Mrs Bourbonborn

[sublimeinfatuation]

"Shawn Hatosys wife is the best for sharing him with us!"

"Everyone thank Shawn Hatosys wife!"

"Oh my god, we should send Shawn Hatosys wife flowers for giving us this!"

Can yall stop bringing his wife into this? Those are fucking weird statements. He played a character on a porn app. Are you forgetting actors lives are separate from the characters they play? Tiktok is a fucking weird place.

[wistfulyears]

No, I noticed this too. At the first sight of one of those comments I was like ‘Lol, sure,’ and then I saw more and lowkey was concerned.

I live in reality, I touch grass, and I encourage the encouragement of it by all means! But if you genuinely come across a hornyblogpost about how badly someone wants to makeout with Dr. Jack Abbot, you are in fact the parasocial one, for feeling the need to bring up Shawn Hatosy’s wife or “defend” her honor from all the “whores” trying to “interfere in their marriage”…?

It’s an extremely strange and creepy overcompensation that seems to always come from people preaching about parasociality. (You do not know what this phenomenon even is or how to recognize it, by the way. If you did, you wouldn’t think to presume to know his wife’s boundaries or feel an itch to perhaps play her role and police what you perceive to be threatening, flirtatious behavior.)

AK and Pitt fanfic writers don’t spend their time blogging photos of his everyday move to a coffee shop or his children… (weird)

I know nothing about his children, not their names, their ages, how many he even has. I know nothing about his wife, his parents, his family, his history, because I am here to appreciate the celebrity enigma that he throws into hot characters that he plays on television, I am not horny for the man behind the enigma and some of ya’ll are, and think that you are not.

None of us are going to “break up” his marriage. Stop infantilizing him, (he’s fifty LMFAOOOO), stop being misogynistic, stop getting defensive, stop being weird. Call out what needs to be called out, the behavior that actually perpetuates harm in real life, and let the rest rock.

[mrsbourbonborn]

YES YES YES 👏

This. This is the one of the reasons why fanfiction has a stigma. The failure to separate the character from the person.

It’s not the same. IT. IS. NOT. THE. SAME.

We can be crazy about a character. 100%. But don’t be a creep.

[afterdarkbydel]

Easier To Breathe

Chapter Seven: Taking Care

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 12, 857

Summary: After the morning at your apartment, Jack brings you back to his house, where the quiet feels almost impossible. Between police updates, hospital footage, protective order paperwork, and Robby making it very clear that you are not coming into work, the day keeps asking you to be brave. Jack keeps asking you to take it one thing at a time. And somewhere in the middle of all the calls and forms and cold coffee, something good becomes real. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Yours.

Warnings: stalking aftermath, discussion of attempted forced entry, police involvement, protective order paperwork, emotional distress, trauma response, anxiety/panic aftermath, workplace harassment, property damage/vandalism, protective Jack, soft intimacy, kissing/making out, alcohol/wine mention, food/eating after stress

Author’s Note: This chapter is softer, but Trent is still very much part of the situation. I really wanted this one to sit in the aftermath — the exhaustion, the paperwork, the calls, the way relief can feel heavy too. But more than anything, I wanted Jack and Reader to get a few moments where the good thing is allowed to matter. They are taking care of each other now. One thing at a time.

Xoxo, Del

| Chapt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 | Chpt. 5 | Chpt. 6 |

You woke up later than you meant to.

Not peacefully, exactly.

Just slowly. 

The kind of slow where your body came back before your mind did, one piece at a time. Warm sheets. A solid weight behind you. An arm around your waist.

Quiet.

For one strange second, you did not know where you were. The ceiling was wrong. The light was wrong. The room smelled like clean laundry and coffee and Jack, not your apartment, not your sheets, not the flowers still sitting on your kitchen counter like the morning had not split open around them. Your body went tight before your mind caught up.

Jack’s arm did not tighten. He did not pull you closer. He did not say your name too fast or ask you what was wrong, like fear needed explaining before it was allowed to exist.

He just stayed there, warm and steady behind you.

Then his voice came low near your ear, rough with sleep. “You’re at my place.”

Your breath caught. His thumb moved once against your side.

“Door’s locked,” Jack said. “I’m here.”

You closed your eyes. The panic did not disappear all at once. It loosened. 

A little.

Enough that you could feel the mattress underneath you again. The pillow beneath your cheek. Jack’s chest against your back. His breathing was slow and even, like he was giving you something to follow.

You swallowed. “What time is it?”

Jack shifted just enough to glance past you toward the nightstand. “A little after three.”

Your eyes opened. “In the afternoon?”

His mouth brushed faintly against your shoulder. Not a kiss. Almost not even on purpose.

“Yeah,” he said.

You stared at the soft light on the wall. “I slept that long?”

“You needed it,” Jack said.

You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “That feels suspiciously like something a doctor would say.”

Jack’s voice warmed. “Could be worse.”

You turned your head slightly toward him. “How?”

“I could start talking about hydration,” Jack replied. 

A tiny sound left you. Not quite a laugh. Close enough that Jack’s hand stilled at your waist for half a second, like he had heard it and wanted to keep it.

You rolled carefully onto your back.

Jack lifted his arm enough to let you move, then settled it loosely over your stomach once you were facing him. Still careful. Still giving you space.

He looked tired. That was the first thing you noticed. His hair was mussed from sleep, his eyes heavy, one side of his face faintly creased from the pillow. He looked softer like this. Less controlled. Less like the man who had stood between you and the door with his body squared toward danger.

More like the man who had stayed. 

Your throat tightened as tears gathered in the corners of your eyes.

Jack noticed immediately. “Hey.”

You shook your head. “I’m okay.”

His brows lifted slightly.

You sighed. “I’m getting there.”

“That one, I believe,” Jack said.

Your mouth twitched. Jack’s thumb moved once over your stomach, slow through the fabric of your shirt. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The room held quiet around you. Afternoon light softened the edges of his dresser, the chair in the corner, and your still-packed bag at the foot of his bed. Your phone sat on the nightstand beside a glass of water you did not remember him putting there.

Nothing was demanding anything from you. Not for one second. No report number. No statement. No dispatcher asking you to repeat your address.

Just Jack looking at you like you were allowed to take your time coming back to yourself.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Only for a second. Long enough for your stomach to dip with something that was not fear. Then his gaze came back to yours.

“Can I kiss you?” Jack murmured.

The question moved through you slowly. Soft. Careful. Not because he was unsure of himself. Because he wanted you to be sure. 

Your breath shook. “Yes.” 

Jack’s expression changed. Just slightly. 

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was soft. So soft it almost hurt. There was no urgency in it. No pressure. No attempt to turn the moment into something bigger than you were ready for. Just Jack’s mouth against yours, warm and careful, his hand staying exactly where it was over your stomach.

You lifted your hand to his face. Your fingers brushed the rough edge of his jaw.

Jack made a quiet sound into the kiss. Not hungry. Not restrained.

Relieved.

Like this mattered too. Like gentleness counted. Like your body wanting him, even softly, even carefully, was something worth protecting.

When he pulled back, he did not go far. His forehead rested against yours. You kept your eyes closed.

“Hi,” Jack said quietly.

A small laugh slipped out of you, fragile but real. “Hi.”

His thumb moved once over your stomach. “You okay?”

You opened your eyes. Jack was watching you. Not searching for the answer he wanted. Waiting for the one that was true. You thought about it. Your body still felt heavy. Your mind still felt fogged at the edges. Somewhere beneath your ribs, the morning sat like a bruise.

But Jack’s room was quiet. His door was locked. His mouth had just been on yours. And for the first time since the knock, Trent was not the loudest thing in your head.

“Right now?” you asked.

Jack nodded once. “Right now.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I think so.”

His face softened. You looked down at where his hand rested over you, then back up at him.

“I like this,” you said quietly.

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “This?”

You nodded. “Waking up here. With you.”

Something in his expression shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. But enough. Enough to make your chest ache.

“I like this,” you said again, softer.

Jack was quiet for a second. Then his hand moved from your stomach to your side, warm and careful.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You believed him. That might have been what got you. Not the words. Not even the kiss. The fact that you believed him without having to talk yourself into it.

Your eyes burned, and you rolled toward him before the tears could fully gather. Jack opened his arm immediately. You tucked yourself against his chest, your forehead pressing to the soft, worn fabric of his shirt.

He held you loosely at first. Then, when you did not pull away, he held you a little closer. You breathed him in. Soap. Sleep. Jack.

After a while, you felt his mouth brush the top of your head.

“You hungry?” Jack asked.

You made a face against his shirt. Jack huffed softly. “That’s a no.”

“It’s a complicated no,” you said.

“Mm,” Jack hummed. 

You lifted your head enough to look at him. “Don’t do doctor voice.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied. 

You raised a brow. “You thought it.”

His mouth curved. “I did think it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” Jack said.

You groaned and dropped your face back against his chest.

Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, once, then again. “Coffee first?”

That was easier. Coffee was not a meal. Coffee did not require your stomach to know what to do with itself yet.

“Yeah,” you said. “Coffee first.”

Jack pressed one more kiss to your hair, then started to shift. You tightened your fingers lightly in his shirt before you realized you had done it. He stopped immediately.

You closed your eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jack said.

“I know we have to get up,” you murmured, embarrassed. 

Jack shook his head. “We don’t have to do anything that feels like too much.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack settled back enough to look at you. “We’ll get up. We’ll make coffee. We’ll check your phone. We’ll deal with whatever needs dealing with.”

You nodded once. His eyes stayed on yours.

“One thing at a time,” Jack said.

You let the words settle. One thing at a time. Not the whole day. Not the whole mess. Not Trent, and the truck, and the police report, and the hospital, and the protective order, and the part of your brain that still kept listening for sounds that were not there.

Just one thing. Coffee. Jack. Afternoon light.

You took a breath. Then another.

“Okay,” you said.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Okay.”

He kissed you again before he got up. Quick this time. Soft. Like punctuation. Then he pulled away, and you watched him sit up on the edge of the bed, running one hand over his face before reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

His shoulders looked tired. His back looked tired. Even his silence looked tired. Something in your chest twisted. Not guilt this time. Not exactly.

Awareness.

He had stayed awake longer than you had. You knew it without asking. He had listened for sounds, checked messages, handled calls, made sure there was water by the bed, and probably watched the door even after he had locked it. Jack looked back and caught you watching him.

“What?” he asked.

You shook your head. This time, it was almost true.

“Nothing,” you said.

His brows lifted. You gave him a tired look. “Coffee, Jack.”

His mouth curved, small and warm.

“Coffee,” Jack agreed.

He stood, then paused beside the bed and held out his hand. Not to pull you up. Not to hurry you. Just there.

Waiting.

You looked at it for a second. Then you slid your hand into his. Jack’s fingers closed around yours. Firm and steady. 

And when you got out of bed, it was not because Trent was in jail, or because paperwork was waiting, or because the world outside Jack’s room had become simple.

It was because Jack was making coffee. Because his hand was around yours.

Because, for one more quiet second, that was allowed to matter most.

Downstairs, Jack’s house looked different in the afternoon.

Quieter, maybe.

Or maybe you were quieter inside it.

The kitchen was warm with late-day light, the counters clean except for a mug by the sink and a towel folded over the oven handle. Jack moved through the space like he knew exactly where every small thing belonged, pulling two mugs from the cabinet, opening the fridge, reaching for the coffee without asking where anything was because, of course, it was his kitchen.

You stood near the island and watched him. For a second, it felt strange to be upright. Strange to be in a room with sunlight in it. Strange to have slept through hours of a day that had apparently kept going without you.

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You want to sit?”

You shook your head. “I’m okay.”

Jack gave you a look. You sighed. “I’m okay standing.”

“That’s more specific,” Jack said.

You leaned your hip against the island. “Do not start with me this early.”

Jack turned back to the coffee maker. “It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Emotionally, it’s early,” you said.

His mouth curved. “Fair.”

The tiny joke settled between you. Small. Easy. Almost normal. You held onto it longer than you probably needed to. Jack set a mug in front of you a minute later, made exactly the way you liked it. He did not ask. You did not comment. It should not have mattered, the quiet ease of it. The way he knew without making a show of knowing. The way your coffee simply appeared in front of you, warm and familiar and right.

It mattered anyway.

You wrapped both hands around the mug. The warmth helped.

Jack leaned against the counter across from you, his own mug in one hand. “Food?”

You made a face before you could stop yourself. His brow lifted slightly. You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your mug. “Do not use doctor voice.”

“I said one word,” Jack said.

“You thought it in doctor voice,” you replied. 

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m asking if you can eat something.”

You looked pointedly at his mug. “Have you eaten?”

Jack paused. That was answer enough.

“Jack,” you said.

His expression stayed carefully neutral. “I had coffee.”

“That is not food,” you said.

“Neither is emotional deflection,” Jack said.

You stared at him. He stared back. For one second, the two of you stood on opposite sides of the island, tired and stubborn and pretending this was a normal argument about food instead of the first thing either of you had almost eaten since that morning.

Then your mouth twitched. Jack saw it, and his did too.

You set your mug down. “Fine. Something small.”

“Something small,” Jack agreed.

You pointed at him. “You too.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Bossy.”

“You love it,” you said.

The words left your mouth before you could think better of them. Not love. Not like that. Not yet. Just a phrase. A joke.

Except it hung there for half a second longer than it should have.

Jack’s face changed. Barely. Enough to make your pulse trip.

Then his mouth curved, soft and careful. “I don’t hate it.”

Your face warmed, and you looked away first. Jack let you. 

He moved to the fruit bowl on the counter like it required great concentration. “Apple or banana?”

You glanced over. “That’s the menu?”

“For now,” Jack said. “I’ll make something real later.”

“You say that like you’re in charge of all future meals,” you said.

Jack picked up an apple. “I’m in charge of making sure you don’t survive on coffee and spite.”

You reached for a banana. “Spite has nutrients.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jack said.

You lifted your brows. “You don’t know that.”

“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.

“You’re very annoying,” you told him.

Jack rinsed the apple at the sink, his mouth curved. “Also true.”

You peeled the banana slowly, leaning against the island while Jack dried the apple with a paper towel. It was ridiculous, how much the smallness of it helped. Standing in his kitchen. Coffee on the counter. Fruit in your hand. Jack across from you, taking a bite of an apple because you had told him to eat too.

You took a bite. Your stomach did not love it. But it did not reject it either. Jack noticed, because Jack noticed everything, but he did not make a big deal out of it.

He just took another bite of his apple and nodded toward your phone on the counter. “Your screen lit up.”

Your stomach tightened. The almost-normal moment thinned. You followed his gaze. Three missed calls. Two voicemails. A text from Robby. A text from an unknown number that, based on the preview, looked official.

Jack watched your face. “One thing at a time.”

You nodded, but the banana suddenly felt heavy in your hand.

Jack set his apple down, reached toward your phone, then stopped. “Can I?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack turned the screen toward you instead of picking it up first. “Looks like the officer left a voicemail. Robby texted too.”

You swallowed. “What did Robby say?”

Jack glanced at the screen. “Just checking in. Says no need to answer right away.”

Your throat tightened. “That sounds like him trying very hard not to sound like he’s worried.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “That is exactly what that is.”

You took a breath. “Officer first?”

“I think so,” Jack said.

You picked up your phone. Your hand shook, but not as badly as that morning. That felt worth noticing. The voicemail was short. Professional. The officer from your apartment said she had an update: Trent remained in custody for the time being, and she wanted to talk through next steps when you were ready.

When you lowered the phone, the kitchen felt too quiet again.

Jack watched your face. “You want me to call with you?”

You nodded immediately. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Jack said.

He came around the island, but he did not crowd you. He stood beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, close enough that you could lean if you needed to. You called the number back. The officer answered on the second ring. You put her on speaker because holding the phone to your ear suddenly felt too much like the 911 call.

“This is Officer Ramirez,” she said.

You cleared your throat. “Hi. This is—”

She said your name before you could finish. “Hi. I’m glad you called back. Are you somewhere safe right now?”

Your eyes moved to Jack. He was watching you. Not speaking for you. Waiting.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m at Jack’s house.”

Jack’s hand settled lightly at the back of your chair. Not heavy. Not possessive. Just there.

“Good,” Officer Ramirez said. “I wanted to update you on a few things from this morning.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Okay.”

“Trent is still in custody right now,” Officer Ramirez said. “He’ll have a bond hearing, but for the moment, he has not been released.”

Your breath caught.

Jack’s hand did not move.

“The property damage to Mr. Abbot’s truck was witnessed by responding officers,” Officer Ramirez continued, “so that portion is documented clearly. We also have your 911 call, your statement, Mr. Abbot’s statement, and the notes you provided.”

You stared down at your coffee. The notes. The door. Jack’s truck. All of it sounded different in her voice. More official. Less like a nightmare you had dragged into someone else’s day.

“We’re also requesting any available footage from your apartment building,” Officer Ramirez said. “Hallway cameras, exterior cameras, anything that may show him at your door or near the vehicle.”

Jack’s thumb moved once at the back of your chair. You swallowed. “Okay.”

“That will help establish the timeline,” Officer Ramirez said. “Given what happened this morning and the prior contact you described, I would recommend starting the protective order paperwork as soon as possible, ideally while he’s still in custody.”

Your stomach dipped. There it was.

The next thing.

Jack’s voice stayed quiet beside you. “What does she need to do?”

Officer Ramirez answered him, but her tone stayed directed toward you. “I can connect you with a victim advocate who can walk you through the forms. You can start some of it electronically, and depending on the county process, you may need to appear in person or by video for a temporary order. The advocate can explain that part.”

You looked at Jack. His eyes stayed on yours. Still not deciding for you. Still waiting.

You pulled in a breath. “I want to start it.”

The words came out quieter than you meant them to. But they came out. Jack’s hand stilled against the chair.

Officer Ramirez’s voice softened. “Okay. I’ll send you the contact information and the case number again. I’ll also note that you’re requesting assistance with filing.”

You nodded, then remembered she could not see you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Officer Ramirez said. “And I know this is a lot, but you did the right thing calling.”

Your throat tightened. Jack looked down at the counter. You could tell he heard it too. Not because he needed to hear it. Because part of you still did.

“Thank you,” you said again.

Officer Ramirez paused for half a second. “One more thing. He is still in custody, but if that changes, do not respond to any contact from him or anyone connected to him. Screenshot it, save it, and call us. If he appears at your apartment, your workplace, or anywhere you are, call immediately.” 

Your fingers tightened around the counter. “Okay.”

“Is Mr. Abbot still with you?” Officer Ramirez asked.

You looked at Jack. “Yes.”

“Good,” Officer Ramirez said. “I’ll send the information shortly. You can call me back if you need anything clarified.”

The call ended a minute later. For a while, neither of you said anything. The kitchen went quiet around the soft hum of the refrigerator. Your coffee sat untouched on the counter. The half-eaten banana rested beside it. Jack’s hand remained at the back of your chair. Trent was still in custody. There was footage to request. Evidence to gather. A protective order to file.

All good things.

All things that should have made you feel better. Maybe they did. A little. But mostly, you felt tired in a new way. Like relief had weight too.

Jack finally spoke. “What are you thinking?”

You stared at the surface of your coffee. “I thought I’d feel better.”

Jack was quiet for a second. Then he said, “You might later.”

You looked at him. His face was steady. Not dismissive. Not disappointed that the news had not fixed you. Just honest.

“You think?” you asked.

Jack’s mouth softened. “Yeah.”

Your eyes burned a little. You blinked it back because you were tired of crying. Jack seemed to see that too, because he did not touch your face or ask if you were okay. He just reached for his mug and took a sip. Then he made a face.

You frowned. “What?”

“Cold,” Jack said.

The laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Rusty. Real. Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug.

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you do that on purpose?”

He set the mug down. “Let my coffee get cold for emotional support?”

“You would,” you said.

“I would not,” Jack said.

“You absolutely would,” you said, smiling. 

Jack’s mouth curved. “I’m making a fresh pot.”

“Convenient,” you said.

“Necessary,” Jack replied.

You watched him turn back toward the coffee maker. Officer Ramirez’s words were still there. Custody. Bond hearing. Protective order. Footage.

But Jack was there too. Barefoot in his kitchen, making more coffee because both mugs had gone cold while the world tried to become manageable.

And somehow, for the moment, that mattered more.

The fresh pot helped. Not because coffee fixed anything. It did not. But the motions helped. Jack rinsing the mugs. You tossing the banana peel into the trash. The machine sputtering to life again. The smell of coffee filling the kitchen like the day could still have normal parts if you gave it enough time.

Jack poured both mugs again.

This time, you both drank before they could go cold. You were halfway through yours when his phone buzzed on the counter. Your eyes went to it before you could stop yourself. Jack noticed.

“Robby,” he said.

You nodded, but your fingers tightened around your mug.

Jack looked from the phone to you. “I can call him back later.”

You shook your head. “No. It’s okay.”

Jack did not move. “You sure?”

You took a breath. “Yeah.”

He still waited. You looked up at him. “It’s okay if he knows.”

Jack’s expression softened. “I know.”

You looked down into your coffee. “And if this is about work or the hospital, I probably need to know.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

He picked up the phone and answered it, keeping his voice even. “Hey.”

Robby’s voice came through low and concerned, not loud enough for you to catch every word. Jack listened for a second. Then his eyes flicked to you. Your stomach tightened.

“What?” you asked.

Jack lowered the phone slightly. “He has an update from the hospital.”

You set your mug down. “Put it on speaker.”

Jack studied your face for half a second. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you said.

Jack tapped the screen and set the phone on the counter between you. “You’re on speaker.”

“Hey,” Robby said, his voice gentler now. There was a brief pause. Then Robby said your name, careful and warm. “How are you doing?”

You let out a small breath. “I don’t really know how to answer that.”

“That’s fair,” Robby said.

Jack leaned his hip against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours. 

Robby continued, “I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to let you both know security pulled the footage from the day Trent showed up at the ER.”

Your whole body went still. Jack’s arm brushed yours again, deliberate this time.

You swallowed. “They have footage?”

“They do,” Robby said. “Parking lot, entrance, part of the hallway. Enough to show he came onto hospital property and confronted you after he had no reason to be there.”

You stared at the phone. The kitchen seemed to narrow around it. 

Robby’s voice stayed steady. “Administration is filing a trespass complaint and issuing a formal ban from hospital property. If he comes back, security calls the police immediately.”

Your throat tightened. For a second, you could not speak. Jack’s hand settled lightly at the back of your chair. Robby waited. He did not fill the silence.

Finally, you managed, “They’re doing that?”

“Yeah,” Robby said.

The answer came firm. No hesitation.

Robby continued. “He came into my ER to harass one of my nurses. Yes, they’re doing that.”

Your eyes burned. Jack looked down at the counter, jaw tight. Not angry at Robby. Angry at the reason Robby had to say it. You pressed your lips together.

Robby’s voice softened. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You blinked hard. “I know.”

Jack glanced at you. You let out a shaky breath. “I mean, I’m trying to know.”

“That counts,” Robby said.

A small, broken laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Jack’s mouth barely curved.

Robby continued, “Security is also sending the footage information to the officer on your report. It should support the protective order paperwork.”

You nodded, then remembered again that he could not see you. “Okay.”

“And you are not expected in tonight,” Robby said. “Or tomorrow, if you need it.”

Your stomach dipped. “Robby—”

“No,” Robby said, not harsh, but firm enough that you stopped. “Don’t do that.”

You closed your mouth. Jack looked at you like he absolutely agreed, but was smart enough not to say it while Robby was already doing it for him. You narrowed your eyes at him. Jack’s brows lifted in silent innocence.

It almost made you smile.

Robby sighed through the phone. “I’m serious. We’re covered. Lena knows. I know. You can send documentation later if HR needs it, but right now, I need you not to worry about this place.”

Your fingers tightened around your mug. “That’s hard.”

“I know,” Robby said. “Do it anyway.”

Jack muttered, “Subtle.”

“I heard that,” Robby said.

Jack did not look sorry. “You were supposed to.”

Despite everything, a real laugh slipped out of you. Small. Brief. But real. Both men went quiet for half a second. Not in a way that made you feel watched. In a way that made you realize they had both heard it and both decided, without saying so, that it mattered.

Robby’s voice was softer when he spoke again. “There she is.”

Your eyes burned again. “Don’t.”

“Okay,” Robby said immediately. “Not doing that.”

Jack’s hand moved once at the back of your chair. You looked down at your coffee and breathed through the tightness in your chest.

Robby cleared his throat. “I’ll text Jack if anything else comes through on my end. Security has a photo of Trent. He’s banned from the building. If he sets foot on hospital property again, they will call the police. No debate.”

You swallowed. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for keeping my staff safe,” Robby said.

Your mouth trembled. Jack looked at the phone. “Robby.”

“What?” Robby asked.

Jack’s voice stayed gentle but firm. “Let her thank you.”

There was a pause. Then Robby’s voice softened. “You’re welcome.”

You wiped quickly under one eye with the heel of your hand. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Robby said. “And hey?”

You looked at the phone. “Yeah?”

“You were right to call,” Robby said.

The words landed differently this time. Officer Ramirez had said it. Jack had said it. Now Robby was saying it too. Three people. Three voices. None of them asking you to make it smaller.

Your throat tightened, but your voice held. “Okay.”

Robby seemed to understand that was all you could manage.

“I’ll let you go,” Robby said. “Jack?”

Jack looked down at the phone. “Yeah.”

“Take care of her,” Robby said.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “I am.”

You looked at him. He was already looking at you.

Robby added, “And let someone take care of you too, jackass.”

Jack’s mouth tightened like he was trying not to smile. “Goodbye, Robby.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robby said.

The call ended. For a few seconds, the kitchen was silent. Then you looked at Jack. He looked back at you.

“The hospital has footage,” you said.

Jack nodded. “Yeah.”

You tightened your fingers around the mug. “And they’re filing trespassing stuff.”

“They are,” Jack said.

You swallowed. “And he’s banned.”

“He is,” Jack said.

Your fingers tightened around the mug. “So it was bad.”

Jack’s face changed. Not with surprise. With the careful look he got when something mattered, and he did not want to say it wrong. He stepped closer, stopping just in front of you.

“It was bad when you asked him to stop, and he didn’t,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. He held your gaze.

“Everything after that is evidence,” Jack said.

Your eyes filled. Jack did not rush to wipe the tears away. He just stayed there. Letting you have the sentence. Letting it be true.

The coffee was warm in your hands. The kitchen smelled like apples, caffeine, and afternoon light.

Trent was still in custody. The apartment building had footage. The hospital had footage. The police had reports. The world, piece by piece, was starting to agree with what your body had known for too long. This was not nothing. You had not made it up. You had not made it too big.

Jack’s hand settled lightly over yours on the mug.

“Breathe,” Jack said quietly.

You did. Not deeply. Not perfectly. But enough.

Then Jack’s thumb moved once over your knuckles.

“One thing at a time,” he said again.

You nodded. This time, you believed him.

The victim advocate called twenty minutes later.

Jack had eaten the rest of his apple, though you suspected he had done it mostly because you kept looking at it. Your phone buzzed on the counter, and both of you looked at it.

You picked it up and glanced at the screen. “Unknown number.”

Jack set his mug down. “Could be the advocate.”

You nodded, but your hand still tightened around the phone. Jack noticed. “You want me here?”

You looked at him immediately. “Yes.”

His face softened. “Okay.”

You answered before you could talk yourself out of it. “Hello?”

The woman on the other end said your name gently, then introduced herself as a victim advocate with the county. Her voice was calm. Not overly sweet. Not pitying. Just calm.

You put her on speaker and set the phone on the island between you and Jack.

“My boyfriend Jack is with me,” you said. “Is that okay?”

The words were out before you realized what you had said. 

My boyfriend.

Your eyes snapped to Jack. For half a second, your whole body went still. Not because it was wrong. Because it was true too quickly. Because you had said it out loud to a stranger on an official phone call, like it was a fact. Like he was a fact.

Jack’s face changed. Barely. But you saw it. The softening around his eyes. The tiny shift in his mouth. The way his hand stilled against the counter like the words had landed somewhere deep enough to make him forget what he was doing.

The advocate answered before either of you could.

“That’s completely fine,” she said. “You can have whoever you want with you.”

Your throat tightened. Whoever you want. Not whoever you needed to justify. Not whoever the situation required. Whoever you wanted.

Jack stepped closer. Not enough to interrupt or to take over. Just enough that his shoulder brushed yours. You looked up at him, still a little alarmed. Jack’s mouth curved, small and warm.

Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek. Soft. Brief.

Certain.

Your breath caught.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. No teasing. No correction. No making you say it again when you were already raw and tired and trying to file legal paperwork at his kitchen island. Just Jack looking at you like the word had not scared him at all. Like maybe he had been waiting for it.

Your pulse tripped.

Then his hand settled lightly at the back of your chair. 

The advocate continued, “I’m going to walk you through the process, okay?”

You looked from Jack back to the phone. Your voice came out softer than before. “Okay.”

The advocate explained the steps in a voice that made them sound smaller than they felt. Temporary protective order. Petition. Incident dates. Prior contact. Evidence. Hearing. Service. Conditions. No contact. No coming to your apartment. No coming to your workplace. No third-party messages. No calls. No texts. No notes. No showing up.

Every phrase sounded like a door closing. Not loudly. Not violently. Just firmly.

Jack slid a notepad in front of you without a word.

His handwriting was already at the top.

Case number. Officer Ramirez. Victim advocate. Robby/security. Hospital footage. Apartment footage. Truck damage.

You looked at the list. Your throat tightened.

Jack saw your face. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “No.”

The advocate paused. “Do you need a minute?”

You looked at the phone. “No. I want to keep going.”

Jack’s hand moved once against the edge of the counter.  Not touching you. Close.

The advocate spoke again. “Okay. I’m going to send a link to the petition. You can fill it out electronically. If you get stuck, I can stay on the line.”

Your phone buzzed with the link a second later. Jack pushed his laptop toward you from across the island.

You stared at it for a second, then looked at him. “You already had it ready?”

Jack’s expression stayed neutral. “Seemed likely.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Efficient.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’ve been told.”

The advocate waited politely while you opened the link. Then the form appeared. Your name. Trent’s name. Relationship. Address. Employer. Prior incidents. Most recent incident. Reason for request.

You stared at the blank boxes. For a second, all the words you had been saying since that morning disappeared.

Jack’s voice came low beside you. “One box at a time.”

You breathed in. Then you started. You typed your name. You typed Trent’s. You typed your address, and your fingers slowed over the keys.

Jack noticed. “Want me to do it?”

You shook your head. “No. I can.”

He nodded once. “Okay.”

So you did. You typed the apartment number you had said to dispatch. The building entrance. The place Trent had come to after being told not to. Then you moved to the next box. The advocate stayed on the line while you worked. She did not rush you. Jack did not rush you. No one rushed you.

That almost made it harder.

You were so used to trying to get fear over with before someone noticed.

This time, everyone was letting it take up space. So you wrote it down. The coffee outside your door. The notes. The calls. The messages. The day he came to the ER. The way he had cornered you at work like your job was just another place he could reach you. The knock. The pounding. The handle. His voice through the door.

Jack standing between you and him. 

The 911 call. The sirens. The truck. Every little thing you had tried to survive quietly became part of the same pattern on a screen. At one point, your fingers stopped moving.

Jack looked over. “What do you need?”

You stared at the cursor blinking in the box. “I don’t know how to make it sound right.”

The advocate’s voice came gently through the phone. “You don’t have to make it sound polished. You just have to say what’s true.”

Your eyes burned.

Jack’s voice was quieter. “Start there.”

You swallowed. Then you typed. 

I am afraid he will come back.

The sentence sat on the screen. Plain. Ugly. True.

Your breath caught. Jack’s hand covered yours where it rested beside the laptop. You did not look at him. If you did, you thought you might stop. So you kept typing.

I have told him not to contact me. He came to my apartment anyway. He tried the door handle while I was inside. He showed up at my workplace. He left notes at my home. Police responded this morning. He was arrested after officers saw him damaging Jack Abbot’s truck outside my building.

When you finished the paragraph, your hands were shaking. Jack did not tell you it was okay. He did not tell you to calm down. He just pushed your coffee a little closer. You took it because the mug gave you something to hold.

The advocate spoke after a moment. “That is clear. That is helpful.”

You let out a breath. Jack’s thumb moved once over the side of your hand. The next part asked about locations you wanted protected. Your apartment. Your workplace. Your car. The hospital. Jack’s house.

You froze on that thought.

Jack noticed immediately. “What?”

You looked at him. “Your house.”

His jaw tightened. Not with hesitation. With understanding.

“He knows you’re involved,” you said.

Jack looked at the screen, then back at you. “Add it.”

Your throat tightened. “Jack—”

“Add it,” he said again, voice even. “If he tries to come here, I want it documented that he was told not to.”

The advocate spoke gently. “Including a safe residence where you’re staying can be appropriate. You can also ask for protection around any location where you may reasonably be.”

You looked at Jack. “I hate putting your house in this.”

Jack held your gaze. “I don’t.”

You stared at him. He leaned closer, his voice low enough that it felt separate from the phone call.

“This is where you are,” Jack said. “This is where you’re safe. Add it.”

Your eyes burned, but you nodded. You typed his address. Jack watched you do it. No flinch. No resentment. No hesitation. Just there.

When the form asked about evidence, the advocate walked you through uploading screenshots.

Messages. Call logs. Photos of the notes the officer had already taken. The report number. Jack’s truck damage would be attached separately through the police report. Hospital security would send footage through official channels.

By the time you hit save, your shoulders ached. Your head hurt. Your coffee was cold again. The advocate walked you through the next steps. She would review the petition. Officer Ramirez’s report would be attached. The evidence would be logged. You might have to appear by video for the temporary order.

She would call back as soon as she knew the time. You thanked her. Jack thanked her too.

When the call ended, you sat very still in front of the laptop. The petition was saved. Not granted yet. Not finished. But started.

Official and real.

Jack sat on the stool beside you, close enough that his knee brushed yours.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The form was still open on the screen. Everything he had done, reduced to boxes and paragraphs and uploaded files.

You rubbed your thumb against the side of your mug. “I thought filing it would feel bigger.”

Jack followed your gaze to the laptop. “How does it feel?”

You thought about it. “It feels weird,” you said.

Jack waited. You looked back at the form. “Like it’s too simple for how bad it felt.”

His face changed. Careful. Understanding.

“Paperwork usually is,” Jack said.

You looked at him. He held your gaze. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t count.”

Your throat tightened. You nodded once. The house was quiet around you. For once, the quiet did not feel empty. It felt like a pause. Like the day had given you a place to put something down before asking you to pick up the next thing.

Jack leaned back against the counter and looked at the laptop again. Then his mouth curved.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

Jack’s gaze slid to yours, warm and entirely too pleased. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Your face warmed immediately. “Jack.”

His smile widened. “No, I’m just making sure I heard that right.”

“You heard it,” you said.

His brows lifted, all faux innocence and terrible smugness. “Did I?”

You gave him a look. “You know you did.”

Jack leaned closer, clearly enjoying himself now. “I was under a lot of emotional stress. Might need you to clarify.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. Then the nerves hit. Silly, maybe.

After everything. After sleeping in his bed and crying into his shirt and calling him your boyfriend on speakerphone to a county victim advocate. Still, your fingers tightened around your mug.

“If that’s okay,” you said.

Jack’s expression changed immediately. The smugness did not vanish completely. It softened. Settled into something warmer. More serious.

“If that’s okay?” he repeated.

You looked down. “I know we didn’t really talk about it. I just said it, and maybe that was—”

“Sweetheart,” Jack said.

You stopped.

Jack waited until you looked at him again. Then his mouth curved, slow and devastating.

“Yes,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Jack leaned closer, forearms resting on the island between you, eyes fixed on yours.

“Boyfriend,” he said. “Fuck yeah, boyfriend.”

A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it. Wet. Startled. Real.

Jack looked delighted with himself. And with you. Mostly with you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said.

“I’m your boyfriend,” Jack said, still smiling. “Apparently.”

Your face warmed again, but this time it did not feel like panic. It felt like being wanted. Like being claimed only because you had offered the word first. Like Jack holding it carefully and then grinning because he was allowed to have it.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you asked.

Jack pretended to think about it.

“No,” he said. “Probably not.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed. Jack’s hand found yours beside the mug. His thumb moved once over your knuckles. Then his voice softened.

“Hey,” he said. You looked back at him. “I liked it,” Jack said.

Your chest tightened. “The boyfriend thing?” you asked.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Yeah,” Jack said. “The boyfriend thing.”

You swallowed hard. “Good,” you whispered.

Jack’s smile came back, smaller this time. Still cocky. Still Jack. But so warm it made your chest ache.

“Good,” he said.

The laptop was still open beside you. The petition was still unfinished in the ways that mattered. Trent was still in custody. There were still calls to answer and forms to submit, and whatever came next was waiting somewhere beyond the quiet of Jack’s kitchen.

But for one second, none of that got to be the center of the room. For one second, it was just Jack’s hand over yours. His thumb moving over your knuckles. His stupid, pleased smile. Boyfriend. Your boyfriend. And the ridiculous, impossible warmth of realizing that even in the middle of all this, something good had still managed to become real.

