A/N: This is multifandom account!! I will be updating when I can. I am a college student working in their internships and taking classes. I'm very busy but answer quickly when available. Please leave asks or pm me for requests. The requests box is open for the time being. I hope I can write more over the summer. HAVE A GREAT DAY BESTIES!!
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Pedro Pascal Characters x reader
My Fireflies
Francisco "Catfish" Morales x fem!reader
word count: 974
warnings: fluff
Bucky Barnes x reader
To live
Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
word count: 3.9k
warnings: nightmare, cussing, nudity (not much)
Dusk till Dawn
Bucky Barnes x fem!reader
word count: 1.0k
warnings: death, apocalypse au, needles, fluff, angst
Dabi x fem!Reader
Another Love
Dabi x fem!reader
word count: 1.2k
warnings: death, abuse, lots of angst, some fluff, slowburn in the beginning, spoilers, Dabi’s pov is italicized
Moodboards
A/N: I make mood boards in my spare time. I have a masterlist for them specifically. I will link the list below for everyone to view it.
List link
PEACE OUT BITCHES!! HAVE FUN READING!!
tagged: @imnotakilleranymore @lovingtheway @laubeck10 @rosamedina92 @scarlettwitcher @spacemacandcheese @mandoandyodito @nannib4 @destucky45 @takemepedropascal @fandom-imagines-stories @erin-fox-winchester @tooshytoshareonmainsoitshere @makerofmushrooms @yespolkadotkitty
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Request - Love everything of yours I read! After seeing reader interact with her mother in one of your recent fics was thinking about one where she is a bit anxious to introduce Robby to her family, she's conscious of the age gap and the workaholic tendencies ect only for them to absolutely love him...and is she a little bit jealous of how easy he charms them all?
making me work to not have a story in the hospital, i see lol 🫶
The snow had started just outside Pittsburgh, soft flakes dusting the windshield in lazy spirals that the wipers pushed away every few seconds. It wasn’t enough to make the roads dangerous, but it was enough to turn the rolling hills north of the city into a watercolor of white fields and dark tree lines. The radio hummed quietly with an old classic rock station neither of you had bothered changing. Between the music and the rhythmic swish of the wipers, the truck was comfortably quiet. Well…comfortably quiet for one of you.
“You know,” you said, breaking the silence for what felt like the fifteenth time in the last twenty minutes, “my grandma asks incredibly invasive questions.”
Robby kept one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested loosely over the center console, fingers brushing your thigh without really thinking about it. His eyes stayed on the road, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
“So you’ve mentioned.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I think I do.”
You sighed dramatically and leaned your head against the cold window. “She asked my cousin’s boyfriend how much money he made before she’d even offered him coffee.”
“Hm.”
“‘Hm?’ That’s your response?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“I’ve been an attending physician for twenty years.”
“I know.”
“I’ve testified in court.”
“I know.”
“I’ve told parents their kid wasn’t going to survive.”
Your stomach twisted.
“I can survive one seventy-eight-year-old woman.”
You groaned loud enough that he actually chuckled.
“What?”
“Nice laugh.” Robby was smug.
“I didn’t laugh.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I exhaled.”
“You smiled.”
“I don’t smile.” You turned toward him with narrowed eyes.
“You smile.”
“I tolerate things.”
“You tolerate me?” He glanced over just long enough to meet your eyes before looking back at the road.
“I tolerate you considerably more than everyone else.” You laughed despite yourself.
“That’s…probably the closest thing to a compliment you’ve ever given me.”
“It’s top five.”
“You have a ranking?”
“I absolutely have a ranking.”
“Oh my God.”
The truck fell quiet again, though this silence didn’t last nearly as long.
“What if they think you’re too old?”
This time he looked over immediately.
“…What?”
You immediately regretted saying it aloud.
“I’m just saying—”
“Stop.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I do.”
He sighed, rubbing one hand over the stubble on his jaw while stopped briefly at a red light in a tiny town you’d already forgotten the name of.
“Kid.”
“I’m thirty-six.”
“I know.”
“You’re forty-nine.”
“I continue to know.”
“That’s thirteen years.”
“I can still do math.”
“I just…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t know.”
He watched you for a second before the light turned green again. The truck rolled forward.
“You’ve been doing this for an hour.”
“Doing what?”
“Working yourself into a panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You reorganized my glove compartment.”
“I was helping.”
“You folded the registration.”
“It looked messy.”
“You apologized to the cashier at the gas station because she said the coffee machine was broken.”
“I felt bad.”
“You’ve asked if your hair looks okay three times. And now you’re worried your grandmother is going to reject me because I had the audacity to be born in the seventies.”
You folded your arms across your chest.
“When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous.”
“You don’t know my family.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I know you.”
You looked over. His attention remained on the road.
“And I know you’ve been carrying this around for weeks.”
You swallowed.
“I just…” You picked nervously at the sleeve of your sweater. “My dad never got to meet…anyone.”
His expression shifted immediately. The teasing disappeared. He reached over, finding your hand without taking his eyes off the road. His fingers threaded between yours instinctively.
“I know.”
“I keep thinking about him.” Your voice had gone quieter now. “He would’ve loved giving every guy I dated a hard time.”
“You’ve told me.”
“He would’ve grilled you.”
“I would’ve survived.”
“He would’ve asked you what your intentions were.”
“I would’ve told him.”
“And what would’ve you said?”
He didn’t answer right away. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Finally, he spoke.
“That I make your coffee every morning because you’re incapable of remembering breakfast.” You smiled faintly at him. “That you fall asleep on my couch every time we try to watch a movie after shift.”
Another smile.
“That you steal my shirts.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They’re mine.”
“They become mine.”
“I don't know if that's how clothes work.”
He squeezed your hand once before continuing.
“I would’ve told him…” His voice became almost impossibly gentle. “…that I take care of you.”
Your eyes stung. Not because the words were grand. Because they weren’t. He hadn’t said he’d protect you from the world. He hadn’t promised forever. He hadn’t made some sweeping declaration. He’d simply stated a fact. He took care of you. You looked out the window before he could see your eyes watering.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I wish he could’ve met you.”
“So do I.”
That answer caught you off guard. You turned back toward him.
“You do?”
He nodded once.
“I would’ve liked to thank him.”
“For what?”
He looked genuinely confused by the question.
“For you.”
The words settled heavily inside the truck. You stared at him. He didn’t seem to realize what he’d just said. Or maybe he did. With Robby, it was always impossible to tell.
“You make it sound like I was a gift.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Weren’t you?”
Your breath caught. He immediately looked annoyed with himself, almost like the sentence had escaped before he’d approved it.
“You know what I mean.”
“I…don’t actually.”
He sighed, giving the steering wheel a tiny shake.
“I mean…” He searched for the words. “…you’re a good person.”
Your smile grew.
“You help women give birth to babies.”
“I do.”
“You make impossible decisions every day.”
“I also yell at residents.”
“They deserve it.”
“They usually do.”
“You call your mom every Sunday.”
“I try.”
“You still send your grandparents birthday cards.”
“They’re eighty-six and ninety-one, Robby.”
“So?”
“So everyone sends birthday cards.”
“No.” He shook his head. “They don’t.”
You blinked.
“They don’t?”
He glanced over again. Your chest tightened. There he was. That man. The one almost nobody got to see because he buried himself beneath exhaustion, sarcasm, and impossible workdays. You reached over and rested your hand against the side of his neck. His shoulders visibly relaxed beneath the touch.
“You know…” you said quietly.
“What?”
“I think they’re going to love you.”
He snorted.
“I’m not worried about them.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“You should be at least a little worried.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
He smiled, a real one this time, tired and warm and just for you.
“Because if they’re anything like you…” His thumb rubbed across the back of your hand. “…I’m already looking forward to meeting them.”
Before you could answer, the GPS chimed softly.
“In two miles, turn left.”
Your stomach immediately flipped. You recognized the road. Home. You took one slow breath before looking out at the familiar church steeple in the distance, your childhood grocery store, and the snow-covered streets you’d ridden your bike down a lifetime ago. Beside you, Robby gave your hand one reassuring squeeze.
“You ready?”
You looked at the house just coming into view at the end of the street, every light glowing warmly against the winter afternoon.
“…Ask me again in ten minutes.”
A quiet chuckle filled the cab.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s about what I expected.”
******
The moment Robby turned into your mother’s driveway, you knew two things. First, someone had absolutely ignored your repeated instructions to stay inside until we knock. Second, you were about to lose complete control of the situation. The front door flew open before the truck had even rolled to a stop.
“Oh, for the love of—”
You watched your mother hurry down the porch steps, your Aunt Maggie only a few feet behind her, bundled in a bright red winter coat that could probably be seen from space. Behind them came your grandparents at a far more sensible pace, your grandfather insisting he didn’t need anyone’s arm despite the icy walkway, while your grandmother ignored him and linked hers through his anyway.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the front door opened again. Two teenage boys burst out of the house like missiles.
“She’s here!”
“I called shotgun to hug her first!”
“No you didn’t!”
“I literally did!”
“You literally didn’t!”
The cousins. Wonderful.
“Oh my God…” you muttered, covering your face with one hand. “I told them not to do this.”
Beside you, Robby shut off the engine.
“I thought you said they were excited.”
“This is excited.”
He looked through the windshield as your family continued making their way toward the truck.
“…Looks more like an invasion.”
You laughed despite your nerves.
“It gets worse.”
“It does?”
“My grandma kisses everybody.”
“I’m okay with that.”
“My aunt asks inappropriate questions.”
“I’ve met those women at the hospital before.”
“My cousins have no filter.”
“I supervise residents.”
“My mother cries.”
He finally looked over at you.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“I might.”
He smiled softly.
“I’ll tackle you.”
“You absolutely will not.”
“I’ve still got decent knees.”
“Barely.”
“Barely is still enough.”
Before you could answer, there was a knock on your window. Your cousin Tyler had his face practically pressed against the glass.
“Hey!”
You sighed.
“Here we go.”
You opened the truck door and barely had time to stand before Tyler collided with you in a hug.
“There she is!”
“Oof—Tyler!”
“You never come home!”
“I literally came home for Thanksgiving.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why?”
“You worked half of it.”
“…Fair.”
A second later, his younger brother, Ben, wrapped both arms around you too, nearly knocking all three of you sideways.
“We missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“You look tired.”
You pointed toward Robby without missing a beat.
“I learned from him.”
“I heard that.”
You looked over your shoulder to find Robby climbing out of the driver’s seat, tugging his wool coat closed against the cold. He looked exactly like himself. Dark jeans. Heavy boots. A charcoal sweater beneath his coat. Messy dark hair from the drive. His beard a little longer for the winter.
No attempt whatsoever to impress anyone. Which somehow made him more handsome. He shut the truck door and looked around as six pairs of eyes immediately landed on him.
There it was. The moment. Your stomach lurched.
“Mom…” you began. “This is—”
“Oh, honey.”
Your mother walked right past you. You blinked.
“…Mom?”
She stopped in front of Robby with the warmest smile you’d ever seen.
“You must be Robby.”
He nodded once.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” She immediately reached forward and hugged him. “None of that.”
You stared. Robby froze for approximately three seconds before awkwardly returning the hug with the hesitant uncertainty of a man who probably hadn’t been hugged by someone else’s mother in decades.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“You too.”
“You drove all the way up here today?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She pointed a finger at him.
“I said no ‘ma’am.’ Makes me feel ancient.”
A tiny smile appeared.
“…Sorry.”
“Much better.”
Your aunt Maggie stepped forward next.
“So you’re the emergency room doctor.”
“Unfortunately.”
She laughed immediately.
“Oh, I like him.”
“Aunt Maggie.”
“What?”
“You’ve known him for eleven seconds.”
“Twelve now.”
She stuck her hand out.
“Maggie.”
He shook it.
“Robby.”
“So…do you really see people with things stuck where they shouldn’t be?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. Robby looked at your aunt for a long second. Then, completely deadpan, “More often than I’d like.”
“What was the weirdest?”
“Maggie!”
“What?”
“No.”
Robby’s expression never changed.
“A bowling trophy.”
There was a beat of silence.
“…Seriously?” Maggie asked.
“No.”
She burst into laughter so loud your grandfather shook his head.
“I walked right into that.”
“Yep.”
You looked at Robby.
“You lied to my aunt.”
“I protected your innocence.”
“My innocence?”
“You seemed invested.”
“I absolutely was.”
Your grandmother finally reached the two of you. She was small now, age having stolen several inches from the woman you remembered towering over everyone as a child, but she still possessed the same sharp blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. She looked at Robby for several long moments. Long enough that your heart started pounding. Then she reached up and patted his cheek.
“My.”
Robby blinked.
“…Hello.”
“Well.” She smiled. “He’s handsome.”
“Oh my God.”
“Shush.” She eyed you.
“What?”
“I have eyes.”
You wanted the icy driveway to open beneath your feet. Your grandmother ignored you entirely. She looked back at Robby.
“You’ve got kind eyes.”
His ears turned pink.
“…Thank you.”
“And you look tired.”
You snorted. Grandma pointed triumphantly.
“See? I was right.”
“You are,” you admitted. “He always looks tired.”
“I’m standing right here.”
“I know.”
Your grandfather finally extended his hand.
“Frank.”
“Robby.”
They shook firmly.
“My granddaughter says you’re in emergency medicine.”
“I am.”
“She’s an OBGYN.”
“I know.”
Grandpa nodded once.
“Means you both have terrible schedules.”
Robby let out a quiet breath that almost sounded relieved.
“We do.”
“You actually understand each other then.”
“Most days.”
Grandpa smiled.
“Good.”
That was it. No interrogation. No skepticism. Just…good. The conversation was interrupted by Tyler stepping directly in front of Robby.
“So.”
Robby looked down.
“So.”
“How tall are you?”
You closed your eyes.
“Tyler…”
“What? It’s a valid question.”
Robby answered anyway.
“Six-three.”
“I knew it!”
Ben looked impressed.
“You play football?”
“No.”
“Basketball?”
“In the park as a kid.”
“What’d you do?”
“I studied.”
Both boys looked horrified.
“Voluntarily?”
A smile tugged at Robby’s mouth.
“…Eventually.”
You couldn’t help laughing.
“So you’re basically a giant nerd.”
“I’ve never been called that before.”
“I can think of worse.”
Ben squinted suspiciously.
“You seem…less scary than she said.”
Your head whipped around.
“I never said he was scary!”
Tyler looked confused.
“You said he was grumpy.”
“I said he could be grumpy.”
“You also said he growls.”
“He does growl.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“When?”
“When people interrupt your coffee.”
“Reasonable.”
“When residents ask stupid questions.”
“Also reasonable.”
“When someone steals your favorite pen.”
He looked genuinely offended.
“That happened once.”
“It happened yesterday.”
“They knew it was my pen.”
Your entire family laughed. Not because he was trying to be funny. Because he wasn’t. He was simply…Robby. Standing there in your mother’s snowy driveway, looking mildly inconvenienced by the cold and completely unaware that he’d already charmed nearly every member of your family without trying.
You caught your mother watching the two of you from a few feet away. She smiled knowingly when your eyes met. Then she clapped her hands together.
“All right, enough freezing. Lunch is getting cold.”
Your grandmother immediately slipped her arm through Robby’s.
“Come inside, dear.”
He looked down at the elderly woman attached to him, then over at you with an expression that clearly said, Am I allowed to move? You bit back a grin.
“You’re family now.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Already?”
Grandma answered for you.
“If she brought you here…” She squeezed his arm gently. “…you’ve already passed the hard part.”
You watched the words land. Just for a moment. His tired eyes found yours across the snowy yard. And without saying a word, he gave you the smallest smile.
It was barely there. But it was enough to make your anxious heart settle, if only for a little while.
******
Lunch had somehow turned into three hours. You weren’t entirely sure how. One minute everyone had been squeezing around your mother’s dining room table, passing bowls of mashed potatoes and homemade rolls while your grandmother insisted everyone take seconds before they’d even finished firsts.
The next, dishes had been cleared away, coffee had appeared as if by magic, dessert had been cut, and nobody seemed interested in leaving the table. Least of all your family. And, much to your surprise…Least of all Robby. He looked comfortable.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him like that outside the apartment. No pager clipped to his waistband. No trauma bay waiting downstairs. No resident hovering nearby. No administration emails. Just…Robby.
Relaxed. Well, as relaxed as a forty-nine-year-old emergency physician who’d worked three twelve-hour shifts this week was capable of being.
“So,” Grandpa Frank said, setting down his coffee mug. “My granddaughter tells me you fish.”
You looked up.
“I told you that?”
“You mention things.”
“I don’t remember mentioning fishing.”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“…You remember conversations from three months ago?”
“I remember everything.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Show-off.”
Grandpa grinned.
“What do you fish for?”
“Mostly trout.”
“You fly fish?”
“When I have time.”
Grandpa nodded approvingly.
“Haven’t done that in years.”
“I’ve got two rods in the garage,” Robby replied. “One doesn’t get used much.”
“You don’t have anybody to go with?”
Robby shrugged.
“Schedules.”
“You two never go?”
He looked over at you.
“She hates getting up before sunrise.”
“I do not hate it.”
“You complain.”
“I complain because it’s four in the morning.”
“It’s five.”
“It feels like four.”
He smirked into his coffee. Your grandfather chuckled.
“She’s been like that since she was twelve.”
“I have always valued sleep.”
“No,” your mom called from the kitchen. “You’ve always valued complaining about sleep.”
You pointed toward the kitchen.
“Betrayal.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know if I will.”
Robby leaned closer just enough for only you to hear.
“You’ve survived residency.”
“Barely.”
“You’ll make it.”
The quiet confidence in his voice made your lips twitch despite yourself. Then Grandma looked up from her pie.
“So.”
Oh no.
“So?”
She pointed her fork toward Robby.
“She says you’re chief.”
You immediately corrected her.
“Chief attending.”
“That’s what I said.”
“It isn’t.”
“It’s close enough.”
Robby took another sip of coffee.
“It’s fine.”
Grandma ignored both of you.
“Do you like being in charge?”
He actually thought about it.
“I like teaching.”
“Really?”
“The administrative part can disappear tomorrow.”
Your aunt laughed.
“See? That’s exactly what she says.”
He looked over.
“You complain about administration too?”
You stared.
“…You think OB is immune to hospital politics?”
“Fair.”
“I spend half my life in meetings.”
“I thought you just delivered babies.”
You gasped dramatically.
“You did not just reduce my entire specialty to that.”
“I absolutely did.”
“I perform surgeries.”
“I know.”
“I manage high-risk pregnancies.”
“I know.”
“I save lives.”
“I know.”
“You ass.”
He smiled into his coffee.
“I like when you get worked up.”
“I know you do.”
Grandma watched the exchange with unmistakable amusement. Then she leaned toward your mother.
“Look.”
“I know.”
“They bicker.”
“I know.”
“They’re adorable.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Mom.”
Your mother wasn’t even pretending not to smile anymore.
“They’re not wrong.”
“Aunt Maggie…”
“They’re not wrong either.”
You looked at Robby for help. The traitor had the audacity to look entertained.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I might be.”
“I need you on my side.”
“I am.”
“Doesn’t feel like you are.”
“You’ll recover.”
“You are literally laughing at me.”
“I exhaled.”
“You smiled.”
“I tolerated.”
You pointed accusingly.
“See? He does that!”
Your cousins were nearly doubled over.
“I like him,” Tyler announced.
“I gathered.”
“No,” he continued. “Like…he gets your sarcasm.”
Ben nodded.
“Nobody usually gets your sarcasm.”
“I am sitting right here.”
“We know.”
“You guys are awful.”
“We learned from you.”
Before you could defend yourself, Grandpa stood.
“I’m going to check on that old snowblower.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
Every head turned toward Robby.
“You don’t have to do that,” Grandpa said.
“I know.”
“You just got here.”
“I’ve been sitting for three hours.”
“So?”
“I’ll feel guilty.”
Grandpa laughed.
“I understand that.”
The two men disappeared toward the mudroom. Your grandmother watched them leave before quietly saying, “I like that.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“He didn’t ask because he wanted to impress anybody. He asked because he saw something that needed doing.”
Your mother nodded.
“Your father was like that.”
The room became quiet for a moment. Not painfully. Respectfully. Your chest tightened. Then Aunt Maggie ruined it.
“So.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I do.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She grinned wickedly.
“When are you two getting married?”
“Maggie!”
“What?”
“We’re not—” you huffed. “We’re just—”
You stopped. Because…what were you? You and Robby had never put labels on anything beyond the obvious. You were together. Exclusively. Most nights were spent at his apartment. You knew where he kept the extra coffee. He knew exactly how you liked your tea.
You’d met Frank Langdon. Dana adored you. Mel teased both of you mercilessly. You slept curled against his chest more often than you slept in your own bed. But neither of you had ever…said it. Not out loud.
“We’re happy,” you answered finally.
Your mother smiled softly.
“That’s enough.”
Thankfully. Very thankfully. The back door opened before anyone could continue. Grandpa walked back in, stomping snow from his boots. Robby followed with a light dusting of snow across the shoulders of his coat.
“Snowblower still runs,” Grandpa announced.
“Barely,” Robby replied.
“It’s older than both of us.”
“Combined.”
Grandpa barked out a laugh.
“I told him the carburetor sticks.”
“It does.”
“He fixed it.”
You blinked.
“…You fixed it?”
Robby shrugged while pulling off his gloves.
“It wasn’t much.”
“You’ve known him for…” Tyler looked at his watch dramatically. “…four hours.”
“Little over.”
“And you fixed Grandpa’s snowblower?”
“It was sticking.”
“So you fixed it?”
“…Yeah.”
Grandma looked entirely too pleased.
“I told you.”
“Told us what?” you asked.
She looked at your mother.
“He’s a keeper.”
Heat rushed into your face.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“Grandma.”
She looked genuinely confused.
“I didn’t say marry him.”
“Yet,” Aunt Maggie muttered.
“Maggie.”
“I’m just saying.”
Your mother laughed into her coffee.
“You all are impossible.”
“No,” Tyler said.
He looked between you and Robby.
“We’re just confused.”
“About what?”
“You’ve been dating for almost a year.”
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“How have you not figured out you’re in love yet?”
Silence. Complete. Utter. Silence. Your eyes grew wide. Your mother looked horrified.
“Tyler.”
“What?”
“You cannot ask people that.”
“It was just a question.”
Ben nodded.
“It kinda was.”
Your face burned so hot you thought you might spontaneously combust. You looked at Robby. He was already looking at you. Not embarrassed. Not panicked. Watching you. Calmly. Like he was waiting to see if you were okay. Your grandmother broke the silence first.
“Leave them alone.”
“I was just asking.”
“They’ll figure it out.”
Grandpa took another sip of coffee.
“They already have.”
Nobody said anything else. Conversation slowly drifted back to football, weather, and whether the roads would freeze overnight. But you barely heard any of it. Because from across the living room, while everyone else was distracted, you caught Robby looking at you again.
He gave you the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. One that said Breathe. One that somehow made the room feel quieter despite all the laughter around you. And then, a few minutes later, you wandered into the kitchen to refill your coffee. When you came back, you stopped in the doorway.
Robby was sitting on the living room floor. On the floor. Your six-foot-three, perpetually exhausted, bad-kneed emergency physician. Cross-legged on your mother’s rug. Tyler and Ben had talked him into helping them assemble a model airplane they’d gotten for Christmas and never finished.
Grandpa was offering completely unsolicited advice. Grandma was knitting in her recliner while sneaking glances over the top of her glasses. Your mother stood in the kitchen doorway, drying a dish she hadn’t touched in nearly five minutes because she was too busy watching.
And Robby…was laughing. Not the dry little huff you usually coaxed out of him. Not the sarcastic chuckle he gave Frank. A real laugh. Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkled. Shoulders relaxed.
It hit you so suddenly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. He looked…like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there. And instead of bringing relief, something unexpected twisted painfully in your chest. Because everyone loved him. Effortlessly.
They’d folded him into your family in a single afternoon. You should have been thrilled. Instead, a tiny, irrational voice whispered in the back of your mind.
They’re all looking at him now.
They’re all laughing with him.
They don’t need you to keep the conversation going anymore.
You hated yourself for thinking it. You hated how childish it sounded. But the feeling lingered all the same. Robby glanced up from the airplane as though he’d sensed your eyes on him. The moment he saw you standing quietly in the doorway, his smile softened.
“You okay?”
The room continued buzzing around him. But he was only looking at you. And somehow that made the ache in your chest hurt even more.
******
You lasted another fifteen minutes. That, you decided later, was actually pretty impressive. You smiled through another story about your residency years. You laughed when Tyler and Ben insisted Robby settle the great debate over whether cereal counted as soup. You even survived your grandmother asking him if he’d always had “those little gray hairs at his temples,” to which he’d replied, completely straight-faced, “No. Your granddaughter gave me those.”
The room had erupted into laughter. You had laughed too. But somewhere underneath it all, your chest still felt…tight. Not because anyone had done anything wrong. Because they hadn’t. Everything had gone exactly the way you’d hoped. Better, actually. So why did it suddenly feel like you couldn’t breathe?
“I’ll be right back,” you murmured, setting your coffee mug on the kitchen counter.
Your mother barely looked up.
“Okay, sweetheart.”
You slipped your boots back on in the mudroom and quietly stepped out the back door. The cold hit you immediately. Pennsylvania winter didn’t ease you into anything. It grabbed your lungs, stole your breath, and painted your cheeks pink within seconds.
Snow covered the backyard in a thick blanket, untouched except for a few rabbit tracks cutting across toward the old maple tree. The porch creaked beneath your boots as you walked to the railing. The air was so still that you could hear the faint crunch of cars driving somewhere on the main road a mile away.
You inhaled deeply. Then again. Your eyes burned.
“Oh, honey.”
You smiled weakly before you even turned around.
“I knew you’d follow me eventually.”
Your mother stepped outside carrying two knit blankets over one arm.
“You’ve been disappearing outside since you were twelve.”
She wrapped one around your shoulders before settling beside you against the porch railing. Neither of you spoke for a minute. You watched your breath disappear into the gray afternoon. Finally she asked quietly,
“So…”
You sighed.
“So.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
She gave you the exact look every mother somehow perfected before their children were even born.
“The nice thing about raising you by myself?”
You groaned softly.
“Mom…”
“I know every version of your ‘nothing.’”
You stared out across the snowy yard.
“I’m just…” Your throat tightened. “I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I…” You laughed once, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “I sound ridiculous.”
“I’ll decide that.”
You looked down at your boots.
“I thought…” You rubbed your gloved thumb across the porch railing. “I thought I’d spend today worried you’d all hate him.”
She blinked.
“Hate him?”
“I know.”
“Honey.”
“I know.”
She waited.
“And instead…” You swallowed. “You all love him.”
Your mother smiled.
“We do.”
“I know.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not.”
“But…”
Your eyes filled despite yourself.
“I feel…” You searched for the right word. “…scared of if this doesn’t work.”
The confession hung in the cold air between you. Your mother didn’t laugh. Didn’t tell you it was silly. She simply looked at you with all the gentleness in the world.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I know how awful that sounds.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“It sounds like someone who’s realizing just how important another person has become.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
“I walked into the living room…” Your voice cracked. “…and everybody was laughing with him.”
“I saw.”
“And he looked…” You smiled through the tears. “…happy.”
“He did.”
“I’ve never seen him like that.”
“I haven’t either.”
“You’ve known him for six hours.”
“I know.”
“But…” Your shoulders slumped. “He fit.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
“He fits here.”
Your mother reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, just like she’d done when you were six years old.
“You know what I noticed?”
“What?”
“He watches you.”
You frowned.
“What?”
“He watches you.” She smiled softly. “You walk into a room…and within ten seconds he’s looking to see where you are.”
You blinked.
“When your grandmother hugged him, the first person he looked at was you.”
You hadn’t noticed.
“When your cousins started dragging him into the living room…he looked at you. When your grandfather asked him to help with the snowblower…he looked at you. When everyone laughed after Tyler’s question…he looked at you.”
Your mother chuckled quietly.
“I finally stopped watching him.”
“You did?”
“I started watching what he was watching.”
Your heart began beating a little faster.
“And?”
The statements nearly undid you. She leaned against the railing.
“You know what else I noticed?”
You shook your head.
“He never once let you carry your own plate into the kitchen.”
You frowned.
“…He didn’t?”
“No.”
“He opened every door for you.”
“I didn’t even notice.”
“Exactly.”
“He filled your coffee before you realized it was empty.”
You thought back. He had.
“I watched him reach over and straighten the collar of your sweater while everyone was talking.”
Your eyes widened.
“He did?”
“He didn’t even think about it.”
Your mother’s smile grew impossibly warm.
“It was instinct.”
A fresh tear rolled down your cheek.
“I don’t think he realizes he does those things.”
“I don’t think he does either.”
Silence settled again. Then your mother spoke so quietly you almost missed it.
“Your father would’ve loved him.”
Your breath caught. Not because she’d said it. Because she’d said it with complete certainty.
“He would’ve?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She laughed softly. “Your dad would’ve pretended to interrogate him for an hour.”
You smiled through your tears.
“He would’ve.”
“And then…” She looked toward the warm glow spilling from the kitchen windows. “…he would’ve pulled me aside and said, ‘That one’s in deep.’”
Your lips trembled.
“What do you mean?”
“He would’ve seen exactly what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
Your mother turned fully toward you. Her voice was gentle.
“That man loves you.”
Your eyes closed. You hadn’t even said the words. Neither of you had. You shook your head.
“We’ve never—”
“I know.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can.”
“Mom…”
“I’ve been married.” She smiled sadly. “I’ve been in love.”
She reached for your hand.
“And I’ve watched your father look at me exactly the way Robby looks at you.”
Your composure shattered. The tears came all at once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just silent. Relentless. Your mother wrapped both arms around you without saying another word. You buried your face against her shoulder like you hadn’t done since medical school, when you’d called after your first patient died.
“I miss Dad.”
“I know.”
“I wish…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
“I know.”
“I just wanted…” Another shaky breath. “…one day. One day where Dad got to meet the man I…”
You stopped yourself. Your mother gently rubbed your back.
“The man you what?”
A soft creak interrupted the moment. The back door opened. Both of you turned. Robby stepped onto the porch, pausing the instant he saw you crying.
He didn’t rush over. He didn’t ask questions. He simply looked from your mother…to you. Your mother smiled knowingly.
“I think that’s my cue.”
She squeezed your hand once. Then, as she walked past him, she lightly touched his arm.
“Be good to my girl.”
Robby’s expression softened.
“I always am.”
“I know.”
She disappeared back inside, quietly closing the door behind her. For a moment, neither of you moved. Snow drifted lazily between you. Finally, Robby walked across the porch. He stopped beside you without saying a word. He looked out over the yard, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.
“You came out without yours,” he observed after a moment.
“I know.”
“It’s twenty-three degrees.”
“I know.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“I’m a doctor.”
“So am I.”
A tiny smile tugged at your lips. He slipped out of his coat without another word. Before you could protest, he draped it over your shoulders. It was still warm from him. It smelled like cedar, clean laundry…and that unmistakable scent that was simply Robby.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I run warmer than you.”
“You always say that.”
“I’m always right.”
You wrapped the coat tighter around yourself.
“You usually are.”
Silence settled again. He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just stood beside you. Shoulder brushing yours.
“You ready to tell me what’s going on, kid?”
You stared out at the snow.
“I thought…” You laughed weakly. “…I thought today would prove we didn’t work.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“The age difference.”
He sighed quietly.
“Your job.”
Another sigh.
“My family.”
“I’ve met them.”
“I kept waiting for someone to look at us and think…” You swallowed. “…what is a forty-nine-year-old man doing with my daughter?”
Robby was quiet for a long moment. Then he looked over at you.
