I’d like to be the literal sugar daddy for your group” he said with a grin.
You laughed.
“What was that message about?” he asked a second later.
“It was kind of private.”
“That has never stopped you before” he said, his brows furrowed.
You hesitated, then sighed. “Fine” you muttered. “But you’re going to be insufferable about this. I know this.”
“I’m already insufferable” he said with a shrug. “This won’t change anything.”
You huffed, then unlocked the screen and handed it over. He took it and read. A slow, very satisfied smile spread across his face.
You groaned. “I knew it.”
He looked up at you, eyebrows slightly raised. “This is very… aggressive."
“I didn’t write it.”
Jack glanced back at the screen. “It’s fair though.”
You stared at him. “Oh my god you didn’t say that, did you?”
He grinned and stopped walking. He slung one arm around your shoulder, pulling you in before you could protest. He pulled you flush against his side and angled the phone. He took a picture of you two.
Then he glanced at it.
“Yeah” he said with a very pleased voice. “That’ll do.”
“Jack-”
He was already typing, tilting the phone just out of your reach. Then he hit send, still smiling. He handed it over to you.
You read:
Jack here. Appreciate the feedback. She’s clearly been holding out on you. You don’t look too shabby yourself. See you around.
You stared at the screen. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“That is so…”
“Charming?” he offered.
“Smug. Unbelievably smug.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a smokeshow.”
You laughed out loud. “I’ll never hear the end of this, right?”
Your phone buzzed again before he could reply. You both glanced down at the screen. You immediately lost it.
Jack took a second longer to read it. “... wow.”
You two should make more babies. That face needs to populate a whole bloodline. My gosh, babe. Seriously. I’ll dream about him tonight x
Jack looked at you. Not laughing. Not joking. Just deeply, deeply satisfied.
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do whatever that is.” You gestured to his face.
“I’m not doing anything. I just… appreciate the feedback.”
You laughed.
He pulled you in closer, kissing you. “I mean” he murmured when he pulled back. “He’s not wrong, you know?”
You stared at him. “Oh. My. God.”
“What?”
“You agree with him.”
“I’m just… acknowledging an external observation” he said, choosing his words carefully.
You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”
“Mhm.” He gave you another kiss then started walking again. “... populate a whole bloodline though” he said, almost thoughtfully.
“Jack.”
He leaned in to have a better look into the stroller. “I’m just saying - we did make a pretty cute one.”
Your expression softened immediately. “Yeah. Yeah we did.”
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon. I promise! :)
--- --- ---
A/N: I've already mapped out most of the chapters for this story but I'd still love to hear what you'd like to see!
If there's a scene you're hoping for, something you'd like more of (Jack's family, more moments with the rest of The Pitt, fluff, chaos, drama… you name it) just leave a comment or send me a message.
I can't promise everything will fit into the story but I love reading your ideas and they often inspire new scenes.
Summary: Some nights are harder than others. Good thing you're not facing them alone anymore.
Sequel to:
Part 1: You stole my cart
Part 2: Wanna grab coffee?
Part 3: Wanna come over?
Part 4: I knew you were trouble
Part 5: Am I your girlfriend?
Part 6: And you are...?
Part 7: I can't compete with ghosts
Part 8: I'm like Mary Poppins - just more handsome and with more drugs
Part 9: I've got a face for television, baby
Part 10: I pretend I'm not completely confused by that
Part 11: I told you to slow down with the drinks
Part 12: Don't you dare apologize, kiddo
--- --- ---
It was pitch black in the room when you woke from a violent, seismic shift deep inside you. You sat up instantly, tried to breathe through the feeling, when a cold wave of nausea rolled up from your stomach, stealing your breath and making your muscles clench.
You stiffened and a choked gasp escaped your lips.
That’s what woke Jack up.
“Sweetheart, what’s going on?”
You couldn’t answer. You stumbled out of bed, your hand flying to your mouth.
“Bathroom” you managed to gasp out, the work thick and distorted.
The short distance to the bathroom felt like a marathon. You barely made it to the toilet before your body betrayed you, wrenching violently. You fell to your knee, the cold tile a shock against your bare skin and gripped the sides of the bowl as you heaved.
You could hear Jack rustling in the bedroom. He needed time to put on his prosthetics. But you didn’t care anyway. You were completely consumed by the sick feeling in your stomach and the effort it took to empty it again and again.
Then you felt him kneeling behind you. One hand gathered your hair from face, the other pressed a warm, steady circle between your shoulder blades.
He didn’t say anything. He just held you - a solid, silent presence in the small room.
When the first wave subsided, you collapsed back against him, panting.
“Sorry” you whispered. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
He hushed you, his lips brushing against your temple. “It’s all right, sweetheart. We’re doing this together. All of it.”
You managed a faint smile and closed your eyes, leaning your weight against him. Then another cramp seized you and you lurched forward again, gagging. Jack held you tighter, his hand never leaving your back, his voice a low constant murmur of reassurance.
“That’s it. Just get it out. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
When it was finally over, you were a limp shaking mess, sweat beading on your forehand and tears tracking down your cheeks. You leaned back against him completely, too exhausted to hold yourself up.
He shifted, carefully maneuvering you so were sitting on the floor, leaning against his chest. He reached over and flushed the toilet, the sound loud in the sudden silence.
“Okay” he said, his voice soft but firm. He tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m going to call a colleague of mine in the morning. We need to get you checked out before I start getting actually concerned."
You just nodded, your head lolling against his shoulder. You felt hollowed out, utterly spent.
He shifted again, getting his arms under you. “Come on. Up you go.”
He lifted you with a grunt, his prosthetic wobbling as he steadied himself and carried you back to the bedroom. He laid you down on the bed and pulled the covers over you.
You watched him through heavy-lidden eyes as he went to the kitchen. You heard the clink of a glass, the sound of rushing water and then he was back, holding out a glass of water with a straw.
“Drink. Small sips” he instructed, sitting on the edge of the bed.
You did as he said - at last it was a doctors order - and the cool water soothed your raw throat.
He took the glass from you and set in on the nightstand. Then he did something that surprised you. He lay down beside you - with his prosthetics still on - and pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.
He just held you, his hand tracing slow lazy patterns on your arm.
“I’m scared” you admitted finally, your voice small and hoarse.
He pressed a kiss to your hair. “I know. But you’re not doing this scared and alone.” he said, tightening his hold. “We’re doing it scared and together. And I’m getting you something that will help with the nausea. Okay?”
You closed your eyes and nodded.
The steady beat of his heart against your back calmed the last of the tremors. The nausea was gone, leaving behind a profound weakness.
But as least you weren’t alone. You felt like utter shit but this was progress.
When you woke up the next morning you found Jack sitting beside your bed, watching you. You blinked in confusion.
As soon as he noticed you were awake, he leaned down and kissed you.
“Morning kiddo.”
