indie

she/her

[mrs-delaney]

Ten Floors | The Sissy Verse

pairings: joe burrow x younger reader (sissy) 🐅 wc: 2.3k an: OKAY, here she is, this is what i imagine sissy felt like seeing joe when he first started bulking up because who wouldn't feel this way. this is a repost — it went up first on my other blog @doingjustdivine, which is where i keep all my witchy tarot stuff. it's always linked in my pinned post if you want to follow over there too 🔮 if you are new to the sissy verse this is a jb x younger reader story — sissy is just her nickname. the rest of her is on the sissy verse masterlist, and everything else i've written is on the main masterlist 🩷

The review was on your calendar for ten. You were in the conference room by nine-forty, because two quarters had taught you that he came early, and one quarter had taught you what it was like to still be crawling under the table for the HDMI cable while he stood there watching you do it.

So you set up the way you always set up. Laptop, adapter, the printed copies Rick insisted on that no client had ever once picked up. Water pitcher. Two glasses.

At nine-fifty-one you heard reception say his name in the voice they used for him.

He came in from the gym.

Not a suit — he'd never worn a suit to these, but he'd worn a quarter-zip in December, and today it was a long-sleeve and shorts and hair still wet at the back of his neck. Shaker bottle in one hand. Phone in the other. He said morning and you said morning back and set the second glass down.

The shirt was the first thing. It was not built for whatever he was doing to himself in the offseason.

You'd seen him in that shirt in October. There'd been room in it then.

"You're early," you said.

"You're earlier."

"I work here."

He put the shaker bottle on the table like it was a coffee and pulled out the chair he always pulled out, the one on the window side, and sat down in it while you were still standing — and the shirt went tight across his back when he leaned to do it, and you looked at the adapter in your hand until he was all the way down.

Six months ago you'd have called him lean. There wasn't a version of that word that worked anymore.

"I got a telescope," he said.

"A telescope."

"Yeah." He turned his phone face-down on the table. "Bought it in January. Thing's got a computer in it. You put in what you want to look at and it just — finds it."

You clicked the adapter into the side of the laptop. "That seems like cheating."

"That's what I said." He sounded pleased that you'd said it. "There's a whole thing about it online. People get mad."

"About telescopes."

"About telescopes."

The projector woke up and threw the desktop across the wall, and you turned to check the alignment, which meant turning your back to him, which was fine. That was fine. You had a folder to open.

"What do you do with it?"

"Look at Saturn, mostly." A pause. "It's got rings."

"I've heard."

"They're real."

You laughed before you could decide not to, and you heard him settle back in the chair, and you kept your eyes on the wall.

"What do you do?" he said.

"With a telescope?"

"On your day off."

You clicked to the first slide. Cover page, firm logo, his name in the corner in eleven-point.

"Errands," you said.

"Errands."

"Groceries. Laundry. It's not a good answer."

"It's not an answer at all." He said it easy, no edge on it, the way he'd said is this the same coffee in October and do you like your job in December, and you'd handled both of those the same way you were handling this one, which was by not.

"Water?" you said.

"Sure."

You poured it. He watched you pour it.

"So what've you been up to?"

"That's the same question."

"It's a different question."

"How."

"Broader," he said.

Rick came in at ten with his laptop under his arm and a coffee he'd already spilled some of, and said Joe's name like they were old friends, which they were not, and Joe stood up to shake his hand and you got four seconds to look at the wall and reset your face.

Then you ran the meeting.

You were good at this. That was the thing nobody outside this building understood about you — that you could hold twelve months of somebody's money in your head and walk them through it without a note, that you'd built the model yourself, that Rick brought you into rooms because clients liked you and stayed because you were right. You opened on the year-over-year and moved into the reallocation you'd been building since January, and you did not think about the shirt.

For nineteen minutes.

He had a forearm on the table. He'd been resting it there the whole time, and you'd spent all of it not looking directly at it.

And somewhere in the middle of the muni bond ladder you clicked to the next slide and looked down at the laptop and then back up, and you weren't looking at the slide, and the room was quiet, and you had absolutely no idea what number you'd been about to say.

"Sorry — the projector's cutting the bottom line off," you said.

You adjusted something that did not need adjusting. You found your place in the printout and then lost it again on the way back to the wall and had to run your finger down the column to get it, and your face was hot, and the conference room was sixty-eight degrees like it always was, so there was nowhere to put that.

You got through it. You got through all of it. And the whole way down the reallocation you were talking about tax lots while some other part of you sat in the corner of your own head and thought about him.

Rick didn't notice.

Joe did.

You were closing out on the tax-loss harvesting when Rick asked him about camp.

"April," Joe said. "Offseason program. Real camp's July."

"Big year." Rick said this to every client about every year.

"Yeah."

"You look like you've been busy." Rick gestured at him with the coffee, a vague up-and-down, the way men can just say that to each other. "What are they doing to you over there?"

Joe huffed. Not quite a laugh.

"Eating, mostly."

"Yeah?"

"Six a day. There's a guy who texts me." He turned the water glass a quarter turn on the table. "I ate at eleven-thirty last night. Set an alarm for it."

"That's the life," Rick said.

"It's not, really," Joe said, easy, no self-pity in it at all. "You get so you don't want any of it. You just do it because somebody's counting."

You wrote nothing down. There was nothing to write down. You looked at the printout in front of you and thought about a man setting an alarm for eleven-thirty at night to eat food he didn't want, alone, in a house you'd never seen, and it went somewhere completely different in you than the shirt had.

"Anyway," Joe said. "Sorry. You were on the harvesting."

"I was," you said.

Rick left first. He always did — handshake, something about the game, out the door with his coffee, gone before you'd finished packing up. So it was you and Joe and a conference room and the projector fan winding down.

You closed the laptop. He picked up the shaker bottle he hadn't touched in an hour.

"I'll walk you out," you said.

You walked every client out. You'd walked out a seventy-eight-year-old widow the week before and a couple from Hyde Park who fought about annuities in front of you for forty minutes. It was six steps down the hall past reception and then the elevator bank, and you did it because it was what you did.

You had the laptop up against your chest with both arms around it. You'd never once carried it like that before.

He walked half a step behind you the whole way, which meant that if you wanted to know what his face was doing you'd have to turn around and find out. You didn't. You listened to the shaker bottle instead — the low slosh of whatever was left in it, once per step, right behind your shoulder.

"You'll get the summary Thursday," you said.

"Okay."

"And I'll send the ladder separately. It's easier to look at on its own."

"Okay."

Six steps. You knew exactly what was in the air behind you and you kept walking through it and said a professional thing about a bond ladder, because that was the option available, and because you'd been taking it for three quarters.

Reception looked up. You said something to her about the ten-thirty. Joe said thanks on his way past, to nobody in particular, and she said of course in a voice about an octave off her usual one.

Then the elevator bank, and the button, and the number climbing.

"Y/N."

"Hm."

The doors opened. He got on.

He turned around, and he had the shaker bottle in one hand, and he looked at you standing there in the hallway with your laptop against your chest for about as long as it takes to breathe once.

He leaned out past the doorframe, looked down the hall toward reception, and leaned back in.

Then the doors started to close, and he reached out, grabbed you by the wrist, and pulled hard, and the laptop came off your chest, and you caught it against your hip.

The doors shut on the two of you.

He had you against the back wall before they'd finished. The shaker bottle went down somewhere — you heard it hit and roll and you never once looked at it — and his hand came up under your jaw, and for about half a second it was almost careful, his thumb along the line of it, the way you'd touch something you were checking for damage.

Then his mouth was on yours and it stopped being careful.

You kissed him back so fast it couldn't have been a decision.

Ten. Nine.

He tasted like nothing. Water and gum. His hair was still wet where you got your fingers into it, and you pulled, and the sound he made went into your mouth and stayed there — low, and you were going to be hearing it at your desk in six minutes.

You had the laptop pinned between your hip and the wall. You would not let go of it. Some part of you was still an employee.

Eight.

His hand went from your jaw to the back of your neck, and he tipped your head and got deeper into it, moving you further into the corner, away from the doors, away from the seam of light, and you let him. His other hand came flat on the wall by your shoulder, and every time you moved you came up against him.

The laptop was still between you. He shifted to get closer and it dug into your hip and he didn't take it out of your hands and you didn't offer.

Seven. Six.

You got your hands on him properly for the first time — shoulders, down his back, around — and there was more of him than there was supposed to be everywhere you put them, and he went still for a second like the touching was the part that got him.

Then he wasn't still, and you heard yourself make a sound you had never once made in that building.

He said your name into your mouth. Not a question this time.

He huffed something after it that was almost a laugh.

"Shut up," you said, and pulled him back in.

Five.

You got a fistful of the shirt at his back — and there was nowhere in it for your hand to go, that was the thing, the fabric had nothing to spare — and he came in closer, and he kissed you like he'd been building the whole thing since a Tuesday in July, which he had, and you'd known, which was the part you were going to have to live with.

Four.

He pulled back an inch.

Both of you breathing. His forehead came down against yours and stayed there. His hand was still on your neck and his thumb moved once and then stopped, and you had your mouth open to say something and no idea what it was going to be, and he was waiting for it, and it didn't come.

He didn't say his either.

Three. Two.

He let go of your neck. Stepped back. Bent down and picked up the shaker bottle off the floor and straightened his shirt with one hand, and you got the laptop back up against your chest, and neither of you said anything at all.

The doors opened on the lobby.

He stepped off.

He didn't look back and he didn't say goodbye and you understood exactly why, because there were people in that lobby and one of them was holding a Bengals cup, and you stood there in the corner of the elevator with your laptop against your chest while the doors closed on his back.

Then you were alone, going up.

Ten floors is a long time. You looked at the seam where the doors met. You got your hair back off your face with one hand and pressed your mouth closed and felt how warm it was and stopped doing that immediately.

Reception said something to you when you came out. You said something back.

Your ten-thirty was already in the small conference room, a retired dentist and his wife, and you had their file open on the table and the projector on before you sat down. You were good at this.

You ran the ten-thirty without a hitch. You walked them out. You sat down at your desk, and you looked at the wall of your cube, and you said, "What the fuck was that," out loud, to nobody.

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[jarofstyles]

Willow

Hello my lovebugs… I’ve been writing this series for about 9 months on Patreon and I figured it’s about time to give birth to it here. These two have a lot going on and it’s giving beauty and the beast meets wolfrry, so I hope you guys enjoy!

Check out our Patreon for early access to the next parts (18 and counting) and 370+ exclusive series and writings

WC- 4.7k

Warnings-werewolf, alpha/omega dynamics, kinda asshole!Harry, storms, injury, talk of heat/rut, mentions of past violence

The storm had rolled in fast.

Y/N knew she wasn’t supposed to be out so late, but the surely ruined, soggy book in her backpack had distracted her. It was so easy to lose herself in the fairytale, a tale as old as time. A beastly man and a woman who softened him up, set in centuries past. She’d been ecstatic when the book shop in town had called her to tell her the copy they’d ordered for her had arrived and she had decided to make a whole day of it. 

Find the wildflower pasture, sit under the biggest weeping willow she had found, bring a few snacks and read until her alarm went off. Get back home before sunset, when the forest was known to become disorienting. 

That plan had gone to shit in chapter 3, when she was completely immersed in her book- and it had all gone downhill the moment she heard the rumble of thunder and the first raindrop hit her nose. 

It had been foolish to wander off to the forest, especially this deep in it. without telling anyone. It was especially foolish as an omega- but she hadn’t been thinking. Y/N had always possessed a dreamy mind and she knew that. Some people call her ditsy, or lost in the clouds but she preferred to say she was a dreamer. She always had been and she didn’t particularly see anything wrong with that. 

This time, however, she did blame herself for not being aware of her surroundings. It left her here. 

Lost in the woods for hours, soaked through, shivering as she stumbled toward the distant light in the trees. The rain came down so hard that she was soaked to the bone, icy droplets feeling more like shards of glass as she fought her way through it. Her vision was blurred from the sheer amount of rain and the tiredness hitting her as she walked, waterlogged clothes and backpack useless on her form. Her phone was surely fucked, as was anything she could have used for survival in the backpack- and it wasn’t much. Half of an almond butter and jelly sandwich, a snack pack of cookies, an orange, a stuffed animal keychain hanging off the side- useless. 

It didn’t help that she had wrenched her damn ankle in the midst, sharp pain shooting up her calf as she took every step. 

In her attempt to find shelter, she went towards the lights that seemed to be smeared through the thick grove of trees. Up a curved driveway, she made her way through the cannot that gave her the tiniest bit of relief so she could see the place in front of her. 

Anywhere would have been fine… but the last she had expected to find was the cabin she had always been told to stay far, far away from.

Y/N had no choice. Regardless of the rumors of its inhabitant, if she didn’t want to freeze to death out here- she needed to hope to god that he wasn’t as bad as people said, and would take mercy on her. 

Her wolf was whining in her head as she got closer to the house, urging her forward as she dragged herself up the wooden steps. She could feel her energy drain more and more as she took each one, the push from her wolf being the thing that helped her conquer the final one. Every last drop of hope was rising in her throat as she knocked weakly on the door, barely able to feel her fingers.

It took a minute. Y/N leaning against the doorframe to try to keep herself upright as she took deep breaths, lightheadedness clouding her as she thought she picked up on the footsteps coming towards the door. It felt like a death march, the sound of the slow unlatching of a few locks as her vision blurred- and the door swung open.

The man standing before her was huge in a way she wasn’t fully used to, even being surrounded by her pack her whole life. This one beat them all out, tall, broad in shoulder and in torso, and even with her blurry vision she could make out some sharp features shadowed in flickering firelight. He was backlit, making him look shadowy as he stood before her- and even in her slightly delusional state, she knew he was powerful. It cut through her as she took deep inhales, feeling the swimming feeling hit her as she tried to speak. 

Her wolf yipped, urging her towards him. As terrified as she was, and as reckless as her wolf could be, she didn’t have much of a choice. Her body couldn’t handle much more, but being in such a strong, overpowering presence had her trying to hold onto her consciousness.

This man was an alpha. No ifs, ands, or buts. Even if she couldn’t make out his scent in the rain, she knew it.

“Help- please.” She whispered with the last of her strength to speak. 

This was completely and utterly the worst case scenario. Omega. Unmated. Hurt. Alone.

He could do anything and there would be nothing she could do about it.

“You shouldn’t be out here.” His voice was gravel, low and dangerous.

“I-I got lost,” she stammered. “The storm-”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes flickered, something primal and dark stirring behind them. “You shouldn’t be out here at all. The woods aren’t for little things like you.”

Y/N shivered, not just from cold, but from the way his voice curled around her, heavy with something unspoken. Her jumbled brain couldn’t exactly take the time to figure out what. A weird sensation of warmth was crawling up her feet all the way up to her chest, and she wasn’t sure if it was her body having a last ditch effort to keep her going… or something else. 

Then another gust of wind howled through the trees, and he cursed under his breath.

“Inside, omega. Now.”

That rumbling tone was all it took for her to drop.

——

Y/N woke up slowly, her body aching all over. 

She felt like she'd been hit by a truck. 

As her eyes fluttered open, she found herself nestled under a heavy blanket, surrounded by pillows. The fire crackling nearby provided a warmth that thankfully went down to her bones to beat out the cold that had previously resided there, casting dancing shadows on the wooden walls. She blinked a few times, trying to remember how exactly she gotten here. 

The last thing she vaguely remembered was collapsing on the doorstep, cold and exhausted from the storm- and a presence. A large, looming presence.

She slowly pushed herself up, wincing as her muscles protested. The real anxiety hit her as she looked down to see her body as the blanket fell down her chest, exposing her skin. She had stripped down to her underwear, her wet clothes nowhere to be seen. 

Y/N winced yet again, wrapping the blanket tightly around herself to keep her chest from being exposed in the still damp bra. She was on a couch, the most comfortable one she'd ever felt, placed directly in front of the large fireplace. There were pillows everywhere, like someone had gone overboard trying to make her comfortable, which she couldn’t really fathom why. Her hair was damp, messy from her stupid storm adventure, spread out over the pillow, and she really didn’t know where to go from here.

Thank whoever had helped her, obviously- but with another crash of thunder, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to get out of here right away. 

As she found her bearings, taking her first deep breath, the strong scent of what had to be an alpha hit her like a slap, making her head spin. The scent had her wolf yawning, relaxed in her head, which… was a first, to be honest. Usually restless and whining to get out and do something, find something, she had actually found comfort in their current position. 

Though Y/N wasn’t sure she could argue. The scent was fresh and warm, like freshly chopped pine wood with a bit of peppermint with some smoke lingering. It surrounded her, filling her senses and seeping into her skin. It was masculine and powerful, like a dark forest after rain, mixed with a hint of something sweet, like honey, maybe?

All she knew was the it smelled incredible. Her muscles relaxed as she found herself nuzzled into the blanket, burying her face in the soft fabric, taking a deep inhale as it settled over her. The blanket smelled strongly of an alpha's scent, like they had wrapped it around her themselves. She could feel the warmth of the fire against her cheeks, and the softness of the pillows cradling her head and shoulders. She sank deeper into the nest of blankets and pillows, her body relaxing as the alpha's scent enveloped her completely.

It was conflicting to say the least. She should be terrified considering her position. An unmated omega with a restless wolf who didn’t seem to have much self preservation, weakened by both exhaustion and the slight injury to her ankle, all alone with an alpha- which she was beginning to recall- but instead, she felt her body melting into the pillows, her breathing slowing as she inhaled the rich, woodsy scent. 

It was strange to say the least. Like her body recognized the alpha's scent and was trying to comfort her, rather than warn her of danger.

The longer she sat in her makeshift nest, the more it came back to her just where she was. Just who she was with. 

The cabin, the tall, looming presence, the growl of his voice- the drop. She was in probably the worst case scenario, and yet… she still wasn’t panicked. 

The rumors had painted a terrifying picture of the alpha who lived in the big cabin, removed from the packs outlying. He was said to be huge, ferocious, and reclusive, preferring the company of his axes and the trees over people. When a string of murders had happened in the forest only a thirty minute hike from his cabin, they had sworn up and down that it was him. That he had been in a rut induced rage, murderous and territorial of the space around his cabin. 

While all secondary genders knew to stay away from this neck of the woods, Omegas specifically were warned to stay far away, as no one wanted to trigger his rut- and anyone else was told to stay away as to not trigger his rage. They said he could kill someone in minutes, that he was a danger to them all and had been rightfully outcast.

 Y/N, though, had always thought it was a little bit cruel to paint a man who obviously had something wrong with him as a monster- it was perhaps social anxiety, or a pure hatred of people, but that didn’t mean he was some monster. However, that also didn’t mean that she purposefully came here. She avoided the area just in case. 

Now, she was pretty sure she was nearly naked in his den, covered in his scent. But he had taken care of her- wrapped her in fine fur blankets and kept her warm when he very well could have left her out on his porch to die- or worse.

She settled in her spot as she heard footsteps, trying her best to be as alert as possible- but her body felt more at ease than she would have mentally liked to be. The sound got louder as she pulled the blanket further up her body as if it could defend her if need be, taking a breath and holding it as the alpha strode into the room, carrying a tray with a steaming mug of something that smelled strongly of herbs and honey. His gaze fell on Y/N, curled up under the blankets, and he paused, inhaling deeply before setting the tray down heavily, the mug clinking against the wood.

 "Drink," he gruffed, nodding at the mug. "It's a warming tonic. You're still trembling."

Y/N eyed the mug warily, her first thought yelling at her not to drink anything from an alpha she barely knew, even if she was cold- and even if he did save her from the storm. While her wolf had snorted and called her dramatic, her wariness must have shown on her face, because he sighed heavily and took a large gulp of the liquid, closing his eyes briefly as he swallowed before continuing. "There. Now drink. I'm not going to poison you to get you into my bed. I am not going to harm you. You’re going to be sick from being out there if you don’t let me help you."

Y/N hesitated for a moment longer, then reached for the mug with trembling fingers. She took a sip, her brows furrowing at the unfamiliar taste- a blend of lavender, honey, and something like mint, maybe? There was some sage too, and the faintest hint of elderberry. As the warm liquid slid down her throat, she couldn't help but let out a shaky breath through her nose. It was surprisingly pleasant. She took another sip, then another, until half the mug was gone. 

The alpha watched her intently, leaning against the fireplace mantle with his arms crossed. It wasn’t lost on her that he had backed off, giving her some needed space between the both of them… though part of her- the wolf part- felt oddly offended.

 "Why the fuck were you out there?" The alpha spoke after a few moments of silence and staring. His tone had a gruffness to him that had her feathers ruffled, making her shrink back a bit into the blankets.

The alpha's gaze sharpened as she shrank back, his eyes narrowing. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said quietly, though there was a hint of frustration in his tone. "You're in my house, wrapped in my blankets. I just saved you from freezing to death. The least you could do is answer my fucking question." He pushed off from the mantle and moved closer, towering over her for a moment before he sat down in a nearby armchair, something that must have been custom made considering the man would probably make any normal chair look like it was for a child.

"Answer the question, omega." He growled softly, watching as she hid herself in the blankets like a shield. 

Her body language was screaming 'scared'. He wasn't an idiot. He knew he was scaring her, but he wasn’t meaning to. The idea of her out there pissed him off. 

His wolf was pissed the fuck off, even more than the man was. Rage wasn’t unfamiliar to him, it was like an old friend, but it wasn’t pleasant. He was trying to keep the visible snarl off his face as his wolf tried to urge him closer to check her over again, but it wasn't a smart idea. Not when she was already scared. 

What kind of pack let omegas walk around in the woods unattended? Did they not know the dangers of being unclaimed out there? Or did they just not care? 

That thought alone had his hackles raised, wanting to take a bite out of whoever ran her pack now- but he needed to calm down. It likely wasn’t her fault. Most packs around these parts shielded the omegas, he knew. It wasn't something he fully disagreed with. Sometimes it was better to take care of the problem instead of alerting the masses. The stress could take a real toll on the omegas and he knew that, but if there was real danger wouldn’t they want to ensure they didn’t go off alone? Or was it that this one in particular was disobedient? 

Nevertheless, he felt the weird twinge under his chest as she avoided his gaze. It pissed him off that she seemed afraid, and he wasn’t helping his case by being a dick. 

She didn’t know that he wasn’t angry at her, but angry at her situation- or that he’d rather take his axe to his own hand than harm an omega. He took a deep breath and softened his voice slightly, trying to be less growly. "Where were you going?" He tried again. He watched as she uncurled slightly, wrapping the blanket more around herself like a security blanket.

Y/N hesitated, biting her lower lip nervously as she glanced up at him through her lashes. "I... I was reading," she admitted with a hesitant whisper. "I went out to the willow tree in that big flower field but I-I got lost in a book and didn't realize how late it had gotten. Then the storm hit and- and it got so bad so fast, I couldn't see where I was going and the trail got all muddy so I couldn’t walk properly." She hugged the blanket tighter, as if it could shield her from his disapproval. "I know it was stupid. I shouldn't have wandered off like that, but it wasn’t on purpose."

Harry listened to her explanation, his expression softening as she spoke. He could smell the tinge of guilt and self-reproach mixed with her naturally sweet scent- one he was trying very hard not to think about. The alpha sighed, running a hand through his hair as he gathered the correct thing to say. It was obvious she was a sensitive little thing and he was… blunt, to put it kindly. Kind of a dick and very abrasive if you were being fully honest. 

"You weren't trying to be foolish, the" he conceded, letting out a grunt. "Just... distracted." He paused, considering her for a moment before speaking again. "You're an omega. You're not mated. Your pack doesn't warn you not to be in the woods without a chaperone?" 

It was so foolish to him. 

Why they wouldn’t protect their most precious, their most vulnerable, the most valuable in the best ways they could. “The forest had so many dangers for unmated omegas… Are you not aware of them?”

Y/N blinked up at him, looking startled by his questions. "W-well, yes, I'm an unclaimed omega," She stammered, heat prickling her cheeks. "But usually I'm very careful! I just... got carried away this time." She glanced down, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. "We're warned somewhat. They usually say if you’re unmated, go in pairs. But I live so close to the edge of the territory, I didn't think..." Her voice trailed off as she realized how stupid that sounded.

Harry shook his head slowly, a rueful chuckle escaping him despite himself. "Close enough that you think a solo walk is safe." he murmured, tone dry. "Guess they don't tell you just how dangerous it can actually get, or you wouldn’t be out there at all. Especially for someone who zones out reading." He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees as he eyed her seriously. The disapproval and irritation on his face was enough to make her wince. 

"Unmated omegas get targeted. By rogues, other packs who have low omega numbers, and apparently even feral alphas in perpetual rut.” He gave her a look, knowing that she more than likely had heard that very untrue rumor about himself. “It isn’t fair, it shouldn’t happen, but bad things happen in the woods. All sorts of nasty shit when you’re not prepared. And if it isn’t another person or animal, it’s the elements.” 

It horrified him to think of what would have happened if she didn’t find his cabin. Even the thought had his wolf snarling and snapping, enraged at the possibilities.

He watched as she digested his words, her eyes wide and taking in everything he said. He could see the realization dawning on her face, the understanding of just how much danger she had put herself in, and at the very least she was beginning to get it. The fact she hadn’t been aware at all made him want to growl in frustration, but he kept it in check. "Your belongings are unsalvageable. Your phone was put in rice but it doesn’t seem to want to power on. What pack do you belong to?”

Well, fuck. 

Y/N swallowed hard, her mind reeling from the information overload. Not only had she had a brush with death, but she was sitting in front of Harry Styles. Y/N had heard the stories, of course, but she had always brushed them off as exaggerations. Now, sitting here in the cabin of the infamous 'feral alpha', she was realizing just how naive she had been. 

If he had truly been feral in the way her pack had sworn, she would be dead right now. She had no phone, her ankle was wonky, and she had no true idea how far she was away from her own territory.  "I... I belong to the Whispering Willow Pack," she admitted, pushing her damp hair behind her ear.

"Of course you do.” Harry muttered darkly. The irony was there, of course, because of course a sweet little omega like her hadn’t been warned about all of the dangers- just warned about him, most likely. 

It wasn't hard to remember why he left that damn pack. 