“I wasn’t interviewing.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I didn’t come here to convince anybody.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I came because you asked me to.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than any grand speech ever could.
“I know.”
“No.” His voice was calm. “I came because you wanted me here.”
Another beat.
“And because they’re your family.” His eyes softened. “That makes them important to me.”
His eyes held yours. Long enough that the sounds from inside the house faded away.
“When it comes to you…” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “…I’ve always been honest.”
Your heart stumbled. Neither of you said another word. Neither of you needed to. For the first time all day the anxiety finally began to melt away with the falling snow.
******
The drive back to Pittsburgh was quiet. Not because anything was wrong. Quite the opposite. There was a comfortable fullness to the silence, like the day had finally settled into both of you. The roads were darker now, the snow reflecting the headlights in soft waves as Robby guided the truck back toward the city. His right hand rested on the steering wheel while his left remained loosely intertwined with yours across the center console.
Neither of you seemed eager to let go. Every now and then he’d rub his thumb over the back of your hand absentmindedly. Every time he did, your heart squeezed.
“You’ve been smiling at the dashboard for twenty miles.”
You looked over.
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
You smiled.
“I think your reputation is ruined.”
“My reputation?”
“My family thinks you’re adorable.”
He made a face.
“I’ve spent two decades cultivating a healthy amount of fear.”
“I know.”
“And your grandmother undid it in one afternoon.”
“She did.”
“Called me handsome.”
“She wasn’t wrong.”
His ears pinked just enough for you to notice.
“You enjoying this?”
“Immensely.”
“I knew sleeping with you was a mistake.”
You laughed, resting your head against the window.
“It really wasn’t.”
He glanced over for only a second.
“No. It wasn’t.”
The warmth in his voice lingered long after the conversation faded again.
******
It was almost ten-thirty by the time the elevator doors opened onto his floor. The apartment greeted you the same way it always did. Quiet. Warm. The faint scent of cedar from the bookshelf in the living room mixed with coffee that had long since gone cold in the pot he’d forgotten to empty before leaving that morning.
Home.
Without saying much, the two of you slipped into the easy rhythm you’d built over the last year. He locked the door while you kicked off your boots. You wandered into the bedroom and disappeared into the bathroom to wash your face. When you came back a few minutes later, your hair was damp around your temples, and you were wearing one of his faded PTMC T-shirts that reached the middle of your thighs.
You’d stolen it months ago. Neither of you pretended it was temporary anymore. Robby had already changed into an old pair of gray sleep pants and a black T-shirt. He looked impossibly tired. The kind of tired that settled into his bones.
“You okay?” you asked softly.
He looked up from turning off the bedside lamp.
“Hm?”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I wanted to go.”
“I know.”
“And I’d do it again tomorrow.”
Your chest warmed.
“You don’t have to keep proving yourself.”
He frowned.
“I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t?”
“No.” He crossed the room until he was standing in front of you. “I wasn’t there to prove anything.”
His hand found your waist naturally.
“I was there because you wanted me there.”
You looked up at him.
“I know.”
“I wanted to meet the people who made you…” His lips twitched. “…you.”
You smiled.
“They liked you.”
“I noticed.”
“They really liked you.”
“They’re easy people to like.”
You laughed quietly.
“I spent weeks worrying.”
“I know.”
“For nothing.”
He brushed a thumb along your cheek.
“I wish you’d told me.”
“I didn’t want to sound ridiculous.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“I got scared.”
That made him blink.
“…scared?”
You nodded once.
“Watching everyone gather around you…” You laughed softly at yourself. “…it was stupid.”
“I bet it wasn’t.”
“I felt…” You searched for the words. “…like I’d finally brought two parts of my life together.”
His expression softened.
“And?”
“And then I realized…” Your eyes drifted down to where your fingers had begun absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. “…how much I’d lose if you ever weren’t there.”
The room became impossibly still. Robby didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up and gently tipped your chin until you were looking at him again.
“You know what I spent today thinking about?”
You shook your head.
“I kept looking at your family…” A faint smile appeared. “…and wondering if this is what holidays are supposed to feel like.”
Your heart caught.
“You’ve never really had that.”
“No.”
“They argued.”
“They absolutely argued.”
“They laughed over each other.”
“They did.”
“Nobody cared who was talking.”
You smiled.
“They never have.”
His voice became quieter.
“I liked watching you become somebody’s granddaughter again.”
Your eyes immediately stung. You smiled through the tears threatening again. He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“They were taking care of you.”
You stepped closer until there wasn’t any space left between you. He wrapped both arms around you without hesitation. The hug was slow. Unhurried. The kind that came after a long day, when neither person needed anything except to know the other was there.
You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Steady. Comforting. Real.
“I missed that,” you whispered.
“What?”
“Feeling like somebody’s kid.”
His chin rested lightly against the top of your head.
“I know.”
You stood there for another minute before he finally murmured, “C’mon.”
“You falling asleep standing up?”
“…Maybe.”
You laughed.
“Thought so.”
The bedroom was dark except for the amber glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. You slid beneath the comforter first. A moment later, the mattress dipped as Robby climbed in beside you. Almost instinctively, you rolled toward him. He opened one arm before you even reached him. Like he’d been expecting you to.
You tucked yourself against his chest, your cheek resting just below his collarbone. The oversized shirt you’d stolen bunched slightly beneath the blankets as his hand slipped beneath the soft cotton to rest against the small of your back. His palm was warm. His touch familiar. Slowly, lazily, he began tracing absent circles against your skin. Not with any destination in mind. Just because he knew it relaxed you.
Outside, snow tapped gently against the bedroom window. Inside, there was only the quiet rhythm of your breathing beginning to match his.
“You smell good,” you mumbled.
A sleepy chuckle vibrated beneath your cheek.
“I smell like soap.”
“And you.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It is.”
His fingers continued their slow path across your back. You closed your eyes. For a while, neither of you spoke. There wasn’t a need. The silence wasn’t empty anymore. It felt…full.
Like something had quietly shifted over the course of the day. You thought about your mother. About your grandmother slipping her arm through his. About your cousins laughing with him on the living room floor. About your father’s absence. About the place Robby had somehow occupied without trying to replace anyone.
You realized something. You weren’t imagining a future anymore. You were living the beginning of one. Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt.
“Robby?”
“Hm?”
His voice was already heavy with sleep. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. In the dim light, you could barely make out his face. The lines of exhaustion. The silver beginning to thread through his dark hair. The man who carried so much for everyone else. The man who had quietly, steadily become your safest place. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.
“…I love you.”
For one terrifying heartbeat…Nothing. His hand stopped moving against your back. You felt your stomach drop. Then he exhaled slowly. Not in surprise. Almost in relief.
He opened his eyes and looked at you with a softness you’d never seen before. His hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek. He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. Then the bridge of your nose. Then one quiet, lingering kiss against your lips that said more than either of you ever could. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I was wondering,” he whispered with the smallest smile, “which one of us was going to be brave enough to say it first.”
A tear escaped before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb.
“I love you, too.”
There was no hesitation. No uncertainty. No dramatic declaration. Just complete, unwavering certainty.
“I think…” he murmured, “…I’ve loved you for a while.”
You laughed softly through your tears.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know.”
He sighed with mock defeat.
“…The morning you fell asleep on my couch after that twenty-nine shift.”
You smiled.
“That long?”
“You stole my blanket.”
“I was cold.”
“You drooled on my pillow.”
“I did not.”
“The stain is still there.”
You laughed, hiding your face against his neck.
“I can’t believe that’s the moment.”
“It wasn’t because of the blanket.”
“No?”
“It was because…” He paused, searching for words the way he always did when something mattered. “…I looked at you, and for the first time in a very long time…”
His arms tightened around you.
“…home looked like a person.”
Your breath caught. You didn’t answer. You simply kissed him once more, slow and tender, before settling back against his chest. His hand returned beneath your shirt, gently rubbing soothing circles along your back as the apartment fell quiet again.
Outside, snow continued to blanket the city. Inside, wrapped safely in each other’s arms, the line between the person you were dating and the person you were building a life with disappeared so naturally that neither of you noticed the exact moment it happened. Only that, somehow, when morning came…it would feel like it had always been this way.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x pregnant!reader
Warnings: pregnancy, fluff, comfort
Summary: Being thirty four weeks pregnant and working a shift isn’t exactly the taking it easy your doctor ordered. Between heavy charts and a snack delivery, Jack makes it clear that he’s the most overprotective father-to-be.
✨ Based on this request ✨
ED was at its usual chaotic energy. You were tucked behind the nurse's station with a warm cup of tea and trying to ignore the dull ache in your lower back.
You were thirty four weeks along and the "taking it easy" memo from your OB-GYN had apparently been replaced with a high volume shift.
"I can take the chart for Bed 4, Jack," you said, reaching for the tablet as Dr. Abbot, your precious husband, rounded the corner.
He didn't hand it over. Instead, he held it just out of your reach, his eyes sweeping over you with a precision that usually preceded a lecture. "Bed 4 is a suspected spinal precaution. Which means a log roll. Which means lifting."
"I can assist," you countered, putting on your best I'm fine face. "I’m pregnant, love, not made of glass."
Jack stepped into your space, his hand dropping to the small of your back, his thumb tracing a soothing circle over the scrubs. His expression softened but his resolve didn't waver. "You’re thirty four weeks. Yesterday was a long shift. Today, you’re staying behind the desk."
"Jack—"
"No," he said, his voice dropping to a protective tone that made you huff. "I need you, and the little one, to stay out of risk until labor. Take it easy. ED will survive if you just handle the coordination for a few hours."
You opened your mouth to argue but a sharp kick to your ribs from the inside made you winced. Jack’s eyes widened, his hand immediately moving to the front of your bump.
"See?" he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Even she agree with me. Sit. Drink your tea. If I see you trying to move a patient, I'm calling Lena to personally escort you to the breakroom."
"You wouldn't dare," you gasped.
"Try me," he winked, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your forehead before turning back toward the trauma bays. "I’ll bring you a snack in twenty minutes. Don't move!"
You watched him go. You leaned back into your chair with a sigh, resting your hands over the spot where he’d just been touching.
"Your father is a menace," you whispered to your stomach. "He’s very bossy and currently treating me like a high risk intake. But I suppose we can give him a pass this time, right babygirl? Just for the extra snacks."
As if on cue, yoyr baby gave a solid thump against your palm, a clear vote in favor of the snack plan.
True to his word, Jack reappeared twenty minutes later. He wasn't empty-handed; he had a plastic container of sliced green apples with honey and a cold bottle of juice.
"Delivery for my girls," he announced, setting everything down in front of you.
"You actually found the good apples," you noted, reaching for one. As soon as the first bit of sugar hit your system, the baby went into overdrive, performing a series of enthusiastic somersaults.
"Whoa," you gasped. "Okay, someone is very excited about the apple with honey thing."
Jack’s eyebrows shot up. He walked around the side of the desk and kneeled. You reached out, taking his hand and guiding it to the right side of your bump where the movement was most frantic.
The moment Jack’s palm made contact, a sharp kick connected right with his thumb. Jack’s entire face transformed. He let out a soft laugh, leaning his forehead against the side of your stomach.
"Hi, babygirl" Jack murmured, his voice vibrating against your bump. "You like the sweet snacks, huh? Just like your mom. Keep growing big and strong, but maybe stop using her body as a punching bag for a few hours, okay? Give mama a break."
He looked up at you, his eyes bright with a mixture of emotions. "She's really active today."
"She’s definitely a fan of your catering," you teased, running your fingers through his hair.
Jack pressed a firm kiss to the center of your bump. He stayed there for a long moment, grounded and unbothered, making it very clear to the entire ED that his most important patient needed his attention.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x mom!wife!reader x twins!toddlers
Warnings: stressed toddler, crying, fluff, domestic, exhaustion, implied intimacy.
Summary: After making a mountain of muffins, the family treats night shift before facing a tearful kinder drop off.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ Twins power 🐻
A/N: Where I live some kindergarten are in schools, that's why I wrote kinder and school as the same place.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
🎀 based on this request 🎀
more dad!abbot fics
You were wrapping up some work in bed, propped up against a mountain of pillows. Jack was halfway through his night shift. And you had finally managed to get the twins tucked in and asleep by nine.
Or so you thought.
The bedroom door creaked open. You looked up from your screen to see Lily. Her eyes were half closed and her hair was a wild nest. When she shuffled closer to your bed, you noticed her bottom lip trembling.
"Lily?" you murmured, setting the laptop aside. "What’s wrong, baby? You're supposed to be fast asleep."
Instead of climbing in for a cuddle, Lily buried her face into the side of your mattress, a muffled sob escaping her. "I- I fogot, Mama."
"Forgot what, princess?" You shifted, gently smoothing down her messy hair.
She lifted her tear streaked face, her big eyes wide with anxiety. "F-For 'morrow! Is Friday and my tun for snack day. My brain is loud cause I forgot tell you!"
The panic in her voice was heartbreaking. To your four year old baby, forgetting a classroom promise felt like the end of the world.
"Oh, come here," you said softly, scooping her up into your arms and pulling her onto the bed with you. She clung to your neck, her body shaking anxiously. "What did you want to bring?"
"Muffins!" Lily wailed into your shoulder. "But the stores are closed!"
"It’s okay, princess," you murmured, pulling back to wipe the tears from her cheek. "We can make them."
Lily blinked, hiccuping. "Now? But it’s sleep time."
"Yes but we have a kitchen and I think we have everything we need," you smiled at her. "We can work something out."
The anxiety on her face instantly melted.
She nodded rapidly. "With the sweet chips!"
A few minutes later, you were in the kitchen. Lily was perched on a barstool, her chin resting in her hands as she watched you rummage through the pantry.
You managed to find a bag of flour, sugar, vanilla extract, eggs, baking powder.
"Perfect," you said. "We’ve got muffins covered. We can start and you mix while I look for the chocolate chips."
Before you could pull out the mixing bowl, steps came from the entryway of the kitchen.
You turned to see Luca standing by the doorframe. He was wearing his matching star pajamas, dragging his stuffed animal, a plush dog, by one leg along the floor. His eyes were heavy with sleep.
"Hi, you," you said softly, walking over to kneel in front of him. "What’s wrong, bug? Why are you awake?"
He pulled his thumb out of his mouth and blinked up at you. "Can't sleep," he mumbled softly with sleep. He glanced over at Lily on the stool, then looked back at you. "Was alone."
Your heart completely melted.
Ever since they were babies, they had slept in the same room. The moment Lily’s side of the room went empty, Luca’s woke up because his other half was missing.
"Oh, buddy," you cooed, scooping him up into your arms. He immediately buried his face into your neck, his plush dog trapped between you.
"Let's make muffins, Lu!" Lily called out from her stool, her voice was... pretty loud and excited.
Luca tightened his grip on your shirt and gave a slow nod against your shoulder.
"Looks like the whole team is awake," you whispered, kissing his temple. "Let's make some muffins."
-
"Alright, my little bakers," you said, setting the large glass mixing bowl on the counter. "Luca, you’re in charge of the recipe card. Lily, you’re on pouring duty."
You pulled up a second stool so Luca could sit right next to his sister. He sat up straight, holding his stuffed dog under one arm while proping up the handwritten recipe card with his free hand.
He couldn't actually read words yet, but he knew numbers and forms perfectly, tracing the bold numbers with his index finger.
"Two cups of this," Luca read aloud, adopting a very professional voice that sounded exactly like Jack.
"Of flour" you said behind him, knowing the receipt perfectly.
Lily grabbed the plastic measuring cup, scooping it into the flour canister. "Two!" she echoed, dumping the powder into the bowl.
"Now the sugar," you indicated to them. "Then put the baking powder."
"One cup." Luca commanded.
While the twins were focused on their highly official assembly line, you turned around, hunting for the bag of chocolate chips. "Where did this man hide the sweet ones..." you muttered to yourself.
"Wait, it's-" Luca screamed then whispered "Uh-oh."
In parent language, uh-oh spoken in that specific tone was an universal code for: disaster.
You turned around. Lily was holding the baking powder container completely upside down over the bowl.
"She put all of it," Luca reported, his eyes wide as he looked from the bowl to you.
"I wanted make sure it was enough," Lily explained, her bottom lip poking out as she realized she might have made a mistake.
You stared at them and shook your head with a smile. If you baked it like this, the muffins would probably explode in the oven.
"It's okay, baby," you said, stepping back over and pulling the container from her small hands. "We just have to fix it now."
For the next twenty minutes, the baking session turned into a science experiment. To balance out the amount of baking powder, you had to double measures, crack more eggs, and pour more milk.
Luca went from reading the numbers to counting how many scoops you were adding to save the muffins. By the time the batter was finally balanced, you had enough batter to feed an army.
Later, the sweet aroma of vanilla filled the kitchen. The clock now read 11:50 PM.
Golden and chips muffins sat cooling across the counter. There were easily three dozen of them, far too many to bring to kindergarten.
Both toddlers were blinking slowly against the lights, looking exhausted.
"Look how many you two made." you said, wiping flour off Lily’s cheek.
"Lot of muffins!" Luca mumbled-screamed.
"We can't take all of them, you're only 15 on your class," you smiled, looking at the muffins. But then, an idea struck you. "Hey, what if we do something special tomorrow morning? We could take some these to daddy's work."
"Exactly," you nodded. "I bet daddy and the nurses are going to be super hungry after their shift. We can drop off a big breakfast for them before we head to school."
"Muffins for Daddy!" Luca chimed, he liked the idea of taking care of his dad.
"Yeah! Muffins!" Lily cheered softly, clapping her hands.
"Alright," you wrapped your arms around both of them and kissing the tops of their heads. "But now both of you need to get back to bed and get some sleep. It's pretty late."
Luca grabbed Lily’s hand and they run back to their room, ready to dream about the surprise they had waiting for Jack.
When the alarm went off at 6:30 AM, it felt entirely too soon. By 7:15 AM, the three of you were walking through the doors of the ER.
The twins were a funny contrast of sleep and excitement.
Lily was fiercely clutching a bakery box, walking by your side. Luca, on the other hand, had completely lost the battle to his late bedtime. He was dead to the world, his arms wrapped around your neck as you carried him.
The ER was in that moment where the night shift was exhausted and the day shift was just starting to trickle in.
"Well, look who it is," a familiar voice called out.
Dana was by the central desk. Her eyes crinkled with a smile as she took in the sight of you carrying a sleepy Luca and an anxious Lily beside you.
"Don't tell me Dr. Abbot forgot his keys again," Dana teased quietly, walking to greet you.
"Luckily no," you laughed, shifting Luca’s weight on your hip. "We had a midnight baking emergency and thought we'd bring muffins to the staff."
"We made chips muffins!" Lily announced loudly as she held the box up like a trophy. "For Daddy and nurses!"
Dana’s jaw dropped as she peeked inside the box. "Oh, you are an absolute angel. You just saved the whole department."
"Daddy here?" Lily asked, looking around the room.
"He’s wrapping up in the breakroom," Dana whispered, winking at her. "Why don't you go surprise him? I'll take this box and make sure we don't eat them all before he gets one."
Lily proudly handed over the box to Dana, then reached up to tug on the hem of your shirt. "Luca, wake up, let's find daddy!"
"I think Luca is staying right here, sweetpea," you whispered, kissing the top of your son's head as he let out a tiny yawn against your neck. "Go ahead. Lead the way."
Lily didn’t need to be told twice. She took off and you followed her. She stopped outside the staff breakroom, pushing the door open with both hands.
Jack was sitting at the table, staring blankly at a half-empty cup of coffee. He had already changed his scrubs, so maybe he just needed something to drink before going home.
"Daddy!" Lily squeaked, ignoring all hospital volume rules.
Jack snapped his head up. "Princess?"
Lily sprinted across the room and threw herself against him. Jack chuckled, scooping her up into his lap and pulling her tight against his chest. "What are you doing here, mh? Aren't you supposed to be getting ready for school?"
"We made muffins!" Lily beamed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Lot of them! For snack day!"
"Is that so?" Jack looked up, his eyes locking onto yours as you stepped in. Luca stirred against you and rubbed his eyes with the back of his fist before he blinked them open. He spotted his dad with sleepy smile.
"Hi, Dad," Luca mumbled and reached out one arm toward his father.
"Hey there, buddy," Jack murmured softly.
Holding Lily in his arm, Jack stood up and walked over to you. He pressed a kiss to Luca’s cheek, making the little boy giggle.
Then, Jack shifted his gaze to you.
He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a slow peck, his free hand coming up to gently cup the back of your neck.
"You baked at midnight?" Jack whispered against your lips, his thumb tracing your jawline.
"This miss forgot to tell me it was her snack day turn," you said leaning into his touch. "And we had an uh-oh with the baking powder, so we bring some of them before dropping off."
"You have to eat one! Right now!" Lily interrupted, breaking the romantic bubble you and Jack had just settled into.
"Alright, alright. Let's go see if they left any for me." Jack said and the four of you walked back toward the central nurse's station.
The box of muffins was already open on the counter.
"Dana! Muffins!" Lily called out.
Dana looked up from the computer, a half eaten muffin in her hand. "Abbot, your daughter is an absolute culinary queen. These are better than the cafeteria's by a mile."
"Heard we have muffins this morning." Robby walked in to start his shift.
"Uncle Robby!" Lily squeaked. To the twins, Robby wasn't just one of Jack's colleagues; he was Uncle Robby.
"Well, good morning to my favourite princess," Robby grinned "What’s in the box?"
"Muffins!" Lily explained proudly, leaning out from Jack's grip so far that Jack had to tighten his hold on her overalls. "Made lot of them, snack day!"
"No way," Robby gasped. "Did you bake these all by yourself?"
"Mama and Luca helped," Lily conceded, nodding toward you.
"And she did a lot of pouring," Jack added dryly, catching your eye with a smirk as he reached into the box and pulled out a muffin.
He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully while his daughter watched him anxiously, waiting for the final verdict.
Jack’s eyes went wide. "Oh, wow, babygirl, this is the best muffin I have ever had in my entire life."
"Yeah! Muffins!" Lily clapped her hands in absolute delight.
Robby grabbed one for himself, taking a bite and humming in approval. "Mmm, absolutely elite. Hey," Robby shifted his attention, leaning over slightly to look at the quiet bundle in your arms. "Are you hiding from me, Lulu?"
Luca, who usually loved wrestling with Robby, was feeling shy. He peeked out with one eye, his cheek still pressed flat against your shoulder and tightened his little arms around your neck.
"He's a little tired today, Robby," you explained softly, shifting Luca's weight and rubbing his back. "He was the official recipe reader."
"Ah, the brains of the operation, I get it," Robby smiled gently, reaching out to give Luca's small foot a playful squeeze. "You did a good job, boy."
Jack took one last bite of his muffin and dusted the crumbs off his hands before turning to Dana. "I'm officially signing off. If anything catches fire in the next hours, call someone else."
"Go home, Abbot," Dana smiled, waving him off. "You've earned it."
-
After searching for his bag, Jack reached into his pockets, looking around the parking lot. "Where did you park your car?"
"Actually, I didn't drive. We took an Uber here."
Jack stopped in his tracks. "An Uber? Why?"
"Because I knew your shift was ending right about now," you explained softly. "And I wanted us to drop the toddlers off. Maybe you'd want to be there to see Lily hand over her muffins."
He looked at you, his heart visibly swelling. "You really are the love of my life, you know that?"
The drive to the kindergarten was calm. But the peace didn't last. The moment the car engine cut out in the school drop off line, the reality of the late night caught up.
The sight of the colorful playground completely revived Lily, who scrambled out of her seat, eager to show off her muffins. But for Luca, it was too much. As Jack unbuckled him and lifted him out of the car, Luca’s face crumpled.
The exhaustion hit him all at once.
"No," Luca whimpered, his voice instantly cracking as tears welled up in his eyes. "No school, Daddy. I want to sleep."
"Oh, buddy," Jack murmured, he picked him up, holding him tight against his chest as he walked toward the doors. "I know you're tired, Lu. But you're going to have so much fun with your friends today."
"No, my eyes hurt," Luca sobbed softly, tears soaking into the collar of Jack's shirt. He reached out blindly for you, his tiny hand trembling. "Mama... please."
You stepped in, your heart breaking as you took his hand. You pressed a warm kiss to his palm. "I know, my sweet boy. But Miss Honey is going to let you take a long nap at quiet time, okay? I promise."
Miss Honey walked towards you, her face softening with sympathy as she saw Luca's face, though she smiled brightly when Lily proudly held up the massive box. "Oh, Lily, these smell absolutely delicious!"
"We made them!" Lily said proudly.
"I see, sweety. Morning to you too Luca, are you tired? I have your soft pillow waiting just for you for nap time."
Luca let out a shuddering sniffle, unlocking his arms from Jack's neck.
"My blue one? With the stars?"
"Yes, that one."
Jack kissed his son on the forehead as he lowered him to the ground. "You hear her? Your favourite one. Be a big boy, alright? Daddy will be waiting right here to pick you up later."
Luca gave a nod, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt as he took Miss Honey's hand. Lily immediately grabbed his other hand, guiding him gently into the school.
You walked back to the car in silence, the echo of Luca's quiet cries still lingering in the air. You stared out the passenger window, watching the kindergarten entrance fade from view as Jack pulled out into the street. Your heart ached, the image of your little boy’s tear-streaked face replaying in a loop.
Jack caught the shift in your posture immediately. He kept one hand on the steering wheel, reaching with the other to take yours.
"Hey," he said softly. "Talk to me, beautiful. You’ve got that look on your face."
"I feel terrible," you admitted. "Leaving him like that when he was crying… it breaks my heart. He has such a hard time during the day when he doesn't get enough sleep."
Jack gave your hand a comforting squeeze. "Miss Honey is great with him. He’ll be asleep before nap time even starts. Why is he so tired? Did Lily wake him up for making the muffins?"
"No, she didn't. She was really quiet. He woke up completely on his own because he realized her bed was empty."
Jack glanced over at you curiously. "Really?"
"Yeah," you nodded, leaning your head back against the headrest. "He came looking so lost, and the first thing he said was, 'Was alone.' It’s that twin thing again. It’s like his internal radar alarms him the second she leaves the room. He just... he relies so much on his sister. I worry sometimes that he depends on her too much."
Jack listened quietly. He pulled the car up to a red light and turned his head to look at you fully.
"Sweetheart," Jack murmured. "They’ve been sharing a space since they were in the womb. It’s not a bad thing that he relies on her. Didn't you see them at the door? The second he nodded, Lily took his hand. He protects her and she grounds him. They look out for each other." He paused to smile at you. "He is always so aware of her. Think about it." Jack chuckled. "He’s basically our security guard for our troublemaker princess. We should be thanking him."
You laughed thinking of how Luca always take care of Lily when she is up to something. "A four-year-old security guard who works for muffins?"
"Exactly. The perfect one," Jack grinned.
The light turned green, and he rolled the car forward, keeping his grip on your hand firm.
"You did good, Mama," Jack whispered, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. "No more worrying. We have a date with our bed."
"Deal," you looked over at him as he steered the car toward your home. "You have such a happy face when it's my day off," you teased softly.
"Of course I do. It means I don't have to share you with anyone else for the next hours."
"Oh, is that it? You just want me all to yourself?"
"Absolutely," Jack murmured, he smoothly guided the car into your driveway and cut the engine, the sudden silence inside the vehicle making the space feel intimate.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned fully in his seat, leaning to trap you against your headrest. His eyes darkened as they traced your face, a deeply affectionate but thoroughly pervy grin spreading across his face.
"The kids are at kinder until four," he whispered, his hand cupping the back of your neck. "Which means no interruptions, no tiny feet running into the bedroom and no toddler emergencies. I have very specific unprofessional plans for how we're spending the first hours of our date, beautiful."
You let out a shy laugh as you reached up to tangle your fingers in his wild hair. "Dr. Abbot, are you taking advantage of your exhausted wife?"
"One hundred percent," he grinned, leaning down kiss you deeply. "Let's get inside before I decide the backseat is perfect enough." he whispered against your mouth.
Synopsis: Y/N thought she understood what working in the emergency department meant, long shifts, impossible cases, and relying on the people beside her to get through the chaos. But somewhere between late-night traumas, quiet moments in supply rooms, and shared glances across the ED, her relationship with Dr. Abbott becomes something neither of them can ignore.
As Y/N trains a new nurse, Keith, she finds herself caught between his obvious attention and Abbot’s quiet, undeniable care. Abbott tries to keep his distance, but watching someone else flirt with Y/N tests the restraint he's spent months building. When Keith crosses professional boundaries, Abbott steps in, not because Y/N can't handle herself, but because he refuses to let someone disregard her comfort.
Between emergency calls, unspoken feelings, and the boundaries they can't cross, Y/N and Abbott must navigate the line between professionalism and something much deeper.
Contains: Slow-burn romance • Workplace tension • Medical drama • Emergency department setting • Mutual pining • Jealousy • Emotional intimacy • Protective instincts • Flirting • Professional boundaries • Found family • Long shifts & late-night conversations • Forbidden feelings
Note: Honestly, there isn't much to say other than... I love me a jealous man. There is just something about watching a character who is normally calm, collected, and professional slowly lose his composure that gets me every time.
Now, from a reader's perspective? I hate slow burns. I want the confession. I want the kiss. I want the drama immediately. But as a writer? Oh, I loveeeee them. The irony is not lost on me.
I know some of you are probably sitting there thinking, "Please just let them admit they like each other already," and I hear you. I really do. But I also love the little moments—the lingering looks, the almost-confessions, the tiny gestures that mean way more than they should, and the absolute emotional chaos of two people who clearly have feelings but refuse to say it out loud.
So if you're mad at me for dragging this out... I'm sorry (but also, not really). I genuinely think the slow build makes the payoff so much better. The tension, the frustration, the "are they going to do something or just stare at each other forever?" moments are what make the story fun.
So grab a snack, settle in, and enjoy this long-ass story because we are apparently taking the scenic route. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy the emotional rollercoaster as much as I enjoy putting these two through it.
---------
You walked through the ED doors with a smile, immediately spotting Dana and Lena discussing the handful of patients still left over from day shift.
You wished you got to work with Dana more often, but Lena had quickly become your work mom, and you wouldn't have it any other way.
"How have you been?" Dana asked, smiling as you approached.
"I've been good. Can't complain much."
You headed toward the lockers, fishing through your bag for your stethoscope as you opened your locker. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a tall man standing at the end of the hallway, finishing up a phone call. Is he on the morning crew?
Before you had a chance to think much more about it, he slipped his phone into his pocket and walked over.
"Hi, I'm Keith." He extended his hand with an easy smile.
You shook it, immediately noticing how much larger his hand was than yours.
"Hi, I'm Y/N. Are you part of the morning shift?" you asked.
He chuckled. "Actually, this is my first night shift. I've been a nurse for about a year. I moved to Pittsburgh not too long ago, and this was the first hospital that responded to my application."
You smiled as you shut your locker. "So I guess that means you'll be with me tonight."
He nodded. "I hope I won't be too much of a bother."
You laughed. "I think we'll survive."
Gesturing for him to follow, you started toward the nurses' station. Halfway there, you felt it. That familiar sensation of someone watching you. You looked up. Sure enough, Abbot stood beside Lena, backpack still slung over one shoulder. Whatever Lena had been saying no longer held his attention. His eyes were fixed on you.
Or more specifically......the fact that Keith was walking awfully close beside you.
"So..." Keith glanced toward Lena. "I'm guessing the redheaded lady is our charge nurse?"
You hadn't realized until then just how close he was standing. Your shoulders nearly brushed as the two of you walked.
You cleared your throat. "Yes. That lovely ginger is our charge nurse for the next twelve hours."
Lena immediately looked over, smiling as she walked toward the two of you. "Well, I see you've met our new night-shift nurse."