He stroked your cheek softly with his thumb, then grabbed something from the nightstand. “I’ve got you something. No jewellery this time, I’m afraid, but something better.”
You carefully sat up, wiping sleep from your eyes. “What is it?”
He put a drug blister in the palm of your hand. “Zofran. It’s for nausea and it’s safe during pregnancy. Just let it dissolve under your tongue. It should help.”
You couldn’t help but smiling. “You are such a doctor” you teased, but did exactly as he told you.
“Good girl.” He leaned over and kissed you again. “Just stay put. I’ll bring you some tea and then I’ll make some calls for your check up.”
You swallowed hard, touched by his effort. “Thank you” you managed, your voice tight.
He tilted his head. “Of course. I got you in this situation. I’ll get you through. That’s what handsome, skilled doctor boyfriends with amazing biceps are there for.”
You shook your head slightly.
“You forgot cocky” you whispered.
When evening came you felt like a completely new person. You were propped up against a mountain of pillows on the sofa - Jacks idea, not yours -, a plush blanket over your legs. Jack lay beside you, his hand on your thigh, stroking you absent-minded.
He had also kept his word - you had an appointment with his colleague the day after tomorrow. This alone helped calm you down.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity you felt … almost normal.
Zofran seemed to be a miracle drug. You’d even managed to watch a whole movie without dozing off or puking your guts out.
As the credits rolled a specific, undeniable craving hit you like a punch. It wasn’t a vague desire. It was a command from your very cells.
“Jack?” Your voice still a little weak, but clear.
He looked up instantly. “Yeah? Do you need anything?”
You nodded. “Yes. I think… I think i’ve got a craving.”
He raised an eyebrow, “Okay, come on - humor me. Which one?”
“Bagels.”
He blinked. “Bagels?”
“Bagels” you confirmed. “From The Rolling Pin. Still warm. With that whipped cream cheese they have.”
He tilted his head. “That place is across town.”
“I know.” you said, suddenly feeling guilty. You waved your hand dismissively. “You’re right. It’s bonkers.”
He chuckled. “No, no. I’m glad I’m here to witness your first actual pregnancy craving. It’s a big thing, you know?” He leaned over and kissed you. “You sure about this?”
You nodded, suddenly giddy at the thought of eating.
“Okay.” He stood up. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes, traffic gods willing.”
“You’re the best” you said while he was putting on his shoes.
He looked up and winked. “Sweetheart - I know.”
True to his word, forty-five minutes later the key turned in the lock. He walked in, carrying a familiar brown paper bag, the scent of warm, yeasty bread wafting into the room.
It was the best smell you had ever smelled.
“Mission accomplished.” he announced, setting the bag in front of you.
He sat beside you on the sofa, pulling two warm bagels from the bag. Then he spread a thick, generous layer of cream cheese on one half and handed it to you.
“Just - slowly, okay?” he said with a concerned look.
You tried.
You really tried.
But after the first bite you couldn’t stop.
The chewy bread, the salty seeds, the cream cheese - it was everything you’d been dreaming of.
You devoured it in seconds.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted” you moaned, closing your eyes in bliss.
Jack watched you, his expression soft and happy, nibbling on his own plain bagel. “Good,.”
You were halfway through the other half of the bagel, still feeling triumphant, when it happened.
It wasn’t a slow build.
It was an ambush,
One moment you were savoring the perfection of the bagel, the next a cold oily dread washed over you. Your eyes flew open. The bagel fell from your hand onto the blanket.
“Jack” you gasped, your face draining of color.
His head snapped toward you. “What? What is it?”
You didn’t have to answer.
You clapped a hand over your mouth and bolted from the sofa, struggling with the blanket, stumbling toward the bathroom. You made it in time, collapsing to your knees as your body violently rejected the glorious meal you had just been enjoying.
It was worse than before. It felt like it was tearing you apart from the inside out.
And this time it wasn’t just the physical pain. It was the crushing, agonizing weight of pure, unadulterated frustration.
When it was finally over you slumped against the bathroom wall, a trembling sobbing mess. You weren’t just crying. You were wailing - a sound of raw, furious despair.
Jack was there, rubbing your back. “Hey, hey, it’s okay” he said softly. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”
“It’s not okay” you managed, your voice hoarse and broken. “It’s not fucking okay. You just ran across town because I had this stupid craving and now it’s… it’s gone. You are so incredibly sweet. I was so happy. It was perfect. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. I hate this. I hate this so much.”
You dissolved into a fresh wave of gut-wrenching sobs, burying your face in your hands.
He didn’t try to shush you.
He just sat down on the floor and pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you and letting you cry it out against his chest.
“I know” he said, quietly into your hair. “I know sweetheart. It’s not fair. You’re allowed to be pissed. You’re allowed to hate it.”
You cried until you had nothing left, your body going limp with exhaustion.
He held you for a long time, rocking you gently. Then he kissed the top of your head.
“Come on” he whispered. “Lets get you cleaned up.”
He helped you up, his arm steady around your waist. He wet a washcloth and gently wiped your face, his touch impossibly gently.
He helped you rinse your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.
“I’m calling my colleague first thing tomorrow morning” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t just morning sickness. We’re getting you on a stronger regimen. Maybe even a pump. We’re not letting this beat you. You understand?”
You just nodded, too exhausted to speak.
“And I’m going to the store and buy ten different kinds of ginger ale and a case of saltines. We’ll find something you can keep down. I promise.”
You looked at him, at the fierce, determination in his eyes.
“I’m sorry I freaked out” you whispered.
“Don’t.” he said, firmly. “You get to freak out. As much as you want. I’ll be right here and clean up the mess. And the bodies.”
He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “The bagel won the fight tonight, but the battle is not over. We’re going to win it. Together.”
You smiled weakly.
You really wanted to believe him.
--- --- ---
You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon. I promise! :)
Dr. Micheal ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x fem nurse reader
Part thirty seven
Synopsis: Three times baths have been integral in their relationship.
Warnings: smut, p in v, making out, grinding, arguments, angst, typical medical gore, incorrect medical terminology, incorrect medical verbage, anxiety.
Masterlist
The shift itself had not been catastrophic, which almost made it worse. No codes that spiraled out of control. No losses. No moment where everything stopped and the room went quiet. Just hours of small, grinding things that chipped away at her. A headache that started mid morning and never left. Patients who snapped at her for things she could not control. Families who demanded answers she did not have yet. Charting that felt endless. A dozen conversations where she stayed calm and steady and kind while something inside her slowly drained.
By the time she stepped off the floor and into the locker room to grab her things she felt hollowed out. He was waiting near the door, leaning against the frame, jacket slung over one shoulder. He straightened when he saw her, immediately clocking the difference in her posture. She walked toward him slower than usual, bag hanging heavy at her side.
"Ready to go?" he asked lightly, falling into step beside her.
