☆

love is the most twisted curse…

[planetnini]

WELCOME TO MY BLOG !

˗ˋ꒰ 💛 ꒱ˊ˗ NINI ‧₊˚:‧₊˚

✩ ˛˚ . twenty one. she/her. satoru's soulmate + one n only ! ( ˘ ³˘)♡

dear diary… ⭒ rules ⭒ masterlist ⭒ tags

recent works :)

bewitched— roommate!gojo series

© PLANETNINI 2023. do not copy any of my writing, translate, or repost onto any other sites.

[dearwalker]

The Great War

Pairing: Jack Abbot x ex wife!reader Word Count: 5.1k

Description: Years after your separation, life throws you back into Jack Abbot’s orbit in the worst way possible, carrying a devastating diagnosis that could be the reason your marriage fell apart in the first place: a tumor that may had erased the part of you that fell in love with him all those years back. And he’s not ready to lose you twice.

Tags/Warnings: Ex!wife reader, no specific age, ANGST, hurt/comfort (trust), talks about divorce, reader has big ex wifey energy, resulting in a bitter Jack, mentions of a tumor in the head and seizures but the medical aspect is very superficial, bad prognosis, suggestive comments and couple’s banter.

Note: This is the result of angsty thoughts invading my head at 2 am, so enjoy (it gets better trust) 🤍

Masterlist

My hand was the one you reached for all throughout The Great War.

There was a time where you believed you were tied to Jack Abbot by an invisible string. 

Despite the crazy life he’d chosen, the long hours, the abrupt calls that took him away from you, the terrors of nightmares and traumas you couldn’t take away from him, you’d managed to love him through it all. 

You loved him through the military years, and the consequences he carried home. Through the transition of losing a part of himself, and made sure that what was left wasn’t damaged by it. Loved him through the process of going back to emergency medicine. Through the night shifts and the missed holidays and anniversaries.

You loved him when his haircolor changed like the seasons. You loved the man in uniform and the man in scrubs and the man who sometimes came home too tired to even speak. 

You loved and loved and loved him until…something snapped. 

You…started calling him out more. For the hours and the absence and for the way he could be right there and still feel a thousand miles away. And Jack, who had spent most of his life learning how to stay calm under pressure, tried to be patient. Tried to love you through the sharpness, just like you’d loved him through his, even if he didn’t understand where yours was coming from.

He tried and tried and tried until…the invisible string between you snapped in pieces he couldn’t tie back together. 

Time passed, and none of you survived the war you’d started in your own home. So you left. Sent out divorce papers that you never signed. You didn’t understand why back then, but now…you kind of do. 

You take a deep breath as the ambulance bay doors slide open in front of you. People who take this entrance are usually bleeding, or screaming, or being rolled in on a stretcher, but you walk in with your head high and a pep on your step. Cashmere coat on, boots clicking the floor, a purse perched on your shoulder.  

Seeing the ED after all these years hits you like a deja vu. From bringing Jack something he forgot in the middle of the night, to showing up at the ass crack of dawn still half asleep but smiling, waiting for him to finish charting so you could eat something together. Your memories are a little fuzzy these days, but there was a time where you knew this place almost as well as he did. 

You reach the nurse’s station with a small smile on your face, only for it to widen when the face behind is not the one you expected.

“Well, what do we have here?” You say, coming to stop in front of her. 

Dana looks up from the papers she’s holding, and her eyes go wide for a second. The look of surprise gets quickly replaced by one of her signature smirks, placing one hand on her hip. 

“Well, I could ask the same damn thing, darling,” she says, amused. 

That makes you laugh, and Dana’s face lightens up. Because despite everything, despite the years, despite the absence, you always had a soft spot for each other. 

“I thought Lena was on the night shift,” you tease. Dana sets the papers down and huffs, looking at you through her glasses. 

“Please. It’s not weird to see me covering someone for the right price,” she says, not being subtle about looking up and down at you. “Now what is strange as hell, is seeing you walk in here after all this time.”

“Why? I’m just here to see my hubby,” you say casually. “Is it a quiet night, or do I have to wait like the good old days?” You ask, feigning innocence with a single shoulder shrug. 

“Oh, don’t you start! don’t you jinx my shift like that,” she says, almost offended, making you laugh harder. She narrows her eyes at you playfully, shaking her head. “You evil, evil woman.”

“So I’ve been told,” you snicker, checking something on your nails. “It’s good to see you, Dana,” you add after a moment, and she pretends not to notice the way you pick on the skin of your thumb. 

“You too, hun,” she says fondly, trying to search for your eyes. “Now, are you going to tell me what brings you to my ED or do I have to waterboard it out of you?” 

Before you can think of a way to evade the question, you hear a voice behind you that makes everything inside you stop. 

“Let me know when the labs are back, Mateo.”

You turn to the source, and for a moment you can’t control the look on your face when your eyes land on him. Jack Abbot is walking out of Trauma Two with a nurse, too focused on pulling off his gloves to realize you’re standing frozen by the nurse’s station. You clear your throat and straighten up quickly, putting on that nonchalance mask back on again as Dana just smiles to herself. 

Jack’s head finally snaps up and his mouth opens, probably ready to tell something to Dana, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees you there. He doesn't have a good time controlling his emotions either. He blinks a few times to make sure he’s seeing right, and that you’re not a cruel product of his imagination. It’s too early in the shift for that. 

But you’re there. You are there. Wait–you’re there? 