She turned toward the rest of the station. "Everyone, this is Keith. He'll be shadowing Y/N tonight, so if anyone needs a hand, I'm sure he'd be happy to help."
Keith gave an awkward little wave as every head turned in his direction.
You smiled sympathetically before spotting Princess and Perlah across the station. Perfect.
You wandered over. "Why, hello, ladies. Any hot gossip from day shift?"
Princess and Perlah exchanged mischievous smiles before immediately launching into stories involving Langdon, Santos, and Mel. You laughed, hanging onto every ridiculous detail. Keith stood quietly beside you the entire time. Well...Mostly quietly.
When you glanced over, you found him watching you instead of listening to the conversation. His chin rested casually in his hand, and he looked perfectly content simply watching you laugh. Your smile faltered for half a second before you politely excused yourself.
"I'll catch you two later."
After saying goodbye to Princess and Perlah, you headed back toward Lena, who was organizing assignments for the night. Keith followed. Again. You glanced around for Abbott but couldn't find him.
Probably talking with Robby, you assumed.
---
Why the hell was he following you around like a lost puppy? Abbot couldn't help the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. Keith had been there less than forty minutes, and somehow he'd managed to spend every second within arm's reach of you.
The guy wasn't just shadowing you. He was orbiting you. Abbott walked past room Three just as he heard your laugh drift into the hallway. Without really thinking about it, he slowed his pace. Inside, the two of you were restocking supplies.
"Okay," you said, opening a drawer. "Bandages go in the second drawer and..."
You glanced over your shoulder. "...did you grab extra saline?"
"Yeah." Keith held up two bottles. "I figured we'd need it. You already had your hands full, so I wanted to save you another trip to the supply room. I can put it back if it's too much."
You smiled. "Actually... thank you. I appreciate that. Just stick it in the fourth drawer."
Keith slid the saline into place before looking back at you. "What can I say?" he grinned. "A pretty lady like you can't do everything herself."
You smiled to yourself, unsure how to respond. Before you could say anything…
"Are we working," Abbott's voice cut through the room, "or are we trying to flatter my nursing staff?"
Keith immediately straightened. "I'm a great multitasker, sir."
You had to turn away and busy yourself with organizing syringes just to hide your smile. Abbott looked thoroughly unimpressed.
"Y/N."
You looked up.
"When you're finished, meet me at the nurses' station." His gaze shifted to Keith. "And you..."
There was the briefest pause. "...find somewhere else to linger so I can speak with my nurse."
*My nurse.*
Your cheeks instantly warmed. You could definitely get used to hearing that. Abbot disappeared into the hallway without another word. Keith watched him leave before turning back to you.
"He's not mean," you said with a small laugh. "I promise. Just... stern."
Keith chuckled. "Well, I'll go put the extra supplies in the next room so I don't interrupt you and Dr. Jealous." He punctuated the sentence with a wink before disappearing through the doorway.
You couldn't help smiling.
*Dr. Jealous?*
Was Abbott......jealous? There was only one way to find out. You stepped out into the hallway and found Abbott leaning casually against the nurses' station, scrolling through something on his iPad.
"So..." you said, unable to hide the small smirk on your face. "What was that about, Dr. Abbott?"
He sighed, finally looking over at you. For just a second, he seemed to simply study your face before answering.
"From what I've seen, and it's only been forty-five minutes since this shift started…he's done nothing but follow you around and flirt with you."
You raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not a fan of it."
"Why?"
"It's distracting." He hesitated. "...It's unprofessional." He looked like he wanted to keep talking. Instead, Lena's voice interrupted from behind the desk.
"I'm glad you two are enjoying your gossip session, but we've got an incoming trauma." She held the phone against her ear while listening to the report. "ETA three minutes."
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The teasing disappeared. Work mode. Without another word, you turned and headed toward Trauma Four, where Keith was finishing stocking gloves.
"Hey," you called. "We've got a trauma coming in. Two minutes."
Keith turned with an eager smile.
"You ready?"
He shrugged. "If I'm with you, I'm sure I'll be fine."
You rolled your eyes with a laugh. "What a flirt."
Shaking your head, you headed toward the trauma bay.
Keith followed close behind.
-------
The overhead speakers crackled.
**"Level One Trauma. ETA one minute. Trauma Bay Three."**
The department shifted instantly. Conversations stopped. Computers were abandoned. Everyone moved.
Mateo was already pulling gloves on.
"Twenty-four-year-old male, MVC. High-speed rollover. Hypotensive in the field, decreased breath sounds on the left, GCS twelve."
"Blood cooler?" Abbot called.
"Already here," Mateo answered.
"Respiratory?"
"On their way."
You glanced toward Keith. "Stay with me. Watch where everyone positions themselves. Don't get tunnel vision."
He nodded immediately. "Got it."
---
The ambulance doors burst open.
"Twenty-four-year-old male!" the paramedic shouted while steering the stretcher into the bay. "Restrained driver. Prolonged extrication. BP eighty over forty. Needle decompression was performed in route with minimal improvement."
The room exploded into organized chaos.
"Transfer on three."
"One—two—three."
The patient slid across.
Abbott was already at the head of the bed. "Airway. Y/N, IV access."
"Keith," you said quickly. "Pressure bag. Prime another liter."
"I'm on it." He moved surprisingly fast.
Not bad, you thought. The monitor screamed. Heart rate 148. Pressure falling.
"Seventy-six systolic."
"FAST exam."
"Negative."
"Breath sounds absent left."
Abbot's eyes never left the patient. "We're losing him."
He looked toward you. "Chest tray."
You already had it. "Here."
He barely had to ask. The chest tube went in. A rush of air escaped. The patient's oxygen saturation immediately began climbing.
"Better."
"Pressure's eighty-eight."
The room collectively breathed just a little easier.
---
Keith leaned toward you while hanging blood. "You make this look easy."
You didn't even glance up from securing the tubing. "It definitely isn't."
"No," he said with a grin. "But you still make it look that way."
Before you could answer
"Keith." Abbott's voice cut cleanly across the room.
No raised volume. No anger. Just enough.
Keith looked over. "Yes, Doctor?"
"Eyes on the blood."
Keith immediately checked the transfusion. "Right."
Abbott returned his attention to the patient.
"Good catch on the pressure bag."
"...Thanks." You bit the inside of your cheek.
---
Twenty minutes later the patient was stable enough for CT. As the transport team rolled him out, the room finally exhaled. Everyone began cleaning. Wrappers. Used gauze. Empty syringes. The controlled mess that followed every trauma.
Keith tossed bloody packaging into the trash. "I survived."
"You did."
"You think I passed?"
You smiled. "I think you kept up."
"I had a good teacher."
"You had a good team."
He leaned against the counter. "I still think the teacher deserves some credit."
"You lay it on pretty thick, don't you?"
He laughed. "Too much?"
"A little."
"I'll dial it back."
"You probably should."
He smiled. "But you smiled."
"I smile at everyone."
"I don't believe you."
"Oh?"
"I think mine are special."
You opened your mouth to answer...
"Y/N."
Abbott. Again. You turned. He stood in the doorway with his gloves pulled off, expression unreadable.
"Can I see you?"
Keith glanced between the two of you. "I'll finish cleaning."
"You don't have to—"
"I've got it." He smiled. "Go."
---
You stepped into the hallway. Abbott waited until the trauma room doors swung shut behind you.
"What did you need?"
He crossed his arms. "How's he doing?"
"The patient?"
"The new nurse."
"Oh." You blinked.
"He's...actually pretty good."
"I noticed."
"He stayed calm."
"He did."
"He listens."
"When he's paying attention."
You looked at him carefully. "What does that mean?"
Abbott held your gaze. "It means he spends more time looking at you than the patient."
You laughed softly. "That's what this is about?"
"No."
"It sounds like it."
"I'm evaluating a new nurse."
"You are."
"I am."
"You just happened to evaluate how often he looks at me?"
His jaw tightened ever so slightly. "I observe everything in my department."
"Mhm."
"And right now," he continued evenly, "I'm observing someone who's supposed to be learning but seems significantly more interested in impressing his preceptor."
You folded your arms. "I can handle myself."
"I know you can." His answer came immediately.
"I've never questioned that."
"Then why does this bother you?"
For a moment...He didn't answer. Instead, he looked toward Trauma Three where Keith was laughing with Mateo while throwing away packaging. Then back to you.
"Because..." He stopped himself.
The words visibly caught somewhere behind professionalism.
He sighed. "It doesn't matter."
"It does."
"It shouldn't."
There it was again. That careful line he always walked.
You stepped a little closer without really thinking. "We're off the trauma now."
"So?"
"So no one's bleeding for at least thirty seconds."
Despite himself...He smiled.
"You're impossible."
"I've been told."
"I was trying to finish what I was saying before."
"About Keith?"
He nodded once. "I don't think he understands professional boundaries."
"And?"
"And I don't like the way he talks to you."
You tilted your head. "Because he's distracting?"
"Yes."
"And?"
His eyes met yours. "And because he flirts with you every chance he gets."
The silence stretched.
You couldn't help yourself. "So?"
He stared at you. "You really want me to answer that?"
"I kind of do."
Another beat.
"I don't enjoy watching it."
Your heartbeat sped up. "You've noticed every time?"
"I've noticed every time."
You smiled despite yourself. "You sound jealous."
His expression stayed completely neutral. "I sound observant."
"Mhm."
"You disagree?"
"I think..." you said, trying very hard not to grin, "...those aren't mutually exclusive."
Before he could respond, Keith's voice echoed from the trauma room. "Y/N! Where do these extra chest tube kits go?"
You glanced over your shoulder. "I'll be right there!"
When you looked back...Abbot was already taking a step away. Professional again. Mask back in place.
"Go teach your new nurse."
There was something in the way he said *your* that made your stomach flutter.
You smiled. "Will do, Doctor."
He turned to leave. Then paused.
Without looking back, he said quietly, "...Try not to let him flatter you too much."
You couldn't resist. "Why?"
Now he looked over his shoulder. For just a second.
"Because..." The corner of his mouth twitched. "...I prefer being the one who makes you blush."
And before you could think of a response, he walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway with cheeks that had, in fact, turned bright pink.
You stood there for another second, watching Abbott disappear around the corner.
‘I preferred being the one who made you blush.’ Your cheeks were still burning.
"Oh, you're in trouble," you muttered to yourself with a smile.
"You talking to yourself already?" Keith asked as he came jogging up beside you.
You jumped. "You have a habit of sneaking up on people."
"I figured I'd have to if I'm going to keep up with you."
You rolled your eyes. "You've got jokes."
"I've got charm."
"So you've said."
He grinned. "I've demonstrated it."
"You've demonstrated persistence."
"I'll take that."
Before you could answer, the overhead speakers crackled.
"Level One Trauma. ETA four minutes. Motorcycle collision."
The department shifted again. Lena was already pulling up the EMS report.
"Twenty-eight-year-old male. Motorcycle versus SUV. Open femur fracture, suspected pelvic instability, hypotensive despite fluids."
Abbott appeared almost instantly.
"Trauma Three."
Everyone moved.
"Y/N, you're with me." You nodded.
"Keith, stay on Y/N."
"Got it."
The ambulance doors burst open moments later.
"BP sixty-eight over forty!"
"Two units of blood running!"
"Pelvic binder applied in the field!"
The patient looked awful. Blood soaked through the sheets beneath him.
"Transfer on three."
"One...two...three."
The room erupted.
"Large-bore IV."
"Already in."
"Pressure's dropping."
"Massive transfusion protocol."
Keith was right beside you, handing you supplies before you even asked.
"Pressure bag."
"In your hand."
"Flush."
"Here."
For a second, everything clicked.
You smiled. "Nice."
"Told you I'd keep up."
Across the bed, Abbot looked over briefly. His eyes landed on Keith. Then on you.
Then back to the patient. "Focus," he said sharply.
Both of you answered at once. "Yes, Doctor."
The orthopedic resident rushed in. "What've we got?"
"Unstable pelvis. Open femur. Probably heading upstairs if we can keep him alive."
The patient's pressure dipped again.
"Fifty-eight systolic."
"Damn it." Abbot's voice stayed level.
"More blood."
Keith reached for the cooler. Instead of grabbing O-negative blood...His hand wrapped around a saline bag. He hung it.
You noticed half a second too late. "Keith-"
Abbot noticed immediately. "No!"
His voice cut through the room. "Stop!"
Everyone froze.
Abbot crossed the trauma bay in three quick strides. "What are you doing?"
Keith looked down. His face went pale. "I-I thought-"
"You thought wrong." Abbot yanked the saline free before it could infuse.
"I asked for blood."
"I'm sorry—"
"This patient is exsanguinating."
Keith swallowed hard. "I know."
"No." Abbot's voice was low. "You don't."
The room had gone silent. Everyone could feel it. Abbot took one controlled breath. Then another.
"Step away from the bed."
Keith hesitated.
"Now."
Keith immediately backed away.
"You are done in this trauma."
"I'm sorry."
"I said out."
Keith looked toward you. Then quietly left the room. The doors swung shut behind him. Nobody spoke. Abbot didn't either.
He simply held out his hand. "Blood."
You placed the unit into it without a word. The room moved again. Twenty-five minutes later...The bleeding was controlled. Orthopedics had accepted the patient. The transport team rolled the stretcher toward the elevator.
As soon as they disappeared...The adrenaline drained from the room.
You pulled off your gloves. "I'm gonna go check on Keith."
You had barely taken two steps.
"Y/N." Abbott. You stopped.
He was stripping off his gown, his expression unreadable. "I need a minute."
You frowned. "Can it wait?"
"No."
You glanced toward the hallway where Keith had disappeared. "I just want to make sure he's okay."
Abbot's jaw tightened. "He'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"He made a mistake."
"I know."
"He could've killed someone."
"I know."
"But you didn't have to throw him out."
Abbot stared at you. "I absolutely did."
"He was embarrassed enough."
"He needed to leave."
"He was trying."
"And trying isn't enough in a trauma bay."
Your voice softened. "Jack..."
His expression flickered. Only for a second. "I wasn't angry because he flirted with you."
You blinked. "I didn't say you were."
"But you thought it."
You didn't answer. Because you had. He sighed. "When that patient's pressure dropped..." His voice was quieter now.
"I wasn't thinking about Keith."
"I was thinking about a twenty-eight-year-old bleeding to death in front of us."
"I know."
"I can't have someone second-guessing themselves in this room."
"I know."
"And I can't have someone who isn't paying attention."
You nodded slowly. "I get that."
He studied your face. "But..."
You finished for him. "...you also don't like him flirting with me."
His silence answered before he did.
Finally...
"No." A simple answer. Honest.
"I don't."
You couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips.
"You know..."
He looked at you.
"...those are two completely separate conversations."
"They are."
"And right now..." You pointed toward the hallway. "...I have a brand-new nurse who probably thinks he just ended his career."
Abbot rubbed a tired hand across the back of his neck. "He didn't."
"I know."
"So let me go tell him that."
He nodded once. Then, just before you walked away-
"Y/N."
You looked back.
His voice was much gentler this time. "...Tell him I expect him back."
You smiled. "I will."
"And tell him..." He hesitated. "...next time he hears 'blood,' he doesn't touch anything until he's absolutely certain."
"I'll tell him." You started walking again.
"Y/N?"
You laughed. "What now?"
A faint smile finally appeared on Abbott's face. "...And if he flirts with you while you're explaining it..."
You raised an eyebrow.
"...I'm still not going to like it."
You couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "There he is."
"There who is?"
"Dr. Jealous."
Abbott let out a quiet huff of amusement, shook his head, and turned back toward the trauma bay before you could see the reluctant smile that had finally won.
----
Keith couldn't have gone far. You found him sitting alone in one of the empty charting alcoves near the staff lounge, elbows resting on his knees, his badge turning slowly between his fingers.
He didn't notice you until you stopped beside him. "Hey."
He looked up. "Oh."
His voice was quieter than usual. "Hey."
You leaned against the counter across from him. "Mind if I sit?"
He shrugged. "I don't think I've earned the right to say no."
You pulled up the rolling stool beside him. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Finally, you broke the silence. "You okay?"
Keith let out a humorless laugh. "I just got kicked out of my first trauma."
"You got overwhelmed."
"I hung saline instead of blood. You caught it before it became a bigger problem."
"Dr. Abbott caught it."
He rubbed a hand over his face. "I looked like an idiot."
"You looked like a brand-new trauma nurse."
He glanced over. "There's a difference?"
"There is." You smiled gently. "Every single person in this department has made a mistake they still think about."
"You?"
You laughed. "Oh, definitely me."
"What'd you do?"
"I almost contaminated a central line setup my second month here."
Keith looked surprised. "You?"
"I was mortified."
"What happened?"
"Abbot corrected me."
He winced. "I'm guessing... not gently."
You smiled to yourself. "No."
"He wasn't mean."
"He was..." You searched for the right word. “...very direct."
Keith chuckled. "Sounds familiar."
"He expects a lot."
"Yeah."
"But he expects it because these patients deserve it."
Keith nodded slowly. "I know."
Another quiet settled between you.
"I really am sorry," he said.
"I know you are."
"I wanted to impress you tonight."
You looked at him. "You don't have to impress me."
"I kind of wanted to." A sheepish smile spread across his face.
"I think that much has been obvious." You laughed softly.
"Just a little." He bumped your shoulder lightly with his. "I thought maybe if I made you laugh enough...You'd forget I almost killed a trauma patient?"
He groaned.
"I was hoping you'd say yes."
"I don't think that's how memory works."
He smiled. "No?"
"No."
He sighed dramatically. "Worth a shot."
You stood, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Come on."
He looked up.
"Let's get back out there."
"You still think I can do this?"
"I wouldn't have come looking for you if I didn't."
Keith smiled for the first time since leaving the trauma bay. "See..."
He stood, grabbing his badge. "...that's exactly why I like you."
You raised an eyebrow. "Keith..."
"I'm serious." He smiled, a little more cautiously this time. "You're kind, you're patient, and somehow you're still talking to me after I embarrassed myself."
"If I wasn't already interested before..." He flashed another grin. "...I definitely am now."
You shook your head, unable to help smiling. "You really don't quit, do you?"
"Can you blame me?"
You laughed as the two of you walked down the hallway. "Let's just survive the rest of the shift first."
Keith nodded. "I'll settle for that."
As you disappeared back toward the nurses' station together, neither of you noticed the physician workroom door slowly swing shut. Inside, Abbott had just overheard the tail end of the conversation.
"...If I wasn't already interested before... I definitely am now." His jaw tightened.
He looked down at the chart in front of him. Read the same sentence three times. Then quietly closed the tablet. Something told him this conversation with Keith wasn't over.
---
The next couple of hours were surprisingly... quiet. At least, quiet by emergency department standards. The waiting room was still overflowing. Call lights blinked every few minutes, monitors continued their constant chorus of beeps, and Lena somehow managed to materialize anytime someone forgot to chart something.
But there were no traumas. No ambulance sirens. No frantic rushes through the bay doors. Instead, the department settled into the rhythm of overnight emergency medicine.
A migraine.
A toddler with a stubborn fever.
A college student convinced that three energy drinks had given him a heart attack.
"You'll live," Lena deadpanned as she discharged him.
She paused. "...Probably."
You hadn't seen much of Keith since your conversation outside the trauma bay. Abbot had reassigned him to Mateo for the remainder of that case, but once the patient reached the OR and the department settled again, Lena quietly sent him back your way.
"Fresh start," she'd said.
Keith looked grateful just to be standing beside you again. He'd also been noticeably quieter. Less eager to joke. Less eager to flirt. Mostly focused on learning. You were glad.
The mistake in the trauma bay had clearly shaken him. Just after midnight, the triage phone rang.
"Room Twelve," Lena called. "Twenty-six-year-old male. Shoulder dislocation after falling off an electric scooter."
You looked toward Keith. "Perfect teaching patient."
His eyebrows lifted. "Really?"
"You need your confidence back."
A genuine smile spread across his face. "I'll take the lead?"
"You'll take the lead."
The patient was sitting awkwardly on the stretcher, clutching his left shoulder.
"I swear," he groaned, "those scooters are trying to kill people."
You laughed. "I think they're just making us busier."
Keith introduced himself before beginning his assessment. "Can you wiggle your fingers for me?"
The patient did.
"Sensation?"
"Yeah."
"Pulse is intact."
You stayed beside him, letting him work through the assessment on his own. Every now and then, he glanced toward you.
"Am I missing anything?"
"What else could be injured?"
He paused. "...Clavicle?"
"Good."
He checked it carefully.
"No tenderness."
"What about below the shoulder?"
His eyes widened. "The elbow."
"There you go."
He smiled. "You have that face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're silently waiting for me to figure it out."
You laughed. "I don't have a face."
"You definitely have a face."
The patient looked between the two of you.
"You guys work together a lot?"
Keith answered before you could. "I'm hoping to."
You gave him a look. He only smiled sheepishly. The reduction went smoothly. Abbot supervised the sedation, guided the reduction, confirmed post-reduction films, and disappeared almost as quickly as he'd arrived.
The shoulder slid back into place.
"There it is."
The patient sighed dramatically. "Oh... that's so much better."
"I'd stay off the scooters for a while," you advised.
"I think I'm walking everywhere from now on."
An hour later, the room was cleaned, and the patient discharged.
Keith tossed the last wrapper into the trash. "I think..." He smiled. "...that went a little better."
"It did."
"You trusted me again."
"I never stopped."
He looked at you for a second longer than necessary. "Thanks."
There was something different in his expression. Less embarrassment. More admiration. You didn't think much of it. You carried the empty supply tray toward the supply closet.
Keith reached for the other handle. "I've got it."
"You don't have to."
"I know." He smiled.
"I want to."
The supply closet was empty. You started replacing supplies while Keith organized the tray beside you.
After a minute, he broke the silence. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot."
"When you came looking for me after the trauma..."
You looked over. "...yeah?"
"Did you do that because you had to?"
Your hands paused. "No."
His smile grew. "I didn't think so."
"I did it because you looked like you needed someone."
"I needed you."
You smiled sympathetically. "I think anybody would've checked on you."
"I don't."
You returned to stocking gauze. "I think you're giving me too much credit."
"I don't think I am." He leaned against the wall. "I've never had someone do that for me."
"I was just trying to help."
"I know."
He looked at you. "...It's one of the reasons I like you."
Your smile faltered. "Keith..."
"I know." He laughed softly.
"I told myself I wasn't going to bring it up again."
"Probably a good idea."
"But then you came after me."
"I would've done that for anyone."
"I don't believe you."
"You should."
He shook his head. "No."
You sighed quietly. "Keith..."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
His smile softened. "I think you're amazing."
You looked away. "I appreciate that."
"I don't think you know how beautiful you are."
You blinked. "Okay..."
"I mean it." He stepped closer.
"You've got this way of making people feel better just by talking to them."
"Keith."
"I can't stop thinking about you."
You set the supply tray down. "I really think we should keep this professional."
"We can."
"And?"
"We can get dinner after work."
You smiled politely. "I'm not interested."
"You haven't even thought about it."
"I have."
"So that's a maybe."
"No."
"A coffee?"
"No."
"One date."
"No."
He laughed. "I'll wear you down eventually."
Your expression became serious. "No, you won't."
He searched your face. "You mean that."
"I do."
There was a long silence. Then-
"I just think if you gave me a chance—"
"She answered you."
The deep voice from the doorway cut cleanly through the room. You turned. Abbot stood just outside the supply closet. Hands in his pockets. Expression unreadable.
Keith immediately straightened. "Doctor."
Abbot's eyes never left him. "She answered you."
---
The rest of the shift passed in a blur. Not because the department was busy. For once, it was almost manageable. But because every time you looked up, you were aware of Abbot. And every time Abbot looked up...
You wondered if he was thinking about the same thing. Keith finished the remainder of his shift with Mateo. He was quieter afterward, more careful, and noticeably less confident than he had been when the night started. You felt bad for him.
But you also knew Abbott was right. You had said no. More than once. And that should have been enough.
---
By six forty-five, the familiar signs of morning shift started appearing. Fresh coffee. New faces. Day shift nurses walking in with their bags over their shoulders and expressions that said they had no idea what they were walking into.
Lena was giving report while Mateo was already complaining about needing sleep.
"You're dramatic," Lena told him.
"I've been awake for twelve hours."
"You chose emergency medicine."
"I was young and foolish."
You smiled as you finished your last chart. The department was changing hands. Night was finally ending. You grabbed your bag from the locker room, ready to leave, when you heard your name.
"Y/N."
You turned.
Abbott stood a few feet away. His backpack was already on. He looked exhausted. But there was something else there too.
Concern.
"Can I talk to you for a minute?"
Your stomach tightened. "Sure."
He nodded toward the empty hallway near the physician’s workroom. Not hidden. Not secret. Just quieter.
When you stopped, he crossed his arms. "Are you okay?"
The question caught you off guard. "I'm fine."
He gave you a look. "You don't have to say that automatically."
You sighed. "Okay."
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "There it is."
"What?"
"The actual answer."
You leaned against the wall. "I'm okay."
A pause.
"Keith apologized."
Abbott nodded. "I'm glad."
"He seemed embarrassed."
"He should be."
You looked at him. "Jack."
His expression softened slightly. "Y/N."
You both smiled at the familiar exchange.
Then he sighed. "I don't want you thinking I stepped in because I don't trust you to handle yourself."
"I don't."
"You hesitated."
You looked away. "Maybe a little."
He nodded. "I know you're capable."
His voice lowered. "I know you can take care of yourself better than almost anyone I've ever worked with."
That made you look back at him. "Then why did it bother you so much?"
The question sat between you. For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then he exhaled. "Because I watched it happen all night."
You raised an eyebrow. "Keith?"
"Yes." A small, almost amused frustration crossed his face. "He followed you everywhere."
You tried not to smile. "He was learning."
"He was learning your coffee order."
You laughed. "Jack."
"No, I'm serious." Now he was smiling too. "He knew how you liked your coffee before he knew where the trauma supplies were."
You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh. "He was being nice."
"I know."
"And?"
He looked at you. "And it annoyed me."
There it was. The honesty.
You tilted your head. "Why?"
He looked away for a second. "Because I know what it's like to make you laugh."
Your smile faded slightly. "Jack..."
"I know." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm not saying this because I think I have some claim on you."
"You don't."
"I know." The quickness of his answer surprised you.
"I know I don't."
The hallway became quiet.
"I think that's why it bothered me."
You waited.
"Because watching someone else try to get your attention reminded me that I have been trying very hard not to want yours."
Your heartbeat picked up. He looked at you. Really looked at you.
"You make it difficult."
"I do?"
"You do." A faint smile appeared. "You walk into a room and somehow everyone notices."
"That's not true."
"It is."
"You notice." The words slipped out.
And immediately, you both went quiet. Because you both knew exactly what you meant. Abbot looked down.
Then back at you. "I do."
Your breath caught.
"I notice everything about you."
The air changed. Not because either of you moved. Because neither of you did. For a second, it felt exactly like the supply room again.
The almost. The impossible. The thing neither of you could stop feeling. Then Abbot stepped back. Just slightly. Enough to remind both of you where you were.
"You deserve someone who can give you their full attention."
Your eyes stayed on his. "You mean someone who isn't my attending."
His expression softened. "Yes."
The honesty hurt more than you expected.
"You think that person, isn't you?"
A long silence. Then-
"I think..." He swallowed. "...that if things were different, I wouldn't hesitate."
Your heart squeezed. "Jack."
"I mean that." His voice was quiet. "I know exactly what I want."
Another pause.
"But wanting something doesn't mean you take it."
That was the thing about him. The thing that made it harder. He always chose the right thing. Even when it clearly cost him.
You smiled sadly. "You make being responsible very annoying."
He laughed softly. "I've been told."
"By me."
"Mostly by you."
The two of you stood there for another moment. Close. Too close emotionally. Not physically.
Then Lena's voice echoed from the nurses' station. "Y/N, are you leaving, or did you move in?"
You both laughed. The moment broke.
You grabbed your bag. "I should go."
"You should."
You started walking away. Then stopped. "Jack?"
He looked over.
"Thank you."
His expression softened. "For what?"
"For looking out for me."
A quiet smile. "Always."
You held his gaze for one more second. Then you left. And even though nothing happened... Even though neither of you crossed the line... It somehow felt like everything had changed.
-----
The next few shifts were different. Not because the emergency department changed. It never did. There were still endless call lights, impossible patients, and moments where everyone survived purely because caffeine existed.
But something between you and Abbot had shifted. Not in a way anyone else could see. Not in a way that could be documented or explained. Just in the small moments. The way he always looked for you when he walked into the department.
The way you somehow always ended up beside him during the more complicated cases. The way neither of you ever acknowledged the tension hanging between you.
Keith, thankfully, became much less of a presence. After your conversation with Lena, she moved him to work alongside Mateo for the remainder of his orientation.
She didn't make a big deal out of it. She didn't need to. Lena had a way of handling situations without making people feel like they were being punished.
Keith apologized one more time before the switch happened.
"I really am sorry," he said quietly.
You believed him. "I know."
"I crossed a line."
You nodded. "You did."
He looked down. "I appreciate you being honest with me."
"Thank you for listening."
And that was the end of it. No drama. No awkwardness. Just a boundary finally respected.
---
A few nights later, you found Lena outside the employee entrance smoking a cigarette. The weather was cold enough that you could see your breath.
Lena leaned against the brick wall, cigarette in hand. "You know..."
You glanced over. "Whenever you start a sentence like that, I get nervous."
She smiled. "Good instinct."
You laughed. "What?"
She looked toward the parking lot. "You and Abbott."
Your stomach immediately tightened. "What about us?"
She gave you a knowing look. "See?"
"What?"
"You didn't ask who I meant."
You rolled your eyes. "Lena."
"I'm just saying."
She took a pull from her cigarette. "I've worked with that man a long time."
You stayed quiet.
"And I have never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."
You looked down. "He can't."
"I know."
The answer was immediate.
"Lena..."
"I know." Her expression softened.
"And I also know that knowing something is wrong doesn't magically make feelings disappear."
You sighed. "I don't want him to get in trouble."
"He won't."
"He could."
"He could." She nodded.
"But that doesn't mean you have to spend your entire life pretending something isn't there."
You looked at her. "What am I supposed to do?"
Lena shrugged. "Honestly?"
You waited.
"Say fuck it."
You laughed. "Lena."
"No, I'm serious." She pointed her cigarette at you.
"Not recklessly. Not while ignoring consequences. But stop letting fear make every decision for you."
You looked toward the hospital doors. "What if it's not worth it?"
"Then you walk away."
"What if it is?"
"Then you figure out how to make it work." Her voice softened. "But don't spend years wondering what would've happened because you were too scared to find out."
You smiled slightly. "You always have the most questionable advice."
"That's why you love me."
"I do."
"I know." She bumped your shoulder.
"Now go inside before Lena the charge nurse has to yell at Lena the friend for being outside too long."
---
A few weeks later, after one of the longest shifts imaginable, night shift decided enough was enough.
"We are going out," Mateo announced.
"No," Lena replied.
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
You laughed. "Mateo, you do realize you're arguing with the person who makes the schedule, right?"
"Exactly. I'm taking a risk."
Somehow, everyone ended up agreeing. One drink became two. Two became everyone staying longer than planned. The bar was loud, warm, and a completely different world from the ED.
No monitors. No trauma calls. No pressure.
Just your coworkers laughing about everything that had gone wrong that week. You were sitting at the bar when two men approached.
"Can we buy you a drink?"
You smiled politely. "I'm okay, thank you."
The first one grinned. "Come on. We're just being friendly."
"I appreciate it, but I'm good."
The second one leaned against the bar. "You always this serious?"
Before you could answer-
"Y/N."
You turned. Abbott. Your heart immediately betrayed you.
He stood a few feet away, jacket on, hands in his pockets. "I need to talk to you for a second."
