only a brief moment of nsfw, established situationship or something, reader is an unspecified type of rich important person's adult child
1.4k
idk this is nothing
Andrew’s walkie-talkie crackles at his belt. “Security desk to Cody. We’ve got a 62-12 in the west lawn headed your direction. Team alpha deployed. Secure the asset. Over.”
Adrenaline spikes in his chest. Armed and dangerous intruder -- coming directly for you. Striding quickly through the pool complex, he clicks his own walkie and confirms, “Cody to all units. Copy 62-12. Securing asset now. Over.”
Andrew follows the loud music thumping through the indoor/outdoor space, cursing whatever architect decided that a series of different temperature curvy pools divided by columns and glass walls and oversized tropical plants was a good idea. An intruder could hide around so many of the features, perving on you in your string bikini or aiming a gun at you without being spotted. Andrew’s worked for your family long enough to see the whole range of threats, hired years back when you became an adult and needed your own security team. Now that you're his…whatever it's been between you the last few months…the stakes feel so much higher. You aren't just the spoiled brat he has to stop paparazzi from photographing. You're everything.
He spots you by one of the hot tubs, wrapping yourself in a fluffy white robe, completely unaware of your surroundings as you drown your thoughts in loud music and steam.
At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, Andrew sees the movement of the intruder through the floor-to-ceiling windows out on the nearest lawn, quickly moving from place to place trying to stay out of view. There’s no way of knowing if he’s got eyes on you yet, so Andrew has no choice but to grab you. He snaps one hand over your mouth, hoists you up with his strong arm, and hauls you toward the first locking door he finds.
Thankfully, you don’t try to fight him off as fear spills through your body. You know it’s Andrew from the broadness of his chest, the certainty in his touch, the bite of his sharp masculine cologne, so you don’t try to get away. As soon as he became your personal bodyguard, Andrew taught you to stay calm and go limp when it’s him and to fight like hell when it’s anyone else. He wouldn’t grab you like this if it weren’t serious.
Within seconds, Andrew’s manhandled you through the locker room and into one of the private shower stalls, two locked doors between you and danger. Nearly silent, he breathes against your ear, “I’m gonna let you go now, sweetheart, but don’t make any noise.”
You nod into his skin, tasting the salt of his palm, and feel your body relax as you get balanced on your feet. Andrew’s presence is the one thing that’s always been able to keep you calm. As you catch your breath, trying to keep them slow and steady, he instinctively checks you over for any signs of injury or major distress even though he knows you're fine, breathing heavily with his strong hands on your shoulders. He flicks a button on his walkie to silently alert the team that you've been secured in a safe location.
Satisfied that you’re calming down and safe, he whispers urgently, hazel eyes wide, “You need to wait here, okay? Just sit tight and be quiet until I get back. I have to get the intruder off the property.”
You grab his hand and hold it tight, shaking your head. Tears slip down your cheeks. He’s done enough training with you that you’re able to stay silent despite the terror wracking around your ribcage. You lean forward in the small space, press your lips to his ear, and beg, “Don’t leave, Andrew.” Your whole body shakes and he can hear your teeth chattering with your faces so close together. Even though you're whispering, your throat is so thick with tears that little whimpering sounds come through. “Stay with me; I'm scared."
Andrew’s heart shatters. Fuck. A war rages in his mind. It’s his job to keep you safe. To protect you from harm. To neutralize threats. Your parents cut him a fat paycheck for that reason, trusting him to take the shot on anyone who threatens their baby girl.
But here you are.
Soft, small, vulnerable.
Asking him not to do his job but to follow the nagging voice deep in the back of his mind and the base of his gut that tells him that keeping you safe means holding you close. That protecting you from harm means drying your tears.
The residence is crawling with security. Someone besides him can and will handle the intruder. Andrew knows that if he left you right now, he might be able to catch the guy early and stop some property damage.
But you’d be alone.
And you’d be scared
So Andrew wraps his arms around you. He kisses the top of your head, cradles you with strong hands, and breathes deeply, encouraging you to do the time. And he says, “I’ve got you. I'm right here.”
You nestle into his chest and nod. For a few minutes, he holds you while you cry, pressing soothing kisses to your temple and rubbing your back. You're so gentle; it's one of the things he loves most about you. For many people in your position, this would just be an annoyance, a frustrating blip in your day, but to you it's worth crying over. Andrew needs more of that -- sensitivity, sweetness, fragility -- in his life.
Andrew's walkie crackles to life again. "Security to all units. 62-12 has been neutralized without fire. Surveying property for damage now. Cody provide status on the asset. Over."
Andrew lets out a relieved sigh. Still holding you with one arm, he grabs the radio from its clip and says, voice low and quick, "Cody to security. Copy. Asset is safe and unharmed. Over and out."
After a few moments of silence, both of you breathing in tandem, you pull back from him as much as the cramped stall allows. His arms are still around you and it doesn't seem he has any plans to change that. You press your lips softly to his stubbly cheek -- you secretly love when he forgets to shave in the morning -- and murmur, "Thanks for saving me, Andy."
He lets out a sharp, hoarse laugh. "I should've been closer. Shouldn't have taken so long to get to you."
"You went to the bathroom," you point out. "You're allowed to pee on the clock."
"I know, I know." He shakes his head, running antsy fingers through his curls. "Just…Fuck, if anything happened to you."
"But nothing did," you remind him. "It was probably just another creep trying to get pictures of my tits, anyway."
That makes him hum in annoyance. "That's not better."
"What?" You poke his firm pec and tease, "All grumpy at the thought of someone else seeing my boobs?"
With a conspiratorial sort of smile, he admits, "Maybe. A little."
You raise an eyebrow, drop your hand to the tie of your robe, and tug hard. The soft garment falls to the tile floor, leaving in your very, very small bikini. Then, before he can protest, you've undone the hook behind your back and let the top join it. As he stares at your bare chest, immediately getting hard from the sight and the lingering adrenaline, you gesture dramatically and ask, "All better?"
Andrew sighs contentedly. "You're fucking perfect." He lowers his head and kisses across the tops of your breasts, gentle and reassuring. "Never gonna let anyone hurt you."
"I know," you reply breathlessly as he wraps his lips around one of your nipples. "You always keep me safe. That's why I'm yours."
He gazes up at you from between your tits, smiling boyishly, and confirms, "All mine?"
Your cheeks warm up from the unabashed adoration in his eyes and you give him an embarrassed, bashful nod. "Yours."
"All this for me," he breathes out, giving a low whistle. He mouths down the center of your chest and along your stomach, his tongue memorizing the familiar shapes and curves. He wraps his arms around you again and drags his hands up the backs of your legs, lighting up every nerve. When they finally settle on your ass, Andrew shakes his head in disbelief. "I'm the luckiest son of a bitch in the world."
pope definitely has hyperspermia, especially pope from the first seasons. pope, who just got out of prison, who is touch starved and broken.
you feel it the first time he fucks you. you both cling to each other like a lifeline, not letting the other pull away even for a second. his thick cock abuses your sensitive, gummy walls with deep, rough thrusts, kissing your cervix every time, making your throat feel raw and sore.
you’re still a little lightheaded from the orgasm pope ripped out of you when you feel it.
his cum is making you fuller with every twitch of his big cock inside you, to the point where it feels like your lower abdomen is starting to swell—and maybe it really is swelling, because pope just keeps cumming, keeps filling your pussy with his thick load.
and when he finally pulls out of you, you immediately feel something leaking out of your slit—there’s so much of it, you're convinced you've peed yourself.
and pope?
pope just stares, as if spellbound. your pretty pussy is all puffy and dirty from all his cum and he can’t help himself from scooping up the white fluid with two fingers and shoving it back inside you , but it just makes even more of it come out of you.
and that just makes him hard again. so hard and so ready just for you.
imagining s1 pope and his girl who has sensitive tits and he loves playing with them..
cw: s1! pope, f! reader, soft(?) dom! pope, pope is a certified titty sucker, his big ahh hands 🤤, intense eye contact (you love it)
your nails dragged through the short curls that sat on top of pope’s head, back arched against his mouth, the rough drag of his teeth against your already over sensitive nipple causing your toes to curl, a moan tumbling out of your mouth.
one of his large hands swept over your other nipple, tugging it between two of his thick fingers before letting go, smoothing it over with his palm before his lips encircled that one, his fingers now working the abandoned nipple.
“andy, fuck. go easy, honey, ‘m sensitive, please.”
pope grunts out against your chest, heavy gaze locking onto your glazed over eyes from where he was situated between your tits, rolling his face between them as he sucked dark marks on the underside of each.
“how ‘m i supposed to go easy when my two favorite girls are right in front of my face, sweetheart?”
he spoke in a raspy tone, tongue peaking out from between his lips as he nosed over your perked up nipples, sucking each into his mouth once more before covering them both in his large, heavy hands, his lips seeking out yours in a heavy kiss, tongues rolling against each other in a mess of hot breaths and thick saliva.
messy, dirty, and all his, every inch of you- from head to pretty manicured toes (paid for in cash by him, obviously).
a/n: god s1 pope has been heavy on my mind lately, need him desperately.. hope y’all enjoy xoxo
Simply thinking about Jack Abbot correcting your posture.
He’s a doctor, so sure it starts there, in the territory of alignment and strain and long-term damage, all the tiny indignities a body absorbs when nobody’s paying proper attention to it.