The confusion quickly gets replaced by anger. It’s been a long time. Three years of nothing, and this is how you show up? Looking polished, composed, infuriatingly beautiful, like you didn’t leave a hole in his chest he was never able to stitch back together. 

“Are you lost?” The words coming out his mouth are sharper than he expected, but the coldness is familiar to you. 

“Jack,” you say, forcing a plastic smile and tilting your head. “Is that the way to greet your wife?” 

“My wife…” Jack mutters with an incredulous laugh.

He looks at Dana all scandalized, offended. She just shrugs unimpressed, not interested in getting involved in whatever messy drama is about to unfold. 

She will totally watch, though.

“If you’re here to tell me you finally signed the papers, then you wasted a whole trip. You could've just mailed them,” he says sharply, too blinded to notice the way your smile faltered at that. 

“I’m not here for that,” you say, holding tighter to the bag on your shoulder. “There’s-”

“You know you’re not supposed to walk in through the ambulance bay unless you’re dying,” he continues, before giving you a head to toe assessing look that ends with a bitter huff. “And by the looks of it, seems like the devil has taken care of his own.” 

You chuckle, because it’s the only thing you can do at this point. Because if anyone in the world has earned the right to call you a devil, it’s Jack.

For the last year of your marriage. For every sharp word, every time you didn’t want to listen, every fight that left him standing there wondering when loving each other had become something exhausting instead of home. For the way you ended things. For how you walked away and never came back.

“Dr.Abbot?” A male voice coming from the trauma room breaks the tense moment between you. 

You look at the doctor, one you remember seeing last as a first year resident, trailing behind your husband with a notepad and an iced coffee in hand. You can’t recall his name, but he looks like he got his attending position after all.

Jack turns to him, “I’ll be there in a second, Shen,” he says gently, then back to you, more impatient, “I’m busy. So if you’re done making your little grand entrance, you can leave the same way you came in. You seem to be pretty good at it.”

The way he talks to you shouldn't hurt this much. You deserve it, for how unkind you were with him in the first place. For how badly you hurt him. For how you ran his endless patience thin. Now, in hindsight, there are many things you wish were different. 

But wishing won’t make the medical records in your purse change. And even though you’ve earned every blow he throws at you, you still square your shoulders. Shrug it off like it doesn't matter. Because it doesn't matter. 

“I’m not leaving until I speak to you…privately,” you say, turning back to Dana with a smile. “Break room’s still the same way, right?”

“Down the hall to the left, sweetheart,” she says, shaking her head with a chuckle.

You blow her a playful kiss as gratitude, one she pretends to dodge, rolling her eyes playfully as she walks away to continue with her duties. You round the nurse’s station, and walk straight past Jack, close enough that the heavy fabric of your coat almost brushes his arm, but it’s your scent that hits him like a punch to the stomach. 

Your perfume. The perfume. The one you wore to all your dates, the one you married him with, and the one he had to scrub off his clothes like a toxic chemical when he talked himself into getting you out of his head after you left. 

Dammit. 

He sees you stroll to the break room with that sway of your hips that used to keep him up at night, trying to gather the courage to invite you out when you first met. Fucking dammit. You ruined his life. You keep doing it. 

“Dr. Abbot!” Shen calls again, a little sharper even for him. 

Jack sighs deeply, turning defeated to the trauma room, as the same question pounds his head over and over again. 

What on earth could you possibly want?

The second you shut the door of the break room and you’re alone again, your shoulders sag and the mask slips right off. The exhaustion in your bones makes you take a seat as soon as you see it, placing your bag on the chair next to you and pulling out the black folder you’ve been carrying around for months. You place it on the table, and look away as if that would change the contents of it. 

Your eyes meet your reflection on the microwave sitting on the counter, and you can’t help the sigh that leaves your lips. You did well making yourself look like the ex wife who’s thriving and has her life together.

What a joke. 

You slump back into your chair, and wait. 

Jack makes you wait a long time. You figure it’s his petty way of getting back at you somehow, or maybe he’s just trying to ease off his anger before he walks in. But hey, at least you were able to reassemble yourself. By the time he walks in, you’re sitting at the table with your legs crossed neatly, coat still on, folder placed in front of you. Composed enough to make him think that this is still some kind of performance.

You hate that your brain keeps telling you to push more. To make him snap. The string has been broken for a while. Why do you still feel the need to pull? 

Jack doesn’t sit, even if his leg would thank him for it, he just stands with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at you impatiently. 

“What, you’re not joining me?” You tease, pushing open the chair across from you with your boot. 

“I’m not staying long,” he says flatly, ignoring the seat. “So whatever this is, start talking.”

You hum in feign amusement, leaning back a little. “Why? Seems like a quiet night for me.”

Jack closes his eyes, shaking his head, thinking about every single self regulation method his therapist had taught him. Five things you can see, four things you can–

“Relax,” you say.

Wow. How didn’t he think of that? Could've saved him thousands in therapy.

He realizes the only way to get this over with, is getting it over with. So he opens his eyes, and this time they land straight on the folder in front of you. Whatever restraint he was trying to hold on to, spills out in a humorless laugh.

“What is that?” He nods to it, “A list of what you want to keep?”

“Jack, that’s not–”

“I already told my lawyer you can keep everything,” he says anyways, letting the words spill, because he’s been bleeding over this for years and he’s sure as hell not stopping now. “The house. The cars. Even the goddamn bedsheets. You can keep it all, I don’t want any of it,” he says calmly, like he isn't still losing sleep over it every day. “I moved out a while ago anyway, it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

It gets harder to keep your resolve, especially with the sharp pain throbbing in your head. But of course he doesn’t want it. Why would he want the remnants of a home you poisoned? A marriage you turned sharp and miserable and impossible to hold together?