He had gotten into a fist fight with the beta son of the Alpha because he had been too handsy with an omega who had said no. He had snapped the beta's nose and nearly killed him. Instead of thanking him for protecting the omega, as they should have, they had thrown him out of the pack, twisting the narrative about why he had left and made his cabin considered to be exiled. 

Now he was the big, bad wolf. Their urban legend to scare people away from the forest as opposed to the real, tangible threats. 

 "How old are you?" He asked sharply. And why did he not remember her? Surely he would have. He was 34, and she looked to be a bit younger. If they went to school together at all… he definitely would have noticed her. He’d have remembered that scent. Still, something about her was so familiar that he was wracking his brain to figure out why.

Y/N blinked at the abrupt question, startled. "Twenty five." She replied softly, teeth catching her lip nervously as she tried to place him too. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but her memories were hazy.  She didn’t think she had ever met him properly. He was a few years ahead of her, which would explain why she couldn't quite place him on sight alone. He seemed so familiar, though. Safe. 

For all she knew, she should be begging him to let her go and let her hobble home, or use his phone to call someone to get her as soon as possible. She didn’t know why she felt so… calm. "Do I... do I know you? Have we met before? I know… I know of the rumors and things but you seem so familiar to me, and I can’t place it." she asked hesitantly, furrowing her brow as her wolf was whining at her that this alpha was somehow significant.

Maybe they’d run into each other on neutral territory before? Though, she didn’t think she would be able to forget a huge alpha wolf. Not one as powerful as he seemed to be. It dripped off of him, and there was no mistaking that. 

Harry's eyes narrowed as she asked the question. "You would know me if you did. I don’t think we have met.”

There was that damn inexplicable pull towards her. His wolf wanted to be near her, to inhale her scent deeper, to wrap her in his arms and keep her close and nip at her skin and that simply wouldn’t do.

He couldn’t do that. 

 It was confusing and irritating, because he hadn’t felt this way about any omega before- he hadn’t wanted to. He had always been content with his solitude, not caring to mate or have pups. But this omega... She was different, and he wasn’t sure why. His wolf was urging him closer, wanting to reach out and touch, but he restrained himself for now. "Answer me something." It wasn’t a question but a demand as he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. There was a real chance she could slap him over the question, but with his mind feeling a bit less sharp as normal and the urges he felt, he had to ask.

"Are you close to your heat?" He asked bluntly, his nostrils flaring as he tried to pick up any scent that would indicate she was in her most fertile cycle. He wasn’t subtle about it either. It would possibly explain the weird pull he felt towards her- his instincts kicking in at the scent of a receptive omega. 

She just smelled so good his mouth wanted to water. Like honey and lavender with a hint of something spicy like cinnamon. He wasn’t sure if she always smelled this good or if she was close, and he had to ask. 

Why did he want to bite her? Why did he want to crawl over her on the sofa and cover her with his body, keep her pinned there as he rubbed his face all over her soft skin and keep her smelling like him? His wolf was already preening at the fact she was covered in scented blankets, but he wanted the real thing on her.

He wouldn’t, obviously, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t fighting that part of him from wanting to come out. “I’m not going t’do anything. You don’t have to worry. You’re fine. But I just… it smells like you’re a few days out, perhaps.” 

And if she was, it was an even more stupid decision of her to end up in the woods.

Y/N's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink at his question, understanding what he was asking. "No, I'm not. I don’t think so." She replied, shaking her head. "I mean, I’m not in heat. My cycle is pretty regular and I’m definitely not due for another few weeks." She hugged the blanket tighter around herself, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and morbid curiosity. Why was he asking her this? What did she smell like to him to make him ask?

Harry's brow furrowed, his mind trying to puzzle together why he was feeling this strange pull towards her if she wasn't close to her heat. His wolf should be itching to get her out of his house, to get as far away as possible, not stirring and whining like a pup over an omega he had never met prior to catching her soaked body before it fell onto his porch. "You're sure?" He pressed, searching her face. "You can't be mistaken? You're not one of those omegas who have irregular cycles? Started a new suppressant or something to trigger it?"

Y/N met his gaze steadily, with a small degree of confidence. "I'm positive," she said softly but firm on the issue. "My cycle has always been regular. Like clockwork, actually. I keep track of it meticulously because... well, you know how it is for omegas." She gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "Or- or you wouldn’t because you’re an alpha, I guess, but wouldn't risk being out in the woods if I thought there was even a chance I was close to my heat. It's just not worth it."

Harry's expression turned pensive as he processed her words. On one hand, it was reassuring to know she wasn't out in the woods during a vulnerable time, which spoke to her intelligence and at least some sort of self-preservation instincts. 

But on the other hand... his wolf was going absolutely fucking crazy to get closer to her, and Harry was now stuck trying to figure out why he felt so drawn to her when she wasn't even close to being in heat. 

It made no sense- and the only option he could think of as to why wasn’t something plausible for him. 

He needed a moment to think, to breathe without her scent clouding his judgement.

“Fine. I will get you food. Don’t move.”

[mrs-delaney]

Out Of Your Hair | Joe's Version

pairings: joe burrow x reader 🩶 wc: 590 an: you asked how joe would handle this one instead of aj, so 🤭 same premise, not the same night. aj's version is here if you missed it, and the masterlist is here.

You're on your stomach with your face turned toward the window, one arm shoved under the pillow, the sheet somewhere down around the backs of your knees. His hand is on your back. Two knuckles working the knot beside your shoulder blade, slowly, the same three inches over and over. He's been at it long enough that he's stopped knowing he's doing it.

Rain on the glass.

Days. You have known this man days. You keep remembering that, and it keeps refusing to sound true.

"Y/N."

"Yeah — no, I know." You're already up on your elbow. Your shirt is somewhere on his side of the bed, which is the wrong side, which means getting all the way up. "Give me five minutes. Ten, tops, and I'll get out of your hair."

The hand stops.

You wait for him to say something. He doesn't. The rain keeps going, and he doesn't say anything at all, and the silence gets wide enough that you start putting things in it.

"I didn't mean to be here this long. I have my car, so — it's fine, I don't live far." You're sitting up now, dragging the sheet with you. "You've probably got stuff in the morning. I'm not trying to make it weird."

Nothing.

"I'm just gonna grab my shirt."

You reach across him for it. He gets there first — has it in his hand before you've made it halfway, and he holds it out to you, and when you take it, he doesn't let go.

You pull. He doesn't.

He's looking at you now, and his face isn't doing anything you can read.

"Out of my hair," he says.

"It's an expression."

"Mhm. I know." His free hand comes over yours on the shirt and stays. "Do you have to work tomorrow?"

"No. I'm off Thursdays."

"Okay. That's — " He stops. Almost laughs. "That's what I was gonna ask you. Before you got going."

"Before I got going."

"You had a whole thing prepared."

"I didn't have a thing prepared."

"Five minutes, ten tops." His grip tightens on the shirt. "I don't want you doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Any of it. The clock, the getting out of my hair, whatever that speech was." He's quiet for a second, and you can hear him deciding to keep going. "I've been laying here for twenty minutes trying to figure out how to ask you to stay, and you were already packing."

"Joe, it's been four days."

"I know how long it's been. I can count." He says it plainly, no defense in it. "If you want to go, I'm not keeping you. But I want you to stay, baby."

You're still holding one end of your shirt and he's still holding the other, and you're aware that this is the stupidest position you have ever conducted a conversation from.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I'll stay." And then, because he hasn't let go of it yet: "You can have the shirt."

He exhales through his nose. Takes it — the whole thing, no ceremony about it — and drops it over the far side of the bed where you'd have to go through him to get it.

Then he lies back down and pulls the sheet up over both of you.

His hand finds your back in the dark. The same spot, two knuckles, slowly — and then slower, searching for something that isn't there anymore.

"Huh," he says, to nobody.

He leaves his hand there anyway. Then his arm goes around you, and he pulls you back against him, and neither of you says anything else about it.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷

[fanficwritinggirl]

𝐂𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊

Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader

Four-Part Series | Complete

Summary: A code black leaves you trapped inside the Pitt with an unstable explosive and Jack helplessly watching from the other side of the glass. With neither of you knowing how the night will end, the feelings you have both been avoiding become impossible to ignore.

Pairing: Dr Jack Abbott x F!Reader

Warnings: Bomb and explosive threat, blast injuries, blood and medical gore, serious injuries, emergency medical procedures, hospital evacuation, near-death situations, panic and anxiety, emotional distress, trauma and its aftermath, protective Jack, angst and hurt/comfort.

Warnings vary between parts. Please read the individual warnings included at the beginning of each chapter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲.

[mrs-delaney]

The Speech

pairings: joe burrow x reader 🏆🌌 wc: 1.4k an: anon, this was a "fire" idea and i knew immediately i had to write it. sometimes ideas come really slow. this one came really quick. i hope you love it 💋 masterlist

The category is four away.

Joe’s had your clutch in his lap since the second commercial break. You handed it to him without asking. He took it without looking.

“They’ll cut to me either way,” he says. “Win or lose.”

“How do you know that.”

“I asked Dov.”

You turn to look at him. The tux fits him the way everything fits him and he still sits in it like it belongs to somebody else. He doesn’t look over. His thumb is moving on the inside of your wrist, slow, and you don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

He called your publicist. Sometime before the dress fittings, before the ballots closed. Asked her what was going to happen to his face and then never brought it up again.

You put your hand on his knee and leave it there.

A man in the row ahead turns around and leans across Joe to reach you — something about a lunch, a project, a name you’re supposed to recognize. Joe sits back to make room. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t offer his hand. When the man is done and turns around again, Joe is exactly where he was, thumb still going.

Then he leans in. His mouth comes close to your ear and his voice doesn’t travel past you.

“They pointed a telescope at nothing once.”

“What?”

“Empty patch of sky. That’s why they picked it. Ten days looking at nothing.” He sits back and pulls at his cuff. “Three thousand galaxies in it.”

The orchestra comes up out of the commercial. Somewhere behind you a stage manager is counting people back into their seats, and you have maybe nine minutes left before a stranger reads your name into a microphone, and the man next to you is doing deep field astronomy in a tuxedo.

Then the presenter’s out and the clip package starts and your face is forty feet tall over the stage. Joe turns your hand over in his lap. Runs his thumb across the palm.

“Hey.”

“Hm.”

“Whatever they say in a minute.” He looks over at you now. “I’ve seen that scene more times than you have. I know what it took out of you. I’m proud of you and it’s got nothing to do with an envelope.”

You start to say something. He’s not done.

“I love you. I’d be sitting here if you lost. I’d be sitting here if it never came out.”

He closes your hand and puts it back on his knee and keeps his over it.

———

They read your name.

The row comes up around you. Somebody’s hand on your back, somebody’s train under your heel, and in the middle of it Joe’s mouth is at your ear, close, his hand still on you.

“Don’t look for me. They’ll find me.”

You don’t remember the stairs. They’re steeper than they look on television, and then you’re at the microphone with the thing in your hand and it’s heavier than anyone tells you.

The lights come up. You can see the first two rows. Past that it’s black — four thousand people you can hear and can’t find.

“Okay.” Your voice comes back at you off the far wall. “I’m doing this first, because if you save your person for the end they play you off.”

The laugh rolls up out of the dark and you let it go by.

“Joe — I know there’s a camera in your face right now and I know exactly how much you hate it. I love you to the moon and the stars and the galaxies. You know which ones.”

Four thousand people make a noise at once and you have no idea what a single one of their faces is doing.

You keep going. Your agent, thirteen years. The director, by name, twice, because she earned it twice. Three of the cast, fast, and the crew as a category because there isn’t time and they know there isn’t time. The red light starts up at the back of the house and you’re already wrapping, thank you, thank you, and the orchestra takes the last two words off you.

A woman with a headset has your elbow. At the top of the stairs you turn and look back at the room.

It’s just dark.

———

The suite’s too big. The statue’s on the bathroom counter next to your earrings because that’s where your hands were when you took the earrings out, and you haven’t decided where it actually goes. Somebody sent champagne. It’s sweating in the bucket. Neither of you has touched it.

Joe’s jacket is over the back of a chair. His tie’s on the dresser. He hasn’t said much since the car, but he’s been inside four feet of you since the door closed, and every time you move he moves.

“Can you get this.”

You turn your back to him and pull your hair over one shoulder. His hands come up. The zipper’s small and the fabric’s stiff and it takes him a second to find it, and then he takes it down slow, knuckles dragging the whole length of your spine.

He doesn’t step back when he’s done.

“That was the proudest I’ve ever been of anybody.”

You go still under his hands. He doesn’t take it back or put anything on top of it.

“Joe.”

“I mean it. Anybody.” His hand flattens on your arm. “I’ve been in a lot of rooms.”

You wait. You’ve learned to wait.

“Proud’s not the word.” He turns you around by the shoulders. “I’ve been saying it all night because it’s the one they hand you at these things. It’s not the word.”

“Joe.”

“Hang on.” He shuts his eyes. Opens them. He’s looking at you like the tux is on too tight. “You’ve wanted this since you were nine. You told me that on the second date and then you didn’t bring it up again for three years because you didn’t want to be somebody who talked about it.”

You don’t say anything.

“And you get up there tonight and the first thing out of your mouth is me.” His hand comes to the back of your neck. “I don’t have anything that’s the right size for —”

He quits. Pulls you in instead, the dress half off you and his shirt still tucked, his mouth against your hair, holding on with both arms, and he doesn’t make a joke.

You stand there in the middle of a suite you didn’t pay for with an award on the bathroom counter and let him.

After a while, into your hair: “You said I’d know which ones.”

“You do.”

“I’ve been going through them since the car.” He doesn’t move his mouth out of your hair. “Sombrero. Whirlpool. Pinwheel. Sunflower. There’s one called the Tadpole.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I’m not making up the Tadpole.”

His hand goes flat between your shoulder blades.

“Those,” he says. “I love you to those.”

———

You find it at two in the morning.

Joe’s asleep on his stomach with one arm hanging off the side of the bed. The room is dark except for your phone. It’s everywhere — your name, the clip, forty accounts posting the same eleven seconds.

You turn the sound almost off and watch yourself say it. You look calmer than you were.

Then it cuts to him.

He isn’t clapping. Everyone around him is, and his hands are on his knees, and he’s looking up at the stage at you. He doesn’t stop. Not when the room laughs. Not when it comes up under you. The woman on his left turns to say something to him and he doesn’t turn.

His eyes are wet and none of it has come down. He blinks and it doesn’t fix anything. He blinks again and gives up on it, and his jaw sets, and he just lets his face do what it’s doing in front of a camera he asked about two weeks ago so he’d know exactly when it was on him.

Somewhere in there he nods. Small. You almost miss it.

It cuts away while he’s still looking at you.

he’s CRYING. this man has never emoted in his life. nobody has ever been loved the way that man loves that woman.

You watch it four times.

You put the phone face down on the mattress and the room goes black, and you can’t see him anymore. You can hear him. Slow, even, out through his nose.

Nothing on his face at all.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷

[mrs-delaney]

Hands to Myself

pairings: joe burrow x reader 🩷 wc: 2.2k an: okay! here it is. the council approved it so i bring it to you. anon i hope i captured what you wanted. me and the council are in full agreement that dude is actually affectionate as fuck. masterlist

Courtside. Actual courtside — no rows in front of you, your feet almost on the hardwood, the photographers kneeling six feet away with their lenses swinging back and forth like windshield wipers.

Joe didn't dress down for it. Black leather jacket over a knit, the good pants, boots, one chain sitting just under his collar. He looks like he's supposed to be here. Two people have already asked for a picture, and he said of course both times, and both times he was watching the court again before they'd made it back to their seats.

He's watching it like film. Tracking the ball two passes before it gets there.

Late in the first, somebody misses a wide-open three and he makes a noise in the back of his throat.

"That's a shot he makes."

"Is it?"

"Ninety times out of a hundred." He leans back, knees wide because there's nowhere else for them to go. "Watch. He'll be pissed about it on the next possession."

Your hand is already halfway up before you know it's moving — the back of his neck, above his collar, where you put it on the couch and in the car and in line at the airport when it's just the two of you. You get as far as his shoulder.

Then you think about the lenses. And the broadcast camera on the dolly that's rolled past you twice. And how someone put him on the jumbotron in the first four minutes and the whole arena made a sound.

You put your hand in your lap.

Two seats down, a guy has his arm along the back of his girlfriend's chair, hand on her shoulder, and she's leaned into him with her head almost on his chest like it's her own living room. She's been like that since tipoff. Nobody's looking at them. Nobody's going to.

You watch it a second longer than you meant to and make yourself look back at the court.

The Lakers get a stop. The guy who missed pulls up from the same spot and buries it, and Joe says, "There it is," and puts his hand out for you to hit without looking over.

You hit it.

He glances at you then. Quick, sideways, down at your hands in your lap and back up to your face.

He turns back to the game.

—

Second quarter, official timeout, and the arena goes loud in that manufactured way — music up, some sponsored thing at half court involving a guy in a giant foam costume.

Joe stands up to get the blood back in his legs. He's been folded into a chair built for a person eight inches shorter than him since tipoff. You stand with him because sitting alone at courtside feels stranger than standing.

His hand settles on your lower back. Whole palm, low, warm through your shirt. He isn't doing anything with it. It's just where his hand goes.

He says something at your ear, under the music. Something about the foam costume. You don't fully catch it, but you catch the tone, and you laugh.

And then you sit down.

That's all you do. You don't lean back into his hand before you go. You don't turn your face toward his while he's that close. You put six inches between you and fold your hands and look at the guy in the costume.

His hand comes off your back.

He sits. Picks his water up off the floor, drinks, sets it down. Says nothing.

The timeout ends. The teams come back out and the noise drops to a normal noise, and he's got his forearms on his knees now, watching the inbound.

He doesn't look at you for a while.

—

He drives. The arena empties out around you in the garage for twenty minutes before you're even moving, and then you're on Figueroa and the city's going by orange and dark through the tint.

You're tired in a way that isn't about the game.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't say anything to that. Doesn't ask it a second way. He takes his right hand off the wheel and puts it on your knee.

You look at it. His thumb moves once, then stops.

At home you'd have your hand over his by now. Or your legs turned toward him. Or something. You keep your knee exactly where it is and you say, "That was a good game," and he says, "It was alright," and you watch a gas station go past.

His hand stays. He drives the rest of the way like that, one-handed, and he doesn't ask you anything else.

—

The house is dark except the light over the stove that neither of you ever turns off. He drops his keys in the bowl, gets a glass down, fills it at the sink. Drinks the whole thing standing there with his back to you.

You're at the island taking your earrings off.

"You were weird tonight."

"I wasn't weird."

He turns around. Sets the glass on the counter. Leans back against it with his arms crossed and waits, and the waiting is the problem, because you can outlast a question but you can't outlast Joe not asking one.

"I was tired."

"You weren't tired." He says it without any edge on it. "You didn't touch me all night."

You put the second earring down on the counter. It makes a small sound.

"Come here."

You don't move.

"Babe."

You go. He uncrosses his arms and you end up between his knees where he's leaned against the counter, and he puts his hands on your hips like it's nothing, like they've been waiting to go there all night.

"You think I don't want it."

"I think it's not fair to want it from you when I know what it costs you."

"You don't know what it costs me." His thumb moves against your hipbone. "It costs me nothing. Getting on a stage with a microphone costs me something. Doing an ad read costs me something. You putting your hand on my neck during a Lakers game is not on that list."

"There were photographers six feet in front of us."

"There were." He nods, agreeable, like you've made a nice point about the weather. "And they were gonna take the picture whether you touched me or not. That's the part you're not — " He stops. Restarts. "I keep it off my face in public because I don't want a hundred strangers in it. That's about them. It was never a rule about you. You made it a rule about you."

You don't say anything, because he's right and you're not ready to say he's right.

He takes your wrist. Brings your hand up and puts it on the back of his neck himself, under his collar, exactly where you started to put it in the first quarter and didn't.

"That's all I wanted all night," he says. "You've been sitting on your hands and I've been sitting there wondering what I did."

"You didn't do anything."

"I know. That's worse."

His arms come around you then and he pulls you into his chest, chin on top of your head, and you feel him let a breath out that he's been holding since the second quarter.

—

Thursday he gets back a little after nine from lifting with Micah, and you hear the shower go, and then he comes out in sweats with his hair still wet and stands in the doorway of the living room for a second like he's deciding something.

Then he crosses the room and lies down and puts his head in your lap.

You're in the middle of an episode of something. You pause it. He's got his face turned in toward your stomach, one arm hooked around your waist with his hand at your lower back, feet hanging off the far end of the couch because there was never going to be enough couch.

You put your hand in his hair.

He makes a sound. Not a word. Something out of his chest that you feel more than hear, and then he goes heavy in a way he only goes heavy here.

You do it for a while. Wet hair, temple, down behind his ear, back up. The dishwasher runs. Somewhere out on Beverly Glen somebody's alarm goes off and stops.

"This is my favorite place to be," he says.

Your hand stops. "Do what?"

"You heard me."

"Over Paycor?"

"Mhm."

"Joe. Over any football field in America on a Sunday."

"I didn't say it was an easy decision." He shifts his face further into your stomach. "But yes. And I'm confident in it."

You start again — behind his ear, back up through the wet at his crown. His arm tightens around your waist and stays that way.

After a minute he turns his face up toward you, eyes closed, and says, "Don't stop doing that."

You don't.

His breathing goes slow. You think he's gone, and then he says something into your stomach that you only get half of.

"What?"

"I said I love you." He doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't move.

You bend down and put your mouth against his hair and stay there for a second.

He's asleep before ten, which is early even for him, and you sit there with the TV paused and your hand in his hair until your leg goes numb and then a while after that.

—

Two weeks later, a place on Melrose with no sign on the door and eleven tables inside.

He pays. You get your jacket. He holds the door and you're two steps onto the sidewalk before you register the guys on the curb.

There are more than four or five. The first flash goes off close enough that you lose the street for a second — everything white, then everything purple, and you put a hand up before you can stop yourself, which you know is the worst thing you can do with your hands out here.

"Joe! Joe, over here — "

"Who's the girl?"

They say it again. Somebody says it a third time, louder, like you might answer.

You don't know where to look. Not at them, not at the ground, and forty feet suddenly reads like a very long distance in these shoes with white spots in your vision.

Joe takes your hand.

He doesn't slow down and he doesn't speed up. He just reaches over and takes it, laces his fingers through yours, and his grip is tighter than he holds your hand at home — tight enough that you feel exactly where he is when you can't see well enough to check.

You hold on. You hold on harder than you'd let yourself if there weren't cameras.

He doesn't answer any of them. Doesn't look at them. He walks you to the valet stand at a completely normal speed, and when the kid takes too long with the car he stands there in it with his thumb moving on the back of your hand.

He lets go to open your door. Then he shuts it behind you, walks around, gets in.

Two blocks of nothing. The city sliding by.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

He looks over. Waits.

"That was a lot," you say.

"It was a lot." He puts his hand back on your knee, squeezes once. "You did so good, baby. Held onto me the whole way."

You reach across and put your hand on the back of his neck.

He leans into it, and his right hand comes off the wheel and settles on your thigh, and neither of you says anything about either one.

You keep your hand on him the whole way up the canyon. He doesn't ask you to move it.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷

[professional-ficsmith]

There's my Home

Jack Abbot x Paramedic Reader

Synopsis: Paramedic Y/N and emergency physician Jack Abbot have spent years crossing paths in Pittsburgh's emergency department, but a string of shared shifts turns casual familiarity into late-night calls, coffee dates, and undeniable feelings. As their connection grows, they learn that loving someone in emergency medicine means accepting the risks that come with the job. When Y/N is seriously injured in the line of duty, Jack is forced to face the one thing he can't fix, proving that sometimes love is found not in the chaos, but in the quiet moments afterward.

-----

Jack sighed as he opened his front door and let his bags hit the floor. He stepped out of his shoes, pulled his shirt over his head, and headed straight for the shower. After a long, exhausting shift, he felt like he needed to wash the entire night off of him.

By the time he finally started settling in, he found himself standing in front of his fridge, staring blankly at the contents while trying to figure out what he could throw together for breakfast.

Before he could start cooking, his eyes drifted toward his phone sitting on the counter.

He hesitated for a moment before picking it up and opening your contact.

The last message from you sat at the bottom of the screen.

*I’ll be off in a while. I’ll call you when I get home.*

You had sent it three hours ago.

He hadn’t answered because a trauma had rolled through the emergency department moments after your message came in, and the rest of the shift had disappeared into controlled chaos.

Jack smiled slightly as he tapped a heart reaction on the message.

Almost immediately, his phone lit up.

You were calling.

“Were you thinking about me, Jack Abbott?” you teased the second he answered.

He rolled his eyes, even though you couldn’t see him. “I never responded, so I figured some sort of response was warranted.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, clearly amused.

Jack smiled as he grabbed a pan and started pulling ingredients from the fridge.

“How was your shift?”

You let out a tired sigh. “It was long. Like, really long. I think it was because it started so slow, and then all of a sudden everything happened at once. We went from sitting around for hours to being everywhere at the same time.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said.

“You mean like every shift in the ER?”

“Exactly.”

You laughed quietly. “I had some guy propose in the back of my ambulance tonight.”

Jack stopped what he was doing. “No way.”

“Yes way,” you said, laughing. “He hurt his wrist doing something stupid and ruined his actual proposal plan, so apparently the back of my ambulance was the next best option.”

Jack shook his head, laughing as he stirred the food in the pan. “Did she say yes?”

“She did.”

“Honestly? Kind of romantic.”

“Romantic?” you questioned. “Jack, he was holding an ice pack to his hand while asking her to marry him.”

“Still counts.”

You laughed again, and Jack found himself smiling at the sound. It was one of his favorite things about talking to you. After years of knowing each other, you still had a way of making even the worst nights feel lighter.

The two of you had known each other for years, long before either of you realized how often your paths would cross. You had always been the paramedic who somehow ended up bringing the most complicated patients into his emergency department, and Jack had always been the physician who recognized your voice before he even looked up from the chart.

Then, one week, it seemed like every call you took somehow ended up at his hospital.

At first, you joked it was because the universe was trying to annoy both of you. But after the third night in a row of seeing each other during absolute chaos, it started feeling less like coincidence.