And he worries about you, of course. Worries about the set of your neck and the rounded drag of your shoulders, about how you curl in on yourself over your charting like the screen might swallow you whole, about how you hunch over your phone texting those ridiculous little emoticons and memes he glances at with visible suspicion.
So he makes an effort to fix it.
A broad hand behind your chair, angling it closer to the desk until your spine has no excuse but the lengthen. Two fingers slipped beneath your chin when you’re bent out of shape around your phone on the couch, tilting your gaze upward until the vertebrae stack properly and the ache in your neck eases. Even in transit — plate to sink, fridge to stove — he stops to cup your shoulders, easing them from your ears with a downward glide of his thumbs.
A silent reward hums through the touch: a silent good girl, there you go.
“Sit up, sweetheart.” “Uncross your legs.” “Laptop higher.” “Relax your jaw.”
He knows he’s a perpetual nuisance, aware he sounds like someone’s dad, can practically hear the eye-roll you swallow every time.
He also knows it embarrasses you, especially at work, where your face goes warm when he corrects you within earshot of other people. And it isn’t that he sets out to make you squirm, though he’d be lying if he said he got nothing out of that quick little fluster he can pull from you with a word, a hand, a look.
It’s just that once he notices you folded in on yourself for too long, something in him firms. His voice drops into that clipped, authoritative register, flipping a switch to brisk certainty and command, and by then it’s already too late to pretend you’re not going to listen.
So when he catches you slouched at the station again, practically kissing the monitor, he doesn’t hesitate.
Steps in behind you. His palm fits against the ridge of your upper back, heat seeping straight through the thin cotton.
“Up.”
You mutter, “I hate you,” eyes never leaving the vitals grid, and Jack takes it as the green light it is.
His thumb glides from back to shoulder to nape. The opposite hand curves under your jaw’s hinge, guiding your head until your spine clicks back to neutral while the entire nurses’ station pretends their screens are riveting.
Public proof that your posture, and maybe the rest of you, answers to Dr. Abbot’s touch far faster than to your own irritation.
“There’s a whole skeleton under all that,” he observes dryly. “Try using it.”
You bat at his hand, a half-hearted slap. “Stop manhandling me at work.”
He ignores that, drops the chair one notch (ignoring your surprised squeak too), angles the monitor to proper eye level, then squares your shoulders with both palms. A measured squeeze follows, equal parts reassurance and warning.
“Better,” he decides. “And if I catch you bent over that phone again, I’m taking it.”
He likes the line of you best when he’s the one arranging it.
You figure that out later, breathless and flushed, forehead buried in his sheets while he kneels behind you, two sure hands repositioning your ass in the air like he’s smoothing kinks from an instrument only he can tune.
“Uh-uh,” he grunts, and you’re too far gone to know what he means until his palm presses between your shoulder blades and eases you down, down, down, your hips staying high as your face sinks into the pillow. “Arch for me — c’mon, deeper bend, don’t cheat your lower back.”
Your breath catches when he palms the dip he’s just created, fingers splaying and then he’s sliding his cock in your folds slow. It earns a pleased mewl from you, angle perfect because he’s engineered it that way.
Every push has a tiny corrective tap — shoulders down, knees wider, perfect girl — until your pussy clenches and drips all over his rigid stomach and he finally lets you break form, hips snapping while his palm settles, triumphant, at the very spot that first straightened you hours ago.
MARIA NOTE hello this is my trying out little blurbs/drabbles bc this random thought rlly evoked something in me... don't know how to feel it ab. it feels naked without my fun graphics but alas! and the tiny text??? what do we think?? yes or no i'm in the middle right now so feel free to share opinions... it looked a little strange as regular but idk i'm lowkey having an existential crisis over this ok bye
pope goes to smurf's house only to find you playing dress-up in lingerie
bet u wanna MEET THE READER! ── .✦ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING pope cody x bunny!reader
WARNING 18+ MDNI explicit language, sexual tension, male-gaze objectification, lingerie/revealing clothing, voyeuristic framing, possessive behavior, jealous pope, power imbalance (age & authority), internal monologue with some violent thoughts, smurf's coercive caretaking, family dysfunction/toxic dynamics, obsessive attraction
WC 2k
Well, that sucked.
By the time Pope gets back, the rush has leeched out, leaving only that deep-kernel ache that seats itself behind his eyes and chews on the hinges of his knees.
Two straight hours of Craig’s bullshit. Handling one of his messes: steal a box truck, ditch it by the frontage weeds, ferry a duffel that sloshes like loose change in hell.
And that kid — peach-fuzz jaw, barely old enough to drive, hands rattling on the wheel — kept chirping, They get the plate? You think the cops got the plate? Until Pope finally told him to Shut the fuck up.
It should’ve been simple. And it was. But now his shoulders have ratcheted up to his ears, boots scraped with dried roadside clay, and something electric still zings along the wire of his veins, buzzing rest right out of reach even while his muscles sag for it.
He ought to drive to his own apartment. Strip, shower, face-plant into bed. Instead, he hooks the wheel into Smurf’s driveway, jaw hooking and unhooking as the tires snap and grind.
His place has felt wrong lately. Like stepping into a church long after the candles are snuffed, all the heat siphoned off, air too neat, too unlived-in.
He skips the confession that he knew you’d be here tonight.
You’d told him earlier you were going over to Smurf’s after dinner, helping finish month-end paperwork for one of the Cody businesses because half the receipts were missing, the books didn’t match, and Smurf liked having someone patient enough to untangle the mess without asking too many questions.
Pope kills the engine and sits there for a second, both fists locked on the wheel, eyes tracking the jaundiced porch light as if it might blink out.
The notion of finding you perched on the counter, hair pulled back, tongue caught between your teeth while you tame Smurf’s math brings him a molecule of relief.
Maybe if he can stand close enough, let that warmth bleed off you and into him, that static in his body will finally ebb.
But when he steps inside the kitchen he doesn’t find you there.
Instead the room is empty except for a lamp left on and a stack of folders spread across the island.
He’s halfway to calling your name when your voice drifts down the hallway.
“No, I don’t know if this one fits right.” A heartbeat of silence, Smurf’s gravelly reply lost in drywall, then you again, soft and rueful: “It’s weird in the shoulders.”
His boots are already angling down the hall before the thought finishes forming. A prickle climbs the back of his neck. Pre-impact warning, he thinks.
He rounds the doorway and when he sees you, the whole room seems to swim in distorted colors.
Every sane impulse collapses into a pinhole centered on you. Balance? Shot. Vision? Down to one shaky frame. All he can do is absorb the hit and pray his face doesn’t show it.
You’re standing barefoot in the glow of Smurf’s vanity lights, one arm over your chest, gigglinh a little while Smurf fusses with the back clasp of a dove-gray lingerie set that leaves most of your spine exposed.
Lace webs your hips, throwing sparks of silver thread catching every twitch of light, sketching a glittered arrow that drags Pope’s gaze downward before he can marshal a single thought.
His palms twitch, desperate to chart every raw continent of skin in front of him. He’s never seen this much of you outside a bathing suit.
His zipper strains as his cock twitches in his jeans.
And still he’s motionless, swallowing hard, worship curdling into something closer to panic because if you turn and see what’s in his eyes, you’ll know things he’s barely admitted to himself.
You twist, a startled little oh hitching out as gravity helps sink the lace a fraction to frame your breasts in shadowed leafwork.
Pope’s eyes bite down, brutal and starving, then wrenches upward to your face, forcing itself past you to Smurf.
She waits with that fox-like smile, the one that says she laid the snare hours ago and knew exactly which wolf would step into it.
“What the fuck is this?” he barks.
“Langauge.” Smurf reminds, tapping your hip like you’re a showroom dummy.
“You got her parading around like that in the middle of the house?”
“She’s not parading,” Smurf corrects. “We were having fun.”
You hunch your shoulders like a breeze just cut through, never mind that the motion only lofts your chest higher in the fabric, and offer him a sheepish half-smile.
“Smurf was just helping me pick out some… stuff,” you say, as if the word covers feathers and dynamite alike.
Stuff. Harmless, cute, nothing to see. At least that’s the story you seem to be trying to sell.
What use do you have for lingerie? Especially the kind that looks like sin stitched up?
A boyfriend? Somebody you’re texting while he’s too busy mopping up Craig’s mistakes to notice? Far as he knows you’re not seeing anyone, but the idea of that sweetness wrapped up for anyone else pours molten lead straight into his head.
“You don’t need —” he falters, fingers flexing like they might crumple the air — “stuff like that.”
He knows it’s a selfish claim. The idea that lingerie is pointless unless he is the one unhooking it, unless his mouth is the one to learn every inch of you that the fabric covers. Anything that decadent belongs behind a door he locks, the key warm in his fist, an invitation meant for him alone.
Smurf lifts a single painted brow. “Need’s got nothin’ to do with it, baby. A girl gets to feel pretty just because.”
Pope scoffs.
“She’s already plenty pretty —” His eyes flick to you. “ — you’re already… you’re fine without all this.” He swings his glare back to Smurf. “Whatever game this is, it’s not what you hired her for. Cut it out.”
You wet your lips, nervously looking between the two Codys. “Pope, it’s okay.”
His name, or the semblance of it (he’s not sure you even know his real name at this point), from your lips while you’re dressed like this feels like blasphemy.
In an instant he’s seeing the bodysuit rolled down slow, edges snagging on goose-bumped thighs while you try to stay modest, him kissing away the apologies that rise in your throat, laying you back across the vanity bench so he can have his way with you.