You looked between him and the two men. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah."
His eyes flickered toward them. Then back to you. "I just need some air."
You knew that look. Something was weighing on him.
You nodded. "Okay."
---
Outside, the noise of the bar disappeared the moment the door swung shut behind you. The cool night air wrapped around both of you, a welcome contrast to the warmth and chatter inside. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
You smiled first. "Were you rescuing me?"
Abbott huffed out a quiet laugh. "No." A beat. "...Maybe."
You folded your arms against the chill. "You were jealous."
"I was concerned."
"Mhm."
"You don't believe me."
"I believe concern was involved."
"And the jealousy?"
You watched him carefully. He rubbed the back of his neck before letting out a slow breath. "...Also involved."
You couldn't stop yourself from smiling. "I knew it."
"I've spent weeks convincing myself I wasn't."
"And?"
"And then I watched three different men try to flirt with you tonight." His jaw tightened just enough for you to notice. "I didn't enjoy that."
Your smile softened. "I noticed."
"I imagine you did."
Silence settled again. Comfortable. Dangerous.
He looked down at the sidewalk before meeting your eyes again. "I've been trying very hard to do the right thing."
"I know."
"I keep telling myself that if I ignore this long enough..." His voice trailed off. "...it'll go away."
You already knew the answer. "It hasn't."
"No." The word was barely audible. "If anything..." He gave a small, almost helpless smile. "...it's gotten worse."
Your heart squeezed.
"You make me look forward to coming to work." He laughed quietly to himself. "Which is a ridiculous thing for an attending physician to admit."
"I don't think it's ridiculous."
"You don't?" You shook your head. "I look for you too."
His expression changed. Not surprise. Hope. The kind that had been buried for a long time.
"You do?"
"Every shift." You smiled to yourself. "If I don't see you when I walk into the department, I notice."
His eyes never left yours. "If you're off helping another patient, I catch myself listening for your voice."
You laughed softly. "I know."
"You know?"
"You have a habit."
"I do?"
"You always look toward the ambulance bay whenever you hear me laugh."
He blinked. "...I do."
"You do." He shook his head, smiling despite himself.
"I wasn't aware anyone had noticed."
"I notice everything."
The words settled between you. He took one slow step closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you could see every fleck of color in his eyes.
"You really do."
"So do you."
Another step. Close enough now that your voices naturally dropped. The sounds from inside the bar faded until they were little more than muffled music behind the brick wall.
"I've wanted..." he began quietly before stopping himself.
"What?"
He searched your face. Then admitted, almost reluctantly- "...to be this close to you for a long time."
Your pulse quickened. Neither of you moved. Neither of you seemed capable of it.
His eyes searched yours carefully. "I don't ever want you to feel pressured."
"I don't."
"I need to hear you say it."
You nodded once. "I know."
Another long pause. He lifted one hand slowly. Not touching you. Just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his fingertips.
"Is this okay?"
Your answer wasn't immediate. Not because you were unsure. Because you'd imagined this moment too many times. Instead of speaking, you closed the last few inches between you. Your fingers curled gently around the front of his jacket as you leaned into him.
For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, almost as though he couldn't quite believe you were real. Then his hand settled lightly against your waist. Tentative. Giving you every opportunity to step away.
When you didn't, his thumb traced the smallest circle against your side. "You sure?" he whispered.
You looked up at him, smiling. "I've never been more sure."
The distance between you disappeared. The kiss was gentle at first. Almost hesitant. A question more than an answer. Months of restrained glances, unfinished conversations, and almost-moments finally finding somewhere to go.
When you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your lips. A quiet, disbelieving smile. His hand remained at your waist, steady and warm, while your fingers slid up to rest against his shoulder. You lingered there together, neither of you in any hurry to pull away.
When you finally did, your foreheads rested together. Both of you smiling. Both of you slightly breathless.
"I've wanted to do that," he admitted with a soft laugh, "for longer than I'd care to admit."
"I know."
"You knew?"
"I was hoping."
He closed his eyes for a brief second, smiling. "So was I."
For another long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply stood together beneath the glow of the parking lot lights, the noise of the city fading into the background. Then, from inside the bar, Lena's voice carried through the cracked-open door.
"If you two are out there solving world peace, I'm adding another round to your tab!"
You both laughed. Abbott looked at you, his smile lingering.
summary: you show up to the bar with the intention of leaving with someone. which you wouldn't have to do if you didn't have such an embarrassing crush on the nightshift attending. jack abbot is hellbent on making sure that you don't leave with anyone else tonight. which he would tell you, except for that fact that he's under the impression that you have no idea he exists.
notes: based on this request! not proofread
masterlist 𓊔 request
“Look who finally decided to join us!” An all-too familiar voice jeers from a hightop table, making you snap your head to the left.
Trinity is already out of her seat, arms up in the air to celebrate your arrival. Not that arriving at this dusty, cramped bar should be celebrated by anyone. It was the only bar that was open this late-- or early, depending on how you look at it. You’re wrapped up into a cinnamon-scented hug before you can protest, her arms squeezing tightly around your shoulders.
Behind her, you see Dennis, Robby, Princess, and Jack all sitting in a booth.
What the hell kind of grouping is this? You wonder silently as you double-take the crowd.
“You’re like… really late!” Trinity shouts over the music as she pulls away, grabbing you by the elbow to drag you to the table.
“I’m like… not here to see you!” You call back mockingly, but don’t force your arm away from her tight grip. Of course you’ll come over to say hi to your coworkers. Regardless of whether or not you’re being hauled by a small powerhouse of a woman.
“Then who are you here to see?” She narrows her eyes.
“Well, hopefully,” you start, then pause to scan the crowd until your eyes land on a guy with a dark buzzcut playing darts, “that guy over there.”
Her gaze follows yours and then she snorts out a laugh.
“Cheap thrills tonight, doc?” The two of you are close enough to the table that Robby howls out a laugh. At the same time, he’s sliding closer to Princess in the booth to make room for you. Trinity waves her hand at them. “No need. She’s got her eyes on other company tonight. Didn’t come to see us.”
God, she’s too drunk and you’re too sober. Though, by the looks of the other four, they’re not any better than her. Another raspy laugh from Robby and Princess’ loud snort confirm that suspicion.
You can’t help the way your eyes dart from them across the table to Jack. He’s sitting straight as ever, curls a little messy and eyes a little glassy as they dance between you and Trinity with amusement.
And God, he looks so good doing it. It’s impossible not to stare as he lifts the lip of a beer bottle to his mouth and tips it all the way up. There’s a little trail of gold liquid trailing from the corner of his mouth to his jaw.
Pulling your lip between your teeth and averting your gaze is the only way you manage to keep from licking it clean.
“You look hot,” Princess says as she rakes her eyes over the outfit you chose with the specific intention of going home with someone tonight.
A shocked laugh is the only thing you reply with, pinching the bridge of your nose with a shake of your head.
“Oh yeah, stay away from the rad tech,” Robby chimes from next to her. At your frown, he continues. “He had some… things to say about you.”
Your chest tightens slightly as you cross your brows, trying to think about what wrongs you may have committed to have radiology venting about you over drinks with your attendings.
“He wants to fuck you,” Princess stage-whispers across the table.
With this information, you drop into the seat next to Robby, knocking a knee into Jack’s across from you as you settle in.
Trinity has found her way back between Jack and Dennis, the latter arguing with her over something minute as always. Beside you, Robby shifts, hooking an arm over the back of your seat.
“I don’t think that was the exact verbage,” Jack corrects with a finger pointed to him.
“Right, no. He asked if you were single,” Robby amends.
That sends a memory flashing through your head.
“Oh! Brown curly hair? Young guy, cute?” You ask, and Princess’ enthusiastic nod confirms. “Okay, yeah, yeah. I knew that already, he asked me out a few weeks ago.”
Her jaw drops, eyes widening to the size of saucers.
“What?” She shouts, leaning over Robby to smack you on the arm. “How did nobody know about this? When did this happen?”
“Yeah, when did this happen?” Jack asks dryly from across the table, bringing the beer to his lips as he watches you through narrowed eyes.
Giving him a confused look, you shrug.
“Couple weeks ago, I guess. It was like a two-second interaction, I guess nobody saw it. He came up as I was charting and asked me to go to some theater thing,” you reply with a dismissive wave of your hand.
“Theater?” Robby chortles. “That feels like a bold choice for a first date.”
Again, you shrug. It was genuinely the only conversation you’ve ever had with the man, and you hadn’t even seen him since. Really, you were incredibly surprised that he’d brought you up at all tonight after so long.
Princess starts telling Robby something about how the nosebleeds are a great place to fool around without anyone seeing, and that’s your cue to go get a drink. Across from you, Jack pushes himself to his feet at the same time, a little unsteadier than you expect him to be.
“Too much to drink, Abbot?” You tease, letting your eyes fall over him now that he’s standing.
He’s wearing a black tee shirt that pulls taut across his chest, and a black and white flannel over it. The extra layer is probably contributing to the pink flush on his drunken cheeks. Through all the layers you can still see the bulge of his biceps as you take him in. You already know you’ll be staring at his ass in those blue jeans the moment you get the chance.
“Not enough for whatever conversation they’re havin’,” he jerks his head in the direction of the table as the two of you start walking away. “Didn’t know you knew the radiology guy.”
“I don’t. Him asking me out was the first and last conversation we ever had.” You eye him carefully.
“Huh.” He hums, nodding as if not believing you.
Then he takes a final drag from his beer, tosses it in the trash, and breaks away from your path and toward the men’s bathroom.
Weird.
You continue walking to the bar, where the crowd is significantly more than you’d expect at 3 a.m. on a weekday. There’s one space where you can easily saddle up between two other people, so you do.
As luck would have it, one of those people would be the man you pointed out to Trinity earlier. He’s cute, a bit of a firefighter look to him that you’re sure charms plenty of women. Strong, too, though in a way that’s more lean and less bulk. Handsome, strong, and judging by the amount of shots he’s buying right now, employed.
Bumping into him, you pretend to act surprised, as if you hadn’t just orchestrated the move for the sole reason of getting his attention. As you planned, he turns to face you, arms darting out to steady you on your feet.
“I’m so sorry!” You call over the noise around you, resting a hand on his chest and pushing yourself up to your toes to get closer to his ear. “Are you ok?”
That puts a little grin on his face. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip and he nods, amusement written all over his features.
“‘M fine. You good?” His eyes are moving up and down the outfit you’re wearing. Just like you hoped they would. Based on the long exhale he blows out, you’d say the mission was accomplished.
“I’m good. Thank you!” You give a sweet smile and then turn back to face the bar, hoping he’ll--
“What’s your name?”
Fuck yeah.
The typical flirty conversation carries on between the both of you while you stand there waiting for your turn to order drinks. His name is Brett and he is a firefighter. He’s twenty-nine and moved here from some city out West that you don’t much care to remember.
Most importantly: he’s single.
The two of you have two drinks at the bar while you talk. Eventually, you follow him back to his friends where he drops off the shots and then let him bring you to a high top closer to the bar. He pulls the chair out for you and you can only hope that his chivalry extends to the bedroom as well.
“What do you like to do for fun?” He asks, standing next to your chair with his hand on your side. With the height of the stool, you’re about shoulder-height to him.
“I could show y-”
Your worst nightmare comes true.
“Hi! I’m Princess.” She’s cuddling up next to him.
Brett furrows his brows for a moment, but upon seeing your knowing look, chuckles.
“Brett. You two know each other?” He wraps his arm around her and watches as you roll your eyes.
“Princess, fuck all the way off,” you groan, nudging her with the toe of your shoe.
She shakes her head, a sorry little smile appearing. Her leaning into your date while she does it sure does nothing to convey any sincerity.
“Can’t. If I can get you to come back to the table I get $50. And if you let me stay here for longer than 3 minutes I get an extra $10 on top.”
Of fucking course she does. These people are gambling addicts. You didn’t even know that they were still here, let alone watching you. Grumpily, you bring your drink to your mouth and empty it.
Brett laughs again, patting Princess on the back and then moving to stand behind your chair, placing both hands on your shoulders.
“How about $100 and you let me take her back to my place?” He proposes.
Your stomach twists, and you feel bile rise in your throat. He had been nice up until now, and you’re sure he probably didn’t mean for it to come out like he was paying to have sex with you. But holy fuck, you’ve never been turned off so fast.
Princess is quiet, and you don’t look at her as you get out of your chair and grab your purse.
“I probably should go back with my friends,” you excuse, giving a tight-lipped smile to the man who has so suddenly soured your night. “It was nice to meet you, Brett. Have a good night.”
Before either of them can say anything else, you’re throwing open the door to the women’s restroom and locking it.
God, why did they have to ruin that? What the fuck were you even doing here? Why can’t you just sit at home and listen to fucking audio erotica to get your rocks off like the rest of the universe? Why do you have to put your faith into non-fictional men who make jokes about paying for sex with you?
And why the fuck are your friends so goddamn annoying?
Frustration tightens your chest in a way that makes you feel mean. The alcohol isn’t sitting well, it’s ready to bubble over into this stupid situation and make you lash out at what few friends you have because they made a stupid joke that ruined your stupid hookup.
You’re washing your hands as if you can cleanse the anger away. The water is cold, sobering, in a way, and you let it run over your skin to soothe the sting of anger.
Outside the door, muffled voices begin to spill in through the crack in the door.
“You should just go, man.” It’s Jack that you hear outside. His tone makes you turn the water off to be able to hear better.
“I want to make sure she’s ok. I didn’t mean to-” It’s Brett.
“It’s over, kid. Have a good night.”
Kid. Your cheeks grow hot as you let yourself become even more upset. That’s the fucking reason you’re here. Because Jack Abbot is the only man you’ve ever wanted to like you, and here he is calling a man older than yourself kid.
You can’t be enough for him. Could never, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be his age. Never have his experience. Never come close to breaking down those walls that guard him because he will never care about you enough to let you try.
The urge to scream appears, and when you tamper it, it’s only replaced with the urge to hit something.
Here we go again. It’s time to go home.
As you barge into the hallway outside the bar, you don’t expect to trip over your own feet and right into Jack, who is alone now.
“Whoa, hey. You okay?” His strong arms hold your waist.
“Fuck off,” you mumble, pushing yourself off of his chest. But his grip on you is too tight.
One hand stays on your waist while the other finds your jaw, lifting it from where you’ve locked your eyes on the wall over his shoulder. The thought of seeing his handsome face when you can’t have him feels like a lead weight in your bones. But his grip forces you to meet his eyes. They’re soft, searching in a way you’ve never seen him before. Not like he’s being a doctor, but a friend.
There’s a neon sign above the bathroom door that shines all sorts of colors across his pretty grey curls. He’s ditched the flannel, too, now only clad in that tight black shirt that has your lips parting to get enough air.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” His question frustrates you to no end.
“Let me go, Jack.”
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he insists, and you see the bit of desperation on his face.
It’s far too intense for this situation, and too vulnerable for Jack. But he’s drunk, and these are some pretty typical drunken dramatics by any definition.
Rolling your eyes, you find your footing and move his hands from your body. They drop back to his sides with a thud against the wall behind him. You back away from him until you’re flush with the opposite wall so that you can breathe your own air. The first inhale feels cool, settling.
Until you hear your name from down the hall.
Brett is walking toward you, starting another apology when Jack steps up from the wall and blocks you from the other man.
“I told you to leave,” he warns, and a shiver runs up your spine at the danger in his voice.
“Dude, just let me-”
“Fuck off!” Jack shouts now, and you jump a little, shock and fear running through you all at once.
Before you have much time to process anything, you’re being swept into Jack’s arms and into the women’s bathroom once again. He comes in with you and locks you both inside. Once he’s done that, he’s lowering you to your feet and grabbing your face with both of his hands.
The pace of your heart is concerning. It’s hammering in your chest, and you wonder if Jack can feel it where his fingertips hold the bottom of your jaw.
“Don’t forgive him,” he pleads, and you startle because what the fuck.
“What?” You ask dumbly, face a little squished by his palms.
“That guy. He-- I don’t-- just don’t.”
His hands go from smashing your face to cradling it, fingers curling around the nape of your neck and thumb stroking your cheekbone. It feels like you have whiplash.
Why is your hot attending holding you in the women’s bathroom right now? Why did he just shout at your date? Why does he seem so invested in whatever is happening here right now?
“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m a little confused.”
A little laugh leaves his lips as he nods, then drops his head until his forehead meets yours.
“I didn’t know you knew who I was,” he replies quietly. This surprises you, brows crinkling beneath him. “I saw you, with that guy. And I guess I made a face. Santos told me that you… like me.”
You’ve forgotten how to breathe.
“I didn’t send Princess. That was her own idea and I told her not to,” he assures quickly. “I just, I didn’t think you’d ever glance twice at the grumpy old guy who works the night shift. I didn’t know I had a chance, and I didn’t want to make you uncom-”
The words die as you press your lips to his. In their absence, his mouth melts against yours, tongue instantly darting out to reach for your bottom lip. With a soft sigh you part your lips for him, letting him deepen the kiss to explore your mouth.
His hands tighten around your face, fingers curling into the hair at the base of your neck to hold you in place. At the slight tug he gives it, you whine, reaching out to grab him and finding his shirt bunched into your fists tightly to pull him closer. It’s futile. You’re as close as you can be without molding into one.
Then your feet leave the ground, and he’s hoisting you up into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, expecting him to carry you somewhere, maybe to the countertop, but he just stands there, backing you into the wall and keeping you settled around his torso.
“Jack,” you pant as his mouth dips to leave hot kisses down your neck. “Fuck you feel good.”
His breath is warm as he hums against your skin, working his way behind your ear and then along the shell of it. When he reaches the very peak, he pauses and drops his head against yours to whisper.
“Needed this for so long, sweetheart.”
It’s raw, it’s fucking sexy.
You’re running your hands all over him when his lips collide with yours in another heated kiss. As time passes, he gets more comfortable. Low moans rumble from his chest as you run your fingers through his hair.
Then he’s pulling away, trailing chaste, sweet kisses across your face as he draws his head back.
“Hmm, something wrong?” Your eyes flutter open, a lazy grin on your face when you see his deep flush and blown pupils.
“Come home with me.” It’s not a question, really, but you nod anyway.
You expect your feet to hit the floor, to wipe your lipstick from his neck and face and ears before going back out to face the rest of the bar. But, no. Jack keeps you held tightly against his waist as he carries you back to the table (still full of your coworkers), grabs his flannel and your purse, and then leaves wordlessly.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little proud, despite trying to hide your face in his neck the whole time (leaving lots of kisses there, of course).
A beloved part 2 to Barbie Doll, but can be read as a standalone.
Pairing: Jack Abbott × nurse!reader
Wc: 9.3k (i was litr aiming for 3k…)
Description: You and boyfriend haven't done much besides making out. Cut to a drunk you trying to get him to fuck you last night (and him fending you off with remarkable constraint). The morning comes with heartfelt conversations and pancakes nobody ends up eating because, well…Jack was craving something else.
Or, your respectable attending ends up between your legs, for the first of many times.
Tags/warnings: Massive age gap (r in 20s, abbot is 50), size diff, Idk what the insides of a man's bedroom must look like, r has enough hair to be tied back, r is referred to as a girl, r has limited experiences with sex, r is insecure, self-esteem issues, r mentioned to have a soft curvy belly, r has breasts, long makeout sesh, r is kinda bratty, v little blood mention, finger sucking, slightly voyeuristic in the sense that jack talks abt putting a picture of her tits in his house, r has a vagina, pussy pronouns, r has a bush (tongue sticking out emoji), this man is pussy drunk, oral (f recieving), mentions of male masturbation, dom!jack, (1) thigh slap, a lil hair tugging, very mild degradation (needy, messy), a lot of praise, a lot of pet names: baby, honey, princess, sweetheart, kid, etc
Note: Im ngl i almost put a daddy kink, but idk my audience that much yet. Also, this is my first time writing smut. Also I'm a virgin who can't drive (but im learning to!!!), so be kind bcos this was purely based on imagination and my studying of smutty fics. Happy gooning, if you do. Also tell me if you do.
You swing your arm over the top half of your face, instinctively smacking your lips together to find them chapped and dry, just like your throat.
What –
Where are you?
A groan escapes your lips when you retract your arm, moving your head to take in your surroundings. The white ceiling greets you, wooden fan spinning at a medium speed, and you avert your gaze before you throw up in —
Jack's bed, you realise. You're in his bed. His room. To your right, deep blue blinds cover the floor-to-ceiling windows you know are there. To your left wall, his laptop sitting closed on his neat oakwood study desk, next to his reading glasses, and…
A clear container, about the size of your hand, filled with 2-3 hair ties, a couple of tic tac hair clips, and a small lip balm.
You didn't put that here. You may spend a lot of your time at this house in the past 6 weeks, but you were always hesitant of taking up his space in ways that matter. A toothbrush next to his in his bathroom, and two of your t-shirts in his closet, that's it, you were content with that.
Seeing that small box, though…you felt a warmth bloom in your chest, making you smile while you lay alone in his bed.
Wait.
Alone.
Where is your boyfriend?
You rise up on your elbows, sucking in a sharp breath at the piercing pain in your back. You look around; The bathroom door is shut with no noises coming from the inside. You rub the empty space next to you on the bed, patting the soft bedsheets, only to find them cold.
You frown. Until you notice the bedside table. His rolex sprawled next to a tall glass of water, mouth covered with a strip pack of medicine. Your phone is plugged into the charger, flashing a “fully charged.”
You sit up sluggishly, popping an Advil out of the pack, and depositing it on your tongue. You wash it back with a sip of water, and then hungrily empty the whole glass.
Your bare feet touch the carpeted floors, determined to find your missing boyfriend. You walk towards the bedroom door — slightly cracked open — and pull it wide open, the well-oiled hinges making no disturbance.
Small memories from last night start flooding in, once your mind gets the memo to wake up. You internally wince. Jeez. You broke your heels you spent your savings on?
But you forget all about that when you see Jack in the open kitchen, spreading a batter evenly on a pan, a bottle of your favorite maple syrup sitting not too far away. A stack of golden, fluffy, pancakes sits pretty on a plate, making your heart swell in affection, and stomach stirring in excitement.
He's still shirtless, only sporting his soft, grey sweatpants. And he's making breakfast. The two best things a man can do: cooking, and giving you a show.
Okay, maybe that's a little objectifiable coming from such a progressive person as you. He's a man, so what, that doesn't mean he wants to be leered at.
That, obviously, doesn't make you feel any shame. Before he notices you, you make the best of it. You drag your eyes down to his hard stomach, and up his chest, moving rhythmically with soft breaths. His muscular arms are methodically working the pancakes, just as you like them.
Your gaze travels to his hips where the sweats hang loosely. You can see where his V-line begins, and goes on to disappear in his pants. Could you trace it with your finger? Would he shiver and throw his head back, or clutch your wrist again to stop you?
Oh, you could take his house tour.
Just when you start getting a little breathless, a voice rings in your brain. Your voice.
“Why haven't we fucked?”
You immediately cringe. Oh, god. You are never drinking again. One of the most serious conversations you've been meaning to have, and you dumbly blurt it all out inebriated.
“Thought I was the one with the staring problem,” you flinch out of your embarrassing spiral, your boyfriend's slow drawl dragging you back to present. You clear your throat, willing some semblance of grace back in you.
You don't speak till you've reached him, standing behind his back, not daring to look him in the eye right now. You wrap your arms around his torso, palms grazing the sculpted plane of his stomach, now tensing under your touch. You bury your nose in his warm skin, inhaling deeply. Your own muscles relax when his scent fills you, something clean and musky, and a hint of his cedarwood soap. The ache in your head dulls, and his heavy presence wraps throughout your mind in a pleasant mist.
You press a soft kiss exactly where your lips rest against his back — a few inches below his neck. A muscle there jumps and you suppress a smile, even though he can't see you.
“Morning. You like leaving your girlfriend alone in your bigass bed?” you ask, pressing another kiss to the same spot.
“Don't think you really mind the way you're all over me.” His large arms keep moving, though your view is obstructed with his back.
You scoff, “well, thanks for the Advil, doctor.”
His hand reaches around his back to pat your hip twice before withdrawing it. “How's the headache? Shouldn't be too bad, I only let you nurse on rookie stuff.”
“Didn't feel very rookie, or maybe I'm just a lightweight,” you mumble, hot breath falling over his freckled skin.
Jack chuckles, and you absorb it as much as you can, saving it for later replays. “You did good, honey. You were a fun drunk, really.”
You huff, “you'd say that, of course, I tried to seduce you.”
You hear the flop sound of a pancake hitting the pan after being flipped. “Didn't think you'd remember.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Desperately wished you would.”
The morning has made him slower and softer, his usual charm and humor taking a backseat in face of domesticity. Look at you, taming a rugged silver fox. Before you know, you hear the swift flick of a dial, gas being turned off, and he spins in your arms.
You look up at him. The tip of his nose is a little rosy, and his eyes have lost the sharpness in them — the one you've seen in ED, or when you particularly provoke him for attention. His curls are tipping over to his forehead, creating jagged shadows against his face. You don't think he's shaved today, so you send a silent ‘thank you’ to angels who govern DILFs.
He drags his hands up your arms, until they're cupping your face with great care, pads of his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones, before digging into the apple of your cheeks, effectively squishing them. Your lips pucker out without your permission, and you watch a boyish smile take over his face.
“You look adorable when you're not runnin’ your mouth.”
“Would you like me to become quiet and reserved? Because, I assure you, you will miss this mouth,” your speech comes out slightly muffled, and then returning to normal when he softens the pressure of his thumbs.
The corner of his lip quirks, and you watch the playful glint take its familiar place in his eyes. “It's a great mouth, I'll admit. Solid 8 out of 10.”
Your said mouth falls open, eyes widening in disbelief. “Excuse you, sir, don't undersell me. Where am I losing the 2 points?”
Jack pretends to think, letting out an unnecessarily long hum. “The fact that you've been up and about for —” he checks the wall clock behind you, “— 6 minutes and haven't kissed me yet.” He tuts in disappointment, shaking his head disapprovingly at you.
“That's what you get for leaving me alone in bed.”
“Tough crowd. I'm sorry then, I should've been holding you, sending a body double to make breakfast for you. I'll do better next time.”
“It's okay, we all have our learning curves, you'll learn, Dr. Abbot,” you coo, patting his back a little too roughly.
“Now, where were we…8 out of 10…2 left…” he trails off, bumping his nose against yours, and lifting your chin. He tilts his head down, sliding one hand to the back of your neck to keep you steady. He always does this, the smooth motherfucker, being tender while still being in charge.
As soon as his lips caress yours, you dodge, and he ends up kissing your ear instead.
“I have morning breath,” you pull back to look up in his eyes again, fixing him with your best bambi eyes.
“When has that ever stopped us? We once made-out for 30 minutes straight right after waking up. I felt like a teenager.”
“Yeah, because I'd gotten up, like 30 minutes ago, to brush my teeth and apply lip gloss.”
His mouth hangs open in shock, “what?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.
“...yeah. Do you really think I look like a pretty princess in the morning, Jack?” You huff a laugh, stating the obvious. Men.
Instead of a joke about your hair, or another wave of mock surprise, his lips downturn in a frown. The palm on your check moves up a couple inches, fingers toying the hair on your temple.
“Baby…did I ever make you feel like you had to do that?” His question comes not defensively, but low, distressed, and so, so delicate. It's like he's genuinely seeking your answer, treading with caution, allowing you to be vulnerable should you choose to.
“What? Jack. No. I've been doing this since, like, when I first slept over at someone's place.” Your fingers tighten on his back, holding him to you.
“Did they make you feel like you had to?” Your chest tightens at his concern, his protectiveness, and over what? Something you just off-handedly joked about? Something you didn't even give a conscious thought to?
Maybe that's the issue, that it's so internalised, you haven't seen anything wrong with it until now. You don’t know whether you should relish in his sweetness, or be embarrassed that a man out-feministed you.
Your eyes soften, the warmth blooming inside your chest has reached the tips of your fingers, your legs, down to your toes.
Oh, he's taken over you.
“Jack…you're so sweet, but I swear it's not that big of a deal. It's never made me upset or anything.” You unwrap your arms from his midriff, skimming your hands up his forearms, to reassuringly squeeze his biceps.
“Kind of a big deal if you feel like getting up 30 minutes early to make yourself look ‘presentable’ or whatever other bullshit your mind is telling you.”
Well, if he puts it like that.
You pause, feeling such deep adoration for this man and not the momentary kind, no. The kind that settles beneath your ribs and slips between joints, places unreachable, even to you. It's such a loss of control, to have such…like for someone that they're rooted deeply enough inside you. So much so that you've lost all jurisdiction of your own heart.
You're in freefall.
He must've seen it in your eyes, because he gently tugs at your hair strand, before tucking it behind your ear. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“What's going on in your brain? I thought it was mostly barren land up there.”
You smack his bicep. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but I'm a nurse at the PTMC. Treat me with respect, or else.”
“Just felt a shiver run down my spine,” he deadpans.
You smile thankfully and twist your head to kiss his palm.
“I'm serious, honey. I want you to share this stuff with me,” his voice turns sombre again, in a way that always strips you bare of your defenses.
“You don't have to fix something you didn't break.”
“If you have a tiring day because of a shift, am I not allowed to hold you to sleep?”
“Jack…” you softly whine.
“Isn't this exactly the kind of thing why we've been hesitant to take a step forward?”
Your mind recalls some bits of last night — the genuine need to touch him, to be touched, to lose control. Was it liquid courage, or was it because your mind was hazy enough to not conjure your insecurities?
“Can we have a proper talk about this? Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I go brush my teeth in case the conversation lasts 2 minutes, and then we straight up just start climbing each other?”
“No.”
“Pretty please?”
A long suffering sigh from him.
“Okay, princess.”
7 minutes and 1 aggressive teeth brushing session (wherein you literally made your gum bleed because of haste), you exit from the bathroom into his bedroom.
You accidentally shut the door too hard behind you, and nervously clap your hands together. “Okay! Let's talk about fucking.”
Jack, who was reading a news article on his phone, blinks at you. Slowly, he takes off his reading glasses — which, sad — and sets them on his bedside table. He has removed his prosthetic, always preferred it off while in bed, and the empty fabric of his pant leg is rolled up to above his knee.
You climb on his bed, crawling over to him.
“How about we first talk about not calling it ‘fucking'? I'm a 50 year-old man, not a 21 year-old boy who wants to get in your pants.”
“Spoilsport,” you mutter before finding your place. Not on the bed. On him. Your knees dig into the soft cushion behind him, thighs bracketing his hips. A soft, pleasing, hum escapes you.
You may not have tried many — or, any — positions with him, but this one is your favorite, and you suspect it always will be. This, straddling his lap, after bad days and good, having him close enough to sink in his presence, without losing your own.
It's like during your days, the scale tipped too much in either direction, and made your anxiety go broom. With him, the scale stabilised. The universe balanced itself as long as Jack was touching you.
His right hand rushed to your waist to anchor you, slipping past your t-shirt to find bare skin, thumb stroking against the side of your belly. His left finds your own hand, interlocking your fingers and resting them against his stomach.
“Okay, if you brought it up yesterday drunkenly, then you must've given it thought before,” he urges you softly.
You shift in his lap, and pretend not to notice the way he suddenly bites his lip. You take a deep breath, a familiar anxiety curdles in your stomach at the thought of talking about something that's so sensitive to you.
“I have, yes. Um…do you remember when we talked about this before as well? I, uh, don't have much experience with, well, fuc — sex. You know, shagging. Boinking. OH, horizontal tango.” Your mouth has a way of spitting out garbage nonsense whenever you’re experiencing nerves.
“Shut up,” your favourite doctor stops your verbal diarrhea, unimpressed.