She nodded. "Yeah."
That was all she said. He didn't push. He just adjusted his pace to match hers and started the short walk back toward their building. He noticed the way she kept one hand pressed lightly to her temple, the way her shoulders were slightly rounded forward. He slipped his hand into hers without comment, thumb brushing once over her knuckles. She squeezed back. The air was cool and smelled faintly of rain. They walked in silence for most of it, not uncomfortable, just quiet. He could feel that something was off. He was replaying the day trying to remember if there was something that may have happened to trigger this. When they reached the building, he held the door open for her and followed her inside. In the hallway between their apartments, she paused.
"I think I'm just going to go home and have a bath," she said softly, avoiding his eyes for a second. "I really need to."
"Everything okay," he asked as he studied her face carefully.
She nodded too quickly. "Yeah. I just... I need to sit in silence for a minute."
He nodded once. "Okay."
He didn't make it bigger than that.
"I'll shower," he added. "Make dinner. I'll bring it down, alright."
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Okay."
He watched her unlock her door and step inside, closing it gently behind her. He stood there a moment longer than necessary before heading into his own apartment.
Inside her bathroom, the overhead light felt too bright at first. She turned on the faucet and watched the water spill into the tub, steam beginning to curl upward as the heat built. She stripped out of her scrubs slowly, dropping them in a heap by the sink, then sat on the edge of the tub and leaned her head back against the wall. Her body felt like it was buzzing under her skin. Exhausted but unable to fully shut down. The migraine still pressed behind her eyes. The tub filled steadily, the sound of rushing water filling the small space.
When it was deep enough, she turned it off and eased herself in, lowering slowly until the warmth wrapped around her shoulders. She let out a small breath she hadn't realized she was holding and leaned her head back against the porcelain edge. The heat seeped into her muscles and she closed her eyes. She didn't know how long she sat there. Long enough that the steam thinned. Long enough that the water lost some of its warmth. Long enough that her mind drifted from one half formed thought to nothing at all.
The bathroom door opened softly. She didn't react at first. She hadn't heard him walk in. He stepped in quietly, taking in the scene in a single sweep. The dim light, the silence and lack of podcast or music in the background, the way she was staring up at the ceiling like she was somewhere far away. He crouched beside the tub, forearms resting on the edge.
"Hey," he said gently.
She blinked and turned her head slightly toward him.
"Hey, baby," he continued, voice soft but grounded. "What's going on."
"Nothing," she said automatically. "I'm good. Just needed a second."
He tilted his head slightly. "You wanna try again?"
She gave him a faint look. "It's really nothing."
He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly along her shoulder, and then frowned almost immediately. The water was cold. He dipped his hand in properly. Definitely cold.
"Okay," he said, shifting tone slightly. "We're not marinating you in cold water."
She frowned faintly. "I wanna stay."
"You can stay," he replied calmly. "But not not in a tub that's basically room temperature."
He reached for the drain and pulled it, water beginning to swirl away.
"I can do it," she murmured.
"I know you can," he said without looking at her.
He turned the faucet back on, adjusting it carefully with his hand under the stream until the temperature was right. Steam rose again, slow and steady. She sat there staring at the wall. He shifted to sit on the floor beside the tub, back against the cabinet, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
"You gonna talk to me?" he asked quietly.
"I'm just tired," she said, voice thin.
He nodded once. "Okay."
He gave no lecture, he didn't enter fix it mode. When the tub filled again, he tested the water and glanced at her.
"Too hot?"
She slid her hand into it, then sank back slowly. "It's perfect."
He rested his forearm along the edge of the tub near her and rubbed her back gently, firm but slow circles between her shoulder blades.
She swallowed. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
He snorted softly. "You worked a twelve hour shift with a migraine and a bunch of people yelling at you. That's what's wrong."
She didn't respond. She let out a shaky breath, running her hands over her face, focusing on the pounding in her head.
"Can I wash you," he asked after a moment.
She hesitated, then nodded. He grabbed the washcloth, dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and started at her shoulders. His movements were steady and deliberate. He washed her arms, her collarbone, the back of her neck, careful and gentle. She closed her eyes.
"I'm sorry I keep doing this," she whispered. "I wish I could just be normal. You didn't sign up for this."
"Whoa," he said, leaning forward so she had to look at him. "Stop."
Her eyes flicked to his.
"I don't 'deal' with you," he said, voice firm but not harsh. "I chose you. Every single day. And I know exactly how lucky I am. You think I don't see how hard you work? How much you carry? You think I don't know what I signed up for?"
A tear slid down her cheek and she wiped it away quickly.
"I adore you," he said plainly. "All of you. Not just the easy parts."
"I love you," she whispered. She didn't have a bigger response than the truth.
He brushed his thumb under her eye gently. "I love you."
He finished washing her carefully, like she might fall apart if he moved too fast. When he was done, he stood and grabbed a towel.
"Ready to get out," he asked.
She nodded faintly. He helped her stand, steadying her by the elbows as she stepped carefully onto the mat. He wrapped the towel around her immediately and pulled her into him for a second, chin resting lightly on the top of her head.
"You're okay," he murmured.
He dried her off methodically, hands warm and sure. When she slipped into underwear and one of his oversized shirts that hung loosely on her frame, he smiled faintly at the sight of it.
"That's mine," he said lightly.
She gave him a small look. "I know."
"Come on," he said gently. He slipped his hand into hers. "You need food."
And he stayed close, steady and very much himself, as he led her toward the kitchen. Dinner stretched out a little longer than she expected, mostly because he quietly refused to let her rush through it. He had set the plates down and taken the seat beside her instead of across, close enough that his thigh pressed lightly against hers. When she slowed after a few bites, staring at the plate like it required too much effort, he reached over and nudged her fork back toward her hand.
"Eat," he said calmly.
"I am eating," she muttered.
"You took three bites."
She shot him a look, but there wasn't any real resistance in it. She took another bite, chewing slowly.
"Good," he murmured, as if that settled it.
There was something grounding about the way he did it. No dramatics, just quiet expectation. When she paused again, he brushed his thumb lightly over her knee under the table.
"You're not skipping dinner because you're tired," he said softly. "You need fuel."
She sighed faintly but kept eating. By the time she finished most of what he'd given her, the ache behind her eyes had dulled just slightly. He stood to clear the plates before she could even offer, then returned with a glass of water and a small bottle of medicine.
"Here," he said, placing them in front of her.
She looked up at him. "You're serious."
"You've had a migraine all day," he replied. "Take it."
She rolled her eyes gently but did as she was told, swallowing the pills and chasing them with water.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He nodded once. "Yeah."
He disappeared briefly into the freezer and came back with an ice pack wrapped in a thin kitchen towel. "For later," he said, setting it on the counter.