Sweat beads at his hairline. He pinches his nose, swallows broken glass. “Go put somethin’ else on.”
“Don’t bark orders at her,” Smurf chides, the words lazy.
He pretends he didn’t hear her; only when his eyes meet yours do they soften, apology threaded through the glare. “Go on, please.”
You nod at that and hurry back down the hall. Pope’s body tilts to follow the sway of your hips before he yanks it still until the bathroom lock snicks closed.
When he turns, Smurf is already studying him the way a jeweler studies a flawed diamond, looking for cracks, head tipped, eyes sharp.
He offers nothing, no twitch of the mouth or flinch, just the blank slate he’s spent years perfecting.
She finally concedes and pushes off the dresser.
“Think I’ll fix myself a sandwich,” she murmurs, “Try not to devour the poor girl before I’m back.”
Her hand lands on Pope’s chest in a mock-pat; he jerks away and she chuckles low as she saunters past him, heels clicking all the way down the hall.
He wipes a palm down his jeans, trying to scrape off the phantom of her touch.
Devour — that’s her word, not his. And as much as he wants to do that, what he feels for you is bigger than hunger.
It’s blueprints and scaffolding, a whole cathedral of intention he barely dares to name. Smurf can’t fathom that depth. She pokes at the surface and calls it knowledge, never understanding the miles of dark water beneath.
The bathroom door creaks open and you step out, head ducked, hands smoothing a cotton sundress the color of lemon ice.
The hem flutters modestly around your knees, though you still tug it lower.
“Sorry,” you breathe, a nervous puff of air.
The word pricks at him. He wants to say there’s nothing to be sorry for, that the fault lies in his own head, in Smurf’s games, in every inch of distance he keeps for your sake.
A knot in his shoulders eases. “Don’t apologize.”
It’s a stupid thing to say, because after the way he’s treated you, how would you know you didn’t have to?
He presses the heel of his hand over his mouth, scrubbing like he could wipe the taste of the whole night away. His eyes flick to the dirt still crusted on his boots, grit he suddenly can’t stand around you, and scuffs one sole against the other as if that’ll fix anything.
“C’mere.” The request is low, ragged, and you obey without hesitation. Always a good listener for him.
As you step into the slice of light between you, he lifts one broad hand, slowing it at the last second to straighten the twisted strap at your collarbone.
His touch is rough in theory, calloused pads snagging silk, but in practice it’s feather-light, reverent, as though he’s afraid you’ll bruise if he breathes too hard.
The tiny contact is a fuse and a salve all at once. The instant your warmth bleeds into him the restless buzz he’s been carrying dims, a far-off generator finally cut.
He draws back just enough to meet your eyes. “You don’t gotta let her play dress-up with you like that.”
“I don’t mind — honest,” you say, giving a tiny shrug.
“I mind,” he says, the line grating rough. Even he seems surprised by the bite, lips pressing thin as he exhales.
Your shoulders dip. “You didn’t like it?”
The downward curve of your mouth guts him. He curses under his breath.
“I… yeah, I liked it.” Too damn much, he thinks. “...It’s just the kind of thing that’s supposed to be private, y’know? Meant for one set of eyes.”
“Private as in… like, saved for a boyfriend?”
He schools his face, but inside he’s turning over every recent memory, searching for the invisible man who might already have his hands on you.
“Yeah… like for a boyfriend,” he murmurs. “And only when you’re good and ready. Don’t let some jerk fast-talk you into giving him what he hasn’t earned.”
“He wouldn’t,” you say, like the question never existed.
Your eyes lift to his like you’re lining up a target, lashes barely fluttering.
There’s no shimmer of shyness now. Just concentrated fire, sliding over his cheekbones, jawline, the slight stubble he didn’t bother shaving. It feels like you’re pocketing measurements for later, mapping angles with the same precision he uses to load a round.
Hallway light glints off your pupils, then pools into rich shadow.
Pope’s next breath sticks in his throat; he isn’t used to being seen like this — like the whole world has funneled down to just him, and you’re perfectly happy living inside that narrow beam.
And it’s strange when you just confirmed his suspicions. Proof there is someone out there who’s already earned that privilege, someone so gentle you can declare his goodness without blinking.
It should reassure him. Instead it tastes like rust and gun-oil, sparks off a terrible instinct that wants a name, an address, a reason to break knuckles until the picture stops existing.
Possession floods his lungs. He forces it down, masks the scorch as nothing more than a normal breath.
“Good,” he manages through grit teeth. “Just… promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. People aren’t always what they say.”
Your fingers toy with the strap he’d fixed. “Promise.”
Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, just a flicker, before sliding back up, a soft smile playing at the corners as if you know a secret he hasn’t caught.
Something in it says the good man you vouched for is already standing here, but Pope’s too busy counting heartbeats to see the answer staring him down.
MARIA NOTE thank u for reading!!!!! u get a gold star and a juice box !! if u r craving more bunny antics (or want pope to suffer in new and interesting ways), requests are open!! and reminder that feedback feeds the gremlins, and the gremlins write the fics :-) 💛⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ 🌼
imagining s1 pope and his girl who has sensitive tits and he loves playing with them..
cw: s1! pope, f! reader, soft(?) dom! pope, pope is a certified titty sucker, his big ahh hands 🤤, intense eye contact (you love it)
your nails dragged through the short curls that sat on top of pope’s head, back arched against his mouth, the rough drag of his teeth against your already over sensitive nipple causing your toes to curl, a moan tumbling out of your mouth.
one of his large hands swept over your other nipple, tugging it between two of his thick fingers before letting go, smoothing it over with his palm before his lips encircled that one, his fingers now working the abandoned nipple.
“andy, fuck. go easy, honey, ‘m sensitive, please.”
pope grunts out against your chest, heavy gaze locking onto your glazed over eyes from where he was situated between your tits, rolling his face between them as he sucked dark marks on the underside of each.
“how ‘m i supposed to go easy when my two favorite girls are right in front of my face, sweetheart?”
he spoke in a raspy tone, tongue peaking out from between his lips as he nosed over your perked up nipples, sucking each into his mouth once more before covering them both in his large, heavy hands, his lips seeking out yours in a heavy kiss, tongues rolling against each other in a mess of hot breaths and thick saliva.
messy, dirty, and all his, every inch of you- from head to pretty manicured toes (paid for in cash by him, obviously).
a/n: god s1 pope has been heavy on my mind lately, need him desperately.. hope y’all enjoy xoxo
sloppy, sleepy makeout with jack where you’re basically just licking into each other’s mouths rather than kissing :( sucking on jack’s tongue :(( he’s holding your chin and pressing you closer to him by your back :((( pulling back to tell you how good you taste :((((((
Jack Abbot’s pretty young neighbor runs to him with all her medical problems—he wouldn’t want it any other way.
Masterlist
Sort of MedPlay, vaginal inspection, fingering
It had been early in the morning the first time Jack Abbot had been formally acquainted with his new neighbor.
He’d just crossed the threshold to his bedroom. Exhaustion weighed heavy on his body, an undeniable ache in his leg. He’d chucked his pack in the corner of the room, all but collapsed on his bed, and just barely began the process of removing his prosthetic when the rhythmic knocking at his front door broke his tired trance.
He felt every bit his age as he drug himself from the comforts of his mattress. Jack had been fully prepared to give whoever the fuck was banging on his door an earful, as he yanked the door open and answered with a rough, “What!?”
The pathetic sight that met him had all his aggression sliding right off of him.
Jack recognized you—had seen you moving furniture in the apartment across the hall as he left for his shift one night a few weeks ago—the short shorts you’d had on left a burning impression in his mind the rest of the night.
He felt bad instantly, seeing your sweet young face twist up in embarrassment, pained tears filling your eyes.
“I’m so, so sorry to bother you.” You’d sputtered out apologies so easily, cowering under Jack’s hard eyes. “I just—I fell and I know you’re a nurse, or doctor—I’ve seen your uniform and I just thought—“
You’d rambled on, while Jack’s eyes traced your body. Those same damn shorts—closer to panties in Jack’s opinion—were back in rotation, and left everything on display. The nasty scrap from your mid-shin up to your knee dripped blood. The wound sitting offensively amongst otherwise perfectly smooth, youthful skin.
“—and it hurts really bad.” Your voice just floated through his mind. “And I don’t have anything to clean it—”
“Come inside.” Jack had stated simply, pushing the door open wide and limping back inside. He didn’t have to look back to know you’d followed, your soft sniffling was enough conformation. You followed like an obedient puppy to the bathroom, and quietly sat on the toilet when Jack gestured to it. He pulled his Med-Kit from beneath the sink, a tired sound falling from his lips when he balanced on the edge of the tub, pulling your injured leg across his lap.
Jack was quiet as he worked, moving on autopilot. Pulling gauze, disinfectant, and antibiotic ointments from his kit. He glanced at your face once, and gave a warning, “This is gonna sting.”
“Ow!” You sucked in a breath as soon as the disinfectant made contact. Each pass to wipe away the blood was met with a whimper of pain, the sound echoing in Jack’s mind. And as Jack cleaned the deepest part of the wound, you’d tried to wiggle the limb off his lap, away from the pain. He’d stopped you with a firm hand, gripping tight around your ankle.
With a tsk, Jack scolded, “Stop moving—you can take it, you’re a big girl, aren’t you?”
He’d felt you tense, heard your breath hitch. In the corner of his eye, he saw you bite your lip, before you whimpered a soft, “M’sorry doctor.”