For a while, the two of you just sat there.

The laptop stayed closed on the island. Your phone stayed quiet. Jack’s hand stayed over yours, his thumb moving slowly over your knuckles like he was not in a hurry to be anywhere else.

The boyfriend thing still sat between you.

Warm. Ridiculous. Real.

You looked down at his hand, then at the half-empty mug beside the laptop. Your coffee had gone cold again. You almost said something about it. Then your stomach made a quiet, unhappy sound.

You froze. Jack’s eyes flicked down. Then back up.

You looked at him. “Do not.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved. “I was not.”

“You looked like a man about to say something medically smug,” you said.

His smile deepened. “Medically smug?”

“Yes,” you said. “It’s a whole face you have.”

Jack leaned back slightly. “I have a medically smug face?”

“You absolutely do,” you said.

His eyes warmed. “And what does that face say?”

You gave him a flat look. “It says, ‘I told you your body needed food, sweetheart.’”

Jack stared at you for half a second. Then he laughed. Not a big laugh. Not loud. But real enough that it reached his eyes. The sound moved through the kitchen, low and warm, and something in your chest loosened just to hear it.

You tried not to smile. You failed.

Jack saw it. “I wasn’t going to say sweetheart.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s what you’re denying?”

“That was the inaccurate part,” Jack said.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed. Then your stomach pulled again, less quiet this time.

You looked away with a sigh. “Okay. Maybe I’m hungry.”

Jack’s face softened immediately. Not triumphant. Not smug. Just pleased in a way he tried very hard to hide.

You pointed at him. “Do not be happy about that.”

Jack held your gaze. “I’m not happy.”

“You’re extremely happy,” you said.

“I’m calmly encouraged,” Jack said.

You stared at him. “That is worse.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. You reached for your phone and tapped the screen. 5:42. You stared at the time. For some reason, that did more to disorient you than anything else had. Almost six. The same day. Still the same day. This morning, you had been in your apartment with Jack on your couch. This morning, Trent had been on the other side of your door. This morning, you had whispered your address to a dispatcher while Jack stood between you and the sound of the handle rattling.

And now it was almost dinner.

You sat in Jack’s kitchen with paperwork filed and coffee gone cold and his thumb still moving over your hand. A whole day had happened inside half a day.

Jack noticed the shift in your face. “What?”

You turned the phone slightly toward him. “It’s almost six.”

Jack’s gaze moved to the screen. “Yeah.”

You swallowed. “That feels impossible.”

His expression changed. He did not try to fix the feeling.

Jack only nodded once. “I know.”

You set the phone down. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a car passing outside. Your body felt heavy. Your head hurt. Your eyes felt tired. But underneath all of that, there was hunger. Small. Tentative.

Human.

You looked around Jack’s kitchen, then back at him.

“Can I make you dinner?” you asked.

Jack blinked once. Then his face shifted into immediate resistance. “You don’t have to do that.”

You looked at him. “I know.”

“I mean it,” Jack said.

“So do I,” you said.

His eyes searched yours. “You need to rest.”

“I did rest,” you said.

“For a few hours after a traumatic incident,” Jack said. “That’s not exactly a vacation.”

You leaned back slightly. “Are you trying to out-stubborn me?”

Jack’s mouth twitched despite himself. “I’m considering it.”

You nodded slowly. “Bold choice.”

“Reasonable choice,” Jack said.

You looked down at your joined hands. For a second, the teasing faded. Not because it was gone. Because this mattered more.

“I’m not trying to pay you back,” you said.

Jack went still. You kept your eyes on his hand over yours. “I know I can’t.”

“Sweetheart,” Jack said quietly.

You shook your head. “No, let me say it.”

Jack stopped. He waited. You swallowed hard. “That’s not what this is.”

His voice stayed gentle. “Okay.”

You looked back up at him. “You’ve been standing between me and everything since this morning.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

“The door,” you said. “The police. The calls. The paperwork.”

Jack looked like he wanted to interrupt. You lifted your hand slightly. “Please don’t.”

Jack closed his mouth. Your throat tightened. “Your truck got fucked up because he wanted to punish you for being with me.”

His expression sharpened. “That is not your fault.”

“I know,” you said quickly.

Jack’s face did not ease. 

“I know it’s not my fault,” you said again, softer. “I’m trying to know that.”

Jack breathed out through his nose. 

You kept going before you lost your nerve. “But it still happened near you because of me. Because you stayed. Because you didn’t run when things got hard or scary or complicated.”

His eyes stayed on yours. You could see the words land. You could see him take them in.

You pressed your fingers against the side of your mug. “You stayed like it was obvious.”

Jack’s face changed. Careful. Quiet. Almost wounded by the idea that it could have been anything else.

“It was obvious,” he said.

Your eyes burned. You looked away for half a second, then forced yourself back to him. “That’s why I want to make dinner.”

Jack’s brows pulled together slightly. You gave him a small, tired smile. “Not because I owe you. Not because I’m trying to earn anything. I just want to do something good for you.”

His throat worked. You added, quieter, “Because you’re here.”

Jack did not speak. Your fingers tightened around the mug again. Then, because apparently this was who you were now, you said, “Because you’re my boyfriend.”

Jack’s eyes warmed immediately. The corner of his mouth lifted.

You pointed at him before he could say anything. “Do not.”

Jack leaned back slightly. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to,” you said.

“I was thinking something,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Something smug?”

“Something accurate,” Jack said.

You gave him a look. His smile widened. “About being your boyfriend.”

Your face warmed. “Jack.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping into that flirtatious, entirely too pleased register. “You keep saying it.”

“You keep reacting like that,” you said.

Jack’s brows lifted. “Like what?”

“Like a smug idiot,” you said.

Jack’s grin deepened. “A smug idiot with a girlfriend.”

Your breath caught. Girlfriend. The word hit softer than you expected. Not like a joke. Like a hand settling carefully over something tender. Jack saw it. His expression softened at the edges, though the smugness stayed because he was still Jack.

You looked down, suddenly shy. “So dinner?”

Jack’s hand tightened lightly around yours. “Dinner.”

You glanced up at him. “Is that a yes?”

Jack’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “That’s a yes.”

You studied his face. “You’re going to hover, aren’t you?”

Jack’s expression turned innocent. “I live here.”

You pushed back from the island. “You can live here from over there.”

He rose too, slower, still watching you. “Over where?”

You pointed toward the other side of the kitchen. “There.”

Jack looked at the space you indicated. “That is also my kitchen.”

“You’re hovering in your own house,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved. “That feels legally complicated.”

You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw it and looked pleased with himself.

You crossed toward the fridge, then stopped with your hand on the handle. “Do you have actual food, or is this a bachelor doctor situation?”

Jack looked offended. “I have actual food.”

You opened the fridge. Then you looked back at him.

Jack lifted a brow. “What?”

You stared at him. “You have three kinds of mustard.”

“That is actual food-adjacent,” Jack said.

“You have eggs, Greek yogurt, two takeout containers, and enough condiments to survive an apocalypse,” you said.

Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “I also have chicken.”

You searched the fridge again and found it. “Okay. Points for chicken.”

“I accept,” Jack said.

You opened a drawer. “Pasta?”

Jack nodded toward the cabinet beside the stove. “Pantry.”

You found a box of pasta, then parmesan, garlic, butter, and a bag of broccoli in the fridge. You set everything on the counter with more satisfaction than the situation probably deserved.

Jack watched you. “You have a plan.”

“I have a plan,” you said.

His eyes moved over the ingredients. “Pasta?”

You looked at him. “You say that like you’re surprised I can make something from your sad little fridge.”

“My fridge is not sad,” Jack said.

“Your fridge is emotionally unavailable,” you said.

Jack laughed. A real laugh. Low and warm and surprised out of him. The sound loosened something in your chest. You looked at him before you could stop yourself. He noticed.

His smile softened. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

Jack gave you a look. You smiled faintly. “I just like that.”

His voice gentled. “Like what?”

“You laughing,” you said.

Jack’s expression shifted. You looked away before it could get too big.

Then you picked up the parmesan and held it out to him. “Here.”

Jack took it. “What am I doing with this?”

“You’re grating it,” you said.

He looked down at the block of cheese. “I’m allowed to help?”

“You’re allowed to take direction,” you said.

Jack’s eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused. “Dangerous thing to say to me.”

Your face warmed. “Kitchen context, Jack.”

His mouth curved. “Sure.”

You pointed at the cutting board. “Grate the cheese.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.

You turned away too quickly, but you could feel him smiling. For the next few minutes, the kitchen changed around you. Not magically. Not completely. The fear was still there. The paperwork still existed. Your phone still sat on the island, close enough to hear if it rang. But there was garlic beneath your knife. Butter softening in a pan. Jack grating parmesan beside you with an expression of exaggerated concentration.

You handed him the broccoli. Jack looked at it. “Now what?”

You pointed toward the sink. “Wash it.”

Jack looked at you. “That one I knew.”

“Good,” you said. “I’m proud of you.”

He rinsed the broccoli. “That sounded condescending.”

“It was affectionate,” you said.

Jack’s mouth curved. You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed.

Jack set the broccoli on the cutting board beside you. “What else?”

You glanced around the kitchen. “Set the table.”

His brows lifted. “The table?”

“Yes, the table,” you said. “We’re not eating standing over the counter.”

Jack’s eyes warmed. “You have strong opinions about dinner.”

“I’m a woman under stress with access to garlic and pasta,” you said. “Obviously.”

Jack laughed again. This time, you let yourself enjoy it. He moved to the cabinet for plates. You turned back to the stove. The butter melted. The garlic hit the pan. The smell bloomed through the kitchen, rich and warm and immediate.

For the first time since the knock that morning, your body remembered something other than fear. Hunger. Not much. But enough.

You stirred the garlic and breathed in.

Behind you, Jack set plates on the table. Then silverware. Then napkins. Then he came back and stood too close behind you.

You did not even turn around. “You’re hovering.”

Jack’s voice came from just over your shoulder. “I’m observing.”

“You are breathing on my neck,” you said.

“That’s not illegal,” Jack said.

You looked back at him. “It might be in this kitchen.”

His mouth curved. Then his eyes dropped to the pan. “Looks good.”

“You haven’t eaten it yet,” you said.

“I have instincts,” Jack said.

You pointed the spoon at him. “Your instincts live at least two feet away until dinner is done.”

Jack lifted both hands and stepped back. “Yes, chef.”

The words should not have done anything. They absolutely did. Your stomach dipped. Jack saw that too. His smile went slow.

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not weaponize kitchen obedience.”

“I would never,” Jack said.

“You absolutely would,” you said.

His gaze stayed on yours. “Yeah.”

You turned back to the stove before your face could give you away. Jack’s quiet laugh followed you. And somehow, impossibly, the sound of it settled into the kitchen beside the garlic and the butter and the late afternoon light.

The day was still the day. Nothing about this morning had disappeared. But Jack was setting the table. You were making dinner. Your boyfriend was grating parmesan in his own kitchen with a smug little smile on his face. And for a few minutes, the good thing got to be louder.

Dinner turned out better than you expected.

Not because you doubted yourself, exactly. More because Jack’s kitchen had given you chicken, pasta, garlic, parmesan, broccoli, and three kinds of mustard, and you had been operating on adrenaline, half a banana, cold coffee, and the emotional equivalent of a system crash.

Still, somehow, it worked.

The pasta was creamy and warm, the chicken browned at the edges, the broccoli tossed with garlic and enough butter to make Jack raise his eyebrows in silent approval when he thought you were not looking. You were looking. You plated his food first and set it down in front of him at the table.

Jack looked at the bowl, then up at you. “This looks really good.”

You sat across from him. “You haven’t tasted it yet.”

“I have eyes,” Jack said.

“You also have a boyfriend bias,” you said.

His mouth curved immediately. “I do.”

Your face warmed before you could stop it. Jack looked much too pleased with himself.

You pointed your fork at him. “Eat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.

You tried not to react. You failed a little. Jack noticed. But he let you pretend he did not, which was generous of him, considering how smug his face looked. He took a bite. For one second, he said nothing. Your stomach dropped.

You sat up straighter. “What?”

Jack looked at the bowl. Then he looked at you.

His voice was quiet and serious enough to make your nerves spike. “That’s really fucking good.”

Relief hit so fast you almost laughed. “Don’t do that.”

Jack frowned. “Compliment your food?”

“Pause like you’re about to deliver bad news,” you said.

“I was appreciating,” Jack said.

“You were creating tension,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “Was I?”

“Yes,” you said. “And you don’t have to lie because I filed a protective order today.”

Jack took another bite. “I’m not that generous.”

A laugh slipped out of you. It came easier this time. Less broken. Less surprised. Jack watched you for half a second, something soft moving through his face, then he looked back down at his bowl and kept eating. That did something to you. You looked down at your own food and took a bite before your throat could get too tight.

The first taste startled you.

Not because it was good, though it was.

Because your body wanted it. Because hunger, real hunger, moved through you after a day spent bracing against fear. You took another bite. Jack noticed, but he only cut into a piece of chicken and said nothing. For several minutes, dinner was just dinner.

Forks against bowls. The quiet scrape of Jack’s chair when he shifted. The low hum of the refrigerator. The soft dimming of the kitchen as the light outside started to fade. Your phone stayed on the island. The laptop stayed closed. The paperwork stayed wherever paperwork went after you had given it everything you could for the moment.

Jack took another bite, then glanced up at you. “You okay?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

His brows lifted slightly. You thought about lying. Then you looked at his emptying bowl and decided not to.

“I think this is what I wanted,” you said.

Jack’s face softened. “Dinner?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He waited. You looked at him across the small table. “You sitting down. Eating something. Not watching the door for once.”

Jack’s hand stilled around his fork. Your voice stayed soft. “That’s what I wanted.”

For a second, he did not speak. Then he looked down at his bowl and took another bite like maybe that was easier than answering. You let him have that. A minute later, he stood with his bowl.

You looked up. “Are you done?”

Jack shook his head. “Seconds.”

The word landed harder than it should have. You tried to hide it. Jack saw it anyway.

His voice gentled. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

He stood beside the stove, spooning more pasta into his bowl. “That wasn’t nothing.”

You looked down at your own food. “I just like that you want more.”

Jack was quiet. You glanced up. His expression had softened in that dangerous way again. The kind that made everything in your chest feel too visible.

Then Jack lifted the serving spoon slightly. “It’s really fucking good.”

You smiled down at your bowl. “Okay.”

He came back to the table. “And I’m hungry.”

Your smile grew. “Okay.”

Jack sat again. “And my girlfriend made it.”

Your breath caught. He took another bite like he had not just casually rearranged the room around you. You stared at him.

Jack looked up, all false innocence. “What?”

“You’re abusing the title,” you said.

Jack’s eyes warmed. “Already?”

“Yes,” you said.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

By the time dinner was done, the kitchen had gone soft around the edges. Not clean. Not perfect. There were pans on the stove, plates on the table, parmesan on the counter, and a suspicious amount of garlic on one cutting board. You stood and reached for your bowl.

Jack looked at you. “No.”

You froze. “No?”

Jack stood too. “Dishes can wait.”

“I cooked,” you said.

“And I’ll clean later,” Jack said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Later when?”

“Later,” Jack said.

“That is not a time,” you said.

“It is tonight’s time,” he said.

You looked at the sink, then back at him. “Jack—”

He leaned one hand on the table. “Sit on the couch with me.”

Your protest died somewhere embarrassingly fast. Jack saw it happen.

His mouth curved. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cocky.”

“Accurate,” Jack said.

You pointed toward the sink. “Those dishes are going to be gross later.”

“I’ve survived worse,” he said.

You looked at him. His expression stayed warm, but something quieter moved beneath it. You thought of the morning. The door. The sirens. The truck. The forms. 

Then you let the bowl stay on the table.

“Fine,” you said.

Jack’s mouth softened. “Fine?”

You lifted your chin. “I will sit on your couch.”

“My couch is honored,” Jack said.

“You’re very annoying as a boyfriend,” you said.

Jack’s smile turned slow. “As a boyfriend?”

You felt your face warm. “Do not.”

He stepped closer. “I’m just clarifying.”

“You’re fishing,” you said.

“I am,” Jack admitted.

You stared at him. He stared back. Then, because he was impossible and because you apparently liked impossible, you smiled. Jack’s face changed like he had won something. He moved into the kitchen and grabbed two wine glasses from the cabinet.

You leaned against the table and watched him. “Wine?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You want some?”

You lifted a brow. “You’re giving me alcohol after everything that happened today?”

“One glass,” Jack said. “Food in you. Boyfriend supervision.”

You laughed. “Boyfriend supervision sounds fake.”

Jack pulled a bottle from the small rack near the counter. “It’s very serious.”

“You made that up,” you said.

“I’m a doctor,” Jack said.

“That does not make boyfriend supervision real,” you said.

Jack worked the cork free. “It does in this house.”

You watched him pour red wine into one glass, then the other. Something warm and reckless moved through you. 

You tilted your head. “Careful.”

Jack paused, the bottle hovering over your glass.

You met his eyes. “Red wine gets me into all kinds of trouble.”

For one second, Jack went very still. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. Slowly. Deliberately.

When his eyes came back to yours, they were darker than before. 

Without looking away, he tipped the bottle and poured a little more into your glass.

Your stomach dipped. You stared at him. “Jack.”

His mouth curved as he set the bottle down. “Good to know.”

You picked up your glass, trying very hard to look unimpressed. “That was reckless.”

Jack handed you the wine. “I made an informed decision.”

You took the glass from him. “Did you?”

His fingers brushed yours. “Yeah.”

You swallowed. Jack picked up his own glass and nodded toward the living room. “Couch?”

You took a small sip of wine. It was smooth and rich and a little too fitting for the look on his face.

You lowered the glass. “Couch.”

The living room was dimmer than the kitchen, washed in the blue-gray light of early evening. Jack clicked on one lamp, warm and low, then set his glass on the coffee table. You sat beside him, close but not quite touching. Your phone sat on the table too. Screen down. Quiet. Jack noticed where your eyes went. He did not say anything. He only reached over and rested his hand on your knee. 

You looked down at his hand. “Boyfriend supervision?”

Jack’s thumb moved once. “Exactly.”

You leaned into the couch. “You’re very cocky for someone who became a boyfriend today.”

Jack looked at you over his wine glass. “I’ve been overqualified for the position for a while.”

You laughed immediately. Jack’s mouth curved. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

His eyes stayed on you. “That was not nothing.”

“That was just very you,” you said.

Jack set his wine down. “You like very me.”

You took another sip to buy yourself a second. “Unfortunately.”

His hand warmed over your knee. “Unfortunately?”

You looked at him. “Tragically.”

Jack leaned closer. “Devastating for you.”

“Terrible,” you said.

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. This time, he did not hide it. Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb slowed on your knee. “Can I kiss you?”

The question softened the heat without killing it. Your throat tightened.

“You don’t have to ask every time,” you said.

Jack’s eyes came back to yours. His voice went low. “Today I do.”

Everything in you went quiet. Not scared. Not frozen. Quiet. Like some part of your body had needed him to say exactly that.

You leaned closer, your voice softer. “Yes.”

Jack kissed you like he had been waiting.

Not rushing. Not taking. Waiting.

His mouth found yours softly at first, warm from wine and dinner and the smile he had been fighting all night. His hand stayed on your knee, careful, while yours moved to the front of his shirt. You gripped the fabric. Jack made a low sound against your mouth. The sound went through you fast. Too fast.

You kissed him harder. His hand slid from your knee to your thigh, still careful, still giving you room to move away if you wanted to. You did not move away. You shifted closer. Jack let you. He let you set the pace, let you angle your body toward his, let you decide when soft was not enough anymore.

The next kiss was deeper. Hotter. His mouth opened under yours, and your fingers tightened in his shirt as heat moved through you, sharp and welcome and so much better than fear. Jack’s other hand came up to your jaw. His thumb brushed along the edge of your face, steadying without holding you still. You made a small sound against his mouth.

Jack pulled back half an inch. “You okay?”

You nodded, breath uneven. “Yeah.”

His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”

You kissed him again instead of answering. Jack’s hand flexed on your thigh. There he was. Still careful. Still Jack. But warmer now. Hungrier. His mouth moved against yours like he could feel the line you were drawing and wanted to follow it exactly.

You shifted again, your knee pressing into the couch beside his hip. Jack’s hand moved to your waist, not pulling, just there in case you wanted the balance. You did. You moved into his lap slowly, giving yourself time to change your mind. You did not.

Jack stayed very still beneath you until you settled over him. Then his hands found your hips. Firm and careful. Reverent enough to make your chest ache and confident enough to make your stomach flip.

He looked up at you, eyes dark and warm. “Hi.”

A laugh broke out of you, breathless and unsteady. “Hi.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “This okay?”

You looked down at him, at the open want on his face, at the restraint still threaded through his hands. “Yes,” you said. “This is okay.”

Jack’s expression shifted. Then he kissed you again. The angle changed everything. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, and his arms came around you more fully, holding you close but not trapping you. His mouth was hotter now, less careful at the edges, still controlled but only barely.

You could taste the wine on him.

The whole ridiculous miracle of being wanted by someone who had seen you scared and shaking and still looked at you like this. Like you were not broken open. Like you were here. Like you were his girlfriend in his lap on his couch, and that was allowed to matter more for a minute.

Jack’s hand moved slowly up your back. You leaned into him. He smiled against your mouth.

You felt it and pulled back just enough to glare at him. “What?”

Jack’s breathing was rougher now. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was a smile.”

“Was it?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack’s hands settled at your hips again. “I like this.”

Your face warmed. His eyes stayed on yours. “I like you here,” Jack said.

The words were simple. Low. Devastating.

You swallowed. Then you leaned down and kissed him again because answering that out loud felt too big. Jack met you halfway. The kiss turned messy in the best way, your hands in his shirt, his fingers pressing into your hips, your body finally remembering that wanting could be safe, that heat did not have to come with fear attached to it.

You rolled your hips without fully meaning to. Jack’s grip tightened. Just once. Enough that you felt the restraint in him snap taut.

He broke the kiss with a rough breath. “Careful.”

You stilled immediately. “Too much?”

His eyes opened. Dark. Focused.

“No,” Jack said, voice rough. “That’s the problem.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh,” you said.

His mouth curved, smug even through the heat. “Yeah. Oh.”

You stared at him for half a second. Then a laugh slipped out of you. Soft. Breathless. Almost disbelieving.

Jack’s hands loosened on your hips immediately, his thumbs brushing over you in slow, grounding strokes. You looked down at him, your heart beating hard for reasons that had nothing to do with panic. Then you leaned back slightly, just enough to breathe. Jack watched you, chest rising beneath your hands.

You brushed your thumb over the open collar of his shirt. “Told you.”

His eyes narrowed faintly, mouth curving. “Told me what?”

You leaned closer until your mouth hovered near his. “Trouble,” you whispered.

Jack’s smile went slow. Wicked. Warm. So pleased with you it made your whole body ache. His hands settled more firmly at your hips.

“I poured accordingly,” Jack said.

Your breath caught. Then you laughed into his mouth when he kissed you again. Jack swallowed the sound like he wanted to keep it. His hands tightened at your hips, careful but firmer now, and you let yourself sink closer. Into the warmth of him. Into the solid press of his body beneath yours. Into the impossible fact that this day had held police and paperwork and fear, but it had also held this.

His mouth moved against yours, slow and deep, tasting faintly of wine. You kissed him back harder. Jack made a rough sound low in his throat. The sound went straight through you. Your fingers slid into his hair before you could think better of it, and his grip flexed once at your waist.

Not stopping you. Not rushing you. Just feeling it. Feeling you.

You pulled back only far enough to breathe. Jack’s eyes opened, dark and warm and fixed entirely on you. His chest rose beneath your hands. For a second, neither of you spoke. The living room was quiet around you. The lamp threw soft light across his face. Your phone stayed silent on the coffee table. The wine sat forgotten beside it.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “You okay?”

You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah.”

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You looked at him, still sitting in his lap, your hands braced against his shoulders, your body warm in a way that had nothing to do with panic.

“Good?” you asked.

Jack’s smile turned smug. “Very good.”

You huffed a laugh. “You’re so annoying.”

His hands slid slowly along your sides, settling again at your hips. “That hasn’t stopped you yet.”

You leaned closer. “Maybe I have questionable taste.”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “Maybe.”

You kissed him again before he could look too pleased with himself. This time, he smiled into it. You felt it. You loved it. That was dangerous, too. Not bad dangerous.

Not the kind that made your body go cold.

This was the kind that made everything in you wake up. The kind that made you want to press closer, breathe harder, forget the closed laptop in the kitchen and the paperwork saved inside it and the fact that this morning had almost swallowed you whole.

Jack’s hand moved up your back. You arched into him without meaning to. His breath caught. Then he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice rough.

You opened your eyes. “What?”

Jack breathed out slowly. “We should slow down.”

Your stomach dipped for a half second. Jack caught it immediately. His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing gently along your jaw.

“Not because I don’t want you,” he said.

Your breath caught. His eyes stayed on yours. “I do.”

The words landed low and warm. Simple. Unmistakable.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your skin. “A lot.”

Your lips parted. He gave you a look. A tiny warning. Soft. Amused. Still heated.

“Don’t look at me like that after I just said we should slow down,” Jack said.

A laugh slipped out of you, breathless and startled. “Sorry.”

“You are not,” Jack said.

“No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”

His mouth curved. You let your forehead rest against his again. For a moment, both of you just breathed. Your hands slid from his shoulders to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. Jack’s arms settled around you. Holding. Not trapping. Not taking. Just holding. The heat did not vanish. It settled. Changed shape. Became something warm enough to stay with.

Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. For a moment, both of you just breathed. Then your throat tightened.

“I don’t want him to ruin this,” you said.

Jack’s thumb stilled at your back. You swallowed and kept your forehead against his. “Us.”

For half a second, Jack did not move. Then his arms tightened around you. Not hard. Not frantic. Certain.

“He doesn’t get to ruin us,” Jack said.

Your eyes burned, but not in the same way as before.

“He’s already in so much of it,” you whispered.

Jack turned his head enough to press his mouth to your temple. “Then we make more.”

Your breath caught. His hand moved slowly over your back.

“More of this,” Jack said quietly. “More good. More us.”

You closed your eyes. The words settled somewhere deep. Not a promise that everything would be easy. Not a denial of what had happened. Just a promise that Trent did not get to be the only thing that mattered. You nodded against him. Jack kissed your temple again. Then he kissed your cheek. Then near the corner of your mouth.

Your laugh came out small against his shoulder. “You’re very committed to this.”

Jack’s voice warmed. “Follow-up care is important.”

You lifted your head and looked at him. For one second, you just stared. Then you laughed. A real laugh. Tired. Soft. A little wrecked around the edges. Jack watched you like the sound was worth everything.

“Unfortunately, that was funny,” you said.

His mouth curved. “Unfortunately?”

You settled against him, your cheek near his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”

Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back. “Too late.”

You closed your eyes. The dishes were still in the sink. The paperwork was still waiting in Jack’s kitchen. Trent was still in custody. Jack’s truck was still somewhere with two ruined tires and a long scratch down the side. None of it had disappeared. But Jack’s arms were around you. His mouth was warm against your temple. His laugh was still caught somewhere in his chest.

And for once, the good thing was not waiting politely outside the bad thing.

It was right there. Taking up space. Being real.

@nosebeers @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24, @itzpixieba, @scott-890, @disappearintofanfiction, @laughsandlivia, @missmillivanilli, @normanscupcake, @tlc3802, @donttalktosposts, @sparklemermaidprincessgirl, @realwhoreforfictionalmen, @meowtortellini, @voidsagent, @miahelen, @milesawayyy, @mkiving, @lanadelrey10, @doesanyonereadthis, @punkshyteee, @mayawainfleet, @longfulforlee, @sleepylunarwolf, @butarealgoodtime, @user153639937, @chattyotter14, @tallaennatargaryen

[mrsbourbonborn]

Love love love this whole series! You’re so talented 💜

[babydeermand]

I swear he’s human he’s just going through something

[dirtygir1]

HOKY FUCK ING SHIT!!!!

[mrsbourbonborn]

WHOA!!!!!!!!

[doormatty3]

Almost Nothing - Chapter 2 (Jack Abbot x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Chapter 1

Summary:

[Jack Abbot x Female Reader] [Jack Abbot x You] Doctor Jack Abbot had survived grief, war and the daily violence of the Pitt by learning how to keep himself separate from the things he wanted. Then you transferred to nights with your careless hands and your impossible warmth, touching him like it meant nothing while looking at him like it might. He told himself that a man like him had no business wanting someone like you. But restraint is only useful until it breaks. OR: When Jack’s carefully held control slips, you know you’re in for a ride

Wordcount: 13,573

Warnings: 18+, fluff, yearning, romance, kissing, soft Jack , smut, dirty talk, flirting, oral sex, vaginal sex, love, shower

A/N: Well, here it is, chapter 2 FINALLY - the bad news? I had to split it up because it's almost 30k. I got carried away so badly. So there'll be another chapter with all the smut then. At least it's almost done, and I just gotta prove read it! ALSO: The new content we got the past few days were scrumdiddlyumptious.

The next few hours before the shift ended passed in a blur as the Pitt just opened its mouth and swallowed you both again. 

The hospital and its chaos did not stop. It didn’t care that Jack’s mouth had been on yours and that you could still feel the shape of his hand at your waist, the stubble beneath your palm. And yet under everything, the unbreakable awareness of each other remained. 

You caught Jack constantly looking at you. Not the way he had before, with restraint and shame painted across his features, but rather hungry now. Hungry in a way that made your hands unsteady as you taped an IV line. 

And you looked for him as well, and you always found him already watching, not darting away anymore. And that was the thing that really undid you.

Jack Abbot, who had spent weeks retreating with the grim dignity of a man denying himself what he wanted, did not look away anymore. 

His eyes moved over your face with a slowness that felt almost like touch, and even from several feet away, you could see the tension held in his jaw, the exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, the dark, unmistakable wanting he no longer seemed capable of disguising completely. 

He looked like a man still at war with himself, but the war had changed shape. Before, he had fought desire because desire was forbidden. Now he fought it because the world was full of witnesses and patients and consequences, and because the first taste of being allowed had made restraint not easier, but almost unbearable. 

And when you finally stepped out the sliding doors with your bag heavy on your shoulder, dawn had begun to wash the street in grey. 

Jack was waiting beside his truck, and you spotted him immediately. He stood by the driver’s side door with one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, and the other braced absently against the truck, fingers resting on the metal as if he needed something solid nearby. 

His shoulders were bowed slightly under fatigue, broad even under the worn olive canvas jacket he had pulled on over his scrubs, the fabric darkened in places by the wet air and creased in that practical way. It sat heavy across his shoulders, the collar turned up a little against the morning chill. Beneath it, you could see the dark edge of his shirt at his throat.

A backpack hung from one shoulder, the strap cutting diagonally across him, practical and battered and strangely intimate in the way ordinary objects became intimate when they belonged to someone you wanted too much. It made him look less like the immovable attending who commanded trauma bays and more like a man with keys in his pocket, a change of clothes somewhere in a bag, a body that got tired, a life that existed beyond fluorescent light. 

The sight of it did something to you that the scrubs never quite had. 

When he saw you approaching, Jack straightened at once and then glanced down once, briefly, as if gathering himself from somewhere near his boots. Then he exhaled through his nose and looked back at you.

“Hi.”

It was downright sweet. The memory of him kissing you breathless earlier collided violently with the almost shy roughness of his voice now, looking at you like he had survived the night only to be undone by the fact that you had actually come. 

You smiled at him. “Hi yourself.”

His hand tightened once around the strap of his backpack, the veins standing faintly along the back of it, and the small, controlled movement sent a vivid memory through you of those same hands at your waist, your face, your arm; large, careful hands that had trembled not because he was uncertain of wanting you, but because he was terrified of wanting you too much.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

His voice was low, roughened by lack of sleep and everything still unsaid between you.

“Yes,” you said.

Jack held your gaze for one long second.

Then he nodded, once, as though accepting an order he had no intention of disobeying, and opened the passenger door for you with a care so ordinary it nearly broke your heart.

You slid into the seat with your bag at your feet, and Jack waited before you were fully settled before closing the door so it didn’t catch your coat or the strap of your bag. 

Then he closed it carefully, not with the distracted slam of a man impatient to leave, but with a controlled gentleness that seemed part habit and part hesitation, as though some portion of him still could not quite believe you were inside his truck, after everything that had happened.

You watched him through the windshield as he walked around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, lifted the backpack from his shoulder and set it behind the seat before climbing in beside you and closing the door.

The radio played quietly as he drove off. One hand stayed on the wheel, tendons visible beneath the skin each time his fingers adjusted their grip. The other rested tense and motionless beside the gearshift. 

Jack tried to appear relaxed, but he felt you beside him with an intensity that bordered on pain. His body remembered you too vividly now. 

You looked at his hand and wondered what would happen if you touched it. And so lightly with enough care that he could pull away if he needed to, you brushed your fingers against the back of his. 

He turned his fingers beneath yours, his palm opened, letting your slip against his until your hand settled into his. Then he gently closed his large hand around yours. His thumb moved once over the side of your hand and then stopped. 

You saw how the tension in his shoulders seemed to drop as though the simple permission of holding your hand had grounded him. And you realised he had been afraid. Not of wanting you or touching you, but rather that once the heat had passed, you might regret him. 

That you might sit beside him in his truck and discover that he wasn’t worth it. 

_____

Jack did not let go of your hand until he really had to. 

He did not let go when he turned into the parking lot beneath his building, though the movement required him to steer one-handed with more care than was strictly convenient. He did not let go when the truck came to a stop, or when the engine clicked itself into silence, or when the radio died mid-sentence and left the two of you sitting in a quiet so complete it felt almost deliberate.

His hand remained around yours.

He squeezed it once before muttering, “You don’t have to…”

You turned towards him, but he was not looking at you, eyes fixed on the windshield. He was offering you escape with the sincerity of a man who believed that one day you’d be grateful for it. It was clear he wanted you to be free to leave if that was what you wanted, even though he looked as though the thought of you actually leaving might undo something in him. 

Instead of asking him why he thought that or doing anything like that, you just squeezed his hand back.

“I know,” you said. “I want to be here.”

The words settled between you with dangerous gentleness.

They were not dramatic. They did not attempt to solve anything. They did not promise that the future would be simple, or that the hospital would not exist tomorrow, or that grief and age and work and all the locked rooms inside Jack would not still be waiting somewhere beyond the door.

But they answered the only question he was really asking.

Jack closed his eyes briefly, as though the relief of them hurt.

Not because he doubted you, exactly, but because belief itself seemed to strike him as dangerous. He had spent so long bracing for refusal, for regret, for the moment when wanting would turn into evidence against him, that acceptance entered him less like comfort than like something bright pressed against a bruise.

When he opened his eyes again, the restraint was still there. But something beneath it had shifted.

“All right,” he said.

Two words, quiet and rough and insufficient for the feeling that moved through his face.

Then, after another second, Jack seemed to remember the mechanics of the world and released your hand to get out of the car. You watched him come around again and open the passenger door for you. 

The moment you stepped down from the truck, he took your hand again and led you to his apartment building. 

You made your way to the elevator, and he muttered an apology before you even stepped inside it.

“It sticks sometimes.”

You looked at the narrow metal doors and smiled despite the strange awareness that you had crossed some threshold long before entering the building. 

“Sounds dangerous.”

The door closed, and Jack remained beside you in the cramped space, broad and warm and safe. Your hand was still in his; his thumb rested against the side of your hand without moving, just being present. And when the elevator jolted once, his fingers tightened around yours automatically as if telling you this was normal.

By the time you finally reached the door of his apartment, he had to let go of you. The absence was immediate, and you hated that you noticed. 

Jack fumbled with the keys, and it was such a small thing that you nearly smiled, because it was ordinary and human. That Dr. Jack Abbot, who never lost his cool and could adapt to any situation so quickly, had to try twice before the key found the lock.

“Don’t,” he said without looking at you.

You blinked innocently, now unable to suppress the soft smile, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

With that, he opened the door.

His apartment looked a lot like he was. It wasn’t unlived-in but rather carefully lived-in, as though only certain parts of existence had been permitted permanent residence there while others had been packed away, locked up, or deemed too dangerous to leave in the open. 

The couch looked comfortable rather than stylish, dark and broad, and slightly worn at the corners in a way that suggested use rather than decoration. Medical journals occupied most available surfaces: stacked on the coffee table, folded open on the arm of a chair, half-buried beneath a pair of reading glasses and a mug that had not quite made it to the sink.

A heavy wool blanket had been folded with military precision over the armrest, its edges so exact that you could picture Jack doing it absently, perhaps late at night, perhaps unable to sleep, imposing order on the one small thing willing to obey him.

Near the door, a pair of boots sat neatly side by side. His backpack landed on a chair with more care than ceremony, practical and battered and still slightly damp at the seams. A dark jacket hung from a hook. There were keys in a shallow dish, a stack of mail opened with surgical neatness, a book turned facedown on a side table, and beside it another coffee cup, this one empty, as though caffeine had become less a habit than a structural support.