The two of you had ended up talking in the hallway after a particularly brutal shift. Both exhausted, both running on caffeine and adrenaline, neither of you wanting to go home just yet.

You had laughed about how ridiculous it was that you spent years barely seeing each other, only for one week to make you unavoidable.

That conversation turned into coffee.

Coffee turned into late-night phone calls.

Late-night phone calls turned into something neither of you really had a name for yet. And somewhere along the way, Jack realized he had started looking forward to seeing your name light up his phone more than he wanted to admit.

“So,” you said, pulling him out of his thoughts, “how was your night?”

Jack leaned against the counter. “Busy.”

“That’s a very Jack Abbott answer.”

He smiled. “Fine. It was terrible.”

“Better.”

“Multiple traumas. A kid with a broken arm who was more worried about his video game than his injury. A guy who thought he could walk off chest pain because he was ‘too busy.’”

“Classic.”

“Exactly.”

You were quiet for a moment. “You sound tired.”

Jack looked down at the breakfast he had barely touched. “I am.”

“Did you eat?”

He glanced at the pan. “Currently making something.”

“That means no.”

He laughed softly. “You’re starting to sound like my nurses.”

“No, your nurses probably tell you because they have to. I’m telling you because I care.”

The words were simple, but they stayed with him.

Jack looked down at his phone, smiling. “You know you’re kind of bossy, right?”

“And yet you keep answering my calls.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

There was a pause. A comfortable one. The kind that had slowly become normal between the two of you.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad all my calls ended up at your hospital.”

He smiled, looking around his quiet apartment. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned against the counter, his exhaustion feeling a little less heavy than it had a few minutes ago. “Me too.”

Neither of you said anything after that.

You didn’t need to.

Because somewhere between ambulance bays, emergency room hallways, and conversations after impossible shifts, something had changed.

And neither of you wanted to go back.

----

The next two weeks were strangely quiet.

Not bad quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant something terrible was waiting around the corner. Just… quiet. The kind where Jack would finish a shift, stare at his phone, and think about calling you before deciding you were probably exhausted and needed sleep.

And you did the same.

Both of you were caught up in your own rotations, your own chaos, your own lives. You had traded a few texts here and there, but nothing like the late-night calls that had become routine.

Jack told himself it was fine. That it was normal. That two people who worked opposite sides of emergency medicine couldn’t always find time to talk.

But he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss it.

Missed hearing your voice after a long night.

Missed your sarcastic comments.

Missed the way you somehow managed to make a terrible shift feel less terrible.

So when his phone buzzed in the middle of another busy night, he glanced down expecting a message from one of the residents.

Instead, your name appeared. A smile immediately pulled at his face.

*See ya in a bit, cutie!*

Jack shook his head, unable to stop himself from smiling. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.

Before he could respond, the sound of an ambulance pulling into the bay caught his attention.

And then he heard you.

“BP is 90 over 60, heart rate 130, GCS is 12. Patient was involved in a rollover accident. Possible chest trauma, decreased breath sounds on the left side.”

Jack looked up immediately. Even before he saw you, he knew it was you. Your voice carried through the ambulance bay the same way it always did, confident, focused, completely different from the person who teased him over the phone.

The trauma came in fast. For the next several minutes, there was no flirting, no jokes, no catching up.

Just medicine.

Just teamwork.

Jack moved through the trauma like he always did, focused on the patient in front of him. But every so often, he caught a glimpse of you across the room, working alongside the nurses and residents before stepping back once the patient was stabilized.

Eventually, the chaos settled.

The patient was moved upstairs, the room was cleaned, and the emergency department returned to its usual rhythm.

Jack glanced toward the ambulance bay.

Your ambulance was still there.

Which meant you were still there.

He found himself walking outside before he could talk himself out of it. The cool night air hit him as he stepped into the bay, and that's when he saw you.

You were sitting on one of the benches near the entrance, your arms crossed over your chest and your eyes closed.

For a second, Jack just watched you.

You looked exhausted.

Not hurt. Not upset. Just tired.

The kind of tired only someone who worked nights in emergency medicine could understand.

He walked closer. “So you don’t call me for two weeks,” he said, crossing his arms, “and then what? You just show up at my ED?”

Your eyes opened slowly. You looked over at him and immediately rolled your eyes.

“Phone works both ways, old man.”

Jack scoffed. “Old man?”

“Yes.”

“You’re aware I’m only-”

“Older than me.”

“That is not an insult.”

“It is when I’m trying to annoy you.”

He laughed quietly, sitting down beside you. For a moment, neither of you said anything.

You leaned your head back against the wall. “I was going to call you.”

“Sure you were.”

“I was.”

“When?”

You looked at him. “Eventually.”

Jack smiled. “Exactly.”

You nudged his shoulder. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you missed me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Jack noticed.

And for once, he didn’t tease you about it. “I missed you too.”

Your expression softened slightly.

The teasing faded.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked down at his hands, a little quieter now. “Honestly? After a shift, I started getting excited to call you.”

You watched him carefully. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’d get home exhausted, barely able to keep my eyes open, and somehow I’d still want to hear about your night. Hear what ridiculous thing happened. Listen to you make fun of me.”

You smiled. “That’s a very specific thing to miss.”

“I like it.”

The admission hung between you.

Jack looked over at you. “And I know it was only two weeks.”

Your smile faded into something softer.

“But I noticed.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I noticed not having you there.”

For once, you didn’t have a sarcastic response ready.

You just looked at him. “Jack Abbott,” you said quietly, “are you telling me you missed me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You absolutely missed me.”

“I literally just said that.”

“You admitted it.”

“I did.”

You smiled. “And you’re not taking it back?”

“No.”

That surprised you.

Jack leaned back against the bench, looking out toward the empty ambulance bay.

“I like talking to you.”

Your expression softened. “I like talking to you too.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. The kind that didn’t need filling.

Then you glanced at him. “So… are you going to ask for my number again?”

Jack looked offended. “I already have your number.”

“Then why haven’t you used it?”

He laughed. “Okay, that was fair.”

You smiled. “Thought so.”

Jack stood up, offering you his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Coffee.”

You looked at the hospital behind him. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Jack, it’s two in the morning.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed as you took his hand. “Only emergency medicine people think that’s a normal time for coffee.”

“Exactly.”

And just like that, after two weeks of silence, you were back where you had started.

Late nights.

Bad coffee.

And finding each other somewhere in the middle of the chaos.

-----

The emergency department was already drowning before Jack Abbot’s night got worse.

As a SWAT physician and medic for the Pittsburgh Police Department, he was used to chaos. He was used to stepping into situations most people ran from. He was used to being the person others looked toward when things went wrong.

But even he knew there was a difference between controlled chaos and a situation that went sideways. A call had come in. A situation that required his team. And somewhere between treating officers and moving through the scene, a bullet had caught him.

Not a direct hit.

A graze.

But enough to leave a cut along his back and enough for his adrenaline to finally catch up with him. By the time he got back to the hospital, he was already irritated. Not because he was hurt. Because he knew exactly what everyone was going to say.

You should have someone look at that.

You should sit down.

You shouldn’t be treating yourself.

Which was exactly why he was currently standing in an empty room in the emergency department, trying to clean his own wound.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down. A message from you.

*You better not be ignoring me again.*

Despite everything, he smiled. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before he typed back.

*Got grazed.*

The response came almost immediately.

*What?*

He looked at the message. Then typed.

*I’m fine.*

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

*Jack Abbot.*

He laughed quietly.

*I’m fine.*

Your response was immediate.

*Where are you?*

He sighed.

Because somehow, even through a text message, you sounded exactly like you did when you were annoyed with him.

*ED.*

Another pause.

Then.

*Of course you are.*

Before he could answer, the familiar sound of an ambulance pulling into the bay caught his attention. And then he heard you.

“Patient involved in a high-speed collision. Possible internal injuries. BP is dropping, heart rate 140, altered mental status. We need trauma activation.”

Jack smiled despite himself.

Of course. Of course your team was already bringing someone in. Of course you were here.

He watched from a distance as you moved through the department, completely focused. You handed off the patient, gave report, and immediately started helping the trauma team.

Professional.

Focused.

The exact reason he respected you so much. But the second the patient was stabilized, your eyes started searching. And Jack knew he was in trouble.

He barely had time to step back into the small treatment room before the curtain opened.

You walked in. Closed it behind you. And stared at him.

“Are you serious?”

Jack looked up from where he was attempting to clean his own wound. And the smile that immediately appeared on his face gave him away. “There she is.”

You scoffed. “Oh, don’t ‘there she is’ me.”

You grabbed gloves from the counter and pulled them on. “You get shot at and your first thought is to text me that you’re fine?”

“I got grazed.”

“Jack.”

“It’s barely anything.”

“Jack.”

He stopped. Because that tone meant there was no arguing. You pointed toward the chair.

“Sit.”

He smiled. “You missed bossing me around.”

“I missed you being annoying less than five minutes ago.”

“Sure.” He sat.

You stepped between his knees and carefully started cleaning the wound.

The room went quiet.

Not awkward.

Just quiet.

The kind of quiet that only existed between the two of you. Jack watched you carefully.

The concentration on your face. The way your brows pulled together when you were worried but trying not to show it.

“You’re mad.”

You didn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Because I got hurt?”

“Because you got hurt and acted like it was nothing.”

“I knew I was okay.”

“That’s not the point.” Your voice softened. “You don’t always have to be the person who handles everything, Jack.”

That caught him. Because coming from anyone else, he probably would have brushed it off.

But from you? He listened.

You finished cleaning the wound and started applying the dressing. “You scared me.”

The words were quiet. And suddenly, the teasing disappeared.

Jack looked at you. “You were worried?”

You looked up. “Obviously.”

There it was. The thing neither of you had said out loud yet. The reason your coworkers had started noticing. The reason his nurses smiled every time your ambulance pulled into the bay. The reason your crew always seemed to know when Jack was working before you did.

You cared.

A lot.

When you finished patching him up, you didn’t immediately step away.

Neither of you moved.

Jack’s hands found your hips slowly. Not pulling. Not forcing.

Just a quiet question.

Stay.

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before meeting your gaze again.

“You know,” he whispered, “for someone who claims we’re just friends, you seem pretty invested in keeping me alive.”

You smiled slightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…”

“And yet.”

The space between you disappeared. Almost. You were close enough that neither of you could pretend anymore.

Close enough that you both knew what was about to happen.

And then-

The curtain flew open.

“Dr. Abbott, we need—”

The person stopped. You and Jack didn’t move. Not even slightly. There was a long pause.

Then both of you sighed.

The interruption was painfully obvious.

You stepped back first, shaking your head. “Of course.”

Jack smiled. “Bad timing.”

“Terrible timing.”

You pulled your gloves off and tossed them away. Then you looked back at him. The teasing returned, but softer now. “I’ll see you later, Abbot.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “We have a bunch to talk about after we get off.”

And then you walked away. Leaving Jack sitting there with a stupid smile on his face.

A smile that did not go unnoticed by the nurse standing nearby. “Who was that?”

Jack looked toward the curtain where you disappeared. And for once, he didn’t even try to hide it. “Someone important.”

The nurse smiled. “Yeah. We figured that out.”

-----

By the time you got home, the sun was already beginning to peek over the Pittsburgh skyline.

You kicked off your boots by the front door with a sigh, every muscle in your body reminding you just how long the shift had been. The hot shower did little to wash away the adrenaline that still lingered beneath your skin, but it helped.

After throwing together something quick to eat, you curled up on the couch in an oversized sweatshirt, letting the quiet of your apartment settle around you.

Your phone sat on the coffee table.

You picked it up, stared at Jack's contact for a second, and smiled to yourself.

After everything that had happened tonight...There was no way a text conversation was going to cut it.

You typed three simple words. *Call me please.*

You barely had time to lock your phone before it started vibrating in your hand.

Jack.

You answered with a grin. "That was fast."

"I was already reaching for my phone," he admitted.

You laughed softly. "Were you really?"

"Yeah." His voice was quieter than usual. "I've been thinking about tonight."

You tucked your legs underneath you. "So have I."

There was a comfortable silence between you. The kind the two of you had somehow mastered. Neither of you felt the need to rush into filling it.

Finally, you spoke. "You scared me."

Jack sighed. "I know."

"No." You rubbed your forehead. "I don't think you do."

He didn't interrupt.

"When you texted me that you'd been grazed..." You shook your head even though he couldn't see you. "My stomach dropped. I knew you were probably downplaying it because that's what you do, but all I could think was, 'What if this time it isn't just a graze?'"

Jack leaned back on his own couch, closing his eyes. "I didn't think about it like that."

"I know."

"I'm sorry." The apology came so easily that it caught you off guard.

"You don't have to apologize for getting hurt."

"I'm apologizing for making you worry."

Your shoulders relaxed. "Thank you."

Another quiet settled between you.

Jack broke it this time. "You looked good."

You blinked. "What?"

"When you walked into that room."

A laugh escaped you. "I was lecturing you."

"I know."

"I was annoyed."

"I know."

"I threatened to make you sit still."

"You definitely did."

"And somehow that's the part you remember?"

Jack smiled to himself. "No."

"What do you remember?"

He hesitated just long enough that you wondered if he'd answer. "I remember you closing the curtain."

Your heart skipped.

"I remember thinking..." He exhaled slowly. "Good. She's here."

You swallowed. "Jack..."

"I know it sounds ridiculous."

"It doesn't."

"I've spent years patching people up." He chuckled quietly. "I'm terrible at letting anyone do the same for me."

"You are."

"I know."

"But tonight..." He paused. "When you walked in and took over... I didn't mind."

You smiled to yourself. "Really?"

"No."

"No?"

"I liked it."

The confession hung between you.

Jack's voice softened even more. "I liked how close you were."

Your breath caught.

"You were standing between my knees, fussing over a scratch that I kept insisting wasn't a big deal."

"It wasn't just a scratch."

"I know." He smiled.

"But you kept looking at me like I mattered more than the paperwork waiting outside that curtain."

"You do matter more."

"I know. And..." He stopped again.

"What?"

"I don't know how to explain it."

"Try."

Jack stared out the window of his house as the early morning light crept across the room.

"When you're that close..." he said quietly, "everything else disappears."

You didn't say anything.

"I stop thinking about the department. The patients. The paperwork. The next disaster." He laughed under his breath. "I stop thinking."

Your heart was pounding now.

"And all I can think is..." He hesitated. "...this feels like home."

The words settled over you.

You closed your eyes. "Home?"

"Yeah."

He sounded almost embarrassed.

"I know that's probably too much."

"It isn't."

"You don't think so?"

"No." You smiled as you traced absentminded circles on the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "Want to know what I was thinking?"

"What?"

"When you put your hands on my hips."

Jack laughed nervously. "I wasn't exactly subtle."

"No."

"I almost moved them."

"I'm glad you didn't." He was quiet. "I didn't want to."

You smiled. "I know."

"I just..." He sighed. "I wanted you to stay there for another minute."

"So did I."

Neither of you spoke.

The memory replayed in both of your minds, the tiny treatment room, the curtain drawn, your hands finishing the bandage while his rested lightly against your hips.

"So..." Jack said after a moment.

"So?"

"We almost kissed."

You buried your face in one of the couch cushions, laughing despite yourself. "We absolutely almost kissed."

"And then someone walked in."

"Terrible timing."

"The worst."

You smiled into the phone. "You know..."

"Hm?"

"I meant what I said."

"About what?"

"When I left."

Jack could hear the smile in your voice.

"We really do have a lot to talk about."

He smiled too. "I know."

A beat passed.

"So..."

"So?"

"Can I see you tomorrow?"

You didn't answer right away. Not because you had to think about it. Because hearing him ask made your heart flutter. "I'd like that."

"Good."

"What?"

"I missed you for two weeks."

"I know."

"I'm not waiting another two."

You smiled, your eyes growing heavy as the exhaustion of the night finally began to catch up with you. "Neither am I."

Neither of you hung up.

You stayed on the phone as sleep slowly crept in, talking about everything and nothing, the conversation drifting effortlessly from stories about work to favorite diners, bad coffee, and plans that neither of you had realized you were already making together.

For the first time in a long time, the silence at the end of a shift didn't feel lonely.

It felt shared.

---- 

A few more shifts came and went.

Some were quiet enough that Jack could steal five minutes to meet you in the ambulance bay with two terrible vending machine coffees. Others were complete disasters where the only interaction you managed was a wave as your crew rolled another patient through the doors.

Somehow, despite the chaos, the two of you had settled into a rhythm.

Texting after shifts.

Calling on the drive home.

Checking in before bed.

It became... normal.

Normal enough that when the rare day came where both of you were off after a stretch of nights, Jack sent a text before either of you could fall asleep.

*Lunch?*

Your response came seconds later.

*Only if you're buying.*

---

The diner was nearly empty.

It was just after one in the afternoon, an odd hour where the lunch crowd had already left and dinner hadn't started yet.

The waitress smiled the moment she recognized the two of you. "The usual?"

Jack nodded. "Please."

You smiled. "I think we've been here too much if she already knows our orders."

Jack shrugged. "I don't see a problem."

"Of course you don't."

Once the food arrived, the conversation came as easily as it always did. You laughed about one of your EMTs somehow locking the ambulance keys inside the rig.

Jack countered with a story about one of his residents accidentally calling him "Dad" in front of an entire trauma team.

"I would've paid money to see that."

"They'll never live it down."

"I certainly won't let them."

The laughter faded into something quieter. Comfortable. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows. Neither of you seemed in any hurry to leave.

Jack traced the rim of his coffee mug absentmindedly. "I've been thinking."

You smiled. "That sounds dangerous."

"It usually is."

"What've you been thinking about?"

He looked at you. "Us."

Your smile faltered just enough for him to notice. "...Us?"

"Yeah."

You sat back in the booth. "Okay."

Jack exhaled slowly. "I don't really know how to say this."

"That's new."

"I know."

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. "You don't have to have the perfect words."

He looked down at your hand before meeting your eyes again. "I look for you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Every shift." His thumb brushed lightly against yours. "When I walk into the emergency department, I check the board to see if your unit's working."

Your heart skipped.

"If I hear an ambulance coming in, I hope it's yours." He laughed quietly. "I've gotten pretty good at recognizing your voice before I even see you."

You couldn't help but smile. "I've noticed."

"I look forward to talking to you after work." He hesitated. "I think about telling you things before I tell anyone else."

Your chest tightened.

Jack smiled nervously. "And I think... somewhere along the way..." He looked directly at you. "I fell for you."

The words settled between you.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you looked away.

A slow smile spread across your face. "You know..."

Jack raised an eyebrow.

"I had this whole speech planned."

"You did?"

"Mhm."

"I was going to tell you that I think you're one of the kindest people I've ever met."

He laughed softly.

"I was going to tell you that watching you work made me understand why everyone in your department respects you."

His cheeks turned pink.

"I was going to tell you that you're infuriating."

"There it is."

"And stubborn."

"Fair."

"And entirely too willing to skip meals."

"I feel attacked."

"You should."

You squeezed his hand. "But mostly..." Your voice became quiet. "I was going to tell you that somewhere between trauma activations, late-night phone calls, and you letting me patch you up after getting grazed..."

You smiled. "I fell for you too."

Jack stared at you. "You did?"

"I did."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "So..."

"So..."

He smiled. "What exactly does this mean?"

You laughed. "I don't know."

"I was hoping you'd know."

"I was hoping *you'd* know."

He shook his head. "So we're both clueless."

"Looks that way."

Jack smiled wider. "I guess I should probably ask if-"

His phone rang. Both of you looked at it. The screen lit up with the hospital's caller ID.

Jack sighed. "No."

You laughed. "Don't tell me."

He answered. "Abbot."

His expression shifted immediately. You could tell before he even spoke again.

Trauma.

Of course.

He listened for another few seconds before hanging up.

"They need me."

You nodded. "I figured."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Neither of you moved.

Jack reached across the table, taking your hand again. "We're not done with this conversation."

You smiled. "No."

"We're finishing it."

"We better."

He stood, tossing a few bills onto the table. "I'll call you after shift."

You raised an eyebrow. "You'd better."

He leaned down, close enough that your foreheads almost touched. "I've waited too long already."

For a split second, you thought he was going to kiss you.

He thought so too. Instead, the shrill tone of your own radio crackled to life from where it sat clipped to your belt.

*"Medic 14, respond..."*

You both froze. Then, almost simultaneously, laughed.

"You've got to be kidding me," you muttered.

Jack rubbed a hand over his face. "I think the universe hates us."

"No," you said, standing and grabbing your jacket. "It just has really bad timing."

You walked out of the diner together, stopping beside your cars.

For a moment, neither of you got in.

Jack smiled. "So..."

"So..."

"We're finishing this later."

You smiled back. "It's a date."

Neither of you realized it.

But that was the first time either of you had called it one.

----

The emergency department was already overflowing when the trauma pager sounded.

"Level One Trauma. ETA three minutes."

Jack glanced up from the chart in his hands. "Who's bringing them?"

One of the nurses looked toward the board. "Medic 14."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Your unit.

Of course.

He slipped a pair of gloves on as the trauma team assembled. "Alright, people. Let's move."

The ambulance backed into the bay moments later. The rear doors flew open. Jack's eyes immediately searched for you. Instead, one of your EMTs jumped out.

He looked... shaken.

Jack frowned.

That wasn't like him.

The stretcher rolled into the trauma bay.

"Thirty-eight-year-old male, trapped in a partial building collapse," your partner reported. "Prolonged extrication, unstable pelvis, diminished breath sounds on the left, hypotensive despite fluids. We initiated blood en route."

Jack listened, but something wasn't right. Your partner was giving report.

Not you.

His eyes flicked toward the ambulance. "Where's Y/N?"

Your EMT hesitated.

Jack's stomach tightened. "Where's Y/N?"

Before anyone answered, another set of ambulance doors slammed shut outside. The entire room seemed to pause. A second stretcher came barreling through the doors.

"Move!"

"Clear the hallway!"

Jack turned instinctively.

Then froze.

You.

You were on the stretcher.

Your uniform shirt had been cut open, blood soaking through the gauze packed against your right side. One side of your face was streaked with dried blood and dust, your oxygen mask fogging with each shallow breath.

For one split second...The room disappeared.

All he saw was you.

Someone beside him started talking. "Medic injured during secondary collapse-"

Jack didn't hear another word.

He was already moving. "What happened?" he demanded, reaching your stretcher.

Your partner answered while keeping pressure on your side. "We got the patient out, and part of the structure gave way. She pushed the patient and me clear."

Jack's jaw clenched. "She took the hit."

"Yeah."

His eyes swept over you in seconds.

Rapid assessment.

Pale.

Diaphoretic.

Labored breathing.

Blood pressure cycling.

Heart rate climbing.

The physician in him took over. "Trauma Two is mine," he said sharply.

Dr. Ellis hesitated. "Dr. Abbot-"

"I said she's mine."

There wasn't a person in the department willing to argue with him. The team wheeled you into the next trauma bay.

"On my count. One, two, three."

You were transferred onto the hospital bed.

Jack was already at your side. "Y/N."

Your eyelids fluttered. "Hey..."

Your voice was barely audible.

He leaned closer. "Stay with me."

You managed the tiniest smile. "Told you..."

He looked down at you.

"...we'd finish..." Your breathing hitched. "...our date."

His heart broke. "You can yell at me later," he said, keeping his voice steady as he examined your injuries. "Right now, I need you to stay with me."

You gave a weak nod. "Can... do."

"Ninety over fifty," a nurse called out.

"Heart rate one-thirty-eight."

"FAST exam ready."

Jack didn't look away from you. "You with me?"

"Mhm."

"Where does it hurt?"

You let out a shaky laugh. "Everywhere."

"I'll take that."

His hands moved with practiced precision as he examined your chest and abdomen.

"Decreased breath sounds on the right."

"Prep for a chest tube."

Your eyes found his. "You look..."

He glanced down.

"...mad."

"I'm focused."

"You look..." Another breath. "...really mad."

Jack looked directly at you. "I'm terrified."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. The room went silent for the briefest moment.

You stared at him through tired eyes. "...Jack..."

He took your hand for exactly one second before getting back to work.

"Not now." He squeezed once. "Later."

His voice hardened-not at you, but at the room. "I need blood in here now."

The trauma team sprang back into motion.

"Portable chest X-ray."

"OR has been notified."

"Type and cross sent."

Jack never left your side. Not once. Even as surgeons arrived. Even as nurses moved around him. Even as the room filled with controlled chaos.

His attention never wavered from you. "Look at me," he said quietly.

You did.

"You remember what you told me after I got grazed?"

A faint smile crossed your lips. "...Shut up..." A weak breath. "...and let me......clean you up."

Jack smiled despite the fear clawing at his chest. "That's right."

"So that's exactly what we're going to do."

You blinked slowly.

"You trust me?"

Even through the pain...Even through the exhaustion...You nodded without hesitation.

"Always."

Your fingers curled weakly around his.

And Jack silently promised himself one thing.

He was going to do everything in his power to make sure the conversation you'd started over lunch wasn't the last one the two of you ever had.

---

The decision was made in seconds.

"Positive FAST."

"She's bleeding."

"OR is ready."

Jack looked from the ultrasound screen back to you. There wasn't another option. You needed surgery. Now.

The trauma surgeon stepped beside him. "We've got her."

Jack's jaw tightened. "I know."

"We've got her."

It was meant to reassure him. It barely registered. The bed began rolling toward the operating room.

Jack walked with you.

One hand never leaving the side rail.

"Hey."

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice.

"I'm here."

You looked at him through heavy eyelids, trying to smile despite the oxygen mask.

"...Still..." You swallowed. "...our date?"

He let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to breaking. "Yeah."

"You still owe me dessert."

A weak chuckle escaped you before pain flashed across your face.

Jack immediately squeezed your hand. "No more talking."

"...Bossy."

"You started it."

The automatic doors to the operating suite came into view. This was as far as he could go.

A nurse reached for the stretcher. "We've got it from here, Dr. Abbot."

Jack didn't move. His hand stayed wrapped around yours.

You squeezed weakly. "Jack."

His eyes met yours.

"I'm okay."

He almost laughed.

It was such a ridiculous thing to say while being wheeled into emergency surgery.

"You don't have to lie to me."