A lump forms in the back of your throat, but you swallow it down like every bad news you’ve heard over the course of the last months. 

“It’s not about the divorce, I already told you that,” you say quietly. 

Jack just stares at you, exasperated. Every second you’re in front of him burns his insides. Every second you share the same oxygen he can’t breathe. Every second of your presence is just a reminder of the greatest thing he’s fucked up in his life.

You just pick up the folder and hold it out to him. He hesitates at first, but you have no bitchy remarks left on you. The faster you get it over with, the faster it will all be over, so you shake it for him to take it, until he finally does. 

Your gaze stays on him as he flips through the papers inside; lab results, endless consult notes, imaging reports. The annoyance doesn’t disappear right away, but his salt and pepper brows furrow together as his brain catches up with what he’s reading. He digs for the actual CT, and comes across a series of images that back up everything the reports say. 

He instinctively steps closer to the chair, eyes still fixed on the papers, sitting down mindlessly as he spreads everything on the table. The only thing he can focus on is your name printed on every paper. Abbot here, Abbot there. When he finally looks up at you, all the color has drained from his face. 

“What is this?” He asks. Because what the fuck kind of bad joke is this. 

“Well,” you clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest, “you did say I shouldn’t walk in through the ambulance bay if I wasn’t dying.”

“This isn’t funny,” he says, frustrated. God, you forgot how intense his eye contact was. “What is this? How–when did this happen?”

You play with your fingers on your lap, and sigh, “Ten months ago, I…I had a seizure at work,” you say softly, forcing yourself to keep going. “They did the scans, and it–it didn’t take long to find it.”

It. 

Jack stares at it on the CT, then his eyes drift to the reports. Mass. Tumor. Inoperable. Terms that have always been technical to him, medical, now seem like the cruelest words ever written by man. 

“I’ve seen a couple of neurosurgeons,” you continue, “and they all came to the same conclusion–”

“No.” 

“Jack, they said they can’t take it out–”

“No,” he cuts you off sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not–I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have to agree,” you don’t raise your voice, just smile sadly. It’s something you’ve been telling yourself over and over. “Guess the devil doesn’t look after their own in the end.”

“Stop, don’t…” Jack sighs, dropping the papers just to run his hands roughly across his face. “I didn’t mean that–fuck. I didn’t mean any of that–” 

You haven’t even gotten through the worst of it, and you’re already exhausted. God, these timebombs suck your energy right off. You reach for the water bottle on your purse, and drink away the premature grief building in your throat. 

Jack watches you carefully, and for the first time since he saw you again, he allows himself to see past the veil of hate he’d tried to see you through. He sees the crack in your smile, the shadows under your eyes, the real strain and exhaustion you can’t quite dress up with a fancy coat.

He sees he wasn’t there to hold you through it. 

“Why didn't you call me?” He asks, and you fear it’s the most devastated you’ve ever heard him.

You sigh, and set the bottle down. Because how do you even explain that? What even was it? Pride? Shame? Guilt? Love?

Fear.

How do you tell the man you wrecked that you did think of him first? That even after years apart, even after every awful thing, he was the first person you needed when the ground fell out from under your feet? 

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit.

I was scared. 

“Bother me?” 

“After everything that happened, I thought…I thought I should solve it on my own,” you shrug.

I didn’t think I deserved your help.

“You didn’t think that your husband, a doctor, would want to ‘solve it’??” he snaps. Offended, yes. Furious, yes. But underneath all of it…it’s the hurt that speaks. 

“You’re not a neurosurgeon,” you laugh bitterly, more defensive than you want to. “Your opinion is not gonna change–”

“It’s not just my opinion!” He says, standing up because his frustration is going to make him burst if he stays still. “It’s–it’s me being there. You went through all of this alone.”

The only sounds in the room are both your heavy breaths. You keep your rigid posture, even if every part inside of you is breaking. Jack runs his hand through his curls, once, twice, then tugs a little on the third time.

“Jack…” you call out softly, but he doesn’t look at you. His gaze darts to other five things he can see, hands on his hips as he grounds himself. “I’m not here to fight. And I’m not here for you to solve it…there’s just something I wanted to talk about.”

He finishes his little exercise and looks at you again, bracing himself for an impact he’s not sure if he can take. You know he can’t. So you take another deep breath before speaking.

“The doctors said the tumor is in an area that affects behavior. Like my moods and personality. They said it may have been growing for years.”

There’s a tremble in Jack’s lower lip that makes you hesitate, you know he already knows what it means, yet you keep going. 

“They think it might explain why I was so…particular these last few years,” you let out a broken little laugh, shaking your head quickly to try to fight the tears prickling your eyes. “I know it’s not an excuse, maybe it wasn’t that,” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks angrily. “Maybe I was just a bitch.”

“Hey–no, honey, don’t say that,” he says, the endearment falling out of his lips so naturally. 

Jack doesn’t think twice to step closer and drop to one knee in front of you, groaning at this prosthetic but still reaching for your hands on your lap. You try to retreat back so fast your chair screeches against the floor, but he doesn’t let you pull back, instead he interlocks his fingers with yours, almost hissing at how cold you are. 