“Rude. But…do you remember?”
“Of course, I remember.” Your heart leaps at his gentle tone, so good with giving space for your vulnerabilities.
“And you…” you laugh nervously, toying with the drawstring of his pajamas, eyes downcasted.
“Eyes on me, honey.”
You watch his dark irises, the lines of his forehead, stubble you know is prickly from having your fingers trace it many times. It’s him. You clear your throat before continuing and feel his hand squeezing yours.
“You're experienced. And I know that doesn't matter but…” you trail off before finding another thread, “do you know what it feels like to view yourself in third person?”
“Happens sometimes when I'm getting shot at, yeah. What about it?”
“It happens with me even outside the job. It's like I'm looking down at myself, observing the way my face looks, or my hands move, or my gait, or a bunch of other things. When I imagine having sex with you — and I have so much — all I can imagine is how I'd sound, what face I'll make, how my body would look…”
You shake your head, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill over. Your chest aches in the aftermath of your admission, never having admitted this loudly. “And none of it looks pretty in my head.”
You purse your lips, waiting for his response. What you feel first is the tightening of his fingers around yours. The hand under your shirt starts moving, up and down, in a slow rhythm, burning your skin with every stroke.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he murmurs, with this almost poignant look in his eyes. He brings your linked hands up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss on the back of yours.
“Let's see it through. I'll start by telling you, I've imagined it multiple times as well, more than I should. Totally felt like a creep.”
Your cheeks burn.
“But it was never like the way you describe. In my imagination,” his hand tugging you closer, hot breath falling over your chin, “It's never about how you scream, it's about why. Is it because of my mouth, fingers, or what?”
You gulp.
Or, what?
You're pretty sure you feel the “or, what” stirring alive beneath you, hardening against your inner thigh. It's so hard not to move.
Jack tips his head forward, pressing his lips to the side of your jaw, “As for how your face would look; as long as your shiny eyes are on me, and your mouth is falling open, I think you're good.”
His next attack is to the corner of your lips, “and what about your body? How do you think it would look?”
He doesn't get a response, because all functions to your brain have been cut off. His right hand halts, settling an inch below your breasts, the side of your shirt hanging around his wrist.
“Tell me,” he softly commands.
“Awkward and lousy, not knowing what to do. And my skin would have folds and rolls. Also, do you know boobs are never really evenly sized? One is always bigger,” you blurt out.
Jack laughs, always more amused with your neurotic babble than repulsed. Your shoulders drop a fraction. “Yes, I know, that's the beauty of them. Otherwise, what's the difference between you, and say…a barbie doll?”
And so he makes you smile, the one you flash only to him, the one that lets him know you’re okay. Just like that. He looks proud about it too.
Speaking of sizes, his gaze flickers towards your chest, lingering there before dragging their way up your mouth, and then your eyes again.
“Same for the rest of it. Don't worry about giving me more skin to kiss, I'll take care of it. Of you,” he says with sincerity and calmness, a level of assurance that feels like he took a walk with your mind. And then pressing a peck — finally — against your lips.
You don't feel your self-doubts vanishing, or your walls crashing down. But the door cracks open, and the light searing out is enough to take a step forward.
“Okay. I believe you,” you whisper, stealing another quick kiss from him. “But what if I, you know, fail you?” It comes out awkward, reflecting every bit of uncertainty in you, even when you can feel the length of him growing insistent.
“This will be about you first, what'd we talk about worrying? I'm a big boy, I can take care of myself…as I have, many, many times.”
The distance between you feels less, despite no moment. Have the walls started narrowing in? Your throat runs dry.
“What?” you stagger, brain feeling like scrambled eggs.
“What ‘what’? Because I'm 50, I don't have a libido?” he muses, voice raspy. His hand leaves yours, trailing its way up your arm. When it tangles in the hair behind your neck, the hand holding feels childish in comparison. He should’ve been doing this all along.
“I didn't say that. I just didn't think you…”
“What? Touched myself thinking of you? Palmed myself right here, on this very bed?”
Your lips part, eyeballs practically protruding out of your face like a cartoon character. You finally shift your weight. When his bulge connects with your crotch, you feel you’ve gone third base already. Even with layers in between, you feel how hard he is, probably enough to be in pain right now. But his face barely reflects that.
“Don't worry, not the same bedsheets.”
“Not exactly what I'm thinking about, doctor,” you breathe.
“Really? Feels like you should be.”
You smack his stomach, and he doesn't even flinch. Instead, his eyes crinkle and a smile makes its way like the sun rising in the sky.
A pause.
“Enough talking. C'mere.” He pulls you by the back of your neck, capturing your lips in a kiss. He moves like he’s in no hurry. While you hustle your way through every moment, Jack acts like all clocks have personally stopped so he can pass through.
He claims your bottom lip, leisurely enjoying the softness, and gives it a playful nip. Swallowing the gasp right out of your mouth, his palm tightens in your hair, tugging in a pleasant pressure to angle your head exactly like he wants. He hums in satisfaction, the rumble vibrating all the way down your chest, pooling between your thighs. You try to chase the heat, instinctively rolling your hips, getting greeted with a delicious friction that coaxes a helpless whine out of you.
His thumb strokes the underside of your breast, and you shiver, losing control over your own mouth, getting sloppy in your technique.
When Jack pulls back, your entire body disapproves, your lips immediately desperate enough to chase his again, a string of spit connecting yours to his before breaking. He chuckles, and you don't even have enough mind to even feel self-consciousness. You might as well be on another planet right now.
“You look like you haven't been kissed since middle school.” He watches your swollen, ruined, lips with pride blossoming in his abilities, clearly well enough to make you act depraved.
“That's not true. I was just kissed by an old white guy,” you breathlessly retort.
“Why are you kissing guys so different from your boyfriend?”
“Trying new things.”
“Fuck that. Haven't you heard, kid, older is better?” he replies smugly, before diving right back in, on a mission to catch your top lip this time. Unlike his hands, yours keep wandering — grazing his abdomen, tracing lines up his chest, finding home low on his waist, thumb hooking in his sweatpants.
The desperation is making you feel reckless; you sink your hips into his again, seeking that perfect, agonizing friction. A deep groan rips from Jack’s throat. His palms slam flat against your hips, squeezing them and bringing your tortuous grinding to a dead halt. “Stop,” he rasps, “do you want this to last or not?”
“What are you saying?” you ask, a poster child for innocence, with batting eyelashes and glossy eyes. To really drive it home, you roll your hips forward again, enjoying the way his eyes darken. This is safe territory, making out with him like you're still teenagers, and hell, if you're not gonna tease him.
“God, you're such a brat,” he murmurs, the rough whisper lost against your mouth when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your upper lip, a fraction too deep. You moan at the sting, but the sound is cut short. Jack is already pulling back with a jolt, feeling the metallic taste of copper on his tongue.
“Fuck, baby, sorry, I —” the heat in his eyes instantly dissolve to swimming guilt. His hand rushes up to cradle your jaw with a sudden, trembling gentleness. His thumb sweeps across the hurt, wiping the small bead of red before it can run.
“Jack, it's okay, I promi —”
But he's already peppering apologies all over your face; lips meeting the tip of your nose, then the bridge; corner of your eyes; hollow of your cheeks; and a “feel better?” at your temple. Soft oh's leave your mouth, over and over and over.
You never want to hit the ground ever again. May he never run out of kisses.
“Never felt bad to begin with. I like a little mean.”
“Not when it’s our first time, honey.” The sharp edge of panic vanishes, leaving behind a quiet self-doubt, pulling his brows in a tight line. Your chest tightens when you peer into his eyes, and find them unmasked off any walls. You look straight into the deepest, darkest corners of him, the ones that come with tight security and deflecting jokes.
“Not our first time making out, Jack,” you softly reassure.
Jack presses a final, promising kiss into your hair. He exhales the last of his hesitance when he sees you — open, welcoming, entirely warm beneath him. “First time making out as foreplay,” his voice drops an octave, completely grounded now. “I need you to know we can stop anytime. Throw me off for all I care, if you get uncomfortable. Got it?”
You nod.
“Words. Big girl words.”
“Yes, Jack. I will kick you in case that happens.”
“My little footballer,” Jack coos. “Do you wanna get off my lap now?”
“Uh, no,” you dictate.
“Kinda have to, sweetheart, for what I'm planning next.”
You suck in a deep breath, your bravado actively flatlining at the thought of actually doing something more.
Jack reads the subtle tension in your shoulders instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs, hand soothing over your knee. “We can pause. No pressure.”
Your response is entirely physical. You swing your thigh over his lap, sliding off the comforting warmth, to sit beside him. His eyes follow the slow curve of your body, never breaking contact, until you’re settled on the mattress. A quiet approval settles on his features, “that's my good girl.” He tilts his head, studying your face, “still green?”
You nod.
Jack arches a brow.
“Still green. Now what?”
“Let's get you comfortable,” his hand trails over your neck, settling firmly on the back of your head, “like the ‘pretty princess’ you really are.” His other palm gently cups the dip of your waist, guiding you down until you're laying flat on your back on his navy blue sheets. He pauses, lifting your head just enough to slide a pillow beneath your head. His scent on the linen wraps around you, making you feel like you belong in his bed.
“So gorgeous, all pretty in my bed.” His dark gaze slowly drags over your body, “aren't you, honey?” He leans down, dwarfing your body with his large frame, pressing a lingering kiss just atop your nose, “eyes on me, yeah? Don't close them, no matter how good you feel.”
“You're pretty confident,” you murmur, squirming restlessly underneath him.
“You're about to know why.”
He steals your breath with another kiss, steady, deliberate, and unhurried — easing you in for what’s about to come. The tip of his warm tongue outlines your upper lip, tracing the edge until you eagerly part for him, begging for him to deepen the kiss. Instead, he pulls back, eyes snapping to the pulse in your throat.
“Hey, our tongues didn't battle for dominance,” you say excitedly, feeling pride at your hilarious reference.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He shoots you an amused look, shaking his head, before he's burying his nose into the slope of your neck. He breathes in deeply, drinking your scent in, like a man starved. He's teasingly slow in his moments, treating foreplay like it’s the real meal. You wonder how he's still patient — you, on the other hand, have started to helplessly writhe, fucking yourself on empty air, desperate for him to finally take over.
His hand slides up your side, burning your skin on its way to ruck up your shirt. The cool bedroom air hits your exposed midriff, coaxing a sharp, involuntary arch of your spine.
“Jack, please,” you beg, voice shaking, needy for him. Your fingers tangle in his curls, fisting in a painful grip.
His stubble scratches your sensitive skin as he drags the tip of his nose down the curve of your neck, but you couldn't care less even if it left marks. When the fabric of your shirt gets in his way, his thick finger snags the neckline, tugging roughly to uncover a path.
He freezes, staring at the bare slope of your left breast, his breath hitching at the sight.
His tongue darts out to taste you, dancing over the swell before his teeth close to nibble on it. “Mm, fuuuuuck, baby. So fuckin’ sweet for me,” he rasps against your chest, drawing a whimper from you. He soothes the sting with slow circles of his thumb, followed by a final sweet kiss to the ache.
His pupils are blown wide with hunger, swallowing the color of his eyes, looking down at you like you’re his last meal on earth. His fingers toy with the hem of your top, playfully tugging the frayed edges.
“Need to see your sweet tits, baby,” he commands, voice dropping low. “Do you trust me?” he asks, low and throaty, studying your face for any shadows of hesitation.
Excitement and nervousness collide in your chest, and words get caught in the throat. He must see it, because he's tipping down, pressing his forehead flat against yours. “Gonna play with my pretty girls, give them so much love. Have thought a lot about them — fucked my fist first time I saw you in your black tank, pulling taut across your chest. They looked so perfect, sitting there and waiting.”
You frantically tug at his hair, “Jack, fuck, I'm gonna pass out,” you whisper, voice strangling with want.
“I asked if you trust me, honey.”
The excitement wins.
“Yes, please, take it off.”
“My good fuckin’ girl. Get up for me.”
Not a second later as soon as you're sitting up, his fingers hooking deep into the hem, “arms up, pretty girl.” The shirt catches at your ear, but Jack gently guides it off, carelessly tossing it behind his shoulder.
Your breaths come in shallow and ragged, as you sit fully naked from the waist up, in front of the man who's watching you like a hawk, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You watch as he tears his gaze away — with considerable effort — to assess your comfort. He cups your cheek, heavier than necessary.
“Green?”
“Green.”
“Of course. Where's that sharp tongue? Mind goes dumb when I touch you? It's okay, sweet girl, I'll do the thinking. Hm?” You sink your teeth into your lower lip, nodding fervently at him. Your blinks are slow and heavy, eyes getting glassier with sheer need. Any remaining logic melts away, turning you into putty under his control.
Oh, this is what it feels like.
“Big girl words,” he pats your cheek affectionately, a soft pat-pat.
“Yes. Just a bit nervous,” you admit.
He hums, eyes darkening in hunger as an idea crosses his mind. The pad of his thumb sinks into your bottom lip, “open up, baby.”
Without thinking, you oblige.
“So obedient,” he remarks, a low purr of proud satisfaction in his chest. “Here, take 1. You'll feel better.” His thumb slides past your lips, into your hot, slick mouth. “Suck it nice and clean, okay?”
You swirl your wet tongue around the tip of his thumb, coating it wet, and he hums in approval, “let me know if my girl needs 1 more.” He fluffs the pillow with his free hand, “now lie back, just like before.”
With you flat on your back again, his rough hands slide down your legs to encircle your ankles. Your feet rustle the sheets as he guides them backward, bending your knees and opening them wide, clearing space for his larger body. He positions his heavy weight between your thighs, hot breath falling on your breasts.
He presses his face into the soft valley of your chest, nuzzling the tip of his nose back and forth against your skin. “Better than I imagined. Fuck, doll,” he murmurs, pressing a trail of hot, wet kisses down your belly. The moment his lips touch the curve of your stomach, the muscles there instinctively tighten.
“Sweetheart," he rasps. "Let go.”
You try. You really do. But every time you try to let your tummy loose, let it sit naturally, it's like your brain panics and sends out an emergency signal, forcing you to flatten the softness there. “I…I'm trying.”
Your boyfriend puts a firm hand on your belly, feeling the rigid tension from sucking in, letting it rise and fall underneath his palm. He slowly lowers his mouth and you shiver when you feel the feather-light kiss.
“This is what you're worried about?” He squeezes the side of your waist, fingers digging in a possessive hold, placing an open-mouthed kiss right below your navel.
He huffs a low, fond sound. “Silly girl.”
“Let go,” he commands again, and this time your body listens to him, loud and clear. His authority cuts right through your defences, and you let the anxiety go with a shuddering exhale. He feels his hand filling up, your stomach softening entirely, and the weight of your skin perfectly molds into the curve of his palm.
“You don't realise how sexy this is, right? How fuckin’ hard I am —” as if to emphasise, he rolls his hips, and you cry his name, feeling his hard length on your thigh, “— more skin to grab, more of you to hold. Fuck, my beautiful girl, drivin’ me crazy. Gonna take such good care of this perfect body.”
Your spine arches off the mattress the moment he closes his hot mouth around your nipple, drawing a slow, satisfied whine from you. Your fingers blindly rush to bury his head even deeper, your cheeks hollowing, suckling his thumb on with a mind of its own.
He swirls his tongue around the pebbled tip, relieving it from the cool air of the room. Your hips buck desperately for friction, but the flat plane of his torso doesn't do much more than leave you aching for more. He withdraws his mouth, and with an almost playful focus, smears his spit across your areola with his thumb. Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth migrates to the peak of your other breast, giving it the same heated, biting attention. He finally frees his hand from your mouth, kneading the soft flesh of your breast that he’s temporarily left lonely.
He pauses to take a deep breath, burying his face between your tits, licking the space with a single-minded feverish dedication. When he pulls back, he just stares, admiring his craft, “fuck, look at the girls, baby. Such a pretty mess, covered in my spit. Makes me wanna take a picture, frame it in the living room. Do you think it'd be a nice replacement to that matisse hanging right at the center?”
His words send an unexpected thrill through your thighs, and you cry out again, not above begging him, “whate– whatever yo– you want, Jack, fuck, please…” your sentence comes out broken enough for Jack to shoot you a look of entirely mocking sympathy.
“Use your words,” he taps your lip. “Form a proper sentence, and we can decide, okay?”
“Please touch me,” your voice cracks at the magic word.
“Where, baby? I don't understand."
“Between my legs, Jack.”
“I still don't think you're using proper vocabulary, honey. What do you want me to touch?”
The frustration leaves your mouth in a whimper, “You're such an asshole.”
Jack laughs in amusement, “c'mon, let me help you, tell the doctor where it hurts.”
“My pussy, Jack. Touch my pussy.”
The crude words leaving your sweet mouth, snaps the last thread of his restraint, ripping a low, gravelly groan from deep in his chest. His hand slides down to palm his raging, thick erection through his pants, giving it a hard, painful squeeze before tearing his hands away.
God, you want to do that for him.
“Yeah? Your sweet pussy, baby?” he rasps, hungry eyes drilling into yours. “Did you get it all wet and messy for me?”
You nod frantically, answering in a breathy, desperate tone you don’t even recognise as your own, “yes, fuck, oh god. Just get down there. Please.”
“Since you asked so pretty. Your hips. Up up up.” You comply, and the moment you shift, his long fingers lock into the waistband, hurriedly dragging your shorts down your legs in a single, inpatient motion. He hurls them recklessly to the floor without even looking — so opposite to his controlled and calculated behavior out at the Pitt.
He glides down your body, large hands greedily palming every inch of bare skin he passes, until he's face-to-face from your damp panties. He taps his shoulder in a silent order, and even with your pleasure-drunk mind, you quickly recognize his demand. You slowly lift your legs, hesitating for a second before you slide your ankles down his back, knees hooking securely over his broad shoulders.
He toys with the edge of the fabric — soft, light pink, and nothing lacy or fancy about it. “Oh, where'd you get this lovely pair, baby?” Jack asks in a light, conversational tone, entirely too humorous for a man with his face a lick away from your crotch. All while you're writhing like an animal in heat. It's an intoxicating feeling, suddenly having lost all your inhibitions, obsessed with only one goal in your mind.
“I don't fucking know!” you exclaim, hot tears of pure, unadulterated desperation pool in your eyes.
“Think, sweetheart. I'm trying to talk to you here, and you're being all uncooperative.”
“I don't know. At the mall, maybe! It was a pack of three.”
“Aw, see, good girl, thank you for letting me know,” he praises. “Let's see how it feels,” he nuzzles his nose into the cheap, stretchy, fabric, sharply inhaling the sweet, rich scent of your arousal. It is an action so completely depraved, so utterly filthy, you can't fathom it's your respected attending.
Well, you never expected to be naked in his bed either. Life, you guess, occasionally handing lemons you don’t deserve.
“You smell so good, my pretty girl,” he thumbs the damp spot, a growing, wet circle of sheer need. “Is it the panties or is it you?”
“You should find out.”
“Oh, the brat returns!” Jack exclaims delightedly, giving your thigh a playful pat.
You pause for a heartbeat to take it all in, to look at the man who stores your hair ties in his room, who carries your purse without a smidge of male-ego (bare minimum, but respect), always seconding his needs to yours. It’s this instant you realize how relaxed you are, how safe, how at ease he's put you — you who not too long ago, was drowning in a sea self-doubts.
“Jack…”
Catching the sudden change in your tone, his brows snap together in concern, heavy hands gentling at your thighs in case you call a red. But you only smile at him. Your sweet, thoughtful, wonderful man.
“I just wanted to say, I care about your comfort, too. In case you need to stop, you can pull yourself back, or tap my thigh.”
For a moment, he freezes in surprise, caught completely off-guard, as if not expecting to have such considerate words offered to him too. His heart swells, growing twice as big, and you see it in the fond way he looks at you, overwhelmed and soft.
You wonder if he's in freefall too.
“Thank you and yes ma'am,” he replies sincerely, voice thick with emotion, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your thigh.
The command in his cadence slips back just as easily as it left. “Now, I want you to take the other pillow as well, and prop it below you. You know. For easy watching.”
“Watch what?”
“You fucking yourself on my face.”
Oh, he's good.
Without a word, you oblige, adjusting the cushion behind you until your back is elevated. From up here, the sight is fucking obscene — your legs splayed open, throned on your boyfriend's sculpted shoulders, his eyes darting between your underwear and you, like he can’t decide which one looks more appetizing.
You swallow a gasp when he kisses your clit, right through the flimsy material.
“Can I see you, baby? See her?” He looks up, heavy-lidded, eyes boring into yours with unhinged intensity, like the fate of his future lies in your hands — like, if you were to say no, he would be a man destroyed. You're not sure how it's possible for a person so lust-ridden to look at you with such stilling devotion.
For the first time, you don’t lock up.
“Yes, please.”
He carefully peels your panties aside, as if unmasking a priceless gift, wanting to savor the precious moment. His eyelids flutter shut when your sweet, warm scent fills his room and he draws a deep breath to drink it in. When he opens his eyes, a look of pure awe takes over his face, eyes glinting with a feral light. He looks like a kid at Disney World, dizzy and starry-eyed, not a man about to eat you out.
“I knew it. I knew she'd be exquisite like you.”
You feel color rush to your cheeks, never having felt so exposed to someone. Sure, you've been seen naked, but not like this. Not only your body, you feel everything bare — your heart, your soul, your mind.
“I didn't really think of shavin —”
“Shut up. It's exactly how I like my food. Besides, you're a big girl, aren't you, honey?”
It seems he doesn't care for your verbal responses anymore, seeming dull and dry in comparison to the meal in front of him. He is completely spellbounded by your pussy. He swipes a firm, deliberate, thumb across its puffy lip, and you very coherently whine something along the lines of “nnngghh.”
He kisses your swollen bud again, this time with no barrier of cotton. Entranced, he mutters, “so pretty,” under his breath, deaf to your breathless begging. He presses against your glistening slit, teasing your heated, tight, opening and painting your pussy lips with your own stickiness.
“Well, to me, you look perfectly healthy, madam. What brings you here for a checkup?” he asks, voice gravelly and mockingly professional, examining your cunt.
“Jaaaaack, please. Baby…”
“Shhh, honey, I'm not talking to you,” he scolds, resuming his clinical conversation with your pussy. “Did you only need a doctor to fuck yourself stupid?”
“Stop kidding around, oh my —”
Your head falls back helplessly when the flat of his tongue connects with your slit. He expertly licks a long, broad stripe from your opening, all the way up to your swollen peak, eager to taste every inch of the wet skin. Your thighs tightly squeeze around his face, the pressure doing nothing to deter him from the divine purpose he’s been given.
“— God…”
“No god. Just Dr. Abbot.”
His hand is quick to sting your thigh in a reprimanding slap for shaking violently enough to vibrate his shoulders. “Remember, eyes on me. And voice loud, I need to know what's feeling good.”
“Everything feels good. Just don't fucking stop.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, before using his meaty fingers to pry apart your folds, slowly revealing the pink flesh, shining like a diamond for him. Lost in his hunger, his mouth latches itself to your inner lips, sucking each gently, confident he has your time, attention, body for as long as he wants, with the way you’re greedily responding to him. He hums in contentment, doing it for his enjoyment just as much for yours.
Your hips buck, burying his face deep enough to cut off his air-supply. His name falls over your lips, again and again, like a prayer unanswered. Encouraged by your more than enthusiastic response, he doubles down on his efforts at the same slick spot. He is perfect at this dance, a quick study of every hitch of your breath, every gasp, every twitch of your hips — using these mental notes to his advantage.
Your speech has become a mess — “nnghhhhhfuuckkk” or “jackkkkfuckgod” or even “imgonnadie”
His tongue rushes to your entrance again, impatient but not sloppy, to taste you, to not let a single drop go to waste when he’s here, starving for more.
“Fuck, pretty. Such a messy girl, tsk.”
Your nails drag into his scalp in a hurtful scratch which neither one of you seems to care about. With every lap against your warm, inviting hole, the tip of his nose rubs against your clit in a strong friction, sending the bundle of nerves into instant overdrive.
“Fuuckkknngh…” you speak eloquently.
He intently focuses — more than you've ever noticed in the ED — switching masterly between the flat of his tongue to lick broad, wet, stripes and his lips for slow, torturing suctions. His mouth fucks you with precision, knowing where exactly where to ease off, and where to tease an “aaaahhghh” out of you.
Your entire world tilts, brain turning to liquid, when he finally closes in around your bud. You yank the soft strands of his hair, accompanying the mindless action with a guttural moan so unlike you, teared right out of your throat.
“God, yes, like that. Just like that,” you fervently gasp.
Unlike other people you've been with, he doesn't increase or alter the pressure at your enthusiasm. He keeps the same pace, devastating and rhythmic, listening and following your advice.
“That's it. That's my best girl, singing so pretty for me. Let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches painfully off pillows when the tip of his tongue agonizingly circles your clit, outlining the hyper-sensitive point at a pace that feels like time has slowed down, minutes dragging into hours, world around you turning blurry and sluggish.
Your breath rips out in sharp, short, gasps. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, toes curling at his back. The floodgates are barely holding themselves close, but you don't want this to end. You want to be stuck in this ride, in this high, for as long as you can, suspended mid-air.
You know that's impossible when you force your eyes open, and watch the light catch the wet sheen on his nose, all slick from your juices.
“Jack, I'm so —”
“Happy?”
“Close,” you sob at the increasing sensitivity.
“Do you wanna come on my face?”
You can only cry out in response.
“Count to 10 in your head and then you can.”
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1
The tension coiled tight in your belly snaps. The floodgates spill open, and your eyes roll back into your head. Words catch in the back of your throat, coming out as unintelligible noises. Everything fades to black for a moment, before your boyfriend's voice anchors you to earth again.
“So good for me, used my mouth like the needy girl you are.” He's lapping away slowly at your slit again, hell if he lets any release you've gifted him not put to good use.
You weakly push at his shoulders, willing him to a halt, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He immediately obeys, long fingers pulling back the ruined panties over you — instead delicately sliding his palms over your thighs, peppering them with tender, grounding kisses. When he stops to study you for any hints of discomfort, he looks at you like his eyes have blurred out every subject but you.
His mouth moves. Stops. Moves again.
Wait, is he saying something?
You furrow your brows, not being able to hear anything through the thick layers of fog up there — glittery and rosy, finding every crevice, every hidden part, and dulling the chaos of your brain.
You snap out of it when he tilts your chin towards him. He's sitting next to you now, body tilted closely towards yours, “Jesus, did I break you?” His free hand is kneading your quads, chasing away any pain they feel from having spent a good amount of time being spread open.
You nod, “but in a good way.”
He smiles like somebody just offered to do his charting until retirement. You lean heavily into his parm, cherishing the soft stroke of his finger, even when his skin is always dry from the excessive use of sanitizer.
“Can I kiss you? Or are you overwhelmed?”
You nod too quickly. When he leans in and brushes his lips against yours, it's like this is the first time you're ever doing this. You quiver when you taste yourself on him.
He smells like you.
He presses a chaste kiss on your temple, murmuring, “I'll be right back. Okay, honey?” before moving to the edge of the bed, securing on his prosthetic limb.
He returns with a damp towel and water. He sets the plastic bottle on his nightstand with a soft click. He climbs the bed, slowly crawling towards you, approaching like you're fragile and breakable.
“I'm gonna clean you up, baby.” He settles between your legs again, clinically wiping the dry and sticky patches — a shameless mix of his own spit and your own wetness. “We've made quite a mess on you.”
He tosses the cloth haphazardly to the floor once he’s done — joining the rest of your garments — and drags the thick duvet over your body until you’re trapped in solid comfort, tucking it under your armpits like you're a child. You can't help but track his every move, eyes following him, but can't get a word out of your mouth.
“Jack, get under the covers with me.”
“Do you want me to get a hair tie for you first?”
Your hand flies to your head, smoothing the frazzled strands down, “why, do they look bad?”
“No, you walnut. You don't like laying down with your hair open.”
“Oh. I don't care, right now. Get in or I'll cry.”
“Scarier threat than the cyber attack one,” he sincerely remarks, and shifts under the covers, gently guiding you down with him till you’re both lying on your side, facing each other. Your bare chests kiss, and you slide your thigh between his legs, tucking it securely there. Any thought of empty space between you is intolerable to your body.
Oh.
Shit.
This man dedicatedly made you cum after dismantling your insecurities, and made your head go vroom. And you're just now realizing that he's not made of stone.
Which is ironic since his cock feels like one, angrily touching your thigh, straining against his pants. You feel guilt washing over you, at your selfishness for not paying heed to his needs, lost only in your own.
He rubs the side of your ribs, soft, calming, up & down motions, “hey, where'd you go? I wasn't that good. Like an 8 out of 10, maybe,” he repeats your earlier talk, a smirk playing on his face.
“I'm okay,” you feebly say. And then more confidently, “I promise. I just need a minute to process, and then we're taking care of you.”
“Hold your horses, sunshine. You're the patient and your job is to rest. You may climb the doctor any other time.”
“The doctor deserves a thank you for his treatment.”
“Not when the patient looks like a wild animal.”
You sigh, “I just don't want you doing it alone now.”
“I'll make you watch if it makes you feel better. When was the last time you watched a good show?” He draws you in closer by the waist, warping you in his scent, pressing you even more firmly against him. Even liquid wouldn't be able to seep through the space between you right now. It coaxes an involuntary sigh of relief out of you.
However, your cheeks heat at his cocky words, and you pinch his bicep. He breaks out in a hearty laugh, watching you with enough adoration that you just might pass out. But you don't, because nothing bad can happen when he's here.
“Okay, go. What worked and what didn't? What can we do differently next time?” he asks, ready to search your eyes in case you lie. His pinky traces the curve of your spine, the comforting gesture making you drowsy in his arms.
“Everything was perfect.”
“This isn't a fanfiction, darling. Think about it. Anything.”
“How the hell do you know what that is?”
He decidedly ignores your insulting question, continuing with his line of interrogation “slower next time? Faster?”
“More next time.”
He hums, eyes lighting up, “needy girl.” His hand delivers a playful smack to your ass, squeezing affectionately before letting go. By that time, you’ve already dramatically gasped, slapping his chest right back.
“Names? The praise work for you?”
“Mhm,” your voice drops low and hesitant, “so did the insults.”
Jack's brows raise in pleasant surprise, “you like being my messy and needy girl? You like asking me to use your big girl words?”
“Maybe…”
“Another talk for us to have. God, aren't you the dream?” It surprises you the way he says it, not jokingly, but like he means it. Like you could actually be something someone he fantasises about. Your chest tightens.
“Hey.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Your initials are J.A.”
“Yeah, not sure, but I kind of think it's because my name is Jack Ab —”
“Jackass,” you mumble, nodding your head thoughtfully at your new discovery. “J.A – Jackass,” you repeat, just in case he didn’t make the connection. Forget the fact that he bosses an entire floor of medical staff.
“Think I heard you the first time.”
“You're a Jackass.”
“What a thing to say to someone who just had his tongue in your —”
“My Jackass.”
Once again, you say something completely out of pocket, and frankly enough, stupid, but he still melts. Because despite the choice of your words — again — it's the affection behind them. It's the you behind them that catches him in the ribs, as if somebody knocked the air out of him, making him soft, pliable, and yours to mold.
“Okay, well, I definitely broke your brain. Go to sleep, princess,” he playfully shoves your face into the pillow. “Off to bed, kid.” And his favorite sound fills his room.
Your giggle.
Okay i hope yall had fun! I took a longass time to write, and as always, glaze all over me (kidding) (no im not) if you liked it. Not to mention, ALWAYS MENTION when one of my works either makes u blush or laugh. And also when.
→ x fem!reader, short blurbs, sort of brief grief mention & age gap [jack], pregnancy mention [duh], little bit a smut cause well how else does one get pregnant??.