"I'm not." Your breathing was shallow. "I'm scared..."

The admission hit him harder than anything else had that night. Because you never admitted when you were scared. You were the calm one. The one reassuring everyone else.

The one telling frightened patients they were going to be okay. Now it was your turn.

Jack stepped closer until he was the only thing in your line of sight. "Look at me."

You did.

"You are going to wake up."

His voice never wavered.

"We're going to finish lunch."

A tear slipped from the corner of your eye.

"We're going to argue over who pays."

A tiny smile.

"You'll lose."

"I probably will."

He brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead. "And then..." He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. "...then we're going to finish the conversation we started."

You nodded slowly. "...Promise?"

"I promise."

The nurse gently touched his arm. "Doctor..."

He knew.

He had to let go.

Jack leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours for the briefest moment. "I'll be here."

Then...He let your hand go.

The stretcher disappeared through the operating room doors.

The doors closed.

And just like that...

Jack had nothing left to do.

---

He hated waiting.

He always had.

Waiting meant someone else was in control. Waiting meant trusting someone else's hands.

Usually, he was on the other side of those doors. Usually, he was the one families looked at for answers.

Tonight...He understood exactly why they looked so terrified.

Jack paced. Sat down. Stood back up. Paced again.

The nurses in the emergency department had never seen him like this.

Usually, he was the calmest person in the room.

Nothing rattled him. Not mass casualties. Not impossible traumas. Not pediatric arrests.

Nothing.

Tonight, he couldn't stay still.

Dr. Ellis cautiously approached him. "Dr. Abbott?"

Jack looked up.

"Your patient's asking for you in Trauma Three."

For a split second, Jack just stared. Then guilt washed over him.

Right.

He still had patients. The emergency department hadn't stopped because his world had.

"I'll be there."

He wasn't. Not immediately. Instead, he walked to the operating room doors again.

Just...Just in case someone came out.

No one did.

---

Three hours.

Three hours felt like three days.

He checked the surgery board every few minutes. No updates.

He refreshed it again. Nothing.

He tried to read a chart. Couldn't focus. Tried eating the sandwich someone had left beside him. It sat unopened.

One of the nurses walked past. "You should eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't sat down in an hour."

"I'm fine."

She smiled sadly. "So this is what everyone else's families deal with."

Jack looked at her. "What?"

"You always tell them surgery takes time." She folded her arms. "You always tell them no news is good news."

Jack looked back toward the operating rooms. "I know."

"But it's different."

She nodded. "I figured."

---

Eventually, Robby walked over, two cups of coffee in his hands.

Without asking, he handed one to Jack. "You look awful."

"I feel worse."

Robby leaned against the wall beside him. "How bad?"

Jack didn't answer right away. Finally, he admitted quietly, "I've watched people I love get hurt before."

Robby glanced over.

"But this..." Jack stared at the closed doors. "...I've never been on this side."

His voice cracked just enough for Robby to notice. "I can't fix it." He laughed bitterly.

"I don't even know what's happening in there." He rubbed both hands over his face. "I don't know if she's okay."

The words finally escaped him.

Raw.

Honest.

"I don't know if she's awake. I don't know if she's scared. I don't know if she's hurting."

He looked down at the untouched coffee. "And it is driving me absolutely insane."

Robby was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, "You love her."

Jack closed his eyes. There wasn't any point denying it anymore. "...Yeah."

The single word barely made it above a whisper.

"I do."

As if on cue...The operating room doors finally opened.

Every muscle in Jack's body tensed.

He was already halfway across the hallway before the surgeon had even taken off his mask.

"How is she?"

The surgeon smiled. "The surgery went well."

Jack felt his knees nearly give out with relief.

"We controlled the bleeding. No major vascular injury. She's going to be sore for a while, and she'll have a long recovery, but..." He smiled again. "She's going to be okay."

Jack closed his eyes.

For the first time all night...He could finally breathe.

The surgeon put a hand on his shoulder.

"They're taking her to recovery now."

Jack nodded once. "When can I see her?"

The surgeon smiled knowingly. "I had a feeling you'd ask that. A little while."

Jack looked through the small window in the OR doors as your bed was wheeled toward recovery.

He rested one hand against the glass. "Take your time," he whispered, knowing you couldn't hear him. "I'll still be here."

Because for the first time in his life...

There wasn't anywhere else he'd rather be.

---- 

Recovery was quiet.

The frantic pace of the emergency department couldn't reach this part of the hospital.

No trauma pagers.

No ambulance radios.

Just the steady rhythm of cardiac monitors and the occasional murmur of nurses moving from room to room. Jack had changed out of his blood-stained scrub top hours ago, but he still looked like he'd been through the collapse himself.

His hair was a mess from running his hands through it all night.

His coffee had long since gone cold.

He hadn't noticed.

A PACU nurse stepped out into the hallway. "Dr. Abbot?"

Jack was on his feet before she'd finished saying his name.

"She's asking for you."

He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until that moment. "Can I-"

The nurse smiled knowingly. "You've got about five minutes before I come kick you out."

"Thank you."

He didn't walk.

He practically sprinted.

---

The room was dimly lit.

You looked... different.

Paler.

An IV hung beside the bed. A monitor quietly tracked your heart rate. There was oxygen tubing resting beneath your nose, and a thick blanket covered you up to your chest.

But you were awake.

Your eyes drifted toward the door as it opened.

They landed on Jack. A sleepy smile spread across your face. "...Hey."

Jack stopped just inside the room. For a moment...He couldn't move.

Seeing you unconscious had been terrifying. Seeing you awake somehow made everything he'd been holding in hit him all at once.

"You scared the hell out of me."

Your smile faltered. "I know."

He crossed the room slowly until he reached your bedside. "You weren't supposed to be the patient."

You let out a weak laugh. "I wasn't planning on it."

"No?"

"No."

He shook his head. "I liked you a lot better when you were bossing me around."

"You like being bossed around."

"I tolerate it."

"You secretly love it."

"I'll never admit that."

A small laugh escaped you before you winced.

Jack immediately leaned forward. "Easy."

"I'm okay."

"You literally just had surgery."

"I know."

"So maybe don't laugh."

"I'll do my best."

Silence settled between you. Jack reached for the chair beside your bed but didn't sit. Instead, he gently took your hand. Carefully.

As though he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too tightly.

Your fingers curled around his automatically. "You stayed."

He looked at you like the question didn't even make sense. "Of course I stayed."

"You've probably been here all day."

"I have."

"You should've gone home."

He almost laughed. "And leave?"

You shrugged as much as your sore body would allow. "You had patients."

"I took care of them."

"You had charts."

"I finished them."

"You probably haven't slept."

"No."

"Eaten?"

"..."

You smiled knowingly. "Jack."

"I had half a granola bar."

"That doesn't count."

"It counted enough."

You squeezed his hand. "You always tell your patients to take care of themselves."

"I know."

"You should listen to yourself sometime."

"I know."

"But..." He looked down at your intertwined hands. "I couldn't leave."

The room fell quiet again.

His thumb absentmindedly brushed across your knuckles. "I kept thinking..." He hesitated. "What if the last thing I ever said to you was that we'd finish lunch later?"

Your expression softened. "Jack..."

"What if we'd never finished that conversation?"

His voice cracked.

Barely.

But you heard it.

"I didn't get to tell you..." He stopped.

You waited.

"I didn't get to tell you that I was going to kiss you."

Your breath caught.

He finally looked up. "At the diner."

You blinked.

"When your radio went off."

"I know."

"I'd already decided."

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.

Jack frowned. "Hey..."

"I thought..." You swallowed hard. "When everything happened..." Your voice trembled. "I thought I wasn't going to get to see you again."

"You are."

"I know."

"But I was scared."

"I know."

"No." You shook your head carefully. "I was terrified."

Jack moved closer. "So was I."

The admission hung in the room.

"I've never been that scared before." You looked into his eyes. "I saw you."

He frowned slightly. "What?"

"Before they took me upstairs." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "You were trying so hard to stay calm."

A sad smile crossed his face. "I wasn't doing a very good job."

"You were."

"I was falling apart."

"You hid it."

"Barely."

You reached up with your free hand. It took more effort than it normally would. Jack met you halfway, letting your fingertips rest against his cheek.

His eyes closed instinctively.

"You know what I thought?" you whispered.

"What?"

"I thought..." A tired smile spread across your face. "...there's my home."

Jack opened his eyes. Every wall he'd built over years in emergency medicine, every bit of emotional distance he'd learned to survive with, crumbled in an instant.

He leaned down until your foreheads rested together. "I love you."

The words came so quietly they were almost lost in the hum of the monitor.

No hesitation.

No overthinking.

Just the truth.

"I love you too." You smiled through the tears. "I think I've loved you for longer than I realized."

A soft laugh escaped him. "Me too."

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. There was nothing left to say. Jack slowly lifted his head, giving you every opportunity to stop him.

You didn't.

Instead, you smiled.

"So..."

"So?"

"Are you finally going to kiss me?"

A grin spread across his face. "I thought you'd never ask."

He leaned in slowly. Carefully.

As though he was afraid even now that he might somehow hurt you. His lips met yours in the gentlest kiss either of you had ever shared.

It wasn't dramatic.

It wasn't rushed.

It was quiet.

Warm.

Certain.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again. "That was worth waiting for."

You smiled sleepily. "It was."

A knock sounded softly on the open door. Neither of you moved.

The nurse standing outside smiled to herself. "I hate to interrupt..."

Jack laughed quietly. "You've got to stop doing that."

The nurse grinned. "I'll give you two another minute."

She disappeared back into the hallway.

You looked at Jack. "Think everyone knows now?"

He smiled. "I'm pretty sure they figured it out before we did."

You laughed softly. "I think you're right."

Outside the room, two PACU nurses exchanged amused looks.

"Took them long enough," one whispered.

The other nodded. "I've never seen Dr. Abbot sit still for eight hours."

"Neither have I." She glanced through the window at the two of you, still holding hands. "I don't think he's letting go anytime soon."

She wasn't wrong.

Jack had spent the entire day terrified of losing you.

Now that you were awake, he had no intention of letting your hand leave his.

[w1ldthoughts]

Operation: Cover Me in Sonshine

Summary: The birth of baby Burrow number one, three days after his due date.

Word count: 10.4K

Author’s Note: Content warning! My fics are based on realism, pregnancy isn’t always pretty and natural childbirth is definitely not pretty. Mentions of getting sick, bodily functions and fluids, pregnancy discomfort and medical terminology associated with childbirth.

Every day starting at 5PM, your phone rang constantly. So did Joe’s, which he loved. You’d jokingly started calling it “blue hour.”

Random calls that went to voicemail and texts from distant family members, old coworkers and teammates who all had about 30 questions each they wanted answered. And about 1.2 willing participants who wanted to conduct a baby Q&A. You’d kindly respond in a timely manner. Joe had blocked three people in the last five days.

Boy or girl? Baby still being stubborn? You two parents yet?

“That’s it,” Joe sighs, dropping his phone onto the opposite end of the couch. “I’m going out back and throwing both of these into the lake.”

“Or…we could just put them on DND.” You tried to reason with him.

Instead of doing that, he shut his phone off completely and folded his arms across his chest. “They aren’t getting anything from me. Not like we’re doing a PSA when he’s born. Our parents will be lucky if I remember to text them. I couldn’t care less about everybody else.”

“Yes you’ve made that quite clear,” you giggled, shifting around in your seat as he picked something mindless to watch, in hopes his annoyance would dissipate. “But to be fair, the kid is late.”

“He is, but that’s not their business.” He continues, tone still a bit too intense for the situation. Telling him to relax isn’t in your best interest though. “And having everyone send obnoxious messages isn’t a great motivation tactic. Where are you going?” Joe scrambled to his feet to help you up despite your protests that you had it. “I believe you.” He promised. “Just here for moral support.”

“Thank you,” you patted his chest. “I’m starving. I need to see if my corn dogs are here.”

You and Joe saw eye to eye on most things, and he tried to take every new pregnancy thing in stride. He learned to accept the late night snacking in bed, the random bouts of insatiable hunger that had to be sorted out within five minutes or you wouldn’t be hungry anymore. But your latest corn dog obsession was one he couldn’t get down with.

“They’re Korean corn dogs,” he remembers you explaining as you held one out in his direction a few days ago, “do you wanna try one?”

Joe shook his head vigorously. “Doesn’t matter where they’re from, I’m not touching that. And honestly? You shouldn’t either. Those things cannot be for human consumption.”

And yet, around three nights a week the last two weeks, Morgan ordered a box of three Korean corn dogs even when Joe insisted you needed real food. Tonight was no different, he sighed seeing you walk into the living room with your Decibel box and his chicken Caesar smash burger with sweet potato fries and stood up immediately. “You didn’t have to grab mine.”

“I wanted to,” you assured him and he thanked you with a kiss on the forehead, chuckling lightly when you groaned as you sat down. “Your son’s getting a little too heavy.”

Joe takes a bite of a fry and stares at you. “He’s my son now?”

“When he’s hurting my ribs and head-butting my bladder? Definitely your son.”

Using his burger as a pointer, he counters your argument. “He’s your son too because my kid would never eat a corn dog.”

You rubbed your belly after dipping one in ketchup, “I’m not gonna say anything else because the evidence speaks for itself.”

“All I’m saying is that I have a mean ‘I told you so’ waiting for you when you have acid reflux later.”

He nudged your water bottle towards you and you smiled, taking a few long sips.

Two corndogs and two movies later, your back was officially hurting enough to retire to bed for the night. Joe had the heating pad plugged in by the time you got out of the shower and it was warm when you settled into the cool sheets.

“Good?” Your husband asked before turning off the light.

“As good as I can be with this medicine ball permanently strapped to my body.”

“It’s not permanent,” he gives your shoulder a tender squeeze. “Little dude’s gonna have to come out eventually. He’s running out of excuses.”

There isn’t any energy remaining in you to respond so you give him a nod before closing your eyes. He whispers a quick “love you” before turning off the lamp on his side of the bed and going to sleep.

You started out the night on your left side, something about blood flow and doctor recommendations but that was comfortable for maybe 20 minutes. Turning over took a lot of effort but you managed and tossed the heating pad to the side because your lower back was still hurting and all it was doing was making you warm. Usually, the subtle heat solved your problems. Not this time. And night sweats was the very last thing you needed. The cherry on top was the full bladder that finally got you out of bed around 12:30. The all too familiar bout of nausea welcomed you as you struggled to your feet in the dark, not even bothering with lights as the back of your throat started to burn with a beefy, fried potato aftertaste. It wasn’t as fun to relive your last meal as you tried swallowing it back down with water and a silent plea not to let it all resurface.

“Babe,” you shakily mumbled in a tired voice.

“Hm?”

“Will you rub my back really quick, please?”

“Yeah of course,” he reaches over, fingers getting to work in the problem area that’s been bothering you the last week or so. Joe falls asleep less than 15 minutes into the back rub and you’re back to square one, tossing and turning until your body required a different kind of movement.

The exercise ball you swore you’d never used became your lifeline at 2:33 in the morning. Both hands resting at the base of your belly, making small circles with your hips trying to re-center, during your second trimester Dr. Chen had mentioned a few stretches that were supposed to ease acid reflux and you tossed back a few tums with several ounces of water for good measure. With the size of the baby you were carrying, your stomach had probably shrunk in half as your vital organs shifted around to accommodate him as he continued his overdue stay. Maybe if you kept moving and coaxed him to a new spot, you could get a few hours of sleep. Taking a deep breath, you stared hard at the ceiling and even though you couldn’t see him at all, you cursed Joe for being able to successfully hit REM while you resorted to middle of the night acrobatics just to get comfortable.

“Pregnancy officially sucks and I’m done,” you said out loud, maybe talking to your son. Maybe to yourself. You lifted up your shirt and looked down at the globe that was once normal bloating and poked your protruding belly button. “All I ask is for two hours of sleep. Three, tops. Please.”

You didn’t miraculously feel less sick and the lower back pain sent pins and needles down your spine, sending you into a makeshift cat-cow position. Then you laid on the cool home gym floor stretching your hamstrings, feeling scary close to a turtle stuck on its shell when you couldn’t get up.

“Doctor said you’re not supposed to be lying on your back,” Joe says now fully dressed for a morning workout.

You held out your hands, “I’m stuck.”

He laughed and easily pulled you to your feet, hearing a soft sound very similar to how he felt the morning after playing a particularly physical defense. “You okay?”

His hand was on your lower back again, on top of yours as you nodded with your eyes closed. “I’m fine, getting off the ground took way more out of me than I’d like to discuss,” you yawned, grateful your humbling adventure at least had a nap at the end of the tunnel. “I’m going back to bed, you leaving already?”

“It’s 5:15.” He said plainly.

“Really? Wow, yeah I need to actually sleep. Have fun lifting stuff and running, I’ll be watching the back of my eyelids, hopefully.”

Joe shakes his head with a smile, “get some sleep. I’ll have my phone close so call or text if you need me. I mean it.”

“I know. I will.”

He insisted on walking with you up the stairs claiming he was there in case you got winded but you knew he was watching you closely. “Nothing’s wrong, my stomach is just protesting my last meal. And before you tell me I shouldn’t have had the corn dog I want you to remember that I’ve spent the last ten months and three days of my life making us a baby, from scratch might I add.”

“You’re a warrior,” Joe says, helping you get back into bed, “no doubt about that. Now get some rest, I won’t be long.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” He places a hand on your stomach, “and you too man. Take it easy on your mom today, will you? She’s been working overtime. Both of you need some sleep.” His sentiments were met with a kick as though his son heard him and they were on the same page about the subject. “I’ll take that as an answer,” he placed a soft kiss on your lips before making his way out the door, the pregnancy gods finally smiled down on you and gave your body enough reprieve to let you get two and a half hours of uninterrupted rest.

You woke up queasier than before, cursing yourself for having that second corn dog instead of stopping at one. And the dull back pain was still there but your hips? They felt like they were being yanked away from the rest of your body by a pair of heavy duty pliers. Sitting up as slowly as possible, not to irritate your joints even more, you groaned, pressing your thumb into your hip bone, using the table as a crutch as you got to your feet. Gravity had done its job in moving everything…lower.

“Okay then,” you winced as the baby stretched and you felt everything, dinner dangerously close to seeing the bedroom floor for a second. You burped, the acidic taste unwilling to leave and made your way to the kitchen at less than a snail’s pace.

Morgan’s kind demeanor was hands down your favorite part about him. The chef was honestly joy personified which was great to have and made his food taste even better because you knew he put so much love and care into each meal. But this morning, the thought of food was horrifying and he just blinked a few times asking if you were sure when you said you didn’t want breakfast. Sure, the first trimester was ground zero but afterwards? You’d become Morgan’s favorite customer, trying any and every new recipe, he satisfied every craving and fed into your weekly obsessions. One week it was lemon ricotta pancakes. Then there was the pasta carbonara month. Today was boring, which wasn’t exactly a good sign.

“Do we have any ginger ale? Or sprite maybe?” You asked him, rubbing the underside of your belly. He hasn’t pulled out carbonated drinks before 8AM since week 12 of pregnancy.

“We do,” he turned to grab it out of the cabinet and you grabbed the can and opened it as soon as he placed it on the counter. “You don’t want anything else? Something small, or plain?”

“Not really,” you thought about sitting on the stool but that sounded like a battle. “I feel gross and food might send me over the edge. Could go for a fiber gummy if we have those?”

The man nodded and handed you some and a cup of water.

“Thank you.” You sighed, leaning onto the counter as your back protested again, “I’m never getting a decibel box ever again.”

Morgan bites back a snort and texts Joe when you make your way to the living room. He likes his chef’s message and calls you immediately after.

“Hey,” he sounds like he’s catching his breath, “Morgan said you didn’t want breakfast? Haven’t eaten since seven last night, everything okay?”

“Not hungry yet,” you tell him honestly. “And I know what you’re thinking but I’m just very bloated and pregnant. Probably will be hungry in the next few hours, no need to sound any alarms yet.”

“You’re funny. I’m almost done here anyway so I’ll be home soon.”

There was no arguing with him once he set his mind to something so you knew he was coming home whether you needed him here or not.

As promised, Joe came home, did a visual status update to ensure you weren’t on your deathbed and headed upstairs to “rinse off real quick.” You sat there deciding what you wanted to do next. Nothing was in excruciating pain, you just felt full. Everything was tight and weird and the “pain” you did feel was more annoying than anything.

It was a good old fashioned stomachache maybe mixed in with indigestion and you pressed your hand lower on your stomach. “I hear you,” and stood up to get dressed. Halfway up the steps there was a tight pull that wrapped around your lower half, everything from your lower back to your belly became one hard muscle stretched to the brim and you closed your eyes, midsection clenching against your hand for several seconds until it released its hold. Now you could add intense Braxton hicks contractions to the list.

“Don’t hate me,” you told Joe as you walked into the bedroom while he pulled a t-shirt over his head. “I know you just showered but can we go for a walk? Down the block and back, I just need move around—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he watches you walk over to the closet to change, “if walking feels good, let’s do that. Need help with your shoes?”

“Please? You’re the best husband I’ve ever had.”

He rolls his eyes, kneeling with a pair of your sneakers in hand. “Last time I checked, I’m the only husband you’ve ever had.”

“So far.”

“Very funny,” he fakes amusement and watches closely matching your pace down the steps and out the door.

Joe recognizes sequences and particularly familiar actions. It’s what makes him one of the best at his position. And the more he cares the more he pays attention. He’s definitely paying attention now because your gait has changed. The waddle appeared week 31 when the bump was undeniable and you two were in California enjoying the beginning of the offseason. He knows the difference between a normal waddle, an I have to pee waddle, a my feet and/or back hurt waddle. This is a focused waddle. Every step is carefully thought out beforehand like your mind is somewhere else entirely and he doesn’t want to ask and disrupt your focus but you definitely don’t look comfortable.

And your hands.

Usually they’re resting against your stomach, spots where your son’s hand or feet are trying to poke through your skin but today they’re low, almost like you’re lifting the baby off of your pelvis, holding him up. Holding him in place because if you don’t, he may fall out. It’s still early enough in the day that the neighborhood is quiet and not many people are outside, a few elderly couples walking their dogs. One car passing by on their drive to work or taking the kids to school or both.

You slow down and exhale roughly, eyes closed. “Sorry, hang on.” Joe adds that to his mental list, noting one palm resting lower and the fact that you’re stopped in your tracks by whatever you’re feeling. Then you kept walking like nothing happened.

A park bench rested on the edge of the block near the playground and when you walked by, you squatted beside the thing, gripping it for leverage. Your head dropped this time, moving purely on instinct and Joe recognized the same focus that has been gnawing at him since the walk started.

He crouched beside you, seeing the slow breaths you pulled into your lungs before letting out a frustrated sound. It wasn’t pained, more…inconvenienced. “What are you feeling?”

“Sick,” you admitted. “I think you were right,” one of your hands smoothed down the front of your shirt. “Dinner is not sitting right and I,” you paused, trying not to gag. “I don’t feel good.”

“Okay let’s get home,” he decided, standing up and holding out his hands. You took another deep breath and let him hold you up, rubbing circles into your back. The walk back was faster than the walk there and he noticed a greater sense of urgency. “What’s the rush?”

You looked a little panicked, your waddle less focused more frantic. “My body’s doing something and I have to get home. Like, now now.”

“Oh.” Is all he said before pulling out his phone and texting Ivy.

We’re walking back home. Can you refill her Stanley with ice? She’s not feeling too hot.

An answer came through a few seconds later.

Of course.

The house manager immediately went into the kitchen to grab the giant water cup from the drying rack. Then she showed Morgan the text. “You were right.”

Morgan shrugged. “Could still be anything, I don’t want to jinx it.”

The door swung open a few minutes later and Ivy stepped towards the entryway, Stanley in hand. “Hey. I have your—”

“Oh my god,” you grunted, making a beeline for the stairs. “Sorry!” you called over your shoulder. “Hi Ivy. Love you. Can’t talk. Might shit myself.”

Ivy stood motionless a few feet away and Morgan stepped out of the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t hearing things.

Joe paused long enough to grab the water. “Thanks.” Then he was jogging after you.

He got to the third floor of his home and found one shoe next to the top step. The other a few feet away. Your leggings and underwear discarded down the hall towards the bedroom and your shirt laid on the bedroom floor in front of the master bathroom where he found you on the toilet in just a sports bra, heaving breaths and your hands squeezing your thighs.

“I had no choice.”

“I see that,” he holds up all of the items he collected on the way. “You alright?”

You blew out a breath, “no. I’m very much not alright,” you groaned, hand moving up to your belly. The other gripped the counter so tightly it made him a little nervous. “Holy fuck.”

“I feel like I have to poop,” you paused. “Or puke.” You shook your head, feeling everything at once.

“Or both? God and my butthole hurts. Is that normal?”

Joe placed his hands on his hips, thinking about all the baby books he’s read. “I honestly have no idea.”

“Great.” You shifted on the toilet and placed your head in your forearm, close to tears. This was so much worse than hearing him say ‘I told you so.’ He visibly remembered early on in your relationship when you wouldn’t even pee when he was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, claiming that some things do need to remain a mystery. No bathroom sharing if someone’s on the toilet.

Now you were seconds away from using the restroom and you wanted him to hold your hand.

He was thinking about how you’d declined breakfast, had a never ending backache, the full feeling, the focused waddle, and the mad dash to the toilet. All while looking increasingly uncomfortable. “Do you think we should call Dr. Chen? Just to see what she thinks?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

You nodded but still looked hesitant. “If it’s food poisoning that’ll be embarrassing.”

“And if it’s not?”

The answer he was waiting for came in the form of your body being squeezed by another intense wave of pressure. He visibly watched your belly grow high and tight as a drum, your hand balled into a fist as he urged you to breathe. “Let’s just call and see what she says.”

Joe didn’t even wait for a signal of approval before dialing.