He ignored the way his dick twitched.
You did as you were told, sitting still while Jack applied a generous layer of antibiotic ointment and wrapped you up tight with clean gauze.
“Good girl.” His warm palm smoothed over the dressing—down your leg before his touch encompassed your ankle again, gently guiding your leg off his lap. “Well, I believe you’ll live.”
“Thanks, Doc.” You’d blinked up at him, after marveling at the neat dressings. “Do I get a lollipop?”
He’d snorted—ignoring the desire to make a less than appropriate joke back—and guided you back towards the door, “Keep it clean, let me know if it starts feeling worse, or you run a fever.”
Jack ignored the dazzling smile you threw his way, before disappearing through your own door.
Finally finding refuge in his room, he collapsed on the bed. In the morning, he’ll pretended his slumber wasn’t filled with visions of his pretty neighbor making the same sweet sighs and whines while Jack bent you over. Jack told himself he had just been exhausted, and you were the last thing he saw before he went to bed, that’s why you plagued his mind.
It was fine, because that would be the first and last interaction he’d have with his neighbor.
That was, until you wound up at his door again three days later. A anxious look on your face while you nervously glanced up as Jack opened the door. Before he could greet you, the words tumbled out your mouth, “How do you know if you have breast cancer?”
“Eh—what?” Jack blinked. Of all ways he envisioned you coming back to his door, this wasn’t one of them.
“I’m sorry, I was just—“ You huffed, dropping your eyes to the ground. “I felt something, and I don’t know what it is, and Google is scaring me.”
“Dr. Google has horrible reviews.” Jack smirked, cracking his door open in a silent invitation. “C’mon, tell ol’ Jack what’s going on. I wanted to check your bandages anyways.”
Your first meeting repeated, Jack led you back to his bathroom. You perched yourself on the toilet without having to be told this time. Anxiety fizzled in your stomach, but you were much less distressed than before. This time, you were able to fully appreciate the man before you—all broad shoulders, buff arms, and soft graying curls—a delicious sight. You subtly licked your lips, thighs pressing together as the muscles bulged against his t-shirt as Jack fished the med-kit out again.
He settled close to you, on the rim of the tub again with a small huff, and tapped his thigh—you obediently lifted your leg onto him.
Jack was gentle as he peeled the bandages back, muttering soft apologizes when the sticky pulled at your skin and you winced.
“Sorry—you’re doing great.” His husky whisper made you shiver a tad, a move Jack didn’t miss despite his focus being on your leg. “Wish all my patients were as well behaved as you.”
You flourished under the praise.
Jack made quick work, noting the wound had scabbed up well, and remained decently clean with no obvious signs of infection before redressing you with clean gauze.
“There, all done—looks good.” Jack patted your thigh. “Now, you didn’t come all the way over here for a new bandaid. What’s wrong?”
“Well, it’s—” You focused on the plush bath mat, avoiding Jack’s intense but kind eyes. “I think I found a lump? I don’t know. But I felt something and Google scared me, and I don’t know what to do—“
“A lump?” Jack raised his brows. “Like…a lump, lump? On your…breast?”
“Yeah.”
“Well—” Jack focused on putting his med-kit back in order. “I’m not going to be much help with that…here.”
“Why not?” You frowned.
“There’s no way for me to know if it’s something to worry about.” Jack said. “You would need a mammogram, maybe even a biopsy, which I cannot do in my bathroom. You should call your primary—“
“I can’t!” You cried. “I don’t have insurance, I can’t pay for—can’t you just check?”
“Check?” Jack repeated, confused.
“Can’t you give me like…a basic exam?” You asked. “Feel it, see if it feels—I don’t know—bad?”
Jack paused, blinking dumbly at you.
She wants me to touch her breasts.
“You can give yourself a self examination.” Jack spoke slowly, voice steady like he didn’t want to outright tell you no, but was treading this conversation carefully. “It’s fairly easy, you just—”
“But I don’t know what I’m feeling for!” You whined. “What if I think it feels normal, but a medical professional knows it’s something serious! Just—”
With a frustrated sigh, your shirt was pulled over your head before Jack could register what you were doing—let alone stop you—and snatched his hand in yours, guiding him to your bare chest.
No bra. Was the first thing that ran through his mind. Which was insane, considering his young neighbor was now shirtless. And he was loosely grasping your tit, your hand covering his.
A look of concentration etched across your face as you moved his palm around, until you found whatever you were looking for.
“There!” You declared, your hold pressing Jack’s rough palm harder against the soft fat of your breast. “Can you feel that, right there?”
He masked a groan with a cough, steeling his face while his gaze bounced from your expecting face to your naked torso. Perky breasts on full display. Nipples already stiffening at the cooler bathroom air.
He ignored his pants getting uncomfortably tight.
Pressing his fingers gently into the place you’d led him to, attempting to remain professionally and not just outright fondle you. Jack prodded, ignoring the anxious look that settled on your face, like you were bracing for the worst news.
“Well,” Jack dropped his hand, smoothing a tense hand across his jaw. “It feels smooth, no irregular shaping. It could be just a cyst, from a change in hormones or menstruation…”
Jack trailed off, losing focus when you mindlessly palmed your own breast, prodding at the spot while he talked.
“So, it’s okay?”
“Most likely.” Jack nodded, digging his fingers into his own leg to keep his head on straight. “But you should still get it really checked out…”
“No, no, I trust you.” You smiled, and nonchalantly pulled your shirt back on. Then, leaned forward a planted a kiss to Jack’s stubbly cheek, with an audible muah! Jack briefly wondered if this was even real, or he was still blissfully asleep in bed dreaming. “Thanks, Doc!”
Then you jumped up, and damn neared skipped out his apartment. Leaving the dazed old man touching his cheek, and staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through.
Jack spent that night replaying the feeling of you in his hands, imagining his hands touching you in a different manner while working his fist over his aching cock, picturing your trusting eyes looking up at him.
Then Jack finally had a day off, spending it lounging on the couch with some random survival show playing on the television when the gentle knocking came again. He already knew who was on the other side of the door—answering with a charming smile and a corny, “Evening, neighbor.”
There you were again, all sweet smiles and adoring eyes. This time, holding a small gift basket with generic man-themed gifts—snacks, sandalwood scented lotions and candle, a few mini bottles of liquor—that you shyly held out to him.
“I just wanted to say thank you.” You gave him a sheepish smile. “For the other day? You were really nice so—thank you.”
Jack took your little peace offering gratefully, nodding his thanks, “You didn’t have to do that, but thanks—very sweet of you—How’s it healing?”
The doctor in him never rested, it seemed, as his gaze dropped to your legs. The short shorts that plagued Jack’s dreams were gone, or maybe just hidden, by the oversized t-shirt you wore. You extended your leg a bit to show off your semi-healed scabbed up shin, “It’s okay, stopped hurting. Just kind of itches—yes, I know, don’t scratch it.”
You giggled, seeing the words forming on Jack’s lips before he could spit them out.
“Good.” Jack nodded. You both stood there, silently for a moment, neither really sure what to do next. “Did—were you just dropping this off or did you need anything else?”
You fidgeted under his eyes, playing with the hem of your shirt, chewing on your bottom lip in a way that drew Jack’s attention. “I wanna ask you something, but it’s…embarrassing.”
Jack’s eyebrows raised, curiosity budding. “It can’t be that bad.”
You did have me grab your tit last time. He thought, briefly glancing at your chest forcing his eyes back up. Can’t get much more embarrassing than that.
“I’m…having trouble.” You fiddled with your fingers. “With doing…something.”
“Okaay.” Jack drawled, shifting his weight. “This ‘trouble’? You planning on spitting it out or am I supposed to solve a riddle.”
“I just—I’ve been trying.” You spit out. “But nothing happens! I can feel it, I’ll be almost there, and then it just goes away! Gone!”
“Gone?” Jack echos.
“Yes, ‘gone’ just—Poof!” You exclaimed, hands thrown up in frustration. “And it hurts, Jack! What if something’s wrong with me—somethings wrong down there—and I just don’t know it!”
“Then you should probably see a doctor—”
“You are a doctor!” You poked his chest, briefly pausing at the feeling of dense muscle beneath your digit—but Jack caught the way you gulped.
“I’m not that kind of doctor, sweetheart.”
“Can’t you just examining me? I mean, it can’t be that different from what you do.” You whined. “Please. I trust you.”
This had to be the beginning of a very shitty porno, Jack thought. Because there was no way the pretty young girl that just moved in across the hall, was begging him to exam her pussy because she can’t make herself cum.
That, or he finally stepped off the roof and this was some bizarre version of the afterlife.
If he was a better man—a good man—Jack would have refused. Told you he couldn’t help you, this wasn’t an okay alternative to going to the hospital, to get yourself some insurance and see a real doctor.
But your pleading, wide eyes staring up at him expectingly—Jack decided he was also a weak man—so he pushed his door open wide, the silent invitation loud while he held your gaze.
The gift basket was dropped by the entrance, already forgotten.
Jack led you to the living room, where he gestured to his couch.
You paused, turning to Jack to ask, “Should I…should I take my shorts off?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to remain professional, desire sure to curl around anythinf he could say. His jaw flexed, turning his eyes away when you swiftly yanked the fabric down your legs, nudging them off to the side with your foot. “Should I sit, or lay down, or…”
“Lay down.” Even Jack recognized the gruffness in his voice. “Bend your knees and just…let them fall open, just relax.”