You shake your head, tears flooding your cheeks now. “Don’t–don’t speak to me like that, you can still be mad at me,” you sob, but he keeps his warm grip firm. “You have every right to be, I was so mean to you, Jack. I snapped at you for everything. I made you feel like you were always doing something wrong. I turned our house into somewhere awful and I knew you were trying, and I kept pushing anyway.” 

He has tears in his eyes now too, but he lets you get it out of your system. Lets the years of regret spill out of you all at once, god knows his therapist has heard him many times. 

“Jack you’d come home exhausted and I’d always find something else to pick apart. Something else to be angry about. And you looked at me like you didn’t recognize me anymore, and I hated it because I thought you were wrong. Even then. I knew I was hurting you and I kept doing it. I made you carry all of it. So maybe now I deserve to carry all of this alone.” 

There it is. Jack breaks completely at your confession. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, catching the tears that won’t stop coming. 

“Sweetheart…you should’ve called me,” he says again, but he’s not angry this time. He’s grieving. “You should’ve called me.”

“I know.” 

“You should not have done this by yourself.”

“I know,” you cry out, he just keeps caressing your cheek with his thumb. “My–my memory is not the best now and I just…I needed to tell you I was sorry while I still could.”

You try to smile through the tears, you really do, but he looks so frightened. So wrecked. Your hands fly to his wrists now, clinging instead of pulling away. 

“I’m scared, Jack,” you confess. 

He remembers you saying that on a holiday when he hauled you up deep into the sea, just so he could hold you in his arms. He remembers you saying that when he put on a horror movie just so you could hide behind his biceps. He remembers you saying that before trying a new dish at your favorite diner instead of the usual you ordered. 

All those times were said with a laugh, or a cheeky smile. But this? This is pure, unadulterated fear. He is scared. He’s terrified. So he does what he always did best: hold you. 

He lifts himself up just enough to wrap his arms around you. You let yourself go instinctively, realizing how much you’ve needed this the past few months. He holds you so tight, so desperate, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing your back. You bury your face in his neck and sob. You feel the way Jack shifts, pressing his lips to your hair while he whispers sweet nothings. 

“I’m here. I’m here, honey. I got you.”

“I don’t–”

“Don’t tell me what you deserve right now.”

That makes you cry harder. He rocks you a few times, just like he used to on the worst nights. Just like he always vowed to. 

“I loved you through all of it,” he confesses. “Even when I was angry. Even when I thought you hated me. I never stopped. I never stopped.”

“I’m so sorry,” you sniffle. 

“I know, honey, I know.”

“I loved you the whole time too, I swear,” you keep going. “That’s why–that’s why I never signed the papers. My heart didn’t want to let you go. It never did.” 

“It’s okay–“

“No it’s not.”

“But it is,” he insists. Firm and honest. “You were sick, and I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something–“

“No. Don’t blame yourself for this too,” pulling yourself apart from him enough to look into those beautiful hazel eyes. “Leave the regretting to me.” 

“Sweetheart–“

“Jack.” You narrow your eyes at him, and it brings him back to all those times you won even the most pointless of arguments with just one look. 

He huffs a teary laugh, dropping his head in defeat. “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Okay,” he says, lifting his head again. There’s a new spark in his eye trying to make its way past the previous devastation. “Then you leave the rest to me.” 

You look at him, eyebrows furrowed, but he just pushes a strand of hair from your face. 

“I’m getting you admitted here,” he says, you immediately tense, but he speaks before you can refuse. “No, listen to me. We have some of the best neurosurgeons in the country connected to this hospital. I am going to pull every string I have, call in every favor I can, and get every set of eyes possible on this.”

“I can’t do this again,” you shake your head. 

“Yes, you can.”

“I’ve already seen so many people, Jack. I’ve heard it all. I’ve made peace with it.”

“No you haven’t, and that’s okay. You came here because some part of you knew I would never let this go. So don’t ask me to. It’s offensive, honey.”

Well shit. Seems like your husband of years seems to actually know you better than you know yourself. 

“I’ve accepted it, Jack. Memento mori.” 

Liar liar pants on fire. 

He grins. “Then I guess we’re both liars.”

You look at him confused, but he just sighs. 

“I told you I moved out…but I didn’t,” he admits. “I still live in the house I built for you. I still sleep in our bed, on my side of course, cause I know you never liked the way I dipped your side of the mattress,” he laughs at the memory, making you smile. “Your books are still on the nightstand. I never moved them.” 

You imagine all the things he never brought himself to move. The way time stopped running in a house that was once filled with laughter and love. So much love. Jack just does a helpless shrug. 

“You left…but you never really left me.”

Yeah. That’ll do it. You’re crying again before you even realize it. Your hands go to cover your face, but he intercepts them midway. 

“No, no, honey. No more hiding from me,” he says, so softly it doesn’t exactly help your situation. “We’re in this together now.” 

You nod, his thumbs reach out to dry your tears. 

“I know I’m not the type of surgeon you need. I know I can’t fix this with my own hands. But I’m still a doctor,” he explains softly. “And most importantly…I’m still your husband. So I will be damned if I don’t do everything in my power to figure this out. We are going to try. Oh honey we are going to ask questions. We are going to make the smartest people in every room look at this until they are sick of seeing my face.”

That makes you laugh. He delights at the sound. 

“Jack…”

“I know you’re tired, my love,” he continues, his voice turning even softer. “I know you’re scared. I know you’ve been carrying this by yourself for too long and the idea of starting over with new doctors makes you want to crawl out of your skin. But you do not get to give up before I even get a chance to fight for you.”