She watched him for a second, that soft ache in her chest returning for a different reason. They moved through their nighttime routine without needing to talk much. In the bathroom, they brushed their teeth side by side, shoulders bumping lightly at the sink. The mirror was still slightly fogged from her earlier bath, and the room smelled faintly of eucalyptus from the soap. When they finished, she handed him the moisturizer automatically. He took it without comment.
"You're very consistent with this now I've noticed." she teased softly as he squeezed a small amount onto his fingers.
He smoothed it over her cheek first, thumb gentle along her jaw. "It's been working."
"I told you," she said, smiling.
"Yeah," he replied. "You did."
He finished with her before rubbing the rest into his own skin, following the exact pattern she had shown him weeks ago. She giggled quietly watching him mimic her routine so seriously.
"You listened."
"Of course I listened," he said simply. "You tell me something, I remember it."
That made her quieter. They turned off the lights and moved into the bedroom, the space dim and calm. She slipped under the blankets first, curling slightly onto her side. He set the ice pack gently on the nightstand within reach before climbing in behind her. He wrapped his arm around her waist automatically, pulling her back into his chest. After a second, he reached for the ice pack and pressed it gently against her temple, holding it there.
"Too cold?" he asked softly.
"No," she murmured. "It's good."
"You want me to rub your head," he asked, voice low against her hair.
She shook her head faintly. "No, it's okay. I think I'm going to pass out right now."
"Alright," he said quietly. "Just sleep."
He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, careful not to jostle the ice pack, then another to the back of her head.
"Goodnight," he murmured.
"Goodnight," she breathed.
He kept his arm around her, steady and warm, thumb tracing a slow line along her side until her breathing evened out. Within minutes, she was asleep, her body fully relaxed against him. He stayed awake just long enough to make sure her breathing stayed steady, then closed his eyes too, holding her a little tighter before sleep took him as well.
-
It started as a joke. They were standing in his bathroom after a long week, the kind where everything had felt just slightly heavier than usual. His place was quiet, warm, and the massive built-in tub sat in the corner beneath a frosted window, steam already beginning to fog the glass as he tested the water temperature with the seriousness of a man calibrating medical equipment.
"You realize," he said casually, glancing over his shoulder at her, "This tub is big enough for two."
She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying him. "Are you trying to romance me right now or are you genuinely concerned about hydrotherapy."
"Efficient stress management," he replied. "You like baths. I like you. This is a win."
She grinned and stepped forward, pouring a generous amount of bubble bath into the rushing water. Foam bloomed instantly, rising in thick white clouds.
He narrowed his eyes at it. "That feels excessive."
"It's called ambiance," she said confidently.
By the time they eased into the water, steam had curled around the ceiling and bubbles had taken over half the surface. The tub was deep enough that they could stretch their legs without playing footsie unless they meant to. She slid in first, sighing softly as the heat wrapped around her shoulders, and he followed a second later, lowering himself carefully opposite her. For a moment, they just looked at each other through the haze of steam and foam.
"This is... elite," he admitted.
She smirked. "I know."
Then she reached for her phone on the counter. He didn't think much of it until the opening beat blasted through the speaker. 'Pacer by Doechii' on full blast.
"What the hell is this," he asked, staring at her across the bubbles.
She immediately started mouthing along to the lyrics, shoulders bouncing slightly to the beat. "It's Doechii."
"It sounds like someone's threatening me," he replied flatly.
She gasped dramatically. "You're so fucking old oh my godddd."
He ran a hand down his face. "We are in a bath. Why is there bass? It's supposed to be relaxing is it not?"
"It's bad bitch music," she said proudly.
He stared at her, foam clinging to his forearms. "Bad bitch music, In a bubble bath?"
"It never gets old," she insisted, pointing at him with mock authority.
"For the love of God," he muttered, "Put on something that doesn't sound like it belongs in a club at two in the morning."
She narrowed her eyes. "Boomer."
He went still. "Ain't no way you just said that."
She grinned, clearly delighted with herself.
"You are," she continued, pointing her finger at him.
He leaned forward slowly, eyes narrowing with exaggerated menace. "Say it again."
"Boomer."
He lunged. Not aggressively, just enough to grab her around the waist through the bubbles. His fingers found her sides and started tickling mercilessly.
She shrieked immediately, laughter exploding out of her as she tried to twist away. "Michael!"
Water surged against the edge of the tub as she thrashed playfully, bubbles flying everywhere.
"You wanna call me a boomer," he teased, continuing his assault.
She scooped up a handful of foam and flung it at his face in retaliation. It stuck briefly to his beard before sliding down his jaw.
He wiped it away slowly. "Oh. It's like that."
They devolved into a mini bubble war, tossing handfuls of foam back and forth like children, laughing harder with every splash. Water sloshed over the side and splattered onto the tile floor. She gasped mid laugh when another wave spilled over.
"We are absolutely flooding the neighbors downstairs."
He glanced at the water on the tile and then back at her, completely unbothered. "They'll be fine for a few more minutes, right?"
She stared at him in disbelief before dissolving into laughter again. Eventually the chaos fizzled out into breathless giggles. He reached for her through the bubbles and pulled her toward him, guiding her until she was sitting between his legs with her back against his chest. The water settled again, small ripples smoothing out. The music still played in the background, Doechii's voice echoing confidently off the tile. She leaned back into him fully, head resting against his shoulder, damp hair sticking lightly to his collarbone.
"You're ridiculous," she murmured.
"You started it, throwing fighting words at me," he replied.
She reached back and flicked a stray bubble off his shoulder. "You love my music."
He snorted softly. "I tolerate your music."
She twisted slightly to look up at him. "You love that I'm a bad bitch."
He pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "I love that you think you are."
She gasped again in mock offense and splashed lightly at his chest. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer until her laughter softened into something quieter. The music kept playing, but the volume felt less intrusive now. The steam curled lazily around them, and the warmth of the water seeped back into their muscles after the chaos. He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head and traced slow, lazy patterns against her side beneath the bubbles.
"This is nice," he admitted quietly.
She hummed in agreement. She turned the music down just slightly, not enough to surrender, but enough to soften the edge.
"You're still a boomer," she whispered.
He chuckled against her hair and squeezed her gently. "Keep talking."
She smiled and let her eyes close, completely relaxed now, wrapped in warmth and bubbles and his arms. The water cooled slowly, but neither of them moved. It was ridiculous and playful and loud and then quiet again. The bathroom looked like a crime scene, if the weapon had been bubbles.
Water streaked across the tile in reflective puddles, foam clung to the base of the tub, and two very damp adults stood in the middle of it wrapped in towels that were hanging on by a thread. He stepped out first, steady and confident, reaching automatically to wrap a towel around her before securing his own low around his hips. She smiled at the instinct, letting him tuck it securely under her arm before she grabbed another towel to start blotting the floor.
"This is definitely your fault," he said, tossing a spare towel at her feet.