You loved your OB. She was qualified, calm, discreet, everything you needed in the person you would be trusting with your life and your baby’s life. But when you felt like you were going to die of embarrassment on the toilet in front of your husband with your staff downstairs waiting for a poop or labor announcement the last thing you want to hear is:

“Based on what you’ve told me, it certainly could be early labor. It could also still be the normal discomforts that come at the very end of pregnancy, and I can’t tell the difference over the phone. Most important thing is to listen to your body. If it says walk, you walk. If it’s telling you to sit on the toilet or lay in bed, then do that. I don’t want to make any assumptions over the phone but I’ll have my mine on me so please reach out any time. For now, keep moving, there’s no blood so I’d stay home and try to get comfortable. If contractions are five minutes apart for an hour lasting one full minute or your water breaks, call me.”

“This is a humiliation ritual.” You felt bad complaining but if this wasn’t labor you’d be having a serious talk with your fetus and your digestive system.

He knew he shouldn’t find any of this funny. Instead, Joe knelt down and patted your leg. “You’re good,” he promised. “Do you want me to call your mom or anything?”

“Absolutely not.” You told him immediately. “This,” gesturing between you, “is bad enough. I’m trying to poop and I can’t. You’re the only audience I can handle since this is mostly your fault anyway.” You glared at him as soon as he attempted to open his mouth. “I didn’t get myself pregnant, did I?

“Good point.” His nurturing touch finds its way to the middle of your back, adding enough pressure. “Do you think a bath would help? Dr. Chen did say to try to relax.”

Wiggling in your seat again you weighed your options. Clearly you didn’t need to poop or it would’ve happened already and being in the water might ease what seemed to be full body cramps, even your legs felt tired. “Need to get this thing off,” you tugged at your sports bra. The water was lukewarm, perfect for the situation. You’d worked up a bit of a sweat trying to prevent an accident that thankfully turned out to be a false alarm and sighed, fully submerged in the water.

“This was a good idea, thank you.” You held out a wet hand and he held on, seeing you cup your belly again. “Still hurts but I feel a little better.”

You ended up leaning over the side, arms folded over the edge of the tub, taking deep breaths, still managing a joke. “Being naked was a great move. No dignity, no clothes.” Then you got quiet again. He observed a few posture changes, shoulders stiff versus relaxed, a few quiet hisses of pain as you palpated your stomach trying to find the source of the weird sensation and coming up empty each time.

“I don’t think this is the corn dogs,” you let out the tiniest laugh and a short breath followed. Then a groan.

Joe sat up, rubbing a spot between your shoulder blades. “I don’t either. But tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been contracting,” the pain dies down so you can fully converse. “Wasn’t 100% sure before but that weird pulling feeling, kind of everywhere? I’m not explaining it well but it feels way different than any practice ones I’ve had. And that last one was the most intense.”

“All good information,” his thumb grazes your shoulder, letting you know he’s here and won’t go far.

The bathroom is relatively quiet until your eyes snap open and you’re holding onto the edge again. “I need out.”

Joe is moving before you finish your sentence, towel in one arm, voice steady. “C’mon, I gotcha.”

“Down,” you rush out, “I need—floor.” He tosses an extra towel on the ground by the tub as you’re forced to your hands and knees and he places another towel over you because you’re still wet and he doesn’t want you to get cold. “Oh god. Ow. Can you grab a cold rag, please?”

He moves with a sense of urgency that hasn’t been there all day. It’s almost like as soon as you two acknowledged that things were changing, everything became much more real. There was no time for questions, like Dr. Chen told him you were in charge, whatever your body needed, he’d be there to figure out how to make it work. So if you needed a cold rag, he brought two. “Where do you need this?”

You rocked gently, breaths shakier than they were minutes ago, no doubt working through the latest wave. And you looked a little overwhelmed. “Put it low please, really low.” He remembered you mentioning rectal pressure and understood what you meant by low. The cool relief helped more than anything else had all day and your shoulders sagged as you thanked him. “God, that feels amazing.”

Joe didn’t hesitate to park himself at your side, a few extra towels nearby in case he needed them. He wished there was more he could do but now that you’d given him this task, he was ready to hold this rag until his arms fell off.

The pressure continued to build. Those frantic semi circles you’d adopted didn’t help anymore, moving made the pain worse and it felt like your body was trying to do something your mind couldn’t keep up with. “Joe?” Your voice sounded strained, laced with discomfort he wanted to take away but couldn’t.

“I’m right here,” his hand rested on your hip. “Need anything?”

“I need you to move your hand.”

His concern grew. “Is it not helping anymore?”

Your head dipped down, trying to power through the latest contraction. “It is I just—take it off.”

“Babe if it’s helping, I’m gonna keep helping.”

The truth was that the cloth was the only thing keeping you from screaming but the last two surges or waves or contractions if that’s what they truly were, made you feel like you really had to go. And you’d rather not do that on your hands and knees with him dangerously close to your backside. “Please, please move your hand.”

He eased the rag away immediately because tone scared him, you weren’t joking anymore or laughing. There was tension in your words and he swore he saw you gritting your teeth, holding yourself back from something. He took the rag off and your eyes stung a little, desperately needing to get to your feet but the bowling ball pressure in your butt made the decision for you. Standing wasn’t an option so you had to crawl.

“Woah—hey. What do you need?”

“Toilet,” you gritted out. “I have to poop.”

Joe nodded and moved more towels to make a path, protecting your knees. You made it a few feet before your body froze and locked up due to the pain. You were trying to breathe through it, eyes closed, fingers curled around the towel on the ground and Joe saw your expression change and was back on the floor. The books had warned him about the shaking and a basic rundown of natural childbirth but seeing his person go through it and not being able to take any of her pain away wasn’t something he could prepare for. And if you were in too much pain to crawl to the toilet, he wasn’t letting you go anywhere.

“Hey.” He tried, warm hand over your back. The towel you had on was somewhere on the ground but your skin was damp. Joe wasn’t sure if it was water or sweat or a mixture of both and he really didn’t care. He took a deep breath anyway, needing to stay calm. “Look at me.”

Your watery eyes met his. “I don’t know what my body’s doing.”

“You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to do. There is nothing to be embarrassed about and nothing to apologize for.”

“What if I poop?”

“Then you poop. No big deal.” He shrugs. “You’re having our baby.”

You swallowed hard, leaning into him a bit.

“I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed your shoulder and stood up, heading back to the sink. “Cold rag?”

“Please.”

He was right back in his original spot as another surge plowed through. Your forehead dropped onto the folded towel and your legs spread without your conscious effort as your hips angled up, butt higher in the air. Joe didn’t say a word, watching the muscle in your back and your legs tighten as the pain peaked. He thought about reaching for his phone to call the doctor when a deep, involuntary sound erupted from your chest. “You’re safe, take a breath.”

“Jesus Christ,” you strained, “what is happening?” You almost said something else but you were cut off by another grunt, sounding focused and completely internal. Dr. Chen was not kidding when she said your body would lead. Things were getting intense and Joe’s phone was resting by the tub, out of his reach. Before switching to a new cold rag he heard you push again and his eyes cast down. He didn’t know exactly what he expected to see or even what he was looking for. But he definitely wasn’t qualified to deliver a baby in the bathroom, letting out a sigh of relief when he couldn’t see anything different.

We’re good, he told himself. You sank back, body forcing out a deep hum and then the pressure mounted then released in a heavy splash. Your eyes flew open in horror, clearly leaking but you’d clenched your eyes so tightly during that bout of pain you were seeing stars. “What was that? What just happened?”

“You’re good,” his voice sounded painfully normal, “give me a second.”

“Oh god, did I poop?”

Although you could admit you felt a lot better with the pressure being gone, not completely gone but significantly less crippling, the idea of pooping in your husband’s palm was not a story you ever wanted to tell. The thought was mortifying and you wanted answers.

“No, baby.” Relief spread across his face. “That was your water.”

You turned, finally comfortable enough to sit on your butt for the first time in two hours and saw the evidence for yourself. There was no bathroom accident, just amniotic fluid, on Joe’s shirt and his pants. “Thank god. I thought I—”

“Well you didn’t,” he smiled, wiping off his hand. “Guess I need to give Dr. Chen another call.”

The conversation was short and to the point. You inhaled, reminded that your reprieve was temporary and now the real work would begin while Joe grabbed your clothes. After the contraction was over you reached into the cabinet for a pad to catch any liquid before slipping on soft sweatpants, a new sports bra and a crewneck sweatshirt you borrowed from his side of the closet years ago and never returned. Joe changed his clothes too and wore his trusty Ugg slippers, matching your look. Neither of you bothered with real shoes.

He tossed the towels in a hamper sitting in the corner of the bathroom and you looked around your bedroom, rubbing your stomach that had dropped lower in the last hour. Joe came up behind you, his body a solid wall. “What are you thinking about?”

“How this is probably the last time it’s just the two of us in this room. Next time we’re here, he’ll be with us. That’s a little scary.”

“It is. But I think we’re ready for him.”

You nodded, interlocking your fingers with his, heading for the kitchen.

Morgan lit up when you told him you were hungry, crafting the perfect plain bagel and cream cheese like you’d asked him to perform open heart surgery. “You’re the best,” you told him, taking a bite of the toasted bread.

“Need help sitting down?” He offered.

“Standing actually feels nice,” you glanced at Joe who was typing away on his phone. No doubt in your mind he had a groupchat started with your parents and his, giving them an update.

The chef moved back to the fridge and looked through his inventory. You stood at the counter, knees slightly bent, a mild contraction creeping up on you. “Any particular lunch requests?”

“We’re leaving soon,” Joe spoke up first. “Her water broke upstairs so we’ll be at the birth center in the next 30 minutes.”

“Why are you saying that so casually?” Morgan’s voice was an octave higher than usual and he placed a hand on your back. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need more water or—I don’t know.”

“Morgan I’m good, I swear. My doctor knows, baby’s moving around. I’m just gonna finish my bagel and we’ll go. One second,” you stopped, put your food down and let your head hang between your shoulders. Joe put his phone to the side and reminded you to breathe and Ivy came in, made eye contact with Morgan who gave her one simple nod to confirm her suspicions since she arrived at the house.

The bagel was back in hand after the contraction ended and you took another bite, moving on with your day like this was normal. Joe grabbed his keys, the bags were already in his car so he ran upstairs to grab your pillow and you hugged Ivy first.

She’d been Joe’s house manager since his third year in the league, a year before Morgan and had seen almost every phase of his life as he balanced fame and privacy. Now he’d found a happy medium and she was excited to see where this next chapter would take him. “You two are gonna do great. And I’ll need about a million pictures of that squishy baby when he’s here.”

“You’ll get so many pictures don’t worry,” you gave her a squeeze, tears brimming your eyes when you saw Morgan getting emotional hugging Joe. They’d become more brothers than boss-employee.

Now his brother was bringing a child into the world. “Love you man, both of you.”

“We love you too,” Joe told him. He meant every word. He hugged Ivy and told them both to take the next few days off and he’d let them know the plan. They helped get you settled in the car and sent you off with another round of tearful hugs before Joe pulled out of the garage and headed towards the birth center.

“I can walk.” You shoved the door open, harsher than normal. The car ride was constricting and you needed out, plotting your exit as soon as you could see the VIP parking lot.

“You sure? Maybe we should get you a wheelchair,” he suggested.

Before the car was off, your feet hit the ground and you grabbed your pillow out of the back seat. Joe grabbed all the bags and followed you to the elevator. He did not attempt to get you in that chair again, which was a great choice…for his sake.

And safety.

The birth suite looked more like a hotel room at a five star resort than the place you were probably going to show a bunch of strangers every inch of your body. At least there was a massive tv and a fridge?

Dr. Chen and her head nurse Chelsie, your favorite, walked in a few minutes after your stuff was set down and a complimentary contraction welcomed them into the room. “There she is,” Chelsie said with a smile, giving you two a warm look. “We’re gonna give him a listen, get the fetal monitor hooked up and check your cervix. Is that okay?”

You gave her a thumbs up, not far enough removed from the contraction to be back to normal. Joe took a seat next to you as Chelsie reached around and hooked up the monitor around your belly and you leaned back, soothed by the rhythmic sounds of his heartbeat filling the room. “That never gets old,” you heard him whisper, clutching your hand.

“Okay,” your doctor says calmly snapping on her glove, “you’re gonna feel a small amount of pressure. Nothing you haven’t already experienced today.”

“Yeah I’m having a great time,” you sighed, wincing into the pressure. But like she said, the exam didn’t take long.

Joe waited approximately three seconds before asking “what’s the verdict?”

“Four centimeters, 80% effaced. Everything looks wonderful, he sounds great and he’s head down.” Dr. Chen tells you, voice kind but professional. “Because this is your first baby and you’re both healthy you do have options. You could labor at home a bit longer and keep us in the loop as things change. Or you could stay here. Everything is set, you’re checked in and making progress but if you’d rather be in your own space, your own bed, you’re more than welcome to do that too.”

He looks at you, handing over control without giving it much thought. “What do you wanna do? If you want to stay, we can. If you want to be at home a little longer, the keys are in my pocket.” Four sounded good, mostly because Dr. Chen said things were moving along, but from your facial expression, he wasn’t convinced you were as thrilled as he was.

“We can stay.” Your eyes were downcast, looking at the fetal monitor. “Getting back in the car sounds like hell. And I don’t want anyone to see us if we make another trip.”

“Okay, we’re staying.”

Dr. Chen stands. “Sounds good. Chelsie’s on call, if you need anything, press that button right there,” she points at the red circle by the bed. “There’s another one in the bathroom.”

“Press it anytime,” Chelsie urges, “even if you just need a question answered.”

“Like I said you’re on the right track, keep listening to your body, try to rest when you can. The fridge is fully stocked with electrolyte popsicles and everything else we discussed so feel free to dig in. In the meantime, we’ll give you some space, I know this can be a lot especially for first time parents but we are here every step of the way.” She patted the spot by your leg and headed out with Chelsie right behind her, closing the door.

The silence was comforting after a while. There were contraction timers and heartbeat monitors and a full staff of people that knew what to do if you needed help. Naturally, the flat screen at the front of the room sounded appealing. So did a Jurassic Park marathon for some reason.

“Think we’ll get through all seven?” Joe asked, hitting play on the film that started the franchise.

“I hope not,” you laughed, shoving a pillow between your knees for extra support as your husband yawned beside you. “We made it here, you can take a nap.”

He shook his head. “Not tired, I’m good. I can rally.”

“You’ve seen this movie a million times. Plus, not like I’m planning on going anywhere, any time soon. I might try to get some sleep too while I can.” The surges hadn’t stopped but you’d gotten used to this intensity and your eyelids felt heavy. “I promise I’ll be right here when you wake up,” you placed a hand on his cheek. “After I pee. And grab a bowl of pineapple.”

Joe registered everything you’d just said, words were just suddenly really hard to come by, a massive wave of exhaustion hitting him at once. He hadn’t realized that once he let himself relax, how tired he’d be and his eyes were closed by the time you’d pulled the fresh fruit out of the fridge.

The first movie was a blur. You slept resting on his shoulder, every so often your belly grew rock hard and you’d breathe, a few woke you up but it wasn’t until the second film that the exercise ball sounded better than sleep. On your knees, your forearms rested against it with Joe sitting behind you, thumbs pressing into your back. He and the velociraptors provide a satisfying distraction from the fact that the person who’s been inhabiting your uterus for almost a year is crawling his way out in an impossibly slow way. You understood why they skipped this part of labor in the movies, that’s why they called it another word for strenuous work. It was tedious and annoying.

This kid better be adorable, you grumbled to yourself.

“You still with me?” Joe asked, interrupting your mini pity party.

“Yeah,” you assured him. “Trying to stay relaxed. Relaxation equals dilation or whatever Chelsie said.”

He snickers, running his hand once down your entire spine. “That’s exactly what she said.” He decides to keep his hand where it is, resting in the infamous problem area of your lower back and kisses your forehead. “Talk to me.”

“What do you wanna talk about?”

“Anything,” the cadence of his word is casual. He could be reading off a grocery list or telling you about the best day of his life in that same breath. It genuinely makes him the greatest support system, never rattled or shaken at least from what the outside world can see.

But you know him better than that. He’s asking you to talk because he’s reading you right now. Your pain, your exhaustion. He’s asking if you’re okay without actually saying the words because he doesn’t want to one of those nagging husbands asking that a hundred times. He’d hate it if he was in your shoes and knows you probably feel the same. Joe settles for the next best thing. “Tell me what’s on your mind right now.”

“Do you remember when we almost named him Wesley?”

Joe laughs, a real one, silently asking is this really what’s on your mind right now?

“I do. We liked the name for weeks. But the one we chose fits him better I think.”

Squeezing his thigh, you paused as a contraction made itself known. He placed his hand over yours, grounding you and reminding you to not tense up without him having to say a word. “We’re gonna finally see him today. In real life. I’ve had dreams about what he’s gonna look like and now I get confirmation.”

“So have I,” he admits, quietly.

“You’ve had dreams about him?”

“Yeah, a lot more during the season when the schedule was crazy. Maybe it’s because I felt so guilty for being busy or being gone. Had dreams about him all the time. One day he’s got your eyes and smile. I pictured his little voice when he starts talking eventually. Hugging him, teaching him about dinosaurs and showing him my collection. Force feeding him my hobbies until he finds his own,” he jokes and your eyes are glassy. You could vividly see him taking your son to museums, Legoland and conducting makeshift science experiments in the offseason just because.

“Joe?” Your chest felt hot, an oddly familiar sensation of your mouth watering.

“What’s going on?”

“Trash can.” He was up immediately, grabbing the first bin in sight just in time for you double over, still halfway on your knees, throwing up as hard as you ever had in your life. It hit the bottom of the trashcan with a force that scared him. Even more so when it happened twice.

“It’s okay,” Joe attempted, wincing as you gagged and spit into the bin. “Let it out, you’re good.”

You puked one more time, feeling the burn in your throat and in your nose somehow, a bit confused on where that came from. Usually, well from your first trimester morning sickness series, there was a tell-tale nauseous sensation that let you know your stomach was protesting. Labor vomit had no warning, the contraction came and with it your body convulsed and—the rest is pretty self explanatory. Joe handed you a water and you rinsed out your mouth and spit into the trashcan again. “Do we have mouthwash or gum or anything?”

“We have both, gimme a second.” He dug through your bag and pulled out the travel sized container of Therabreath, fingers running up and down your back as you swished it around and got rid of it, replacing it with a piece of gum. “That looked rough, sorry baby.”

“It’s fine, kinda caught me off guard. Can you get me a tissue too, I feel like there’s puke in my nose. Sorry if that’s too gross.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he reaches over and grabs the box sitting on the table, “here. I’m gonna grab Chelsie too if that’s okay? Just to see where we’re at?”

You let him get you off the ground and cupped your belly. “Yeah that was really weird, think that means things are moving.”

“Six? That’s—are you sure? Should I scoot down and you can check again?”

Chelsie’s face is still full of optimism which almost makes you want to yell. She’s like one of those permanently happy people, birds probably sit at her window every morning and she sings to them. But she’s funny and you bonded with her over your shared obsession with shitty romance reality tv so there’s no way to hate her. And she’s seen your vagina an uncomfortable amount of times so you’re sort of bonded for life. “Six is beautiful and your cervix is thinning out nicely. You really are doing great, I know it doesn’t necessarily feel that way but I assure you, you are doing everything right.”

You did hear Chelsie’s words and filed away Joe’s subtle attempt to make you feel better by kissing the top of your head when the nurse was gone. “I know it’s not worth much, but you are doing a really good job.”

“It’s been four fucking hours,” you sounded exasperated in a way that made him want to say more. But you beat him to it. “I think I need a shower, I feel disgusting again.”

”’Kay, let’s get you in there.”

“Actually, I might need a few minutes…alone.”

“By yourself?”

You laughed, hauling yourself out of bed. “Yes, that’s literally what alone means my love.”

“Chelsie just said you’re at a six, that means active labor right? I can sit in the bathroom and not say a word, you won’t even know I’m there.”

“I know,” your hand was in his, caressing the outside of it with your thumb. “And I appreciate the offer, I really do but you haven’t left my side since what 8:30? Just need a few minutes without anyone looking at me and answering questions about how I’m feeling. I love you, so much but I need to not exist for a minute.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” You tried to get him to clarify.

“Yes, I’ll stay here, right outside the door. If you call for me, I’ll be right there. And if you don’t? I’ll still be right outside the door.” He promised, letting you disappear into the bathroom after kissing your forehead, he was mentally trying to will himself to be normal about how uncomfortable it was to be away from you. Something about seeing you on the floor, trusting him wholeheartedly to take care of you, to help you get through the overwhelming pain and pressure and all the emotions that inevitably come with labor. Being next to you wasn’t just for you, it was also for his peace of mind, letting him have physical proof that you were okay.

For a few minutes in the shower, you stood under the water in silence. You almost forgot what being alone with your thoughts felt like, with the fetal monitor, checking your cervix, asking for status updates, watching movies, there was always movement, always sound. Right now, you wanted it void of noise except the shower spray on your skin. You cradled your stomach in both hands, lifting up your head toward the ceiling and taking in a huge bout of air. This was by far the hardest thing you’d ever done. And it felt never ending. But you reminded yourself that this is what you wanted the experience to be, all natural, you trusting yourself and your body to do this with limited intervention. You could do this, your body was meant to do this. The only thing you were missing so far is anticipating the next pain, trying to get through it. All day you’d let labor happen to you instead of surrendering to it and working with it. You also had to get someone else involved.

“Alright baby boy.” You sighed, mid contraction, “you gotta start putting in some effort here. Move down. You’ve overstayed your welcome and it’s time for a new place to call home, seriously.”

“I really want to hold you. And kiss you,” you rested your arm against the wall squatting slightly with a soft groan. “I wanna look at your face. And you have to meet your dad, I know you’re gonna love him. Hell, he’s probably going to be your favorite person in the world and he is dying to meet you so you can’t keep him waiting.” It felt both freeing and ridiculous, talking to a person that wasn’t born yet and definitely could not decide when he was going to enter the world but it felt nice to get that off your chest. You placed both palms on the wall, rocking side to side, “shit, ugh okay.” You didn’t tense up with this one, surrendering to the pressure as your body moved down to squat against the shower chair. Active labor felt exactly like its name, you needed activity, you needed to be moving, shifting from the balls of your feet to your toes, switching the shower head to one of the side ones aimed directly at your back.

“Come on,” you growled, mostly to yourself, five to ten percent to the baby. “Open. You can do this,” you huffed, half standing to place your leg on the chair in a lunge position. Things definitely felt looser and you needed to work with that, more low sounds vibrating against the back of your throat as you squeezed the chair. A deep trembling inhale made way for the next wave and you audibly moaned for the first time all day, a powerful feeling overtaking you. “Yes, that’s what we want,” you said aloud to no one in particular. Maybe your uterus or…the universe.

You came out of the bathroom in a black tank top and sleep shorts. “Feeling better?” Joe asked, noticing you seem less rattled than before.

“Um I wouldn’t say better necessarily,” you laughed, “but definitely more centered? I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

“It does.”

The room felt a lot bigger and purposeful but everything that mattered to you now was focusing downward. You needed space, release and to be low to the ground again. That led you to the birth sling. It was easy to grip, secure and as soon as you tried it, the tension you carried after the last contraction faded away enough for you to smile.

“Mmh.” You sounded relieved, your grip tightening on the sling. It was supporting you from behind as you leaned into it, legs in a semi squat with your arms out in front of you. “Ngh—oh my god,” your hips shifted slightly as the sound continued. Joe provided counter pressure without being asked.

“Good right here?”

A slow breath and a small yes gave him the confirmation he needed. “You’re helping, a ton. And making sounds feels good too. Like my body is just doing it for me but it feels right.”

“Do whatever feels good,” his thumbs pressed against your hips, “you’re doing great.”

“Just warning you it might get a little loud in the next twenty minutes.” That pent up energy you had in storage finally had somewhere productive to go and your husband just nodded and moved a chair over so he could park himself in this spot right up to the second you were tired of this position. He applied firm pressure as soon as he was back and you leaned further into him. “Yes! Oh my god, right there. Do not stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, “staying here as long as you need, babe.”

The sling worked until it didn’t. To be fair you’d tried three different positions. Then there wasn’t enough movement for your legs. Joe had rubbed out a calf cramp and helped you stand. You made it three steps before squatting by the bed with a low groan. “Fuck me,” you pinched your eyes closed, squeezing Joe’s forearm. “Sorry,” you rubbed at the spot.

“You’re good,” he handed you his left arm, “squeeze this one as hard as you can.”

“Grab me a popsicle, please?”

He nods, back at your side a minute later unwrapping it and holding it for you as you take a bite. “So good,” you sighed before taking it from him. You paced the room as you ate, each surge brought sound and a bit more intensity and he could see your belly changing shape as your son continued his descent.

Then you doubled over, popsicle stick still in your grasp as you clutched your knees. “Oh—oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

“Alright, take a breath, you’re good,” he took the trash from your hand and tossed it into the basin. “Breathe and squeeze,” it seemed like you were trying to get to the floor so he held both of your hands trying to keep you upright. Then he noticed more leaking as you grunted again.

“Joe press the button,” you told him frantically, “get Chelsie. I need her.”

Chelsie was quick and gentle as always with her checks. “You’re at a solid 8.5, soft 9. Almost there mama.”

“Wonderful.”

“You’re almost done,” Joe whispered. You wanted to cry with relief. When you were at a four, this seemed trillions of miles away. Another contraction built before Chelsie could wrap up and leave, enough to make you curl inward. This one didn’t feel endless, your whole body was busy working him down and out, your stomach pulling tight and hard and you opened your mouth when it ended.

“Chelsie? That last one felt…odd.”

“Odd how?”

“Like I—felt pushy almost?”

Her facial expression doesn’t change but you can tell the wheels are turning. “It’s more normal than you think, but we do want to hold off on active pushing til the last bit of your cervix is gone. Last thing we want is your straining and swelling up because it’s too soon or expending too much energy. When it’s really time to push, your body will know.”

She watches Joe grab your water and scoots away from the bed. “I’ll be nearby but out of your way, transition is here so don’t run from it. Like Joe said, you’re almost there.”

Transition felt like you imagined hell to be like. It was basically one endless contraction and you got no breaks in between. There was no in between. And everything, everything was stretched to the limit. You went from a squat to some sort of makeshift fort on the floor because it was cool. One minute you were sweating the next you were demanding a blanket. “Can someone turn off the lights?” You didn’t know if it was Chelsie or Joe who did it and you don’t remember if you even said thank you. You knew he’d swapped out your wet shorts for black underwear a few minutes ago but everything was on fire, talking even hurt. You became a wall of low, desperate sounds and the occasional f-bomb.