The weight in your chest that has been dragging you down lately eases, if only a little, letting you breathe. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all of this would’ve been easier if he’d known from the start. Maybe it can be easier now. Even if he can’t solve it…you’ll let him try. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

“Okay,” he nods. “You’re coming home with me tonight, and we’ll deal with this in the morning. We’ll start here, and if it doesn’t work there’s always New York, I can cash a few favors in Washington too–“

“But your job–“

“Can wait,” he states without hesitation. “Sweetheart, I've been here for a long time, and I’m going to use that to my advantage. Maybe it’s time for my sabbatical, yeah? That way I can take you everywhere you need to be. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“…a sabbatical.”

“Robby took one,” he shrugs. “Three months away and it didn’t kill him. I’m willing to take whatever time they allow me.”

“What about SWAT duty?” You push. He lets out a chuckle. 

“I know you might miss the uniform–“

You slap his arm weakly. 

“Alright, alright,” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Just–don’t worry about it, okay? I meant it when I said I got you, honey.”

You sigh, but it’s more out of relief than anything. How you needed to hear those words. How you needed him. 

“And in the meantime, you can tell me your favorite memories of us…so I can keep them safe for you while we figure this out.”

Jesus Christ. How could you have ever walked away from this man? At this point you’re gonna have to sign the papers just to marry him again. 

“Jack…”

“Come on, from the hip, give me one,” he says playfully, and you know he’s not letting this go. 

You tap your chin and glance away, pretending to think. Your eyes light up when a very specific memory pops into your head. 

“I remember our naked yoga sessions very fondly,” you say, completely serious, but it manages to get a genuine surprised laugh from him. 

“Of course you do,” he laughs, throwing his head back at the memory. He still does it, at sunrise when he’s not working, with your mat still next to his. “You always ended up bouncing on me.”

“Jack!!” You say, heat creeping up your face in a way it hasn’t in a long time. 

You both laugh about it for a moment, then fall into a quiet that could never be described as awkward. Not between you. Not anymore. 

“I missed this,” he says quietly, those intense hazel eyes piercing into yours. You loved those eyes. You still do. “I missed you.”

You smile sadly, cupping his face with your hands. “You missed nice me.”

“I missed my wife.”

Your heart skips a beat at that. So many years he’d called you that, until you threw it all away. Or, well, the thing in your head did? Whatever. It is what it is. 

Your eyes travel all over his face. Damp lashes, tension in his jaw even if he tries to hide it with a cheeky grin, all the wrinkles time has carved into him while you were apart. 

“I missed my husband,” you finally say, just as soft. 

He smiles at that. You loved that smile, you still do. 

“Then let me take care of you, honey.” 

We can plant a memory garden

Say a solemn prayer, place a poppy in my hair

There's no morning glory, it was war, it wasn't fair

And we will never go back to that bloodshed

Thank you so much for reading 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 💋

[planetnini]

crying

[lovebugism]

YOU WIN SOME, YOU LOSE SOME ─── jack abbot

summary: you assume jack likes you until the pitt starts betting on how long it'll take him and samira to get together; jack assumes you like him until you get called into work while on a date with your coworker. turns out, all it takes is a bad bet and an even worse date for you and jack to realize how in love the two of you are. (7k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity santos, samira mohan, nick barker, mcvadi crumbs

contents: friends to lovers, idiots in love, implied age gap, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, jealousy, humor, so much flirting, cw for medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, and probably several hr violations

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

You make it halfway through your shift with a lighter wallet and a heavier heart than when you started it.

You can hear Princess shuffling through her stack of cash from the other side of the workstation, flaunting her winnings from a well-placed bet. You try and fail not to let it distract you as you scribble at the clipboard before you, with your heavy head propped on your clenched fist. 

Charting was hard enough back when the computers were still running, back when it was easy — let alone when you have to make every single note by hand, and flit physically through a hundred different files just to cross-reference all the information.

“Is this what it was like back when you were a resident?” you’d asked Jack, when he dropped off an order slip by the filing cabinet, beside the bulky fax machine you were standing in front of and trying to tame. 

He slid in beside you with a wide hand on your lower back, smelling like a dizzying mixture of sweat and musky cologne. He adjusted your labs in the tray without another word, turning it around and flipping it right-side up for you. 

“Yeah, actually,” he’d nodded, dialing the proper number on the machine with his pointer finger, including the area code that you had forgotten to add. The corner of his lip flickered upward in a faint half-smirk as he joked with squinted eyes, “Back in the 1900s— when charting was done by candlelight.”

You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”

“Extremely,” he deadpanned.

“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”

Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”

Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”

You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot. 

You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.

“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.

Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”

“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.” 

You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again. 

“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”

“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”

“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath. 

Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick. 

You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”

“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’” 

She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.

“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”

You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.

“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”

“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”

“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”

She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”

You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken. 

You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.

You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”

Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.

“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms. 

Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. 

He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.

“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.

“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”

He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting. 

“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”

“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.

Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”

“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”

“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”

“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.

“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.

“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”

You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.

“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. 

A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:

“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan. 

You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips. 

Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)

“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”

“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”

“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.

“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”

“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.

“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”

Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.

“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly. 

Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow. 

“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”

Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again. 

“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”

“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?” 

“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”

You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do. 

Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels. 

“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”

Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”

“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”

Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”

You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient. 

You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.

“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”

His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. 

Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R. 

Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.” 

Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy. 

You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.

Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room. 

You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.

“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.

“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.