You did as you were told. Easily positioning yourself, back sinking into the plush couch before baring yourself completely.
Jack sucked in an audible breath, collecting himself before he moved. Jack cautiously lowered himself to the seat at your feet, keeping his eyes on your face. “Tell me if anything hurts, or feels uncomfortable.”
“Okay.” You meekly replied.
And then his touch was on you. Warmth bloomed through your skin as Jack loosely cupped your ankles, gently nudging them a little further apart.
His eyes dropped from your face, finally landing on your core.
I definitely jumped. Jack thought.
“Does it…look okay?” You whispered, frowning at Jack’s prolonged, silent, staring. “Jack?”
Jack blinked, realizing he’d just been zoned out, staring directly at your crotch.
Shaved bare, Jack could see the flush dusted across your skin. Puffy clit peaking out for attention. And glistening—slick smeared all over. It was obvious you’d been touching yourself right before you came running to Jack for help. His cock was already twitching to life, trapped uncomfortably in his pants.
“Perfect.” Jack breathed.
“Really?” You asked, seemingly surprised.
“Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Jack confirmed. Reaching out to brush his fingers over your slick folds, Jack noted how your hips twitched. “That feel okay, baby? Doesn’t hurt?”
“No, that doesn’t, feels okay.”
“Okay.” Jack licked his lips, going lower, massaging your entrance, collecting some of the wetness oozing from you. “This?”
“S’okay, Jack.” You leaned up on your elbows, watching Jack toy with your pussy. “Feels nice.”
“Yeah?” He moved up, circling your clit with the help of your wetness. Greedy eyes taking in the way your jaw relaxed, mouth hanging open while a soft whimper escaped. “How’s that feel, baby?”
“Feels good, Jack.” You bucked your hips, silently begging for more, but Jack held firm. “Oh—like that, Jack, right there.”
Rubbing steady circles around your button, Jack felt your body reacting. Watched your stomach tightening, fighting against your needy wiggling. His free hand inched up your thigh, curling loosely around your hip to hold you back against the couch.
“Yeah, feels good doesn’t it? See, nothings broken, baby. Just needed ol’ Jack’s help, huh.” His eyes bounced from your face—watching you pull your bottom lip between teeth—back down to your weeping pussy, undulating hips.
“Mhm, need more, Jack.” You whined, all pretty and needy, reaching down to grasp at Jack’s beefy bicep. “Please, more, please.”
Each pretty cry and sigh sent shockwaves down to his aching cock. Jack couldn’t resist it—honestly, he’s crossed so many lines with you already, what’s one more?—his knees sunk into the cushion beside you as he moved to loom over you before crashing his lips to yours.
Then he plunged two thick fingers into you.
“Oh—fuck!”
Your body arched, tits pushed up against his solid chest at the sudden fullness. Jack swallowed the cry you gave, tongue invading your mouth to curl around yours. Stubble rubbed your lips raw while you sloppily made out. Teeth clashed, heavy sighs exchanged, as you desperately clung to the older doctor.
Jack could feel how tightly you were already wound before you ended up on his doorstep. Your pussy tensing, pulsating around his fingers while he rubbed at your walls, like he was trying to pet you from the inside. Sloppy sounds filled the room while he drilled his fingers inside you.
“I’m s’close, Jack!” You turned your head, detaching your lips to bury your face against his neck. Your breath hot on his neck while you let out broken moans, pressing messy kisses against any skin you could reach. “Almost—please, I need more!”
Switching up, Jack curled his fingers each time he buried them deep, relentlessly pressing into that smooth bundle of nerves hidden within you. Your hips bucking hard enough to almost knock Jack off his rhythm. Almost.
“C’mon baby,” Jack cooed against your neck, nipping at the sweaty skin. “You can do it, let go. Let Jackie take care of you, cum for me.”
Jack could feel the rope about to snap in you—feel your walls tightening up—and gave his last trick. Twisting his wrist, ignoring the uncomfortable ache in his joints, and let his thumb find your clit again. Dragging the rough pad over your sensitive bud, drawing tight circles while continuing to plunge his fingers in your sopping pussy.
“Oh my god!”
Your reaction was damn near immediate—hands burying themselves in thick graying curls and yanking hard—Jack’s deep groan mixing with your broken moans. You trashed against him. His wrist burned, but he continued to fuck you through your desperately needed orgasm. Liquid gold spilled down his wrist, soaking his couch, while Jack rolled his hips against your leg like a fucking teenager for mild relief.
You took forever to settle, twitching randomly. Every nerve on fire after unintentionally edging yourself for god knows how long before you came to him.
“Oh Jack,” You gasped, chest heaving like there wasn’t enough air left in the world. Your hands glided across his shoulders, cupping his face and bringing him back to your bruised lips. Your satisfaction and gratitude clear in the heavy kiss you planted on him. “So good—I feel so good, I can’t thank you enough.”
“Good, happy to help.” Jack smiled against your lips, before sitting back on his haunches. Skilled hands dropped to his waist, clanking metal reached your ears as Jack undid his belt before working at the zipper of his pants. “Now, it’s my turn, sweetheart.”
cant stop thinking about how Pope eats cause that man is hungry, he just chows down all business when he gets to it. the rib scene? i think of it often...
so yk he's much the same about you, pussy just another fave meal for him that he approaches the same way. got you on your back, big hands holding the backs of your thighs apart, face full in the pussy like no one's business, buried nose deep in the muff. just slurping and licking and sucking without a care in the world while ur there sounding possessed. tongue-fucking you with eyes closed shut in bliss/concentration while the bridge if his nose bumps against your clit, or sucking on your clit lips sealed with three fingers pumping deep in you that he'll suck clean of your juices later. Pope would eat you out for the love of the game, he'd eat you out cause he had a bad day, a good day, cause he's stressed, cause he's happy, he'd eat you out just cause he likes how you taste and how different you can taste. hell he'll eat dinner and finish u off for dessert he dgaf that's his pussy too. just dont even bother w underwear around the house no more bc he's gonna hook his fat fingers in and tear them shits off your ass if he wants a taste.
he'd absolutely eat you out while you're on yr period cause yh u taste like pennies but he's all abt that cash anyways baby.
n it's so intense every time bc he Just Does Not Let Up until he's satisfied and eaten you off the goddamn bone. greedy mf got you gasping for air, tears pricking your eyes, overstimulated from cumming back to back, hand smacking at his shoulder for reprieve when he finally pulls back and dares to pout or look at you with puppy eyes. "I wasn't finished" yh bro and i wanna live to see tmrw just pull down your pants please
Andrew coming home to you after fighting with Baz, confessing insecurities about a future with you. You offer to show him just how wrong Baz is.
Masterlist
18+ PiV intercourse. breeding kink. no use of birth control. mommy/daddy titles mentioned. slight masochist tones, Andrew bites you, you’re into it.
“You don’t know shit, and you never will. Do you get that? No one is ever going to have a kid with you. Ever.”
Baz’s voice echoed through Andrew’s mind on a steady repeat as he slowly trekked up the stairs to your shared apartment.
Ever.
He turned the key, door opening to pure silence. Unsurprising. Not alarming. It was late, Andrew didn’t expect you to still be awake.
Ever.
He moved through the apartment on autopilot. Moonlight barely illuminated the room enough for Andrew to see your sleeping form on the bed. Approaching, not yet touching the bed, Andrew stared, counting every one of your breaths.
Ever.
“Andrew?”
He blinked, barely moving as you sleepily searched for the bedside lamp. It’s soft glow letting you take in his dull, dejected face.
“Baby?” You frowned, reaching for his hand. Numbly, he let you pull him to lay beside you. “What’s wrong?”
“Baz.” Andrew spat the name like it was poison. “He’s got some whore staying with him, sleeping in their bed, and Lena…”
You calmly fiddled with his fingers, patiently waiting for Andrew to collect his thoughts.
“He said she’s not my kid, she’s not my concern.” He gazed off to a fixed point in the corner of the room. “He said, ‘no one is ever going to have a kid with you’.”
Silence.
“I’m not stupid—” Andrew’s lip quivered. “I know there’s something wrong with me, I’m not good. But I would try my best if—”
Eyes shining from barely held back tears. Chest heaving from shaky breaths. Andrew curled into your side where you welcomed him with open arms, fingers digging into his old t-shirt you’d claimed as a sleep shirt, and sobbed.
Tears flowed freely while you ran your fingers through his curls, cooing softly until his cries settles into hiccups and quiet sniffles.
“Baz doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” You whispered. “He’s just mad you’re right—jealous that you’re better with Lena than he’ll ever be—you’ll be an amazing father.”
Your heart tugged as the subtle head shakes Andrew gave while you spoke, like even his body subconsciously didn’t agree. Hand smoothing over his jaw, you forced his eyes to you.
“There is nothing wrong with you.” You stated, quiet but firm. No room for disagreement. “I hope they take after you.”
Andrew stiffened up, something flickered behind his watery eyes.
“…They?”
“Our kids.” You nod. “I hope they get your curls.”
“You would have—” Andrew swallowed hard. “You want kids?”
His mind was racing. You could almost see it. It wasn’t exactly like you’d sat down and had any in-depth discussion about a future. No one talked about the next steps. No wedding to plan. No white picket fences. No cradles. You had Andrew—in whatever capacity it was—and that was enough for you.
“Your kids.” You corrected. “With you, only with you.”
Andrew sucked in a breath, like your confession caused him both immense pain and the greatest release he’d ever experience.
And then he was on you.