The place smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent and something warmer underneath that belonged only to him.

Jack shut the door behind you and immediately looked faintly uncomfortable.

“It’s not -,” he started, then stopped.

“What?”

He rubbed one hand at the back of his neck, fingers disappearing into the dark-silver curls there, the gesture so awkwardly revealing that you had to fight the urge to soften towards him too obviously. 

“It’s not exactly impressive.”

The confession's vulnerability startled you. Not because the words themselves were dramatic, but because of the quiet defensiveness beneath them, the faint flinch tucked into the sentence before you even had the chance to judge anything. 

It was like he had already entered the room ahead of you in his mind, already looked at the worn couch, the journals, the bare walls. The evidence of a life stripped down to use and endurance. 

You looked around again deliberately. The apartment didn’t feel unimpressive. It felt lonely, and somehow that was worse. It was not empty, not neglected or sad in any obvious way. There was warmth and order, traces of an ordinary life. But nothing seemed chosen purely for joy.

“I like it,” you said as you stepped further inside.

He looked sceptical but didn’t comment on it anymore.

You were still smiling when your gaze caught on the side of his head. 

“There is still blood in your hair.”

Jack lifted a hand automatically, fingers brushing through the curls near his temple, where the hair had dried slightly stiff. “Probably not mine.”

“That… is not as comforting as you think.”

“No?”

“No.”

He smiled, a tiny one that still crinkled his eyes in a handsome way, and he looked down at your hands. Somehow, after opening the door and the nervousness, his hand had found yours again. His thumb moved across your knuckles.

“You should sit,” he said, though his voice was softer now. “You’ve been on your feet all night.”

“So have you.”

With that, you stepped closer and reached up, brushing your fingers lightly through the blood-matted section of hair. Jack went still once again, but his eyes remained on you. Something in them altered, darkened and softened now. 

It was thicker than you expected, damp still in places from rain and sweat, grey threaded through the darker curls, coarse enough to catch lightly at your fingertips. The dried blood had stiffened a few strands near his temple, and when you touched it, his jaw tightened as though your gentleness had found a bruise nowhere near his skin.

“It’s dried,” you murmured.

“I know.”

“You’ll have to wash it out.”

His eyes lowered briefly to your mouth.

“I know that too.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

You swallowed, your fingers still resting lightly in his hair, close enough now to smell the rain drying out of his jacket, the faint metallic trace of blood, the soap at his skin, the coffee on his breath.

“I could help.”

The words came out softer than you meant them to. Jack’s hand tightened around yours. For one second, he looked almost pained by the offer, as though tenderness remained the one thing his body did not know how to withstand. 

Then, because he was still Jack, and because surrender apparently required one last attempt at dry humour, he said, “Is this part of the nursing care package?”

You smiled, relieved by the invitation to breathe.

“Only for difficult attendings.”

“I’m difficult?”

“Famously.”

There it was again, that small, almost-smile, rare enough that it felt like something given rather than merely shown. Then the smile faded, leaving something rawer beneath it, the spirit receding to reveal the shyness it had been trying to cover.

“You don’t have to,” he said. Again. 

You touched his cheek with your free hand.

The stubble was rough beneath your palm, his skin warm, the tension in his jaw still held so tightly it made your chest ache. His eyes searched your face, and you understood then that he was not only asking about the blood in his hair. Not really. 

He was asking whether you still wanted to be here now that the door was closed, now that he had brought you into the quiet place where his life looked smaller and lonelier than the man he was at work, now that there was no shift to blame and no emergency to interrupt.

“I know.”

Jack closed his eyes briefly, just long enough for your thumb to feel the small movement of his breath against your palm, the almost imperceptible shift of his face as he let himself be touched and did not turn away from it.

When he opened them again, the shyness was still there.

“Bathroom’s this way,” he said. 

The bathroom was larger than you expected.

Not luxurious, or so but rather functional. Almost thoughtfully arranged and shaped with the precision of a room that had been made to serve a body that did not always forgive carelessness. 

The shower took up most of the far wall, broad and level with the floor, its glass door pushed back, the tiles clean and pale beneath the light. A narrow bench had been built into one side beneath the spray, just like Jack must have chosen it after learning exactly when standing became too much. The floor tiles had indents to prevent slipping and water collection. Beside the toilet, a low shelf was positioned at just the right height to brace against.

“You know, you can still change your mind,” he said, voice careful.

You stared at him. “Are you planning on asking me that every five minutes?”

“Maybe.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, and his expression softened in response. But he still looked unsure what to do with his hands, which was absurd and cute, because you had seen those hands save a patient and hold your face while kissing you like his life depended on it.

Then, without any words, he reached for the hem of his shirt, suddenly remembering why you were there.  The fabric lifted slowly over his stomach, then his chest, dragging briefly over the breath of his shoulder before he pulled it free. 

For a second, your mind was void of all thoughts as you looked at him. 

He was broad through the shoulders and chest, solid in a way that looked earned rather than sculpted, muscle shaped by endurance and necessity more than vanity. There was strength in him, yes, obvious in the heavy line of his arms and the firm slope of his chest, in the way his body seemed built to carry weight whether it wanted to or not. 

His skin was flushed faintly from the long shift and the warmth of the room, freckled in places across his shoulders and upper arms, scattered marks catching your attention precisely because they made him look so human. Your fingers itched to trace the constellation of them. 

Old scars lay pale against his skin, some fine and narrow, others less neat, quiet evidence of injuries that had healed without disappearing. 

Jack was beautiful in a way that startled you with its immediacy. 

He tossed the shirt onto the counter beside the sink. When his hand settled briefly at the waistband of his pants, it stopped there, thinking. 

“You should know,” he said, voice quieter now, “it’s not exactly graceful.”

You frowned faintly. “What isn’t?”

A dry little exhale escaped him.

“This.”

His hand gestured vaguely downwards, towards himself, towards everything he did not quite know how to say without making it sound smaller first.

Your hands found his chest again automatically. The skin was warm beneath your palms, the rhythm of his heart steady and the faint rasp of hair under your fingers as you spread them out. 

Jack looked down at your hands like he still could not quite believe they kept returning to him voluntarily.

“You keep doing that,” he said quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Touching me like it’s nothing.”

It was wonder, fear disguised as observation. The bewilderment of a man who had spent too long treating his body as a thing to be managed, endured, and apologised for when necessary, and who now could not understand why your hands came to him without reluctance.

“It’s not nothing.”

Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours at once. Whatever he saw there made him look away almost immediately afterwards. His throat moved once.

Then, slowly, he unbuttoned his scrub pants.

You watched carefully now, not because you were judging, but because he was still waiting for judgment somewhere beneath all that practised composure, and some instinct in you wanted him to see that your gaze would not become cruel simply because he had allowed you closer. 

Then, with a breath that seemed to require enormous effort, he pushed the scrub pants down over his hips and stepped out of them. 

He stood in tight black boxer shorts, the fabric clinging to thick thighs that carried him through long shifts and longer nights.

The prosthetic came into view with familiar practicality.

Black, sleek, functional, incorporated into him not as spectacle but as part of the architecture of how he moved through the world. It did not make him less himself. 

His body, all of it, seemed suddenly more beautiful for being real: scarred and freckled, broad and tired, powerful and adapted, marked by loss and still insistently alive.

Still, Jack’s shoulders remained slightly tense. Not because he thought you would recoil, or at least not entirely. Because he cared now whether you did.

The realisation hurt. So you stepped closer again, and he looked up just as your fingers brushed lightly along the scruff on his jaw. 

“You okay?” you asked softly.

A complicated expression crossed his face then. Too tired to hide everything. Too honest, suddenly not to try.

“Working on it,” he admitted.

You smiled faintly.

“That bad?”

“You’re standing in my bathroom looking at me like that.” His mouth curved slightly, weary and helpless all at once. “So yes. Little bit.”

Warmth spread through you instantly.

“You know,” you murmured, “for someone who spent weeks pretending not to like me, you’re very bad at this.”

Jack made a low sound beneath his breath.

“I was never pretending not to like you.”

“No?”

“No.” His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “That was very much the problem.”

Your hands slid from his cheek to his waist.

Jack inhaled quietly through his nose, every muscle in him tightening once beneath your touch before easing again by degrees. His skin was warm under your fingers, the firm line of him yielding not in weakness but in trust, and when your thumbs brushed the faint scars and freckles near his sides, his eyes closed for half a second as though the tenderness were more difficult to withstand than hunger.

“You’re overdressed,” he murmured.

You huffed a laugh.

“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?”

“I’m trying to.”

“You look deeply distressed about it.”

“I am deeply distressed about it.”

That finally pulled real laughter from you. The sound visibly unravelled him.

It moved through his face the way your touch moved through his body, loosening something he seemed to have kept braced for years. For a moment, he only looked at you, shirtless and tired and scarred beneath the bathroom light, his grey-threaded hair still marked with someone else’s blood, his mouth softened by the effort of not smiling too much, his eyes dark with wanting and fear and a tenderness so exposed it made your breath catch.

You reached for the hem of your own scrub top then, slower suddenly beneath the weight of his attention. Jack watched you with startling stillness, his gaze fixed on your hands as you pulled the fabric upwards, exposing first your stomach, then the curve of your ribs, then the shirt cleared your head and dropped beside his on the counter.

Jack exhaled softly, “Jesus.”

“What?”

He shook his head once, eyes still fixed on you. “Nothing.”

It was very obviously nothing. His gaze travelled across your collarbones, the swell of your breasts beneath the cotton of your bra, the soft plane of your stomach. He looked at you the way a man looks at water after days in the desert with desperate, disbelieving thirst.

You reached for your scrub pants next, pushing them down over your hips, stepping out of them until you stood in just your bra and panties. Simple cotton, nothing special, the kind of practical undergarments that made sense for a twelve-hour shift. But the way Jack looked at you made you feel like you were wearing silk and lace.

You stepped closer until your bodies nearly touched again. The heat of his skin radiated towards you, warming the small space between you. His chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths.

Jack’s hand lifted carefully to your waist, almost tentative despite everything that had happened already. His fingers spread across the soft skin above your hip, thumb brushing the edge of your ribcage with agonising slowness, and then his mouth was against yours with a low, rough sound that seemed dragged unwillingly from somewhere deep inside him. 

You kissed him back just as desperately. Your hands roamed over warm skin and old scars and the broad, tired shape of him beneath the bathroom light. The hair was softer than you expected, silver and sparse, and you dragged your nails through it gently. 

He shivered under your touch. No one had touched him like this in a long time, no one had taken the time to explore him with such a tenderness. 

His hands moved from your waist to your hips and then your face, as if he could not quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones with an aching delicacy that did not match the heat in his mouth, and when his fingers slipped into your hair near your temples, he held you as though he wanted desperately to draw you closer and was terrified of asking your body for too much. 

His mouth lingered briefly at the corner of yours before he pulled back just enough to breathe, the faint scrape of stubble dragging over your skin, his lips still close enough that each exhale touched you. 

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. The word was half groan, half prayer.

Your lips parted, and his tongue swept inside. You pressed closer, your tits flattening against his chest, the cotton of your bra the only barrier between you. The fabric dragged against your sensitive nipples, sending little sparks of pleasure down your spine. 

Jack’s hands slid to your back, palm against your spine, dragging upwards with intentional slowness. His fingers traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist. Mapping you like he was memorising every inch. 

When his fingers found the clasp of your bra, he didn’t hesitate and opened it smoothly. You felt the sudden looseness as the band fell away from your back. Jack’s hands slid to your shoulders, fingers hooking under the straps, drawing them down your arms with excruciating slowness. The cotton peeled away from your tits, baring you to the cool air and his hungry gaze.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dropped down to your breasts. Full and soft, nipples tightening in the cool air and under the weight of his attention. His jaw worked silently, the muscles in his face tight with restraint. He lifted his gaze again, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Jack’s voice was rough. The words tumbled out as they surprised him, like he had spoken them out loud instead of just thinking. He had never been good at this part, the saying of things, the naming of feelings that lived beneath the surface.

You felt the flush spread along your chest, warming your skin. “So are you.”

He laughed once, almost self-deprecating.

“No, don’t do that. You’re Jack.” You stepped closer again, pressing your bare chest against his. The sensation made you both inhale sharply, your nipples dragging through the coarse hair on his chest. “That’s enough. That’s everything I want.”

His control broke completely, and he kissed you fiercely, his mouth claiming yours. 

His hands cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arched into his touch with a moan. He swallowed the sound, tongue delving deeper, mapping every corner of your mouth. His palms were rough from years of washing his hands raw in hospital sinks, and the abrasion against your tender skin made you gasp.

“Jack,” you breathed between kisses. 

He responded by walking you backwards, his prosthetic clicking against the tile floor, a hollow, rhythmic sound that punctuated each step, until your back met the cool bathroom wall. The tile was cold against your shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the heat building between you. 

He pinned you there with his body, one leg pressing between yours, the rough hair of his thigh dragging against your cunt. Even through the thin cotton of your panties, you felt the heat of him, the solid muscle. 

Your own hands drifted downwards. You found the waistband of his boxer shorts and slipped beneath the elastic. Jack groaned against your lips as your fingers wrapped around his cock, thick and hard, the skin burning hot against your palm. 

He was already slick at the tip, and you spread the moisture with your thumb, feeling him twitch in your grip. The veins beneath your fingers pulsed with his heartbeat, and you could feel the fine tremor running through him.

“Shit, sweetheart,” his voice cracked. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath coming in ragged pants against your skin, hot and uneven. His hips jerked involuntarily, pushing himself into your grip.

You stroked him slowly, feeling the way his breath hitched when your thumb circled the sensitive head. His hands braced against the wall on either side of your head, forearms flexing as he fought to keep control. The tendons in his neck stood out, corded and tight, and you could see the flush spreading down from his ears to his chest.

“Wait…” His hand shot out, catching your wrist, stilling your movement. His breath was ragged, chest heaving. “You need to stop. I'm not going to last…” 

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. 

“I don’t want to cum like that,” he said roughly, meeting your eyes. “Not in your hand. Not when I’ve wanted you for so long. Not when I’ve had that accident earlier at work.”

You released him slowly, letting your fingers drift up his hip, tracing the edge of bone. “Then how do you want to cum?”

His laugh was breathless, strained. “Inside you. If you’ll have me, I want to fill you up, buried deep.”

The words sent a pulse of heat straight through you, and you clenched around nothing.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding. 

You pushed the boxers down over his hips with your free hand. They fell to his ankles, and he stepped out of them without breaking contact, the fabric joining the growing pile on the tile floor.

Your panties were next. Jack’s hands found them, fingers hooking into the fabric at your hips. He paused, looking at you with a question in his eyes; a need for permission, for confirmation that you wanted this as much as he did. 

When you nodded again, he drew them down slowly. The cloth slid over your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your feet before you stepped free.

“I want…, “ he started, his eyes on your bare cunt. He stopped and swallowed. His throat worked visibly. “I want to touch you. Properly. I want to make you feel good.”

He reached between your bodies, his fingers brushing over your pussy. His middle finger traced your entrance, gathering your wetness, then slid upwards to find the swollen clit at the top. You gasped, and your knees buckled slightly, your back sliding against the cool tile wall.

He circled it slowly, watching your face, reading every twitch and sigh, every flutter of your eyelids. His other hand came up to cup your breast again, thumb rolling your nipple in time with his fingers below. The dual sensation made you clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into scarred skin, leaving crescent marks in their wake.

“We…we should...” You could barely get the words out, your breath coming in short pants. “Shower. First.”

He withdrew his hand slowly, bringing his fingers to his lips. Your breath caught as he licked them, his eyes closing briefly at the flavour, a low groan vibrating in his throat. 

“You’re right,” he agreed, voice rough.

His forehead dropped briefly against yours. For several seconds, both of you simply stood there, breathing into the narrow space between your mouths.

Then he pulled back and glanced at the shower. The shift was small and practical, a return of thought into a room that had briefly been all heat and hands and mouths, but you felt it.

“Give me a second,” he said. 

He opened the glass door and stepped in first, still wearing the prosthetic. He turned, braced one hand lightly against the tiled wall, and lowered himself onto the shower seat with the rehearsed control of a man who had performed this same movement so often alone that it had become muscle memory. 

And yet when he looked up at you, there was something guarded in his expression now. 

Then, with rehearsed movements, he adjusted the straps and released the prosthetic. Jack watched your face while doing it, because he was so still and so careful and so clearly waiting for some flicker of judgment he pretended not to expect, the tenderness of the moment nearly overwhelmed you. 

He held it out towards you.

“Can you put this outside the door?” His voice was almost even.

You took it carefully, not reverently, not as though it were fragile or frightening or symbolic in a way that would make him regret asking. 

“Of course.”

You set it outside the shower within easy reach, angled the way he could get to it later, close enough that he would not have to ask, close enough that the act said what you did not want to make too large by anything saying aloud.

Then you stepped back towards him and closed the glass door behind you. 

“There.”

His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. “Efficient.”

“I’m very employable.”

“That remains under review.”

You smiled, and the small, ordinary joke did what both of you needed it to do.

You stepped in front of him, positioning yourself between his parted thighs. From this angle, he had to look up at you - this man who always seemed so tall, so imposing, now seated and vulnerable and gazing at you like you were something holy. 

The air was cool against your bare skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. His cock stood rigid between his legs, flushed and stiff. He hadn’t softened. If anything, he looked harder now, aching, the head glistening with residual wetness.

Jack's gaze travelled over you slowly, drinking in every detail: the slope of your shoulders, the swell of your breasts, the soft curve of your belly, the smooth, bare skin between your thighs. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

“This,” he said quietly, and then stopped, as though the sentence had outrun the version of himself that preferred to keep such things contained.

You tipped your head. “This what?”

His mouth moved in something that was nearly a smile and nearly pain. “This is a very bad angle to be trying to keep my dignity.”

The line was dry enough to be familiar, but the roughness beneath it gave him away. He meant it as a deflection, and yet not entirely. Sitting there beneath you, looking up, hands at your hips, he felt stripped down in more ways than the obvious ones. 

Your smile softened.

“You’re doing terribly,” you murmured.

A breath of laughter escaped him, warm and reluctant, and because he was already looking up at you, because your body was close and your hands had not left him, the laugh changed almost at once into something quieter. His fingers tightened at your waist. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then lifted again, the movement so familiar by now and still no less devastating for it.

“You are not helping,” he said.

“I’m not trying to.”

“No,” Jack said, and the word came out lower than he intended, threaded with something darker and far more honest. “I noticed.”

You slid one hand from his shoulder into his hair, then, gently, careful of the dried blood still caught near his temple, and the effect on him was immediate. His head tipped almost imperceptibly into the touch, and his eyes closed briefly.

When they opened again, there was no defence left in them that either of you believed in.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” you said softly.

The sentence should have given him control. In a technical sense, perhaps it did. But what Jack felt in that instant was not power. 

It was the unbearable tenderness of being asked, of having your hands in his hair while you offered him the chance to halt what he had spent weeks trying and failing to prevent. He could have said stop. He knew that. He could have turned his face aside, reached for the shower, made some weary practical comment, and both of you would have obeyed the lie.

Instead, his hands slid to the small of your back, drawing you a fraction closer into the space between his knees.

“No,” he said, barely above a murmur. “Don’t stop.”

His thumbs traced once, slowly, along the back of your waist, and then he tipped his head until his forehead came to rest lightly against your sternum, just for a second, just long enough to breathe.

When he lifted his head again, his gaze found yours. 

“You’re staring,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

He turned his head, pressed his lips to the soft skin below your ribs. Not quite a kiss, just contact. Breathing you in. 

You didn’t comment on it anymore and just reached past him, arm brushing his thigh, and turned the knob.

Steam gathered quickly inside the shower, softening the hard lines of the bathroom until the glass walls blurred at the edges and the room seemed to draw itself inward around the two of you.

Warm water ran over tile and skin and the long accumulated exhaustion of the shift, carrying with it the sharp, sterile scent of hospital soap and the fainter traces of blood, rain, sweat, coffee, and all the things the night had left behind on both of you. 

It struck Jack’s shoulders first, then broke over the slope of his chest, threading through the freckles scattered across his skin and following the pale raised paths of old scars before falling in narrow streams toward the drain.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because the sound of the water filled the space gently enough that silence no longer needed to be managed.

Jack was looking up at you from beneath damp, grey-threaded curls, his expression held carefully in place and yet not unreadable to you anymore, not after weeks of watching the smallest failures in him become more honest than words.

Your hands found the edge of his shoulders first, smoothing warm water over skin still tense from too many hours awake.

He was solid beneath your palms, broad and warm, his muscles knotted from the long shift. The water made his skin slick under your hands. Your fingers moved over the strong line where his neck met his shoulder, over freckles and over the faint unevenness of scars.

Jack watched you quietly beneath lowered lashes, his eyes bright in the dim light, mesmerised by how you touched and looked at him. 

“You’re the one staring now,” his voice was low and rough with exhaustion and steam and the dangerous comfort of being touched without having to beg for it. 

“What can I say, you’re awfully distracting.”

“That sounds almost concerning.”

You smiled. 

Jack’s mouth moved faintly in response, not quite a smile but close enough to make your chest ache, because there was something almost boyish hidden beneath the fatigue when he allowed himself humour. 

The water had already begun to loosen the blood from his hair, thin reddish ribbons slipping from the darkened strands near his temple and disappearing down the side of his face, over his cheekbone, along the line of his jaw, before vanishing into the water at his chest and then toward the drain.

Gently, you reached for the small bottle of shampoo resting on the corner shelf.

“Tilt your head back.”

Jack looked at you for one suspended second, searching for permission, for reassurance, for evidence that this was real. 

The request was simple. Practical. Almost clinical, if either of you had still been capable of making this clinical. And yet something crossed his face at the sound of it, something quiet and unguarded, because there were many ways to be touched and not all of them required surrender, but this did.

Then he obeyed.

The trust in that simple movement reached you unexpectedly hard.

His throat lengthened as he tipped his head back, water sliding down the exposed line of it, over the hollow at the base, across the freckles and faint marks scattered over his chest. His eyes remained open for a second longer, fixed somewhere near your face, and then his lashes lowered against the steam as if even looking at you while receiving this much tenderness had become too much to bear.

You could see the flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. The trust in it made something ache behind your ribs.

You squeezed some of the shampoo in your palm and worked it between your hands before sinking your fingers into his damp hair.

His hair was thicker than it looked when dry, coarse and curling beneath your fingers, grey woven through the darker strands in a way that made him seem both tired and beautiful and unbearably real. 

You worked slowly around the matted section near his temple, loosening the dried blood with the pads of your fingers, careful not to pull, careful not to make the tenderness too reverent in case that embarrassed him. Foam gathered pale against his hair and then thinned under the water, taking the last red-brown traces with it.

A low breath left him, not performatively but rather instinctively. 

It was not a moan, not exactly, not something easily reduced to desire, though desire was there too, unmistakable and warm beneath the surface. It was the sound of tension leaving a body that had forgotten it was allowed to soften. 

It was Jack, who had held trauma bays together and held himself apart from you for weeks, losing one more small piece of the battle against being comforted.

His hands, which had been resting at his sides, twitched and gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as if grounding himself against the sensation, as if afraid he might float away entirely. The pressure was firm, possessive, almost a counterpoint to the gentleness of your touch.

“You okay?” you asked, massaging the lather into his scalp with slow, deliberate circles, feeling the anatomy of his skull beneath your fingertips. 

He opened one eye slightly.

“You ask that like this isn’t possibly the best thing that’s happened to me all year.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. 

His eyes opened fully at the sound, softer now than you had ever seen them at work, and for a moment, he simply looked at you through the steam and warm water as though the laugh had reached some place in him that medicine and duty and survival had left unused for too long.

“There it is,” he murmured.

“What?”

“That laugh.”

The quiet honesty of it startled you.

It startled him too, perhaps, because something in his expression shifted immediately afterwards, a small vulnerable tightening as though he had said more than he intended. But he did not take it back.

He only sat there beneath your hands, water streaming over his throat and shoulders while your fingers continued slowly through his hair, and allowed the words to remain between you like another kind of touch.

Beneath your hands, he seemed to be unwinding by degrees, because you were touching him, you could sense each layer of tension as it left him. 

Then his hands settled more firmly at your waist. His palms were large and warm through the water, fingers spreading carefully along your sides. His thumbs rested at your hips, moving once, almost unconsciously. 

It sent a spark through you, heat pooling low in your belly, reminding you that you still wanted him. It was so swift that you had to pause for a second, hands still in his hair. 

Jack looked up, seated, and desire moved visibly across his face again, slower but no less intense. 

It was not the frantic hunger of the staff room, not the sudden snap of a thread pulled too long. It was more dangerous for being quieter, for being held inside a look he did not immediately turn away from.

His eyes moved over you with careful restraint and unmistakable want, down the line of your throat, back to your face, to your mouth, as though he were allowing himself to see you in pieces and finding each one more difficult to survive than the last. 

“You’re still sure?” he asked again, quieter this time, the words nearly lost beneath the water. 

Maybe you should have been exasperated by the repetition. He had asked before, several times by now, in various forms. As though certain that at any moment you would come to your senses and realise what you were doing. 

But instead it moved you, because you understood that beneath the question lay not hesitation nor reluctance but the genuine disbelief of a man who had long ago accepted that certain things were simply not for him. 

That warmth and softness and the particular intimacy of being cared for were luxuries belonging to other men, better men, men who had not been broken and remade so many times they had lost count of the pieces.

“Jack.” You cradled his face in your hands, thumbs tracing the stubble along his jaw, feeling the slight tremor that passed through him at the contact. “I’ve been sure for months. I was sure before you kissed me. I was sure every time you pulled away because you thought you weren’t enough.” His eyes darkened, something raw flickering behind them. “I’m sure now.”

Then, with a tenderness that made the heat of it almost unbearable, he turned his face into your hand and kissed the inside of your wrist.

His hands slid from your hips to your waist, and he pulled you forward, guiding you until you straddled his lap. 

The water was hot against your back; his cock, half-hard, was pressing against your bare cunt. The contact drew a sharp breath from both of you. You felt the thick length of him, the heat radiating from it even through the warmth of the shower.

Jack’s head fell back against the tile, his eyes closing for a moment as though overwhelmed by the sensation. You could feel him twitch against you, flesh warming and thickening where your bodies met, growing harder by degrees. 

The hair at his temple was wet, plastered to his skin in dark waves, and his chest rose and fell with breaths that came faster now. Water droplets clung to the salt-and-pepper hair across his chest, catching the fluorescent light.

“Jack-”

“Wait.” His fingers flexed on your waist, digging into the soft flesh almost hard enough to leave marks. “Just wait.”

You stilled, fighting the urge to move, to chase the friction your body already craved. Through the steam and the warm water cascading down your back, you watched him. The scarred terrain of his torso: the old bullet wound puckered and pale, the surgical scars that spoke of repairs both internal and external, the burns that had healed into shiny patches. 

The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The flush spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the hair-dusted plane of his chest.

He was beautiful. 

Not in the typical way one would describe beauty, but in the way of things that had survived. That had been broken and rebuilt and still chose, against all evidence, to remain soft in places. There was a particular tenderness to the way his belly rose and fell, the vulnerability of a body that had been penetrated by violence and medicine both.

His eyes opened slowly, dark and heavy-lidded, fixed on your face with an intensity that made your stomach tighten.

“I have to…” He stopped, jaw clenching. His thumb traced a slow arc across your hip bone, the calloused pad catching on your wet skin. “You washed my hair. I need to return the favour.”

The words were absurdly formal for the situation; this man, hard beneath you, speaking as though you were exchanging professional courtesies rather than sitting naked in his lap. But the intent behind them was unmistakable. He wanted to touch you. He wanted to care for you in the same careful, deliberate way you had cared for him.

“It’s okay…You don’t have to…” You started using the same words he always seemed to utter when he was unsure. 

“I want to. Please. ” His voice dropped, rough and low. “I’ve wanted to for months. Every time you walked past me in the corridor. Every time you touched my arm during rounds. Every time you looked at me like…” He broke off, something raw flickering across his features. “Like I was worth looking at.”

Your heart clenched. You had looked at him that way because he was. Because there was something in the set of his shoulders, the exhaustion carved into his face, that made you want to press closer until you understood what had put it there.

His hands released your waist, sliding upward with agonising slowness. Over the curve of your ribs, mapping each bone with clinical attention. Along the sides of your breasts, thumbs brushing the undersides in a touch that made you shiver despite the heat. 

Up, up, until his fingers tangled in your wet hair, cradling the back of your skull with a tenderness that seemed at odds with everything else about him, the scars, the calluses, the years of damage written into his skin.

He reached past you, fumbling for the shampoo bottle on the small tiled ledge. His chest pressed against yours as he moved, and you felt the hard plane of him, the coarse hair, the raised ridges of old wounds against your softer curves. 

His nipples hardened against your tits, and you felt the involuntary twitch of his cock against your inner thigh.

“Lean back,” he murmured, guiding you with hands that trembled slightly despite their steadiness.

You let your head fall back into his palms, trusting him to hold you. The water sluiced over your shoulders, down your spine, pooling in the spaces where your bodies pressed together. 

Jack’s fingers worked through your hair slowly, methodically. Massaging your scalp with a pressure that bordered on too much and then softened, reading your responses with the same clinical attention he brought to everything else. 

His fingertips traced the shell of your ear, the curve of your skull, working the shampoo into a thick lather.

“Good?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yeah.” The word came out breathier than intended. “Good.”

His hands continued their slow exploration. Working the shampoo through your lengths, careful not to tangle, careful not to pull. 

You could feel his cock hardening further against you, the length of him pressing more insistently into the junction of your thighs, but he made no move to rush. No move to take more than you were offering. The thick head of him nudged against your entrance, not pushing in, just resting there.

His fingers continued their slow, methodical work through your hair, and you let yourself drift. The pressure of his touch was steady, almost clinical in its precision but tender in its intent. Each stroke of his fingertips against your scalp sent small shivers down your spine despite the heat of the water.

You opened your eyes halfway, watching him through the steam.

His face was lowered, focused on the task. The furrow between his brows had softened from its usual deep-set exhaustion into something almost peaceful. His mouth was slightly parted, his breath coming slow and even. Water ran in rivulets down the planes of his face, catching in the grey at his temples. 

He looked, you thought, like a man performing a sacred rite. Something he had been waiting his whole life to do.

Jack felt the weight of your gaze. It was a physical thing, heavy and warm, settling over him like a second skin. 

Your hands moved without thought.

One moment, they were resting against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. Next, they were drifting outward, tracing the hard curve of his shoulders. Your fingertips found the definition of his biceps. The muscle there dense and firm beneath skin that bore its own history. 

Jack’s breath caught. He had grown accustomed to hiding this body. The scars, the burns, the evidence of a life lived at the sharp edges of the world. But you touched him like you were reading braille, like every line and imperfection was a word you needed to know.

There was a scar near his left shoulder. Thin and pale, almost surgical in its precision. You traced it with your index finger, following the line of it towards his deltoid. 

Jack’s hands stilled in your hair for a moment, a small intake of breath the only indication that he had noticed. He watched your finger move, feeling the ghost of sensation where your skin met his ruined tissue.

“Shrapnel,” he murmured. “Years ago.”

You hummed softly, letting your fingers continue their exploration as he washed your hair.  

Down along the thick cord of his bicep, over the bend of his elbow where the skin was softer, more vulnerable. The hair on his arms was coarse, dark in some places and silver in others.

Jack found himself cataloguing your responses: the way your breath quickened when you found a new scar, the way your hips shifted almost imperceptibly when your fingers brushed sensitive skin. 

He was hard, painfully so, his cock trapped between your bodies and leaking a steady trail of slick against your belly. But he did not move, did not rush. He just let you explore, even as every nerve ending screamed for more.

Another scar, this one on his forearm. Larger, more jagged. You traced its edges with your thumb.

“Glass,” he said quietly. “Car accident. A lifetime ago.”

His voice was low, not distant or sad but rather just factual. It was clear that he had made peace with it, but underneath the words, you heard something else. A kind of wonder that you were asking at all…that you wanted to know.

You could feel the thick length of his cock against your belly, the head now nudging just below your navel. Every small movement you made shifted him against you, and you could feel the involuntary twitch of his hips when you traced a particularly sensitive spot. 

This slow exploration felt like something he had been starving for, and he realised with a kind of quiet devastation that no one had ever touched him like this. Not with curiosity or tenderness.

Your hands found another scar, high on his right bicep. This one was smaller, round. A bullet wound, entry or exit, you couldn’t tell. You pressed your thumb against it gently, feeling the raised tissue.

Jack's breath caught. His whole body went still.

“That one-” He stopped. Swallowed. The memory rose unbidden; the desert, the heat, the sound of his own body hitting the sand. “That one almost killed me.”

You leaned forward and pressed your lips to it in a soft kiss, barely any pressure. Just contact.

His whole body shuddered beneath you. Jack’s eyes closed, his jaw clenching against the sudden surge of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. No one had ever kissed his scars. No one had ever treated his ruined flesh like something worth cherishing.

“Christ,” he breathed. His hands tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring himself to you, to this moment, to the impossible reality of your mouth against his skin. “You’re going to kill me.”

You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. They were dark, pupils blown wide, but underneath the hunger, there was something raw, something almost frightened. Jack felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. You were seeing him - all of him -, and he did not know how to survive that kind of witness.

“I’d rather not,” you whispered. “Wanna keep you around much longer.”

His laugh was rough, almost pained. The sound scraped against something tender inside you both. “Same.”

Your hands continued their slow journey. Over the swell of his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. You traced the salt-and-pepper hair, feeling the coarse texture against your palms. 

His nipples hardened under your touch, small peaks that drew another sharp breath from him when you brushed them. Jack’s hands migrated from your hair to your shoulders, his grip tightening with each pass of your fingers.

“Sensitive,” you murmured, teasing him.

“Apparently.” His voice was strained, barely more than a growl.

You could feel the tension coiling in him. The effort it was taking to stay still, to let you explore. His fingers gripped with a pressure that bordered on painful, and you understood then how much restraint he was exercising.

Your fingers found the worst of the scarring, burns that had healed into shiny, uneven patches across his left side. You traced them without hesitation, mapping the ruined terrain of his skin. 

Jack’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the stubble. He waited for the flinch, the hesitation, the inevitable moment when you would pull away, when your fingers would still, and your face would twist with that particular combination of horror and pity he had seen so many times before.

But you did not flinch or pause. You touched him like his scars were simply part of him, no more remarkable than the hair on his arms or the calluses on his palms.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” His voice was rough. “Not anymore.”

You leaned in and pressed another kiss to the worst of it, feeling him flinch beneath your lips. Not from pain but from something far more dangerous.

“You don’t have to…”

“I know. I want to.” You echoed his earlier words back at him. “I’ve wanted to for so long.”

His breath escaped in a rush. His hands slid down your back, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his again. 

The hard length of his cock was now fully trapped between you, hot and insistent, and you felt another bead of slick leak against your belly. Jack’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, his breath coming hot and ragged against your skin. 

He was fighting himself, you realised. Fighting the urge to lift you up and take what he wanted.

Your hands drifted lower, tracing down his side, following the curve of his hip. You felt the shift of muscle beneath your palms, the way his body tensed as your fingers approached the place where his leg ended. 

The residual limb was there, just below his knee, the skin smooth and carefully healed, the result of skilled surgical work and years of adaptation. Your fingertips grazed the scarred tissue, feeling the smooth, tight skin where his leg had been amputated.

Jack’s whole body seized.

You felt the sudden rigidity in his frame, the way his breath stopped cold in his chest. Your fingers had barely brushed the residual limb, just the lightest contact, but his reaction was immediate. His hands froze on your back. His jaw clenched tight, and his eyebrows furrowed.

And then, before you could process what was happening, he was pulling back.

His hands dropped from your skin as if you had burned him. His whole body shifted away, creating distance where there had been none. The warmth of his chest disappeared from yours. His cock, still hard, pressed uselessly against your belly as he turned his face away.

“Jack-”

“Don’t.” His voice was flat, controlled. The same voice he used with difficult patients. “You don’t have to force yourself.”

The words hit you like cold water.

“Force myself?” You stared at him, at the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Jack, I’m not…”

“I felt you hesitate.” Each word was clipped and precise. “You don’t have to pretend. I’ve seen that reaction before. The moment you realise what you’re actually touching.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The moment you decide if you can stomach it.”

Your heart cracked open.

“Jack.” You reached for him, but he flinched. Actually flinched from your touch. “Look at me.”

He didn’t. It was quiet for a second, only the running water filling the void.

“Jack, please.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his face back towards you. His eyes were hard, guarded, the same walls he had spent months constructing. But underneath, you could see it. The raw, bleeding wound of his belief. The certainty that you would look at his ruined body and find it wanting.

“I didn’t hesitate because I was disgusted,” you said softly. “I hesitated because I wanted to touch you properly. Because I wanted to learn every part of you, and I was trying to figure out how.”

His jaw tightened. “You pulled away.”

“I pulled back to look at you.” You held his gaze, willing him to understand. “I wanted to see, Jack. I wanted to see all of you. Not look away. Not pretend it wasn't there. I wanted to touch you exactly as you are.”