“What the fuck?” You cried, lying on your side, groaning into your pillow. “Hold my leg?”

“Up?” He rested your foot against his chest as you nodded. Chelsie came down to your level and placed a cool cloth on your forehead.

“How do people do this multiple times?” You let out a breath, bearing down uncontrollably on the exhale.

Joe kept rubbing your thigh. “You’re kicking ass right now.”

“My ass hurts actually. I wanna go home, I wanna be done.”

“We’ll go home, promise. You’re so close.”

“FUCK” you arched your back and Joe looked over at Chelsie as your toes curled.

She stepped in, “short breaths almost like you’re hyperventilating ‘ha ha ha’”

You were trying, you really were but all that came out was a primal moan, almost like a cow. Then you burped and got to your hands and knees. Chelsie stepped back, letting you move around and you burped again suddenly, feeling slightly offended at all the different things happening simultaneously. “Oh my god,” you paused, gagging. “Trash can? I might puke again.”

Nothing happened for a few minutes so it was shoved away and you put your head down, undulating your hips. “Off,” you reached for your underwear, “take these away.”

“Don’t push yet,” your nurse said, still calm but with a more serious edge to her normal voice.

“I’m trying. My body has other plans.” Another groan. “It’s so hot in here.” Chelsie turned down the AC and Joe pointed the fan towards your belly when he saw you hiking up your tank top to get more air.

Joe prides himself in knowing you better than anyone, maybe even yourself. His first clue is the sounds start to change. You’ve been vocalizing on and off since you got out of the shower but the sounds he’s heard the last three contractions aren’t sounds of pain they’re…effort. You’ve decided to get back in bed, resting on the pregnancy pillow in a makeshift donut to fit your belly but the low, throaty sounds don’t feel the same. And you’ve stopped talking altogether, you haven’t asked for a blanket or for him to squeeze anything, it doesn’t seem like you want to be touched. Everything is sound and air.

He watches intently as you shift, legs spread a touch wider then your whole body is completely still. You reached down as a sound was ripped out of your chest, “ughh. Ngh.” You paused for a second, collecting your energy and gave into that feeling, like you needed to go to the bathroom but more intense. You went with that urge and bore down with everything you had. He didn’t have to ask, he knew you were pushing, he just wasn’t sure you were supposed to be.

Chelsie clearly had the same thought because she placed a hand on your back. “Sounds like you’re starting to push here mama, let’s see what we’re working with.”

“I can—feel him,” your face contorted as you pushed, heaving breaths leaving you once the contraction was done.

“Joe, help me turn her over.”

They got you onto your back and Chelsie saw what you meant when you pushed again, paging Dr. Chen when she saw the teardrop form with the tiniest glimpse of the baby’s head. “That’s a 10. And I see him, he’s definitely coming. Give me a big push on this next one and hold for as long as you can.”

Joe helped count, reminding you to take it slow, to let yourself stretch and Dr. Chen took over. “Beautiful job, mama. Remember to push into your butt, tuck your chin down into your chest. Yes just like that, go go go, you’ve got him.”

“Oh fuck,” you grabbed the back of your thigh and dug deep, letting out a roar as you aided in your body’s pushing efforts. You strained so hard your body shook and Joe’s hand went numb but he didn’t let go.

He looked over and saw your progress, eyes wide with shock and pride. “I saw him, he’s got so much hair. You’re bringing him here. You’ve got it.”

“He’s not bald?”

“Not at all. He’s got dark hair, so much of it.”

You pushed again, cutting it short. “I feel like I’m not doing this right.”

“Take a second and try again,” Dr. Chen said. “You’ve got time.”

“You’re doing it.” Joe squeezed your hand. “Almost done.”

You turned onto your side, with a little gravity to help you started to feel the burn after four more hard shoves, each leaving you winded but ever more determined. “This is insane,” you cried reaching down to feel his head that was finally staying put. “I’m holding him, I’m touching our son right now.”

His eyes looked teary and he wiped at them with his forearm, leaning his head against yours. “Bring him home.”

Time became a blur after that, when it felt like he was right there, he’d tease everyone and go back in. You tried different angles and took several breaks. It seemed like one more test of your fortitude.

And your sanity.

A huge contraction builds, causing you to lift your hips off the bed as the baby fully crowned, you yelped as the pressure reached its most excruciating point. His head came out with a distinct pop, your hips jerked and you bore down again wanting this to end.

“He’s turning, couple big pushes for the shoulders and we should have a baby.”

You grunted lifting your body off the bed again, searching for the best position to allow your body to pry itself open to let him out. Gasping for breath, another low growl helped you work one shoulder free as your son rotated and the other shoulder soon after. He slipped out freely, along with a gush of fluid when you gave into that last hearty urge.

The sound of his first cry was the best sound you’d ever heard and you looked at Joe who was also crying. Nobody said anything for a while. Not until you said, “that’s Kai?”

“That’s him,” he said, voice unbearably shaky. “That’s our boy. He’s here, you did it.”

“No way I could’ve done that without you. We did it.”

At 7:18PM after the longest day the two of you had ever lived, Kai Joseph Burrow entered your lives and made every second worth the wait.

[redd-blushing-roses]

Stubborn Heart and Stuffy Nosed

word count: 1.7k

pairing: Jack Abbot x (wife) reader

summary: They say doctors make the worst patients... and Jack Abbot is no exception to that.

notes: a short and sweet one for you all! I just know this man is literally the worst when he gets a cold.

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You're not a bit surprised when the call comes. 

It's well past midnight, hours after Jack had left for his shift. You had been laying awake for a while, half expecting a text from him, or maybe a call from Robby. Anything that confirms what you'd been suspicious of for the last 24 hours. 

The call comes from Lena. 

"Hi hon! Sorry to wake you."

"No, no that's alright. Is everything okay?" 

"Well..."

You're pulling on a pair of sweats and one of Jack's thick sweaters a minute later, grabbing your keys and making the short drive to PTMC. It's busy when you sneak in through the ambulance bay, your eyes wide as you take in the crowded waiting room through the glass divider. 

John gives you a grin and a friendly wave when you pass by him, a half drunk coffee clutched in his hand. You smile, clutching your keys a little tighter. 

"Where is he?" 

"Solitary confinement." You make a face. 

"That bad huh?"

"Lena told me she thinks it's mostly a fever. But he was putting up a bit of a fight when Robby asked to check him out."

"I'm sure," you sigh, thanking John before moving to the patient room across the ED. 

A bit of a fight was an understatement. 

"Robby, so help me- I swear to God- if you put that thing anywhere near me again-"

"It's just a thermometer. It's not gonna kill you Jack!" 

You peek in behind the curtain, trying to hold in a laugh as you take in the sight. 

"What's happening here?"

Jack looks over, eyes rimmed red, his nose and cheeks flushed. You could see the wads of tissue stuffed into his pocket, the sweat beading along his forehead. Lena just shakes her head from over by the wall, watching Robby hover over your husband with a thermometer clutched in his hand. 

"Welcome to the show."

"It's not a show," Jack barks, his hand held out to push Robby away. "I'm telling you I'm fine." 

"Jack, you're burning up man. You look worse than some of the patients here."

"Well jeez, you don't look the greatest either, sunshine." Robby sighs, giving you a deadpan look. You just laugh behind your hand, moving to stand beside Lena. 

"Has he been like this for a while?" Lena asks.

"Yes," you say, Jack's head whips around to look at you so fast you’re surprised he didn't break it. If he didn't look so miserable and betrayed, you'd almost say he looked cute with his messy curls and big pout. You smile, "It started yesterday. He had a cough and was sneezing-"

"Allergies," Jack interjects gruffly.

"-And then he was trying his hardest to pretend like he wasn't sweating buckets before he left for his shift."

"I take an extra hot shower sometimes," he says defensively, his voice catching as he turns, coughing hoarsely into the crook of his elbow. Jack sniffs, the sound of mucus plugging up his throat echoing loudly.

Robby and Lena give each other looks. You sigh. 

"Jack," you start, moving closer. He shakes his head. 

"I'm not sick." 

"You literally have snot dripping down your lip."

“I’m fine!” 

He protests for a half hour, practically fighting against Robby and John who help you get him into your car an hour later after they forced him to go home. 

"I'm not sick! It's just a cold!!"

“Stop whining and put your seatbelt on,” you say as you slide into the driver's seat. Jack grovels, his hands working to slide his seatbelt into the buckle. He has to try to get the lock to latch multiple times, eyes narrowing as he tries to get his vision to focus.

“I’m not whining. I don't know why you're listening to Robby...” 

“Jack,” you give him a look, reaching out to pet the sweat slicked hairs at his temple. “Baby, you're burning up. Robby would tell anyone in this state to go home.” 

“He's not my doctor.” You sigh and get the car started. 

“No. I am now. And as your doctor I need you to sit there and close your mouth so I can drive.” 

Jack glares at you, crossing his arms. 

“You're a mean doctor.”

“I’m not mean. It’s three in the morning and my husband is acting like he’s not running a 102 degree fever.” Jack shakes his head.

But in spite of his resistance you note the way he slouches into the passenger seat a bit. The way his eyes droop lower and his head begins to rest against the car window. 

“This goes against the code of ethics,” Jack mumbles. “Family can't treat family.” 

You snort, turning the car out of the parking lot and onto the main street.

“You want to talk about code of ethics? Let’s review what the code of ethics says about treating sick patients while being sick yourself. Have anything to say about that?”

Jack goes silent, the radio static humming quietly in the background. He turns to you, eyelids heavy as he blinks. 

“No,” he lets out gruffly. 

“That's what I thought.” 

Jack trudges into the house like a zombie. You watch him amusedly, his camo backpack slung over one of your shoulders as you push him towards the bedroom. 

“I’m not going to bed-”

“No. You're getting in the shower and we're getting your temperature down.” Jack recoils, trying to leave but you push him forward. 

He fights it the whole way. Arguing as you make him take off his leg, trying to move your hand away when you help him undress. 

Jack is complaining as you get the shower running, your own clothes abandoned in the bedroom and swapped for a pair of shorts and a bra.

“This is overkill, baby. I just need to sleep it off.” You look over your shoulder at Jack where he sits on the closed toilet in nothing but his boxer shorts, shoulders slumped and face lined with exhaustion. 

“Oh, you've got something now? I thought it was just allergies?” Jack’s already flushed cheeks turn a shade darker. 

“I’m just saying. I don’t need you to worry or fuss over me like I'm some kid. This is nothing-”

“Hey,” you shake your head, drying water droplets off your hand as you move to squat in front of him. “I’m not fussing, Jack.”

“It seems like you are.” You shake your head and sigh.

Always the same, Jack Abbot. 

“I know you’re a grown man Jack. I’ve seen you deal with a head cold and fever before. But just because you can work through the pain doesn’t mean you have to.” He opens his mouth to argue again, but you just rest your hand on his bare thigh and give him a look. The kind that always left him quiet and ready to listen. “Jack, I want to take care of you because I love you. You don’t have to power through everything. It doesn’t make you less than to admit you need to rest.”

You know it’s hard for him to listen to that. To actually listen and take it to heart. The fact you wanted to help him. That you didn’t see him as less than for admitting he needed to rest. To admit that, yes. He was sick.

Jack sighs, his forehead coming to rest against your shoulder as he leans into you. You adjust your stance as he lays against you, shifting your arms to embrace him better. The pipes hum gently, steam slowly collecting in the bathroom as the hot shower runs.

You hear him sniffle, his cheek pressing against your arm, his eyes closed as you hold him. He faintly hums with tired pleasure as you run a hand through his sweat matted curls, your gaze soft and comforting. 

He swallows thickly, and you note the way he grimaces slightly at the gravelly catch in his voice. 

“That feels nice.” 

“Yeah?” Jack nods. You continue, just holding him. Letting Jack be still.

“You know what else would feel nice?” 

“Sleeping naked with you?” You chuckle softly.

“No. That’s something we can do another night.” Jack frowns. But he can’t be too disappointed. You can tell by the way his eyes are more closed than open that he’s getting a bad headache. “How about I help you in the shower and we get your temperature down. Just enough so you can sleep a little better. Okay?”

Jack doesn’t protest. He lets you help him up and onto the shower bench. Lets you stand there as water runs down his chest and thighs. You run a washcloth over his back and neck, admiring the pattern of freckles that spanned his tan back. 

He keeps leaning into you, like his head is too heavy to hold up anymore. Like sitting still has finally let the exhaustion and weariness settle i to him. Jack’s hand is permanently posted on the soft curve of your thigh, holding your leg gently. Like it was grounding him.

When his head finally hits the pillow, after you deemed a dropping temperature of 100.1 was enough to get out of the shower, Jack is out like a light. Not that you’re surprised. You watch him for a moment as you slip out of your wet undergarments, smiling faintly. He seemed so different like this. Peaceful. Not encumbered by the heaviness of the emergency room or the weight of his own memories.

His chest rises and falls steadily, the pair of sweats he’d barely managed to pull on resting low on his hips. You slip into Jack’s old sweater again, reaching out to pull and adjust the covers around him. Jack lets out a quiet breath, his hand catching yours when you are about to walk away.

His voice is barely there, lost to the irritation and mucus clogging his throat.

“You’re not leaving… are you?” You laugh softly. 

“I’m coming back, Jack. Just going to get you some extra tissues and water in case you need them.” Jack hums, his eyes already closing again.

“No. I just need you.” You shake your head, opening your mouth to protest when Jack tugs you into bed. “Who’s the doctor here?” 

“I thought I was the doctor?” you whisper, crawling over him.

“Well then you’d know…” You frown, settling into bed next to him, keeping a cautious distance because even though you loved Jack, you were not getting sick right now.

“Know what?”

Jack is silent.

You look over at him, repeating your question. But he’s out again, one hand resting in between your bodies. You just shake your head, taking his hand gently into yours and pressing a kiss across his knuckles. 

“I wonder about you sometimes, Jack Abbot.”

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thank you for reading! if you're interested in reading more of my works for the pitt, here is a link to my masterlist :)

[mrs-delaney]

Background Noise | Simple Math

pairings: joe burrow x younger reader 🩷🧮 wc: 1,250 an: hi it's me clogging the tag with the same boring ole picture 🥲 this one's based on a mixture of two requests i think — if i can find them in my inbox i'll link them so you can see them. thank you for being here 🩷 joe burrow masterlist | simple math masterlist

It’s his week, which means you’re under a blanket on his couch watching something about the bottom of the ocean.

The rules are his. Phone face down on the coffee table — he set yours there himself when you sat down, screen to the wood, like a man confiscating something. You watch the whole thing. No scrolling. No, I’m listening while you answer a text. He doesn’t say all that out loud anymore. He just held out his palm when the title card came up, and you handed over the phone.

So now your feet are in his lap, and a narrator is talking about a part of the ocean where the light doesn’t reach, and Joe’s thumb is moving slow over your ankle bone, back and forth, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

He probably doesn’t.

On screen, something with teeth drifts up out of the black, a little light hanging off a stalk above its head. The narrator says its name.

“That’s the female,” Joe says.

You don’t ask. You know better. It doesn’t matter.

“The male’s like a tenth the size. He finds one, bites onto her, and then he just—” he folds his fingers in, slow. “Fuses. Her skin grows over him. He’s part of her body at that point. Just there to—”

“Please don’t finish that.”

“—reproduce. He loses his eyes. His organs. Everything but the part she needs.”

“Joe.”

“What.”

“You’re doing the thing.”

He looks over at you like he doesn’t know what thing. He genuinely doesn’t.

On the screen, the little light moves through the dark. You watch it longer than you mean to.

“Wait. So she just carries him around.”

“Rest of her life.”

“That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s efficient.” He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek and looks back at the TV like he’s won something.

You hate that you want to know what’s further down. You ask anyway.

“So what’s deeper than this?”

He slides down the couch and takes you with him, gets comfortable, like it’s going to take a while.

“You’re gonna love this,” he says.

———

The ritual sticks. It turns into a thing you have — Sunday nights, mostly, a Tuesday if his week’s open, his place and yours trading off, a running fight about subtitles that neither of you ever wins.

Your weeks, you make him watch the movies that raised you. You put on How to Train Your Dragon, the one you’ve seen so many times you mouth the words, and you wait for him to make fun of you. He doesn’t. He goes quiet in the good way, and twenty minutes in he says “the dad’s wrong about him,” flat, like it’s bothering him, and you have to look at the floor so you don’t grin and ruin it.

His weeks are whatever he’s deep in that month — space, the bottom of the ocean, how mountains move — plus Heat and one cult thing after another, each one “important,” each one earning him a pillow to the face.

Then it’s a Sunday, and he puts on The Dark Knight, and you can tell it’s not like the others before it even starts — he sits up, phone all the way across the room, like the movie deserves his hands free.

“I watched this probably a hundred times the year I got my license,” he says.

You’ve seen it too. Your brother had it on in the basement so many weekends that it became the background noise of being a kid. Without thinking about it, you do the math. “God, so I was like nine.”

His thumb stops on your ankle.

He doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at the screen, the city, the title coming up over it. You watch the side of his face for a second, then let it go.

“The Joker scared the hell out of me,” you say. “I used to leave the room.”

“You can leave the room.”

“Shut up. Start it.”

His thumb starts moving again.

———

A few weeks in, you push your luck. It’s your night. You put on a show.

“This isn’t a movie.”

“The deal was favorites.”

“The deal was movies.”

“The deal was never movies. You just kept picking movies.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. You can see him deciding whether this is worth dying over, and you watch him decide it isn’t.

“Fine.” He gets his phone. “I’m not watching it, though. Background noise.”

You start it from the beginning.

That first night he’s on his phone the whole time, thumb going, and at the end he says it was fine, he guesses, and you let him have that. The next week the phone goes down somewhere in the back half. The week after that, it doesn’t come out at all.

He keeps saying background noise. He says it while he’s leaning forward. He says it the week he asks, too casual, whether the dark-haired brother is coming back — and when you tell him the guy’s name is Conrad, he says he didn’t ask for a name; he asked if he’s coming back. He says it the week he calls the blond one “that kid” in a tone that has opinions. He doesn’t know the names. He refuses to know the names. He knows exactly who everyone is.

By the time you get him to the third season, you’ve stopped pretending it’s background noise.

He hasn’t.

———

Season three, you don’t even have to fight him for it. You put it on, and he’s already settled, arm out for you, eyes on the screen before the recap’s done, like he’s been waiting for this all week.

“Background noise,” he says, to nobody.

“Sure.”

The premiere doesn’t waste time. There’s a party. A girl you don’t recognize yet is talking to her friends, loud and careless, and across the room Belly goes still.

Joe sits forward.

“He did it,” he says.

“What?”

“The blond one.” He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Whatever she just heard — he did it.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“He’s gonna say ’I can explain.’ Watch. Guilty people explain. Innocent people just say no.”

Belly crosses the room and asks him straight out. The first thing out of his mouth is that he can explain.

Joe breathes out through his nose, slow, like he just watched a ref blow a call, and now he’s personally offended.

“Cabo,” he says, when it comes out where it happened. “He did it in Cabo and sat on it. Look at his face — he’s not sorry he did it. He’s sorry she found out.”

You’re not watching the show anymore. You’re watching him.

When Jeremiah gets to the part about how they were technically on a break, Joe’s jaw sets.

“That’s not an explanation,” he says. “That’s a loophole.”

On screen, Belly’s coming apart, and Joe watches her like he’d fix it if he could reach.

“She’s gonna take him back,” he says, low. “Don’t. Belly. Come on.”

You look at him.

“You know her name.”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on the screen. Then he catches it — what he said, the way he said it — and his jaw works, and he keeps very busy not looking at you.

“…How many of these even are there?”

“Three seasons. We’re in the last one.”

“How many episodes left?”

“Like ten.”

He pulls you into his side, chin landing on the top of your head.

“Don’t watch them without me.”

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷

[angelabbot]

honeybee

pairing: jack abbot x fem!nurse!reader

content warning: fluff, probably medically inaccurate, mention of blood, reader accidentally gets hurt, jack is overprotective and patches her up!, idk don’t question why dana robby and jack are here all at once

a/n: ts was lowk like self indulgent and its kinda horrible but whatever! hope u enjoy :3 not proofread!

masterlist

there were two things you knew for certain in your life.

one was that jack abbot was your soulmate, and the other was that sometimes becoming a nurse was something you deeply regretted.

right now was one of those moments.

you were helping dr ellis with a 6 year old who had ended up in the ER with a broken leg. he was flailing around quite destructively in an attempt to fight off the needles and medical equipment.

the room was loud and small, and everything happened in one quick moment, so much so it took you a second to realise you were on the floor.

the boy had kicked you with his good leg. the surprising amount of force sent you flying against the wall, hitting an IV pole on the way down.

you had only registered the throbbing on the back of your head and the cut on your arm when you had steadied yourself back up.

ellis insisted you leave to go patch yourself up, and after a lot of back and forth, you relented and attempted to slip away to an empty exam room.

unfortunately for you, your boyfriend intercepted you on the way.

“hey, sweetheart!” he called out down the hall, squinting and frowning when he approached you and took in your appearance.

jack raised an eyebrow and looked you up and down before almost jumping up into place. “are you bleeding? what happened?!” he demanded instantly, grabbing your shoulder and practically dragged you to an exam room.

“it was an accident.” you began to explain. “it was an agitated little kid, he accidentally kicked me. i got launched into the wall.” you murmured, giving jack a half hearted smile as he gave you a stern glare.

he began his clinical checks, checking your vitals and pupils, hands gentle as ever as he held you steady. “shit, did you hurt your head? your hair is bloody.” jack said firmly.

“yeah, i did. but i’m fine!” you were quick to reassure him, but he didn’t listen. his eyes were determined and worried as he worked to check if there was truth to your words.

it took jack twenty minutes to ensure you were okay. the excessive treatment was more for him than it was you.

you had a bandage over the cut on your arm and your head had luckily ended up not being serious. jack seemed satisfied with your condition when you laughed at one of his stupid jokes.

“i’m glad you’re okay, honey. i was really worried for a minute.” he said seriously looking at you with what could only he described as pure devotion.

you smiled weakly, shrugging at his words. “i’m tough. toughest nurse you know.” you joked, leaning up on your toes to kiss his cheek.

you two were never really openly affectionate at work, but it was nice to feel the comfort and familiarity of your secure relationship once and awhile.

but even when you were quiet, you both knew you loved each other.

little did you both know, dana and robby were watching you both from the central station.

“god, i love the way he looks at her.” dana sighed. robby chuckled and shook his head. “you’re not even apart of the relationship.”

“i don’t care. i’ve never seen jack care so much.” dana argued, smiling at you when you caught her eye.

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ A DARK DAY IN THE PITT …

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Fem!Doctor!Reader.

SUMMARY: Sometimes, you lose patients. That is a fact that you have had to accept as a doctor, no matter how much it hurts your heart. Understandably, this is not an easy fact for the families of patients to accept, and you get caught in worst possible outcome of one man’s violent manifestation of grief.

NOTES: Angst, depictions of gun violence and shooter situation, physical assault, severe physical injuries, intense distress + panic attacks, grief-driven violence, medical settings/recovery, PTSD symptoms, survivor guilt, established relationship.

REQUESTED BY: @megafandomsxassemble

NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI

The transition between the day shift and the night shift in the ER was always a chaotic symphony of overlapping voices, rustling charts, and the relentless hum of medical monitors. On this particular evening, the handoff was proving to be exceptionally messy.

You had spent the last three hours of your shift swallowed whole by a trauma code that ultimately ended in heartbreak. Your hands had performed chest compressions until your forearms burned, only to have the flatline stubbornly refuse to yield.

When you finally signed the chart and pronounced the time of death, the heavy, hollow silence of failure settled deep into your bones. Jack caught your eye across the central nursing station just as the night team began filtering in, his expression a quiet, anchoring comfort amidst the surrounding storm.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your wrist for a brief, stolen second. "Go down to the imaging department and grab the scans waiting there for me," he murmured softly, his eyes searching yours with deep concern. "I'll finish wrapping up the documentation here. You need a breather."

You nodded, grateful for the chance to escape the immediate, suffocating atmosphere of the trauma bay. "Thank you. I'll be back up in ten," you replied, offering a weary smile.

Down in the corridors of the X-ray and MRI suites, the ambient noise of the hospital thinned out into a sterile, echoing quiet. You were waiting, exchanging weary pleasantries with a technician.

"Rough shift upstairs?" the tech asked gently, noticing the exhaustion etched onto your face.

Before you could answer, the overhead pages cut through the stillness with a chilling, mechanical precision. “Code Silver. Level One, Imaging Suites. Code Silver.” The automated voice was immediately followed by the harsh, metallic clunk of the heavy fire doors sealing shut across the threshold of the department.

The technician’s face drained of colour in an instant. "Oh god, that's here," they whispered, backing away. Before either of you could fully process the lockdown protocol, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway burst open.

It wasn't the tactical team. It was a man whose face was etched with a terrifying, hollow kind of madness, a face you recognised instantly as the brother of the patient you had pronounced dead less than an hour ago. A heavy handgun was clutched in his trembling, white-knuckled grip as his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifying, singular focus.

"You!" he screamed, the sound bouncing violently off the tiled walls. "You killed him! You just let him die!"

"Please, put the weapon down," you pleaded, raising your hands in a desperate gesture of peace. "We did everything we could for your brother. I promise you, we tried."

He didn't want to listen. The distance between safety and catastrophe dissolved in an instant. The first shot echoed through the narrow hallway, the bullet shattering a glass partition behind you and showering your shoulders in a deadly rain of shards.

The sheer concussive force of the sound threw you off balance, and before you could scramble to your feet, the man was upon you. A heavy, blunt blow from the butt of the gun caught you squarely across the temple, sending a blinding flash of white-hot pain through your skull and throwing you hard against the concrete floor.

The metallic taste of blood filled your mouth instantly as you struggled to keep consciousness from slipping away. "Please..." you choked out, your hands weakly coming up to shield your face. The agony stole your breath, leaving you gasping, curled into a desperate, defensive ball on the cold linoleum.