“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”

The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name. 

“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”

You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.

“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”

He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.

You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”

“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”

“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”

His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”

You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is. 

You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness. 

You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile. 

“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”

“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”

“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”

You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.

“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.

“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.

“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”

Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.

“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.

“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”

“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”

“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”

“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”

“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”

Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.

You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once. 

The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.

You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.

You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him. 

Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.

You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.

“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”

“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth. 

He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.

“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”

You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.

“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.

 “…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.

“Dr. Abbot.”

Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”

His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”

Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.

“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”

It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.

“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”

Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call. 

You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better. 

The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.

“You can get that if you need to—”

“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”

The call ends before you can answer it. 

Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”

“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”

Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.

“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.

“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”

“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”

You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.

“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”

The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts. 

You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.

Jack smells you before he sees you.

He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder. 

By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.

“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.

“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.

“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.

“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.

“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”

Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger. 

“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”

Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.

Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s. 

“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor. 

“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.

He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.

“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.

Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”

“How was the, uh… The date?”

“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”

“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”

His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.

“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”

“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”

You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.

Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.

Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead. 

“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.

It clicks shut behind you. 

“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”

“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.

“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”

Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.

“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”

“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”

Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.

“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”

The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”

“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”

“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.

Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.

“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.

“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”

“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”

You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.

Jack follows your every move.

“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”

You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach. 

“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”

Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”

Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”

You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin. 

You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.

Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.

“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”

You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again. 

“Crystal,” you quip drily.

You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later. 

Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.

The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.

“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

You push the man away from you on instinct. 

“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.

Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.

Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile. 

“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.” 

  The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

“Which means I just lost all of my money…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”

It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.

“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”

“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”

You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.

“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”

“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”

He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.

“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug. 

“No?” Jack hums.

“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”

[planetnini]

absolutely adore this

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Gravity Part One

Part Two

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader

Notes: Welcome back to another accidental three-parter. Not beta-read.

Rating: M

Length: 5.6K

Warnings: Yearning (a frickin lot); slow burn; coworkers to friends to lovers; angst; fluff; canon-typical medical chat; fluff; POV switches a couple of times; Reader is roommates with Ellis; Jack 'Prolonged Eye Contact' Abbot

Summary: Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

It started when she was an intern. 

Jack was fully aware of his tendency toward strong eye contact. It helped him make sure he was fully getting a point across when he was guiding residents in the ER—so long as their focus wasn't meant to be elsewhere. 

He managed to meet her eye fully exactly twice—and maybe it was odd, but Jack could remember both times clear as day. 

The first one was her first day at the Pitt, when she’d shook his hand, introduced herself with a nervous tremor in her voice. Her palm had been a little sweaty, and cold, but her eyes had held his. 

The second had been a week or so later, the first time she’d lost a patient. He’d clapped her on the shoulder, reassured her that there was nothing more she could’ve done. He’d tacked on, “Don’t let it happen again,” and he’d been kidding—but she had balked, ducked her head, apologized, and hurried away. 

She had rarely met his eye since then.

At first, he’d figured that she was shy, and that she’d grow out of it. Then, he’d thought that maybe she was more reserved at work—some people simply kept their personal and professional lives separate.

But those notions had been disproven time and time and time again: when she palled around with her fellow residents; when she watched and communicated with Walsh attentively; when the senior resident that was clearly hitting on her leaned just a little too close for Jack’s liking in the staff room. 

She hadn’t backed down from a single one, hardly batted a damn eyelash.

But any time she spotted Jack, her eyes would lower or dart away—to the floor, to her hands, to a chart, to the sandwich cart, to a counter.

Now, Jack was not a man to take these things personally, but after all these years, it stuck in his craw. He didn’t think about it most days, had learned to take it in stride, found ways to work with it. It had never caused a hold up during a procedure, or in the event of an emergency. She was always active in communicating with him, she just…Never looked at him. 

“You’re going to burn a hole through her head.” 

Jack hadn’t realized he was staring until Lena said so. He glanced toward the nurse, eyed her knowing smile, and redirected his focus to the computer in front of him. 

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

Lena snorted, turning back to the desk as someone approached to ask her a question. 

Jack only half-listened, unable to help his eyes drifting toward her again. She was hunched over her own computer, and seemed to be fighting back a smile at something Shen was saying. Another comment or two from Shen, and then her chin was tipping up, a bright smile on her lips as she held Shen’s eye.

Jack huffed a soft laugh through his nose at the sound of Shen’s cackling laugh, and it was like watching ripples in a pond—her head tipped, her brow furrowed, and her eyes darted in Jack’s direction. The smile flattened when she caught him looking, her focus lowering to her keyboard as she hurriedly straightened. She seemed to point to the charge board, mutter something, and turned on her heel, striding away with purpose.

Jack couldn’t help a swell of petty disappointment. What the hell was that? There was no way she’d heard him laugh. It was like she’d sensed a disturbance in the force. Jack shook his head, trying to refocus on the chart. 

Did she panic because he had been smiling? Had he been staring at her as long as Lena implied? Did he look like some dirty old man? 

Jack pushed off of the desk, eyeing the charge board with purpose. Whatever it was that made her skitter away like that—well. He’d forget it by tomorrow. 

--  

“Hey. You headed in?” 

You glanced back, doing a double-take at the site of Ellis standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Uh—Yeah, just packin’ a few snacks. You need anything?” 

“I got something to ask you.” 