His breath came shallow, uneven. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’ve been saying it for months.” Your voice was steady, even as your chest ached. “Every time I found an excuse to be near you.” You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. He went rigid, but he didn’t pull away. “I see you, Jack. All of you. And I don’t want to look away.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate and disbelieving. You could see him wrestling with the lifetime of belief that he was not enough. That he could never be enough.

“The scars,” he rasped. “The burns. The-” His voice broke. “The leg.”

“I know.” You brushed your thumb across his cheekbone. “I’ve always known. And I still wanted you. I still want you.”

He exhaled shakily. His hands, which had been frozen at his sides, rose slowly to grip your hips. Not pulling away this time, just holding on.

“You're not disgusted.”

“No.”

“You’re not staying out of pity.”

“Jack.” You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m staying because I want you. Because I’ve wanted you for months. Because every part of you…every scar, every line, every imperfect, beautiful inch is exactly what I want.”

His breath shuddered out of him, and his grip tightened on your hips again, almost bruising now.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“I want you, Jack. All of you. Exactly as you are.”

He kissed you then, hard, desperate, claiming. His mouth crashed against yours with a hunger that had been caged for too long. His hands slid up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you felt his cock pulse hot against your belly, your cunt clenching around nothing.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both gasping.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said against your lips. “About you in my lap. About your hands on me.” His voice dropped lower, rougher, and you felt the sound vibrate through his chest. “About what it would feel like to be inside you. To watch you fall apart.”

Heat pooled low in your belly. Your thighs tightened around him where you straddled him on the bench, and you felt his cock twitch in response. “Jack…”

“I’ve thought about making you come so hard you forget your own name.” His thumbs pressed harder against your skin, possessive and demanding. “About hearing you say my name like that. Like you did earlier.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “We could…”

“Not yet.” His eyes opened, dark and intent. He lifted his head from your shoulder, meeting your gaze with a fierceness that made your breath catch. “Not yet. I'm not done with you.”

His hands rose to your hair once more, returning to the task he had abandoned moments ago. 

The shampoo was already there; he had worked it through your strands before you had touched him, before he had lost his careful composure and let himself be pulled into the depths of your mouth. 

Now his fingers resumed their slow, methodical assignment. The soap had begun to dry at the edges, and he added a handful of water to reactivate it, working the suds through with renewed focus. 

You let your head fall back against his shoulder, offering him the full length of your throat. The position was vulnerable, almost exposed, and you watched his eyes darken as he took in the sight of you. 

Water ran in rivulets down your neck, pooling in the hollow of your collarbone, tracing the swell of your breasts before dripping away. 

Jack’s thumbs pressed against your temples, easing the tension that had accumulated there over weeks of night shifts and sleepless days.

You felt the weight of your own body against him, how small you seemed folded into his lap, your thighs bracketed by his, pressed firm against his chest.

“Relax,” he murmured. “Let me finish.”

His fingers worked through the length of your hair, untangling knots with a patience that seemed impossible given the hunger you had witnessed in his kiss. 

He was hard against you still; you could feel the insistent press of his cock between your bodies, thick and hot even through the cascade of water, but he did not rush. 

He took his time, rinsing the soap from your strands with cupped hands, letting the water run clean. 

Jack’s mind had gone quiet, he realised. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, the constant tally of his failures and inadequacies had stilled. 

There was only this: the weight of you in his lap, the trust in your posture, the impossible reality that you had chosen to be here with him.

Steam curled between you, thick and obscuring. Through it, you watched his face reflected in the chrome of the shower fixtures - the furrow of concentration between his brows, the slight part of his lips as he focused on the task. 

His grey hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked younger like this, somehow, less guarded with the lines around his eyes so softened. 

What he felt was difficult to name. Not quite happiness - he had forgotten what that tasted like - but something adjacent. Something like peace, if peace could coexist with the desperate throb of want low in his belly.

When the last of the soap was gone, you opened your eyes fully and found him watching you.

Neither of you spoke.

His hands stilled in your hair, cradling your skull. 

Your palms rested against his thighs, feeling the hard muscle beneath wet skin, feeling, too, the uneven terrain where flesh met scar tissue, the legacy of wounds he carried. 

He wondered if you could feel how fast his heartbeat was. Wondered if you understood that you were the first person in decades to touch him like this. Like he was something worth holding.

You turned your head as if aware of his thoughts, and your lips met his with a tenderness that belied the heat pooling low in your belly. 

Jack’s mouth opened to yours, and the kiss deepened, turning hungry fast. His tongue swept past your lips, tasting you, sliding against your own with a desperation that made your breath catch. 

You felt the vibration of his groan against you, a low sound that resonated through you both.

Your hands slid upwards and back, tangling in the wet hair at the nape of his neck. His grip tightened in response, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. 

The slick slide of your bodies against each other, skin on skin, wet and warm, sent sparks of sensation cascading down your spine. 

Your nipples dragged against his chest, the friction making you gasp into his mouth.

Jack’s hands left your hair, trailing down the curve of your spine. 

His palms were wide and calloused, rough against the softness of your skin. He traced the valley of your back, fingers dipping into the hollow above your buttocks before sliding lower to grip the swell of your hips. 

You arched into him, pressing your back harder into his touch, and felt his cock jump against your cunt, hard and insistent.

“Jack…,” you breathed against his mouth, the word barely audible over the rush of water.

He reached for the soap, and you watched as he lathered his hands over your shoulder. 

Then those hands were on you, sliding over your shoulders, down your arms, across the swell of your breasts. His touch was thorough, unhurried, mapping every inch of you with a reverence that made your chest tight. 

Jack was cataloguing you, memorising each plane and curve as though you might be taken from him at any moment. As though this was the only chance he would have to learn the geography of your skin.

When his palms cupped your breasts, you gasped. He weighed them in his hands, thumbs brushing your nipples, already peaked from the cool air and the heat of his gaze. 

He rolled the stiff peaks between his fingers, tugging gently, and the sensation shot straight to your cunt. You felt yourself grow wetter, the slick mixing with the water running down your thighs, your pussy throbbing with need.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. The word was rough, almost angry, as though he resented how much he meant it. 

You reached for the soap in turn, working it between your palms until they were thick with suds. 

Your hands found his thighs, tracing the hard muscle, the scars that mapped his history. You lingered on the damaged skin - not avoiding it, not ignoring it, but touching it as you touched every other part of him. 

Jack’s breath caught each time your fingers passed over scarred flesh, but he did not pull away. He forced himself to stay still. To let you see him.

You washed him with the same deliberate care he had shown you. Over his shoulders, down his arms, across the ridges of his abdomen, where you could reach. 

Your fingers dipped lower, tracing the sharp lines of his hip bones, and you felt his muscles clench beneath your touch. Lower still, your soapy hand wrapped around his cock, reaching back between your bodies, and he hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck -” The word was torn from him.

You stroked him slowly, feeling the velvety skin slide over the hard length of him. He was thick in your hand, the head flushed and slick with more than water. You traced the ridge beneath the crown, and his hips jerked forward, pressing himself harder against you before tugging your hand from his cock.

He took the soap from your hands, and his fingers descended. Over your ribs, counting each one. Across the soft plane of your stomach, dipping briefly into your navel. Lower still, through the bare skin between your thighs, and you felt yourself part your legs wider without conscious thought, spreading yourself open across his lap.

His touch was clinical in its precision, and yet devastating in its intimacy. He washed you thoroughly, fingers sliding through your cunt, parting you open. 

He traced the entrance, circling the tight muscle, and you whimpered at the teasing pressure, not pushing in, just tracing, just promising. Then, higher, brushing against the sensitive bud at your apex, and your hips bucked forward.

“Jack - “

“Shh.” His voice was low, commanding. “I’m just touching…”

His fingers continued their maddening exploration - sliding through your slick pussy, pressing against you but never sinking in, circling your clit with featherlight pressure that made you tremble. You tried to press closer, to force his fingers inside you, but he held you firm, his other arm wrapped tight around your waist.

“Please,” you breathed, desperate for anything at this point.

He leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “When I get you in bed,” he murmured, voice rough with want, “I’m going to take my time. I’m going to spread you open and taste you until you’re begging. And then I’m going to fuck you with my fingers - slow, deep - until you come apart on my hand.”

You shuddered against him, a whimper escaping your throat. Jack felt the tremor run through you, and something savage and satisfied curled in his chest. He had done that. He had made you shake.

“Then I’ll do it again,” he continued, fingers still tracing, still teasing. “And again. Until you’re shaking and can’t take any more. And only then -” his thumb pressed firmly against your clit, making you gasp, “ - only then will I give you my cock.”

His mouth found yours, swallowing your desperate sound. He held you through it, kept you anchored in his lap when your body threatened to arch away, hands continuing their slow, agonising exploration without ever pushing past that final boundary.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were nearly black with want. Yours were glassy, unfocused, beautiful.

“But not here,” he said, and the words came out against your mouth, roughened by steam and restraint and the terrible effort of not simply forgetting every sensible thought he had ever had. “Bed.” 

“Then take me there,” you whispered.

Jack made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost pain, some low, breathless fracture of disbelief and want and exhaustion, because he wanted exactly that, had wanted it with increasing violence for weeks, and yet the mechanics of getting there still mattered in the most absurdly human way.

“I would love to,” he said, his forehead dropping against yours for one breathless second while water ran from his hair down the side of his face and over the freckled, scarred slope of his shoulder. “I need about thirty seconds to be boring first.”

A laugh broke out of you, helpless and warm and too bright for the thick steam around you, and Jack’s eyes opened at the sound as though your laughter had pulled him back from some edge he had been standing on without realising how close his feet had come to leaving the ground. 

For a moment, he only looked at you, wet and flushed and devastatingly near, with water caught in your lashes and your mouth still close enough to undo the last of his good sense, and the laugh seemed to do more to him than your hands had, precisely because it made the moment suddenly livable.

“Boring?” you repeated.

“Practical.”

“Very sexy.”

“You have no idea.”

You were still laughing when he reached past you and turned off the water. It sputtered and died, leaving only the drip of excess running down the tiles. 

Rising from his lap took more effort than it should have.

Your skin clung to his, slick with water and heat, and the absence of his warmth against you made you shiver before the cooler bathroom air had even reached you properly. When it did, it raised goosebumps across your arms, your chest, your thighs, a sudden fine tremor that had less to do with cold than with the shock of separation. 

You stepped carefully over the low threshold of the shower, water streaming down your legs and pooling beneath your feet on the tile floor, and felt Jack’s gaze follow you with such undisguised hunger that it seemed almost physical against your back. 

His hand found your hip before you could move away.

His fingers pressed into the soft flesh there, not hard, not pulling you back exactly, only holding you in place with the small, helpless insistence of a man who could not bear to let the distance become complete. You looked down at him, still seated on the built-in bench, water darkening his grey-threaded hair and running along the hard line of his jaw, his chest rising and falling with breaths that looked controlled only because he was forcing them to be.

His cock stood hard against his stomach, flushed and thick, the head dark and slick, and he made no move to hide it. His balls hung heavy between his spread thighs, and you could see the faint twitch of muscle as he fought the urge to reach for himself.

Jack’s hand stayed on your hip.

His thumb moved once, slow and involuntary.

“You keep touching me,” you murmured.

His gaze lifted to yours.

“You keep letting me.”

That stole the smile from your mouth.

Then Jack exhaled, long and unsteady, and pulled himself back from whatever edge he had nearly stepped over again.

“Towel?” he said.

You opened the glass door and reached for one, passing it to him without stepping very far away, because neither of you seemed capable anymore of creating more distance than the task absolutely required. 

His eyes tracked every movement you made. The lift of your arm. The sway of your breasts as you leaned down, nipples hard and tight in the cool air. The curve of your waist. The way your thighs pressed together, slick and glistening, your arousal still evident between them.

He took the towel from you, but his gaze never left your face.

“You’re doing a terrible job of being boring,” you said.

His mouth twitched.

“You’re standing there naked in my shower. I’m adjusting my expectations.”

You smiled, but your breath caught when his eyes dragged back to yours.

There was nothing casual in his face now. Only want held in place by discipline so thin it had begun to tear.

“Prosthetic?” you asked softly.

“In a second.”

He sat back on the shower seat, towel low around his shoulders, and reached for the liner with hands that were steady only because he forced them to be. The motions were practised, familiar, not shameful, not hidden, not offered up to you as tragedy or warning. 

You held the glass door open and passed him what he asked for when he asked for it, no reverence, no fuss, no softening your face into pity, only attention, just careful, practical attention, the kind that told him you were neither frightened nor pretending not to see.

That appeared to undo him more than anything.

At one point, your fingers brushed his as you handed him the prosthetic.

Jack stopped just for a second.

The pause was small, but the whole room seemed to gather around it. His hand remained near yours, his wet lashes lowered, his mouth parted slightly on a breath he did not quite finish taking. You watched the muscles of his thigh flex as he secured it, the way his jaw tightened with concentration, his cock still jutting from his lap, untouched and aching.

Then he looked up at you and said, very quietly, “If you look at me like that, we’re not making it to the bed.”

Your pulse kicked hard.

“Then hurry.”

A low breath left him.

“Dangerous woman.”

“Apparently.”

He gave you a look - dry, fond, hungry - and finished securing the prosthetic with a precision that somehow felt more intimate than undressing had. When he stood, you handed him another towel. He wrapped it around his waist, the fabric sitting low and practical against him, then caught your wrist before you could step back. 

“Still with me?”

The question again.

Softer now. Less afraid of the answer, perhaps, but still needing it, because Jack Abbot could order a trauma bay into obedience without blinking and still seemed to require your yes at every threshold, every change in light, every new intimacy that might ask more of you than the last.

“Yes.” 

He pulled you against him, and you felt the hard length of him press against your stomach even through the thin cloth, hot and insistent. And then his mouth was on yours again. 

This kiss was different from the ones before. Less desperate, more deliberate. 

He kissed you like he was memorising the shape of your lips, the softness of your mouth, the way you sighed against him when his tongue slid past your teeth. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you melted into him, your naked body pressing against the rough towel, your hard nipples dragging against his chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were soft in a way you had never seen them, open and unguarded. The lines around his mouth had eased, and for a moment, he looked almost young. Almost at peace.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let me take you to bed.”

[mrsbourbonborn]

[mayfieldss]

A little bit of sunshine [ Jack Abbot x Reader ]

Part Nine | read the rest of the series here!

Series Summary: over a series of night shifts you become acquainted with your coworker Jack Abbot. He's a stranger to you more than a coworker, but as work pushes you closer together, tensions rise and what is supposed to be a friendly relationship becomes something more. Slow burn Jack Abbot x sunshine!reader (all images from pinterest)

Chapter summary: As Jack tries to organize time to have dinner with you, Robby intercepts with some unsolicited advice.

Chapter warnings; slightly slutty jack tbh.

Jack is aware of Robby's prying eyes two days later, as he's trying to clock out from his shift. You've managed to escape before him, and he watched you give Dana, Princess, and Perlah hugs of greeting and farewell before you left. You high fived Shen on your way out too, lighting up the early morning more than the sun could ever try to.

As you left, you looked over your shoulder, eyes scanning the ER until they found him by the board. He recalls the smile you gave him, the gentle wave of your painted fingers.

And now Robby is hunting him down. He hasn't exactly been avoiding his friend, but Jack has been hesitant to seek the man out recently. He doesn't want to be analyzed, or more accurately, he doesn't want the way he sees you to be analyzed.

"Hey, Brother, slow down." a firm hand lands on Jack's shoulder, halting his swift movements toward the lockers. Robby has caught him, a dog trapped by the pound.

"Robby, how you doing?" Jack says, he continues moving, but slows his pace as Robby comes up beside him. Robby's hand is still firm on Jack's shoulder as they walk together, and Jack knows he can't get out of this.

"I'm good, as good as I can be in here." Robby chuckles, then gives Jack's shoulder a squeeze. "How about you man? I've been hearing things."

Jack doesn't need to ask to know what he's talking about. "I'm fine, but I see you've made some new friends at the rumor mill." He gives Robby a raised brow look and Robby gives a half hearted shrug in response.

"What can I say? I like to keep tabs on my crew."

Yeah right. Robby has never once partook in the gossip had by the nurses, in fact he tries to discourage it most of the time. The only reason Robby cares now is because Jack is involved.

"You've clearly got something to say, so just fucking say it." Jack doesn't say it aggressively, more of a tired tone tinging his words. He wants to head home, to sleep. Has been wanting to do so for the past four hours.

"I hear you've got something going on with the people's princess." Robby releases his hold on Jack, hands coming up to hold the ends of the stethoscope around his neck.

Jack plays dumb, "Diana? I hate to break it to you man, but she's unavailable. You got bad intel."

Robby looks at Jack blankly, hardly a smile on his lips. "Yeah, I was actually thinking a little closer to home."

Jack's pulling his stuff from his locker now, breathing in deep as his eyes flick toward your locker two down from his. Robby catches the look and chuckles. "Yeah, you know who I'm talking about."

"What do you want me to say?" Jack turns, closing his locker door and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"She's a resident Jack. You're her attending. What do you think I want you to say?"

"I don't know, man." Jack shakes his head, trying to move past Robby, but the man sticks an arm out to stop him from running away. This conversation is happening now, before Jack can find a way around it. Robby's eyes have turned serious, hard with concentration. "I want you to tell me it's not true."

That hits Jack in the chest, the words settling into the painful empty gap within himself. He's been thinking about it for a while now, how he shouldn't feel the things for you that he does, and he was hoping he could avoid that fact for a little longer. But Robby just had to bring it up.

"Nothing going on," Jack lies, the plans for dinner with you festering in the back of his mind. He knows he shouldn't go through with it, but...

Robby clearly doesn't believe the words that come out of Jack's mouth, folding his arms across his chest. "A little birdy told me you left her a little gift last night."

Jack takes a deep breath, his next sentence a harsh exhale. "So what if I did, Robby?"

"That's not nothing."

Why can't Robby just let him have this? This one thing, even if it leads nowhere why can't Jack just have something in peace? Without Robby's attention, opinion, hypocrisy.

"Don't act high and mighty, you've got your own history." Jack slides past Robby, moving toward the center of the ER again. He wonders if he'll make it to the door before Robby comes up with another question to fire his way.

"Are you calling me a player?" Robby has snapped out of his second of quiet shock, following behind Abbot again. Jack shrugs, flashing a look over his shoulder.

"Your words not mine."

Dana seems to hear at least this part of the conversation and lets out a whistle. "Cool it boys, we got shit to do."

As if Dana is on Jack's side, she continues, saving Jack from the bell. "Robby, we got a kid coming in, five minutes out, sliced open his foot playing soccer."

Jack raises a brow, tugging his backpack tighter across his shoulder. "Have fun."

He can tell Robby isn't pleased with him, and they've hardly ever passed over shifts on bad terms, but there's a first for everything. And it's not exactly bad terms, just uncomfortable ones.

"We're not done talking about this." Robby calls, as Jack slips out the automatic doors and into the early morning light.

-

You have been trying to decipher what Jack's kindness means for the past three hours. You've been lying awake, trying to get some rest before your next shift. But the more you stare at the ceiling, the more you see his face.

Is this a date? Could it ever be classed as such when Jack is your attending? Would you lose your jobs or positions or compromise the quality of the workplace if this was a date?

Your phone dings quietly on the nightstand beside you, and since you're not doing much sleeping anyway, you pick it up. The phone screen is almost blinding in the darkness, thanks to the fact you turned off the adjustable brightness feature, but you still manage to read the text on your screen. It's from Jack.

"How about dinner/breakfast before the next shift? We can carpool."

Your heart beats a little faster in your chest. This is really happening.

"Dinner/breakfast?" your text sends with a quiet whoosh.

You glare at your screen, waiting for a response you’re not sure will come. Maybe Jack's gone to bed, maybe he won't respond till later, when you’re both getting ready for work. Three bubbles appear in the corner of the screen.

"Pancakes for dinner. What do you say?"

Yes. Yes is what you say, even though your hands shake as you type.

"Your place or mine?"

-

You said Yes. But Jack is trying not to get too excited. He wants to pump his fist in the air and act like he once did in high school. Proud of himself, but a little fearful too. He's too old to be acting like that, too old for you period.

Still. That didn't stop him from making this mess.

Jack tries to sleep, can't. You'll be here in a matter of hours, knocking on his door. He should clean. He should go out and get you flowers. He should do anything but close his eyes and get some rest. And yet, the day seems to catch up to him, his body aches from all day standing, and his brain is begging to be turned off. Maybe he'll wake up just an hour earlier than usual, prepare the place for your arrival.

He's a grown man. He's done this before. He doesn't need to be nervous.

Jack wakes up hours later, jolting upright. As soon as the alarm pulled him from sleep the memories rushed back. But he's not nervous. That's what he tells himself anyway.

He stretches before shuffling to the side of the bed, where his prosthetic lays by the bedside table. His thoughts race through every possible outcome this day could have. Technically, the both of you never specified that this was a date, not really. But that's how Jack is seeing it. He knows he shouldn't jump to those conclusions, especially when he's your attending and much older than you. The image of Robby scolding him once he hears about this enters his mind.

Still, Jack gets out of bed, makes it. He pulls the sheets up and fluffs the pillows, tidies the room. He's getting way ahead of himself thinking you'll even come near his bedroom but he can't help preparing it anyway.

Then he moves to the kitchen, cleans that up as best he can in his half awake state. And then the living room. He even wipes down the tv screen, just in case you want to watch something. He hasn't watched tv in a long time. He doesn't have time to do so, and he's so tired when he gets home from work that he usually just shuffles to the bedroom and crashes. But he's willing to change his daily patterns for you.

Jack then googles, 'how to make pancakes.'

Shameful, he knows, but he hasn't made pancakes since his wife died. That thought hits him like a freight train to the chest. Is he really doing this? Cleaning the house for a woman that isn't her? Cooking in the kitchen they once shared, for someone new? He knows she wouldn't be upset with him for it. He knows she would tell him to move on. But still it's hard. It's sickening. He checks the time. He has an hour till you show, and he just can't bring himself to cancel on you. He knows he will kick himself forever if he does.

He opens the text chain he has with you. Criticizes everything he's said. His flirting that he once thought was impressive seems embarrassing now, and he wonders if maybe you're just coming over out of pity. Sympathy for the poor widowed old man that hasn't got laid in years. That's not to say he intends to sleep with you or that you plan to sleep with him. He's not a player, he's not like that. Right? God is he?

He forces himself to put the phone down. It's not doing him any favors.

He showers, brushes his teeth, combs his hands through his hair trying to make it look like something it's not. Like it's something less grey and aged. He tries to remind himself that you're an adult, you're coming here of your own interest and accord. That you've never treated him like an old man before. And also that this isn't a date. That it shouldn't be.

There's a knock at the door and he startles, having to adjust his stance as to not fall over. He stands, frozen for a second in the bathroom. What has he got himself into? He exits the bathroom and moves swiftly toward the front door.

When he pulls open the door the sight of you knocks the wind out of him. You look no different than usual, all sunshine and glitter but he's just so shocked that you actually showed up.

"Hi," you raise a hand in an awkward wave, lips pressed together as if to prevent a smile.

Unable to stop the warmth brewing in his chest, Jack exhales. "Hi."

a little bit of sunshine taglist /the pitt taglist

@mad-die45 @drstark56 @mirandameaniepants @moonlitblossomsofthesun @materialgirl-97 @susp3ndedindusk @amnatreal @crazyunsexycool @tequilawitholives @tootstoots @kennedy-brooke @archxve @rossy1080 @theariespov @tooflef @julllliiiii86 @generation-zero @duchesz @saintd4rling @zablife @cantbecreative @applepuppybear @criminalyetminimal @kneelforloki @norman1967 @elenamoncadaibarra @nosebeers @jennataurus @starsicled @hobisystem @oliviarw3 @geekchic48 @youusunshineyoutemptress @tapioca-marzipan @savanahc @goldnhabitx @coffeeblackandcomfortablynumb @doesanyonereadthis @ceciliacchhh @momdancingtomcr @lokisbigtoe @jungchloee @gotlostintranslation @sea-eyed-dream @aic1709 @dummyahh

[voidsagent]

random jack abbot headcannons that i choose to believe are true;

⟢ absolutely does that dad thing where he falls asleep on the couch, open mouth snoring. when someone wakes him up he SWEARS he “wasn’t even sleeping.”

⟢ loves the princess bride with a passion. can quote pretty much the entire movie, still laughs at every joke like it’s the first time he’s hearing it.

⟢ CANNOT visit animal shelters. will come home with every animal there. especially if he sees a dog with three legs.

⟢ if someone/something steps on or runs over his prosthetic & there’s a wall behind him, he 100% will slip off the leg, & scream as loud as he can, followed by; “MY LEG!? YOU RIPPED OFF MY LEG?” (first time he did it to whitaker he almost passed out.)

⟢ says “what are you, a cop?” if people ask him a lot of questions.

⟢ is actually a pretty good singer, get him drunk & he’ll do karaoke.

⟢ likes to hum to himself. turns beet red if he’s ever caught.

⟢ talks to animals like they’re babies. will pretend to wait for them to answer & have a full conversation with them.

⟢ if someone walks away while he’s talking to them, he’ll finish the conversation for them; “oh yeah, thanks dr. abbot, that’s great dr. abbot” & throw a hand in the air like he’s never been more offended.

⟢ once he got comfortable enough without his leg, he absolutely went as a pirate for halloween a few times.

⟢ LOVES scaring robby like it gives him air. will wait around corners, walk up silently behind him. anything to watch him jump. he’s the bane of robby’s existence.

⟢ says “do a flip” if he finds robby on the roof (on the safe side of the railing only !! & if he’s not crying.)

⟢ plays into the whole “grumpy attending” role way too much. he never lets anyone know what he’s thinking. except dana, she always knows.

⟢ takes his coffee black & bitter, sighs like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

⟢ exclusively wears sweatpants & those dri fit workout shirts at home.

⟢ actually very sweet & caring/serious when he needs to be. don’t mess with any of his med students/interns unless you wanna lose a hand. he doesn’t play about their safety. calls all of them “kid.”

⟢ loves a good sunrise. he’ll never say it but that’s one of his favorite parts about working nights.

⟢ he & robby carved their initials in the railing on the roof together one night after a hard shift.

⟢ picks up randomly chronically online phrases & uses them to make the med students & interns cringe. his favorite is “i have nothing appropriate to say”, if he doesn’t want to comment. no matter what the context is. he thinks it’s hilarious.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

might do a part 2 if it’s wanted ?? should I do robby next ?? :)

[mrsbourbonborn]

This was sooooo realistic. Nothing fantastical about this. These are basically old hard facts.

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

First off, I just found your account, and I'm obsessed!! I was wondering if you could write a Jack Abbot x fem!reader fic where he's struggling with his PTSD. The vibe is like fluffy angst, if that makes sense.

Scar tissue

Jack Abbot X Fem!Reader

Warnings: PTSD, nightmares, combat trauma, injury description, amputation mention, phantom limb pain, panic response, dissociation, implied suicidal ideation (non-acted), emotional vulnerability, comfort, hurt/comfort, soft ending, established relationship, Robby makes an appearance, no use of y/n

Word count: 3.7K

a/n: Awww thnks for the love hon i'm glad you liked my little corner of the internet and i'm happy to have you here 🫶🏻 hope you enjoy the fic!

Anyone who looks at him knows he’s a tough guy. Not just because of the muscles that show through every piece of clothing he wears, but because of the way he carries himself. Steady. Courageous. Cool as a cucumber. 

People look at Jack Abbott and they see a soldier — a man who can handle unimaginable pain without so much as a flinch.

But you? You see the cracks in the armor. You see the soft spots beneath all that steel — the proof that Jack, much like everyone else, is still just human.

Maybe you see it because he lets you. Because he feels he doesn’t have to hide as much when he’s around you. Or maybe it’s because you’re always looking for him in a crowd—your eyes scanning every face until they land on his.

You know he has a harder time dealing with his past than he ever admits. The therapist he’s been seeing seems to help, but it’s not like you can erase everything he’s been through. You’re glad he’s getting the help he needs, and you make sure he knows he has a support system he can lean on whenever he needs it.

He has Robby, and he has you.

When things started getting serious between you and Jack, the first person he wanted you to meet was Robby. You could tell immediately, from the way they interacted, that they shared a long and heavy history. And in the short time you spent with Robby, you could see that he too carried scars from the past.

Robby liked you right away—he was genuinely happy that Jack had someone to share his life with. But beneath Robby’s gentle smile, you sensed something else. A kind of relief hidden behind the easy banter and relaxed expression.

And when he cornered you one evening, glancing around as if making sure Jack wasn’t nearby before whispering, “I’m glad he has someone by his side. I can’t always keep an eye on him with our opposite shifts and all. I’m glad you’ve got his back,” you realized Robby knew Jack in ways you had yet to discover.

It had taken you a while to understand what Robby meant, but one night shift made everything painfully clear.

You’d been searching for Jack everywhere, and you were no closer to finding him. It was unlike him to just disappear—he was the attending, after all. Your worry had started creeping in when Robby walked in and caught the look on your face.

He seemed to know exactly what you were looking for. His hand landed gently on your shoulder to get your attention, a soft look settling over his features.

“You’re looking for Abbott, right? He’s probably taking a breather.”

“No, I checked outside. He wasn’t there,” you answered, eyes still darting around the room.

Robby gave your shoulder a small, knowing squeeze.

“Might wanna go check the roof.”

Robby must’ve seen something in your face shift, because he didn’t hesitate—he just said, “Come on,” and started toward the stairwell. You followed him up the flight of stairs until the sunshine hit your face and the rooftop door thunked shut behind you.

Jack was there. Standing on the edge of the roof, on the opposite side of the railing.

Your heart lurched. Your body moved before you even thought, breath punching out of your chest. Your eyes went wide, your mouth opened—but nothing came out.

Robby’s hand snapped around your arm, steadying you before you could take another panicked step.

“Hey—hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, voice low, like he’d rehearsed this line a thousand times.

You froze, pulse thundering in your ears, as Robby walked forward with a familiarity that made your stomach twist tighter.

He leaned casually against the railing, like this wasn’t terrifying, like it wasn’t a two-story drop to concrete.

“Hey, man,” he called out. “You bird-watching or something?”

Jack jolted—just slightly—like the sound tugged him out of a fog. He turned his head, and his eyes found yours over Robby’s shoulder.

Something flickered there. Recognition. Then shame. Then something soft.

He ducked back under the railing and stepped onto the safe side. Robby clapped him on the back and stepped aside, letting Jack walk toward you.

You stood there, hands trembling before you could stop them, the image of him on the wrong side of the railing burned into your mind. When he reached you, Jack didn’t say anything—just pulled you into his chest, arms strong and shaky all at once.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, breathing you in. “You don’t gotta worry. I wasn’t—I wasn’t doing anything stupid. Just… needed a look around.”

You didn’t say anything. You just held onto him, trying to let your body relax beneath his arms. When you finally glanced over his shoulder, your eyes met Robby’s. His expression was soft, a little tired, and without either of you saying a word, you understood.

This was what he meant. This was why he wanted someone else watching Jack’s back.

That was the first time you saw Jack’s armor crack.

But it wouldn’t be the last.

Today had been a particularly rough shift. You were exhausted—bone-deep tired—and more than ready to go home. When you saw Robby walk into the ED for his morning shift, you mustered a smile and walked over to pull him into a hug.

“How was your night?” he asked, like he always did.

“Hell, as usual,” you sighed.

Robby gave you that knowing look, the one edged with sympathy and the kind of exhaustion only long-time trauma can carve into someone. His eyes swept the room, scanning faces out of habit.

You knew exactly who he was looking for. Who he always looked for.

“He’s upstairs,” you said, no explanation needed.

Robby’s gaze snapped back to you, understanding immediately.

“That bad, huh?”

“Yep.” Your shoulders sagged under the weight of the night. “Pretty much.”

“You want me to go get him?”

You gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “No, I got it. I was just giving him a little alone time first. You know how he gets.”

Robby nodded, expression softening. “Call me if you need me.”

You offered him a tired smile before turning and heading for the stairs—your feet already knowing the path to the roof.

Jack is in his usual spot.

Same place he always goes when the shift has taken too much out of him. Same spot where the world stretches out before him far enough that he can pretend he’s not drowning in his thoughts. In his feelings.

You ease the rooftop door open, letting it click shut behind you. He has his back to you, but you know he knows you’re here. You take a couple of slow steps toward him, leaning on the railing like Robby had the first time you’d found out about this routine of theirs.

“Anything interesting down there?” you say softly, voice drifting over to him like you’re afraid of startling him.

Jack glances over his shoulder. It’s not really a smile he gives you—more a tired twitch of his mouth that’s trying to be one. The kind he uses when he doesn’t want you to worry, even though the fact that he’s up here already tells you plenty.

“Nah,” he mutters. “Same old streets. Same old mess.”

The wind is cool up here, biting at your cheeks. Jack’s eyes stay fixed on the drop below. Yours stay glued to his profile.

“You want to talk about it?” you ask gently.

He huffs out a breath. “Not really.”

You nod, because you’re not here to force it out of him. You’ve learned that pushing makes him shut down harder. And besides—that tone? You know that one. It’s the I’m-still-in-it tone. The one he gets when some patient or some moment kicks up dust from the part of his past he tries not to look at. The part filled with dirt and gunfire and screams that don’t belong in a hospital.

Jack’s jaw flexes. You see the tension in his body. Not just the usual post–twelve-hour-shift tension, but the kind he carries from years of seeing more shit than anyone should see in their whole lifetimes. It always lingers. Waiting beneath his skin. Waiting for something to pull it out into the open. And tonight, it’s clear something had made it bubble up.

You keep your eyes forward as you ask, “Want me to go get Robby?”

It’s not jealousy. It’s not insecurity. You know how deep their history runs. Sometimes Jack needs his best friend before he needs anyone else.

But he shakes his head immediately.

“No.” His voice is low, rough. “I just… need a little quiet.”

You give another small nod. “Okay.”

And that’s it. No fixing. No prying. You just sit down, letting the silence stretch the way he needs it to. The wind whistles, cars honk far below, and Jack’s breathing slowly evens out—slowly, gradually, grounding itself in the fact that you’re here.

After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—you hear him shift. You watch as he ducks under the railing, stepping back toward the safe side before looking down at you from where you’re still sitting. You lift yourself off the ground, moving so you’re standing in front of him. You stay a couple of steps away for a moment before reaching your hand out.

His fingers brush yours, hesitant at first, then more sure when you curl your hand softly around his.

“Wanna go home?” you whisper.

Jack exhales—a shaky, tired sound that breaks your heart a little.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah… I’m ready.”

And with that, he lets you pull him back inside.

He’s quiet the whole walk home, which isn’t unusual on days like this. Still, you miss the easy chatter you usually fall into together. You miss the feeling of his hand in yours as you walk side by side, miss the silly comments he always makes just to get you to laugh.

But you know it isn’t personal. Sometimes the weight of the past is just too heavy to carry, and Jack has to put all his strength into keeping himself together. There isn’t much left over for anything else.

So on days like this, you just match your pace to his, silently following him all the way back to your shared apartment.

You walk into your apartment, keys clattering softly against the door as you push it open. Jack trails in behind you. You slip your shoes off, and he quietly closes the door, locking it before doing the same.

You head straight for the kitchen, washing your hands at the sink before opening the fridge and grabbing the food you’d set aside for the two of you. On normal days, you and Jack share the shower—taking turns helping each other wash the grime and weight of the shift away. But today… you know he won’t be up for that.

So you call out from the kitchen, loud enough for him to hear you from the entryway.

“You go first, Jack. I’ll start heating the food up.”

He passes by the kitchen doorway, giving you a small, tired nod before heading toward the bathroom.

After he gets out—looking just as tired as when he went in, but at least cleaner—you make your way to the bathroom next, focusing on washing the shift off your own skin. You both settle down to eat afterward, the low murmur of the TV drifting across the room while you eat in silence. When you’re done, the dishes washed and teeth brushed, the two of you climb into bed.

You reach over to click the lamp off and start to settle, already preparing yourself to fall asleep without Jack’s arms around you. But just as you’re about to turn your back to him, he says your name—soft, almost hesitant.

You turn, barely able to make out his face in the dark.

“Yeah?” you answer quietly, voice barely above a breath.

“No cuddling today?” he asks, the words gentle, almost sheepish in the dark.

Your eyes soften instantly.

 “Didn’t think you’d be up for it,” you whisper.

Jack reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek before gently tugging you closer until your noses touch.

“Always up to cuddle with you, baby,” he murmurs, the teasing warmth in his voice muted by exhaustion but still sincere.

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before shifting until your head rests against his chest—right where you’ve always fit perfectly.

“Goodnight, Jack,” you say softly, your voice melting into his skin.

“Night, baby,” he replies, the words low and sleepy. 

He can feel the sweat against his temple. Can feel it run down his neck and seep into his uniform. He can smell the dirt and blood and gunpowder. Can hear the explosion, the screams, the bullets ricocheting.