His mouth found yours so hard teeth clashed together, both of you losing yourself in Andrew’s complete desperation. Shaky hands roamed every inch of skin exposed. Clawing to remove your sleep shirt. In his hysteria, deft fingers unable to under the buttons on his jeans, before you took over.
You yanked the rough fabric down his legs. A giddy excitement reminiscent of teens sneaking to have their first time building between you, impatiently throwing his boxers behind you blindly.
Andrew caught your lip between sharp teeth as you fumbled your way into his lap, refusing to part from you even as you yelped. Blunt nails dug into his bare chest before he finally let go. He could have easily fought your play for dominance, yet he let you press him down into the mattress, let you claim your place above him all while rocking your drooling cunt over his hard length.
“You gonna fuck me good, right, baby?” You pouted down at him, all breathy, abused lip smeared with blood.
Andrew nodded immediately, smoothing a hand up your stomach, cupping a bouncing tit in his warm palm, “Yeah, baby. Gonna fuck you right.”
“Yeah?” You cooed, kneeling over his hips and grasping his heavy cock, lining him up. “You gonna fuck a baby in me?”
His hips bucked, tip barely pressing in you at your elevated position. A look of determination crossed his face. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Anything. Everything.”
A genuine smile crawled its way across your lips. You knew Andrew meant every word, too.
Andrew’s chest heaved as you sunk down on him, your features pinched together at the delicious stretch. Your bare ass met his thighs. Immediately raising again, dropping your weight back down on his lap with an audible smack!
You set a rough pace. Rolling your hips, pressing your weight down on him as if you couldn’t get close enough, like you were determined to force more of his cock deeper in you.
Desperate. Aggressive. Rabid.
Andrew’s hands digging into your waist, aiding your bouncing. Moans and breathless grunts filled the room each and every time your wet heat surrounded his cock. Leaning up to capture a nipple with his mouth, Andrew bit at the sensitive nub. Your shriek filled the room. A deep groan flowing from him when your fingers dug into his curls, pulling the strands hard until he released you with a pop!
“Gonna make you a mommy.” Andrew promised against your throat, growling a purely animalistic sound. “Keep you all round, full.”
“I want it, Andrew.” You all but drooled the words, eyes glazed over. “Please, wanna make you a daddy.”
With a shift of his hips, Andrew threw you off balance. You toppled over. Andrew grappled to his knees behind you and rearranging you on all fours before mounting you again. Burying his length back where it belonged and set an unrelenting pace. Hard, cruel thrusts, like he was trying to drive his cock clean through you.
Strong hands pinned your face into the sheets, cuffing your neck like a stray kitten. Ass cheeks burning red from the force of Andrew’s thrusts. Cunt clenching around the thick intrusion while you drooled like a bitch in heat, poorly attempting to buck your hips back to meet Andrew’s devilish pace.
He fucked like he had something to prove.
Your vision blurring as white hot heat shot through your body, slick pouring from your abused pussy, only aiding Andrew’s erratic fucking.
Jaw clenching as he felt his balls tightening up, Andrew bowed forward, slicked chest molding against your back. Mouthing at your sweaty shoulder, before baring his teeth and biting down. Hard.
“Fuck!”
Your screams muffled into the mattress. Back arching, feeling each individual tooth sinking into soft flesh. Andrew’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as warmth filled you. Andrew’s moans vibrating against your shoulder.
He’s barely giving you a moment to think, before he wretched himself out of you. Shuffling until he was eye level with your puffy pussy. Andrew spread your pussy open, watching with a sick fascination as your hole fluttered. His thick cum started to ooze from deep within. With a surprising gentleness, Andrew traced his fingers through your sopping lips, collecting any escaping cum and stuffing his fingers back inside you.
“Can’t waste it.” He muttered, talking to himself. “Keep it all inside. Gotta make sure it takes.”
You whimpered, exhaustion making every limb feel like lead. Limp as Andrew rearranges you like a doll until you’re settled comfortable in your shared bed. Andrew’s intense eyes locked on the bite—his mark—on your shoulder. You followed his gaze. Not deep enough to draw blood, but enough his teeth indents were still visible, the skin angry and protesting.
“It’s okay.” Your voice raw, hoarse. But gentle in the way you always spoke to him, like a scared animal, like if you were too loud he’d flee. “Andrew—it’s okay, I liked it.”
He didn’t answer, but let you pull him to settle beside you, just as you had when he first came home. Collecting the skittish man in your arms, threading your fingers through his sweat damp hair, pure love oozing from your eyes to his. A content smile on your lips.
“I hope it takes,” You whispered, fitting your hand into his and guiding it down, until it rested against your stomach. “I think it will. I can feel it. Can you feel it?”
Andrew stayed silent, you didn’t expect a reply. He quietly brushed his fingers across smooth skin, staring like he would be able to see directly into your womb, and know.
You nuzzled into his side, nose brushing tenderly across his jawline. “You’ll be a good father, Andrew—the best—I can’t wait to give that to you. I want to give that to you.”
Every instinct in Andrew told him not to listen—‘she’s lying, who would ever want to have your kids? be with you? love you?’—but he pushed them down to the deepest parts of his heart, focusing on the sweet thing curled happily against his side.
Baz is wrong. Andrew thought, watching you drift to sleep. He doesn’t know anything.
Thinking about being pressed up against Pope Cody and he’s so hard and warm and huge and ughhhh
He’s got you prone bone, hard tummy and pecs pressed flat against your back, a layer of slick sweat between your bodies. His forearms are locked on the mattress, caging your head between them. All you have to do is tilt your face slightly to suck on the hot, sticky sweet skin of his freckled arm.
His lips ghost the shell of your ear, letting out needy, breathy moans. His tongue darts out to tease your earlobe before he nibbles on it, continuing to pound his cock into you.
“Oh fuck, Pope. I need more, I need—” you let out a strangled moan, struggling to vocalize what your body wants from his.
“Words, baby. You gotta tell me,” he growls, thrusts never faltering.
“Closer, I need you closer,” you cry.
“I’m right here, I’m right on you baby,” he coos, trying to push his weight further into your backside.
“I need more,” you moan, bringing your hands up to grip onto his arms, desperate.
“Shit, okay. Lift your head up.”
You comply, pushing yourself up off the mattress just enough for Pope to snake his arm around your neck, holding your head up with his bicep. He flexes his muscles, causing your vision to blur slightly from the pressure at your throat.
The sensation of him choking you with his arm combined with the weight of him flush against your back as he ruts himself in and out of you has your walls clenching around his thick cock, pleasure flooding between your legs.
Pope’s orgasm follows close behind yours, warm ropes of cum filling you up as you’re still coming down from your high.
He sucks hot, wet kisses against the back of your neck, his breath fanning across the sensitive skin there.
You relish in the feeling of his body weight still pressed into you as he releases his hold around your neck. All fucked out, he’s practically crushing you with his muscular frame, your own makeshift weighed blanket … <3
at a sweltering cody family pool day, pope ends up with you in his chair. your squirming quickly turns into a private torment as pope tries to hide just how hard you're making him
PAIRINGS pope cody x bunny!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI explicit sexual content, pre-relationship pining, lap sitting, male arousal, internal sexual thoughts, male masturbation, semi-public arousal, dub-con undertones (naive reader, power imbalance), protective pope, obsessive pope, objectification, sheltered reader, reader wears a bikini
WC 1.3k
The sun is brutal today. Molten and punishing in the way it beats itself flush against the concrete, the pool water, the bright lacquered edges of the pool chairs until everything looks bleached out and overexposed.
Pope can feel it working at him, needling into the back of his neck, gathering sweat under the collar of his shirt, making the dark arms of his sunglasses burn where they hook over his ears.
He’s not particularly fond of heat like this — bodies gone sluggish, thoughts slow-cooked to mush — yet he refused to budge from his corner.
Stubbornness is a religion, and today’s sole article of faith is you: sweet and oblivious and in need of a sentry. So he sits, muscles held in a punishing lock, letting the sun roast him alive if that’s the tax of keeping you in his sights.
You hover in the sunlight wrapped in a frosting-white ruffled bikini, bows resting over the triangle top covering your breasts like little ownership tags he hasn’t signed yet. Fabric scoops and skims, herding his attention along curves he’s memorised only through clothing until now.
A dull ache starts low in his belly, half-chub straining, but he holds himself rigid. Steel spine, locked jaw. Want is allowed; acting on it is not.
You do that little lost-kitten swivel, glancing around as your pretty features twist with frustration when the lack of seating dawns on you.
The yard is a disaster from Craig’s get-together last night. Mud-slick loungers flopped belly-up, broken or littered with party debris fermenting in the sun.
One dented chair left, and he’s welded to it. Deran sprawls on the other, drooling through a hangover coma.
“There’s nowhere else to sit…” That faint tremor in your voice shreds what little discipline the sun hasn’t already scorched. You shift, ankle to arch, looking unsure. “Can I sit with you, Pope? Just for a bit. ‘M feet hurt.”
It’s absurd how fast he armors up. Tendons braced, breath cinched, eyes slitting as if your question carried a knife. Fight, flight, freeze. The third floods his limbs with concrete.
He clears his throat and forces his fingers to unkink from the chair arm before they leave imprints.
“Here,” he mutters, half risen, knees popping like bad fireworks. “Sit —”
But your hand flattens against the broad plate of his shoulder, forcing him back down before he can peel himself from the wicker.