Upstairs in the Pitt, the atmosphere shattered the moment the alarms blared. Jack’s head snapped up from the computer terminal, his stethoscope still draped around his neck as the electronic security doors slid shut, locking them inside the main emergency department.

"What's the location?" Jack demanded, his voice cutting through the rising panic of the staff.

"Imaging," Dana replied, her voice uncharacteristically trembling. "They're saying it's a pissed off family member from the last trauma."

Jack’s heart dropped into his stomach with a force that made him physically stumble backward against the counter. He knew exactly where you were. He had sent you there. "No, no, no," he muttered, the clinical detachment he usually wore completely evaporating.

He lunged toward the locked electronic doors of the ER, his hands slamming violently against the reinforced glass. "Override the doors! Let me out!" he roared at the security panel. "She's down there! Let me out!"

Robby grabbed him by the shoulders, his grip tight and unyielding as he forced Jack away from the glass. "Jack, stop! Look at me, stop!" Robby commanded, his voice low and urgent. "Rushing blindly into a Code Silver will only get you killed. You can't help her if you're dead."

"You don't understand, Robby! I sent her down there!" Jack screamed, fighting against his friend's hold, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. "It's my fault! I need to get to her!" His eyes were wild as he scanned the perimeter of the room for any tool, any oxygen tank, that he could use to smash through the security barriers.

Below them, you managed to wrench yourself away from your attacker's grip, sacrificing the fabric of your shirt as you scrambled backward down the darkened corridor, your fingers slipping in the pool of your own blood. The desperation to survive, to get back upstairs to Jack, gave you a sudden surge of strength.

You kicked out, catching the man squarely in the shin. He groaned, stumbling and dropping the firearm with a clatter against the metal baseboards. Seizing the momentary distraction, you dragged your battered body toward the nearest heavy supply closet, pulling yourself inside and heaving the door shut just as his heavy footsteps regained their balance outside.

Inside the dark supply closet, you were slumped against a stack of sterile linen packs, your breath hitching as you tried to muffle the sound of your sobbing. Every breath felt like breathing broken glass, a sharp, stabbing reminder of what were undoubtedly broken ribs.

You could hear him outside, cursing and kicking at the heavy wooden door. Thud. Thud. The framework groaned under the pressure of his assault. With trembling, bloody hands, you reached into your pocket and found your phone, the screen cracked but still glowing. You dialed Jack’s number.

In the locked-down ER, Jack’s phone suddenly blared its familiar ringtone. He snatched it from his belt before the first ring could even finish, his voice a frantic, breathless explosion. "Please tell me you're okay. Where are you?"

"Jack," you sobbed into the receiver, your voice a wet, choked whisper. "I'm in the supply closet... near X-ray room B. He's trying to break the door down. Jack, I'm bleeding. I'm so scared."

Hearing your ragged breathing nearly brought him to the floor. He dropped his weight against the central desk, his eyes closing as a tearful breath escaped him. "Listen to me," Jack commanded, his voice transforming into a low, fiercely focused tone, trying desperately to be the anchor you needed. "I am right here, just above you. I am not leaving. Press a clean sheet against your wound, and keep listening to my voice."

Through the microphone, Jack could hear the terrifying, heavy thuds of the shooter battering the door. Each impact tore at his soul. "Jack, the lock is giving way," you cried, your voice cracking with terror.

"Hold on, please, just hold on," Jack begged, his promises spilling out in a fierce, unfiltered torrent of devotion. "The police are in the building. They're on their way to you right now. Look for the light, sweetheart. You are going to make it out of this hallway alive because I can't breathe in a world where you don't."

The final, catastrophic splintering of the closet door echoed clearly through the phone line. You let out a sharp, terrified gasp as the phone slipped from your hands into the linens. The man lunged into the small space, his hands finding your throat, dragging you ruthlessly out into the hallway.

"This ends now," the man snarled, pressing the recovered weapon unyieldingly against your temple. The pain of the movement was blinding, a white-hot explosion that threatened to turn the world entirely black, but you weakly clawed at his wrists, refusing to give up.

Through the haze of pain, a sudden, booming command echoed from the end of the corridor. "Police! Drop the weapon! Drop it now!"

The shooter stiffened, his grip tightening on your throat for one final, terrifying second. A deafening roar of a single, precise police round echoed through the concrete hallway. The pressure around your neck instantly vanished as the weight of his body collapsed heavily away from yours, leaving you gasping for air on the blood-slicked floor.

Upstairs, the sudden silence on the phone line after the sound of the gunshot shattered Jack’s remaining restraint. He let out a raw, guttural cry and threw his entire weight against the security doors just as the locking mechanism hissed and yielded to the emergency override.

He didn't wait for the elevators; he took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the ache in his leg and his heart hammering a frantic rhythm as he descended into the basement. The smell of cordite and copper hit his nose the moment he burst into the imaging corridor.

"Where is she?! Where is she?!" Jack shouted, shoving past tactical officers who were clearing the area.

When he saw you, a small, broken shape huddled against the wall surrounded by a pool of crimson, the rest of the world ceased to exist. He lowered himself to sit on the ground next to you as quickly as he was able to, his hands trembling as they hovered over your face, terrified to cause more pain.

"I'm here, I'm right here," Jack choked out, tears streaming down his face as he gathered you into his arms with an incredible, desperate gentleness. He buried his face in your uninjured shoulder, his entire body shaking with heavy, violent sobs. "You're safe. I've got you. I've got you."

You opened your swollen eyes, recognising his tear-stained face through the blurred haze of your vision. A weak, trembling breath escaped your lips as your fingers weakly clutched the fabric of his bloodied scrubs, the adrenaline finally fading as the darkness began to pull you under.

The sterile beep of the ICU monitors was the first sound that managed to pierce through the heavy, drug-induced fog holding you under. It was a rhythmic, mechanical contrast to the chaotic noise that had filled your ears before the darkness took over.

As your eyes fluttered open, the harsh fluorescent lights of the recovery room forced you to wince, a sharp, blinding ache instantly flaring across your left temple. You groaned, the small movement sending a rippling wave of agony through your taped and bound ribs, making your breath hitch uncomfortably.

"Don't try to move, sweetheart. Just breathe. Slowly." Jack’s voice was a rough, gravelly whisper, sounding as though he hadn't used it in days. He was instantly leaning over the bed rail, his face pale and lined with exhaustion, dark purple shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

He didn't touch your face, mindful of the heavy bandaging wrapping your skull and the deep bruising along your jaw, but he took your uninjured hand between both of his. His palms were warm, but they were trembling, his thumbs sweeping across your knuckles with a frantic, desperate rhythm.

"You're in the ICU," he murmured, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked down at you. "You're safe. The shooter is gone. You're completely safe now."

"Jack..." your voice was barely a rasp, your throat dry and scratched from the oxygen mask that had only recently been removed. "What... what happened?"

"You went through surgery," he explained softly, his voice cracking slightly as he strove to maintain a clinical composure he clearly didn't feel. "You had two broken ribs, a minor pneumothorax that required a chest tube, which we've already taken out, and a severe concussion from the blunt force trauma. You lost a lot of blood from the scalp laceration, but the surgeons fixed you up. You've been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours."

The memory of the supply closet, the splintering wood, and the cold metal pressed against your temple suddenly rushed back in a terrifying, suffocating flood. Your heart rate monitor began to spike, its rhythmic beeping transforming into a frantic, high-pitched alarm that echoed the rising panic in your chest.

"He broke the door," you gasped, your chest heaving as you tried to pull away from an imaginary threat, your grip tightening on Jack's hand with a terrified strength. "Jack, he was going to—"

"I know, I know, but he didn't," Jack interrupted urgently, but gently, rising from his chair to lean over you, providing a physical barrier between you and the rest of the room. "The police took him down, sweetheart. He can never hurt you again."

The curtain to the cubicle slid open quietly, and Robby stepped inside. He paused, taking in the frantic alarm of the monitor and the wild look of terror in your eyes before quickly setting the coffee down on the bedside table.

"Hey, look who's back with us," Robby said, his voice deliberately low and calming as he stepped up to the opposite side of the bed. "Easy there, doc. Don't go tearing your stitches out. You're through the worst of it."

"Robby..." you breathed, the presence of another familiar face from the Pitt helping to tether you back to reality. The frantic beeping of the monitor began to gradually slow down, though your breathing remained shallow and ragged.

"The whole department has been on edge since last night," Robby said, offering a warm, reassuring smile as he checked the IV lines running into your arm. "Dana practically had to threaten Jack with security to keep him from pacing holes in the ICU floor. He hasn't left this room since they wheeled you out of theatre."

Jack merely kept his eyes locked on yours, his expression a mixture of profound relief and an angonising, lingering guilt. "I shouldn't have sent you down there," he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them, his voice thick with a self-reproach that had clearly been festering for the last twenty-four hours. "If I had just fetched those scans myself, or made you stay at the desk..."

"Jack, stop that right now," you whispered, the effort of speaking making your chest ache, but you squeezed his hand as firmly as you could. "You couldn't have known. Nobody knew."

"She’s right, brother, you need to drop that shit," Robby interjected firmly, casting a stern look at Jack across the bed. "The guy was unhinged. If it wasn't the basement, it would have been the main desk or the ambulance bay. You saved her life by keeping her on that phone and giving the tactical team her exact location. Don't go rewriting the narrative now."

Robby gave your ankle a gentle tap through the blanket. "I'll leave you two for a bit. Gotta cover the night shift and I told the gang I'd give them an official update the minute you woke up. Don't do anything stupid, alright?" With a final, supportive nod to Jack, Robby stepped out of the cubicle, pulling the curtain shut behind him to give you privacy.

The silence that settled over the room was heavy with the weight of what you had survived. Jack let out a long, shuddering breath, finally allowing his forehead to rest against the edge of your mattress, his shoulders shaking as the last of his carefully guarded professional stoicism crumbled away. You reached out with your free hand, ignoring the dull throb in your side as you buried your fingers in his thick curls, comforting him the only way you could.

"I thought I lost you," he choked out, his voice muffled against the sheets as he wept openly now, the sheer terror of that silent phone line and the echo of the gunshot finally breaking him completely. "When the line went dead, I couldn't breathe. I’ve never been so terrified in my entire life."

"I'm right here," you whispered, tears finally slipping down your own cheeks, blending with the antiseptic smell of the room. "I’m right here, Jack. You didn't lose me."

He lifted his head, reaching up to gently wipe the tears from your face with a trembling thumb, his eyes filled with a fierce, unbreakable devotion. "We're going to get you healed, and we're going to get you home," he promised, his voice turning resolute as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist. "I'm not leaving your side. Not for a single second."

The day you were finally discharged from the hospital, the afternoon sun felt almost foreign against your skin. Jack handled you as if you were made of the finest, most brittle porcelain, his arm firmly anchored around your waist as he helped you navigate the sliding glass doors of the main entrance.

You were wearing an oversized soft jumper and joggers to accommodate the thick bandages and the supportive brace wrapped around your cracked ribs. Every small bump in the road during the drive home made you tense, your fingers digging into the fabric of your seat, but Jack drove with agonising care, his eyes constantly darting to the rearview mirror and then to you, ensuring you weren't in too much pain.

When he finally pulled into the driveway of your home, you let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the basement. But before Jack could even cut the engine, the front door opened, and Dana stepped out onto the pavement. She was still in her navy scrubs, having clearly come straight to your house from a shift with a spare key given to her by Jack. Her face lit up with a fierce, maternal relief the moment she saw you through the windscreen.

"Don't you dare try to scramble out of that seat on your own," Dana called out, her voice carrying that familiar, no-nonsense authority that usually kept the chaotic ER running like clockwork. She hurried over to the passenger side, beating Jack to the door handle, and opened it with a gentle grin. "Look at you. A bit pale, but standing. Come here, sweetheart."

She didn't pull you into a tight embrace, she knew better than anyone not to do that yet, but she cupped your face in her warm hands, her eyes scanning your fading bruises with a deep tenderness.

“We've all been worried sick," she murmured, her voice soft as she smoothed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "The department hasn't been the same without you. It’s too quiet."

"I miss it, honestly," you admitted, your voice still a little weak, but a genuine smile finally breaking through your exhaustion.

"Well, you won't be seeing the inside of that place for a long, long time if I have anything to say about it," Dana countered firmly, giving Jack a significant look over the roof of the car. "I’ve already told the big bosses that if they try to call either of you in before you're fully mended, I’ll strike. And the rest of the staff are right behind me."

Jack chuckled, the sound rich with a exhaustion that was finally beginning to lift. "I wouldn't dare cross you, Dana. She’s on strict bed rest, under my personal supervision."

"Good. Because if I find out you're letting her lift so much as a teacup, Jack Abbot, I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks," Dana said, though her eyes were twinkling. She reached into her large tote bag and pulled out a massive, heavily insulated casserole dish and a thick stack of colorful envelopes. "From the whole department. Night shift crew, the day team, even the paramedics from the local station. There are get-well cards in there that could fill a stadium, and enough pie to feed an army. You just pop it in the oven."

She leaned in, gently pressing her forehead against yours for a brief, anchoring second. "You take care of yourself, alright? You fought hard down there. Now you let this man take care of you. We're all looking out for you from the Pitt."

The walk up the driveway was slow, punctuated by Jack holding your weight and patient pauses, but when the door finally clicked shut behind you, locking the outside world away, a profound sense of peace settled you. The house smelled like home. Like lavender, old books, and the familiar scent of Jack's cologne.

Jack immediately set to work, fluffing the pillows Dana had left for you on the sofa and arranging a nest of soft blankets so you could sit comfortably without putting pressure on your injured side. He helped you slide out of your shoes, his movements incredibly deliberate and tender, before transferring the mountain of cards from the department onto the coffee table within your reach.

"Alright, layout completed," Jack said, sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, his hands resting gently on your knees as he looked at you. The hypervigilance that had consumed him in the hospital had softened, replaced by a quiet, fierce contentment. "Are you warm enough? Do you want some of Dana's pie, or should I make some tea first?"

"Just sit with me for a minute," you requested softly, reaching down to take his hand.

Jack didn't need to be told twice. He carefully climbed onto the sofa beside you, mindful of your ribs as he pulled you against his chest, letting your head rest in the crook of his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you, a protective, unbreakable shield against the lingering shadows of the past week.

"We made it home," Jack whispered into your hair, his voice thick with emotion as he held you close, his heart beating a steady, reassuring rhythm against your cheek. "We're finally home, sweetheart."

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL PITT MEN: @malindacath @superlegend216 @sapphire882 @challengers4ev @hazydespair @hallecarey1 @teenwolfbitches28 @imabapical @sleepylunarwolf @lacy1986 @thehockeynerd30 @teardropcup @staygoldsquatchling02 @typicalkhani @ibleednavyandorange @cozyvanillacashmere @amacphet @hellsxbellsx @alexxavicry

JACK ABBOT: @moonlitblossomsofthesun @nebuleuseeeeee @nyxmoretti @nightlight-box @angelryex @merlin-288 @thewillowarchive @lazypostfandomer @pear-1206 @voidsagent @r6ven @kinda-nobody @lastwandastan @thegirlwhowaited5everok @angelryex @emma8895eb @marvelsbipolarnerd @bluberrychampagne @jennataurus @abbotaes @croissant31 @womankissersworld

[mrs-delaney]

Sittin' Pretty

pairings: joe burrow x reader 🩷 wc: 1.7k an: thank you to the anon for requesting this based on this conversation 🥹 for @honeydippedfiction #sinfulsundays this is just smut… with no plot, which honestly i don't do a lot, so i'm a little nervous about this one. be gentle w me loves 🩷 masterlist here if you want more 💋

The bedroom is quiet when you come in.

He’s on the bed with his back against the headboard — sweatpants, no shirt, hair still damp from the shower. His phone is face-down on the nightstand. He looks up when he sees you and smiles. The private one.

“Took you long enough,” he says.

“I was brushing my teeth.”

“Mhm.”

You climb up onto the bed on your knees. He watches you the whole way. His eyes go over the sleep shorts, the thin t-shirt, back to your face — and by the time you’re crawling toward him, he’s already reaching, one hand on your thigh, sliding higher, guiding you where he wants you.

You catch his wrist.

“No.”

His eyebrow goes up.

You put a hand flat on his chest and push. He lets you. Goes back against the pillows without a word, arms falling wide on either side of him, and looks up at you.

“Okay, baby,” he says. Low. “Show me what you want.”

You climb over him. One knee, then the other. Sit up on his hips with your hands on his stomach.

His hands come to your thighs.

—

His hands stay on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow lines up and down as you lean down to kiss him. He meets you halfway, mouth warm and sure, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck like he can’t help it. The kiss starts easy, almost lazy, but it doesn’t stay that way. It never does with him.

You shift your hips, grinding down against the growing bulge in his sweatpants, and he makes a low sound into your mouth. His grip on your thigh tightens. When you pull back just enough to look at him, his eyes are darker, that smug little tilt already pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Keep doing that,” he murmurs.

You do. Rolling your hips again, slower this time, dragging over him until his breath catches. His free hand moves up under your t-shirt, palm hot against your skin, pushing the fabric higher until he’s cupping your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple. He squeezes once, firm, watching your face the whole time.

“Take this off,” he says, tugging at the hem.

You sit up and pull the shirt over your head. The second it’s gone, his hands are back on you, both of them now, kneading, thumbs flicking, mouth following a second later. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue lazy and wet, while his other hand slides down to grip your ass, spreading you a little as he pulls you tighter against his cock.

You can already feel how hard he is. How much he’s letting you set the pace even while his hands tell you exactly how bad he wants it.

He switches sides, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, then soothes it with his tongue. When he pulls off, he looks up at you, lips shiny, voice low and rough.

“You gonna ride me tonight, baby? Or you just gonna tease me until I lose it?”

You get up on your knees to answer him. Work the sleep shorts off, one leg then the other, and his hand slides between your legs while you’re still balanced — two fingers pressing against you where you’re already wet.

“Already?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs, low, doesn’t stop touching.

You push his sweats down enough to get him out. He’s hard in your hand. You line him up, one hand braced on his stomach, and lower yourself — slow, because it’s a lot, because it’s always a lot.

His head goes back against the pillows.

“Oh — fuck, baby.”

His hands find your ass. Palming. Pulling you the last inch down until he’s all the way in.

“Take your time,” he says.

—

You try. But the stretch is deep, the angle pressing him right where you need it, and after a few slow rolls your rhythm starts to slip. Your thighs shake.

Joe’s hands lock onto your ass, fingers digging in as he holds you down flush against him, no room to lift, no room to recover. That smug little smirk curves his mouth while he watches you struggle.

“Oh, but I thought you could take this dick, baby.”

He grinds up into you, slow and deliberate, keeping you pinned. You whine his name, broken and needy, and he lets out that low laugh, clearly enjoying the way you’re falling apart on top of him.

“Already whining?” he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. “Thought you wanted to ride me. Now you can’t even handle sittin' pretty on it?”

His thumb strokes over your ass, almost soothing, the contrast making it worse. Then his tone shifts, still low but warmer. “Look at you though… doing so fucking good for me. Taking every inch like that. Such a good girl when you try.”

Then he moves underneath you. Lets his hands slide back to your ass, thumbs digging into the meat of it, and lifts you an inch off him before letting you drop.

“Go on then.” His voice is low. “You wanted to ride me. Ride me.”

You brace against his chest and start again. Slow at first — you can’t help it, your thighs are already shaking — and he watches you with his hands on your ass, letting you find it.

You get it back. Rolling your hips forward, lifting up, dropping down. The angle is deep and every time you sink he makes a low sound in his chest.

“Yeah, baby. There you go.”

One of his hands comes off your ass and slides up your body, cupping your tit, thumb dragging over your nipple. He watches his own hand while he does it. His mouth is parted.

“Look at these fucking tits.”

He squeezes. You whine.

“Bouncing for me every time you drop down. Fuck. That’s what I’ve been thinking about all day.”

His other hand stays on your ass, and he uses it to pull you tighter as you grind down — meeting your rhythm now, letting his hips roll up into yours.

“That’s it.”

His grip flexes.

“Look at you. Working so hard for it.”

The praise almost undoes you. You whimper his name, and he catches it, thumb dragging harder over your nipple.

“Yeah? You like that? You like when I tell you how good you’re being?”

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” you breathe.

Joe’s smirk deepens, but his eyes stay soft on your face. “Yeah, you do.” He gives your tit one last firm squeeze before both hands drop back to your ass, spreading you as he starts guiding your movements. “Then show me. Fuck yourself on it like you mean it.”

You do. You pick up the pace, rising and dropping harder, chasing the drag of him inside you. The wet sound of skin meeting skin fills the room along with your ragged breathing. His grip gets tighter, almost bruising, helping you slam down every time you start to slow.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans. “Greedy little thing. Can’t get enough, can you?”

You shake your head, whimpering, and he laughs again — low and rough.

“No, you can’t. Look at you bouncing on my dick like you were made for it.” His voice drops even lower. “Such a pretty fuckin' mess for me.”

Your legs start to burn, but you don’t stop. The praise and the filth keep hitting you in waves, pushing you closer. Joe’s hips start snapping up to meet you, fucking into you from below, and one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit.

“Come on, baby,” he says, voice strained now. “Want to feel you come all over me. Give it to me.”

The combination of his thumb and the deep, relentless drag of his cock finally sends you over. You cry out, clenching hard around him as the orgasm hits hard. Joe keeps moving through it, fucking you through every pulse, low curses falling from his mouth until his own rhythm stutters.

“Fuck — baby —”

He pulls you down tight, holding you there as he comes, hips jerking up into you one last time.

—

You collapse against his chest, breathing hard, and Joe’s arms come around you immediately. One hand smooths up and down your back in slow, steady passes while the other cups the back of your head, holding you close. His heart is still pounding under your cheek.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice soft now. “I got you.”

He stays inside you for a long moment, just letting you both come down, pressing lazy kisses to your temple and the top of your head. When your breathing finally evens out, he carefully lifts you off him, laying you on your side before pulling you right back into his chest.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, thumb brushing along your jaw so you’ll look at him.

You nod, still a little floaty. He studies your face for a second like he’s making sure, then leans in and kisses you — slow and gentle, nothing like the way he was talking to you a few minutes ago.

“Did so good for me, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “So fucking good.”

He reaches over for the water on the nightstand and hands it to you first, then takes a sip himself. After that, he pulls the blanket up over both of you and tucks you tighter against him, one leg thrown over yours, his hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. He smells like soap, sweat, and home.

“Love you,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. His arms squeeze you once, like he needs you to feel it more than hear it.

You stay like that — tangled up, his chest warm under your cheek, his hand never stopping its gentle path up and down your back — until your eyes start to get heavy.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @wickedfun9 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @vroomvroommbtch @britt217 @thatgirltries @edtomh @nanouslibrary @crazygirlinthisworld @leftmyheartinapubinhampstead @savemyempire @xoxonobodyhome @onceuponatimeiwasacowgirl @unlikelystay @londonfog3 am i missing anyone? if you want to be added to the taglist, send me an ask or a dm and i'll add you, loves 🩷

[harryworldwide]

Harry spotting harry styles tribute show in the crowd - Together, Together Tour - Wembley Night 12 - July 4, 2026

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[apollossunglasses]

Right so I was thinking like Harry x reader and reader is having a tough time with her friends (they suck!) And constantly make her feel bad so she's distancing herself from Harry a d it's all fluffy him trying to make her see she's perfect.

- Xx

"I got you, babe."

Harry 'Wroetoshaw' Lewis x fem!reader (angst and fluff) A/N: reader's friends do, in fact, suck - like they are bullies. reader uses she/her pronouns, no specific physical descriptors apart from the fact that she has hair and is shorter than Harry. i dont know if this is exactly aligning with what you wanted, but i tried!!! again, reader's friends are BULLIES (they bodyshame reader and make generally not nice comments)! reader has a degree in an unspecified subject, and alcohol is mentioned (but reader doesn't drink it). use of y/n throughout. this is long, i fear. mentions of throwing up but that doesn't actually happen. not proofread at all #sorry I got into a flow state and you can tell because the tone with which i write really changes sometimes, dialogue is not my specialty WORD COUNT: 5518

“You realise he’s just going to leave you eventually, right?” Your friend Poppy asks you, not even looking up from her phone. Across the table, Margot laughs, taking a sip from her wine.

You look between them, confused. “I’m sorry?” Silence had been blanketing the room since you’d arrived, not even a hello from either of them, only a quick hug from the host, Becca, who then shuffled back into the kitchen.

Margot and Poppy exchange a glance. Margot shakes her head, “You have nothing to be sorry for, babe. It’s just- I mean, c’mon. What’ve you got going for you? Like really? You’re what, 28? And you look like that. We’ve all seen the girls he likes on Instagram, and- well. You’re nothing like them.” 

You ball your hands up in your lap, “I don’t think you know anything about my relationship, Margot-”

Poppy sighs, interrupting you. “How long have you been together? 4 years? No ring? That’s a sign of something, y/n. Jordan proposed to me after 6 months, because he knew from the start that he was sure about me.”

“I have a list of reasons as to why he hasn’t proposed yet right here. Wanna hear?” Margot doesn’t wait for your response. “You talk too much about your boring little life. You think you’re funny when spoiler alert! You’re not. I don’t even want to talk about the way you dress because it’ll just make me angry. You’re far too willing to divulge us with all your innermost thoughts and feelings, all your little vulnerabilities. The way you carry yourself is just horrible-”

“Which is why I didn’t ask you to be a bridesmaid.” Poppy interrupts, still scrolling.

Margot nods, before continuing. “Your time management is terrible, you never make decisions, you’re a clingy little bitch- like seriously, you message us like everyday even when we don’t reply, you-”

You begin to tune them out, feeling like you’ve just been dunked in an ocean full of ice cold water. You watch Margot’s mouth move, Poppy nod in false sympathy, and see Becca move in and out of the room, too focused on playing the perfect host whilst you’re being ripped to shreds in her dining room. You blink hard a few times, trying to repress the sudden wave of tears rising in your body.