His feet pound against the ground as he runs, bag rattling against his back with every step. There’s a rifle in his hand—he can feel the weight of it, the metal pressed beneath his fingers. The sound is muffled, but he can still make out orders being shouted somewhere beside him. He takes another step. 

And that’s when it happens.

He doesn’t even have time to react before his body is launched backward. His back hits the ground and, for a moment, he can’t hear anything. The explosion blows out everything else, dust filling the air and swallowing what little he could see.

And then it hits him.

Pain.

Searing pain, shooting through him so fast he doesn’t even have time to scream.

The world tilts. His vision blurs. When he finally manages to bring it into focus, his eyes trail downward to assess the damage.

He catches it immediately.

Blood. Shredded fabric. Jagged bone.

The panic settles in instantly, and the scream that rips from his throat makes his lungs burn. Hands grab at him—soldiers barking his name, trying to drag him away—but everything blurs, their faces smearing together.

His vision tightens, tunneling. He feels the blood pumping out of him, warm and fast.

And then darkness surrounds him.

Jack jerks awake with a gasp so sharp it almost sounds like a sob.

The room is dark. Quiet. Safe. But his body doesn’t know that—his heart is racing like he’s still on that damn battlefield. His hands fist at the sheets, tugging them off him in a panic. His eyes land on the place where his leg should be and, even though it’s not there—even though it’s been years—he can still feel the pain as if it had happened just now.

He’s so focused on the sight in front of him that he doesn’t feel you stir in bed. Doesn’t even remember you’re there next to him until your hand finds the center of his back.

His head snaps toward you, panicked eyes locking onto your worried gaze. The sight of you seems to pull him back into the present, inch by inch. He lets out a shaky breath just as you say his name again—because he didn’t hear it the first time.

“Jack? Hey — talk to me. What happened?”

He swallows. It’s hard. His throat feels tight, scraped raw.

“I… it was my leg.” His voice trembles in a way he hates. “I was back there. I saw it happen again.”

His breath stutters. He drags a trembling hand over his face, trying to wipe away the nightmare like it’s something he can physically scrape off his skin. You shift closer, slow and gentle, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. If anything, he leans toward you without realizing it, like his body is reaching for something solid to anchor to. 

“Is it hurting?” you whisper.

He nods, jaw clenched. “Feels like… like it’s still there. Like it’s still being blown off.” A shaky laugh slips out, humorless. “Stupid, right?”

You shake your head, reaching out to take his hand — letting him decide if he wants to hold on.

“That’s not stupid,” you whisper. “Phantom pain isn’t imaginary. And neither is what you lived through.”

His fingers curl around yours. Tight. Desperate.

For a moment, he just breathes. Eyes closed. Shoulders trembling.

Then he lets out a quiet confession, barely audible:

“I hate waking up like this. I hate that you have to see it.”

Your shoulders sag at the words. You know he struggles with being vulnerable, know he hates making you worry. But it doesn’t bother you — in fact, you’re glad to know he isn’t alone. Glad that you can be there for him when he needs someone, even if he tries to avoid it as much as he can.

You press your forehead gently to the side of his, grounding both of you.

“I’d rather be here with you through the bad,” you murmur, “than miss the chance to be here for the good.”

Jack lets out a sound that borders on a sob and a sigh. He shifts his head to the side so that your foreheads touch. Your hand moves up to cradle his cheek, making his eyes close.

“I’m here,” you murmur against his hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He leans into your touch like he’s been holding himself upright for too long, like the simple act of your hand on his cheek is the one thing keeping him anchored.

You stay like that for a moment, his uneven breathing fanning across your face as your thumb continues to caress his skin. His hands move forward, grabbing onto your hips as if he needs to make sure you’re real.

“Sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head gently, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.

“Jack… you don’t have to apologize for having nightmares.”

His jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but the fight leaves him before it ever really forms. His shoulders slump, exhaustion settling back over him like a heavy blanket.

“It felt so real,” he admits, the words barely catching the air between you. “Every time it happens, it feels like… like I’m right back there. Like I’m losing it all over again.”

Your heart twists. Not out of pity — never pity — but out of that deep ache that comes from loving someone who’s been hurt in ways you can’t erase. You angle his face toward yours, gently guiding him until his eyes meet yours in the dark.

He gives you a look that almost makes your heart shatter in your chest. For a moment, you don’t see the Jack everyone else sees — the chill Jack who makes jokes and walks around like nothing ever gets to him. You see the man beneath the armor. The real Jack. The one who carries the world on his shoulders, the one who keeps going even when the pain gets unbearable.

You see your Jack.

The one you love with every fiber of your being.

You can’t promise him the nightmares won’t come. Can’t take the pain from him. Can’t promise that nothing will ever hurt him again.

So you say the only thing you can — the thing you feel every time you see him like this.

“I’m so sorry, Jack.”

Jack’s brows pull together at your words — not in frustration, not in dismissal, but in something softer. Sadder. He shakes his head almost immediately, hands tightening on your hips as if anchoring you in place.

“Don’t be,” he whispers, voice barely holding itself together. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You swallow, but the ache in your chest doesn’t ease.

“I know. I just… I hate that you went through that. I hate that you still have to.”

You sigh softly, the sound threading through the quiet of the room.

“I wish I could make it better.”

Jack pulls back just enough to see your face, his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, warm and steady as his thumb brushes your skin.

“You do,” he whispers.

You give him a sad smile and lean forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. He accepts it immediately, sinking into the tenderness, savoring the love you pour into him—trying to commit the feeling to memory.

When you pull back, he follows you, leaning in until his forehead rests against your collarbone. You wrap your arms around him instinctively, holding him close, cradling him as his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. It’s just the two of you breathing in the dark, his heartbeat slowly finding its rhythm again, your hands moving up and down his back in calm, soothing strokes.

Eventually, Jack exhales — a low, weary sound that seems to release a little of the weight crushing him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest.

You run your fingers through his hair, soft and steady.

“For what?” you ask gently.

“For staying,” he breathes. “For… not being scared of me. Or of this.”

You press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds onto you tighter after that—the kind of hold that says he believes you, even if it scares him to. He presses a kiss to your neck, lips soft against your skin.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too, Jack.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, and you offer him a tender smile.

“Wanna try and get some sleep?”

He breathes shakily against you, the fear of the nightmares creeping back in making him never want to sleep again. You can sense his apprehension, so your hand moves gently to hold his face.

“Don’t worry. I’m right here. I’ll keep you safe.”

Jack can’t help but smile at your words—because he can hear in your voice that you genuinely mean them, and that makes him believe them too. He unlatches from your body, moving to lie back down on the bed. You settle beside him, tugging the sheets over your bodies as you inch closer.

You tuck yourself against him, your fingers drawing slow circles along his ribs, a steady rhythm he can follow back into calm.

“Stay… right here,” he murmurs, voice thick and low.

 “I’m not moving,” you promise. “Sleep if you can. I’ve got you.”

Jack exhales, the sound shaky but softer than before. His chin rests lightly atop your head, his heartbeat gradually syncing with yours. His hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer as though he’s trying to merge the last of the fear out of his body and into your warmth. 

And little by little, you feel his body start to relax against yours, the nightmare losing its grip as he lets himself rest in the one place he still feels safe.

With you.

[mrsbourbonborn]

🫂🫂🫂

[fanficwritinggirl]

Due to Weather - Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader}

Snowed in after a conference, you and Jack Abbott are forced to share a hotel room, where one bed, a power outage, and months of unspoken tension make “professional courtesy” harder to believe.

Jack Abbott looked like he would rather be intubating someone in a supply closet during a power outage than standing in the ballroom of the Philadelphia Grand Hotel wearing a name badge.

That was your first thought. Your second thought was that he looked unfairly good for a man who had spent the last twenty minutes silently judging an entire conference hall.

He stood beside one of the tall cocktail tables near the back of the room, one hand wrapped around a paper cup of coffee he had not actually drunk from, his conference lanyard hanging crooked against the front of his dark sweater. He had taken off his blazer sometime between the trauma systems panel and the keynote address on "Innovative Compassion in High-Pressure Emergency Environments," which was a title Jack had heard once and immediately decided was a personal attack.

The ballroom was too warm. Too bright. Too full of physicians pretending they had never once eaten a vending machine granola bar over a trash can at three in the morning.

There were banners everywhere. There were sponsored pens. There was a man from Boston wearing a bow tie and explaining airway management like he had personally invented oxygen.

Jack had been quiet for most of it. Not polite quiet. Jack quiet. The kind of quiet that made residents straighten their backs and consultants reconsider their tone. The kind of quiet that looked harmless from across the room right up until someone said something stupid near it.

You had watched three people attempt to make small talk with him already. The first had asked what hospital he was representing. Jack had said, "UPMC Mercy." The second had asked if Pittsburgh had "much trauma volume."

Jack had stared at him for one full second too long before saying, "Enough." The third had smiled too brightly and said, "I always think emergency medicine is really about resilience."

Jack had said, "It's mostly about staffing." You had nearly choked on your coffee. Now he was standing beside you at the back of the room, radiating the particular kind of irritation that came from being professionally trapped.

"You know," you said, keeping your voice low as the speaker at the front of the ballroom advanced to another slide full of stock photos and bullet points, "some people enjoy conferences."

Jack did not look at you. "Those people need hobbies." "You're a doctor. You're at an emergency medicine conference. This is technically one of your hobbies." "No," he said. "This is Robby losing a bet and somehow making it my problem."

You turned your head, smiling into your coffee. "He made you come?" "He strongly suggested." "That sounds like Robby." "He used the phrase 'good for department visibility.'"

"Oh, no." Jack finally glanced at you. There was nothing overtly warm in his expression, exactly. Jack did not really do overt. His face was all sharp restraint and tired intelligence, mouth set like he was holding back three separate complaints and a legal disclaimer.

But his eyes shifted when they landed on you. Only slightly. Enough that you felt it. Enough that you hated that you felt it. "You laughing at my suffering?" he asked. "Yes."

"Good to know." "I'm enjoying your commitment to misery." "I commit to things." "You do," you said, before you could stop yourself. It came out softer than you meant it to.

Not flirtatious, not exactly. But too honest for a ballroom full of laminated schedules and sponsored tote bags. Jack looked at you for half a second longer than necessary.

There it was again. That pause. That tiny, dangerous bit of space that kept opening between you lately. At work, you could usually avoid it. The ED was useful that way. There was always something screaming, bleeding, crashing, coding, ringing, paging, demanding. There was always a monitor alarm or a consult call or someone yelling for a blanket warmer key.

There was no room for pauses in the ED. There was no time to notice that Jack brought you coffee when he made some for himself. No time to wonder why he always seemed to appear when a patient's family member started getting aggressive near your workstation.

No time to think about the way his voice changed when he said your name instead of your title. No time to think about his hand at your back when he moved behind you in a crowded trauma bay, not touching exactly, but close enough that you felt the heat of it through your scrubs.

No time for any of that. Here, unfortunately, there was nothing but time. Time and bad coffee. Time and Jack standing too close beside you because the back of the ballroom was crowded and neither of you had moved away.

On stage, the speaker clicked to the next slide. COMPASSION FATIGUE: RECOGNIZING THE WARNING SIGNS. Jack made a sound low in his throat. You looked over. "Don't." "I didn't say anything."

"You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "A judgmental noise." "Same system." You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling too obviously. The woman seated in front of you turned halfway in her chair and gave you both a tight look.

Jack stared back with no change in expression whatsoever. The woman turned around again. "You're going to get us kicked out," you whispered. "From this?" "That would be a shame."

"Would it?" You tried to look stern. "We are representing the hospital." "We're standing in the back drinking burnt coffee while a man named Brent tells a room full of emergency physicians to try mindfulness."

"His name is Brett." "I don't care." You lost the fight with your smile then. Jack saw it. Of course he saw it. Jack noticed everything he had no business noticing. His gaze flicked to your mouth, barely there and gone so quickly you could have convinced yourself you imagined it.

Except you had stopped giving yourself that much credit. You had been imagining things with Jack Abbott for months. Or maybe you had not been imagining them at all. That was the problem.

The speaker's microphone crackled. Somewhere near the middle of the room, someone coughed. Outside the tall ballroom windows, snow pressed thickly against the glass, turning the city beyond it into a blur of white and grey.

It had started that morning as a pretty dusting. The kind of snow people from conference registration desks called seasonal atmosphere. By lunch, it had become an inconvenience.

By three, it was an advisory. Now, at almost five in the evening, it was beginning to look like a problem. You checked your phone under the edge of the cocktail table. Three weather alerts. Two emails from the airline. One text from Dana.

DANA: Heard Philly's getting buried. Tell Abbott not to pick a fight with cardiology. You snorted. Jack's eyes shifted down. "What?" "Nothing." "You laughed." "Dana says hi."

"She does not." "She said to tell you not to pick a fight with cardiology." Jack's expression did not change. "Cardiology started it." "You haven't even seen cardiology today."

"That you know of." You sent Dana a quick reply. YOU: Too late. He's fighting the concept of conferences as a whole. Dana responded almost immediately. DANA: Sounds right. Bring him back alive. Or don't. I'm flexible.

You tucked your phone away, still smiling. Jack watched you do it. "What did she say?" "Nothing." "You're a bad liar." "You're nosy." "I'm observant." "You're nosy with a medical degree."

"That's the profession." That pulled another laugh out of you, quiet but real. Jack's mouth moved like he was trying very hard not to let his own expression change. He failed, just slightly.

It was not a smile, not by normal standards. But for Jack Abbott, it was practically fireworks. You looked away first. You had to. The thing about Jack was that he made stillness feel loud. You could handle him in motion. In the ED, with his hands gloved and his voice clipped and his body angled toward disaster, he made sense. He was built for crisis. He was decisive, sharp, controlled. He moved through chaos like he had made some private agreement with it years ago.

But stillness made him harder to manage. Stillness let you notice the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. The scarred steadiness of him. The careful way he shifted his weight after standing too long. The fact that his left hand had settled near his hip, thumb brushing absently over the edge of his pocket.

Stillness let you remember that under all that competence was a person who got tired. A person who hurt. A person who, for reasons you were trying very hard not to interrogate, had started keeping track of whether you ate during twelve-hour shifts.

You looked down into your coffee. It had gone cold. "You okay?" Jack asked. It was so quiet you almost missed it under the speaker's voice. You glanced up. "What?" He was not looking at the stage anymore.

"You went quiet." "I'm listening." "No, you're not." "You don't know that." "What was the last slide?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Jack raised his eyebrows. You sighed. "Fine. I wasn't listening."

"Good choice." "I'm okay," you said, because you understood then that the question had not really been about the presentation. Jack held your gaze. There were days when that look irritated you. The steady, unblinking attention of it. Like he could read your pulse without touching your wrist. Like he saw whatever you were trying to tuck out of view and simply decided whether or not he was going to let you get away with it.

Today, it did not irritate you. Today, it made something behind your ribs go a little unsteady. "Long day," you added. His expression softened by a degree. For anyone else, it would have been nothing.

For Jack, it was practically a hand offered. "Yeah," he said. You both looked back toward the stage. The speaker had moved on to a case study about physician burnout that somehow included a clip-art image of a candle.

Jack stared at it. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered. You coughed into your cup to cover the laugh. The woman in front of you turned around again. This time, she looked only at Jack.

Jack looked back. You gently touched his sleeve. It was instinctive. Barely a touch. Your fingers against the dark fabric at his forearm for one second, maybe less. "Behave," you murmured.

Jack's eyes dropped to where your hand had been. You pulled it back too quickly. Too obviously. Heat climbed up your neck, which was ridiculous. You worked in emergency medicine. You had held pressure on arterial bleeds. You had told surgeons where to stand. You had been vomited on by strangers and once had to explain to a grown man that shampoo bottles did not belong there, no matter what the internet said.

You should have been able to touch Jack Abbott's sleeve without forgetting how breathing worked. Jack said nothing. That was almost worse. The room clapped suddenly, polite and scattered. The session was ending.

Chairs scraped. People stood. Voices swelled all at once, filling the ballroom with that post-lecture noise of professional relief. Lanyards swung. Tote bags rustled. Someone near the doors started talking loudly about dinner reservations.

You stepped back from the cocktail table, grateful for the movement. "Well," you said, "that was very informative." Jack looked at you. You managed to keep a straight face for two seconds.

"Okay, no. It was terrible." "Thank you." "But we survived." He glanced toward the windows. The snow was falling harder now, fast and thick under the streetlights outside. It moved sideways in violent gusts, smearing white across the glass. People were beginning to cluster near the lobby entrance, phones out, faces lit with the blue glow of cancellation alerts.

Jack's jaw tightened. "What?" you asked. "Storm's worse." You followed his gaze. "It was supposed to slow down." "It didn't." "You secretly a meteorologist too?" "No. I have eyes."

You rolled yours, but you checked your phone again. Another airline email. Your stomach dropped. FLIGHT CANCELLED: PHILADELPHIA TO PITTSBURGH. "Oh," you said. Jack looked over immediately. "Cancelled?"

"Yeah." He did not ask to see your phone. He just read your face. His mouth flattened. You refreshed the app pointlessly, because apparently denial had a user interface. "All flights tonight?" he asked.

"Looks like mine, at least." You tapped through the airline page. "The app says earliest rebook is tomorrow afternoon, but that's assuming the airport opens properly." Jack pulled his own phone out.

He did not look surprised by whatever he found. "Mine's cancelled too." "Great." "Roads?" You opened the weather alert. The words hazardous travel, whiteout conditions, and avoid unnecessary trips were not especially comforting.

"Also great," you said. Jack slid his phone back into his pocket. "We stay another night." You looked toward the lobby, where a line was already forming at the front desk.

"Everyone is going to try to stay another night." "Then we get there before the orthopedic surgeons." You laughed despite yourself. Jack started walking.

You followed him out of the ballroom and into the broad hotel corridor. The conference had spilled everywhere now — doctors and nurses and vendors in branded fleeces, everyone talking too loudly over everyone else. The lights overhead were warm and expensive. The carpet was patterned in a way that made you suspect someone had been paid too much money to make beige feel important.

At the far end of the hall, the lobby opened wide and bright, all marble floors and high ceilings and enormous windows looking out onto a city disappearing under snow. The front desk line was already fifteen people deep.

Jack stopped. You nearly bumped into him. He glanced over his shoulder. "You checked out this morning?" "Yeah. My room was only booked through today because my flight was supposed to be tonight."

"Conference block?" "Full. I tried earlier when the delays started." His face shifted. Not much. But you saw the calculation begin. "No," you said immediately. "I haven't said anything."

"You're about to." "You don't know that." "I know your face." That made him pause. Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something warmer pretending to be amusement.

"You know my face?" "I know your about-to-be-stubborn face." "That's just my face." "No, your regular face is more quietly judgmental." He gave you a dry look. You smiled sweetly.

The line at the front desk moved one person forward and somehow became more chaotic. A woman in a navy pantsuit was telling the receptionist that she was a keynote speaker and therefore needed a room. A man behind her was arguing with someone on speakerphone. Near the windows, two residents were sitting on their suitcases, looking exhausted.

Jack's attention moved over the lobby once, quick and assessing. Then he looked back at you. "You can take my room." You crossed your arms. "There it is." "It's a room." "It's your room."

"You need one." "So do you." "I can figure it out." You gave him a look. He gave you one back. The trouble with Jack was that he did not posture. He did not make generous offers with softness around the edges. He did not say things to be gallant. He simply looked at a problem, decided on the cleanest solution, and expected everyone else to fall into line.

Which was irritating. Because sometimes the cleanest solution involved him being quietly self-sacrificial in a way that made you want to shake him. "You are not sleeping in the lobby," you said.

"Neither are you." "Jack." His name came out sharper than you intended. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His expression eased by a fraction, but his voice stayed even. "I'm not arguing about this in a hotel lobby."

"Then stop being wrong in one." His eyes narrowed. Not angry. Almost amused. Almost. "You always this difficult?" he asked. "With you? Yes." "Lucky me." "You bring it out in me."

Jack held your gaze for one beat too long. The noise of the lobby seemed to pull back for a second. Around you, people were still moving. Suitcases rolled over marble. Phones rang. The automatic doors slid open and let in a blast of cold air sharp enough to make someone curse.

But Jack was looking at you, and you were looking back, and there was that pause again. That impossible little pause. The one neither of you ever knew what to do with. Then the front desk clerk called, "Next guest, please," and the spell cracked.

Jack stepped toward the desk. You caught his sleeve again. This time, you did not pull away immediately. "Don't give up your room," you said, quieter now. His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then back to your face. "Don't sleep in a lobby," he said. "That's not an answer." "It is if you listen." You let go of his sleeve. He moved to the desk before you could argue again.

You stood beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly touched, and watched as he gave his name to the exhausted-looking receptionist. "Abbott," he said. "I have a room for tonight. Need to extend it."

The receptionist typed quickly, her face already apologetic in the way customer service workers got when the computer was about to ruin someone's day. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Abbott. We're completely sold out for tomorrow night at this point. The storm has stranded most of the conference guests."

Jack's expression did not change. "Existing reservation," he said. "Room 1117." "I understand, sir. But all rooms are currently booked. If housekeeping confirms no-shows or cancellations, we can add you to the waitlist."

You leaned in slightly. "What about my reservation? I checked out this morning, but with the flight cancellations—" The receptionist looked at you with genuine sympathy. "I'm sorry. We don't have anything available."

Jack looked at her. "Anything." "I'm afraid not." "A cot?" "No cots left." "Conference room?" "Sir—" "Not for me," he said, impatient now. "For her." Your stomach did something stupid.

The receptionist glanced between the two of you. A tiny, knowing sort of understanding moved across her face. You hated her a little. "I'm sorry," she said again. "We really don't have a safe accommodation option outside of existing rooms. The city has issued travel warnings, so we're advising all guests not to leave the property unless absolutely necessary."

Jack went still. You could almost see him biting back a response. You touched his arm again, this time with warning. "Jack." His jaw worked once. Then he looked at the receptionist. "Keep the room under my name."

"Of course." "And if anything else opens, call up." "Yes, Doctor Abbott." He gave a short nod and stepped away from the desk. You followed him toward the edge of the lobby, away from the worst of the noise.

"No," you said. Jack turned. "You don't know what I'm going to say." "You're going to say I should take your room and you'll do something ridiculous like sleep sitting upright by the vending machines."

"I wasn't going to specify vending machines." "Jack." "What?" "No." He exhaled through his nose. Outside, the wind threw snow hard against the windows. Somewhere overhead, the lights flickered once, just enough for half the lobby to pause and look up.

When they steadied again, Jack's face had changed. Not softened. Settled. Like something in him had made a decision and locked the door behind it. "You're not going anywhere tonight," he said.

"Neither are you." "No." "No?" "No," he repeated. "We're not doing the noble idiot routine." You blinked. "That was directed at you, right?" His mouth twitched. Barely. "Both of us."

"Oh, progress." "We share the room." The words landed between you with the subtlety of a dropped instrument tray. You stared at him. Jack, infuriatingly, looked completely calm.

"We what?" "We share the room," he said again, like saying it plainly made it less insane. Your voice lowered. "Jack." "It has a lock. Heat. Bathroom. Presumably fewer orthopedic surgeons."

"That is not the issue." "It's a room." "It's your room." "You already said that." "With one bed?" He paused. And there. There it was. Not much. Not enough that anyone else would have caught it.

But you did. The tiny hitch in his expression. The one beat where practical Jack Abbott, the man who could handle blood and death and impossible decisions without blinking, appeared to remember that you were not simply a stranded colleague but a woman he had been standing too close to for months.

His eyes shifted away first. That almost never happened. "I'll take the chair," he said. "You will not." "I've slept in worse places." "I know," you said, softer before you could stop it. "That doesn't mean you should."

He looked back at you. The argument died a little in his face. Not completely. Jack was not built for surrender. But enough. The lobby carried on around you. People complained. Phones buzzed. The storm kept pressing itself against the glass like it wanted in.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks now. Not embarrassment exactly. Something worse. Awareness. Sharp and immediate. One room. One bed. Jack Abbott standing in front of you, close enough that you could see the dark flecks in his eyes, telling you in that maddeningly practical voice that he was not going to let you be unsafe tonight.

He cleared his throat. "It's not ideal." You let out a small laugh, mostly because if you did not laugh, you might say something dangerous. "No. I'd say it's a little past ideal."

"We're adults." "Are we?" His eyes narrowed. You lifted both hands. "Sorry. Tension response." "Clearly." "We work together." "I noticed." "People will talk." "People always talk."

"You hate when people talk." "I hate when people are stupid. Overlap, not causation." Despite everything, you smiled. He looked at your mouth again. This time, you were sure of it.

The smile faded. Jack looked away, jaw tightening like he had caught himself doing something he had not given himself permission to do. "Room's there," he said, his voice lower now. Rougher around the edges. "You can have the bed. I'll figure out the rest."

You should have said no again. You should have insisted on the lobby or found another stranded doctor to double up with or called Dana and let her laugh you through a nervous breakdown.

Instead, you looked outside. At the snow. At the city disappearing. At the people sitting on suitcases under expensive chandeliers, trying to pretend they were not scared of being stuck.

Then you looked back at Jack. He was tired. You could see it now, in the way he held himself. The conference chairs had been bad for him; standing through the reception had been worse. The cold would not help. Neither would an argument that lasted another twenty minutes because both of you were too stubborn to admit the obvious.

You sighed. "Only if you don't sleep in the chair." His brows drew together. "That's not—" "No," you said. "We are not doing the noble idiot routine. You said it. It applies."

Jack stared at you. You stared back. "I'm serious," you said. "So am I." "You always are." "Someone has to be." "You're impossible." "You keep saying that like it changes anything."

You looked at him for a long second. Then, because apparently the storm had knocked all common sense out of the sky along with the snow, you said, "Fine." Jack blinked once.

"Fine?" "Fine. We share the room." His face was very still. Very controlled. Too controlled. "But," you added quickly, "we are establishing rules." "Rules." "Yes." "For sleeping."

"For survival." His mouth twitched again. That almost-smile. The one that should not have had the power to make your chest feel too small. "Fine," he said. "Rule one: no chair."

He looked annoyed. You pointed at him. "No." "I didn't say anything." "You were thinking loudly." "Occupational hazard." "Rule two," you said, trying very hard not to think about the fact that you had apparently agreed to share a hotel room with Jack Abbott. "No being weird."

Jack looked at you. "You think I'm going to be weird?" "I think we're both going to be weird." "That's probably accurate." "And rule three…" You stopped. Because you had no idea what rule three was.

Do not look at me like that. Do not stand too close. Do not make this feel safer than it should. Do not be kind in that quiet, gruff way that makes me want things I have no business wanting.

Jack waited. You swallowed. "Rule three," you said, "we pretend this is normal." His gaze held yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Jack gave one short nod. "Professional courtesy," he said.

You laughed. You could not help it. It came out softer than before, edged with nerves. "Is that what this is?" His expression was unreadable. The storm threw another gust of snow against the windows.

"Sure," he said. But he did not sound convinced. And God help you, neither were you. The elevator ride to the eleventh floor was silent. Not peaceful silent. Not comfortable silent.

The kind of silence that had bones in it. You stood on one side of the elevator with your overnight bag tucked against your hip and your coat still buttoned to your throat. Jack stood on the other side, his conference tote hanging off one shoulder, his gaze fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors like they had personally offended him.

Four. Five. Six. The elevator hummed upward. You watched his reflection in the polished metal doors because looking at the actual man felt like a risky decision. He looked tired now.

More tired than he had in the ballroom. There was a set to his jaw you had learned to read over months of working beside him. Pain, probably. Or irritation. With Jack, the two had a habit of presenting similarly unless you knew where to look.

His weight was shifted slightly more onto one side. Not dramatically. Jack did not do dramatically when it came to his own body. He was careful in a way that pretended not to be care. Precise. Controlled. Almost invisible about it.

But you knew. You had no right to know, maybe. But you did. "You're doing it again," Jack said. You looked away so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "Doing what?"

"Watching me in reflective surfaces." Heat crept up your neck. "I was not." "You were." "It's an elevator. Everything is reflective." "Convenient." "You're very suspicious for a man who just invited me to share his hotel room."

He turned his head then. Slowly. "That was not an invitation." You raised your eyebrows. His mouth flattened. "It was a logistical decision." "Ah." His eyes narrowed. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You made a noise." "A clinical noise." "That's my line." "I'm borrowing it." "You need better material." "You need better coffee." "I know." That, somehow, eased the air between you.

Not by much. But enough that you could breathe again. The elevator climbed past eight. A family got on at nine, two exhausted parents and a little boy in dinosaur pyjamas clutching a stuffed bear by one ear. The mother gave you both a brief, tired smile. The father looked like he had spent the last hour on hold with an airline. The little boy looked at Jack's conference lanyard, then at his face, and immediately decided Jack was the most interesting person in the elevator.

Jack stared forward. The little boy stared harder. You bit the inside of your cheek. Jack's eyes flicked sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "You're laughing again." "I'm not." "You are internally laughing."

"Can you diagnose that?" "Yes." The little boy tugged on his mother's coat and whispered, much too loudly, "Is he a spy?" His mother's eyes went wide. "Elliot." Jack did not move.

You looked at the ceiling. The father closed his eyes like he wanted to disappear. The little boy kept staring. Jack turned his head just slightly and looked down at him.

"No," he said. Elliot blinked. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Because you look like one." Jack considered that. Then said, "I get that a lot." You made a small, strangled sound.

The little boy nodded seriously, apparently satisfied. The elevator stopped at eleven. Jack stepped forward as the doors opened. You followed him out, barely keeping your laugh contained until the doors slid shut behind you.

Then you lost it. Not loud. Not enough to carry far down the hotel corridor. But enough that you had to press a hand to your mouth. Jack glanced at you. "Don't start." "He thought you were a spy."

"I heard." "You told him you get that a lot." "He was under stress." "He was six." "Children are often under stress." You laughed again, softer this time. Jack's expression shifted.

You almost missed it because it was small and gone quickly, but there was something there. Something like satisfaction. Not smugness. Not exactly amusement. More like he liked making you laugh and did not know what to do with that information.

That made you stop laughing. The corridor was quieter than the lobby, muffled by thick carpet and expensive wallpaper. The air smelled faintly of linen, citrus cleaner, and overheated radiators. Somewhere far down the hall, an ice machine rattled. Beyond the windows at the end of the corridor, snow blew hard against the glass.

Jack started walking. You followed half a step behind. For some reason, that felt worse than walking beside him. Maybe because it made you look at things you usually avoided looking at. The slope of his shoulders under the dark fabric of his sweater. The careful steadiness of his gait. The conference tote knocking against his side. The back of his neck where his hair sat slightly mussed from the collar of his coat.

This was ridiculous. You were an adult. A medical professional. A person who could calmly handle a dislocated shoulder, a combative drunk, and a cardiologist with an ego the size of Allegheny County.

You could walk down a hotel corridor behind Jack Abbott without constructing an entire emotional crisis out of it. Probably. Room 1117 was near the end of the hall. Of course it was.

Because apparently the universe had decided to commit to the bit. Jack stopped outside the door and pulled his key card from his pocket. Then he paused. You stopped beside him.

"What?" you asked. He did not look at you. "Last chance." "Last chance for what?" "To decide the lobby's better." You stared at him. Jack kept his gaze on the door like it was suddenly fascinating.

The awkwardness of the situation had finally caught up with him, you realised. Not because he regretted offering. Jack was too stubborn and too protective for that. But because he was aware of you.

Painfully aware. The same way you were aware of him. You were both standing in a hotel hallway with snow trapping you inside and a single room waiting beyond the door, and the months of not saying things had followed you upstairs like another piece of luggage.

You shifted your bag on your shoulder. "Do you want me to say the lobby's better?" His jaw tightened. "No." The answer came too fast. Too honest. You looked at him. He still did not look back.

"No," you said quietly. "I don't either." That made him turn. Only a little. Enough. His eyes met yours, and for one breath, the corridor felt narrower. You had said nothing shocking. Nothing romantic. Nothing that should have made his expression change.

But it did. It softened in the smallest possible way. Then the ice machine rattled again, brutally loud, and both of you looked away like teenagers caught holding hands behind the gym.

Jack cleared his throat and tapped the key card to the lock. The light flashed green. He pushed the door open. "After you," he said. You looked at him. "Professional courtesy?"

His mouth twitched. "Don't push your luck." You stepped into the room. And stopped. Because the hotel room was not bad. That was the problem. If it had been cramped or ugly or strange, you could have laughed. If the carpet had been stained or the heating had sounded like aircraft failure, you could have turned the whole thing into a joke.

But the room was warm. Quiet. Low-lit. The curtains were partly open, showing a wall of storm-dark sky and snow-lashed glass. A small desk sat near the window with a conference programme folded beside the lamp. Jack's suitcase was open on the luggage rack, clothes folded with a level of military precision that should not have surprised you and still somehow did. His coat hung over the back of the desk chair. A pair of boots sat neatly near the wall.

And the bed. The bed was large, white, neatly made, and extremely singular. One bed. One. Not two small beds pushed together. Not a fold-out couch. Not even an ottoman that could plausibly become a desperate sleeping surface.

Just one king-sized bed sitting in the middle of the room like an accusation. You heard Jack come in behind you. The door clicked shut. Neither of you said anything. The silence immediately became unhinged.

You stared at the bed. Jack stared at the bed. The bed, smugly, remained a bed. Finally, you said, "Well." Jack dropped his key card on the desk with unnecessary precision. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything." "You were about to." "I was only going to say it's… roomy." He looked at you. You looked back. "It is," you said. "It's a bed." "Yes, Jack. That's the issue."

"It's a large bed." "Again. Not helping." He exhaled through his nose and turned away, moving toward the thermostat near the door. "Heat's on." "Good." "You can take the bathroom first."

"Fine." "And the bed." You turned. "We already discussed this." "We discussed the room." "We discussed the noble idiot routine." "I'm not being noble." "You are physically incapable of not being noble in the most aggravating way possible."

Jack shot you a look over his shoulder. "That is not a sentence that makes sense." "It does to me." "That's concerning." "You are not sleeping in the chair." He glanced at the chair.

You did too. It was a perfectly nice hotel desk chair, upholstered in grey fabric, with curved wooden arms and absolutely no business being considered a sleeping arrangement by any person over the age of twelve.

Jack looked back at you. "I've slept sitting up before." "Yes," you said, "and now you are older and more breakable." His eyebrows lifted. You froze. "Not breakable," you corrected quickly. "That came out wrong."

"Did it?" "Yes." His face was unreadable, but there was a dry edge to his voice. "Older, then?" You closed your eyes briefly. "I am making this worse." "You are." "I meant your leg."

"I gathered." You opened your eyes. Jack's expression had changed again, but not in the way you feared. He did not look angry. Not offended. Maybe a little guarded, but that was Jack's baseline around any mention of his body that did not come from a medical chart.

You softened your voice. "I meant you've been on your feet all day. Conference chairs are awful. It's freezing outside. You're not sleeping upright because of me." The guard shifted.

Just slightly. His eyes flicked over your face like he was trying to find the trick in what you had said. There wasn't one. That seemed to be what unsettled him. "I'm fine," he said.

You sighed. "Of course you are." "I am." "You know, when you say that, it has started to sound less like a status update and more like a legal defence." Jack turned fully toward you.

"You keep notes?" "Mentally." "On me?" The question was dry. The look was not. You should have had an answer ready. Something sharp. Something easy. Something that would put the conversation safely back where it belonged.

Instead, you said, "Sometimes." Jack went still. The room held its breath around you. The heater clicked on with a low rush of air, warm and dry, but you felt cold suddenly in the centre of your chest.

Sometimes. What a stupid thing to admit. Except it was true. You kept notes on him.

The way he preferred bitter coffee but drank bad hospital coffee without complaint if it was hot enough. The way he always stood between you and agitated family members without making a show of it. The way he hated fussing but tolerated directness. The way his patience with interns was better when no one was watching. The way grief seemed to live near him but not always in him, like a room he knew how to pass without opening the door every time.

The way he noticed when everyone else missed something. The way he noticed you. Jack looked away first. "I'll take the floor," he said. "Oh my God." "What?" "You are impossible."

"It's carpeted." "That is not an argument." "It's a fact." "You are not sleeping on hotel carpet." "I've slept on worse floors." "Stop saying that like it helps." "It's true."

"It's depressing." His mouth twitched faintly. "You wanted honesty." "I wanted common sense." "You're asking a lot." "Apparently." You set your bag down by the dresser and slipped your coat off, mostly to have something to do with your hands. The room was too warm now after the cold of the lobby. Your skin felt prickly. Your mind was moving too fast.

One bed. Jack. Snowstorm. Professional courtesy. Very funny, universe. Tremendous work. No notes. Jack moved to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches. Snow slammed across the glass in thick gusts. The city beyond was nearly gone, reduced to blurred lights and white movement. The roads below were barely visible. Cars crawled through slush with hazard lights flashing. At the corner, a traffic signal swung hard in the wind.

"That's bad," you said. "Yeah." His voice had changed. Less irritated. More serious. You stepped closer, stopping beside him with enough space between you to pretend you were being normal.