She scoffed. "You escalated."
He crouched to soak up a larger puddle near the sink, one knee pressed to the tile, reaching forward to drag the towel across the floor, and his foot slid. There was no graceful recovery, no heroic save. His leg shot out from under him and he went down hard on his side with a loud, wet thud, towel barely staying intact. She froze mid-blot.
"Oh my God," she gasped, dropping to her knees beside him. "Are you okay?"
He blinked at the ceiling for a second, stunned more by surprise than pain. "Yeah," he said, breathless. "I'm good."
"You didn't hit your head?"
"No."
"Your back?"
"No."
She scanned him like she was about to call in a trauma team.
"I'm fine," he insisted, pushing himself up onto one elbow.
There was a beat of silence. Her lips trembled, she tried so hard to hold it in, she failed spectacularly. The first laugh slipped out before she could stop it, a small choked sound. Then another, and then it completely took over. She clapped both hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking violently.
He narrowed his eyes at her from the floor. "Don't."
That only made it worse. She bent forward, wheezing now, trying to apologize between gasps. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry!"
"You are not sorry," he accused.
She was laughing so hard she had to brace herself against the cabinet, tears streaming down her face.
"The way you just-" she tried, failing to finish the sentence.
"Don't narrate it."
She collapsed onto her heels, still cackling. He stared at her in disbelief, then slowly pushed himself to sitting, dignity bruised but body intact.
"Are you done," he asked.
She tried to inhale and center herself, but she failed, and simply laughed harder.
"You're unbelievable."
"I checked if you were okay," she managed through giggles.
"And then you chose violence."
"You just- you slid so fast," she wheezed, clutching her stomach. "You're so old and fragile."
He stood up carefully this time, eyes narrowing.
"Old and fragile?" he repeated.
Before she could react, his hand came down in a quick, playful slap against her ass.
She yelped, half scandalized, half delighted. "Robby!"
"Careful," he warned lightly. "You're skating on thin ice."
She was still giggling as they resumed cleaning, stealing glances at him and dissolving all over again. He muttered under his breath, "Zero loyalty."
"I said I was sorry," she insisted.
"You were fucking laughing."
She opened her mouth to argue and her own foot betrayed her. Her heel slid sideways on a damp patch she hadn't noticed, and she went down with a surprised squeak, towel slipping dangerously as she landed on her side. There was a split second of stunned silence. They locked eyes, his mouth twitched, and then he absolutely lost it. Not the small controlled laugh he usually allowed himself. Not the polite chuckle he gave at work when something was funny but he needed to stay composed.
This was full, unfiltered laughter. It burst out of him loud and deep, echoing off the tile walls. He bent forward at the waist, one hand braced against the counter, shoulders shaking violently as he tried and failed to regain control. She stared at him from the floor in shock for half a second. Then she started laughing too, the way his head tipped back slightly when it hit a peak. At the way he tried to inhale and only made it worse. At the rare, unguarded, completely unprofessional joy of it. He didn't laugh like this often. At work he was steady, neutral, controlled. Even at home his laughter was usually warm but contained. This was different. It was bright and loud and refreshing.
"You-" she tried, but she was wheezing again, tears rolling down her cheeks.
He pointed at her helplessly, still laughing. "Old and fragile, at least I have a fucking excuse what do you have to say for yourself?"
She smacked the tile lightly in defeat, gasping for air. He finally forced himself upright, wiping at his eyes, still grinning. He stepped toward her and crouched down.
"Are you okay," he asked, still breathless with laughter.
"Yes," she shot back between giggles. "Thank you for asking ten minutes later after laughing at me."
He reached down and hauled her up carefully, still chuckling. She leaned into him as she stood, both of them swaying slightly from the aftershocks of laughter.
"You sound insane," she said, still smiling up at him. "I've never heard you laugh like that."
He shrugged, trying to look composed again but failing because he was still grinning. She reached up and wiped at his cheek where a tear had escaped. He tightened his arm around her waist.
"We're both banned from the bath."
She nodded solemnly. "Agreed."
They shuffled carefully this time, blotting up the last of the water like two chastened children. Every so often one of them would glance at the other and start giggling again.
"You are never calling me old again," he said.
"Fine," she replied sweetly. "I'll just call you old timer? Its different, like a remix version of it."
He shot her a look, she beamed at him as she watched him try not to smile.
"Finish cleaning," he said, nudging her lightly toward the last puddle.
"Yes, sir," she teased.
-
It was going to be their first real night off together in almost a month. No last-minute consults bleeding into the next shift. No call backs just as they were sitting down to eat. Four full days, they had circled it on the calendar weeks ago like it was sacred. She had made dinner reservations at the Italian place they loved. She had picked out a movie she knew they would both enjoy, and even stocked up with ice cream. They had talked about sleeping in, about maybe taking a drive somewhere for the day, just because they could.
They needed this time, it was been a month of constant OT, traumatic cases, 13/14 hour days, and constant call backs. She had been giddy all day, she was in a great mood despite being yelled at twice and nearly puked on. It had been a relatively slow day thankfully, and she even finished her hand off early. Ten minutes before sign-out, the trauma phone went off. The sound cut through the ER like a blade. He had looked up immediately. That look she knew too well settled over his face.
"Robby we got a car crash victim coming in, impaled through the waist, glass still inside. Chen is out sick and Abbot is stuck in Trauma 2-"
"I got it," he says.
She didn't stop to let the dissapointment settle in, but she didn't hesitate. She walked over to him and set her back down.
"I'll stay," she said right away, already stepping closer to the desk.
He didn't look at her. "You're off."
"I know, but I can help."
He was flipping through the chart on the computer now, scanning the incoming notes. "It's not your case."
"I don't care."
"I said go home." He said. Just sharp enough that it sliced through the normal hum of the department.
The nurses' station went quiet. It wasn't just what he said, It was how he said it. She felt the heat climb up her neck instantly as attention shifted to them. It wasn't often that Robby took that tone with her.
"I'm offering to help," she said, keeping her voice low but tight.
"And I'm telling you to clock out," he replied without looking up.
She stared at him for a beat, disbelief flashing across her face. "Why are you acting like I'm in the way?"
He finally looked at her then, jaw set. "Because you are not assigned to this. You've been here twelve hours."
"So have you."
"That's not the point."
"It is the point," she shot back.
He inhaled sharply. "Do not do this here."
She felt every pair of eyes pretending not to watch.
"Then don't talk to me like that," she muttered.
"Like what?" he asked, voice low but clipped.
"Like I'm a problem when I'm just trying to help."
"You're making it a problem."
She turned and walked down the hallway toward the exit, not trusting herself to say anything else in front of everyone. She heard his footsteps follow a few seconds later. The hallway was dimmer, quieter, but not private enough. She could hear him following after her and she didn't stop walking until he grabbed her arm stopping her. She whipped around and pushed him back.