→ accidentally when editing cause I wanted to change the pics on the old / og version of this post answered it privately bc it was an inbox msg…luckily I restored my goggle doc and can reupload…
→ og request was from @iwishuweredead
Jack Abbot —
Jack had sort of resigned himself to the idea that he wasn't gonna have a kid. He and his wife had been trying when he was younger, had more of a deep yearning for a family and been able to keep up with the kid. Then well he lost his wife and he sort of thought maybe it was the universe’s way of saying he’s not meant for a happy family, it’s okay he’s worked through this in therapy.
Then in walked you, this pretty young thing who was a new night shift nurse and when you weren’t glued to Lena learning the in’s and out’s of the PTMC you were glued to Jack. You seemed drawn to him and from then on it he was gone for you. However you being young and quite fertile and being an insatiable bunny rabbit that never wants Jack to pull out and well…you get pregnant. It was kinda early on in your relationship and so you were a little scared that Jack didn’t want kids, he was in his late 40’s and didn’t already have one so you assumed he didn't want any and would leave you.
You cry and vent all this out to Jack, hormones and everything already running rampant when you tell him about the pregnancy and he is so so soft. He calms you down and proceeds to tell you about his wife and well now you're just a waterfall of tears. But after all the anxiety and crying, Jack is the absolute most cautious and gentle baby daddy ever.
Being the diligent doctor he is he has reminders set in his phone for you to take your prenatals, even if they go off when he’s at work he shoots you a quick text:
— prenatal time honey, gotta keep my two girls healthy! there’s some dinner for you two in the fridge by the way <3
Now does Jack know yet if you’re having a girl? No but it’s how his heart feels is right to refer to you and the human being growing in your belly as.
He also insists on you having the baby in the hospital, he’s not exactly opposed to a home birth I mean he is a doctor after all. He knows what to do but he’d rather you be around more than one medical professional in case anything goes awry, that poor old man can’t possibly handle losing the second love of his life and your baby.
Sammy Bryant —
Oh sweet sammy boy who wants to be a daddy so bad. He is beyond ecstatic when he walks into your shared bedroom after a long shift and is met with the little presentation you set up of a cute baby onesie, your positive pregnancy test, and a little bear on the bed. He’s not surprised I mean he did have you bent in the pro bone position, filling you up with load after load almost every night. He was very eager to make you a mommy and he is quite proud of himself.
Sammy’s favorite part of his days now consist of going on late night gas station runs for your odd pregnancy cravings and laying in bed with you discussing baby names, who’s eyes the baby will have, who’s nose, who’s feet (sammy swears it’ll be his)
He is practically beaming when you come into the station, belly all big as you grow his son or daughter and bring him his lunch he left at home. He is quickly up off his feet to bring you a chair to sit so he can dote on you and show off his pregnant beautiful wife a little. (sue him okay he’s a happy man)
Somehow Sammy gets far more anal about your safety once you’re pregnant, no walking alone at night, you’re not allowed to pick up anything that Sammy deems too heavy, he’s just grateful there are no stairs in your house he’d probably have a heart attack at work worrying himself grey.
Pope Cody —
Pope who deserves more than anybody to be a dad and boy do you deliver. You are just about as stubborn as Pope himself and even though you and him are dating and very clearly serious, when baz tells him no one would ever have a kid with him? Oh you’re happy to prove the bastard wrong, you are on Pope just about 24/7 after hearing that and you get pregnant shortly after.
Pope, ever worried about you when you’re in pain, immediately notices when your morning sickness starts up and he’s witnessed Smurf pregnant enough that he runs out to buy 4 different pregnancy tests in the blink of an eye. He sits on the edge of the tub while you take each test, rubbing soothing circles on your knee with his thumb. His eyes instantly glaze over with tears when the two of you watch those 2 lines appear on all four of the tests. Pope kissing you as tears burst out of both of you.
He is beyond protective about pregnant you, making you sit down when you get up to grab something saying he’ll get it for you, reminding you about vitamins and prenatals, making sure to always keep you hydrated even if you already pee just about every 10 damn minutes.
Pope who can’t help the dopey smile on his face when near the end of your pregnancy he walks in the house to find Lena putting stickers on your round belly, writing out baby girl and decorating it with butterflies and hearts. He supposed it’s fate that he grew up in a house almost full of boys that his will be filled with all girls and he can’t complain he loves all 3 of his girls.
And Andrew Pope Cody who already couldn't get enough of you before you were carrying his kids becomes glued to you after. Hands groping at your body, telling you how gorgeous you are growing his baby, how good of a mama you’ll be and how proud of you he is.
— the og of this post had like 2k notes and im annoyed i fucked up when trying to edit smth…
summary — jack has seen you leave a trail of broken hearts and bad dates, and he’s determined to prove to you that you’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
warnings — 12.6k words. age gap (jack’s around 50; reader’s a 4th year resident, so 20s), attending/resident power dynamic; mentor/mentee relationship, idiots in love maybe?? yearning!jack, jealous!jack, jack ‘i’ll pay for it’ abbot strikes Again!!!! hurt + comfort (one instance of jack being an ass, but he smooths it over during the same shift - they can’t stay mad at each other), mild angst, patient death, jack’s leg - reader helps him adjust the prosthetic and takes care of him during a long shift, canon-typical medical scenes and probably lots of inaccuracies (i’m an english major reddit is my best friend) ; on-page patient death, reader performing compressions, reader DATES DATES and may be unprofessional (affectionately she just wants to find love and her entire life revolves around the hospital who can blame her), reader’s written to have hair she brushes and can pin up, she also gets on her toes to kiss him but that can be ignored i just liked the image jack basically bribes her into a date, no smut but they’re So very much thinking about it, rushed-ish ending i think?
notes — wrote this in a slump it took so Unbelievably long and i’m not even sure i like it but i wanted to post something before i give up on writing anything ever again!!!!
It was midnight and a peds nurse was lingering by the ambulance doors, and Jack knew that he wasn’t meant to be there. Lewis was his name, maybe, but Jack couldn’t even be sure of that — and knew he had no reason to be sure of it, because the guy wasn’t meant to be there. Running the ER in the middle of the night, with all of the day’s patients handed off, and the night’s still finding their way through triage, was difficult in itself, and he didn’t have the energy to also babysit Ryan-or-Lewis-or-whoever hovering there like a little boy waiting to be picked up from school.
“Is he meant to be here?” Jack asked, closing the space toward the desk where Lena was pointing something, jutting his thumb in the direction of the guy.
Lena flattened a printout on the desk with two fingers, hardly sparing him a glance.
“Him. Peds. Why is he there?” he tried again.
“Couldn’t tell you,” she said, but the corner of her mouth had flicked up, proving that she was simply choosing not to tell him.
“He’s off his unit,” he said. He knew he sounded just slightly silly stating the obvious.
“Seems so.”
“Send him back, then,” Jack drawled, incredulous, hands finding his hips. “There’s enough shit going on here.”
“You send him back,” she retorted, amused just slightly. “If you’re so concerned.”
Jack looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head as his hands went to rest on his hips. When he looked back down, he found you walking toward the nurse and it suddenly made complete sense.
He let out a sigh. “This has to be a joke.”
His eyes, as they did more often than was appropriate, caught on you, hair coming down loose from where you’d pinned it, the scrubs lopsided at one hip, riding lower than where they’d started at the beginning of the night. You turned to say something to the guy quickly, and the movement caught the slip, your scrub top moving up half an inch, and Jack’s eyes went there before his brain could tell him that was wrong, some groove in him that noticed you before it noticed anything useful. He had a second of pure, unhelpful distraction before his brain reminded him that he was an attending and had things to do.
“I actually think it’s funny,” Lena said, shrugging.
Of course it had something to do with you. He should’ve figured it out the second he saw the guy standing there with his hands in the pouch of his scrubs, rocking heel to toe like the floor was just too exciting to be standing on. Nobody loitered around the ambulance bay at midnight for good reason. People came through those doors bleeding or they didn’t come through them at all, and this guy had shown up with nothing wrong with him, except maybe a case for some lovesickness.
“I’m gonna make this stop,” Jack said, already pushing himself away from the nurse’s station.
Lena’s eyes widened slightly. “Don’t say anything that gets you sat down with HR.”
“She can goddamn try me,” he said, and went. Also because Jack was fairly sure you would never report him to HR.
He crossed the floor and caught the tail-end of your conversation as he closed in.
“ — just tell me when you’re free, that’s all I’m asking,” the guy was saying.
You were already half-turned, already gone as you waved a hand loosely beside you. “I don’t know, I just don’t think we should try again.”
Jack blew out a breath, standing a few feet short of you, your back facing him. Why was he not surprised? He’d been keeping tally without meaning to, and he knew that was embarrassing. There was the radiology fellow who’d started hand-delivering films that very well could’ve gone through the system; the travel nurse who’d washed through in six weeks and left the floor faintly weird in his wake; the anaesthesia resident who now took the long way around the department if he saw you at the end of it, as though he were a dog who’d learned the fence was electric. And now this one, apparently, Peds with his whole hopeful heart hanging out in Jack’s department.
“You’re so sweet for coming down here,” you practically crooned at him, shifting on your heels, eyes flicking down to the form in your hand. “But I really do have a whole long night ahead of me, and I know my answer’s not gonna change, so I won’t make you wait around for it, okay?”
Jack fought the urge to roll his eyes when you said the words with the upward lilt of a woman sending a toddler back to his mother. He wanted to laugh a little when he saw that the guy had taken it standing up like it was a gift.
The hell of it was that Jack understood the man. He understood every last one of them because he stood next to you fifty hours a week, had been doing so for three years, and whatever the department thought of him after his consistent therapy, he was not carved out of stone.
Jack was afraid that if he hadn’t been your attending these last four years and a little younger, wearing his heart on his sleeve, he’d have been eating out of the palm of your hand.
You gave the guy a there-there pat, and it was only then did his eyes land on Jack, who he probably knew was your fucking attending. You turned then, and immediately said, “Oh, Dr. Abbot, I’ve got the guy in six’s labs back, the potassium —”
“Mhm.” Jack’s hands came up and landed on your shoulders before you’d finished the sentence, squaring you off the spot where you stood and turning you bodily back toward the floor like you were a gurney.
“It is four-point-nine, but the EKG’s good, so I was gonna recheck in —”
“Let’s recheck it now,” he said. He kept you moving, his palms broad through the cotton of your scrubs, steering you a few feet till your own feet caught onto the idea.
You grumbled something under your breath, and once he’d stopped you right in front of six, you turned to face him with your brows raised.
“Say something?” he asked, tipping his chin down.
“You seem like you’re mad at me,” you said.
“Huh. I do?” He let go of your shoulders — noticing, distantly, the exact second his hands came off and suddenly felt too empty — and reached past you to pluck six’s chart off the tray, more to have something to do with them than needing it. “You’re right. You should recheck in ten minutes.”
“You’re mad at me,” you said again, crossing your arms over your chest.
He blew out a breath, and suddenly felt just a little silly at getting worked up over a nurse by the doors when there was a large, glowing board behind him full of names that needed his complete, undivided attention.
You were a senior resident, after all, four years deep, one of his sharpest — you’d treated the guy in six, hadn’t you, you’d flagged it and called for the EKG and made the right call on the recheck before he’d even asked, all while dismantling some man’s hopes. Somehow, your mess and competence ran on the same current. You never let the first touch the second. He’d have loved, some nights, to have an excuse to be mad — a missed lab, a blown line, anything he could write up and point at — and you kept declining to hand him one. All of this meant he was left with this vague swampy irritation, and Jack wasn’t the sort of mentor who liked to hound upon that.
“No, sweetheart, I just love it when you get random men hanging around the department,” he settled on saying, feeling his shoulders visibly loosen a fraction.
You winced, eyes darting over to the emptiness in front of the doors now. “Sorry.”
“You’d say it won’t happen again, but we both know better.” He shrugged. Then, he reached out his hand — he wasn’t sure why, except that it just happened naturally — and patted you once on the shoulder, then on the second turned you to face the curtains leading to your patient. “Doctor up.”
And you did, the loose, embarrassed shape of you being replaced in the space of a single breath, being replaced by something Jack had watched grow into you over the years and still hadn’t quite gotten used to.
Trauma called it in nine minutes later, an MVC, unrestrained driver, GCS dropping in the field. Jack was working on a laceration in four when he heard the crackled warning, and by the time he’d looked up out the curtains, you were already moving, gowned and at the head of the bay calling out assignments like you’d been doing this for a decade.
“I need two units O-neg before he rolls in,” you said, voice pitched high enough to carry without yelling, cutting clean through the perpetual noise of the department. “Somebody get me a second eighteen-gauge ready, and I want an ultrasound in here.”
Donnie and Mateo were already moving, and so were the people around you, falling into your orbit like the room had easily reorganized itself around your voice the second it went up. Jack stood by the curtain, gloves from the lac still on, and found he couldn’t make himself move just yet.
The doors banged open. EMS wheeled the stretcher through fast, calling out vitals over each other, and you were already on the patient’s side before the gurney had fully stopped moving, hands moving on his neck, chest, eyes scanning his pupils in a matter of ten seconds. He began walking over, catching your voice as you called out your reads as someone hung the blood and someone else prepped the ultrasound wand. “Page neuro now.”
“On it,” Mateo said, already moving.
You had both hands on the patient, running the primary survey quickly, confirming, checking, discarding possibilities out in short, clipped sentences Jack recognized as the sound of your brain running six steps ahead of your mouth. Sweat had started on your hairline. You called out for OR to be on standby, eyes flickering around the room and landing on Jack. “OR, please,” you said, aimed at him, brows going up.
“On it,” Jack said, because there was no way he was going to let you be wrong about needing something and didn’t make sure you got it.
The next six minutes went by fast and loud, in bursts and then suddenly quiet, the room narrowing down on functionality. You stood at the center of it; you called it and ran it. You got the man upstairs stable enough that Walsh didn’t sound worried for one second, and that was a compliment from her.
Jack watched the whole thing from four feet back, arms crossed, and chipping in when your brain had snagged. He was feeling a heat in his chest helplessly and entirely unprofessional, it was always present when he was able to see, in real-time, how far you’d come from your first day of residency when your hands were a second too slow on the central line and how your voice would pitch up at the end of every read, asking for permission every time instead of stating it like a fact, eyes finding him across the room each time, checking.
There was none of that left in you now, he realized, had done so a long time ago. He thought, watching you now, that this was the closest thing he’d let himself do to falling in years, standing uselessly riveted as he watched a woman he’d taught outgrow the need for him in real time, and finding that instead of the loss he’d expected to feel when the day finally came, all he felt was warm and terrifying and too much like pride.
When the room had started clearing out, he watched your mouth drop open as you let out a heavy breath, eyes going over to him. The second he watched you realize he was still there, your face shifted, the relief turning into something sharper.
“Why didn’t you jump in?” You crossed the floor toward him in four hard strides, gloves already peeled off and balled tight in one fist, snapping the second one free with a motion that looked terrifyingly like it wanted to be aimed at him. “His pressure tanked for thirty seconds and you just watched.”
“You had it.”
“You didn’t know that,” you said, voice going up an octave, adrenaline still thrumming through you, hands coming up the gesture at the blood-streaked floor. “I could’ve missed something. You’re the attending, Jack, you’re supposed to catch if I missed something —”
“I would’ve,” he interrupted, stepping in close enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep glaring at him properly. “The second you needed me, I would’ve stepped in. I wasn’t gonna take it from you before you did.”
“You can’t gamble like that with a patient —” Your chest was rising and falling fast, gloves now crushed in your fist, and he could see the fear catching up now that everything around you had gone quiet enough to let it, something that looked more like fear of yourself than for the patient. “What if I’d frozen —?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.” He reached his hand out, thumb catching a smear of the blood at your jaw you’d accidentally smeared on yourself, wiping it off carefully with the pad of his thumb, and felt you go still under it. “You don’t trust my judgement?”
“You know I do. You just could’ve said something.”
“I could’ve. He dropped his hand from your jaw only to catch your wrist instead. “Didn’t wanna interrupt you being brilliant. Kinda liked watching it happen.”
Your mouth opened, surely to let out some unnecessary retort, and died there when he pressed one slow stroke of his thumb against your wrist, raising a brow.
“Relax,” he said, voice going rough as he leaned in a little, forcing you to meet his eyes properly. “Just take the win. That’s an order.”
“Now you wanna give orders,” you mumbled.
He barked out a short laugh, letting go of your wrist. “Only when you’re being stubborn for no reason.”
It was sometime during the second year of your residency when he’d started catching your drift. It had started with a random Friday shift. He’d seen you at the station, elbows on the counter, telling Lena something conspiratorially. Jack was meant to be reading a chart but couldn’t help how his ears had perked up. Anything to get through the shift, he supposed.
“ — no, but he was perfect on paper,” you were saying, “kept his house clean and everything. He told me he kept his plant alive for six years —”
“So, what happened?” Lena said flatly, like she already knew what you were going to say but wanted to hear anyway.
“He wanted to take me bowling on the second date,” you said through a sigh. “I know how it sounds, but you’ve gotta hear me out —”
“I’m genuinely not going anywhere.”
“ — for the first date, bowling’s fun. But he took me to a nice dinner the first time, he set a standard, and then the second date he goes bowling, which means the effort’s already —” You created a little downward slope with your hand. “And if it’s already sliding on date two, where’s it at on date two hundred? I can already see my marriage with him and it’s bad.”
It seemed you had a criteria, Jack learned then. It was proven even more when he’d heard you talk about your other failed dates, seen them, and learned — without ever wanting to — what they were, to an extent.
He knew you couldn’t stand a man who ordered for you without asking. He knew you’d written off a fellow for the way he talked about his mother, and another one — an accountant, a rare specimen who had no clue what an EKG was — over a text message you’d read aloud to Ellis in a voice of complete horror, though Jack had never caught what it actually said, only your face while you read it. He knew you gave people precisely three dates, that this was a rule you held if the first and second date went well, three apparently being the magic number at which a person could no longer hide the demon they were going to turn out to be (your words).
He knew, too, that you only allowed one kiss after the first date, if even that. It was never up for negotiation, no matter how beautifully the night had gone, for you never wanted to end up “emotionally overdrawn on an account you hadn’t even opened yet.”
He knew you a man lost real points if, over the three dates, if it involved drinks, he ordered the same one. He knew a man gained them, silently and instantly, for being able to sit in a lull without narrating his way out of it, and that you considered this the single rarest trait in modern dating.
He knew you were looking for something you had no name for and would recognize on sight, which struck him as a hell of a way to run a search.
He’d have told you, if you asked, that he tuned most of the station chatter out as a matter of survival, for while he enjoyed the occasional gossip, he couldn’t very well absorb everyone’s business. And that was true about everyone’s business but yours, apparently, because yours came in clear.
Your business he retained against his own better judgement, and he realized — once, during a slow shift — that he could’ve drawn you a better map of your taste than you seemed to carry yourself. He could’ve told you, if you asked, exactly the kind of man who’d finally clear your bar, and exactly why he had yet to show up.
It was almost nice, some nights, watching you try anyway. The ER was a place where everyone was kept tethered to the world by a thread, and everyone who worked in it long enough to develop some version of the same calluses. Jack had grown his years ago, and he wore them invisible, occasionally aching, and had come to terms with it being permanent.
Love, for Jack, had stopped being a real noun before you’d shown up, somewhere between things he used to want and things he’d decided weren’t for him anymore.
You still believed in it. You’d watched this place take everything soft out of grown men twice your seniority and somehow walked through the same fire hopeful, still convinced, against every scrap of evidence, that somewhere there was a person worth all that hoping.
For that reason, he had decided to not interrupt your endeavors, not until now, when he noticed you during hand-off before your night shift with him started, in front of Robby, of all people.
While Jack loved Robby like a brother, he had a documented, department-wide, actuarially reliable seven-week expiration date on every woman he charmed out of this building. He’d heard intra-departmental gossip about him. There was, Jack was fairly sure, a running joke about it that predated your residency by years.
He knew you definitely were not finding love in his best friend. But Jack felt the buzzing in his mind go quiet and mean watching how you with him.
You laughed at something and Jack lost, for one humiliating second, the thread of what he’d walked over to say. It happened sometimes, more than he’d admit to anyone. Ordinary noises out of you hit him somewhere in his chest before the better part of him flagged it as a problem, and he had to physically clear his throat before finding his footing again.
“ — Italian’s always good after pulling a double,” Robby was saying. “But I do love some microwave ramen, too, when I’m missing my med student days.”
“Oh, so your standards have been raised being chief?” you said, and Jack could hear the smile and wariness in it.
“For sure —”
Jack let out a huff, something resembling a laugh, as his feet planted him between the two of you. He was close enough that his shoulder nudged yours and you had to step back to keep your balance. He felt your weight land for a second against him with a satisfaction he had no, absolutely no business feeling for something so small. So childish.
He turned to Robby, spreading his hands wide, mock outrage. “My resident.”
Robby looked mildly amused, unbothered, so Jack added, before he could respond, “Go home before I report you to HR.”
“You’d do that to me?”
“In a heartbeat. Have some shame.” Jack kept his shoulder where it was still angled half in front of you, an old, unexamined instinct keeping the line drawn even though Robby had already backed off.
He tipped his head toward the doors, toward the gold light coming up in them, the day shift draining out around you both. “There’s a whole rich life waitin’ for you out there.”
Robby just smiled and pushed off the counter, giving you a small wave before he left.
Jack turned to you then, brows furrowed. “Seriously?”
You let out a short laugh. “Work hard, play hard?”
“Soundin’ a lot like a frat brother right now. Never have those words been said in an ER,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” you said, rushing the words out with something more honest in them. “For the record. I know what — he’s got a reputation.” You picked at the counter. “I was just talking to him. He’s funny.”
Jack had to recalibrate for a second. “You were talkin’ sweet to him.”
“I talk sweet to everyone.” You lifted a shoulder, completely unbothered. “You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes at that. He reached over for your cup of coffee sitting between you — closer to his elbow than yours — and drank a sip, eyes going up to the ceiling at the sheer volume of syrup you’d decided you needed in your bloodstream today. “The hell?” he muttered, turning the cup slightly as if that would help. “Are you trying to embalm yourself?”
“Give it back.”
“In a minute.” He took a second sip, slower this time, and watched you over the rim of the cup. Then, he set it back a few degrees off how you’d had it, just to see your jaw tick.
You pulled the cup back in, thumbed it around until the lid faced you again, and drank from it without breaking your explanation. “I’m offended you think I’ll get wine and dined by the chief attending.” You tilted your head. “Give me some credit here. I won’t be his seven weeks.”
“Huh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, which was warm. “Well, good. Don’t think he’ll clear your bar anyway.”
“See, you get it,” you said, pointing a finger at him. “At least someone around here does.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head slightly forward that even he hadn’t realized that he had shifted the distance just slightly. “Better than most.”
Your eyes widened slightly at that, and Jack took that as his cue to step back, clear his throat, as he jerked his chin toward the board.
“Alright, time to work. Stop the play,” he said, trying to get his voice the right level. “Go look at chest pain on three.”
“So bossy,” you said, but you were already turning around to go to three.
Well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? For some reason, he had to remind himself that.
It was what he had to remind himself as his hands hovered your trembling ones as you tried to pump air into Mrs. Foley’s lungs, knowing she was already gone — had been for a while now, if he was honest — longer than it took you to admit. He knew it, he’d grown the grim ability to recognize when a body stopped being a patient and being someone you were performing compressions on for the family’s sake, for your own need to have done everything.
He’d let it run anyway, because you hadn’t accepted it yet, and he’d wanted to give you that extra minute to arrive at it on your own.
Mateo had come up to Jack’s side, snapping his gloves off, the sound of it overshadowed by your own heaving.
“She has to call it,” he murmured. “You want me to —”
“No.” Jack’s eyes, he felt, could not move away from your distress. “I’ve got her.”
Mateo looked at him for a moment longer than the moment warranted, and then he stepped back and let Jack be. You were still going, your compressions had gone harder, faster, less like genuine medicine and more like you were pleading with Mrs. Foley herself now. Sweat had gone to the hair at your temple. Your jaw was set in a clench Jack recognized all too well, and for a moment, Jack wished that he didn’t have to be so acutely tuned into watching what the job did to others, the same way it did to him.
He stepped in behind your shoulder, close, and brought his hand down over yours where they were locked on the old woman’s chest.
“Look at the clock,” he said quietly into your ear.
“One more round —”
“You’ve done plenty.” He pressed, gently, until your hands stilled under his, and felt your entire body resist it. “You know she was gone before we could’ve even done anything —”
“She’s been my patient for years —”
Jack knew then that while you may have been an excellent doctor, his senior resident that had bloomed under his mentorship but still could’ve gone without him and done just the same, it wasn’t a good feeling to wonder if the job would dim you the way it had him.
“I know.” He kept his hands over yours with enough pressure so as to not let you drive them down again. “That’s why it’s yours to call. But you’ve gotta call it, Doctor.”
Your breath hitched as you turned your neck to face him, and there was a pool brimming on your lashline that you kept at bay, nodding. Your hands under his stopped straining upward, and he felt the exact second you accepted it, for it moved through your shoulders and down your spine and left you a little smaller standing there, the fight trickling into the moment after, which Jack always thought was worse.
“Time of death,” you said, forcing your voice back into the procedural tone, “oh-three-forty-one.” You peeled your gloves off finger-by-finger.
His hand found the small of your back after taking the minute, leading you to the little family consult room with the boxed tissues and fake ficus with a couch that had absorbed more bad news since longer than you or he had worked there. He shut the door with the flat of his hand and let the floor’s noise cut to a hum through the drywall.
You stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed, holding yourself, and stayed silent.
Jack propped himself against the table, arms folded, as he breathed out a small sigh through his nose. He knew you weren’t a talker after the bad ones. Some residents came out of a loss with their mouths running, narrating it into something survivable, and some went quiet and small and had to be waited out, and you were the second kind. So he waited.
You broke it eventually, like he always knew you would have. “I’ve got a butterscotch she gave me seven months ago in my locker still,” you murmured, craning your neck so you were looking at the ceiling. You wiped under your eyes with the heel of your hand roughly.
“Think I’ve got one, too,” he murmured, wincing as he tried to shift his weight.
It had been building up for the past few hours, a hot ring of wrong down below the knee where the socket had gone slick and furnace-warm because it was past hour fourteen, when he’d sweated the fit and never changed the liner because there’d been no window that wasn’t already accounted for. He shifted his weight off it, trying again, and reached down to thumb the release, breaking the seal.
He let out a short, punched out sigh as he pulled himself down onto the chair behind him, one hand balancing himself on the table. “Sorry,” he gruffed out, jaw clenching.
Your eyes flickered down to the prosthetic limb he was balancing against the pole of the table and you were already moving before he could finish apologizing. You never asked if he needed a hand. You’d learned sometime during your second year that asking him gave him a chance to say no, and you’d quit handing him that chance sometime during your second year, so now you just came. You went down on one knee at the pole of the table.
“Don’t say sorry,” you mumbled, eyes not meeting him.
His jaw stayed tight and he didn’t fight it, fight you. That was a formality and you both knew it, a thing he did with his shoulders and not his hands, but he watched the top of your head and thought — like he always did, each time, and never said out loud — there was no one else on god’s green earth he’d let do this in the way you did. Not the prosthetist, who did it clinically. Not the VA, who did it tired. You did it each time like it was nothing and everything at once, as though this something not worth remarking on.
He very badly wanted to thank you, despite how small he always felt when you did this. He wanted to tell you that you were, without question, better at this than anyone who was paid to do it.
Your fingers found the socket and went for the liner because you knew the fit went bad and the sweat before it went bad anywhere a person could see, knew he’d have to run it slick and furnace-hot than spend the fourteen minutes off the floor. You rolled it back with the flat of your thumb, easing the trapped heat out of it, and he felt the pressure of the ring of raw below his knee and had to clench his jaw to not let the relief show on his face. You spared him anyway by keeping your eyes down where they’d been.
“You’ll strip your skin doing this,” you said conversationally, the roughness still present in your voice from the code. “You know that. You keep running it past twelve and one of these nights it’s cellulitis and I’m admitting you.”
“If only I could be so lucky.”
He ducked his head slightly, a part of him wanting to catch the reaction, and he saw how one corner of your lip was barely turned up.
You thumbed a line of red where the socket’s edge had bitten in, checking it, and your touch went careful around there. “This is new. The edge is catching higher than it was.”
“Went to a new liner last month,” he said, voice low. “Not broke in yet.”
“Then you break it on your days off. Not on a fourteen hour.” You finally looked up at him, shaking your head with this flat, fond expression he’d come to realize was your favorite way to look at him. “You’d write me up for less.”
“I’d write you up for a lot less,” he agreed, thinking back on the time you’d fought him tooth-and-nail over staying through a migraine, refusing, point-blank, to hand off a soft rule-out chest pain at eleven when the migraine had started very visibly began creeping up on you.
He’d caught you before you’d said a word about it because you’d begun squinting at the numbers and pressed the heel of your hand against one eye for a moment too long between patients, thinking nobody was watching. He was, he realized, always watching you in some way.
“Go home,” he’d said quietly, catching you by the elbow outside the curtain. “That’s not a request.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve got a migraine.”
“I’ve got a job.” Your jaw had clenched, stubbornly, and Jack had thought that even if he’d put all his strength into it, he wouldn’t have been able to unclench it for you. “I’m not handing off a chest pain because my head hurts. This guy has waited long enough for a bed. I’m not the priority here.”
He’d wanted to tell you that you were, actually, that you were exactly the priority, and watching you white-knuckle forms with your pupils blown different sizes from pain scared him more than any board full of critical pains ever had. But he’d just pulled down the light two notches, told the nurses to shadow eleven’s discharge, and put a bottle of water and two Tylenol on your desk without a word. And thank god, you’d taken the Tylenol and finished the shift standing up because sitting made the room tilt worse, and only taken on non-critical cases. You’d refused until the end that you should’ve gone home three hours earlier.
Now, you huffed something that was nearly a laugh, your first real once since the code, and went back to setting. And Jack sat there with his arms crossed in the dark with your hands on the worst-guarded part of him and the door shut against the whole floor, and thought about how he believed nobody deserved you. People were vile and sucked and cut in line and let doors swing shut behind them, and you handed out three dates to men who wrote sonnets in your voicemail and couldn’t clear a bar you’d never once lowered for anyone. He’d thought, more nights than he liked to admit, that these people had no idea what they were auditioning for.
His eyes snagged on you because there was nothing else in this small room worth looking at. There was still salt dried in your lashline from the code. You were a wreck and you were fixing his leg anyway, still half-shaking from a woman you couldn’t save, and it hadn’t occurred to you to stop and put yourself back together first. It never did. Jack had seen the care run out of you before you ever decided to spend it.
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Foley,” he said.
You shook your head, face still angled down, thumb pausing mid-motion. “I’ll be okay,” you murmured, lifting up one shoulder. “I just hate that she couldn’t get here sooner.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said plainly. “Family said she’s been feeling off for two days now.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, betraying the flatness you were trying to present. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
You lifted your head for a moment, then, looking at him with a sad smile he knew you were painting on to get him to stop talking.
He nodded stiffly, tipping his chin down. “Alright. Finish my leg and we’ll run this floor together.”
Up in radiology a few nights later, Jack had gone himself to sort out a reading that had been sitting long and he’d cornered a tech and got what he needed and was already halfway out the door, jacket sleeves still rolled from the last set of compressions, when he saw the guy standing off by the light boxes.
Younger. A resident, he supposed, in scrubs a size too crisp for someone who’d actually been on the shift long enough to earn wrinkles in them. He’d been watching Jack the whole time — Jack could feel it, the itch of being observed — shifting his weight heel to toe against the linoleum floor.