Outside, Philadelphia looked suspended. The usual movement of the city had slowed to something strange and fragile. Sirens flashed somewhere far off, red and blue diffused through snow. You thought of everyone stuck out in it — EMS crews, police, hospital staff trying to make shift change, patients trying to get home.

Your stomach tightened. Jack glanced at you. "Don't." You looked at him. "What?" "You're thinking about the ED." "You don't know that." "You get that look." "What look?" "The one where you start trying to personally take responsibility for weather patterns and systemic infrastructure failures."

You stared at him. "That is very specific." "You're very specific." The words landed quietly. No joke wrapped around them. You looked back out at the snow before your face could betray you.

"I just hate knowing people are stuck out there." "I know." That was the thing with Jack. Sometimes he could be blunt enough to bruise. And sometimes he said two words like they carried a hand under your elbow.

You folded your arms loosely, not because you were cold but because you needed to hold yourself together. "The Pitt will be slammed," you said. "Probably." "Dana's going to be running on spite and vending machine pretzels."

"Dana can run a hospital on spite and vending machine pretzels." That made you smile. "True." "Robby'll keep it moving." "Also true." "They don't need us tonight." You looked at him then.

Jack kept his eyes on the window. It occurred to you that maybe he had said it for both of you. "They don't," you agreed. A gust of wind hit the glass hard enough to rattle it.

The lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied. You both looked up. "Comforting," you said. Jack let the curtain fall back into place. "Hotel'll have a generator." "Probably."

He gave you a look. You smiled faintly. "Sorry. I'll stop being reassuring." "That was you trying?" "Barely." He crossed to the desk and picked up the room service menu. "You eaten?"

The shift was so abrupt it took you a second to catch up. "What?" "Food," he said. "Have you had any since lunch?" "Yes." Jack looked at you. You looked back. "Define food," he said.

"That feels hostile." "It was a simple question." "I had half a muffin during the afternoon break." His eyes closed briefly. "Don't make that face." "I'm not making a face."

"You're making the doctor face." "I am a doctor." "You're making the disappointed attending face." "With cause." "It had blueberries." "It was conference food. It had the concept of blueberries."

You laughed, despite yourself. Jack picked up the phone. "Room service." "You don't have to—" "I'm ordering food." "I can order my own food." "Good. Then you can tell me what you want."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. He waited. You crossed your arms. "You are very bossy." "Yes." "No denial?" "I'm tired." That caught you off guard. It was small, the admission. Almost nothing.

But Jack did not give away small things without meaning to. Your expression softened before you could stop it. "Yeah," you said. "Me too." His eyes met yours. For a second, the argument fell away.

The bed was still there. The storm still existed. The whole strange shape of the night still waited around you. But so did the exhaustion. So did the fact that you had both been awake since before dawn, sitting through panels and making careful conversation and pretending, always pretending, that the invisible line between you was not getting thinner every day.

Jack looked away first, but gently this time. "What do you want?" he asked, lifting the phone. You glanced at the menu. "Grilled cheese." He paused. "What?" "Grilled cheese."

"They have salmon." "I don't trust conference hotel salmon during a weather emergency." "Sensible." "And fries." "Of course." "And whatever dessert looks least disappointing."

Jack's mouth tilted slightly. "There's chocolate cake." "Done." He nodded once and lifted the receiver. You watched him order with the same brusque efficiency he used when calling consults, except instead of demanding neurosurgery he was asking a very overwhelmed kitchen employee for grilled cheese, fries, black coffee, tea, and chocolate cake.

It should not have been attractive. It absolutely was. You turned away and busied yourself with your bag. You had packed badly. Not disastrously, but with the optimism of someone who thought she would be back in Pittsburgh by midnight. You had a spare blouse, a phone charger, toiletries, and a soft sleep shirt you had only thrown in because your last flight delay had taught you humility. No actual pyjama bottoms. No extra jumper. No thick socks.

Wonderful. Jack hung up the phone. "Forty-five minutes," he said. "Not bad." "Kitchen sounds like a war zone." "Poor them." He glanced toward your bag. "You need anything?"

You looked up too quickly. "What?" "Toiletries. Shirt. Charger." "Oh." You swallowed. "No. I'm okay." He watched you for half a beat. "You packed for one night." "So did you."

"I have clothes." "Congratulations." "You're doing the defensive thing." "You're doing the observant thing." "Occupational hazard," he said again. You looked down at your open bag.

It was not a big deal. That was what you told yourself. It was just clothes. Just a hotel room. Just a storm. Just Jack. You were so tired of the word just. "I have a shirt," you said. "No bottoms. I'll survive."

Jack did not react obviously. Which somehow made it more obvious that he was reacting. His gaze moved to the dresser. "I have sweats." "No." "They're clean." "That was not my concern."

"They have a drawstring." "Also not my concern." "You'd rather sleep in conference pants?" You looked down at your trousers. They were perfectly professional and deeply uncomfortable after a twelve-hour day.

"I hate that you're making sense." "Happens." "Rarely." Jack opened his suitcase and pulled out a neatly folded pair of dark sweatpants. He held them out without looking directly at you.

The gesture was so practical. So simple. So completely dangerous. You took them. Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Nothing. A nothing touch. Except Jack's hand stilled for a fraction of a second, and your pulse jumped like an idiot.

"Thank you," you said. His voice was rougher when he answered. "Professional courtesy." You glanced up. He was looking at you now. There was humour there, buried under exhaustion and restraint. But there was something else too. Something careful. Something that knew exactly how thin this joke was becoming.

You held the sweatpants against your chest. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." The bathroom was small and aggressively hotel-like, all marble counter, bright mirror, and towels folded into shapes no one needed. You changed quickly, keeping your sleep shirt on and tying the borrowed sweatpants as tightly as they would go.

They were too big. Of course they were. They sat low on your hips and pooled slightly at your ankles. They smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something cleaner underneath. Jack's suitcase, maybe. His soap. The same faint scent you sometimes caught when he leaned over a chart beside you.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. "Oh, this is bad," you whispered. Not bad because you looked bad. Bad because you looked comfortable. Bad because the pants were his.

Bad because you could already imagine walking out and seeing him notice. You pressed both hands to your face. "Get a grip." A knock came at the bathroom door. You jumped.

"You alive?" Jack asked from the other side. You opened the door too quickly. "Do not say it like that." He was standing a few feet back, one hand braced on the desk chair, his shoes off now, his sweater sleeves pushed to his forearms.

He looked at you. Then very pointedly looked away. It was possibly the least subtle thing he had ever done. Your stomach flipped. "They're too big," you said, because apparently you had chosen death.

"They have a drawstring," he said. "I used it." "Then they're functional." "Is everything functional to you?" "No." The answer came too quietly. You looked at him. He was still not looking at you.

The air changed. That was the only way you knew how to think of it. Changed like weather. You stood barefoot on hotel carpet in Jack Abbott's borrowed sweatpants, and he stood across from you in his shirtsleeves, and the room felt suddenly too small for the amount of not saying happening inside it.

Then someone knocked on the door. Both of you startled. Actually startled. Jack recovered first, because of course he did. "Room service," he said, like that was not obvious.

"Right." He crossed to the door. You sat on the edge of the bed without thinking, then immediately stood again because sitting on the bed felt insane. Jack opened the door and accepted the tray from a harried-looking employee who looked one room away from quitting the hospitality industry entirely. Jack thanked him, tipped him too much, and shut the door with his hip.

The smell of hot fries filled the room. You nearly groaned. Jack set the tray on the desk. "You look like you're about to propose to the food." "Don't judge me." "I'm not. It's the most enthusiasm you've shown all day."

"That's not true." "No?" You stepped closer to the tray and lifted the metal cover from the plate. Golden fries. Grilled cheese cut diagonally. A small bowl of tomato soup you had not ordered but immediately respected.

You looked at Jack. His expression was neutral. Too neutral. "You ordered soup." "It came with it." "Did it?" "Yes." "Jack." "What?" "You ordered soup." "It's cold out." You smiled.

He looked annoyed, but not enough. "Professional courtesy?" you asked. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down a little carefully. "Eat your sandwich." You did. You sat on the edge of the bed because there was nowhere else to sit, balancing the plate on your knees while Jack took the chair at the desk. It should have been awkward, but food helped. Food made it normal, or something adjacent to normal.

The storm raged outside. The room smelled like fries and coffee and radiator heat. Jack ate like a man who had forgotten hunger existed until food was placed in front of him. You pretended not to notice. He pretended not to notice you noticing.

The silence between you grew less sharp. You dipped a corner of grilled cheese into the soup and looked over at him. "So," you said, "besides Robby and department visibility, why did you really come?"

Jack did not answer immediately. He leaned back in the chair, coffee in hand, eyes on the window. "For the conference?" "No, Jack. For the ambience." His mouth twitched. "I was asked."

"You always do what you're asked?" "No." "Exactly." He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. "Bad?" "Hotel bad." "You ordered it." "I was desperate." "You could have had tea."

"I'm not eighty." "That is hurtful to tea." "Tea will recover." You smiled, but you did not let him off. "Why did you come?" Jack looked down into his coffee. For a moment, you thought he was going to dodge again.

Then he said, "Robby thought I should get out of Pittsburgh for two days." That was not what you expected. Your face softened. "Why?" Jack's thumb moved along the side of the paper cup.

"Because he's annoying." "Jack." He exhaled. Not quite a sigh. "He thinks I've been working too much." "You have." His eyes lifted. You held his gaze. "What?" you said. "You have."

"You're one to talk." "I didn't say I was innocent." "No. You just keep mental notes on me and forget to eat." You looked down, smiling despite yourself. "That sounded almost affectionate."

"Don't get excited." "Too late." Jack's eyes stayed on you. The smile thinned a little on your face, not because you stopped feeling it, but because suddenly feeling anything seemed dangerous again.

He looked away. "Robby wanted someone senior here," he said. "I had the time. You were already going." There. Quiet. Almost buried. But there. Your fingers tightened around your fork.

"You came because I was going?" Jack did not move. "I didn't say that." "You kind of did." "I said it was a factor." "A factor." "Yes." "In the logistical decision." He glanced at you, and there was that dry look again. The one that made your chest ache because it was almost easier than softness.

"You're enjoying this." "A little." "Dangerous habit." "Noted." You ate another fry to give yourself something to do. But your mind had snagged on it. You were already going.

Not a confession. Not even close. But with Jack, half the time the truth came wrapped in enough caution to survive impact. You wondered how many other almost-truths he had offered you over the months that you had been too careful to pick up.

Outside, thunder cracked. Not thunder, maybe. Something heavy and distant. A transformer. Ice shifting. A city noise made strange by snow. The lights flickered again. This time, they went out.

The room dropped into darkness. For one second, everything disappeared. You heard yourself inhale sharply. Then the emergency lighting kicked in, faint and amber from the hallway through the crack under the door. The city glow outside the window blurred through the curtains. The heater went silent.

"Jack?" "I'm here." His voice came immediately. Close enough that your panic had no time to grow teeth. Then your phone screen lit up where it sat on the bed beside you, buzzing with an alert.

WINTER STORM WARNING. SHELTER IN PLACE. You stared at it. "Well," you said, trying for lightness and not quite getting there. "That feels dramatic." Jack stood. You heard the chair shift, then the careful sound of his movement in the dark.

"Stay there." "I wasn't planning on sprinting." "Good." He moved across the room with a confidence that made something inside you ache. Even in near-dark, even in a strange hotel room, Jack was calm. Measured. One hand found the desk. Then the lamp. Then the wall.

A second later, his phone flashlight clicked on, casting sharp white light across the room. You blinked. He aimed it toward the floor, not your face. "Power's out," he said.

"Really? I thought they were setting the mood." His eyes flicked up. Even in the thin flashlight glow, you saw the look. "Joke response," you said. "Ignore me." "I usually try."

"No, you don't." "No," he said after a beat. "I don't." You looked at him. The darkness softened everything except the places it sharpened. His face was half-lit, half-shadowed, the lines of him drawn in silver and black. His sweater was gone now, you realised belatedly, leaving him in a dark T-shirt that made him look less like the attending who could silence a trauma bay and more like a man trapped in a room with you and all the things neither of you said.

He crossed to the dresser and opened a drawer. "What are you doing?" "Looking for extra blankets." "In the dark?" "I have a light." "You also have a habit of ignoring your own limits."

He stopped. Not for long. Just enough that you knew he had heard the thing beneath the words. Then he pulled open the lower drawer and found a folded blanket sealed in a plastic bag.

"Found one," he said. "Of course you did." He brought it over and handed it to you. You accepted it, fingers brushing his again. This time, neither of you moved away as quickly.

The room was colder without the heater already. Or maybe that was your imagination. Maybe you were just suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. Jack's hand was warm.

Steady. Scarred along the knuckles. You let go first. Barely. "We should call the front desk," you said. "They're aware." "Because of the power outage?" "Because half the hotel just started calling them."

"You're probably right." "I usually am." "Incredible how you say things like that and expect people to like you." His mouth moved. "Some people manage." Your breath caught.

Jack seemed to realise what he had said at the exact moment you did. His expression locked down. But not fast enough. You saw it. The flash of something unguarded. The room felt very quiet.

Too quiet. Then his phone buzzed in his hand, cutting through the moment with brutal efficiency. He looked down. "Generator's delayed," he read. "Hotel says emergency lights remain active, heat may be intermittent, guests advised to stay in rooms."

"Great." "Could be worse." "How?" "We could be in the lobby with orthopedic surgeons." You laughed. You really could not help it. The laugh came out tired and a little shaky, but it was real.

Jack looked at you for a second with that almost-soft expression again. Then he glanced at the bed. You followed his gaze. One bed. One extra blanket. No heat. Professional courtesy, your traitorous brain supplied.

You pulled the blanket against your chest. "So," you said carefully, "this got more complicated." Jack's jaw shifted. "Yeah." "We can still be adults." "Probably." "Probably?"

"I'm accounting for variables." "Such as?" He looked at you. In the phone light, his eyes were darker than usual. "You," he said. Your pulse jumped. Jack looked away almost immediately, like he had not meant it to come out like that.

But it had. And now it was in the room with you. You. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the lack of heat. You. You swallowed. "I'm a variable?" "A persistent one." You should have laughed.

You almost did. But his voice had gone too quiet. Too honest. So you only said, "That sounds inconvenient." Jack's gaze returned to yours. "It is." The snow hit the window hard.

Neither of you moved. Then, somewhere down the hall, someone shouted, "Power's out on ten too!" and another voice yelled back something about flashlights, and the moment snapped before either of you could decide what to do with it.

Jack exhaled, low and controlled. "You should finish eating before the food gets cold." You blinked. Then laughed softly, because of course. Of course that was where he went.

Food. Practicality. A safe surface after stepping too close to the edge. "Right," you said. "Professional courtesy." He looked at you for one long second. Then he said, very dryly, "Don't make me regret naming it."

You sat back down on the edge of the bed with your plate and the extra blanket over your lap. Jack returned to the chair, phone flashlight propped against the lamp base so it lit the room in a strange upward glow.

You ate in semi-darkness while the storm pressed against the windows and the hotel groaned softly around you. And for a while, neither of you talked about the bed. Neither of you talked about variables.

Neither of you talked about the fact that the room was getting colder. But Jack took the blanket from the foot of the bed and draped it around your shoulders without asking.

And you let him. When his hand brushed the back of your neck, neither of you said anything at all. By the time you finished eating, the fries had gone soft, the grilled cheese had gone lukewarm, and the room had become noticeably colder.

Not freezing. Not dramatic. Just cold enough that the tips of your toes had started to curl against the hotel carpet. Cold enough that you had pulled the borrowed sweatpants lower over your ankles and tucked the extra blanket tighter around your shoulders. Cold enough that Jack had noticed, because Jack noticed everything, and was pretending he had not noticed in a way that meant he absolutely had.

The emergency light from the hallway bled under the door in a thin amber line. Jack's phone was still propped against the lamp base, flashlight angled at the ceiling so the whole room sat in a pale, strange glow. Shadows gathered in the corners. The window was a black mirror now, occasionally flashing white when the wind threw snow hard against the glass.

The hotel was quieter than it had been. Or maybe it only felt that way because the power outage had changed the sound of everything. No humming heater. No elevator chime. No faint television from the room next door. Just wind, the distant murmur of stranded guests in the hallway, and the occasional muffled thunk of something outside giving in to the storm.

Jack stacked the empty plates back on the room service tray with the kind of precision that suggested he could not quite tolerate mess when there were too many other things he could not control.

You watched him from the edge of the bed. "You know they have people for that." He did not look up. "For what?" "Stacking plates like you're preparing them for sterile processing."

"That would be a terrible use of sterile processing." "You understood my point." "Unfortunately." He set the cutlery on the plate, folded the napkin once, then stopped when he caught you watching.

"What?" "Nothing." "You keep saying that." "You keep asking." "You keep looking at me like you have commentary." "I always have commentary." "That's true." You smiled faintly.

The silence that followed was softer than the ones before. Less sharp, anyway. The food had helped. The ridiculousness had helped. The fact that you were both too tired to maintain full emotional defences had helped in a deeply inconvenient way.

Jack took the tray to the narrow table near the door, then checked his phone. "No update?" you asked. "Generator crew's working on it." "That sounds fake." "It does." "Do you think they're lying?"

"I think they're busy." "That was generous." "I have moments." "You hide them well." He glanced at you, dry. You tucked your feet under the blanket and tried not to shiver.

Failed. Jack saw it. Of course he did. His gaze dropped to the blanket around you, then to your bare feet, then back to your face. "You cold?" "No." "You're a bad liar." "I'm fine."

"That one's mine." "I'm borrowing it." "You use it worse." "You use it constantly." "With more conviction." "With more denial." His expression shifted. Not a flinch exactly. Jack was too practised for that. But something in him went still around the edges, like your words had touched a place you had not meant to press.

You regretted it immediately. "Sorry," you said, softer. "That wasn't—" "It's fine." "Jack." He turned toward the suitcase instead of looking at you. "You need socks." "I don't."

"You do." "I'm not taking your socks." "Why?" "Because there are lines." "There's a line at socks?" "Yes." "But not at sweatpants." You looked down at yourself. The borrowed sweatpants were still much too big, bunched slightly at your waist where you had tied the drawstring tight enough to survive a storm. You hated that they were comfortable. You hated more that you had stopped noticing they were not yours.

"That was an emergency." "So is hypothermia." "I am not hypothermic." "You're shivering." "I'm dramatically chilly." "Clinical distinction?" "Emotional distinction." Jack opened his suitcase.

You sighed. "Jack." He pulled out a pair of thick dark socks and held them out. You stared at them. He stared back. The socks hung between you like the dumbest possible symbol of intimacy.

"You're very bossy," you said again. "You're very cold." "I could put my shoes back on." "You're not wearing shoes in bed." The sentence landed. Both of you heard it. Both of you froze.

In bed. Not the bed. Not that bed. In bed. The words sat in the dim room, far too casual and far too specific. Jack's jaw tightened. You took the socks mostly so neither of you had to keep looking at each other across the space between you.

"Thank you," you said. His fingers brushed yours as you took them. A small touch. Accidental. Still, your hand warmed like his skin had left a mark. Jack stepped back too quickly and turned toward the window.

You pulled the socks on under the blanket, trying to do it with dignity. It was impossible. The blanket slipped off one shoulder. The sweatpants rode up. You nearly kicked the nightstand with your heel.

Jack did not turn around. Which meant he was very deliberately not turning around. Somehow that made it worse. "There," you said when you were done. "Feet saved. Crisis averted."

"Good." His voice was rougher than before. You looked at the back of him. He stood near the window with one hand braced against the frame, shoulders slightly bowed. The phone light made a dark outline of him against the curtains. Without the hotel noise, without the conference, without the ED, he seemed more human in a way that made your chest ache.

Still Jack. But less armoured. You wondered if anyone else at The Pitt had ever seen him like this — barefoot in a hotel room, tired around the edges, quietly trying to make sure another person was warm without making it a scene.

Probably not. The thought did something strange to you. "Are you cold?" you asked. "No." "Bad liar." He did not look over. "I'm fine." "Worse liar." His mouth moved, barely visible in profile.

"Probably." That answer felt too honest. You watched him for another moment, then looked away before he could catch you looking again. The hotel groaned softly around you.

Somewhere down the hall, a child laughed. A woman shushed him. A door opened, then closed. The storm kept pressing at the windows, steady and relentless. You reached for your phone on the bed and checked the time.

8:47 p.m. It felt much later. You had been awake since four-thirty that morning, because the first flight out of Pittsburgh had seemed like a good idea when you booked it. It had not seemed like a good idea when your alarm went off in the dark. It had seemed actively hostile by the time Jack appeared at the airport gate with black coffee, a conference folder, and the expression of a man who had already decided the day was guilty until proven otherwise.

You had laughed at him then too. He had handed you the coffee without comment. You had not asked how he knew your order. That was the thing with Jack. He gave things in ways that made asking feel impossible.

He would notice. Adjust. Provide. Protect. Then act like anyone would have done the same. Anyone would not have. That was the problem. You scrolled through your notifications. Dana had texted again.

DANA: You alive? You smiled. Jack, still near the window, said, "Dana?" You looked up. "How did you know?" "She asks that when she wants reassurance but refuses to phrase it emotionally."

"That is… uncomfortably accurate." "What'd she say?" "You alive?" Jack huffed softly. It was almost a laugh. "See?" You typed back. YOU: Alive. Snowed in. Power out. Abbott still hasn't killed anyone.

Dana's reply came fast. DANA: Yet. DANA: Where are you staying? Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. Ah. There it was. The simple question with the deeply complicated answer.

You glanced at Jack. He had turned from the window and was watching you now. Not suspicious. Aware. Always aware. "Dana asked where I'm staying," you said. Jack's expression went carefully blank.

"What are you going to tell her?" You looked down at the phone. That was an excellent question. The truth was simple. You were in his room because the hotel was full and the city was shut down and neither of you had any better options.

The truth was also impossible. Because Dana would understand the logistics. Dana understood emergencies. Dana understood bad weather and full hotels and professional adults making practical decisions.

Dana would also absolutely hear the silence between the words. Dana had eyes. Worse, she had instincts. Even worse, she liked you. You typed. YOU: Hotel. It's chaos here. Everyone stranded.

Not a lie. A strategic omission. Jack watched you send it. "She'll know," he said. "Probably." "You omitted relevant details." "I learned from doctors." "That's charting, not lying."

"Overlap, not causation." His eyes narrowed slightly, but there was something warm under it. "You're getting too much use out of my lines." "You should write better ones."

"I'll workshop it." Dana's next text buzzed through. DANA: You dodged that question so hard I felt the wind from Pittsburgh. You pressed your lips together. Jack saw your face.

"What?" "She knows." "I said that." You set the phone face down on the bed. "I'm ignoring her." "Sensible." "I can practically hear her eyebrows." "Dana has loud eyebrows."

"She really does." You both smiled. The room went quiet again. This silence was different. It was domestic in the strangest, most dangerous way. You were sitting on his bed in his sweatpants and socks, ignoring a text from Dana while Jack stood by the window in his T-shirt, and for one awful second you could imagine this without the storm. Without the conference. Without the emergency explanation.

A room. Food containers. Shared warmth. Jack looking at you like you were something he had learned the shape of without meaning to. The thought was so clear it startled you.

You stood abruptly. "I should brush my teeth." Jack blinked. Then gave one short nod. "Okay." "Then we should probably…" You gestured vaguely toward the bed, immediately regretted it, and turned the gesture into pointing at your bag. "Sleep. Eventually. Because we're exhausted. And adults. Professional adults."

His mouth twitched. "Professional adults brush their teeth?" "They do." "Good to know." You grabbed your toiletries and escaped into the bathroom. The mirror was bright only because of your phone flashlight propped against the soap dish. Without the overhead lights, your reflection looked softer and stranger. Tired eyes. Messy hair. Jack's sweatpants. Jack's socks.

You brushed your teeth with too much focus. Then you stood there for a moment with your hands braced on the sink. This was fine. Fine was a word doing heroic work tonight.

You had shared tighter spaces with coworkers before. Ambulance bays. Trauma rooms. Supply closets during disaster drills. Once, a hospital break room with six people, one working microwave, and a smell you all silently agreed not to identify.

This was not different because of square footage. It was different because of Jack. Because every quiet thing he did felt louder in the dark. Because he had remembered food. Socks. Blankets. The fact that you got anxious when you thought too long about the ED functioning without you.

Because he had said, You were already going. Because he had called you a variable. Because when the power went out, your first instinct had been to say his name, and his first instinct had been to answer before you could be scared.

You rinsed your mouth, dried your face, and stared at your reflection. "Normal," you whispered. "We are being normal." When you opened the bathroom door, Jack was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Not in it. On it. His prosthetic was off. You stopped before you could stop yourself. It was not the first time you had seen him without it. Not exactly. The ED had a way of stealing privacy from everyone eventually, and Jack was not secretive in the way people assumed. He was matter-of-fact about the reality of his body when he had to be.

But this was different. This was not clinical. This was not a glance through a curtain gap or a practical adjustment after a brutal shift. This was Jack in the low light of a hotel room, one leg extended slightly, his liner set aside with careful precision, his hand resting near his thigh. His posture was composed, but there was something in the stillness of him that made you understand, immediately and painfully, that he had not expected you to come out just then.

His head lifted. His expression closed. Fast. Too fast. "Sorry," you said softly. You did not know what you were apologising for. Walking out. Seeing. Making him feel seen. All of it.

Jack looked away first. "It's fine." There it was again. The legal defence. You stayed where you were by the bathroom door, toiletries in hand. For once, you did not tease him.

You did not say he was a bad liar. You did not try to make the room easier by making a joke. Instead, you said, "I can give you a minute." His jaw shifted. He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes you could not read.

Not embarrassment, exactly. Not shame, though something close enough to make your chest hurt. Wariness, maybe. A man used to people either looking too long or looking away too fast.

You did neither. At least, you tried not to. "You don't have to," he said. His voice was low. Rough. You nodded once and crossed to your bag, setting your toiletries inside with deliberate calm. Not ignoring him. Not staring. Just letting the moment exist without making it bigger.

Jack watched you for a second. You could feel it. Then he reached for the compression sleeve beside him and adjusted it with efficient, practised movements. You turned toward the window and gave him privacy without leaving.

The snow was still falling hard. The glass had frosted slightly at the corners, feathered white around the dark. The city lights outside looked blurred and far away. Behind you, fabric shifted. Jack moved carefully. The bed creaked once.

"You can turn around," he said. You did. He had pulled the blanket over his lap, sitting upright now, back against the headboard. The bedside lamp was useless without power, but his phone flashlight on the nightstand lit the lower half of the room. His face was half in shadow.

"You okay?" you asked. Then immediately wanted to kick yourself. Jack's eyebrows lifted. "I mean—" You stopped, exhaled. "Sorry. Stupid question." "Not stupid." "You hate that question."

"I hate most questions." "True." His mouth twitched faintly. The tension eased by a millimetre. You sat carefully on the opposite side of the bed, leaving as much space as possible between you. The mattress dipped under your weight, and both of you noticed.

How could you not? One bed. One room. No power. The space between you suddenly felt measured in inches and bad decisions. Jack reached for his own toiletries. "Bathroom's yours?"

"I'm done." He nodded and shifted to stand. You looked away before he could need you to. It was instinct. Respect. Maybe both. But before he moved, he paused. "You don't have to do that."

You looked back. "What?" "Look away like I'll break." The words were quiet. Flat, almost. But something under them hurt. You swallowed. "I'm not looking away because I think you'll break."

Jack held your gaze. "Then why?" You thought about lying. You were both good at it, in your own ways. Little lies. Necessary ones. The kind that kept rooms functioning. I'm fine.

It doesn't hurt. I don't care. This is professional courtesy. But the storm had narrowed the world to this room, and the lights were out, and Jack had given you socks like it meant nothing when it meant everything, and you were so tired of talking around the truth.

"Because I don't want to make something private feel less private," you said. He went still. You could hear the wind dragging snow across the window. Then Jack looked down.

For a long moment, he said nothing. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That's considerate." You tried to smile. "Don't sound so surprised." "I'm not." "You are a little."

"I'm used to people being curious." That landed hard. You kept your voice gentle. "I'm curious about you, Jack. Not about that." His eyes lifted. Oh. The room seemed to stop.

You realised what you had said a second too late. Not about that. About you. There was no good way to pull it back. No joke quick enough. No professional framing strong enough to cover it.

Jack looked at you like you had put a hand directly over a bruise. You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Then he looked away, and the moment passed. Or he let it pass. You were not sure which.

"I'll be quick," he said. He stood, carefully, and you kept your gaze on your hands this time. Not because he had asked, not because you thought he needed saving from being seen, but because the room already had too much honesty in it and you were not sure either of you could survive another piece.

The bathroom door closed. You exhaled slowly. Your phone buzzed against the blanket. Dana again. You turned it over. DANA: You are absolutely not telling me something. DANA: Fine. Don't die. DANA: Also Abbott better not be pretending he doesn't need sleep. He does.

You smiled despite yourself. Dana was the human equivalent of a locked medication cabinet and a warning label. She saw more than people wanted her to see, kept what mattered safe, and made sure you knew when you were being stupid.

You typed back. YOU: He is being managed. You stared at it. Then deleted it. Absolutely not. You tried again. YOU: We're both going to sleep soon. Power's still out. Dana replied.

DANA: Both? You closed your eyes. Of course. Of course she caught that. Before you could decide how to answer, the bathroom door opened. You dropped your phone face down like a teenager hiding contraband.

Jack paused in the doorway. "That subtle?" "Shut up." "Dana?" "No." "Liar." "Fine. Yes." "What did she say?" "Nothing." He gave you a look. You sighed. "She noticed I said both."

Jack's expression did something complicated. "Ah." "Exactly." He moved back to his side of the bed with his toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, then set them on the nightstand. The room was colder now, enough that goosebumps had lifted along your arms where the blanket had slipped.

Jack noticed. He pulled the top blanket down on his side. The bed suddenly became a real object again. Not a prop. Not a joke. A place where both of you were expected to sleep.

You stood. Too quickly. "I can sleep on top of the covers." "No." "Jack." "It's cold." "I know." "So don't be stupid." You looked at him. "Did you just call me stupid?" "I told you not to be."

"Fine distinction." "Important one." You crossed your arms. He leaned back against the headboard and looked up at you with tired, unamused patience. "We are not doing this for another hour," he said.

"Doing what?" "Pretending either of us is sleeping anywhere but the bed." The bluntness of it sent heat straight up your neck. Jack noticed that too. His gaze flicked away, but his mouth tightened like he regretted nothing.

"You could phrase things less aggressively," you muttered. "I could." "You won't." "No." You stared at him. He stared back. Then, because exhaustion was apparently making you brave, or reckless, or possibly both, you said, "Fine. But the pillow stays in the middle."

Jack looked at the row of pillows stacked against the headboard. "One pillow?" "One pillow." "As a border?" "As a diplomatic boundary." "That's not what pillows are for."

"It is tonight." He considered this. Then reached for one of the pillows and placed it lengthwise down the centre of the bed with dead-serious precision. You watched him.

The absurdity hit first. Then the tenderness. Jack Abbott, attending physician, military veteran, professional misery enthusiast, was sitting in a powerless hotel room during a snowstorm creating a pillow wall because you had asked him to.

Your chest did that stupid, aching thing again. "There," he said. "You made it very official." "It's a terrible wall." "It's symbolic." "It's structurally unsound." "Most emotional boundaries are."

He looked at you. You looked back. For a moment, neither of you smiled. Then Jack's mouth twitched. You laughed quietly and climbed under the covers before you could think about it too much.

The sheets were cold at first, crisp against your legs. You slid carefully onto your side, keeping the pillow between you. Jack stayed sitting up for another moment, phone in hand, probably checking alerts. Or pretending to. You suspected he was giving you time to settle before he moved.

The thought made you ache in a way you did not know how to name. Finally, he set his phone on the nightstand with the flashlight still aimed upward and lowered himself under the blankets.

The mattress shifted. The world narrowed. You were lying in bed with Jack Abbott. There was a pillow between you. There were several inches of careful space. There were covers pulled up to your shoulders, socks on your feet, snow at the window, and a storm blocking every exit the two of you had spent months pretending you needed.

"This is normal," you said into the darkness. Jack turned his head slightly. "Is it?" "No." "Then why say it?" "Manifestation." "That doesn't work." "Evidence?" "This." A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Jack's eyes were on the ceiling, but his expression had softened. The flashlight glow caught the line of his jaw, the tired slope of his mouth, the lashes casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. He looked exhausted now. Not just annoyed. Not just inconvenienced. Truly worn down.

Something in you quieted. "You should sleep," you said. "So should you." "I will." "Good." "You too." "That was implied." "Was it?" "Yes." You smiled into the dim. For a while, neither of you spoke.

The hotel settled around you. The storm battered the window. Somewhere distant, a door opened and closed. Your phone buzzed once more, but you ignored it. The cold made the bed feel smaller than it was. Or maybe awareness did that. You could feel the heat of him on the other side of the pillow. Not touching. Not even close enough, really.

Still, you knew exactly where he was. Every breath. Every subtle shift. Every careful movement made by a man trying not to make this harder for either of you. "You asleep?" Jack asked eventually.

"No." "Why?" "Because you asked me if I was asleep." He huffed softly. You smiled. A long pause. Then he said, "Your flight tomorrow. What time?" "Rebooked for two-thirty. Assuming the airport doesn't stay closed."

"Mine's three." "Good." "Good?" You stared at the pillow boundary between you, barely visible in the dark. "Means I'm not leaving you stranded here alone with all the orthopedic surgeons."

"You'd make that sacrifice?" "I'm heroic." "You forgot to eat today." "I contain multitudes." "Mostly bad decisions." "That's rich coming from you." He was quiet for a beat.

Then said, "Fair." The honesty of that made your smile fade. You turned onto your back carefully. "Can I ask you something?" Jack did not answer right away. His gaze stayed on the ceiling.

"That depends." "On what?" "Whether you're about to ask something I don't want to answer." "I don't know if you'll want to answer it." "Then probably no." "Jack." He sighed.

"Ask." You hesitated. The question had been sitting in you since dinner, since you were already going, maybe even before that. Since the airport coffee. Since the way he always turned up near you without making a thing of it.

"Why do you do that?" His head turned slightly. "Do what?" "Take care of people and pretend you're not." His face went unreadable. You rushed on before you could lose courage.

"The coffee. The food. The socks. The room. At work too. You act like it's all logistics, but it isn't always." Jack looked back at the ceiling. The silence stretched. You almost apologised.

Then he said, "It's easier if people don't make it a thing." Your chest softened. "Why?" His jaw moved once. "Because then they expect you to talk about it." The answer was so Jack that it almost hurt.

You turned your face toward him. In the low glow, he looked carved out of restraint. "You don't always have to talk about it." His eyes shifted to yours. "No?" "No." "What do I have to do?"

The question was quiet. Too quiet. You were not sure he meant it the way it sounded. You answered anyway. "Let someone notice." Jack did not move. Something passed over his face — guarded, tired, almost unbearably vulnerable before he buried it.

"I let people notice plenty." "Charting irregularities don't count." His mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. "People notice what they want," he said. "That's not true."

"It's often true." You studied him across the ridiculous pillow. "Then let me notice." The words came out before you could stop them. Soft. Plain. Terrifying. Jack looked at you.

Fully now. The room seemed to contract around his silence. You felt your heartbeat in your throat. Outside, the storm kept going. Snow against glass. Wind at the windows. The city hidden. The hotel powerless. Everything ordinary stripped away until there was only this: you and Jack, inches apart, pretending a pillow could hold back months of almosts.

Jack's voice, when it came, was rough. "You already do." You could not breathe for a second. He looked away first. But the damage was done. The truth was there between you, small and live and glowing.

You did not know what to do with it. So you did nothing. Maybe that was the only thing either of you could manage. You lay there in the dark, his words moving through you like warmth.

You already do. For a while, neither of you spoke again. Eventually, exhaustion began to pull at you. The edges of the room blurred. The storm became a dull, steady rush. Your body, traitorous and tired, stopped caring about awkwardness and started caring only about heat.

The bed was cold where you were not touching anything. Your feet were warm in Jack's socks, but your shoulders were not. You curled slightly on your side, facing the pillow wall, tugging the blanket higher.

Jack shifted on the other side. "You cold?" "No." He made a low sound. You did not even open your eyes. "I know. Bad liar." "Terrible." "I'm fine." "Mine." "I know." The mattress dipped as he adjusted, and the blanket shifted over you, tucked more securely near your shoulder. Not intrusive. Not too much.

Just enough. His hand brushed your upper arm through the fabric. You opened your eyes. Jack's hand withdrew immediately. "Sorry." "It's okay." "I was just—" "I know." His face was close now.

Closer than before because you had both shifted toward the middle without noticing. The pillow was still between you, crushed slightly under the weight of your shoulders.

The flashlight had dimmed as his phone battery dropped, turning the room softer. Jack's eyes were dark in the low light. You should have moved back. You did not. Neither did he.

"You should sleep," he said again. His voice had changed. Low. Careful. Like he was speaking near a wound. "So should you." "I'm trying." "Are you?" "No." The honesty made something in your chest go still.