"What was that?" she demanded as soon as he stepped in behind her.
"What was what?" he replied, controlled but visibly tense.
"You snapping at me like I'm some intern who stepped out of line."
"I didn't snap."
"You absolutely did."
His voice lowered further. "You pushed me when I gave you an order."
"I offered to stay," she said. "Because I care."
"And I told you no."
"Why?"
"Because it's not your case."
"That's not an answer."
He ran a hand down his face. "It is the answer."
She folded her arms. "You look exhausted. I wanted to stay with you."
"And I didn't want you here if you didn't have to be."
"That's not your decision to make."
"In case you've forgotten this is my department, every decision is mine."
"There it is," she snapped. "Your department!"
He stared at her, eyes narrowing slightly. "Do not turn this into something it's not."
"It already is," she said. "We haven't had a night off together in weeks. I was looking forward to tonight."
"So was I," he shot back. "But this is the job."
"I know that," she said. "I just wanted to do it together."
"And you think I don't understand that?" he asked, frustration creeping in.
"It didn't feel like it when you told me to go home."
"I told you to go home because you were done."
"You were acting like I was in the way."
His jaw tightened. "You were arguing with me at the desk."
"Because you dismissed me!"
"I was trying to avoid this exact situation," he said, gesturing between them.
"Then don't talk to me like I'm beneath you."
"I did not."
"You did."
"I can't have you challenging me in front of staff," he said finally, voice hardening.
"I wasn't challenging you. I was offering to fucking help you!"
"It didn't look like that."
To her, that was the part that stung the most.
"I'm not one of your residents," she said.
"And I'm not your boyfriend in that ED," he replied sharply. "I'm your cheif attending."
The words landed like a slap. They stood there in the dim hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.
"You didn't have to say it like that," she whispered.
"And you didn't have to push back in front of everyone."
There was a pause. Perla walked past at that exact moment, slowing just slightly as her eyes flicked between them before she kept going. The air felt thicker after that.
"Go home, I'm not asking again." He says before walking away.
An hour later she sat in her bathtub, water no longer steaming, arms resting on the porcelain edge, jaw tight. The door opened softly, he stepped in with takeout containers in one hand, tension still clinging to him like a second skin. She heard him moving around and she rolled her eyes.
"Hey," he said from the other room.
She didn't look at him, nor did she respond. He walks into the bedroom and she looks at him with a blank face before turning back to her book.
"Don't be like that."
She stared at the page. He crouched beside the tub, voice already tight. "Please."
"I had to stay," he said. "I wasn't going to drag you into that if you didn't have to be."
She turned her head slowly, eyebrows raised. "Drag me?"
"That's not what I meant."
"It's exactly what it felt like," she shot back. "You snapped at me in front of everyone."
"I did not snap."
"You absolutely did."
He exhaled sharply. "You wouldn't drop it."
"Because I wanted to stay," she said, anger rising. "It was our night. Our first actual night off in weeks and you dismissed me like I was in the way."
His jaw flexed. "It wasn't personal, it wasn't about dinner."
"I know it wasn't about dinner," she said. "It was about me wanting to be there with you. I see how exhausted you are. I wanted to do it together."
His eyes hardened slightly. "Wouldn't that be obvious? You just offering to stay to be with me?"
"No," she fired back. "I don't think anybody would think twice."
He stood up slowly, tension sharpening his posture. "You argued with me in the hallway."
"You embarrassed me."
He stared at her in annoyance. "Perla overheard."
"So?"
"So now people are talking."
"Let them." She shurgs.
"Do you not understand what happens if Gloria hears about us?"
She rolled her eyes. "What, we get detention?"
His voice dropped, colder. "One of us could be transferred. You could get moved. They could start looking at your schedule differently. People might assume you get special treatment."
She scoffed. "I clearly don't. I'm not even a doctor."
"You're not getting it," he snapped. "I've seen this happen more times than you have. I've watched careers stall because someone couldn't keep their relationship out of the hallway. You made it personal at work."
"It is personal," she said sharply. "You're my partner."
"In that hospital," he cut in, tone firm and clipped, "we are not together."
The words landed harder than he meant them to. She went still.
"I know that now Dr. Robby," she said quietly, the title deliberate and sharp. "Trust me. I won't forget it."
His expression tightened. "Don't twist this."
"I'm not twisting anything," she replied. "You're being mean."
He inhaled sharply. "I trying to be clear."
"You were condescending."
"You were emotional."
"And you were cold."
The air in the bathroom felt thick, heavy with steam and anger.
"You can't lose control like that," he said. "You can't go around making a spectacle."
She stood abruptly in the tub, water sloshing against the sides. "I wasn't making a spectacle. I was trying to show up for you."
"By arguing with me in front of staff?"
"You argued back."
"Because you wouldn't stop."
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, water dripping down her arms. "You don't get to talk to me like I'm one of your residents."
His voice sharpened. "Then don't put me in a position where I have to correct you at work."
She stepped out of the tub quickly, wrapping a towel tightly around herself like armor. She crossed her arms, chin lifting in defense.
"Trust me," she said stiffly. "It won't happen again."
He dragged a hand through his hair. "You can't let this bleed into work."
"I won't," she replied flatly. "Message received."
He looked at her for a long moment, something frustrated and protective tangled together in his expression.
"I'm trying to protect you," he said, but it came out harsher than intended.
"I didn't ask you to," she shot back.
His jaw tightened.
"Fine," he said finally, voice clipped.
He turned and walked out of the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a controlled but unmistakable firmness. She stood there, towel clutched tight around her chest, water pooling at her feet again, chest rising and falling too fast. Four days off and they had managed to ruin the first hour.
The bathroom had grown quiet again after he walked out the first time, but it wasn't the peaceful quiet she usually loved. The steam had thinned, clinging low to the ceiling, and the bathwater had begun to lose its heat around her shoulders. She had refilled it once, almost mechanically, not because she wanted to soak but because she didn't know what else to do with herself. A paperback copy of Dracula rested in her hands, open but unread, her eyes dragging over the same sentence again and again without comprehension.
It had been their first real night together in almost a month. Not a stolen hour between shifts. Not collapsing into bed at 8 am just to wake up at 5 am. A real night. Something circled on the calendar in red like it mattered. And he had shut her down in a hallway like she was a liability.
The door opened softly about ten minutes after he had left. She didn't look up at first.
"I thought you went home," she said, voice even but cool.
"No," he replied quietly. "Of course not."
She turned her head just enough to see him standing there with a plate in his hand, steam rising faintly from it.
She shook her head slowly. "I'm still upset."
"I know."
"And I don't give a fuck about any peace offerings."
He let out a small breath through his nose. "At least look at it."
She rolled her eyes but glanced over anyway. It was her favorite takeout, plated properly instead of left in containers, like he had taken the time to make it look like a real dinner instead of a consolation prize. Her face softened for the briefest second before she locked it back down.