“Sure, what’s up?” You turned to face her, folding your arms expectantly. In the entire time you and Ellis had been roommates, you’d never seen her look concerned like this—and she usually didn’t bother trying to be delicate when broaching a difficult subject. 

“Parker, what is it?” You pressed.

“Is something going on between you and Abbot?”

Your brow furrowed, mouth falling open as if to answer—but what the hell kind of question was that?

“Excuse me?” 

“You and Abbot, what’s going on?” 

“There’s nothing going on.” 

“You sure?” 

“I think I’d know if something was happening between us, El. Where the hell did this come from, anyway?” 

“Shen said the two of you were weird yesterday, that Abbot looked at you and you bolted. And—” She shrugged, “You kinda always seem like that. Did something happen?” 

“Nothing happened yesterday! I realized I needed to go check on a patient, I’d just gotten their results back.” 

“And all the other times?” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Ellis gave you a long look before she relented, holding her hands up in surrender with a mutter of, “Alright.”

“Great.”

“If you insist—”

“I do insist.” 

“But you know what they say about people who protest too much.”

“Cap it, Hamlet. You on tonight?” 

“Yep,” Ellis nodded. 

“See you in there.” 

“If you wanna wait, I’ll drive you.” 

“Nah, it’s okay,” You shifted your bag onto your shoulder. “The walk is good for me.”

“We’re gonna be on our feet for the next twelve hours.” 

“I like a warm-up,” You insisted. “See you in there.” 

Slow and steady, that was how you left the apartment—even steps, a measured pocket-pat-down at the door to make sure you had your phone, keys, wallet, ID badge…And then you were out the door.

Out the door, and down the stairs, and cursing under your breath as you stepped out onto the street. Where the hell did Ellis get off, asking something like that? Implying that something could be going on between you and Abbot? You hardly spoke to the guy. Hell—you felt like you barely said more than two words to the man that didn’t have anything to do with work. The implication that the two of you had something going on was categorically insane—and it twisted your gut up in a knot. 

The closer you got to the Pitt, the worse the feeling got, until it was bordering on nausea. You stopped a block away, drawing in a deep breath and puffing it out between your lips, trying to shake yourself of the feeling. Damnit, why’d you let Ellis get in your head that way? 

You drew in another steadying breath as you started forward again, trying to shake the nerves out of your hands. This shift was going to be fine—as seamless as the ones before it.  

-- 

“You doin’ okay?” 

It was a fair question asked by the last person you wanted to hear it from. The shift had been hell. Patient after patient seemed to have some hitch. You were slower to respond when Abbot asked you questions, prompted you. It was only made worse by the feeling of Ellis and Shen watching every goddamn interaction. 

Now, the test results were back for the patient you were least looking forward to seeing. The patient herself was sweet, but you were getting nowhere with her overbearing husband answering nearly every question for her. 

You pushed yourself to straighten up. 

“Fine,” You insisted flatly. “Thanks.” You straightened fully, hesitating as you heard him take a step away. “Actually—” 

It was out of your mouth before you could stop it. You saw Abbot go still in your periphery, and your hands flexed around the iPad in your hands. 

“I’m having trouble getting answers from a patient—a woman with a head injury. She said she slipped and whacked it, but based on where the cut is...I don't think it's possible. And her husband’s an overbearing ass. I’ve got a bad feeling about him.”

“Abusive?” 

“I think so. Could you run interference?” 

“Sure. You have one of those pens, one of the—” 

“I always keep a couple in my pocket.” 

--

She steeled herself before she went into the examination bay. Jack had seen her do it time and time again when she could. He wondered how it steadied her, savored the way that she closed her eyes for a split-second, drew in a deep breath, and then slapped a smile on before pulling the curtain back.

"How are we doing in here?"

Her chipper tone did nothing to reveal the concern that she'd shared with him moments ago. Abbot followed close behind, taking in the young woman laying in a hospital gown on the bed, and the man standing just beside her at the head. Abbot took another step toward the bed, then stopped as the woman seemed seemed to shrink back, attempting to make herself smaller.

"She's fine." The man's voice was gruff in his insistence, his hand curled into a fist just by his wife's head. Abbot's eyes skated across the bruises and scrapes to the knuckles there, his own hands wringing behind his back as he took another step closer.

Jack saw her glance back toward him before she gestured, "Dr. Abbot, this is Nick and Amanda Alpers. Mr. and Mrs. Alpers, this is Dr. Abbot. He's the ER's foremost expert on head injuries." An easy fib, and it seemed to be a necessary one.

"Aren't you all trained on the same shit?" Nick grumbled. Abbot took a couple of steps closer, taking in the slight matting of hair on the wife's head, the dark clotting of blood.

"We all have our own experiences that inform how we practice," Abbot passed easily, taking one more step. "Mrs. Alpers, would it be alright if I examined the—"

"It's just a scrape, really!" The insistence was hurried, and left the poor woman in a squeak. Abbot forced a small smile, giving a conceding nod.

"May I examine the scrape?" He conceded.

Amanda's eyes seemed to dart to Nick for permission, and only after a hefty sigh did Nick wave Abbot closer.

He couldn't help but note the way his fellow doctor rounded the bed, caught on the slight flurry of her questions as he gloved up.

"Are you feeling any pressure?" He asked, gently parting the hair to get a better look at the bloody, raised bump on her head.

"N-no. No more than usual—I mean! No more than anyone ever usually feels," Amanda hurried to answer. Abbot's eyes lifted to the doctor on the opposite side of the bed just in time to see her fingers tightening around her iPad.