“No, it’s okay,” you insist, shrugging as you slip backward into the cradle of his spread thighs, cotton-candy ruffles kissing his lap. “There’s plenty of room. You don’t have to get up.”
His eyes widen to saucers.
Plenty of room, you say. Not from where he’s sitting. Every inch of space is suddenly packed with scent, sun-oil, and the knowledge he can’t shift an inch without grinding up into you like a savage.
You’ve practically asked the lion to hold still while the lamb curls up against its teeth, and the lion is trying — Christ, he’s trying.
You melt back against him with a contented mmph.
He clamps down molars down on the inside of his cheek. Penance, placeholder, something to do that isn’t rut forward. Blood tastes copper-sharp.
His fingers skim the satin slope of your waist, panic-brake, hover. Move you? Move himself? He can’t decide.
He ends up abandoning the controls altogether, drops hands to his thighs and squeezes them into prison knots.
You wriggle again, your bikini bottom skating over the swell inside his shorts. Heat knifes through him, the reaction instantaneous, biochemical, a syringe of adrenaline straight to his cock.
A rifle ready to shoot before the target appears.
“Knock it off,” he says under his breath, the words clipped, strangled almost.
You tip your head a little, like you’re about to ask what he means, and he feels a fresh wave of panic go through him at the thought of you turning around, of those wide doe-eyes on him while he’s like this.
“Quit squirming,” he adds quickly, trying to weld the sound into irritation rather than plea. “Just… sit still, yeah?”
Your shoulders hitch a light shrug against his ribs. “M’trying to get comfy. You’re all stiff.”
Of course he fucking is.
Stiff everywhere, especially where you’ve parked.
You can’t feel the full shame of it, must think it’s the chair ridge or a clump in the cushion or maybe the twitch in his thigh. Something harmless. Something simple enough to match the sweet, bubble-wrapped world you keep your thoughts in.
“Stiff’s the least of it,” he grunts, staring dead head. “Keep moving and I’ll end up launching you into the deep end for your own good.”
Biggest lie he’s told all week. One glimpse of you climbing out of the pool, bikini plastered, water sliding down your skin, and he’d be the one going under, drowned in his own boxers.
Your palm flattens over his knee. “That’s not very gentlemanly.”
“Never claimed I was a gentleman.” His hand covers yours, calloused thump sweeping once over your knuckles before retreating.
You give a breezy little hmm then shift once more, extending your legs until your toes point past the chair’s end.
He’s forced to tip back with you. Your head now resting near the firm plane of his lower stomach while your shoulder blades pillow against his lap.
You glance up, upside-down smile curving. “You always act like one with me.”
He does. Unintentionally, maybe.
You’re forever finding chilled water bottles materializing beside your lounge chair, phone charged because he jacked his own cord to keep yours alive, car warmed and idling on nights the temperature dips. The universe rearranged in small ways so your path stays smooth.
It’s disorienting. He’s spent most of his life running rough, letting silence and the hard set of his jaw do the talking. People read him as cold, and he’s been fine with that; cold keeps questions away.
You still get that too — he can’t thaw completely — but around the frost are these bewildering warm fronts.
He keeps waiting for you to notice the contradiction, call him on it, shove him back into the fortress he knows. You never do.
You squint up at him, lips parting as if to ask what gears he’s grinding now.
This angle gifts him a perfect panorama of soft cleavage rising and falling, generous curves swaddled in white. The bows ride the upper swell like little white flags, fluttering each time you exhale. A faint sheen of perspiration beads at the valley in between them, catching the light, sliding downward. His gaze follows, pulse kicking so hard it bruises.
One thought, just one, of how they’d feel in his palms and his cock knocks again: attention.
You frown a little. “Did I lay on your phone or something? Feels kinda… hard.”
You wiggle experimentally as if testing the theory.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He needs to lie. Fast.
“Keys,” he mutters, voice rough as gravel. “Forgot to take ‘em outta my pocket.”
He nudges your hip a fraction forward, as if adjustment might erase the evidence throbbing beneath you.
“Oh — big set of keys,” you giggle. “Must be heavy. Sorry, I’ll try not to lean on them.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to sound casual. He’s not sure it works. “Keys can take a little pressure.”
He’s not sure that would work either.
“Seriously, Pope, that thing’s huge. Bet it knocks against your leg when you walk.”
You don’t know what you’re saying. He has to remind himself of that over and over and over because it’s becoming increasingly hard (no pun intended) for him to not picture those words under different circumstances.
One where you look up at him where you’re planted on your knees, face smushed against his thigh as trails of drool dribble from your mouth.
He counts backward from ten.
At six he’s pulsing. At four he’s harder than when he started.
“Gotta grab somethin’ from the house,” he mutters, palming your waist to slide you forward so gently you sigh inside of question.
Two strides later he’s inside, door thunking shut. Cold water, cupped and splashed, hisses off his cheeks. Doesn’t put out the fire.
He braces both palms on the sink, zipper already down.
Quick, brutal strokes on his dick while the image of white bows sticks to the backs of his eyelids. His orgasm shudders through him in thirty silent seconds.
When he reappears outside with an orange soda, he looks every inch the silent guardian again. Except for the bloom of color on his cheekbones that won’t quite fade.
MARIA NOTE shoutout to @romantic-insomniac for this simply brilliant idea 🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷🌷 kissing ur brain so hard rn
pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader
summary: You’re used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something you’re too terrified to name.
Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s that you want to let him.
wc: 12.9k
a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.
warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.
Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.
Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.
The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythm—monitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.
You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.
The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.
“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.
“It’s not the chip,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.
You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.
You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.
“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”
A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.
The machine beeped.
Approved.
You froze.
Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked up—the clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didn’t look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.
“Bag?” the cashier asked.
“No,” Jack said.
You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
He finally looked at you.
Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.
“What?” he said.
You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“Looked like it.”
“You paid for it.”
“Sharp today.”
You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”
That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.
“Eat the sandwich,” he said.
“I was going to.”
“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”
You opened your mouth.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
You closed it again.
Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.
“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”
Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”
“I don’t faint,” Santos said.
“You got lightheaded during central line training.”
“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”
Jack looked at her.
Santos looked back.
The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.
“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”
Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.”
Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”
Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”
Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”
Your face was still hot.
The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.
Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.
“I can pay you back,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.
“Don’t.”
“I don’t like owing people.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“That’s not how money works.”
“It is when I decide I don’t care.”
You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You should’ve let it go.
You really should’ve.
But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.
“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”
Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought you’d gone too far.
Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”
He walked away before you could answer.
You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.
Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.
“Oh, that was not nothing.”
“It was lunch,” you said.
Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”
You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.
Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”
Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”
“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”
You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.
It would’ve been easier if that had been the end of it.
But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.
He didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.
Jack was worse.
Jack was practical.
He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if he’d pointed at it.
Robby noticed before you did.
Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.
It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nurses’ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.
“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.
You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”
Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.
“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”
“He bought me lunch once.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And coffee.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe pasta.”
Robby’s eyebrows rose.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”
“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”
That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.
Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.
Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.
“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”
You swallowed. “I know that too.”
Robby’s face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.
“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”
“There’s nothing to notice.”
“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”
You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t see your face.
Across the department, Jack glanced up.
For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.
He didn’t smile.
He just looked.
That was becoming the problem.
Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.
You wished he’d be less good at it.
You wished you liked it less.
The car thing happened on a Thursday.
You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.
Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.
Not the cute noise. Not the “haha, she’s old but reliable” noise.
The expensive one.
A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.
You shut the engine off immediately.
“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”
The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.
You tried again.
The sound came back worse.
A knock hit your window.
You screamed.
Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.
You rolled the window down halfway. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” he said. “Just me.”
“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”
“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”
“It’s fine.”
Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.
“That’s not a fine sound.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“It shouldn’t do that ever.”
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”
“You’re not driving it until then.”
A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
Your stomach dipped.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Something else.
Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. “Pop the hood.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Pop the hood.”
There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.
You popped the hood.
The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.
It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.
He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.
“Do not drive this,” he said.
You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Jack.”
He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”
You did not.
You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.
“I can call someone,” you said.
“Who?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.
You looked away first.
Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”
“I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”
You didn’t move.
Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”
That was how he won.
Not with softness. Not with a speech.
Heat.
You grabbed your bag and got out.
Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.
He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”
“Your leg?”
“I said yeah.”
“Right. Sorry.”
His jaw worked.
Then, quieter, “Long day.”
That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.
At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”
You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”
“I’ll call someone.”
“No.”
“You don’t know who yet.”
“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”
The light turned green.
Jack drove.
You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”
“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”
“Jack.”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you know a guy.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not that old.”
That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.
“No?”
“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.
“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.
The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.
Not brave.
Not independent.
Just exhausting.
He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.
You didn’t reach for the door handle.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”
“No.”
You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop noticing.”
“No.”
Your eyes opened.
Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.
Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “Why?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.
That made it worse.
You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”
The joke landed differently in the dark.
You felt it. So did he.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.
“You should go inside,” he said.
You nodded.
Neither of you moved.
Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robby’s name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.
You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.
“Night, Jack.”
His hand tightened once around the phone.
“Lock your door.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.
“Don’t start,” he said.
You got out before your face could betray you.
The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.
Jack didn't tell you this.
The mechanic did, because you called behind Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s handled. Pick it up Friday.
Handled.
Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.
You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.
Squared it away.
You were going to kill him.
Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasn’t useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.
You had to wait.
That made you angrier.
By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” you said.
Jack stopped.
Robby, behind him, stopped too.
Dana looked up from the desk.
Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”
“Oh, no, definitely here.”
Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.
“Coward,” Dana muttered.
“Experienced,” Robby corrected.
Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”
“You paid the mechanic.”
“Yeah.”
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”
“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”
You stared at him. “That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.
“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”
Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”
Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”
Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”
You barely heard them.
Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.
“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it done.”
You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”
“Usually.”
“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”
Jack’s gaze held yours.
“Doing what?”
The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.
“You know what,” you said.
For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.
Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.
“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”
Jack’s mouth tightened, but he listened.
Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.
He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.
“Friday,” he said under his breath.
You turned your head. “What?”
“Pick up your car Friday.”
Then he was gone.
Santos waited exactly three seconds.
“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”
Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”
Santos deflated. “Damn it.”
You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.
By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.
Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jack’s blunt handwriting.
Your old ones were unsafe.
That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.
You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.
The fundraiser was Robby’s fault.
At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.
PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasn’t being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.
You hadn’t planned to go.
Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”
You’d said yes before checking your closet.
That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too “college career fair,” stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.
Your phone buzzed.
Jack:
Car still running?
You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.
You:
yes, dad
Jack:
Don’t.
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
thank you, by the way
for the shoes too
even though you’re insane
Jack:
You going tomorrow?
You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.
You:
maybe
Jack:
That means yes.
You should’ve stopped there.
Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:
You:
it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesn’t make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident
The reply took longer than usual.
Jack:
Show me.
You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasn’t covering.
You:
the dress?
Jack:
What else would I mean?
Your face went hot.
You:
don’t ask me that when i’m half naked on my bedroom floor
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Jack:
You have tomorrow off?
You stared.
Then stared harder.
You:
why
Jack:
Answer the question.
There were several smart things you could’ve said.
You said none of them.
You:
yes
Jack:
I’ll pick you up at 10.
Your stomach flipped.
You:
jack
Jack:
10:30 if you’re going to argue.
You:
you don’t even know what i was going to say
Jack:
I’m learning patterns.
You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like he’d put his hands on you.
The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.
Of course he did.
He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.
“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.
“You haven’t gone in yet.”
“That’s why I still have hope.”
He gave you a look.
You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”
“Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That was too easy.”
“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”
You stared at him.
He headed for the shop.
“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.
“It’s exactly a loophole.”
Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.
You hated that. You hated more that Jack didn’t seem to notice.
Or he did notice and simply didn’t care.
He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.
That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.
The saleswoman brought options.
You rejected the first three.
Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.
“No,” he said through the door.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I saw the sleeve.”
“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”
“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”
You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.
Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.
His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.
“No,” he repeated.
The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”
You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”
The fifth dress was the problem.
You knew it before you opened the curtain.
The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.
Confidence, maybe.
Or danger.
“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You admit that way too easily.”
“I’m old.”
You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.
This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the dress was perfect.
That was the bad idea.
You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The shop noise seemed to thin around you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.
His jaw shifted.
Your fingers tightened around the curtain.
“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.
Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.
“No,” he said.
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”
The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.
“It fits.”
It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t saying in the rough edge of his voice.
You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.
“It’s probably expensive.”
“Probably.”
“Jack.”
“You like it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s my point.”
You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”
He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.
“I can do what I want.”
“You sound like a nightmare.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.
The thought went through you too sharply.
You swallowed. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”
Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”
You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”
There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.
Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”
Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.
So you made it worse on purpose.
“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.
“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”
You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t shaking.
Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.
The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nurses’ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.
Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with “normal arms,” which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.
Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.
“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”
“That’s never a good opener.”
“You look hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? I said don’t make it weird.”
Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”
Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”
You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”
“Because I’m invested.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one. It’s being right.”
You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”
“You too?”
“Me too what?”
“Nothing.”
Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”
“There’s not a thing.”
“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”
You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.
Dana smirked and walked away.
Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.
It wasn’t fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like he’d rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldn’t soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.
Robby said something to him at the entrance.
Jack answered without smiling.
Then his eyes found you.
Everything else blurred.
Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering “oh my god” somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.
He walked over slowly.
“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.
“Hi.”
You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”
“I was going to say that.”
“You can still say it.”
“No.”
“Too generous?”
“Too easy.”
His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
You stared. “What is that?”
“Receipt.”
“For the dress?”
“For the car.”
Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”
“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”
You looked down.
Paid.
Your throat tightened.
“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.
“I still owe you.”
“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”
You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.
Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.
“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”
“That makes it worse.”
“I agree.”
Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”
Jack gave him a look.
Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”
Jack didn’t move immediately.
His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.
“Don’t disappear,” he said.
Your pulse kicked.
“I’m working.”
“After.”
Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.
You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.
For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.
Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about “the Pitt” like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then weren’t there in the same way anymore.
You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.
And Jack kept finding you.
Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because “you weren’t going to get one.” He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.
At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, “This is very attentive of you.”
He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”
“I was.”
“Bad idea.”
“Because violence is wrong?”
“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”
You laughed into your glass.
Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.
You saw him catch it.
That was the dangerous part.
Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.
You were close enough to hear because you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.
“Dr. Abbot,” the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”
Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”
The man’s eyes shifted to you.
You felt it like cold water.
“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”
Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.
“This is—” Jack began.
The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”
His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.
Your fingers tightened around the place cards.
Jack went still.
The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”
“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”
The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.
“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.
Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”
The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.
The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”
“I’m not interested in what you meant.”
Jack didn’t raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.
“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”
The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.
“No offense intended.”
Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Your breath caught.
People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.
You couldn’t stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.
You set the place cards down.
“I need some air,” you said.
Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”
But you were already moving.
You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.
You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didn’t help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.
You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall here—not in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.
Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”
You turned on him. “Made it worse.”
“They made it worse.”
“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”
His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.
“They don’t know what you are.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“And what am I?”
The question came out too vulnerable to take back.
Jack didn’t answer right away.
Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.
He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldn’t stitch closed.
You hated that you wanted him to say it.
You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he said, “Not that.”
A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’ve got.”
“Great.”
Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.
You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
“You bought the dress,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You fixed my car.”
“Yes.”
“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”
Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.
“What do you think people are going to call that?”
“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me what you call it.”
The words took the air out of the terrace.
You looked at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.
Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.
All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.
Now Jack was standing there asking.
Tell me what you call it.
Your mouth felt dry.
“I call it confusing,” you said.
His expression shifted.
You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.
You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”
His voice dropped. “Like what?”
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”
The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.
Then he said, rougher than before, “I don’t.”
The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.
His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.
“But I’ve thought about it.”
The terrace went silent.
Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t him.
You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.
“What was I going to say?”
His eyes lifted.
“That we shouldn’t.”
The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.
You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.
Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”
His eyes sharpened.
You took one more step.
“But it’s not what I want.”
For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.
Not much. He’d never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.
“Say that again,” he said.
The words nearly undid you.
You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didn’t take.
“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “No?”
“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”
The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t frantic at first.
That would’ve been easier.
It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadn’t given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.
You made a small sound against his mouth.
That was what broke it.
Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.
You grabbed his jacket.
He made a low sound, almost a warning.
You pulled him closer anyway.
The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jack’s body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
When he dragged himself back, he didn’t go far.
His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”
“I know.”
“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.
“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”
Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.
You didn’t.
His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
His eyes held yours.
“My car.”
The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.
Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.
Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like she’d remembered curiosity had consequences.
Jack ignored all of them.
You loved and hated him for it.
The elevator ride down was worse.
Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.
In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.
Jack unlocked the car.
You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.
He saw the hesitation immediately.
Of course he did.
“You can change your mind,” he said.
The words loosened something in you.
Not because you wanted to.
Because he meant it.
You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He nodded once.
Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”
His face shifted.
“Do I what?”
“Know what I want.”
The garage seemed to hold its breath.
Jack opened the back door.
“Get in,” he said.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just low enough to go through you like a match.
You got in.
The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.
Then the opposite door opened.
He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.
“You still think this is about money?” he asked.
Your breath caught.
You shook your head.
“Words.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“What’s it about?”
You could’ve said care.
You could’ve said want.
You could’ve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.
Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, “Your sugar daddy complex.”
Jack’s eyes flashed.
Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.
"Jack—"
"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"
You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."
He laughed—a low, broken thing—and his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.
"Look at me."
You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.
“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.”
Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.
"—and you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."
You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimper—high and desperate and not caring who heard.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumped—not hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.
"Jack—I need—"
"I know what you need."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made your hole clench around nothing.
"Get on top of me."
It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.
He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck —"
He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.
"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."
You laughed—breathless, wild—and leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."
He didn't.
His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jack—"
He pushed inside you.
The stretch was a shock—full and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feel—"
He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.
Then you moved.
Slow at first—a roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."
You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.
"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dress—"
"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantly—hot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.
"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."
You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."
He bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."
You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."
"Jack—I'm close—"
"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.
"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"
"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."
He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt it—hot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.
Then he laughed.
A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed him—messy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.
"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That was—"
"Stupid," you supplied.
"Reckless."
"A really bad idea."
His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."
You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.
"We should probably—" you started.
"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.
"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.
"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."
He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.
You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.
He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jack’s hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”
That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”
“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”
“He sounds unbearable.”
“He is.”
The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”
Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.
“Jack,” you said softly.
He waited.
You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”
For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.
“You get breakfast.”
“That’s it?”
“And your car.”
“Already got that.”
“And the shoes.”
“Also already got those.”
“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”
Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”
The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.
But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d have to explain away in daylight.
He was looking at you like something worth keeping.
And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.
✧･ﾟPisces Baby ✧･ﾟ @piscesfairyyy - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