"Thank you," she said stiffly. "But I'm not hungry."
"Please eat," he replied, the edge in his voice gone now, replaced with something more careful.
"I'll get to it later."
"You haven't eaten since lunch."
"I'm not hungry," she repeated, staring back down at her book even though the words blurred.
He stood there for a second longer, jaw flexing, trying to decide whether to push or not. Eventually he walked back into the kitchen and set the plate down carefully, leaning both hands on the counter like he was bracing himself. They had never fought like this. After a moment, he walked back into the bathroom, watching her from the doorway. She hadn't turned the page in several minutes. Without asking, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.
Her eyes lifted sharply. "What are you doing."
He stepped out of his shoes, then his pants, movements unhurried but deliberate.
"Michael."
He ignored the warning in her tone, stripping down and stepping into the tub opposite her. The water shifted and lapped gently against the sides as he lowered himself in, steam curling between them.
"Get the hell out," she said, not loud but firm.
"No," he replied evenly.
"I don't want to talk to you."
"I know."
She angled her body away from him, shoulders turning, lifting her book again like a shield. He watched her for a moment, letting the silence stretch.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, voice low but steady. "I never should have spoken to you like that."
She didn't look at him. She flipped a page.
"Can you at least look at me," he asked.
"I don't owe you that," she replied flatly.
His jaw tightened, not in anger but in frustration with himself. "Look at me."
Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. "I've just about had it with you telling me what to do today."
The words landed hard. He held her stare for a second, then leaned forward and gently but firmly took the book from her hands, placing it on the counter out of reach.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you serious."
She shifted like she was going to stand up and grab it. He moved quickly, catching her wrist and pulling her toward him instead of letting her climb out of the tub.
"Stop," she snapped. "I'm upset."
"I know you are," he said, not harsh, not dismissive, just certain. "And I know you need to hear this from me right now, so let me say it."
She struggled for a heartbeat before going still, water rippling around them. His hands loosened around her wrists and slid to her forearms instead, grounding rather than restraining.
"I was wrong," he began, and this time there was no defensiveness in his voice. "The way I spoke to you in that hallway was wrong. I was stressed, I was thinking about the case, and I defaulted into control mode instead of partner mode."
"I thought I was protecting you from the politics of that place," he continued, holding her gaze even though she tried not to meet it. "But I did it in the worst possible way. I shut you down. I made it sound like you were in the way, like you didn't belong there with me, and that's not what I believe."
"You embarrassed me," she whispered, tears threatening again.
"I know," he said softly. "And that's on me."
She swallowed hard. "You talked to me like I was one of your residents."
"I know," he repeated, his voice rougher now. "And you're not. You're my partner. You're the person I choose every day. You deserved respect, not a command."
A tear slid down her cheek and he reached up slowly, brushing it away with his thumb.
"You were trying to show up for me," he said quietly. "You saw that I was tired and you wanted to stay. That's all it was. You weren't challenging me. You weren't undermining me. You were loving me. And I made it about control instead of about us," he admitted. "I let the job speak for me instead of speaking as your partner. I'm sorry."
She shook her head slightly, overwhelmed, but she didn't pull away when his hand stayed at her cheek.
"I never want you to feel small next to me," he said, voice low and sincere. "Not at work. Not anywhere. I need you to know that."
She didn't say I forgive you. She didn't say it's okay. But when his thumb brushed another tear away, she leaned into his palm. He exhaled slowly. She shifted closer without looking at him directly at first, then slowly moved fully into his lap, straddling him in the narrow space of the tub. Water surged gently around them as she wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face against his shoulder.
"I just wanted tonight," she murmured against his skin.
"I know," he said softly, one hand sliding up her back, the other resting warm at her waist. "And I ruined the start of it."
He could feel the way she was still holding herself stiffly against him, even though she had moved into his lap. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her forehead resting against his shoulder, but there was still tension in her back. The fight hadn't evaporated just because he had said sorry once. He knew that. He slid one hand up between her shoulder blades slowly, thumb moving in a steady, grounding rhythm.
"I need to say this better," he murmured into her hair. She didn't pull away, but she didn't respond either.
"I should have been grateful," he continued quietly. "You offered to stay because you love me. Because you saw I was tired and you didn't want me carrying it alone. That's not something I get to take for granted."
Her breath caught slightly against his chest.
"And instead of saying thank you," he went on, voice low and steady, "I snapped at you like you were making my life harder. I made it sound like you were in the way when you were doing the exact opposite."
She shifted faintly, her fingers tightening at the back of his neck.
"I didn't want your night to be ruined the way mine was about to be," he admitted. "That case was going to go long. I knew it the second I saw the chart. And I thought if you left, at least one of us would get to keep the night we planned. I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was doing the right thing by sending you home so you could relax and I'd join you later, even if it was late. But I didn't say any of that. I didn't explain. I just barked an order."
Her shoulders softened a fraction.
"And it wasn't just the case," he added, more honestly now. "Gloria pulled me into her office thirty minutes before that. She went off about overtime and the nurses' schedules, about budgets and optics and how the board is watching everything right now. Specifically the nursing OT. Specifically the way the department looks."
He let out a quiet breath through his nose.
"I was already wound tight. Already defensive. Already in damage control mode. And when you pushed back at the desk, even though you weren't wrong to, it hit that same pressure point. And instead of recognizing that I was stressed, I took it out on you."
She lifted her head slightly at that, eyes red but attentive.
"That's not fair to you," he said firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong. You offered to stay. You were being a partner. I was the one who let my stress spill over."
He brushed his thumb along her jaw gently.
"I love you," he said, not as a shield, not as a softener, but as a fact. "I love that you show up. I love that you see me when I'm tired. I love that your instinct is to stand next to me instead of walk away. I should have looked at you in that hallway and said thank you. I should have said I appreciate you. Instead I shut you down. I never want you to think I don't value you," he continued. "Or that I don't want you beside me. I just didn't want you paying for a night that was already going sideways for me. And I handled that so badly."
She let out a shaky breath. "You made me feel like I overstepped."
"I know," he said immediately. "And you didn't. You didn't overstep. I was trying to compartmentalize in the worst way possible. I drew a line too hard."
His hand slid up to cup her cheek again, wiping another tear before it could fall.
"I'm sorry," he said again, softer but no less serious. "Not just for snapping. For not communicating. For letting Gloria's voice echo in my head louder than yours. For taking a conversation about budgets and optics and overtime and turning it into something between us."
She searched his face for a long moment.
"I didn't want to go home without you," she whispered.
"I know," he replied. He leaned his forehead lightly against hers.
"You are not a distraction to me," he said quietly. "You are not a liability. You are the best part of my day, even on the worst days. I should have treated you like that."