“Oh my God, Jesus. You’re not seriously about to cry?” Poppy scoffs, raising an eyebrow in disgust, before raising her voice to yell into the kitchen. “Becca, can you get a fucking glass of milk for y/n? She’s acting like a fucking baby.” The massive diamond of her engagement ring sparkles cruelly in the candlelit dining room, and from the kitchen, you hear Becca sigh, before appearing in the doorway.

“Guys, c’mon. Let’s all just be friends. Margot, Poppy, lay off of y/n. y/n, can you just- not do your ‘y/n’ thing tonight? It’s our girls night, so just relax. Okay?” She smiles, but you can see the fakeness of it. On the table, your phone buzzes with a text from Harry, away on a Sidemen shoot, telling you goodnight and that he loves you. Poppy glances at you with disdain as Becca disappears back into the kitchen. 

She lowers her voice, leaning into you, even though Margot can definitely hear her. “I think it’s charming that he puts up with you. And honestly, you should count your days with him because we all know that there are other people out there who are more attractive, more interesting, and just- more suited to him. There is nothing about you that would ever make people want to be around you. I’m telling you this as your friend of 10 years-  we studied the same degree, we lived together during uni, and you’re like a sister to me- but I’m doing so much better than you. How did you fuck it all up so badly, y/n?”

Margot takes another sip of her wine, swilling it around in her glass. “We’re telling you this because you’re our friend, and we love you. But we don’t really like you. We invite you out because… well, we have to. And we’re worried that you being so… you in the privacy of your home will condemn you to a lifetime and loneliness. Apart from us and Harry, you don’t really have anyone else. So we invite you out to try and negate that! You get it, right? Can you really blame us?”

You don’t say anything. You feel disgusted, at yourself but, more importantly, at them. As you thought about it, a lot of things began to make sense. 

Obviously, there was Poppy not inviting you to be a bridesmaid when she’d asked Becca, Margot, and basically all of your wider friend group (even Tara, which was fucked because she never even liked Tara!). But there was how sometimes all of you would be out, and one of them would type something and the other two would laugh, which led you to believe they had a groupchat without you. Or how, when Poppy’s fiancé met you for the first time, he said “You’re just like how Poppy described you!” and then they both laughed. 

And what about your birthday? How Harry had gone all out, and arranged a surprise party for you, giving them invitations and them agreeing enthusiastically and- not showing up. Not even sending you a message or posting an Instagram story, and then posting a photo of them all at brunch. 

You felt like an idiot. The growing pit in the bottom of your stomach felt all-consuming, and when combined with the heat in your face from embarrassment and rage and- loneliness, you knew you had to leave. You abruptly stood, grabbing your phone from the table, whilst Margot and Poppy shared a look, Poppy seemingly stifling a smile. 

“Something the matter, babe?” Margot asked, her tone a mix of annoyance and pride, “Did our honesty actually upset you? Jesus, you have to learn to take criticism. I literally said that we love you.” 

You couldn’t even look at either of them, instead opening your Uber app and ordering yourself a car. 

“y/n, come on! We’re trying to open your eyes to the truth.” Poppy snickered. As you looked up from your phone, you saw Margot mouthing ‘shut up!’ at her. You pursed your lips. Becca came out from the kitchen, holding two plates of pasta.

She sighed at you, “y/n, just sit down. They’re just trying to give you some advice! I spent all day making this, you’re just gonna let it go to waste?” You heard Poppy murmur, ‘if she eats it, it’ll just go to her waist!’ Becca shoots her and Margot (both of them laughing) a dirty look, but doesn’t say anything to stop them. 

“No. No. No! I don’t- I don’t have to do this. I think you’re cruel, you’re all just fucking- cruel! You won’t let me be happy in my relationship! You won’t let me be happy at my job- Poppy, I got fired because I ‘had to’ help you! I can’t even BREATHE without one of you jumping down my neck!” Becca goes to speak, but you interrupt her. “I could not fucking care less about your pasta, right now Becca. I’ve already got myself a lift, and I’m leaving and I- I can’t do this. I never want to speak to any of you again. I don’t even want to wish you guys well in life, because you all have made me hate mine.”

You go to the door, grabbing your coat and handbag from the hook and slam the door behind you. You stand in the hallway for a second, chest heaving with the force of your breath. You feel light-headed, the adrenaline coursing through your veins feels overwhelming. You hear nothing from the inside of the flat, and then- they’re laughing. 

Your jaw clenches, and you take off towards the staircase, flying down the steps two at a time until you exit the building. It’s dark outside, and you can barely see the stars because of the harsh street lamps, but the wind is whipping your face and you suddenly feel every nerve in your body. You stay standing there until you see the car pull up. 

—

In the lift back up to the flat you share with Harry, you have to lean against the wall for support. The adrenaline has worn off, and you feel like you might throw up. You checked your phone once in the car, and there was nothing. No messages chewing you out, no voicemails, no texts from your other friends asking what happened, which was both expected and unexpected. 

You hadn’t even answered Harry’s text from earlier, but he would definitely be asleep by now. Fuck. As you arrived at your floor, you realised just how alone you were. You didn’t want to wake him up to talk about this - and maybe, Margot had a point about you. She was a lot of things- a bitch for one- but she wasn’t really a liar. Maybe you did talk too much. Maybe this was something you just had to deal with… alone.

As soon as you got back to the flat, you shed your shoes and coat, dropping your handbag on the coffee table in the living room. You stand in the dark for a few minutes, just looking at your hands. You don’t feel anything. You feel everything. You suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to shower, and scrub your skin until it feels raw.

—

You wake up the next day in somewhat of a fugue state. Checking your phone in the dark bedroom, you see it’s well into the afternoon and you’ve received no messages from anyone. Not even Harry. Which was to be expected. Again, he’s away, he’s busy which is-

Fine.

It's all fine. Everything is fine! You can deal with this alone. Even if you’ve overslept and you don’t feel like you can move, and you just want the ground to swallow you whole so you never have to face anyone ever again. You thank whatever entity inspired you to take the day off of work weeks ago, having known about your girl’s night and expecting it to get rowdy- just not in the way it had. 

You don’t even sit up in your bed, instead, you run a hand over your face, throw your phone back on the night stand, and close your eyes, hoping to go back to sleep. You were holding Harry's pillow close to you, because even with his shirt draped across your body (after scorching your skin in the shower, you needed some kind of comfort), it doesn't feel like enough. What you really need is Harry. 

But he's not here. 

The words of your ‘friends’ are tolling in your mind like a bell. Admitting that you need him to make you feel better feels like acknowledging that they're right. 

You're too needy, you're too much, he can (and will) do better than you. There is nothing likable about you. Your friends fucking hate you and always have. So does he.

It's relentless, and you are five seconds away from bashing your head against your pillow to try and shut them off. You’re not even tired, really. Sleeping just feels easier than facing the world. 

—

You’re not even sure when you actually fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, but what feels like five days later (but is more like 10 hours), you awaken to dim sunlight stretching across the bedroom, and the feeling of someone’s hand stroking your hair. You slowly began to realise that your head is no longer on your pillow, and you’re no longer hugging Harry’s.

Instead, Harry is sitting against the headboard of the bed, scrolling on his phone with your head in his lap. How he situated you here without waking you up, you have no clue. His hand remains in your hair, which makes you realise he doesn’t know you’re up. You blink your bleary eyes, trying to regain your senses, having been sleeping in a blacked out room for basically a day. As you slightly shake your head, his hand stills.

“Good morning, lovely.” He says softly, a bit of a laugh in his tone. You squint at him, trying to figure out when he got back. Harry can see the question on your face, “We got back earlier than expected. I called, but no reply. Figures though, you were fully wiiiped out.”

The words of your friends flash through your mind again. He saw you holding his pillow, which means he saw you needing him. You sit up next to him, rubbing a hand over your face, feeling exhausted but not tired. “What time is it?” It comes out slightly slurred, but Harry understands you well. He flashes you his phone, which reads ‘07:43AM’.

You stretch your weary arms above your head, and move to the edge of the bed. You can feel Harry’s eyes on you, drinking in your figure. The bed moves as he reaches for you, but you stand before he can touch you, and shuffle to the adjoining bathroom. 

Behind you, Harry’s protests fill the air: “Wha- y/n! Where do you think you’re going?!” The pout in his words is evident.

You don’t think you can look at him, and your skin burns with embarrassment, “I hav- I have to shower. I’m working today, so. Yeah.” 

“Oooo! Cheeky shower? All by yourself?” 

You imagine that if he was able to, he’d be wiggling his eyebrows at you. You turn around to face him, smiling lightly in spite of yourself. “Some of us actually have to do work today. I can’t have you in there distracting me.” 

“But-” 

“Maybe later! If you’re lucky.”

Harry shakes his head, but returns to his phone. Closing the door to the bathroom, you rest your head upon the cool wall, taking a deep breath before running your shower. You do all your typical morning stuff, and by the time you’re out of the bathroom, Harry is fast asleep snoring incredibly loudly. You put on your work outfit, and still before leaving the bedroom.

You look back over at Harry, and quietly sneak over to his side of the bed. He’s got his face smushed into his pillow, and you realise he’s holding your pillow, just like how you were holding his. Your heart warms slightly, at the idea of him needing you as much as you need him. You’re about to leave him with a kiss on the cheek, when your phone buzzes.

7 NEW MESSAGES FROM: Margot😇 Hey babe😗 Just wanted to check in on you after your breakdown the other night xx You know we meant nothing bad by it We’re just looking out for you Plus you deserved the wake up call It’s cruel that people lie to you Especially when they sleep in your bed next to you😉 xx

Okay, fuck that. You swipe away the notifications, but it doesn’t stop that same horrible feeling of nausea beginning to encroach upon you. You straighten up, and without looking back, you leave the room. You need to get out of the flat, and- and you have 15 minutes to walk to work. Your shoes, slipped on before the front door, pinch at your feet slightly. It’s uncomfortable, but welcome, helping bring you back into your body. 

—

Having been in a relationship for four years, and having loved you for seven (and counting!), Harry Lewis liked to say that he knew you well enough to know when something was wrong. And something felt, to put it lightly, fucking wrong.

When you didn't answer his message on Sunday, he kind of expected it? Like, it was your girl’s night, and he knew that they tended to drag on, so it was fine (even if he felt slightly stressed), but then on Monday, when he still hadn't heard anything…

Yeah, the alarm bells were starting to ring. 

He even went as far as to message Becca, just to check in, but found himself left on read. Suffice to say, he was even more confused than before. Arriving home at 4AM on Tuesday morning, Harry made sure to open the door as silently as possible, creeping his way into the flat. He dragged his suitcase in after him, and frowned slightly. Your handbag was still on the coffee table, your coat was slung over the sofa, which was weird to Harry. One thing you always did was make sure that your coat hung up. You liked to be able to grab it easily before leaving, and he liked the sense of normalcy it gave - the fact that something so domestic made things just a bit easier. He liked that. 

What he also liked was walking into the bedroom and seeing you in bed. You’d been living together for 2 years, but still, seeing you so relaxed in the bed you shared gave him butterflies (not that he’d ever admit it). As quietly and cautiously as he possibly could, Harry pushed the door open to the bedroom. The scene he was met with warmed his heart, but also made him a bit more concerned. 

You were in the bed, obviously, holding something Harry recognised as his pillow and wearing his shirt which made him just want to squeal. But, of course, that would’ve woken you up, so he didn’t. Harry approached you. Although half of your face was smushed, he could tell that your brows were furrowed and you were frowning, as though you were having a bad dream. A matching frown spread across his face. Obviously, he couldn’t jump into your mind as you slept and see what was troubling you, but by God did he want to. 

Instead, he settled for trying to provide you at least some kind of comfort whilst you slept. 

Harry first opened the curtains slightly, knowing that you would appreciate the feeling of the sun’s warmth as you woke up. The sun was beginning to rise, and although the lighting was very, very dim, he took a photo of you, finding himself in need of some memento of this. Immediately setting it as his lock screen, Harry then stripped his clothes off, standing only in his boxers. He felt like he was playing a very important game of Operation. Obviously, he appreciated you finding comfort in other him-adjacent items. But, the real thing was here now!

He didn’t even feel particularly tired, having slept on the flight back from Kos, but he just wanted to be close to you - and he’d read somewhere that physical contact was good for nightmares and bad dreams. He tries to recall what specifically, and hopes that it meant it was good for stopping them. The last thing Harry wanted to do was give you more bad dreams with the assistance of his nearly nude body.

He slid under the duvet on his side of the bed, leaning against the headboard, and for a moment, he just watched you. Your hair had fallen into your face, and he reached a large hand in order to move it. Your nose wrinkled as he did so, and you cracked an eye open at him. He knew you weren’t awake fully, but he took the opportunity to pull you over to him, feeling less guilty than if he were to be waking you from a REM cycle. You let go of the pillow and immediately latch onto him, before falling fully into sleep again. Harry swears his heart skips a beat, and he takes another photo of you. He’s not obsessed, or anything. But when he’s away, he likes to have these as a memento of what’s waiting for him when he gets back.

—

Harry wakes up disorientated several hours later, and realises that you aren’t in bed anymore. He shakes his head to nobody, remembering the conversation you had before you left. Even then, something about your energy felt off. You had smiled at him, but it didn’t reach your eyes, and- and!! He wasn’t allowed in the bathroom whilst you showered. It wasn’t even a sexual thing in the moment (not really, anyway). He just likes to sit on the counter, or on the toilet whilst you shower, so that he can tell you about all of the gossip and funniest bits from his day- and maybe so he can watch you shower.

He checks his phone before slipping out of the bed. No messages from you, not even something to say you left- which hurts a little bit, he doesn’t want to lie. It wasn't like he needed to be in contact with you all the time, but he'd been gone for nearly a week, and before Sunday, you'd been messaging him with random updates about your day (something he loves!)- and now… nothing.

Harry's worst fears had been affirmed: something was wrong. And he had no clue what. It wasn’t anything that he did, was it? He scrolled through the messages he'd sent you since Saturday. All remarkably inoffensive inquiries into your day, the trading of pictures you thought the other would like to see- there was no indication of anything being wrong.

Until, of course… the girl's night with your friends. 

If Harry was being completely honest, he didn’t even really like your closest friends that much. The first time he'd ever met Maggot (No- her name is Margot!), she'd started talking about the differences between him and your exes, and then promptly went to the bathroom, coming back with a deep-dive into who he followed on Instagram, accusing him of having wandering eyes. Again, this was his first time meeting her, and both you and Becca had been at the bar, ordering drinks, whilst Poppy scrolled mindlessly on her phone. 

He had just sat there gobsmacked until you and Becca returned, seemingly numb to the brewing tension between Harry and Margot (or, as Ethan had started to call her after Harry recounted the evening, “Maggot”- the nickname which, since then, has infested his vocabulary, leading to Harry having to be extra careful when talking to you about your friends). 

But, because they were your friends, he never said anything. He would sit there and nod whilst you spoke about them, hold you whilst you cried about them being horrible to you, and even got their numbers so that he could invite them to your birthday, because he knew you’d want them there. They didn’t even show up, and although you were smiling, Harry saw it never fully reached your eyes, as you kept checking your phone. He held you as you cried last night, and as their fake apologies rolled in and you forgave them. 

Harry wanted to believe that they were good friends under it all, but he knew deep in his heart: they were vile, horrible people, and they were terrible to you, despite what you believed. 

Suddenly, his phone buzzed.

2 NEW MESSAGES FROM: Big Behz✊✊💦 Oi Harold you are late to filming Come on big boy😍

He swore softly under his breath, rubbing his eyes and throwing on a hoodie with a pair of trackie bottoms. Duty calls, of course. Strutting off to the guest bedroom where his recording equipment is, Harry begins to hatch a plan. Obviously, yeah, he can’t make you tell him what happened in detail. But he wants to be able to be there for you. 

—

It’s nearing 9PM when you leave work. You never usually stay that late, but you needed something to keep your mind off of things. It has always been like that, for you. There was no need to talk about your feelings if there was something you could be doing. And! And, it also lets you work through it alone. By doing a repetitive task for a few hours, you usually found yourself replaying events that had happened, coming to conclusions upon them, and deciding what to do. Although, this one had royally and truly fucked you up. 

You knew it wasn’t your fault. You knew that if there really were any issues, your friends should’ve come to you when it first started to be a problem, and discussed it like adults instead of jumping you during dinner. But it’s the same thing, over and over again. What if it’s true? It got to the point where the sound of your own mind is annoying you. You turned your phone fully off at lunch, after Becca had messaged you, acting as though nothing had happened, and you couldn’t be bothered to turn it back on again. 

Which is why you hadn’t seen the messages from Harry, asking when you were coming home because he had a surprise for you.

Or any of his calls from the past two hours, each one slightly more concerned than the last. 

So when you gather all your belongings from your desk, saying goodbye to your remaining coworkers, you’re quite surprised to see Harry waiting outside the building. He’s not facing in your direction, but you can see the anxious tapping of his foot, the way he keeps checking his phone, and the bouquet of tulips hanging limply in his other hand.

You still for a second, just watching him. Your boyfriend is a beautiful man. The setting sun catches itself on him, illuminating his blond hair and making it look like spun gold. You know he’s handsome, of course, and you know others think so too. You’d seen enough edits, alongside having read fanfiction with him for a video. But you know who he is under the famous hot guy from the Sidemen. He has a very large heart, and is endlessly patient with you. Seeing him standing there, all you wanted to do was run and throw your arms around his neck, but something was holding you back. 

“y/n!” He called out to you, slowly approaching. Shit. You hadn’t even realised he’d seen you. “There you are, my girl.” He smiles at you with a nervous grin you haven’t seen since your first date. You feel a bit nauseous at the thought that you made him nervous, because it didn’t feel like it was in a good way.

“Harry! Hey!” You said, a bit louder than you probably should have. He was in front of you now, phone slipped into his pocket, still holding the bouquet. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. 

He went to give you a hug, but pulled back at the last second, “These- these are for you. Obviously. Erm, I thought you- I thought you’d like ‘em. You know? Er. Yeah. Do you? Like them?” He practically shoves the flowers in your direction, before stuffing his hands into his pockets, scrutinising you for your reaction. A weak smile spreads across your face.

“I love them. Thank you, Harry.” Your words come out clipped, but the smile grows as you look down at the bouquet, and Harry feels his heart grow three sizes.

Without realising it, you’d begun to walk the route home. Harry kept looking at you from the corner of his eye, but you didn’t look at him once. You kept your gaze down on the pavement in front of you, the bouquet tucked into the crook of your elbow. You were quiet and Harry didn’t want to disrupt you when you were so clearly deep in thought. He hoped you were thinking about telling him what was the matter when you got home. He needed to know.

It’s 15 minutes of silence before the pair of you reach your building and step into the lift, and the silence persists to the flat. Harry unlocks the door for you, and again, that same weak smile from you. You bustle into the flat, past the living room and into the kitchen, grabbing a vase from one of the cabinets and filling it with water for the flowers. Harry looks at you walk past the dining table. He never considered himself a particularly good chef, but Harry would like to argue the smell of the stir fry he’d made would make anyone salivate!

“Er- y/n! I made dinner, if you want any? It’s stir fry, and like, I know you like it so if you want any, absolutely have some because I will be indulging as welllll!” He rambles loudly, hoping you hear him. It’s then he realises that the sound of running water has stopped. 

He goes into the kitchen to find the vase with the tulips on the island, and you by the sink, body shaking with poorly concealed sobs. 

Harry’s eyes widen, and he quickly scurries to your side. “Hey, y/n, y/n.”

You shake your head as he repeats your name, hand clamped over your mouth, eyes screwed shut in a way that seems painful. Harry moves behind you. He wraps his arms around you, and gently begins rocking back-and-forth. The repetitive movement is soothing, and you find it taking your mind off of the overwhelming feeling of utter despair. Harry doesn’t try to talk, and you don’t either, instead you turn around and bury your face in his chest. He remains rocking, but also gently runs a hand through your hair. This makes you cry harder.

You don’t know how long you’re there, but eventually breathing becomes easier, and you move your head from Harry’s chest to look at him. He raises a hand to wipe the tears from your face, doing it gently enough that it tickles slightly, causing you to huff out a small laugh. He smiles toothily at that. Hope is not lost yet.

His eyes search yours for several moments. It’s times like these where Harry wishes he could read your mind, and make everything better for you. 

Exhaling shakily, you disentangle yourself from him. You lean your back against the kitchen counter. You look over Harry’s shoulder at the tulips, and you begin to explain the events of your girl’s night. It’s easier to not look at him when you talk about things like this. You’re sure if you saw his eyes, and the amount of love he held for you in them, you’d break down in tears again. 

Harry’s jaw clenches from where he’s stood, but he makes sure to not interrupt you. At the end of your explanation, he pulls you back in for a hug. He rests his chin on your head, and you let yourself go limp against him. 

“I’m so fucked up, Harry. I’m so sorry. I- I know I should be able to deal with this. And I am, I am, I promise. But I just- I can’t-” Your words catch in your throat, and Harry gently grabs your shoulders and makes you face him.

“y/n, I promise you, you aren’t fucked up. Nothing that you’re feeling right now is- is a problem for me, okay? I’m your boyfriend, I can deal with some of your fuckin’- fuckin’ emotional baggage! You’re my y/n, right? We do this together.” You huff when he says emotional baggage, but he can tell it’s jokingly. You open your mouth to say something, but he shakes his head. “I love you so fuckin’ much, y/n. I don’t think you actually grasp that. You’re my best friend in this entire world, pleasedon’ttellBehzorVik, and hearing you repeat the shit that your so-called ‘friends’ said actually makes me so mad. We can find you new friends, Faith’s been harassing me for ages about you two having a one-on-one date! I don’t want you to listen to a word they say about you, and I know that’ll be incredibly hard for you, so listen to me instead: I love you. I love everything about you. You are the person I want to spread the rest of my life with. So who in the world gives a fuck about what they say?!”

“Only some of my emotional baggage?” You laugh lightly. You’re smiling at him, and for Harry it feels like the sun has risen again.

“y/n, don’t be a dick!” He squeezes your shoulders lightly. “I am being serious, though. I love you, y/n. I never want to see you cry like that again, because it makes my heart hurt. The only thing you should do is be yourself. You are not responsible at all for that lot and their problems. You’re perfect for me, y/n. You’re it for me, you know that.”

You kiss him gently, and he responds with gusto.

“I think I love you more than you could ever know.” You murmur against his lips, “Thank you, Harry. Really. I love you.” You pull away from him. He’s looking at you like you hung the moon in the sky, and a full smile spreads across your face. “So… stir fry, huh?”

“It’ll be fuckin’ cold now, but yes. Stir fry.”

[v6quewrlds]

8:41pm in cincinnati⠀⋆⠀joe burrow.

⋆⠀author's note & warnings: tiny little blurb i wrote a couple weeks ago. fluff, potential language warning.

read more for #9⠀⋆⠀series masterlist.

She let the door leading from the garage into the mudroom drift shut behind her as she placed her keys on her hook next to Joe’s. She slipped out of her shoes—today was an Asics day—and tucked them into the shoe cabinet where they were supposed to go. The last few weeks had begun to feel more like normal. Their time in LA came to an end, capped off with a trip to Baton Rouge for a foundation event at Top Golf and the opening of Joe’s new gym. Now that they were back home in Cincinnati, she could anticipate her fiancé’s whereabouts with confidence.

She could hear his voice floating through the house, on a phone call with someone. It seemed to be a professional call given the way he made sure he sounded moderately cheerful but still evenly mellowed in his tone. She padded down the hallway in her socks, pausing when Colby intercepted her path. She scooped him up with a grin, airkissing his nose.

“I missed you, my baby,” she murmured, continuing toward the bedroom while the kitten purred against her chest. The moment she crossed the threshold, she set Colby free and treaded over to her closet to slip out of her scrubs and into one of Joe’s more modest graphic t-shirts.

Joe’s voice grew louder as he wandered into their room, still mid-conversation. “Yeah, I’ll look at those tonight—”

He stopped when he saw her sprawled across the bed. She didn’t lift her head, but she felt the mattress dip as he sat beside her, his free hand running down her back. After several moments she flipped onto her back, unable to help the smile that pulled at her lips when Joe mouthed ‘Hi’ before turning his attention back to whoever was on the phone. She stretched her arms overhead, sinking deeper into the sheets with a silent yawn as Joe continued his call.

Between conversation Joe managed to find chances to mute his side of the call long enough to bend and press a kiss to her forehead or her cheek or eventually her lips while she lay beneath him. She smiled up at him, watching fondly, feeling warmth on her skin underneath the palm he rubbed over her exposed thigh, down to her knee, and back up again.

Joe ended the call with a soft tap of his thumb against the screen, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. The mattress shifted again as he stretched out beside her, his body curling toward hers. She turned her head just enough to catch the wear of the day in the slope of his rigid shoulders.

His head found its way to her chest her fingers already carding through his hair before he’d fully settled. “How was your press conference today?” she murmured, thumb tracing the outside curve of his ear.

Joe made a noise halfway between a sigh and a tired groan, his breath warm through the thin cotton of her stolen shirt. “It was fine mostly. Normal stuff. Got a few questions about you.”

Her fingers stilled in his hair for a second before resuming their slow path from crown to nape. “About me?”

Joe’s nose scrunched against her collarbone, his exhale ruffling the fabric. “Yeah. All horribly phrased, obviously fishing.” He tilted his head just enough to catch her eye, the dry amusement in his voice softening the visible tension in his jaw. “Someone asked if getting engaged changed up my perspective on preseason prep.”

“Horrible question,” she empathized with him through a giggle.

“Terrible,” he agreed, shifting slightly to press his forehead against her sternum. “Flacco hadn’t seen your ring so I showed him a picture.”

She brushed the golden brown hair flopping over his forehead back enough to press a kiss there. “Flacco’s a sweetheart,” she said, kissing his temple next. “I’m glad he’s back.”

Joe released a laugh through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as she scratched gently along his scalp. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting them both in gold.

They lay in mirrored silence for a while: her fingers in his hair, his palm over her ribs rising with each breath. His eyes slowly shut as his breathing deepened. “I’m gonna fall asleep like this,” he murmured.

“Then fall asleep. I’ll be here,” she whispered, kissing the crown of his head. His body molded to hers like they’d been designed to fit this way. She could feel the slow release of tension in his shoulders, before he completely stilled.