“Somethin’ on my face?” Jack said flatly because he really did have to get back to the floor.
“You’re — sorry, you’re Dr. Abbot, right?”
“Last I checked.”
The guy’s hand came out of his jacket’s pocket, and there was a piece of folded paper in it. Jack looked at it like it was a spider, hoping — no, praying — it had something to do with work.
“Could you give this to her?” the guy asked, and Jack’s hope died, as he stepped closer. “The senior resident on your shift. She’ll — she’ll know who it’s from.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack murmured, brows pulling in together. “You ever heard of texting, kid?”
“I did,” he said, and Jack could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She stopped answering, so I figured, maybe on paper, she’d actually —”
“Take the hint,” Jack grumbled, snatching the paper out of his hand. Then, as he turned to the door, he said, “You know I work in the ER?” When the guy only nodded quickly, he added, “You know she works in the ER?”
“I — yeah. Obviously.”
“Then you know she doesn’t need this.” He held up the paper between him and the guy. “She’s got enough on her plate without some guy too chicken to call her handing me a note like I’m her mailman.”
The guy opened his mouth, nose scrunching at Jack’s words, but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” Jack was already walking, note tucked in his pocket, done with the conversation. “Try calling next time. Or don’t.”
The guy looked at least a little sheepish, a little ashamed, and Jack thought good, he should feel ashamed. He wasn’t sure what the protocol in dating was now — he’d been just a little rusty and out of the stretch for a stretch of years he preferred not to count in single digits — but he was fairly certain that whatever the rules had curdled up to, this could not possibly be inside them.
He rode the elevator down with the note in his pockets, and he could feel the small stiff square of another man’s hope pressing over the outside of his thigh.
He found you at your desk, hands running restlessly through your hair as you spoke into the microphone, charting. The words were coming out of you bluntly, mechanic and after saying the same variation a thousand times over. There was a pen behind your ear you’d forgotten about and the residue of a lab value gone blue across the back of your hand where you’d scrawled it hours ago and never washed off.
He stood there for a second before you noticed him, and thought — not for the first time and with the same low irritation he always felt about it — that he had no earthly business being the man this got routed to.
Jack leaned down so his head hovered beside yours, scanning your work on the screen, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours, head tilted to read your screen at an angle that had nothing to do with actually needing to see it.
“The man wants an espresso martini?” he asked, furrowing his brows as he read over your notes, right by your ear.
You jumped just slightly and swivelled on your stool to face him, then back at the screen. “Shit — Jack. Announce yourself.” You scanned the words on your notes, shaking your head and already backspacing. “No, that was me talking to myself. Stupid mic picked it up.”
“Long as it’s just the one,” he drawled, staying there in your space a little longer, watching the side of your face instead of the screen now. “Those things sneak up on you.”
“Speaking from experience?” You turned on your stool to face him fully, chin tilting up to meet his eyes, something playful and a little challenging in it.
“I’ve got a couple decades on you. Everything’s snuck up on me.”
You held his gaze a little longer, then looked away first, tongue coming out over your lips for a second. He took a small satisfaction in not being the one who blinked first.
He blew out a breath through his nose, remembering, with reluctance now, what he’d actually come here to do. “Speaking of sneaking up.” He pulled out the note from his pocket. “I got something to deliver to you —”
You furrowed your brows when he handed it to you. “Secret admirer?” you asked jokingly.
He barked out a short laugh. “Nothin’ secret about it. You ignoring some radiology fellow?”
You grimaced, opening the note and scanning over the words quickly. He could’ve left, but stayed instead and watched you read it. The frown only pulled deeper, and he saw your eye twitch once as you scanned the words.
Against his better judgement, he murmured, “That bad?”
“Uh — no, it’s okay.” You shrugged stiffly.
“Huh,” he breathed out, studying you outright now. “Wonder what you’re doin’ to these guys to get them so wound up.”
You chuckled, mostly to yourself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
His chest tightened at that. It was unfair how you could make anything to him sound like something he’d been waiting to hear. He swallowed. “Suppose I would.”
“That an offer, Dr. Abbot?”
“Might be,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.
You laughed — surprised, the tension in your shoulders breaking slightly — and shook your head, folding the note back up. “You’re ridiculous. Well, thank you for getting it to me. I’m sorry he bothered you with this —” You swivelled, placing the note on your desk before picking up your phone. “That’s really weird.”
“That’s one word for it,” Jack said, and left it there, because you’d already turned and had your phone in one hand and the microphone in the other. The small furrow was back between your brows, and he’d learned there was a point past which pushing you got him a brighter, smaller version of whatever you were covering.
He drifted toward the far end of the station where Mateo was crouched at the crash cart running his palm along the drawers, checking seals, restocking and checking the fact of it on slower nights like this.
“She okay?” Mateo asked, snapping the drawer, seemingly having caught the interaction.
“Oh, you know.” Jack leaned a shoulder into the wall, arms crossing. “The belle of our ball. Can’t clock in without collecting a proposal.”
Mateo huffed. “She loves love.”
“That she does.” Jack watched you across the station, the phone lit against your ear now. “Don’t know why she keeps doing that to herself, though.”
“She’s an optimist.” Mateo clicked a seal into place, then moved down the cart. “Thinks someone’s gonna turn out different.”
Jack hummed, then, because the question had been sitting low and unlovely for a couple hours, he asked, “You two give it a run ever?”
Mateo turned his neck to look up at Jack. “Me and —” He jutted his thumb behind him to vaguely gesture at you. “Her?”
“Mhm.” Jack kept his eyes on you. “You’re close.”
“Nah.” Mateo went back to the cart, shaking his head as he chuckled softly. “I don’t think I’d pass a single one of her tests. Besides, I got my eye on someone.”
“Apparently I don’t make the list either, I guess,” Jack murmured.
Mateo laughed through his nose, eyeing Jack with something new now. “You want to?”
Jack caught it, reaching his palm and smacking it against Mateo’s curls with no force. “No. Now, do your job.”
“I am —” He laughed through the words, eyes scanning over Jack’s stiffened posture now. “It’s good you don’t, then. Couldn’t handle her anyway.”
“Sure, I could,” Jack said immediately.
Mateo’s head turned again, lips curving upwards at Jack’s words, and he felt momentarily blindsided by his own mouth, entirely too honest for something that had started as a joke.
“Sure, you could,” Mateo teased, drawing out the words.
“Shut it.” Jack grabbed a box of gloves off the cart and set it down two shelves lower than it needed to go, purely to do something with his hands that didn’t involve reaching for Mateo’s collar. “Wasn’t a real question.”
Couldn’t handle you? As if he didn’t know, without having to think about it, that you took the stairs two at a time instead of the elevator when you were annoyed and needed somewhere to put your extra energy, or that you’d started drinking your coffee black on nights a patient reminded you of someone, syrup and cream abandoned, like sweetness felt wrong to have that shift. As if he hadn’t noticed, months ago, that you hummed the same four off-key notes from a jingle neither you nor Jack could place when a chart was boring you to death, or that you double-checked every single IV line now, ever since one bad mistake in your first year. He could very well handle you, he simply hadn’t been given the chance to do so.
Most of the time, Jack was fine with watching your love life play out in 3D. More often than not, he knew they’d never work out. You were just too good for anyone who came sniffing, and there was a grim comfort in that, in knowing the fellows and the nurses would wash through and out and leave you exactly where he found you, three feet down the counter from him, close enough to keep.
Tonight the comfort wasn’t coming. Mateo’s accidental interrogation had rubbed Jack wrongly, somewhere he had yet to fully locate yet, and was sitting in his chest like a splinter he kept forgetting was there until he turned the corner over the night, saw you, and noticed it was there. He should’ve let it stay as nothing, but his brain had apparently decided three hours later was the correct time to relitigate the whole exchange, turning it over at odd intervals between patients like a tongue worrying a chipped tooth.
It was the bad sort of slow in the ER, the sort that let his brain fill up with things he’d have no time for on a real night. Ellis had wandered over to your desk with two energy drinks and placed her arms loosely beside your computer.
Jack was distantly aware he had misplaced labs to hand back to you because they’d gotten lost in the system, and he told himself that was the whole reason his body had started moving in your direction.
“I got a rundown from Marge,” Ellis said, dropping into an empty stool beside you. “Apparently he wrote it out of the OR.”
“You’re joking,” you muttered. “I don’t understand it.”
Jack stood there with the labs in his hand, close enough to hear it.
“I’m still wondering if I should respond,” you were saying, half into your hands. “Is this romantic? This one’s never happened before.”
Ellis laughed slightly with you, and the two of you had built one of those small pockets that slow nights sometimes allowed, thirty seconds of being people instead of clinicians.
Jack set the labs down at the edge of your keyboard harder than he meant to, the papers slapping flat against the desk, and both of you looked up at him like he’d grown two heads. Fuck — had he? It sure felt like he was operating off of whatever chemical cocktail his brain had whipped up for nights like this, some ugly little compound of jealousy and exhaustion. He was fairly sure if you pulled his labs right now they’d look like a man in the middle of a bad reaction to something not yet figured out in the scientific world.
“Labs on eight got lost.” His palm stayed on the sheet for a few seconds too long, some instinct telling him to keep his hand on something solid before the rest of him did something stupid. “You’ll want to recheck the trop.”
His eyes cut, against every ounce of better judgement he had left, to the note still folded in your hand, the same one he’d carried down like it was radioactive, the same note that had clearly done something for you that four years of Jack standing next to you clearly hadn’t. An unreasonable, low feeling creeped up behind his ribs at the sight of it, hot and out of proportion to a piece of folded-fucking-paper.
Ellis’s smile went uncertain as he felt her gaze snag on him.
You blinked up at him, and whatever had been sitting easy in your face a second ago curdled itself away, the corners of your mouth retreating. He knew this same retreat, had watched you recalibrate your muscles, swiftly, built to be unreadable against anyone who hadn’t spent four years learning your face.
His stomach dropped and heat climbed up the back of his neck, jaw tightening on its own. He hated that his body had learned to answer you the way it answered a motor alarm. He hated more that some raw, cornered part in him — still smarting about Mateo’s offhand comment and sore from that folded note — felt it wasn’t soothed.
You blinked up at him, and the laugh faded off your face, and you said, easily, warm, “Yeah — course. I’ll get right on that.”
He shrugged up one shoulder, lips pressing into a thin line. He turned, already walking away. “Whenever there’s a gap on your social calendar, I guess.”
He heard the small silence that opened behind him, and he could practically imagine you and Ellis looking at each other. Then, he heard you push back from the desk, the stool wheels catching, and your footsteps coming after him like he’d known they would, because you were the last person to let something like that go.
“Hey.” You fell into step beside him, voice pitched low, still giving him more benefit than the doubt had earned in the last ten seconds. “What was that about?”
“Nothing.” He tilted his neck up slightly to do a quick scan of the board, some stubborn muscle in his neck refusing to let him meet your eyes. “Got a department to run.”
“And you’ve been running it great. You just became weird right now.” He could feel you working it over beside him, shifting on your feet as you toed the line between resident and the hard-won territory neither of you had ever named. “Jack.”
“You want to laugh about your shitty dates, that’s your business,” he said instead of letting it go, sounding too far from the man who’d had his hands hovering over yours an hour ago, watching you put in a chest tube, telling you that you’d done well. “Do it a little quieter. This is an ER, not a lunch table.”
His words stopped you for half a step. Jack kept walking, an ugly, cowardly momentum carrying him three more steps before you caught back up.
He heard you recalibrate your voice in real time when you said, “I was charting on a slow shift,” carefully. “You’ve made worse jokes when it’s even more busy. What’s this about?”
“It’s about you treating this place like it’s your dating pool and not your place of work.” The words came out much uglier than he meant, and he didn’t have it in him to call them back. “It’s not professional. It reflects on the department. Reflects on me. Somebody’s gotta say it, and apparently that’s me, since you clearly enjoy it too much to stop.”
You stopped walking altogether this time. He turned to face your stillness whole, then, and found your eyes narrowed at him, looking like you’d been hit from a direction you hadn’t been completely guarding against.
He let out a breath, fingers going up to his forehead to wipe at sweat that wasn’t there. “I’m just saying what —”
“I’m sorry,” you said, voice going level and courteous, as you nodded quickly. “You’re right. You’re my attending, it reflects on you. I’ll keep my personal life out of work.”
“That’s not —” he tried, but you were already turning away, shoulders squared and chin level, professional armor snapping into place just like he’d told you to. It should have made him feel better to watch you take it so cleanly, to not make a big deal out of it. All it made him feel was like something had been surgically removed from him.
“Stop —” he tried again, to your back now, and the sentence died somewhere between his teeth and the air. That was okay. There was no end to the sentence that didn’t sound worse than the beginning anyway.
He blew out a sharp breath through his nose, standing in the middle of the floor with his hand still half-raised toward you, fingers curling back into his palm when he realized you weren’t there to reach. Jack felt, distantly, uselessly, like the only thing standing still in the entire building.
“Great going,” he heard Lena say, trailing past him, a tray tucked against her hip, not even breaking stride. “You got rid of the one entertainment we’ve got around here.”
His shoulders stiffened, and he caught up with her in three steps, jaw working around words that wanted to spill out defensively and came out simply tired. “It’s not entertainment if she keeps getting hurt,” he grumbled. “She’s not a show. Stop treating her like one.”
“Didn’t look like she was the one getting hurt tonight,” she said, rounding a corner and leaving him standing there.
Jack let out a low groan, running a palm down the lower half of his face, and dropped his hand only when he’d scrubbed enough friction into his jaw to feel it sting a little, which was at least a sensation he’d chosen, at least tonight. He stood there a second longer, staring at nothing in particular. His hands found his hips on reflex.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, and dragged both hands back through his hair, gripping once at the roots before letting go.
He rolled his neck, felt it pop unsatisfyingly, and pushed off the wall he hadn’t even realized he was leaning against. His leg fucking ached, the burn starting behind his knee. He ignored it like he always did and started walking anyway, jaw still held tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he could physically hold himself together with the seams of his own black scrubs.
It was by the lockers after hand-off that Jack saw you next. Both of you had conveniently managed to work over-time; he because there was nothing to get home to, and you — he’d heard through the grapevine — because one of your patient’s little sister was coming in toward close, and you simply wanted to talk with her instead of handing the situation off to one of the day residents.
Usually, nobody had asked you to stay when you did. Most times, there was no version of staying that showed up in your favor; he and Shen were gone, so there was no attending grading you on it; no hours that counted. It was just for a kid who was going to get bad news from a face she’d seen before, so you cost yourself hours of sleep you most definitely needed to be the soft spot for a stranger’s little sister, and hadn’t mentioned it to a soul, and he knew you would’ve been embarrassed if he brought it up.
He found you using the little mirror inside your locker to apply some kind of pink-tubed gloss with one hand while the other ran its fingers through your hair. Jack pursed his lips, eyeing you from the doorway, because he was pretty sure you’d done something different to it in the last ten minutes.
“Look nice,” he tried, biting the bullet and walking toward his own locker. “Goin’ somewhere?”
You caught his eyes in the mirror instead of turning around. “Just breakfast,” you said, and there was none of the earlier lilt in it, the warmth that you’d always aimed at him gone functional. You capped the gloss with more force than it needed and dropped it into your bag.
Jack stood there a second too long with his hand over his own locker without opening it. He’d expected — and he knew he was more optimistic than usual for doing so — your easy back-and-forth, his slip-up from earlier forgotten. He wasn’t sure what to do with the quiet or you not looking at him properly, hairbrush working through your hair in short strokes.
He’d saved around thirty lives tonight, and that was what he was good at. He was not good, and had never claimed to be good, at the aftermath of hurting a person he’d have put his own body between a stretcher and wall for, without meaning to, over something that had never been about the radiology fellow at all.
He opted out of opening his locker and chose instead to lean his bicep against the locker, eyeing you in front of him. “Mad at me?” he murmured.
You let out a short breath, shaking your head, and he tracked all your micro-expressions through the mirror. “On the clock?”
“Well, we’ve both been off it for a while now,” he said, watching the shape of your mouth in the mirror, waiting for it to give something away. It didn’t. “But no. Asking as your —” He stopped himself, because ‘friend’ seemed not to be the honest word though it was the first one that popped up. “Off the clock. Whatever I am to you right now.”
You set the hairbrush down on the little shelf with more care than the moment needed. “It’s okay, Jack,” you said, shaking your head.
“Don’t think it is. Try again.”
You watched him for a second in the mirror, then you turned.
“It’s just embarrassing,” you said, and the words came out smaller than anything he’d heard out of you in years. You crossed your arms over your chest. “I respect you and I hate that you’d think for one second I don’t take this place seriously.” Your voice cracked on the last word, just barely, and you pressed your lips together. “So, yeah. It’s embarrassing to have my attending confirming I’m exactly what people think I am.”
He was shaking his head before you could even finish the sentence. “Nobody thinks —”
“You do,” you said, voice rising slightly. “So, off the clock, I’m embarrassed, and tonight, I’m going to be your resident. Because I agree with you. It’s been unprofessional of me to keep dating within the hospital —” You threw your arms up halfway by your side, and you let out a short laugh that came out dry and wrong. “And I hate that you’ve probably been thinking it for four years.”
“I haven’t,” he said too fast. God, he’d come here to make tonight better for you, not to make you re-evaluate all your years working with him. “Sure, I thought it was none of my business how you spend your good nights off. Didn’t stop me from thinking they didn’t deserve ‘em.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that now ‘cause you feel bad.”
“Wish it were that simple,” he said, and chose to leave it unelaborated because it wasn’t that simple and he had no intention of explaining exactly why. “Half the time, you know it’s not gonna work out. You’re breaking my heart by making me watch you break yours.”
You blinked, and he watched the fight loosen out of you by inches. “It’s just a free breakfast, Jack. Nothing to get your heart broken over.”
Jack let out a huff through his nose, mouth opening to say what, he didn’t know. “Is that all? ‘Cause I can get you free breakfast for the rest of your life.”
You laughed, disbelieving, through your nose, some of the night’s weight finally cracking off of you. “You’ve got a weird way of apologizing.”
“Just to my favorite resident.” He pointed his index finger at you, lazy, and pushed himself off the lockers. His shoulder blades left a faint dust-print on the metal where he’d been leaning. He thumbed in the combination without looking at the dial — muscle memory, years of the same locker — and the door swung open with a rusted squeak. He pulled out his bag. “So?”
“So what?”
“You ditch the fellow.” He slung the bag up over his shoulder, close enough now that he caught the tail-end of the perfume you’d lightly spritzed over yourself. “I buy.”
You looked at him for a second too long, lips pushing to one side, as though you were gauging whether this was a bit or not, another line he’d tossed and wanted to let die on its own. He stood there, jaw set and features relaxing to show you he did mean it, more than he wanted to admit, if he was being honest with himself.
“You’re serious.”
“Do I look like I’m not?” He nodded once at your locker, your bag sitting on the shelf. “Grab your stuff. We’re going.”
“Fine,” you said finally, reaching over and zipping your backpack all the way before throwing it over one shoulder. “Can you drive? I’ve been taking the subway.”
“Why?” he asked drily. “You’ve got a car.”
Jack realized, as he watched you slide in across from him and folding both hands around the coffee before it was all the way poured, that he’d never once been on a date where the woman had no idea it was one.
It wasn’t lost on him what that made him, a man old enough to know better, letting a thing be one thing on his side of the table and another thing entirely on yours, saying nothing to square the difference. But he’d meant what he’d said, and he was going to feed you.
You ordered a short stack, eggs, hash brown, decaf on loop. She wrote it down, definitely having heard worse from better.
“Thanks for the treat, Jack,” you said when Dina left, bringing the rim of your cup to your lips. “Don’t think I could’ve done another breakfast to let him down gently.”
“We have to make some changes to your lifestyle,” Jack replied, voice rough, as he eyed you.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured. “We?”
“Well, I did have to deliver a note to you today. In all my life working here, that’s never happened.”
You laughed around the rim of your cup. “In my defense, I don’t think anyone’s wrote me a note out of an OR either. That’s a first for both of us.”
“Glad we share the experience.”
Dina came by with a pot and topped you off without being asked, and placed the food in front of you. Jack watched you reach for the salt before your fork had even touched the eggs, shaking it twice over the plate.
“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke by forty.”
“You’re gonna give me a stroke right now if you comment on my food.” But you set the shaker down after the third shake, which he noticed and had to bite back a smile.
Dina dropped his plate in front of him — bacon, eggs, no pancakes — and you were reaching for it with a piece of your fork before she’d even finished setting his fork down. He gave you a faux-frown, picking up his fork and, without looking, spreading a piece of your hashbrown off the opposite plate in trade. He wasn’t sure when the two of you had started stealing bites and sips off of each other’s stuff, only that it’d started somewhere and calcified into something neither of you mentioned.
“Rude,” you said, mouth already full.
“Learned it from you,” he muttered, nudging his plate an inch closer to your side of the table, which you took full advantage of.
Dina’s radio crackled through something twangy and close-to-familiar behind the counter, competing with the clatter of a skillet somewhere in the back, the whole place smelling like batter and grease soaked into decades of countertop, syrup that had dried a hundred small amber rings nobody had ever fully scrubbed off.
“I’ve never been here before.” You absentmindedly cut the hashbrown in half as your eyes raked over the place. “This a regular spot for you?”
“Since before you joined,” he said easily, but his brows furrowed as he realized he’d been coming here alone for years. He was in the same booth when he could get it, ordered the same order, and it struck to him only now, watching you eat your hashbrowns, how much smaller and less lonely a booth felt with you taking up the other half of it. “Used to be the only quiet I got on some weeks.”
You hummed. “And now?”
“Guess the quiet’s pretty negotiable.” He shrugged. “I can go without it.”
You smiled down at your plate, something easy working at the corner of your mouth. A thread of syrup had gathered at the seam of your lips — you hadn’t noticed, too busy considering his answer — and before he’d cleared the impulse with the rest of himself, his thumb was already moving, catching it at the corner quickly, no different than when he swiped under your lashline for salt after a bad night.
You stayed still, having gotten used to his hands somewhere during your residency.
“You’re a mess,” he said, wiping his thumb off on the paper napkin folded under his elbow.
“You’ve got coffee on your scrub top,” you said, eyes flicking down to his chest. His brows furrowed and he looked down, and you were right. “Pot, kettle.”
He’d been about to say something else, he could’ve sworn it, but had lost every word of it watching you smile so unguarded, free enough to let him look at you. He had to reach for his coffee just to have something to do with his hands.
When the check came, folded in its little plastic tray, you both reached for it at once. Your hand landed flat over his knuckles. Neither of you moved it for a second, for his hand stayed exactly where it was, broad and unmoving under yours, and something unspoken passed through the two inches of fornica between your faces as he raised a brow at you. He slid the tray out from under you slowly.
“Said I’m buying,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
The drive back had been quieter than the one there had been. It was nearing ten in the morning, and he knew both of you had stayed up longer than intended, especially for two people who had to clock back in in a shorter amount of time than he deemed plausible to reset completely.
He’d cracked the window down an inch, and the air coming through carried the smell of wet pavement and the sound of a garbage truck grinding its gears three streets over. Your neighborhood, he was learning, woke up slow; there was a paperboy on a bike, a guy in scrubs different from yours locking up his own car after a shift that wasn’t at the PTMC, and Jack drove through it with two fingers loose over the wheel. Neither of you had bothered with the radio.
You’d gone somewhere billowy around your third cup of decaf, all the sharp edges of the night replaced with something looser and sleepier, and you gave him directions in a voice gone thick from exhaustion as you were likely starting to feel it behind your eyes.
He pulled his car along the curb and let it idle, one shoe braced against the floorboard, watching the numbers of your building.
“Gonna sleep?” he asked.
“Gonna try.” You were already working the bag strap over your shoulder, hair falling loose out of the knot you’d put it up in at some point at the diner, strands of it catching the early light. “I’ve got no idea how you do this then take SWAT calls.”
“You’d be able to do it, too, if I put you on the field.”
You mumbled something, letting your head drop against the window for a second, before picking itself back up. “Stop threatening me, Jack.”
He watched you fight your eyelids, his mouth pulling up at the corners at the sight. “C’mon. Get inside before I gotta carry you up.”
You snorted, half-hearted. “You can’t. You’d throw your hip out.”
“Try me.” He was already rounding the hood before you’d gathered your bearings, boots loud on the quiet street, and you let out another laugh and let him get there first, too tired to argue about who gets to open what.
He walked you up the cracked path, palm settling at the small of your back, and you leaned back into it, half your weight given over without you noticing it.
At the door, you fumbled with your keys out from under a granola wrapper and a capless pen, missed the lock twice, and gave up trying on the third. You turned to face him instead with your back against the frame and your bag slowly sliding off one shoulder.
“Thank you,” you said, words coming out loose and filtered by the exhaustion even as you tried to meet his eyes head-on. “For the — everything. The explanation. And the breakfast.”
Jack felt his lips curve up, fingers flexing at his sides. “Anytime.”
“And for driving me there — thank you. And for the drive back.”
“Uh-huh. You gonna go inside?” he said, voice going quieter as he looked down at the ground, at how the toes of your shoes were almost touching. “Or keep thanking me until you fall asleep standing up?”
You cocked your head to the side, your lips moving upwards into a fuller smile. His own mouth curved as he shifted on his feet slightly, closing the barely-there inch between his shoes and yours.
“Jack?”
He hummed, and you went up slightly onto your toes before he’d finished deciding what to do with you. Or maybe he’d moved in first, or maybe there was no real order to it at all. His mouth found yours somewhere in that uncertainty, slowly despite it, because he’d already worked out every version of this moment and this one had simply appeared in front of him.
His hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb settling into the soft hollow just beneath your ears. Your skin was warm despite the cold snap in the air, much softer than he’d let himself imagine, and he felt the exact second your breath caught against his mouth, a small stutter that made his fingers curve around your jaw, index resting against your cheekbone.
He kept it slow, it was the only thing he had any real control over right now, the pace of it instead of the fact of it. He used what little he had left, dragging his mouth against yours, like he could somehow make up for four years of nothing by refusing to rush the first thirty seconds of something. His other hand found your waist, and his palm felt how your back curved into him, the hitch of your ribs on an inhale, and he pressed you back the last inch against the doorframe more to ground himself.
Your fist found the front of his canvas jacket, dragging him in the last stubborn space he’d been too careful to close himself, and a sound came out of his chest that embarrassed him a little. He felt you smile against his mouth, and his entire body felt warm at having been caught enjoying this entirely as much as he was.
He tilted his head so his forehead pressed against yours and pulled his mouth away. His lips jutted out slightly, feeling suddenly empty and unwilling to put the full distance back between the two of you.
Your eyes were still shut, and you were breathing unevenly. “Thank you,” you murmured.
He huffed a short laugh, and in it, realized how breathless he, too, was.
You tipped your chin back up, already chasing him.
Jack felt the want knot up inside him, greedy and unreasonably leaning back in to meet you halfway before the rest of him had caught up and made him stop. He made a small sound in his throat and pinched his eyes shut, letting you get right up to the edge of it, breath already tangling with his, wanting so badly to just let it happen, before his finger came up between you, pressed light against your bottom lip to stop you a hair short. It was more for his own sake than the words he remembered you telling someone years ago ringing in his head.
“Ah-ah.” His voice came out rough with want, entirely at odds with his actions. “Your rule. Only one kiss after the first date. I’m trying —” he exhaled hard, almost dramatically, “— trying real hard here to make it to the second.”
“Huh?” Your eyes peeled open. “This was a date?”
“Best one you’ve had I’m guessing, with the way you’re breaking your rules.” His finger stayed right where it was, and he watched your eyes struggle to focus, still glassy from the kiss. He could feel the warm huff of breath breaking unsteady against his fingertip, could feel your mouth soft and parted underneath it, waiting on him.
You pressed a peck against his finger instead, your mouth barely dragging against his skin as a shy smile formed behind it that he felt more than saw. “Maybe.”
“Well, good.” He smiled, despite himself, and pushed himself off your forehead, opting instead to press his lips there. “Get some sleep,” he murmured against your hairline, lips lingering a little longer there. “Might be able to get a full seven hours.”
“Will you?”
“Doubt it.” He pulled back enough to look at you properly, thumb tracing a line along your cheekbone — his touch feather-light, tracking the exact curve of it, memorizing the route — before he made himself drop his hand entirely, fingers curling loosely at his sides because suddenly he had no idea what to do with them without you under them. “Kinda got a lot on my mind now.”
“Yeah?” You bit back a smile, still not quite steady on your feet. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
“Not a chance.” He bent a fraction and hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag where it’d slid down to your elbow, dragging it slowly back up to your shoulders, knuckles grazing your arms the whole way. “You’ll find out. Eventually.”
He forced himself to step off the mat — one step back, then the second, putting real distance between you now — forcing ease into his expression that he definitely wasn’t feeling. He stopped a few feet away from you anyway, unable to fully commit to walking away, watching you stunned and still in your doorway, mouth a little kiss-soft. He felt so completely helpless and pleased at the sight. “Text me when you’re up and I’ll get to planning date two.”
You raised a hand into a wave, fingers curling in the air.
“Bye, Jack,” you said, and his name came out of your mouth softer than you probably meant it to, smooth and cushy the way it never sounded on shift.
He lifted his chin up at you once and made himself turn, finally, finding the path back to his car. He made it to the curb before he looked back again, and you were still standing there, one hand braced on the door, watching him go with an expression he was sure he was going to think of the entire drive home.
Summary: Jack wakes up from a dream he has no business having, spends an entire Sunday trying to convince himself it means nothing, and then Robby shows up with study materials, terrible timing, and the ability to make everything worse. Also: Jack notices a book he absolutely should not care about.
Warnings: sexual tension, suggestive dream, jealousy, flirting, mutual pining, Jack being emotionally constipated, Robby being a menace, no smut yet, but Jack is suffering
Author's Note: Jack Abbot is a grown man, a medical student, a former soldier, and, unfortunately, completely unequipped to survive a crush on his roommate. Also, Robby walked in, clocked him immediately, and chose violence.
Xoxo, Del
| Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 |
Your back hit the couch.
Not hard.
Not rough.
Just enough that the breath left you in a startled little sound Jack felt more than heard.
He froze above you.
One hand braced beside your head, the other caught at your waist, his knee pressed into the cushion between your legs. Your notes were scattered somewhere beneath his arm. A flashcard clung stubbornly to the edge of the coffee table before sliding silently to the floor.
Neither of you looked at it.
You were looking at him.
Wide-eyed and breathless. Mouth still parted from the sound he had drawn out of you when he kissed you too deep, too long, too far past anything either of you could excuse as an accident.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
He knew better.
He absolutely knew better.
He kissed you anyway.
Your hand slid up the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer like you had forgotten you were supposed to be careful. Like careful had ever done either of you any good.
Jack lowered himself another inch.
Your thigh shifted against his hip.
His grip tightened at your waist.
You made that sound again.
Softer this time.
Worse.
Jack’s mouth moved from yours to the corner of your jaw, and your head tipped back against the couch like your body had decided to trust him before your pride could object.
“Jack,” you breathed.
Not Abbot.
Jack.
His name sounded ruined in your mouth.
Or maybe he was.
He dragged his mouth back to yours, and you kissed him like you had been waiting, like every argument, every eye roll, every sharp little use of his last name had been leading here, to your hand at the back of his neck and your body warm beneath his and the couch creaking once under the shift of his weight.
“Say it again,” he murmured against your mouth.
Your breath caught.
His thumb moved along your side.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He was gone.
Completely.
Stupidly.
Willingly.
He kissed you harder, and you arched beneath him, drawing him down, drawing him in, drawing another low, breathless sound out of yourself that went straight through him.
Then—
Jack woke abruptly, breath caught in his throat, one hand twisted in the sheet, his body still convinced the dream had been real.