Her lips trembled, and when his thumb brushed along her cheek again, she didn't pull away. But she leaned into his hand. And that was enough for him to hold her tighter, this time not out of frustration or urgency, but out of something steadier and more deliberate. For a long moment she just stayed there in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, her breathing finally evening out against his shoulder. The tension that had been coiled through her spine since the hallway was slowly draining away, replaced by something softer and steadier. The water around them had gone from restless to still, tiny ripples fading as she relaxed fully into him. She pulled back just enough to look at him properly this time.
"I'm sorry too," she said quietly, voice no longer sharp. "I didn't handle any portion of that maturely."
He frowned faintly. "Hey."
"No," she insisted gently. "I pushed in the hallway. I knew you were in work mode and I still kept poking at it. And when you snapped, I escalated. I could've just... let it go until we were alone."
"You were hurt," he said.
"I was," she admitted. "But I didn't have to dig in like that in front of everyone."
Her fingers traced lightly along the back of his neck as she spoke, absent and soft.
"I think I was just disappointed," she continued. "I had built tonight up in my head. And when it went sideways, I reacted instead of thinking."
He watched her carefully, the defensiveness gone from his face now.
"You're allowed to be disappointed," he said.
"I know," she replied. "I just don't like the version of me that shows up when I'm hurt. It's not my best look."
His thumb moved slowly along her hip under the water. "We're human."
She let out a small breath and leaned forward, resting her forehead against his again.
"I don't want to fight like that," she murmured.
"We won't," he said quietly.
She lifted her head slightly, searching his face. "We're okay, right?"
He nodded slowly, eyes steady on hers. "We're okay."
She studied him for a second longer, making sure, and then she nodded too. The shift between them was subtle but undeniable. The last edge of anger dissolved, replaced by something warmer and more electric. Her hand slid from the back of his neck to his jaw, fingers brushing lightly along the scruff there. She leaned in first. The kiss started soft, tentative, almost like they were checking in again. His lips met hers gently, no rush, no urgency at first. Just warmth. Just reassurance. Her hand tightened slightly at his jaw. His grip at her waist deepened. The kiss lingered longer, mouths parting just enough to pull closer. The apology and the frustration and the relief of it all tangled together and shifted into something heated.
He leaned forward, pressing her back just slightly, water rising higher around their bodies. His hands slid from her waist up along her sides, fingers splaying against her ribs as he deepened the kiss. She responded immediately, tilting her head, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. The steam in the room thickened again, or maybe it just felt that way. Her breathing grew heavier between kisses. His mouth moved from her lips to the corner of her jaw, then down along the curve of her neck, slow and deliberate. She inhaled sharply, fingers digging lightly into his shoulders.
"Robby," she breathed, but there was no protest in it.
He came back to her mouth, kissing her deeper this time, less restrained. The earlier tension had burned off into something intense and hungry. Water shifted around them as she adjusted in his lap, pressing closer, her knees tightening at his sides. His hands traced along her back, firm and sure, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers slipped through his hair, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply against her mouth. It wasn't frantic. She kissed him like she was proving they were still solid. He kissed her like he was anchoring them there. When she finally pulled back slightly, breath uneven, her forehead rested against his again.
"We're okay," she repeated softly.
He brushed his thumb along her jaw, eyes darker now but steady.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "We're okay, I love you so so much pretty girl."
"I love you too."
He kisses her again, holding her waist tightly as her hips rocks against his sensuously.
"I need you now, Robby, please." she begs, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Okay sweetheart," he responds softly.
Robby reaches down and begins to rub her clit with his thumb skillfully smiling as she writhes on top of him, he switches from rubbing and inserts his finger inside of her sensitive vagina, he pumps in and out a few times before adding another. She whimpers as pleasure begins building in her stomach. She was a moaning mess as she gripped Robby's hair desperately trying to ride out her high.
"Come for me sweet girl." he says softly.
She clenches on his fingers over and over until she finally cums on his fingers. She moans in his ear, as her hips stutter. She leans into him, resting her head into his neck and he pulls his fingers out of her, moving his hand up to the middle of her back, and the other pulling her face back to look at him.
"You okay?" he asks
She nods happily and kisses him again, he pulls her even closer and she reaches down and gently grips his hard dick that had been poking against her this whole time. She rubs him for a few moments enjoyign the way his grip on her tightneed and he moaned lowly into her ear. He grips onto her, pulling her hand back, and he adjusts himself and enters barley, her causing the girl to moan softly in his ear. His arms circle around her waist and fall to her ass and he begins to guide her hips as she rocks against him. She was already close as he reaches down inbetween them and rubs circles on her clit. Robby's hands were already too much. Robby was feeling the same way as her beautiful breasts were now front and center for him to look at shamelessly. As the heat in the bath increases over a few minutes, She begins to feel the familiar build-up In her stomach
"I'm close," she gasps as she moves against him harder and faster
"me too," he grunts as he begins to meet her hips by thrusting up powerfully. She grips onto his shoulders for dear life, digging her fingertips into his soft skin while moans escape from her lips involuntarily.
"Robby," she cries out as she releases, she attempts to catch her breath while finishing her high and Robby continues to thrust into her attempting to ride out his as well.
"Fuck, you feel so good, always so perfect for me." he responds lowly in her ear as he finishes into her. Rather than pulling out he moves his hands up her back and hugs her closer to his body. She hangs on him with exhaustion falling over her and rests her head on his shoulder. The two stay like this peacefully for a few more minutes before Robby adjusts himself and pulls out of her before holding her tighter and standing up, she gasps as he brings her with him holding her like a baby. Rather than questioning it she relaxes into the hug.
"I love you." he says as he kisses her softly. "I'm sorry about today."
"I love you too and I forgive you."
"Now we have the weekend to make up for it."
"Thats true."
"That was our first fight." he says rubbing his hand on her cheek.
"How did I do?" she jokes.
He instantly laughs loudly and kisses her gently, once on the lips, then the cheek, then the forehead, then the nose. She giggles and holds onto his shoulders.
"You did well baby,"
"Good," she responds.
"Alright funny girl, lets get out of this cold ass water and get some food in you,"
Synopsis: Robby falls in love with a young nurse and fights it every step of the way. But when you know, you know.
Warnings: smut, 18+, MDNI, angst, fighting, slow burn, blood, gore, medical inaccuracies, pittfest, panic attacks, mentions of suicide.
Pre season one:
one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen | fifteen | sixteen
season one:
7 am | 8 am | 9 am | 10 am | 11 am | 12 pm | 1 pm | 2 pm | 3 pm | 4 pm | 5 pm | 6 pm | 7 pm | 8 pm | 9 pm
Blurbs during the ten months between season one and two (can be read as a standalone):
I love you (18+) | whats going on in that head of yours? (18+) | Intimacy (18+) | nobody can touch you the way that I do (18+) | dreams (18+) | Date Night