Jack closed his eyes briefly, like he regretted it. You watched him. Then, because you were too tired to be wise, you whispered, "Me neither." He opened his eyes. There it was again.

The pause. The dangerous pause. His gaze moved over your face, not quickly this time. Not hidden. He looked at you like he was memorising the cost of wanting something. Your fingers rested near the pillow between you.

His hand lay on the blanket on the other side. Not touching. Almost. Almost had become a language between you. Jack swallowed. "We shouldn't," he said. You had not asked what.

You both knew. "No," you whispered. But you did not move. The room held very still. Then the hallway erupted with noise. A door slammed somewhere. Someone laughed too loudly. A man cursed about the emergency lights. The spell shattered so abruptly you almost flinched.

Jack looked away. You let out a breath you had not realised you were holding. The pillow wall suddenly looked absurd again. Useful, maybe. Merciful. You turned onto your back, staring at the dark ceiling.

"Orthopedic surgeons," you murmured. Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he huffed a laugh. A real one. Small. Exhausted. But real. It loosened something in the room. You smiled.

The two of you lay there in the dark while the hotel settled again and the storm carried on, pretending nothing had almost happened. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy. Your body warmed under the blankets. The borrowed socks were soft against your feet. The bed no longer felt quite as cold. Jack's breathing evened out beside you, slow and controlled, though not quite sleep.

You drifted in and out. At some point, the pillow between you shifted. You were too tired to know who moved first. Maybe you curled toward the warmth. Maybe Jack turned in his sleep.

Maybe the bed dipped and the pillow slid down between your knees and neither of you woke enough to correct it. The room had grown colder. The blankets had tangled. The storm was loud.

You came halfway awake to the feeling of warmth against your forehead. A steady body near yours. An arm, heavy but careful, resting around your waist. For one hazy second, your mind did not understand.

Then you felt Jack's breath against your hair. You should have startled. You should have pulled away. Instead, half-asleep and freezing, you made a small sound and shifted closer.

The arm around you tightened. Not much. Just enough. Jack murmured something you could not make out. His hand settled flat against your back, warm through the borrowed shirt. His body curved around yours with a kind of unconscious care that made no room for embarrassment because neither of you was awake enough to choose it.

The pillow boundary was gone. The diplomatic border had failed. You tucked your face against his chest. He was warm. So warm. The storm battered the window, but under the blankets, in the dark, the world narrowed to the steady rise and fall of him.

Jack's chin brushed your hair. His hand rested between your shoulder blades. You fell asleep like that. Not deciding. Not confessing. Not crossing any line either of you could name while conscious.

Just cold and exhausted and drawn, somehow, to the safest heat in the room. Outside, snow buried the city. Inside, Jack held you like he had been doing it for years. Jack woke before the power came back on.

For a few seconds, he did not move. That was habit. Old habit. Useful habit. The kind of stillness that came before assessment. Before pain caught up. Before memory sorted itself into place. Before the body told the truth the mind had not agreed to yet.

Dark room. Hotel. Storm. Philadelphia. Conference. You. That last one arrived slower. Not because he had forgotten. Because his mind seemed determined to give him one merciful second before handing over the evidence.

Warmth against his chest. Soft breath through the fabric of his T-shirt. A hand curled loosely near his ribs. Your knee tucked between his. His arm around you. Jack stared at the ceiling.

The phone flashlight had died sometime during the night. The only light came from the window now, weak and blue-grey through the curtains, the city beyond still blurred by snow. The power was still out, or the room would have been humming. Instead, the silence was deep and cold around the edges, broken only by wind and the steady sound of your breathing.

You were asleep. Against him. Not beside him. Not near him. Against him. Your cheek rested over his heart like you had chosen the exact place designed to ruin him. Jack did not move.

He should have. That was the first reasonable thought. The second reasonable thought was that if he moved, you would wake up embarrassed, and then he would have to watch you apologise for something that had been as much his fault as yours.

The third reasonable thought was that he had no idea how the hell the pillow had ended up near the bottom of the bed. He looked down slowly. The diplomatic boundary, as you had called it, had collapsed sometime in the night. One end of the pillow was wedged between the blankets near his shin, completely useless. The other had vanished under the duvet.

Structurally unsound, he thought. And then, despite himself, almost smiled. Almost. His hand was spread against your back. He became aware of that next. Not gripping. Not possessive. Just there. Warm through the cotton of your sleep shirt. His thumb had found the small space beneath your shoulder blade and rested there like it belonged.

It did not belong there. That was the problem. Or one of them. Jack should have moved his hand. Instead, he let himself feel the weight of it for one more second. One more second, he told himself, was not a crime.

You shifted in your sleep. Jack went completely still. Your fingers tightened faintly against his shirt, and your face turned a little closer into his chest. A small sound left you, half breath and half protest against the cold room.

His arm responded before he could stop it. It tightened by a fraction. Your body settled. Jack closed his eyes. Idiot. The word had no force behind it. He had been called worse by better men and disagreed less.

Because this was stupid. Not the storm. Not the hotel room. Not even the bed, in itself. Those had been logistics. Bad logistics, but logistics. This was something else. This was waking up with you tucked against him and feeling, for one unguarded awful moment, not alarmed but relieved.

Relieved. Like some part of him had been waiting for the world to arrange itself like this. Like he had slept better with your breath against his shirt than he had any right to.

That was the dangerous thing. Not desire. Desire was simple enough to recognise and avoid. Jack had been avoiding wanting you for months with the grim discipline of a man disarming a device he refused to admit was live.

But this— This quiet. This ease. This body-deep reluctance to leave. That was what frightened him. Your breathing changed. He heard it before you moved. A slight catch. A deeper inhale. The soft, muddled shift of someone beginning to surface.

Jack opened his eyes. He still did not move. There was no good version of this. If he pulled away now, you would wake to rejection. If he stayed, you would wake to everything.

You stirred again. Your hand slid a little against his shirt. Then stopped. Your body went still. Jack held his breath. He felt the exact moment you woke properly. Your fingers curled.

Your cheek lifted a fraction. For a second, neither of you did anything. Then your eyes opened against the dim grey of his chest. You blinked. Once. Twice. Jack watched your face change.

Sleep-soft confusion. Recognition. Horror. Not horror of him, he thought. Not that. Horror of the situation. Of your hand on him. Of your leg tangled with his. Of his arm around you like he had made some claim in his sleep that he had not had the courage to make awake.

You lifted your head very slowly. Your eyes met his. Your hair was mussed on one side. Your face was warm from sleep. There was a faint line from his shirt pressed into your cheek.

Jack's chest tightened with such abrupt force that it bordered on pain. "Morning," he said. It came out low. Too rough. Your mouth parted. Nothing came out for a second. Then, because apparently you were both determined to survive by saying the least helpful things possible, you whispered, "Hi."

Neither of you moved. His arm was still around you. Your hand was still on his chest. The room was still cold. The snow kept hitting the window in softer gusts now, less violent than the night before but steady. The world outside had gone pale and quiet, buried under white.

Your eyes dropped to where his arm lay across your back. Jack became very aware of his hand again. He loosened it at once. "Sorry." The word left him before he could stop it.

Your gaze snapped back to his face. "No," you said quickly. "No, I'm— I'm sorry. I must have—" "We both moved." You stopped. Jack watched that land. You looked down between you, where the blankets were tangled around your legs, where the pillow boundary had failed catastrophically, where all the evidence suggested neither of you had been an innocent bystander.

"Oh," you said. Jack's mouth twitched faintly. It was not exactly funny. Except it was a little funny. You saw the almost-smile and exhaled a small, embarrassed laugh. "The wall failed," you murmured.

"Poor construction." "I blame the contractor." "You approved the design." "I was under duress." "You were under a blanket." "That too." The tiny rhythm of banter returned like a match struck in the cold.

It did not fix the intimacy. It made it worse, actually. Because neither of you had moved away. Not properly. Jack's arm had loosened, but his hand had not left your back. Your hand had shifted lower against his ribs, but it had not disappeared. Your knee was still pressed against his thigh beneath the covers.

You both knew. You both pretended not to know for one more second. Then you said, softer, "Are you okay?" Jack looked at you. He could have answered the usual way. He almost did.

The word sat ready. Fine. A shield. A reflex. An old door that knew how to close itself. But your face was close to his, and your voice had none of the clinical edge people usually carried when they asked him that. You were not asking about pain only. You were not asking whether he needed help. You were not asking because you had seen something and wanted reassurance that it had not disturbed you.

You were asking because you had woken in his arms and still wanted to know if he was alright. Jack looked away. "Yeah." A beat. Then, because the room had apparently stripped him of common sense, he added, "Better than expected."

Your expression changed. Slowly. Carefully. Like you did not want to frighten the admission by looking at it too quickly. "Yeah?" you asked. Jack should have corrected course.

He did not. "Yeah." Your fingers relaxed against his shirt. The movement was tiny. He felt it everywhere. "I'm okay too," you said, though he had not asked aloud yet. He looked back at you.

"You sure?" You nodded. Your cheek was still marked from his shirt. It made you look younger somehow, more vulnerable, and he hated that the sight of it did something warm and unreasonable to him.

"I'm sure." The words settled. No one moved. The morning had made the room visible in pieces. The room service tray near the door. His suitcase open on the rack. Your bag on the floor with a sleeve hanging out. The dead phone on the nightstand. The useless lamp. The curtains breathing faintly whenever the wind found a seam at the window.

And the bed. The two of you in it. Too close to pretend it meant nothing. Not close enough, a terrible part of him thought. Jack shifted his gaze to the ceiling. "You're probably cold."

You blinked. Then laughed, the sound soft against him. "That's where we're going?" "It's relevant." "Is it?" "The power's still out." "Ah. Logistics." "Yes." "Professional courtesy?"

He looked down at you. The joke had been easier last night. Now it sounded like a challenge. His hand, still traitorous, rested against your back. Your body was warm where it touched his.

He could feel your heart beating. "No," he said. The word left quietly. Barely more than breath. But it changed everything. Your smile faded. Not in a bad way. In the way a person goes still when a door opens somewhere they thought was locked.

"No?" you asked. Jack swallowed. The smart thing would be to move. Sit up. Reach for his phone. Check the flight status. Talk about snowplows and airport delays and work schedules and the thousands of ordinary facts that could bury this one extraordinary one.

He was good at ordinary facts. He was good at burying things. But you were looking at him, and for once, the cost of silence seemed heavier than the cost of speech. "No," he said again.

You looked at him for a long moment. Then your hand flattened gently against his chest. Not pulling him closer. Not pushing away. Just there. "Okay," you whispered. Jack had no idea what that meant.

He had no idea if you meant okay, I understand or okay, stop or okay, me too. He had no idea how a single word could make him want to lean in and run at the same time. His voice came out rougher than he wanted.

"You should know better." Your eyebrows drew together. "Than what?" He looked at you. "Than to get involved with me." The words were blunt because bluntness was easier than fear.

There. Said. Ugly thing on the table. Except there was no table. Just a cold hotel room, a failed pillow wall, and your hand over the centre of his chest. Your expression shifted.

Not hurt. Not quite. Angry, maybe. Softly. The way you got angry with patients who apologised for needing help. "Jack." He looked away. "I'm serious." "I know you are." "You work with me."

"I noticed." His mouth tightened despite himself. "You know what I mean." "I do." Your voice stayed quiet. "But I also know I'm not a child, and I don't need you to make decisions for me because you've decided you're complicated."

His eyes came back to yours. That hit somewhere precise. You knew it too. He saw it in the way your face softened after the words landed, like you had not meant them to bruise but were not taking them back either.

"You are," you said. "Complicated. So am I. So is everyone who works where we work and keeps showing up anyway." "That's not the same." "No," you agreed. "It isn't." The honesty of that did more damage than reassurance would have.

You did not pretend he was easy. You did not pretend there was no grief in him, no damage, no history that stood in rooms before he did. You did not smooth him down into someone more convenient. You did not make him harmless.

You just stayed. "You deserve someone who—" he began. "No." Jack stopped. Your voice had sharpened. Not loud. Not harsh. Just firm enough to cut through the sentence before he could use it against both of you.

"No?" "No," you said. "You don't get to do that." His brows drew together. You pushed yourself up a little, enough that your faces were no longer so close, though your hand still rested lightly on him.

"You don't get to decide what I deserve if the only reason you're doing it is because you're scared I might choose you anyway." Jack went utterly still. Outside, the wind dragged snow across the glass in a long hiss.

Your own face changed then, as if you had surprised yourself. But you did not look away. Brave, Jack thought suddenly. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just there, under the borrowed sleep shirt and the oversized sweatpants and the line from his shirt on your cheek.

Braver than him, maybe. Often. His throat worked. "That's not—" he started. You waited. He stopped. Because it was. Of course it was. The room was quiet. You sighed softly, not with impatience. With tiredness. With tenderness. With something that made him feel more exposed than anger would have.

"I'm not asking you for everything right now," you said. "I'm not asking you to have some perfect answer in a hotel room with no power after six hours of sleep and terrible conference food."

"Good," he said, because he was still himself. "That would be unreasonable." A smile broke over your face before you could stop it. Small. Affectionate. Devastating. "There he is."

His chest tightened again. You said it like you had been waiting for him under all the fear. Like the deflection was not all of him, but it was a familiar enough piece to love.

Love. No. Not going there. Not yet. Jack looked at your hand on his chest. Your fingers shifted as if you had only just realised you were still touching him. You began to pull away.

He caught your wrist. Gently. Not enough to hold you if you wanted to go. Just enough to make you pause. You looked at him. Jack stared at the place where his fingers circled your wrist.

Your pulse tapped against his thumb. Fast. Not fear, he thought. Or not only fear. His voice was low when he spoke. "I'm not good at this." Your face softened again. "I know."

That might have offended someone else. For Jack, it felt like relief. "I mean it," he said. "I know." "I'll make it harder than it needs to be." "Probably." His eyes flicked up.

You shrugged a little. "What? You will." A faint laugh moved through him before he could stop it. You smiled, and the whole room changed around it. "But I'm not exactly known for choosing the easy thing," you said.

"No?" "No." "That seems like a character flaw." "You would know." His thumb moved once, unconsciously, over the inside of your wrist. You looked down at the movement. So did he.

The banter faded. The air shifted again. Jack let go of your wrist. But slowly. Very slowly. Your hand did not retreat this time. It lowered to the blanket between you, close to his.

The space from last night returned. Almost. A language, you had made it into. A habit. Jack was tired of almost. That was the problem. He had been tired of it for a while.

He had just called it professionalism. Timing. Caution. Decency. Self-preservation. He had dressed fear up in enough adult words that it could pass through most rooms unchallenged.

But here, in the low morning light, with your hair mussed and your body still warm from his and your eyes not letting him disappear inside his own excuses, it looked exactly like what it was.

Fear. And wanting. Both. Your phone buzzed. Neither of you moved. It buzzed again. You closed your eyes. "Dana," Jack said. "Probably." "Persistent." "You respect that." "I do."

The phone buzzed a third time. You groaned softly and reached toward the nightstand, nearly overbalancing because the blankets were tangled around your legs. Jack's hand moved to your waist automatically, steadying you.

You froze. So did he. His palm was warm through the shirt. Your eyes met. The phone stopped buzzing. Neither of you said anything. His hand stayed where it was. You were close again.

Not accidentally this time. Not entirely. Jack could see the hesitation in your face. Not doubt. Not regret. Just awareness. The same line both of you had been walking for months, suddenly under your bare feet.

He should have let go. He did not. Your gaze dropped to his mouth. It was so quick he might have missed it if he had not been looking for some reason not to be the only one losing the fight.

His breath changed. You noticed. Of course you did. "Jack," you whispered. He had heard his name in every possible context. Shouted across trauma bays. Snapped in frustration. Called over noise. Written on charts. Spoken by patients, colleagues, strangers, people dying, people grieving, people angry enough to spit.

He had never heard it like that. Soft. Terrified. Wanting. It reached somewhere he had not fortified well enough. He lifted his hand from your waist slowly, giving you time to stop him. Giving himself time to stop.

Neither of you did. His fingers brushed your jaw. Barely. A question more than a touch. Your eyes fluttered, then held his. He leaned in. Not all the way. Just enough. Enough that your breath warmed his mouth. Enough that the whole room seemed to vanish except for the inch between you. Enough that if either of you moved, there would be no pretending this was about weather or beds or professional courtesy.

Your phone rang. Loudly. You both jerked back. The sound tore through the room with the violence of an overhead page. Your phone skittered slightly on the nightstand as it vibrated.

Dana's name lit the screen. For one second, you and Jack stared at it. Then Jack closed his eyes. You made a sound that was half laugh, half despair. "I'm going to kill her," you whispered.

"No, you're not." "I might." "You like her." "That's the only thing saving her." The phone kept ringing. You grabbed it, cheeks flushed, and answered with the tone of someone clinging to the last scraps of dignity.

"Dana." Jack lay back against the pillows and looked at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him. You avoided looking at him. Mostly. "What? Yes, I'm alive. No, the power's still out." You paused. "No, I'm not in the lobby."

Jack's eyes closed harder. You sat up a little straighter, dragging the blanket with you. "No, I found somewhere safe." Another pause. "Dana." Jack turned his head slightly.

Even in the dim light, you could see the amusement beginning to break through his exasperation. Your face warmed further. "Because I'm an adult and I don't have to give you my full lodging itinerary." You listened, then looked briefly skyward. "Yes, I ate. Yes, actual food. No, not just coffee."

Jack mouthed, barely. You glared at him. He looked almost pleased with himself. "I am ignoring that," you said into the phone, though you were not entirely sure whether you meant Dana or Jack. "How's the ED?"

The shift was instant. Jack saw it. Felt it, almost. The way your face changed. The softness tucked away. The clinical focus returning. Concern sharpening your posture even though you were sitting in his bed in his clothes with your hair a mess.

You listened for nearly a minute. The room changed with you. Jack watched quietly. "They got extra staff in?" you asked. "Good. Is Robby there? Of course he is." You smiled faintly. "Tell him Abbott hasn't caused an interstate incident yet."

Jack gave you a look. You ignored it. "No, don't tell him the rest." A beat. "There is no rest." Jack's eyebrows rose. You covered your eyes with one hand. "Dana." Your voice dropped. "I'm hanging up now."

Whatever Dana said made your mouth fall open. Jack could not hear it, but he could guess the flavour. You pointed at the phone like she could see you. "That is harassment."

A pause. "Love you too." You hung up. The room went quiet. You set the phone down very carefully. Jack waited. You did not look at him. "She knows," he said. You nodded once. "She knows something."

"What did she say?" "No." "That bad?" "She said…" You stopped, pressing your lips together. Jack watched your restraint with growing interest. "She said?" You turned to him, face hot. "She said if I'm with you, she hopes you're being less emotionally constipated than usual."

Jack blinked. Once. Then looked away. You waited. His shoulders moved. Just slightly. Then again. "Oh my God," you said. "Are you laughing?" "No." "You are." "I'm not." "You absolutely are."

He pressed his fingers to his brow. It was contained. Barely audible. But it was there — a low, reluctant laugh that seemed dragged out of him against his will. The sight of it did something catastrophic to you.

Jack Abbott laughing in a dark hotel room under a snowstorm because Dana had called him emotionally constipated. Your heart did not stand a chance. "It's not funny," he said.

"It's very funny." "She's insubordinate." "She's charge." "That explains the confidence." You laughed then too, and the room warmed a little around the sound. It helped. It saved you, maybe.

Or delayed the inevitable. Jack's laughter faded first, but not completely. There was still something loose around his mouth when he looked back at you. For a second, it was easy to imagine waking up like this again. Not in a hotel. Not because of a storm. Just morning. His voice. Your phone. Someone from work interrupting with unnecessary accuracy. Jack pretending to be annoyed while secretly pleased you had people who checked on you.

The thought must have shown on your face because his expression softened. Not much. Enough. "ED's okay?" he asked. You nodded. "Busy. Not catastrophic. Roads are bad, but night shift got stuck, day shift came in early, everyone's annoyed but functioning."

"Normal disaster mode." "Pretty much." "Good." "Robby told Dana to tell you that if you're bored, you can review the conference notes and send him bullet points." Jack's expression went dead flat.

You grinned. "He did not." "No." "Good." "He did say, apparently, that you should not pick fights with anyone from cardiology while stranded." "Cardiology keeps coming up."

"You have a reputation." "I have standards." "Same system?" "Same system." The quiet settled again, gentler this time. You were sitting up now, blanket around your shoulders, and Jack was still half-reclined beside you. The accidental closeness had been disrupted, but not erased. If anything, the interruption had made the unfinished thing between you brighter.

You both knew what had almost happened before the phone rang. Neither of you could unknow it. Jack looked at your phone, then at the dead lamp. "We should check flights."

"Probably." Neither of you moved. A beat passed. Then another. You turned your head toward him. "Jack." He looked at you. There was caution in his face again, but not the closed kind. More like a man standing at the edge of a room he had avoided for years, listening for whether it was safe to step inside.

You swallowed. "We don't have to pretend nothing almost happened." His jaw flexed. "No." "No, we don't?" "No," he said. "We don't." The answer was steady. Your pulse was not.

"Okay." "Okay." It would have been easier if one of you had looked away. Neither of you did. Jack's hand rested on the blanket near your knee. Yours rested beside it, fingers curled in the fabric.

Close. Almost. Again. This time, you moved. Only a little. Your fingers brushed his. Jack looked down. You waited. His hand turned beneath yours. Slowly. Palm up. An offering.

Not dramatic. Not polished. Not the kind of gesture that belonged in speeches or films. Just Jack, quiet and tired and scared enough to be careful, letting you decide if you wanted to take what he could give right now.

You slid your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours. Warm. Firm. Real. Something in your chest unknotted so abruptly it almost hurt. Jack kept looking at your joined hands like he was studying an X-ray for a fracture line.

Then he said, "This is a bad idea." You squeezed his hand once. "Probably." His eyes lifted. You smiled faintly. "You're not the only one allowed to make bad decisions." "That's not reassuring."

"It wasn't meant to be." "You could try." "I could." "You won't." "No." A faint almost-smile tugged at his mouth. The shape of it was so familiar now it made you ache. "What happens when we get home?" you asked.

There. The real question. Not the storm. Not the bed. Not the almost-kiss. Home. The Pitt. The ED. Dana's loud eyebrows. Robby's knowing looks. Long shifts. Short breaks. Professional distance. Charts and traumas and grief and the kind of fatigue that made honest things hard to hold.

Jack's fingers tightened around yours. Not much. Enough. "I don't know," he said. The answer should have disappointed you. It did not. Because he did not pull away. Because he did not say nothing.

Because Jack Abbott admitting uncertainty while holding your hand felt more intimate than any clean promise would have. You nodded. "Okay." "That enough?" "For this minute?"

His eyes stayed on yours. "Yes." You looked down at your joined hands. "For this minute, yeah." Jack let out a slow breath. Then, after a long moment, he said, "When we get home, I'd like to take you to dinner."

You looked up so fast you nearly hurt your neck. "What?" His face shifted, some of the vulnerability closing under dry irritation. "You heard me." "I did. I'm just checking for carbon monoxide."

"The power's out, not the ventilation." "Could be subtle." "It's not carbon monoxide." "It might be concussion. Did you hit your head?" "You're making this difficult." "I'm panicking."

"That's obvious." You laughed, breathless and ridiculous and on the edge of something much softer. Jack's eyes warmed. There. No hiding it this time. Not entirely. "Dinner," he repeated.

Your smile settled. "Like a date?" His thumb moved once against yours. "Yes." One word. No flourish. No professional courtesy. Just yes. Your heart went very quiet. Then very loud.

"When we get home," you said. "When we get home." "And not at the hospital cafeteria." His eyebrows lifted. "You have standards." "I do." "Good." "Somewhere with actual food."

"Fine." "And no orthopedic surgeons." "That may be harder to guarantee." You smiled. He did too. Barely. Perfectly. The room hummed suddenly. You both looked up. The heater clicked.

The lamp beside the bed flickered once, then turned on, flooding the room with warm yellow light. The power was back. For some reason, neither of you moved for several seconds.

The return of normal things felt rude. The lamp. The heater. The faint buzz from the mini fridge. The hotel room snapping back into itself as if it had not spent the night holding you both outside of ordinary life.

Then your phone began charging again and immediately buzzed with a flood of notifications. Jack looked at it. "You're popular." "I'm monitored." "Accurate." The heat began to push through the room slowly. The window stayed pale and snow-blurred, but the worst of the storm seemed to have softened. Somewhere beyond the walls, the hotel came alive again — pipes shifting, voices rising, the distant chime of an elevator finding power.

The spell should have broken. Maybe it did. Maybe that was why you noticed, suddenly, that you were still holding Jack's hand. Maybe that was why Jack noticed too. Neither of you let go.

Not immediately. Then, carefully, like he did not want you to mistake the movement for regret, Jack released your hand and reached for his phone. "Flights," he said. "Right."

"Need to know if we're stuck another day." "Imagine." His eyes flicked to yours. You held his gaze. The joke did not quite land as a joke. A flush climbed your neck. Jack looked back at his phone.

His mouth twitched. "Airport's delayed," he said after a moment. "Cancelled?" "Not yet." You checked your own phone. It took a second to load, then the airline app opened with the kind of cheerful incompetence only travel software could manage.

"My flight's still showing delayed." "Mine too." "So we might get home." "Might." You sat there with him, both of you looking down at your screens and pretending the ordinary task was enough to steady the room.

It helped. A little. Then a notification from Dana appeared at the top of your phone. DANA: If he asks you to dinner, say yes. If he doesn't, tell him I'm disappointed but not surprised.

You stared at it. Jack glanced sideways. "What?" "Nothing." "Dana again?" "No." "Liar." You turned the phone screen down against the blanket. "She's invasive." "She's usually right."

You looked at him. Jack's eyes were on his phone, but his expression had gone deliberately neutral. A smile crept across your face. "She is, actually." He looked up then.

The warmth between you changed shape. Not less. Just steadier. A little less accidental. A little more chosen. You tucked the blanket around yourself and leaned back against the headboard, suddenly aware of how tired you still were. The night had not been restful, exactly, even if it had been something close. Your body felt warm now in the returning heat, heavy with interrupted sleep and emotional whiplash.

Jack noticed. Of course. "Sleep another hour," he said. You blinked. "What?" "Flights aren't going anywhere yet. Checkout's delayed because of the outage. Sleep." "You too?"

"I'm awake." "That is not an answer." "It was adjacent to one." You gave him a look. He sighed. "Fine." "Fine?" "I'll sleep." "Good." "But if you steal the blanket—" "I will."

His mouth twitched. "You admit it?" "I contain multitudes." "Mostly theft." "Mostly survival." He set his phone down and reached to turn off the lamp. Then he paused. The room was warm-lit now, no longer hidden in emergency glow. Morning had made everything more visible. More real.

He looked at the bed. Then at you. The pillow wall was still at the bottom of the mattress, defeated and crumpled beyond repair. You followed his gaze. A laugh threatened, but your throat felt too tight for it.

"Do we rebuild the border?" you asked. Jack looked at the pillow. Then at you. "No," he said. Soft. Certain. Your breath caught. He did not touch you. He did not make it bigger than that.

He just turned off the lamp, easing the room back into dim morning, and settled under the covers beside you. Not as far away as before. Not pressed close either. Just there.

Close enough that if either of you shifted in sleep, you might find each other again. Close enough that pretending would require more effort than honesty. You lay on your side facing him.

Jack lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling. For a minute, neither of you spoke. Then you said, very softly, "Dinner when we get home." His eyes closed. "Yes." "Not professional courtesy."

His mouth moved. "No." You smiled into the quiet. Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, under the returning heat and the tired morning hush, Jack reached beneath the blanket and found your hand again.

This time, neither of you called it an accident.

[butterflypeaflowertea]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i was doomed to take things too seriously and think about them forever

[codeblueberry]

The Night Shift, everyone

[an-abysma1-0bserver]

You’ve Come a Long Way

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Summary: Little snapshots in the earlier moments of your relationship with Dr. Jack Abbot.

Warnings: Mentions of divorce. Mentions of losing a spouse. Mentions of amputation and military service. Language? Maybe. Reader having a kid from previous marriage. Fluff. A sprinkle of angst? Perchance. A hint of hurt/comfort? Probably. Slow burn. Idiots in love. Eventual relationship and proposal. Jack Abbot has taken over my life. The man is a warning all on his own. Whatever else I’ve failed to mention.

Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.

Word Count: 3,746

Masterlist

Jack was a simple man. He’d lived his life, gone through the ups and downs and everything in between. He’d been married and had served in the military, suffering the consequences of it. He lost a leg. He had nightmares and PTSD. He saw a therapist, for Christ’s sake.

Now? He was an emergency doctor. The chaos of the medical field filled whatever void the military had left behind. His first marriage had kept him focused on what life was like outside that chaos.

And then she died.

Jack found himself drowning in it again. He lived in a constant state of go, go, go. His therapist said grief was natural, but trying to bury it wasn’t healthy. Jack preferred burying things. It was easier than sitting still long enough to feel them.

Then Jack met you.

It was over a year after his wife’s passing. You came to the hospital as a resident, with a wall as big as his and a sharp tongue to boot. You wore exhaustion like it had been stitched into your bones. There were faint shadows under your eyes, the kind that didn’t come from one bad night’s sleep.

He noticed the way you stood slightly apart from the other residents, arms crossed, listening more than you spoke. He noticed how you didn’t laugh when someone cracked a joke—just gave a small, polite smile that never quite reached your eyes.

He noticed your hands, too. No ring. But there was a faint indentation where one had been, the skin just a shade lighter.

Jack didn’t know your story, but he recognized the look. He’d seen it in the mirror often enough—the careful distance, the way you moved like someone braced for impact.

When you finally spoke to him—something dry and sharp about his charting—he almost smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it was honest. No forced warmth. No pity. Just blunt, unvarnished truth.

It felt…easier to breathe around you.

Jack was captivated from then on. Not because you were bright or impressive—though you were both—but because you looked like someone who understood what it meant to keep going after everything had already fallen apart.

And for the first time in a long while, the chaos didn’t feel so empty.

* * *

You were exhausted. Bone-tired in a way that seemed to stretch on forever. Your divorce had practically drained you in every sense of the word—financially, emotionally, physically, psychologically. You swore you were one bad day away from snapping. And it didn’t help that you had a three-year-old caught in the middle.

Part of you wondered how easy the divorce would’ve been if you and your ex didn’t have a child. Then the guilt set in, sharp and immediate. It wasn’t your son’s fault.

Life just had different plans, you told yourself. Plans like your husband cheating on you with your sister, leaving you to start from ground zero with absolutely nothing to your name, hoping for the best for you and your son.

Of course, you’d never tell him that part.

But you decided that if you really had nothing left to lose, you might as well throw everything you had into something. And that something happened to be medical school. So now, not only were you still trying to recover financially from the divorce, you were also buried in school debt—all in the name of building a better life for your little family.

You wouldn’t have changed a thing.

You clawed your way through school and somehow managed to land a residency at the Pitt. You’d heard the horror stories—patients waiting hours, sometimes days, for care, understaffed departments, overworked nurses and doctors running on caffeine and sheer stubbornness. You didn’t care. You’d do anything to pull you and your son out of the rut you were in.

So you worked.

Twelve-hour shifts. Sometimes doubles. You took whatever you could get, chasing experience like it was oxygen. Every hour meant more stability, more security—one step closer to something better.

And then you met Jack.

Night shift attending. Older, with greying hair and an almost playfully firm way of teaching his newbies. He didn’t coddle, but he didn’t crush either. There was a steadiness to him that felt…rare.

You noticed the limp first. Subtle, but there. The slight adjustment when he stood too long, the careful shift of weight when he thought no one was paying attention.

Then you noticed his eyes.

They were tired—not just from the night shift, but from something deeper. The kind of tiredness that came from carrying things too heavy for too long.

You watched him joke with a nurse, voice dry, almost gentle. You watched him patiently guide another resident through a procedure, hands steady, tone calm even when things got tense.

A man who’d seen some and lost some. A man holding his life together with fraying strings and duct tape. Same as you.

There was one moment—small, almost forgettable—that stuck with you. A patient’s kid had started crying in the hallway, overwhelmed by the noise and chaos. You saw Jack crouch down, careful and slow, his movements measured. He spoke softly, low enough that you couldn’t hear the words.

The kid quieted.

Jack gave them a small smile before standing again, the effort visible for just a second before he masked it.

Something in your chest twisted.

You almost couldn’t help but feel drawn to him, even if you didn’t want to admit it. Not because he was charming—though he could be—but because he looked like someone who understood what it meant to survive.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel quite so alone in the chaos.

* * *

You were halfway through charting when he leaned over your shoulder.

“You planning to write a novel or a patient note?” Jack asked, voice dry.

He’d meant it as a joke. Mostly. You hadn’t looked up in ten minutes, shoulders tight, fingers gripping the keyboard like it might float away.

You didn’t even look up. “Depends. Are you grading it?”

There was bite there. Defensive. Familiar.

“I might. There’s a lot of unnecessary adjectives.”

You finally turned, raising an eyebrow. “It’s called being thorough.”

Up close, he could see the shadows under your eyes. Not just tired—worn down. He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror more nights than he cared to count.

“It’s called me still being here in twenty minutes trying to decipher it.”

You huffed. “You’re welcome for the extra detail.”

He crossed his arms, studying you. You didn’t shrink under it. Didn’t try to impress him either. Just met his gaze like you were braced for criticism.

“You always this defensive?” he asked.

He wasn’t sure why he said it. Maybe because he recognized it. Maybe because he wanted to see if you’d push back.

“You always this annoying?”

He almost laughed.

“Fair,” he said.

The silence settled. He noticed the way you flexed your fingers—subtle tremor. Exhaustion. Stress. Maybe both.

“You doing okay?” he asked, softer.

The question slipped out before he could stop it. He hadn’t asked anyone that in a long time.

“Fine,” you answered immediately.

Of course. He’d expected that.

He nodded once, letting it drop. Pushing never helped. Not with grief. Not with walls.

“Try to get some food,” he said, stepping back. “Residents drop fast if they don’t.”

He turned away, aware of the faint ache in his leg, adjusting automatically. When he glanced back, you were watching him—not openly, but enough.

Jack felt something shift, small and quiet.

He wasn’t sure what it meant yet.

But he knew he’d notice you again.

* * *

Your phone buzzed once. You ignored it.

Twice. You kept charting.

The third time, Jack glanced up from across the desk. You hadn’t moved, but your shoulders had gone rigid, tension creeping into your posture like a warning sign.

“Go ahead,” he said, nodding toward your pocket. “Could be important.”

You hesitated before pulling the phone out. The moment you saw the screen, your expression changed—something sharper, worried. You stepped into the hallway.

Jack tried not to listen, but the ER had a way of carrying sound.

“No, I’m still at the hospital…” you said quietly. “Yes, I can come…I’ll figure something out.”

Your voice dropped on the last words. He recognized that tone—the one people used when they were already running through impossible logistics.

You came back a minute later, already grabbing your bag.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

You nodded, then shook your head. “Daycare’s closing early. My son’s still there.”

Jack blinked. Son.

“You have a kid?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, distracted, clearly already halfway out the door. “I usually have backup, but it fell through.”

He watched the way you moved—fast, but controlled, like panic was something you’d learned to compress into efficiency.

Jack checked the clock. “Go. I’ll cover your last chart.”

You paused. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He reached for the file anyway. “Go get your kid.”

You looked at him then, properly, something soft breaking through the exhaustion. “Thanks…Jack.”

It was the first time you’d used his name.

He watched you hurry down the hallway, and something unfamiliar settled in his chest. He’d always respected residents who worked hard. But this—juggling a kid, the hours, the pressure—that was different.

He understood that kind of survival.

* * *

Your third double shift hit like a wall.

You’d been running on caffeine and stubbornness for nearly thirty hours. A combative patient yelled at you. A lab result came back wrong. A nurse snapped. Your hands started shaking before you even realized it.

You stepped into the supply room, pressing your palms to the counter, breathing slowly.

Jack noticed you disappear. He’d been watching the signs build all shift—shorter responses, tight shoulders, the way you’d rubbed your temple twice in five minutes.

He followed quietly, closing the door behind him.

“You’re running on fumes,” he said.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically.

He almost sighed. Same script, different person.

“You’re not.”

You laughed—short, brittle. “I don’t really have the luxury of not being fine.”

There it was. The truth, buried under exhaustion.

“Single parent?” he asked gently.

You froze, then nodded.

“Yeah.”

Jack felt something twist in his chest. He remembered long nights after his wife died—the silence, the way everything felt heavier without someone else to lean on.

“You don’t have to prove anything every second,” he said.

You rubbed your eyes. “Feels like I do.”

He reached past you, grabbing a granola bar and water from the shelf. “Eat. Five minutes. I’ll handle the floor.”

“You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“I’m the attending.” He shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took them. Warm. Slightly shaky.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

Jack nodded, stepping back before he lingered too long. He told himself it was just mentorship. Just looking out for someone who needed a break.