For one stupid second, he did not know where he was.
Then the room came back in pieces.
Dim morning light through the blinds. Textbook on the nightstand. Pen beside it. Laundry hamper in the corner. His bedroom. His apartment. His bed.
Alone.
Jack stared at the ceiling.
His pulse was still too fast.
His body was not confused.
That was the problem.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
Jack dragged one hand over his face and stayed very still, as if any sudden movement might shake loose another detail from the dream. Unfortunately, his brain was already supplying them without permission.
Your mouth.
Your hand in his shirt.
The couch beneath you.
The way you had said his name.
Jack closed his eyes.
Terrible decision.
Immediately, there you were again.
Head tipped back. Eyes half-lidded. Looking at him like you wanted him closer and hated him for making you want it.
Jack opened his eyes.
Absolutely not.
No.
He was not doing this.
He was not lying in bed before six on a Sunday morning thinking about his roommate’s mouth, his roommate’s waist, his roommate’s legs, or the soft little sounds you had made beneath him on the couch where you had been studying pathology less than twenty-four hours ago.
His roommate.
His academic rival.
His irritating, argumentative, chronically impossible roommate who lived across the hall, who used too much hot water and called his handwriting pretentious.
Pretentiously legible, technically.
Which was worse.
Jack turned his head and looked toward the closed bedroom door.
No sound from the hallway yet.
Good.
That was good.
That meant you were still asleep.
It meant he had time to get himself under control before you walked into the kitchen, half-awake, and made eye contact as if you had not just spent the last several hours destroying his subconscious.
Not that you knew that.
Obviously.
You were innocent in this.
Unfortunately.
Jack exhaled through his nose and sat up.
Physical attraction.
That was all.
He could admit that much without being dramatic about it.
You were pretty.
Irritating, yes. Argumentative. Stubborn in a way that seemed less like a personality trait and more like a full-time occupation. But pretty.
And you lived across the hall.
You shared his bathroom. His kitchen. His coffee pot. His air.
That did things to a person.
He was a man.
He had thoughts.
Apparently, now he had dreams.
That did not make the dreams meaningful.
It made them inconvenient.
There was a difference.
Jack reached for his prosthetic and set his jaw.
He hadn’t been with anyone in a while.
That was all this was.
A dry spell. Close quarters. Too much studying. Not enough sleep.
A pretty woman on a couch.
Biology.
Unfortunate biology, but biology.
He could manage biology.
He got up, showered, and made the water colder than necessary.
Not because of the dream.
Because cold showers were efficient.
Obviously.
By six-thirty, he had made coffee.
By seven, he had retreated back to his room with a mug in one hand and a textbook in the other, because staying in the living room felt like tempting fate, and Jack was, allegedly, a man with self-control.
He had been sitting at his desk ever since.
The textbook was open.
The notes were arranged.
His pen was in his hand.
He had read the same paragraph four times and retained absolutely none of it.
The apartment was quiet.
For now.
Jack stared down at the page.
The words stared back.
Unhelpful.
Then, across the hall, your bedroom door opened.
Jack went still.
Only for a second.
Then he looked down at his textbook with unnecessary focus.
A floorboard creaked.
Then another.
You crossed the hall to the bathroom.
The bathroom door closed.
Jack stared at the same sentence until the words stopped looking like language.
Physical attraction. Close proximity. Dry spell. Dream. Manageable.
All of it was manageable.
The shower turned on.
Jack closed his eyes.
Bad idea.
Immediately, his mind produced steam, skin, your hand braced against tile, your voice from a dream that had no right sounding so clear.
His eyes opened.
He stood.
Too fast.
The chair legs scraped against the floor.
Jack froze, jaw tight.
From the bathroom, the water kept running.
Good.
No one had heard.
No one knew.
No one had any idea that Jack Abbot was standing in his bedroom before eight in the morning, losing a fight to his own imagination.
He walked to the window and lifted the edge of the blinds with two fingers.
The street below was quiet. A few parked cars. Damp pavement from rain overnight. Someone across the street walked a dog in pajama pants and a jacket.
Normal.
Sunday.
Nothing to be dramatic about.
The shower shut off.
Jack dropped the blinds.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened.
Your footsteps crossed the hall.
Your bedroom door closed.
Jack waited.
Not intentionally.
He was standing there already.
Waiting would imply expectation.
This was not expectation.
This was awareness.
There was a difference.
Maybe.
A drawer opened in your room.
Closed.
Something hit the floor softly.
You muttered something under your breath, too low for him to make out.
Jack’s mouth almost moved.
He stopped it.
No.
He was not smiling because you dropped something.
He was not picturing you scowling at the floor.
He was not standing in his room like a man with no life, tracking your entire morning by sound alone.
Except that was exactly what he was doing.
Jack turned away from the window and went back to his desk.
He sat down.
Opened the textbook wider.
Picked up his pen.
Underlined half a sentence with enough force to nearly tear the page.
Physical attraction, he reminded himself.
Nothing more.
From the kitchen, the coffee pot shifted.
Then a cabinet opened.
Mug.
Your mug, probably. The one with the chipped handle you refused to throw away because it was “still structurally sound,” which was exactly the kind of phrase you had no right making memorable.
Jack hated that he knew which mug you were using based on the softer clink it made against the counter. Hated that he knew you were pouring coffee. Hated that he could picture the exact way you leaned one hip against the counter while you took the first sip, still half-asleep, eyes narrowed like consciousness had personally offended you.
Physical attraction.
Nothing more.
Then the kitchen went quiet.
A minute later, the coffee table scraped lightly across the living room floor.
Jack’s eyes lifted.
Books hit wood.
One.
Two.
Three.
A heavier one last.
Pathology textbook.
He knew because you dropped it harder than the others every time, as if punishing it for existing.
Jack stared at his door.
You were on the couch.
Studying.
He knew that based on sound alone.
That was unacceptable.
Not the studying.
The knowing.
The fact that he could sit in his room with the door closed and build a map of you through the walls.
Bedroom to bathroom.
Bathroom to kitchen.
Kitchen to living room.
Mug on the table.
Books open.
Probably curled into the corner of the couch with one leg tucked beneath you, hair still damp or sleep-soft, wearing that old sweatshirt with the frayed cuff because it was Sunday and you had no reason to impress anyone.
No reason.
Jack looked down at his notes.
His pen hovered uselessly over the page.
This was still physical.
It had to be.
Because the alternative was worse.
The alternative was that the dream had not come from nowhere.
The alternative was that his body had simply been the last part of him to admit what the rest of him had been doing for days.
Listening. Noticing. Waiting. Wanting.
Jack’s grip tightened around the pen.
No.
Absolutely not.
He was not having a crush on his roommate.
The word itself was humiliating.
Crush.
Ridiculous.
Juvenile.
An unserious word for an unserious problem.
He was a grown man. A medical student. A former soldier. A person who had dealt with actual problems. Pain. Blood. Exhaustion. Panic. Men screaming. Professors with God complexes. The VA paperwork alone should have made him immune to lesser forms of suffering.
He was not going to be taken down by a woman on a couch with a pathology textbook.
From the living room, a page turned.
Jack’s attention shifted immediately.
He closed his eyes.
Pathetic.
He sat there very still, listening as you settled deeper into the couch. Fabric shifted. Paper moved. Your pen clicked once. Then again. Then again.
You were thinking.
You always clicked your pen when you were thinking.
Three clicks meant uncertain.
More than three meant irritated.
The pen clicked a fourth time.
Jack leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
He wanted to go out there.
Not for any meaningful reason.
Not because you needed help.
You had not asked.
You had not even sighed yet.
He wanted to go out there because you were there.
Because yesterday you had left.
Because he had spent the night dreaming about what would have happened if you had not.
Jack covered his face with one hand.
Physical attraction.
That was all.
Physical attraction could be managed.
Outwaited. Ignored. Treated like any other inconvenient symptom.
He just had to stay in his room. Get a grip. Let Sunday be quiet. Let you study. Let himself stop being an idiot.
Then he remembered the yoga mat.
His hand dragged slowly down his face.
No.
No, he was not doing that either.
The yoga mat had been retaliation.
Obviously.
You had walked into the kitchen and found him shirtless after a run. You had stared. He had caught you staring. He had made the rule because apparently he was the sort of man who coped with being wanted by drafting policy.
No staring before coffee.
Brilliant.
Very dignified.
Then you had waited until later, changed into those shorts, dragged your yoga mat into the middle of the living room, and stretched directly in his line of sight like you were conducting an experiment in cardiovascular endurance.
He had looked.
Of course he had looked.
He would have had to be dead not to look.
The length of you stretched out on the mat. The line of your legs. The slow bend of your back as you reached forward, as if you were doing something innocent. Like you were not putting yourself in the middle of his living room in shorts small enough to damage his concentration and then looking over your shoulder at him like he was the problem.
Like he was not supposed to react to that.
Like any reasonable man would have kept his eyes on renal pathology while you bent in front of him and smiled like you knew exactly what he was thinking.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
He had gotten hard at the kitchen table like a teenager.
Worse, he had done it quietly, which somehow made the whole thing more humiliating.
He had sat there with his pen in his hand, textbook open, one knee angled carefully under the table, pretending he had any interest in inflammatory mediators while his body took a firm and deeply inconvenient position on his roommate’s flexibility.
Physical attraction.
That was all.
If anything, the yoga mat proved it.
Pretty girl. Close proximity. Bare legs. Intentional provocation.
Biology.
Unfortunate biology, but biology.
It did not mean anything.
Except you had caught him.
Except you had smiled.
Except, for one terrible second, Jack had realized you liked catching him.
Worse, he had liked being caught.
That was the part he had no interest in examining before breakfast.
Jack sat forward.
He needed to study.
He needed to open his textbook, read the paragraph, take useful notes, and stop acting like a man whose entire central nervous system had been compromised by a roommate with a yoga mat.
He picked up his pen.
From the living room, you sighed.
Small. Irritated. Familiar.
Jack knew that sigh.
That was the cellular injury sigh.
You had made it three times yesterday before finally admitting you were stuck.
His fingers tightened around the pen.
He was not going out there.
He was not opening his door.
He was not asking what you were stuck on.
You could struggle with cellular injury all morning.
You were smart.
You would figure it out.
He would stay in his room.
He would stay useful to himself and no one else.
He would—
A knock came from the front door.
Three sharp taps.
A pause.
Two more.
Jack dropped his pen.
From the living room, your pen stopped clicking.
Your footsteps crossed the floor.
Jack stood before he made the decision to stand.
He opened his bedroom door just as you reached the front door.
“Don’t—”
Too late.
You opened it.
“Well,” Robby said from the hallway, bright and amused and already a problem. “Hello.”
Jack stopped in his doorway.
For one second, he simply stared.
Michael Robinavitch stood in the hall with one hand braced high on the doorframe and a cardboard box tucked against his hip, smiling down at you like the universe had personally rewarded him for showing up before nine in the morning.
Jack closed his eyes briefly.
Because apparently his morning had not been humiliating enough.
You glanced over your shoulder.
Your mouth curved when you saw him standing there.
Not a big smile.
Not enough for Robby to notice.
Enough for Jack to feel it somewhere he did not want to name.
“Morning, Abbot,” you said.
Jack looked at you.
Then at Robby.
Then back at you.
His dream, apparently, was not done ruining him.
“Morning,” Jack said.
Robby’s eyes flicked from you to Jack and back again.
Slowly.
With interest.
Jack felt his entire morning get worse.
Robby was one of his closest friends. Unfortunately, that meant Jack knew exactly how much damage he could do with one smile, one cardboard box, and ten unsupervised minutes.
Robby shifted the box against his hip and looked back at you. “Well. This explains a lot.”
Jack stepped farther into the living room. “It explains nothing.”
Robby’s grin widened, but he did not argue.
That was worse.
Robby looked back at you, his expression bright with manufactured sympathy. “Is he always this welcoming?”
You glanced at Jack, then back at Robby, mouth curving. “Actually, this is pretty warm for him.”
Robby’s grin turned delighted.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Great.
Excellent.
Now you were collaborating.
Robby adjusted the cardboard box under one arm and held out his free hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”
You took his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Robby held your hand for exactly one polite second before letting go. “Robby. Only my mother and billing departments call me Michael.”
Your mouth curved. “Robby, then.”
Jack looked at your hand.
Then at Robby.
Then at you, because you were still smiling.
Jack’s voice came out flat. “Why are you here?”
Robby looked down at the box like he had just remembered it existed. “Study materials. Second-year survival kit. Old outlines, professor notes, a few practice exams.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the box. “On a Sunday.”
Robby stepped inside with the ease of someone who had been to Jack’s apartment before and had ignored Jack’s tone every time. “Friendship doesn’t rest.”
Jack closed the door behind him. “Yours should.”
Robby looked back at you, one brow lifting. “See what I put up with?”
You leaned lightly against the arm of the couch. “Heroic.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “Thank you.”
Jack looked between the two of you and immediately regretted opening his bedroom door.
Robby crossed into the living room and set the box on the floor beside the coffee table, careful to avoid your notes. He glanced down at the mess of pages, then at your open textbook.
“You’re already studying,” Robby said.
You looked down like you had forgotten the evidence was everywhere. “Trying.”
Robby smiled. “That bad?”
You folded your arms loosely over your chest. “Pathology is a hostile discipline.”
Robby’s smile warmed. “Correct.”
Jack’s eyes moved to him. “Don’t encourage her.”
Robby crouched beside the box and looked up at you instead. “I’m encouraging accuracy.”
Your mouth twitched.
Jack saw it.
Robby saw Jack see it.
Robby reached into the box and pulled out a thick folder. “Singh.”
Your attention dropped to it immediately.
Jack saw that too.
The folder was plain manila, stuffed too full, with Singh written across the tab in Robby’s messy handwriting.
Robby held it toward you. “This one is the difference between surviving second year and being found weeping quietly in a stairwell.”
You looked at the folder like it might contain scripture. “That good?”
Robby’s grin softened. “Better.”
Jack moved before he meant to. “I can take that.”
Robby paused with the folder still extended toward you.
Then his eyes flicked to Jack.
Not obvious.
Not smug yet.
Just interested.
“You can,” Robby said.
Then he gave it to you anyway.
Jack stared at him.
You accepted the folder carefully, like you were not sure whether you were being handed a gift or evidence. “Thank you.”
Robby’s smile turned easy. “You’re welcome.”
Jack looked away.
That was worse somehow.
Not the flirting.
Not exactly.
The ease of it.
The way Robby could walk into a room and make himself warm. Open. Harmless. The kind of man people liked quickly because he gave them no reason not to.
Jack knew that about him.
He usually liked that about him.
At the moment, he wanted him out of the apartment.
You opened the folder and scanned the first page.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
“These are organized,” you said.
Robby leaned one forearm against his knee, looking pleased. “Beautifully.”
Jack looked at the folder over your shoulder from where he stood. “Adequately.”
Robby glanced up at him. “He means beautifully. He gets shy.”
You looked over the top of the folder, mouth curving. “Does he?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
Robby nodded solemnly. “Terribly.”
Jack stepped closer to the box. “What else?”
Robby’s smile lingered for half a second before he looked back down. “Pathology packet.”
You made a face before you could stop yourself.
Robby noticed and lifted the packet with a sympathetic tilt of his head. “Bad?”
You lowered the Singh folder slightly. “Deeply hostile.”
“Then you’ll want this,” Robby said, holding the packet toward you. “It got me through Singh’s exam.”
Jack reached for it first. “I’ll sort through them.”
Robby let him take it.
This time, he did not argue.
That was how Jack knew he had noticed.
Robby’s gaze stayed on Jack’s hand around the packet for one beat too long, then lifted to his face.
Jack kept his expression flat.
Robby’s mouth barely curved.
There it was.
Recognition.
Not accusation.
Not yet.
Just Robby realizing there was something here worth watching.
Jack turned the packet over in his hands. “Anything else?”
Robby stood slowly, the box now half-empty at his feet. “I might have a few more packets at my place.”
Your attention lifted from the folder. “More pathology?”
“Unfortunately,” Robby said, his smile tilting with sympathy. “But useful pathology.”
You glanced down at the packet in Jack’s hand like it had personally wronged you. “That sounds like an oxymoron.”
Robby’s expression warmed. “It does. But Singh likes patterns. Once you see how she builds questions, it gets easier.”
Jack’s hand tightened around the folder he was holding.
He knew what Robby was doing.
Not at first, maybe.
At first, Robby had just been Robby. Friendly. Easy. A little too charming because he did not know how to turn it off.
But now he knew exactly what he was doing.
Robby looked at you, not Jack. “If you want, you could come by sometime and I’ll walk you through them.”
The apartment went very still.
You blinked once.
Jack moved before he decided to.
One step.
Not enough to block anything.
Enough.
“Don’t flirt with my roommate, Robby,” Jack said flatly.
Silence.
Immediate.
Terrible.
Robby’s brows lifted.
Your eyes flicked to Jack.
Jack kept his face flat through force of will alone.
Robby looked delighted in the quietest possible way.
Not triumphant loudly.
Not grinning like an idiot.
Worse.
Like he had just found the exact place to press and was very proud of himself for being right.
After a second, Robby looked back at you. “For the record, that was a genuine academic offer.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Robby.”
Robby held up one hand, eyes still bright. “Mostly.”
Your mouth curved before you could hide it.
Jack saw it.
Robby saw Jack see it.
Of course he did.
Robby crouched again and pulled two books from the bottom of the box, setting them on the coffee table with a dull thud. “These are less urgent, but useful. Keep them around.”
Jack stepped closer to the box. “Anything else?”
Robby looked up at him. “You in a hurry?”
Jack held the pathology packet against his side. “Yes.”
You glanced at Jack. “Were you studying?”
Jack looked at you.
You looked back.
His textbook was in his room.
Closed.
Useless.
He had been awake for hours and had learned absolutely nothing except the precise sound of your morning routine through a wall.
“Yes,” Jack said.
Your expression shifted as if you did not believe him, but you were polite enough not to say it.
That was new.
The polite part.
Robby, unfortunately, had no such restraint.
He stood and brushed one hand over his pants. “Studying, right.”
Jack looked at him. “You can leave now.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “I just got here.”
“You dropped off the materials,” Jack replied.
Robby grinned. “I’m still explaining them.”
Jack lifted the packet. “I can read.”
Robby looked at you. “He can, actually. One of his better qualities.”
You lowered your eyes to the Singh folder, but your smile was still there. “Good to know.”
Jack exhaled through his nose.
Robby smiled like the sound had nourished him.
That was the problem with having friends.
They knew the worst parts of you and still felt entitled to enter your apartment on a Sunday morning with a box of notes and a death wish.
Robby tapped the edge of the box with his shoe. “I’ll leave the rest here. Some of it’s junk. Some of it saves lives. You two can decide which is which.”
You glanced at the box. “Thank you. Really.”
The sincerity in your voice changed the room by half a degree.
Jack looked at you before he could stop himself.
You were still holding the Singh folder. Your hair was loose from whatever you had done after your shower, soft around your face. Your sweatshirt sleeve had slipped over one hand. You looked tired and grateful and very much like someone who belonged in his living room on a Sunday morning.
Jack looked away.
Robby did not.
Robby’s expression softened for one brief, unforgivable second.
Then it sharpened again.
“Anytime,” Robby said.
Jack’s eyes cut to him.
Robby looked innocent.
Poorly.
Jack stepped toward the door. “Robby.”
Robby lifted both hands. “Fine. Going.”
You shifted the folder against your chest and stepped back from the coffee table. “It was nice meeting you.”
Robby paused near the doorway and looked back at you. “Nice meeting you too.”
Jack opened the door.
Robby looked at Jack, then at you, then back at Jack.
That pause was deliberate.
Jack knew it was deliberate because Robby was still alive only because Jack allowed it.
Robby’s mouth curved. “If Abbot gets boring, he has my number.”
You smiled. “Does he get boring?”
Robby looked at Jack. “Constantly.”
Jack’s voice went flat. “Out.”
Robby looked back at you. “Call me. We’ll find something fun to do.”
Jack’s hand tightened on the edge of the door. “Leave.”
Robby’s smile softened just enough to remind Jack they were, unfortunately, friends. “Be nice, Abbot.”
Jack’s expression did not move.
Robby’s eyes flicked to you once more, bright with victory. “Very nice.”
Jack shut the door in his face.
The latch clicked.
Jack kept his hand on the knob for one second longer than necessary.
Robby’s laugh carried faintly down the hall.
Jack exhaled through his nose.
He liked Robby.
Unfortunately.
In theory.
At the moment, he was reconsidering.
Behind him, you were quiet.
That was worse.
Jack turned away from the door.
You were still standing near the coffee table, the Singh folder tucked against your chest, your mouth softer now than it had been when Robby was there.
You glanced toward the door. “He’s fun.”
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Fun.
Of course Robby was fun.
Robby was designed to be fun at inconvenient times.
Jack stepped away from the door. “He’s a menace.”
Your mouth curved faintly. “A helpful menace.”
Jack looked toward the box Robby had left on the floor. “That’s still a menace.”
You followed his gaze.
The box sat beside the coffee table, half-empty, full of folders and loose packets and two heavy books still wedged at the bottom. Robby had left it slightly crooked, because of course he had.
Jack moved toward it. “I’ll put these away.”
You stepped forward at the same time. “I can help.”
Both of you reached for the box.
Your fingers brushed his against the cardboard edge.
Barely.
Nothing.
The kind of contact he should not have noticed.
The kind of contact that should not have been able to stop both of you cold.
But it did.
Your hand froze beside his.
Jack’s stayed where it was.
For one second, neither of you moved.
The apartment went quiet around you.
No Robby in the doorway.
No bright smile.
No easy joke to fill the room.
Just your fingers touching his over a box of old notes, close enough that Jack could see the tiny shift in your breathing.
Your eyes lifted to his.
Jack forgot, briefly, how to do anything useful.
Then you pulled your hand back.
Quickly.
Carefully.
Your fingers curled against your palm. “Sorry. It’s not mine.”
Jack answered too fast. “It’s okay.”
Your eyes flicked back to his.
He heard how quickly he had said it.
So did you.
Jack adjusted his grip on the box, giving himself something to do. “You can go through it.”
Your expression shifted. “Are you sure?”
Jack glanced down at the folders inside. “Yeah.”
You watched him carefully. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Jack said, lifting the box against his hip. “I get first dibs.”
Your mouth curved, and the tension loosened by a fraction. “Of course you do.”
Jack held onto the familiar irritation like a rope. “He’s my friend.”
The words came out sharper than he meant them to.
Not angry.
Just too fast.
Too defensive.
Your smile faded slightly.
Jack heard it then.
What he had made obvious.
What he had tried to make about the box.
The materials.
The notes.
Robby.
His friend.
You shifted the Singh folder against your chest. “Well, he flirted with me.”
Jack went quiet.
Because he had.
Because you had noticed.
Because Jack had noticed.
Because the only thing worse than Robby flirting with you was Jack reacting to it like he had any right to.
His grip tightened against the cardboard edge.
Then he looked down at the box. “I’m going to study.”
Your brows drew together just a little. “Okay.”
Jack shifted the box higher against his hip. “We can share them.”
Your expression softened. “Okay.”
Jack looked toward the hallway. “Swap back and forth.”
You nodded once. “That works.”
Jack shifted the box higher against his hip. “I’ll bring them out later.”
You held the Singh folder a little lower against your chest. “Okay.”
Jack turned before the room could get any smaller.
He made it past the couch.
Past the coffee table.
Almost to his bedroom door.
Almost.
Then your voice caught him.
“Abbot,” you said.
Jack stopped.
He did not turn around right away.
For one second, he stood there with Robby’s box in his hands and his bedroom door a few feet away, close enough to escape into, close enough to shut between himself and everything this morning had dragged into the open.
Then he turned.
Jack kept his voice low. “Yeah?”
You were still near the coffee table.
The Singh folder was held loosely against your chest now.
Not like armor.
Not exactly.
Your eyes met his.
You looked like maybe you had not meant to say anything.
Like maybe you had almost let him go.
Then your fingers tightened once around the folder.
“I’m not going to call Robby,” you said.
Jack went still.
For one stupid second, he had no idea what to do with that.
He should have said he did not care.
He should have said you could study with whoever you wanted.
He should have said Robby was harmless, because he was.
Mostly.
Instead, Jack stood there with Robby’s box in his hands and felt relief hit him so fast it was embarrassing.
Jack’s voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “No?”
You shook your head. “No.”
Jack’s grip tightened on the cardboard.
Your mouth curved faintly, as if you had heard something in his voice he had not meant to give you.
Then your eyes dropped to the folder in your hands.
“He’s not my type,” you said.
Jack went still.
Robby was charming. Easy. Funny. Warm in a way people liked immediately. The kind of man who walked into a room and made it less tense by force of personality alone.
Not your type.
Jack should not have cared.
He cared so much it nearly took the air out of his lungs.
“Good,” he said.
The word was out before he could stop it.
Your eyes lifted back to his.
Jack heard it then.
How it sounded.
How much he had given away with one syllable.
Your mouth parted slightly, like you had been about to say something and thought better of it.
Jack turned before you could.
Before you could ask.
Before he could answer.
He opened his bedroom door with one hand, the box still tucked against his side. Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
Not hard.
Not loud.
Just closed.
Jack stood on the other side of it with Robby’s old notes in his hands, staring at nothing.
Good.
Brilliant.
Very controlled.
Very normal.
Physical attraction did not care whether Robby was your type.
Physical attraction did not feel relief.
Physical attraction did not say good before it had permission.
Jack closed his eyes.
“Fuck.”
Then he set the box on his desk harder than necessary.
A few folders slid sideways.
He stared at them.
Then he stared at the door.
Not your type.
Good.
Jack dragged one hand over his face.
“Idiot,” he muttered.
He sat down at his desk, pulled the first folder from the top, and opened it with the focus of a man who had survived worse than one conversation in his living room.
Singh.
Pathology.
Practice questions.
Typed notes.
Robby’s handwriting in the margins, increasingly illegible as the semester went on.
Useful.
This was useful.
Jack could do useful.
Useful had structure.
Useful had purpose.
Useful did not stand in the middle of an apartment and say good like a man with absolutely no control over his own mouth.
He picked up his pen.
Read the first page.
Read it again.
Retained none of it.
Not your type.
Jack leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.
Robby was not your type.
Apparently.
Which meant nothing.
It meant exactly what you had said. You were not going to call Robby. You were not interested in Robby. It did not mean you were interested in Jack.
It did not mean anything about Jack at all.
Except he had said good.
Out loud.
To your face.
Then shut himself in his bedroom like a coward with a cardboard box.
Excellent work.
Very impressive.
Future physician.
Jack exhaled through his nose and sat forward again.
He sorted the folders instead.
Sorting was safer.
Singh went in one pile. Pharmacology went in another. Renal, cardio, immunology, old exams. Two textbooks at the bottom, both battered, one with Robby’s name written inside the cover and a coffee stain on chapter four.
By the time Jack finished, almost an hour had passed.
He had accomplished something.
That helped.
Not enough.
But some.
From the living room, a page turned.
Jack went still.
Not a textbook page.
Too light.
Too soft.
He looked at the bedroom door.
Another page turned.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Not studying.
Jack sat back.
That should not have interested him.
It did.
Of course it did.
He stayed in his room for another ten minutes on principle.
Then he picked up the Singh folder and opened his door.
The living room was quieter than it had been that morning.
Softer.
The gray Sunday light had shifted across the floorboards, and the coffee table had been cleared of most of your notes. Your pathology textbook sat closed near the edge, one pencil tucked inside it like a surrender flag.
You were on the couch.
Not studying.
That stopped him more effectively than it should have.
You had one foot tucked beneath you, the other hidden under the edge of a blanket. Your coffee mug sat near your knee on the coffee table. Your hair had dried softer around your face, and your sweatshirt sleeve was pulled halfway over one hand.
In your hands was a paperback.
Not a textbook.
Not an outline.
Not anything with a professor’s name on the spine.
Jack looked at it.
Then at you.
Without looking up, you shifted your thumb against the page. “Don’t.”
Jack paused near the coffee table. “I didn’t say anything.”
Your eyes stayed on the book. “You were considering it.”
Jack looked at the cover.
A woman in a dark green gown had one hand braced dramatically against a stone wall while a man in shirtsleeves leaned far too close to her throat. The title curled across the top in gold lettering.
A Lady’s Undoing.
Jack’s mouth almost moved.
He stopped it.
Barely.
You shifted the book lower.
Too late.
He had already seen it.
Jack set the Singh folder on the coffee table. “Interesting.”
Your eyes lifted over the top of the paperback. “It’s Sunday.”
Jack straightened. “I’m aware.”
You held the book slightly closer to your chest. “I’m allowed to read something that won’t be on an exam.”
Jack slid one hand into his pocket. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”
Your eyes narrowed over the book. “You were judging me with your face.”
Jack glanced at the cover again, because apparently he had no instinct for self-preservation.
A Lady’s Undoing.
Of course.
Jack looked back at you. “Looks educational.”
Your fingers tightened around the paperback. “Abbot.”
He lifted his brows. “What?”
You tilted the book away from him. “Don’t ask.”
Jack glanced once at the title. “I wasn’t.”
You gave him a flat look. “You were.”
Jack looked at the book, then back at you. “Undoing what?”
Your face changed instantly.
Jack’s mouth curved.
There.
That was better.
Familiar ground.
You snapped the book halfway closed. “Goodbye.”
Jack nodded toward the hallway. “I live here.”
You tucked one finger between the pages to hold your place. “Go live somewhere else.”
Jack nodded toward the coffee table. “I brought Singh.”
Your gaze flicked to the folder despite yourself.
He noticed.
You lowered the paperback a fraction. “Thank you.”
Jack nodded once. “You’re welcome.”
He should have gone back to his room.
He looked at the book again.
You hugged it closer to your chest. “Do not.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t know Sunday had assigned reading.”
You sat up a little straighter. “It’s not assigned.”
Jack looked at the book once more. “Recreational undoing, then.”
You grabbed a pen from beside your mug and threw it at him.
Jack caught it against his chest without thinking.
For one second, the room went quiet.
Your mouth parted slightly.
His fingers closed around the pen.
He looked at you.
You looked back.
The paperback sat pressed against your chest, one finger still tucked between the pages to hold your place.
Jack’s eyes dropped to it.
Yours followed.
Then you pulled the book tighter against you.
You lifted your chin. “Goodbye, Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly.
He held up the pen. “Keeping this.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You are not.”
Jack closed his fingers around it. “Collateral.”
You shifted on the couch. “For what?”
Jack glanced once at the book.
Your face warmed.
He turned toward the hall before he could smile.
A quiet laugh slipped out of him anyway.
“See you later,” Jack said.
Then he went back to his room with your pen still in his hand and the title A Lady’s Undoing stuck somewhere in his head, where it had absolutely no business being.
thinking about going to get sushi with jack and doing that trend where you eat a piece off your partner's bicep. he's so confused at first because usually when you pull your phone out at dinner it's to take a selfie, and you just immediately tell him to get out of the frame. instead, you grab his arm, prop his elbow on the table, and tell him to flex. he gives you the most suspicious look but does it anyway because, unfortunately for him, he'd let you talk him into just about anything. that man is so whipped.
you carefully set a piece of sushi on his bicep, add the tiniest drop of soy sauce, and lean in to eat it. he's completely stunned. never in a million years did he think this would be something that got to him, but then you swipe your tongue over the little drop of soy sauce you'd missed and suddenly he's forgotten there are other people in the restaurant.
before you can even stop recording, his hand is sliding behind your neck, fingers disappearing into your hair as he tips your chin up to kiss you. you just smile into it because... yeah. the trend worked a little better than expected. and you know dinner is going to be over a lot sooner than either of you intended.