But he didn’t ignore the way he kept checking the clock, making sure you actually took those five minutes.

* * *

The ER quieted sometime after midnight. Rare. Fragile.

You sat at the desk, eyes closed for just a second, arms folded tight against the chill. You hadn’t realized how cold you were.

Jack noticed. He always noticed.

He grabbed a spare blanket from the warmer and draped it over your shoulders before you opened your eyes.

You startled slightly. “You didn’t have to—”

“You were shivering.”

You pulled the blanket tighter. “Thanks.”

He leaned against the counter beside you. Close enough to talk quietly, far enough not to crowd.

“Your kid asleep?” he asked.

“Yeah. Neighbor’s watching him tonight.”

He nodded, relieved more than he expected. He’d caught himself wondering earlier if you’d made it home in time, if you’d gotten enough sleep. It wasn’t his business. But it lingered anyway.

“You’re good with kids,” you said suddenly.

He glanced over. “Am I?”

“I saw you in the hallway. With that little boy.”

Jack looked down at his hands. “Used to be around them more.”

He didn’t elaborate. You didn’t ask.

“Still are,” you said softly.

The words settled between you. Quiet. Gentle.

Jack became aware of how close you were—the blanket pooled around your shoulders, the exhaustion softening your sharp edges. You looked less guarded like this. Younger. Tired, but safe.

For the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel heavy.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“You first.”

He huffed quietly. “Not happening.”

You smiled—small, real. It hit him harder than it should have.

For a second, neither of you looked away.

Jack felt it then—not sudden, not dramatic—just a slow, steady pull. The kind that scared him more than anything else.

Then a monitor beeped, sharp and insistent.

The moment broke.

You both turned back to work, but something had shifted—subtle, undeniable.

And Jack found himself thinking, not for the first time, that maybe the chaos didn’t feel quite so empty anymore.

* * *

The first time the staff noticed, it was subtle.

“You’re soft on her.”

Jack didn’t look up from the chart. “I’m soft on all my residents.”

Shen snorted. “Sure you are.”

He ignored that, but he was aware of you across the nurses’ station, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, explaining something to a patient with more patience than most people had left at three in the morning.

He told himself he was just observing.

You glanced up mid-sentence and caught him looking.

Jack immediately returned to the chart.

Your lips twitched.

* * *

You were adjusting an IV when the line slipped slightly. You reached to fix it at the same time Jack did, both of your hands brushing.

You both paused.

His hand was warm. Steady. Yours felt colder than you realized.

“Sorry,” you murmured, but neither of you moved right away.

“It's fine,” he said quietly.

He withdrew first, professional instinct winning, but he felt the absence immediately. It annoyed him more than it should have.

You focused very hard on the IV for the next thirty seconds.

Behind you, Shen and Ellis smirked.

* * *

“You know he doesn’t hover like that for anyone else, right?”

You looked up. “He’s supervising.”

“Mhm.” Ellis leaned closer. “He doesn’t supervise the others with that face.”

“What face?”

“The concerned one.”

You rolled your eyes, but you could feel warmth creeping up your neck.

Across the room, Jack noticed the exchange and had a bad feeling he knew exactly what was being said.

* * *

It happened a few weeks later.

Your sitter canceled last minute. Again.

You stood in the hallway, phone pressed to your ear, trying to keep your voice level while your son chattered on the other end.

“I know, buddy…yeah…I’ll be there soon…just a little longer, okay?”

Jack approached slowly, not wanting to startle you. You looked tired in a way that went beyond shifts—worry layered on top of exhaustion.

“Everything okay?” he asked once you hung up.

You hesitated. “My neighbor can’t keep him overnight. I need to pick him up, but—” You gestured vaguely toward the busy ER.

Jack thought for a moment. “Bring him here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“We’ve got the on-call room. He can crash there until you’re done.”

“That…feels like breaking a rule.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’ll take responsibility.”

You studied him, trying to decide if he was serious.

He was.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Half an hour later, you returned with your son in tow. He clung to your hand when you arrived, sleepy and wary of the bright lights. Jack watched from a few feet away, something unexpectedly warm settling in his chest.

“You must be the famous one,” Jack said gently, crouching—slow, careful.

Your son hid behind your leg.

You smiled apologetically. “He’s shy.”

“That’s alright,” Jack said. “Hospitals are weird.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a penlight, flicking it on and off. Your son peeked out, curiosity winning.

Jack felt you watching him. Closely.

You noticed how careful he was, how he kept his voice soft, how he didn’t push. The same patience you’d seen before—but now it felt more personal.

Your son finally stepped forward.

Jack handed him the penlight like it was a sacred object.

Something in your chest tightened.

Later, after you settled your son in the on-call room, you came back out.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Jack shrugged. “He’s a good kid.”

Your shoulders brushed when you stood beside him. Neither of you moved away immediately.

“He liked you,” you added.

Jack felt that one land deeper than expected. “I liked him too.”

Your hand rested briefly on his forearm—instinctive, grateful. The contact lingered half a second too long.

You both noticed.

You pulled back first.

Across the station, someone coughed loudly.

“You two done being subtle?” a nurse muttered.

You buried your face in a chart.

Jack pretended not to hear, but his ears felt warm.

* * *

Later that night, you both reached for the same chart again.

Your fingers overlapped this time, more deliberate than accidental. Neither of you spoke.

Jack’s thumb shifted slightly before he realized what he was doing.

You inhaled softly.

He pulled back, clearing his throat. “You…uh…need this one.”

“Right,” you said, voice quieter than usual.

The air between you felt different now. Charged. Gentle.

And neither of you seemed in a hurry to diffuse it.

* * *

“You’re staring again,” Shen whispered.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “Mind your own business.”

Shen grinned. “Just saying. It’s nice to see you like this.”

Jack didn’t ask what he meant.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

But when you laughed softly at something down the hall, he found himself smiling without realizing it.

And across the ER, you noticed.

* * *

Jack didn’t realize he was falling in love with you all at once.

It happened in pieces.

The way he automatically scanned the board for your name when he came on shift.

The way he felt a flicker of relief when he saw you’d eaten something.

The way your laugh cut through the noise of the ER like something warm.

He didn’t like noticing.

He liked it even less when you walked in one night, hair still damp from a rushed shower, apologizing for being late, and his first thought wasn’t irritation—it was there you are.

That was dangerous.

“You’re smiling,” Ellis said.

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s weird.”

Jack scoffed, but he couldn’t quite wipe it away.

Across the room, you caught the expression and felt your stomach flip.

You realized it a few shifts later when he didn’t show.

You told yourself it was just routine disruption, but everything felt louder. Harder. When he walked in the next night, you straightened unconsciously.

“You okay?” you asked.

He blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

He studied you, something soft flickering. “Miss me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Someone had to keep the residents in line.”

But he noticed the way your shoulders relaxed.

* * *

The touches started small.

Your hands brushing over a chart.

His fingers steadying your wrist during a procedure.

Your shoulder bumping his in the hallway—neither of you moving away.

“Subtle,” a nurse whispered loudly one night.

“We’re not doing anything,” you muttered.

Jack cleared his throat, but didn’t step back.

It deepened the night he helped you again during a brutal shift.

You were shaking. He noticed before anyone else.

“Eat,” he said, handing you food.

“You always this bossy?” you asked.

“Only when you look like you might pass out.”

Your fingers brushed. You both paused.

He pulled back first.

You wished he hadn’t.

* * *

The first time your son stayed at the hospital, Jack felt something shift.

He crouched carefully, offering the penlight. Your son peeked out, curious. You watched Jack’s patience, the softness in his voice.

You realized he wasn’t just kind.

He was safe.

Later, when you touched his arm to thank him, the contact lingered. Neither of you spoke.

Across the station, someone coughed theatrically.

“You two going to admit it?” Ellis asked days later.

“Admit what?” Jack replied.

“That you’re basically already dating.”

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Jack muttered something about professionalism, but he noticed you smiling.

* * *

The almost-confession came late one night.

“You don’t get close to people easily,” you said.

“Neither do you.”

“After my divorce…I didn’t want to depend on anyone.”

“After my wife…I didn’t want to lose anyone again.”

Your hands rested close together on the desk.

“Funny,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you finished it.

* * *

The first date happened accidentally.

“You should eat something that isn’t vending machine food,” he said.

“You offering?”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

The diner was quiet. Comfortable. You talked about everything—your son, his military days, stupid hospital chaos.

Under the table, your knee brushed his.

Neither of you moved.

When he walked you to your car, you hugged him. He held on longer than expected.

The first kiss came at your place, weeks later, your son asleep in the other room.

“You’re easy to like,” you said.

Jack reached for your hand slowly. You didn’t pull away.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Like both of you were afraid the moment might disappear.

Your son snored loudly down the hall.

You both laughed against each other.

* * *

After that, things slipped naturally into place.

Jack helping with school drop-offs.

You leaving coffee on his counter.

Your son asking if “Jack” could come to his game.

Jack fixing a broken toy with surprising patience.

“You’re domestic,” Shen teased.

Jack rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it.

Months passed. The ER staff stopped pretending not to notice.

“They’re basically married already,” someone whispered.

You squeezed Jack’s hand under the desk.

He squeezed back.

* * *

The proposal came quietly.

You were washing dishes. Your son is asleep. The house is warm and calm.

“Hey,” Jack said.

You turned. He looked nervous—really nervous.

“I wasn’t planning anything big,” he admitted, pulling a small ring from his pocket. “But I’ve already built a life with you…with both of you.”

Your breath caught.

“You made things steady again,” he continued. “And I want to keep choosing you. Every day. If you’ll let me.”

He hesitated. “Will you marry me?”

“You’re supposed to get on one knee,” you whispered.

He gestured to his prosthetic. “You’re getting the modified version.”

You laughed through tears and wrapped your arms around him.

“Yes.”

He held you tightly, relief flooding through him.

[mrsbourbonborn]

Seriously talented there darlin!

[an-abysma1-0bserver]

All the Small Things

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Summary: All the little things that makes Jack love you.

Warnings: Fluff. Older man and younger woman trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. Ambiguous race and appearance. Established relationship/marriage. Language? Maybe. Medical inaccuracies? Most likely. This isn’t proofread; please excuse any mistakes. Whatever else I failed to mention

Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.

Word Count: 2,365

Poll || Masterlist

The first time Jack realized he loved you was six months into your relationship.

It was his day off. You’d spent the night—a huge step for the two of you—and Jack’s mind chose that night to plague him with nightmares. Memories bled together: the day he lost his leg, the phantom pain that still flared without warning, the face of a patient he couldn’t save despite every effort. The emotions stung, biting into his very being, molding to him like a second skin.

He woke drenched in sweat, breathing erratically, eyes wide and bloodshot as he tried to gather his bearings.

You were jolted awake by the shift beside you—the tension in his body, the uneven rhythm of his breathing. Groggy at first, confused, then understanding settled in.

“Jack?” Your voice was soft, thick with sleep.

He tried to focus on you, tried to really see you—he couldn’t. His mind, his body, wouldn’t let him. His chest rose too fast, air catching halfway in. The room felt too small, too dark. His hands trembled where they gripped the sheets.

You didn’t rush him. Didn’t grab him suddenly. Just shifted closer, slow enough that he could track the movement.

“I’m here,” you murmured.

Your hand hovered for a moment before resting lightly against his forearm—not restraining, not forcing, just there. Warm. Steady.

“Nightmare?” you asked gently.

He gave the smallest nod, jaw tight. Words felt impossible, stuck somewhere behind the pressure in his chest.

“That’s okay,” you whispered. “You’re okay.”

Your thumb brushed slowly back and forth over his skin, a grounding rhythm. You matched your breathing deliberately, slow and even, letting him hear it.

“Follow me, Jack. In…and out.”

He didn’t mean to, but his breathing began to stutter into sync with yours. The tightness in his chest eased by degrees. The room came back piece by piece—the dim light from the window, the rumpled sheets, you sitting beside him with sleep-mussed hair and concerned eyes.

You didn’t ask what he saw. Didn’t push. Just stayed.

When his breathing finally steadied, you reached up, hesitating just long enough to give him time to pull away if he wanted. When he didn’t, you brushed damp hair from his forehead, your touch featherlight.

“You’re safe,” you said quietly. “You’re home.”

Something in his chest shifted at that—not dramatic, not sudden. Just a quiet settling.

Jack realized then that you hadn’t made it a big moment. You hadn’t panicked. You hadn’t treated him like he was fragile. You’d simply met him where he was and stayed until he found his way back.

He looked at you—really looked this time—and felt the last of the adrenaline drain from his body.

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice rough.

You shook your head immediately. “Don’t apologize.”

Your hand slid into his, squeezing once, gentle but sure.

“I’m glad I was here.”

And that was it.

No grand declaration. No sweeping realization. Just the warmth of your hand in his, the quiet steadiness of you beside him, and the understanding that he wanted this—you—every time he woke in the dark.

That was the moment Jack realized he loved you.

* * *

The second time Jack realized he loved you was when you came to visit him at the hospital.

It was one of those rare occasions he was working a day shift and hadn’t brought a lunch. The morning had been busy enough that he barely noticed—until the dull ache of hunger settled in sometime past noon. He’d resigned himself to grabbing something quick from the vending machine when he had a moment.

You, however, had wasted no time once you found out.

Jack was standing near the nurses’ station, skimming through a chart, when he heard his name.

“Jack?”

He looked up—and there you were, slightly out of place among the organized chaos of the ER. You held a small tote bag in one hand, offering a tentative smile like you weren’t entirely sure you were allowed to be there.

For a second, he just stared.

“You didn’t,” he said, already knowing you had.

You lifted the bag a little. “You forgot lunch.”

It wasn’t dramatic. No grand gesture. Just you, standing there, hair a little wind-tousled, holding what smelled suspiciously like something homemade.

Jack felt something warm settle in his chest.

“You didn’t have to come all the way down here,” he said, though his voice had softened.

“I know.” You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “But I figured vending machine snacks weren’t a great option.”

A faint hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth—subtle, but there.

You handed him the bag, your fingers brushing his as he took it. “It’s nothing fancy. Just…something quick.”

He glanced inside: neatly packed containers, a sandwich, cut fruit, even a napkin folded carefully on top. Practical. Thoughtful. Quietly considerate.

“You cut the fruit,” he observed.

You shrugged, suddenly looking a little shy. “Figured it’d be easier to eat between patients.”

He huffed out the softest breath of a laugh.

“Thanks,” he said, and he meant more than just the food.

You lingered for a moment, shifting your weight. “You should actually eat it, though. Not just carry it around.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smiled at that, small and warm. “I should go. I don’t want to get in the way.”

Before he could think too hard about it, Jack reached out, his hand resting briefly at your elbow—grounding, gentle. “Hey.”

You looked up at him.

“...I’m glad you came.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Me too.”

It was quick, the way you leaned in—just enough for him to catch the faint scent of your shampoo—before pressing a light kiss to his cheek. Soft. Familiar. Domestic in a way that made the hospital noise fade for a second.

Then you pulled back. “Text me later?”

“Yeah.”

You gave him one last smile before turning and heading back toward the exit.

Jack watched you go a moment longer than necessary.

“Well,” a voice cut in beside him, “that was adorable.”

Jack didn’t even need to turn to know it was Dana.

He shifted his gaze to her, expression neutral, though the warmth hadn’t quite left his eyes. “Don’t you have something to do?”

“Oh, I do,” she said, completely unfazed. “But this is more interesting.”

Robby leaned against the counter nearby, arms crossed, watching with a knowing smirk. “Homemade lunch?”

Jack said nothing, already pulling the container out of the bag.

Dana tilted her head. “She cut the fruit. That’s serious.”

“It’s practical,” Jack replied evenly.

“Mm-hmm,” Robby hummed. “You’ve got that look.”

Jack paused. “What look?”

“The one where you’re trying very hard not to smile.”

“I’m not smiling.”

Dana and Robby exchanged a glance.

“Right,” Dana said, clearly unconvinced.

Jack ignored them, taking a bite of the sandwich. It was simple, familiar—exactly the kind of thing he’d make for himself, only he hadn’t had to. You had.

He realized then that you’d gone out of your way, packed everything carefully, driven here just to make sure he ate. No fuss. No expectation.

Just care.

Quiet. Thoughtful. Steady.

Jack swallowed, the warmth in his chest settling deeper this time.

Robby nudged Dana lightly. “He’s gone.”

“He’s absolutely gone,” she agreed.

Jack didn’t argue.

Because as he stood there, holding the lunch you’d made, he realized—for the second time—that he loved you.

* * *

The third time Jack realized—wholeheartedly—that he loved you was after a long shift.

Jack was always tired. It came with the job, with the hours, with the emotional weight he carried home whether he meant to or not. Most nights, all he wanted was a few quiet hours—sleep, maybe the chance to sit beside you on the couch, existing in the same space without needing to say much.

But your schedules rarely lined up. There were nights he came home to a dark apartment, your side of the bed already empty. Mornings he woke to find you gone, the faint warmth you’d left behind already fading.

Still, you found ways to be there.

The first sticky note appeared on the coffee maker.

Don’t forget to eat something that isn’t hospital coffee.

He’d stared at it longer than necessary, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

The next one was stuck to the fridge handle.

Dinner’s in the fridge. Yes, I remembered you hate soggy lettuce.

And sure enough, the salad was packed separately.

Another waited on the bathroom mirror.

You looked exhausted this morning. Please sleep. The dishes can wait.

They weren’t elaborate. Some were a little crooked, written quickly in your handwriting. A few had small doodles—a lopsided heart, once a terrible attempt at drawing him with a stethoscope.

One night, after a particularly brutal shift, he came home past midnight. The apartment was quiet, the lights dimmed. You were already asleep, curled beneath the blankets.

He moved carefully, trying not to wake you, shrugging off his jacket. That’s when he saw the note stuck to the bedside lamp.

Hi. You made it home. I’m proud of you.

He exhaled slowly, something in his chest tightening.

Another note sat on his pillow.

I warmed up soup. It’s in the microwave. Please eat before you pass out.

He glanced toward the kitchen. Sure enough, the microwave light blinked softly, waiting.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly more tired than before—but in a different way. Softer.

He ate the soup quietly, then returned to the bedroom. You stirred slightly as he slipped into bed, instinctively shifting closer, even half-asleep. Your hand found his wrist, resting there like it belonged.

“You’re home,” you murmured, barely conscious.

“Yeah,” he replied quietly.

Your grip tightened for a second before loosening again as you drifted deeper into sleep.

Jack lay there, staring at the ceiling, your sticky notes still fresh in his mind. You’d thought about him in the middle of your day, in passing moments, in small, practical ways. You noticed when he was tired. You anticipated what he’d need. You made space for him even when he wasn’t there.

You saw him—all the parts he didn’t always say out loud.

His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles where your hand still rested near his.

“How did I get so lucky,” he murmured under his breath, not expecting an answer.

You made a soft sound in your sleep, shifting closer, your forehead pressing lightly against his shoulder.

Jack closed his eyes, the steady rhythm of your breathing grounding him. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something warmer—a quiet, overwhelming fondness that settled deep in his chest.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

Just the soft glow of sticky notes, warm soup waiting, and you reaching for him even in your sleep.

That was the third time Jack realized—completely, undeniably—that he loved you.

* * *

Bonus:

Jack didn’t announce it when he decided to return the favor.

He didn’t even consciously think of it that way. It was just…something that felt necessary. Natural. The way you’d quietly woven care into his routine, he found himself doing the same for you.

It started small.

You’d mentioned, offhandedly, that mornings had been rough lately—too little sleep, too much rushing. The next time you woke, there was a mug already sitting on the nightstand, steam curling softly in the dim light.

You blinked at it, confused, then at Jack, who was pulling on his shirt.

“You made coffee?” you asked, voice still thick with sleep.

“You looked like you could use the extra ten minutes,” he replied simply.

You pushed yourself up, wrapping your hands around the mug. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

He said it the same way you always did—gentle, matter-of-fact.

You smiled into the rim.

Another time, you came home to find the laundry folded. Not perfectly—a few shirts slightly crooked—but sorted, stacked, and placed neatly at the foot of the bed. He’d even separated the clothes you liked to air dry.

When you found him in the kitchen, you leaned against the doorway. “You did laundry?”

Jack glanced up from chopping vegetables. “It was piling up.”

“You hate folding.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t mind.”

You walked over, looping your arms around his middle from behind. He stilled for a moment, then relaxed into the contact.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

His hand rested lightly over yours for a second before he returned to what he was doing.

Later, after a particularly long day for you, you trudged through the door, shoulders slumped. Jack looked up from the couch immediately, reading the exhaustion in your posture the same way you always read his.

“Tough day?” he asked.

You nodded, dropping your bag. “Yeah.”

He didn’t press for details. Just stood, disappearing briefly into the bathroom. When he came back, he handed you one of his softer hoodies.

“Here,” he said. “It’s warm.”

You slipped it on, the fabric smelling faintly like his detergent. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Hardly.”

But he guided you to the couch anyway, settling beside you. His hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just grounding.

You leaned into him, tension easing by degrees.

“You’ve been doing a lot of this lately,” you said quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Taking care of me.”

Jack was quiet for a moment, considering. His fingers paused, then resumed their gentle motion.

“You do it for me,” he said simply.

You turned your head to look at him. “You don’t have to keep score.”

“I’m not.” His voice was calm, steady. “I just…notice things.”

Your expression softened.

He reached over to the coffee table, picking up a small yellow square. He handed it to you.

You frowned slightly before reading it.

Reminder: drink water. You forget when you’re stressed.

You laughed softly, surprised. “You left me a sticky note?”

He nodded once.

You leaned closer, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “I love you, you know that?”

Jack’s hand tightened slightly at the back of your neck, grounding himself in the warmth of you.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

He didn’t need grand gestures. Didn’t need big words.

Just warm coffee, folded laundry, soft hoodies, and a sticky note placed where you’d see it.

That was how Jack loved you.

[mrsbourbonborn]

Swoon!

[s-writing-s]

The Pitt | Masterlist

Jack Abbot

SERIES: Diagnosis: Married? Masterlist [ONGOING]

DRABBLES/ONESHOTS:

It must've been Santa

Distance

The King Who Waited

Everywhere, Everything 18+

3K CELEBRATION:

"stop telling me we can't be together and then pulling shit like this"

"why do you even care who i date? because i'm fucking in love with you!"

"pumpkin, you're dating an asshole" and "i've been here the whole time. you just didn't see me."

"Why didn’t you tell me?" "Because I couldn’t lose my best friend to the idea of us."

Michael Robinavitch

DRABBLES/ONESHOTS:

Thirty Minutes Early 3K CELEBRATION:

“you're banned from doing anything remotely dangerous”

"stop telling me we can't be together and then pulling shit like this" - Robby (can be read as a part 2 to one above)

"stop fighting me and let me help"

"we sh-" "no, please. just- just let me have this. just for a minute."

"why do you even care who i date? because i fucking love you!"

[mrsbourbonborn]

THESE!!! Literally all of these.

[annsfics]

♡ things a man provides ♡

♡ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader

♡ synopsis: after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.

♡ content: jealous!jack, jack treats you to dinner on the roof, buys you flowers, spoils you with attention etc, fingering, dacryphilia (kinda), pet names, teasing, flirting

♡ a/n: based off this request, ty!

With forearms planted atop the back of the office chair you occupy, Santos peers over your shoulder as you swipe left.

And left.

And left.

And—

"Oh, he's cute," she remarks.

Looking up from the rolling computer cart Jack stands at, he eyes the two of you from over the rim of his glasses.

Pushing the phone back in her direction for a closer look, you half turn toward her with a raised brow.

"I was talking about the dog," Trinity explains.

You roll your eyes, then swipe again.

"Honestly, you'd have a better time picking up a guy from Chairs than Tinder. Least that way you can test him for drugs and STDs before taking him home like a stray." After drumming her hands against the back of your seat, she steps away.

"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.

Your head jerks up.

Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.

You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.

"Look at me," he commands.

You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.

Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"

You nod before dropping your chin in shame.

"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.

You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.

"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."

Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.

Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."

A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.

The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."

You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.

Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.

"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.

"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"

He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."

Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."

You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"

"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."

He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.

You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.

Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.

It sends a shiver up your spine.

Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."

You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.

Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.

You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.

He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."

Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"

Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.

Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.

A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.

You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.

"Pin?" He questions while studying you.

You busy yourself with charting. "Never."

He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."

The moment you glance up, and the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.

"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.

"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.

Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"

He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."

Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.

"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"

You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."

Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."

He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.

"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.

You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.

Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.

You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.

He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.

And then he begins to swipe.

"W-what're you doing?"

"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"

"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"

He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"

"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"

He rolls his eyes. "Got it."

Swipe, swipe, swipe.

You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"

He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."

You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?

With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."

You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.

It's none of his concern, anyway.

He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."

Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."

His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."

Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.

"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."

He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.

It's like you're trying to set him off.

Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Rabinovitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...

He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.

He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.

He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"

With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"

Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.

"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.

It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.

He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.

"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"

Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.

"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.

Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."

Your eyes flit to his.

Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"

You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.

"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."

You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."

You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."

Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."

A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.

He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"

You shake your head.

He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.

Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.

On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.

You truly have no understanding of his decision.

There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.

The list goes on.

Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?

You dislike the thought.

It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.

It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.

Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.

"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."

And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."

Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.

You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.

It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.

Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.

But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.

When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.

He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.

Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; it's blooms sprouting in every direction.

You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."

"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."

Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.

Meet me where I made you mine. — J

You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."

"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"

Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."

"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"

Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.

Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.

Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.

He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"

Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"

He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."

You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.

"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"

"I haven't," you blurt out.

He quiets.

"You... You never asked me."

He raises a silver brow.

"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."

He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."

Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."

He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."

You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."

He grins. "Too late."

Your eyes flit to his.

"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."

"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.

"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"

You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.

You nod. "Yes, I think so."

He chuckles. "Good."

Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."

You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.

It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.

The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.

He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.

The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.

He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.

So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.

Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.

And being the first to put hands on you...?

It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."

You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.

As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.

Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.

By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.

So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.

You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.

Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.

You find that you're just fine with that fact. Especially at night when he holds your naked body close to his—his arms wrapped tightly around you—and as you drift off to sleep, he whispers how he's never letting you go now that he's found you.

[mrsbourbonborn]

This!

[geminiwritten]

you have no idea ; jack abbot

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 mum 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 windscreen.

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.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

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.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

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.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[mrsbourbonborn]

Holy fuckballs.

[darklynoon-deactivated20170407]

Reblog if you’re 30 or older

This is an experiment to see if there really are as few of us as people think.You can also use this to freak out your followers who think you’re 25 or something. Yay!

[biscuits-and-gracie]

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐲

steve harrington x henderson! reader 2.0k

Valentine’s Day came to Hawkins the same way it always did-loud, pink, and completely unavoidable.

The drugstore windows on Main Street were already stuffed with heart-shaped boxes and shiny balloons that squeaked against the glass when the heater kicked on. Candy wrappers crinkled everywhere. Even the radio wouldn’t shut up about love, crooning softly through tinny speakers as if it were personally invested in everyone’s happiness.

Dustin Henderson noticed all of this with mild annoyance and one very specific thought.

Oh no. Not again.

Because Valentine’s Day also meant something else. It meant his sister didn’t have a Valentine.

She never complained about it. Never made a big deal. She smiled when she passed the displays, pretended not to linger too long on the cards with handwritten poems or the silly ones with bears holding roses. She said things like “It’s fine, really” and “I don’t need all that stuff.”

But Dustin noticed anyway.

He noticed the way she paused in the doorway of the kitchen that morning, watching him shove construction-paper valentines into his backpack-bright red hearts, sloppy handwriting, the kind of thing teachers required even when you swore you didn’t care. He noticed the way her smile softened, just a little too carefully practiced, before she turned back to her coffee.

He noticed the way she didn’t buy herself flowers at the store, even though she slowed down long enough to brush her fingers over the stems.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Dustin did.

She had always loved quietly. In the background. Like she didn’t want to take up too much space with her wanting. And Dustin knew-knew-that if she waited for love to come find her, it never would. Not because she didn’t deserve it. But because she would never, ever reach for it first.

Which was, frankly, unacceptable.

Especially because Dustin Henderson also knew Steve Harrington.

Steve, who laughed too loud and tried too hard and showed up every time it mattered. Steve, who hovered around the house more than necessary, who lingered in doorways and asked questions he already knew the answers to. Steve, who looked at Dustin’s sister like he was afraid she might disappear if he stared too long.

Steve Harrington, who was older. Single. And, in Dustin’s extremely professional opinion, painfully obvious.

Dustin watched them from the kitchen table that afternoon-Steve leaning against the counter, his jacket slung over one shoulder, his smile soft and uncertain as he listened to her talk about something Dustin wasn’t even pretending to pay attention to.

Another Valentine’s Day was coming.

And this year?

Dustin Henderson decided that was simply not going to stand.

-

Dustin liked to think of himself as a good person.

A great person, actually. A hero, if you asked him.

Which was why he didn’t feel even a little bit guilty when he started planning to meddle in his sister’s love life.

He sat on the edge of his bed that night, legs swinging, staring at the ceiling while the radio hummed softly in the background-some slow song about love and timing and getting your heart broken if you waited too long. Dustin scoffed at that part.

Waiting was the problem.

His sister waited for everything. For the right moment. The right sign. The right amount of courage she never seemed to think she had. And Steve-Steve waited too, hovering just outside of saying anything real, like he was afraid the wrong word might ruin something fragile.

They were both idiots.

Very nice idiots. But still.

Dustin replayed every interaction he’d seen between them like evidence on a corkboard. Steve always volunteered to drive her home. Always asked her opinion first. Always laughed a little too hard at her jokes, like he was relieved she’d spoken at all.

And she-she lit up around him in these tiny, almost invisible ways. Leaning in. Softening. Letting herself be known just a little more than usual.

They weren’t stuck because there was no spark.

They were stuck because neither of them would strike the match.

Which meant Dustin had to do it for them.

The plan, when it finally formed, felt almost obvious.

They didn’t need grand gestures. No public confessions. No pressure. What they needed was permission-to feel, to hope, to believe that the other one might already be halfway there.

And nothing gave permission like words.

Private ones. Gentle ones. Words you could reread when doubt crept in. Words that didn’t demand an answer right away.

Dustin smiled to himself.

If his sister thought Steve saw her-really saw her-she’d stop shrinking herself around him. She’d let herself glow a little. And if Steve thought those feelings were returned? Well. Steve Harrington would move mountains for that kind of reassurance.

Two letters. That was it.

One to soften her heart. One to steady his courage.

No names. No signatures. Just enough truth to feel real. Just enough mystery to make them lean toward each other instead of pulling away.

Dustin imagined the ripple effect-Steve showing up more often, standing closer, finding reasons to stay. His sister laughing more freely, meeting Steve’s eyes instead of looking away, wondering when exactly things had changed.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the distance between them wouldn’t feel so wide anymore.

Dustin flopped back onto his bed, hands folded behind his head, utterly pleased with himself.

This wasn’t lying, he decided.

This was… facilitating.

And if everything went right?

No one would ever have to know.

-

Dustin waited until the house was quiet.

Not asleep-just still. The kind of still where everyone was in their own rooms, doors half-closed, radios murmuring softly. He spread his supplies across the kitchen table like a scientist preparing an experiment: loose-leaf paper (not too childish), a pen borrowed from Steve’s jacket weeks ago, and a pink Valentine’s card he’d carefully dismantled so it wouldn’t feel too obvious.

He chewed on the pen cap.

Okay. Steve voice, he told himself.

Not flashy. Not poetic in a try-hard way. Honest. A little awkward. Like someone saying things he’d been holding onto for a while.

He started again after the first false attempt.

I don’t know if this is weird, but I’ve been wanting to say this for a while.

You don’t have to be loud to be noticed. You don’t have to try so hard, either. I see you-when you’re listening more than talking, when you smile like you’re not sure you’re allowed to.

Being around you feels… easy. Like I don’t have to be anyone else.

I think about you more than I probably should. I just wanted you to know that.

Dustin read it over twice, heart thumping.

It was good. Too good. But Steve would feel that way. Dustin was sure of it.

He folded the paper carefully-once, twice-and slipped it into the pocket of his sister’s jacket, the one she always grabbed on her way out the door.

Then he waited.

She found it that afternoon.

Dustin was pretending to do homework at the kitchen table when she froze halfway through shrugging off her coat. Her fingers stilled inside the pocket, her brow furrowing slightly as she pulled the folded paper free.

“What’s that?” Dustin asked, casual. Innocent. A master of deception.

She didn’t answer right away.

She unfolded it slowly, like she was afraid the words might vanish if she rushed. Dustin watched her eyes move across the page, watched her shoulders soften, watched color bloom across her cheeks in the quietest way.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Just that. One word. Like a secret.

She read it again.

Dustin kicked his feet under the table, fighting a grin.

“Is it… a bill?” he asked. “Or like-junk mail?”

She shot him a look, half-laughing, half-flustered. “No.”

She folded the letter back up, holding it close to her chest like it needed protecting.

“Then what is it?” Dustin pressed.

She hesitated. Then, softly, like she wasn’t quite sure she was allowed to say it out loud, she said, “I think it’s… from Steve.”

Dustin’s eyebrows shot up in what he hoped looked like surprise. “Steve Steve?”

She nodded, chewing on her lip. “It sounds like him. Kind of. I mean-he wouldn’t usually say stuff like this, but…” Her voice trailed off. Hope flickered there, fragile and bright.

Dustin leaned forward, lowering his voice like they were sharing a conspiracy. “Do you like it?”

She glanced down at the folded paper again, fingers tightening. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I really do.”

There was a pause. Then, quieter, “I didn’t think he noticed me like that.”

Something warm settled in Dustin’s chest.

“Well,” he said gently, “maybe he’s just bad at saying things out loud.”

She smiled at that. A real smile. The kind that reached her eyes.

“Maybe,” she said.

She slipped the letter back into her pocket and headed toward her room, moving a little lighter than she had that morning.

Dustin watched her go, satisfaction buzzing through him.

Phase one wasn’t just working.

It was perfect.

-

He didn’t wait long.

Momentum mattered. He knew that. You couldn’t plant a feeling like that and then leave it alone-it needed something to answer it. Something to meet it halfway.

So the next afternoon, while Steve was distracted helping Mrs. Henderson with a busted cabinet hinge in the bathroom, Dustin slipped away to the kitchen table with another sheet of paper. This one he smoothed carefully, palms flat, like it deserved respect.

Writing as his sister felt different.

He slowed down. Rounded the letters. Let the words breathe. He thought about the way she hesitated before speaking, how she always softened her voice like she was afraid of taking up too much space.

He wrote the things she felt but never said.

I wasn’t sure if I was meant to write this, but I’m really glad I did.

You make me feel safe. Like I don’t have to pretend or rush or be anything more than I already am. I like the way you listen. I like the way you stay.

I’ve wanted to tell you that for a while-I just didn’t know how.

I think I’d like to be braver, if you’re willing to try with me.

Dustin folded the letter neatly and tucked it into Steve’s jacket pocket-the one slung over the back of the dining chair-then retreated like nothing had happened.

Steve found it in the car.

Dustin knew because the engine didn’t start right away.

Steve sat there, fingers brushing against the folded paper, confusion knitting his brows as he pulled it free. He unfolded it slowly, reading once… then again. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, chest rising as if he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Oh,” Steve whispered.

The word came out shaky. Reverent.

He leaned his head back against the seat, staring at the roof like the universe had just handed him something impossibly delicate. A smile crept across his face-slow, stunned, a little disbelieving.

She felt that way?

About him?

By the time Steve came back inside, something had shifted. He moved differently-lighter, like his feet barely touched the floor. His eyes kept flicking toward the hallway, like he expected her to appear at any second.

Dustin was waiting.

“So,” he said, popping up from the couch. “You look weird.”

Steve startled. “What-no, I don’t.”

“You do,” Dustin insisted. “You look like you just found out Christmas is real.”

Steve hesitated, then glanced toward the kitchen, lowering his voice. “Did you… see her today?”

Dustin shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”

Steve swallowed. “She-uh-did she seem… normal?”

Dustin fought a smile. “Define normal.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “I think she left me a note.”

Dustin gasped, full drama. “A note note?”

Steve nodded, eyes wide. “Dustin, it was-” He stopped himself, cheeks flushing. “It was really nice.”

Dustin tilted his head, studying him. “Do you like her?”

Steve didn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really do.”

There it was.

Dustin leaned back, satisfied. “Then maybe,” he said, grinning, “you should tell her.”

Steve laughed under his breath, nervous and hopeful all at once. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe I should.”

From the hallway, her door opened.

Steve straightened immediately, heart racing, letter still folded carefully in his pocket like a promise.

Dustin watched it all unfold.

Two letters down. Two hearts wide open.

Valentine’s Day didn’t stand a chance.

tag list: daydreamin1220 sophiae00 beezusvreeland mortqlprojections buckystwilight curiousshademinotaur tragicaprosa bing72 rafecamlovr dizzy-dr3amer justmot anti-3lvva peoplescareme-69 magnoliamermaid alyssa070202 thatuptowngirl louannfox passengerprincess81 steveswifee fantasyreader130 libelunae kahihihashree napofaprincess luver4chris