"Any sensitivity to light, sound...?" Abbot went on, drawing his penlight out of his pocket and shining it from one eye to the next.

"Nn-nn."

"Hm."

"If that's all, can we go?" Nick groused. "Already been a waste of a night."

Abbot straightened, sizing Nick up. He waited for his fellow physician to say something, but—Nothing. He looked at her, certain she was eyeing the chart, but realized immediately that it was a mistake. Her eyes were right on his, widening pointedly as they darted to the creep beside her. Abbot cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the patient—though he knew he'd be tucking that look away for himself.

"Nick, can I have a word?" He asked, gesturing toward the nurse's station.

"What for?"

Abbot pushed a short breath out through his nose as he rounded the bed, taking even steps so as not to raise the brute's hackles.

"There are some things that I'd like to discuss with you. Things that, you know," He nodded, "Women shouldn't hear."

Watching understanding wash over Nick's face made his stomach turn. It was a wonder the man had brought his wife to the ER at all if that was the attitude he held.

"We won't go far?" Nick pressed, though he was already moving.

"No, no," Jack insisted, following him out, "Just a few feet." He gave her one last look, and a quick nod before tugging the observation curtain closed behind them.

--

The knot that had formed in your stomach only tightened, but it wasn’t for your own nerves or panic anymore. You didn't like letting her go, hated seeing her leave with him. Abbot came to a stop beside you, and for a moment, the two of you just watched Nick steer Amanda out of the ER.

"What'd you say to him?" You asked.

"Distracted him with football."

"I didn't know you watched."

“Sometimes. She take the pen?” He asked. 

“...Yeah.” 

“It’s a start.”

“Might be too little, too late.” 

“She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“You think so?” 

“Sure.”

“...I gave her my number, too.” 

You saw Abbot’s head turn toward you, and you froze, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It should’ve been more of a scold, but you could’ve sworn his tone was tinged with admiration. 

“I know.”

“What were you thinking?” 

“I wasn’t.” You turned away from Abbot. “Thanks again for distracting him.” 

“...No problem. Will you tell me if she calls?” 

“Yeah,” You nodded, turning to look at the board. “Hope she does—and soon.” 

“Was that all that was bothering you?” 

“What?” 

“You seemed a little off earlier. Just making sure everything’s okay.” 

Well, Abbot always was the observant type. It was one of the things that made him such a good doctor. You shouldn’t have been offended by his question, but in that moment, his concern was as unwelcome as Ellis probing had been just a few hours before. 

“Just one of those days—nights,” You corrected, “You know.” 

“Take a couple minutes, get some air.” 

“I’m alright.” And before you could stop yourself, you gave him a grateful smile before turning away. In truth, you weren't entirely sure where you were headed to—you’re more distracted by the fact that you’d met the guy’s eye more in the last twenty minutes than you probably had in the last two years. 

-- 

“Here.” 

“Thanks,” You took your beer as Ellis set it down and settled into the seat across from you. “John on his way?” 

“Yeah,” She nodded, “And uh…Don’t kill me, but he’s bringing someone.” 

You frowned, shaking your head as you waited for her to explain. Ellis didn’t elaborate, merely tipped her brows up. It only took a second for you to put the pieces together, and you groaned, sliding down in your chair as nerves flooded your stomach. 

“Parker—” 

“It’s just a coincidence!” She took in your unimpressed glare, corrected, “Mostly a coincidence. We always ask, he almost never says yes. It’s as hard to talk him into coming out as it is to talk you into it. Besides, it’ll help!” 

“There’s nothing here that needs helping.” 

“It’s slowing things down—”

“When has it ever slowed anything down?”

“Last few shifts, he’s waited for you to look at him when you answer and nothing. It’s making shit weird. We leave that messy personal bull for the day shift.”

“I’m not—This isn’t messy, it’s just—”

“You barely look at the guy. We all notice it.” 

“He’s so big on frickin’ eye contact, like,” You glanced around the bar, “It’s intimidating.” 

“Intimidating?”

“Yeah.”

“Intimidating.” 

“Yes! I barely even like making eye contact with you, but I live with you, so it’s mostly unavoidable.” 

“You love it.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t want to be adopted by the meanest lesbian in the ER?”

“I thought that was Garcia.”

“No, she’s the meanest lesbian in surgery.” 

Ellis’ smile widened before she perked up, waving at someone behind you before she leaned in just a touch. 

“Just be yourself, be cool.”

“Pick one.”

“You know, I bet he thinks you hate him.” 

“What?” You hissed, “Why would he think that? And—Why would he give a shit, plenty of people hate their boss. Not that I hate him, I don’t, just—”

“Hey!” Shen’s voice cut over your nervous chatter, and you couldn’t stop your knee-jerk reaction of turning to look at him—and spotting Abbot just a couple of steps behind. Shen patted you on the shoulder, settling down beside you as Abbot rounded the table. Your eyes glued to your beer instinctively as he shrugged out of his jacket, sitting down beside Ellis. And you thought you’d just managed to be subtle enough—until both Shen and Ellis kicked you lightly under the table. It took everything in you not to kick back, instead lifting your head to meet Abbot’s eye, plastering a small smile on your lips. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” There was a little lean to his lo, a friendly tease that you felt like you hadn’t earned. And there was eye contact—heavy, steady eye contact as he folded his arms on the table. You tried to ignore the traitorous little flip in your stomach as you hurriedly lowered your eyes to the table, picking your beer up and taking a swig to try and drown the flurrying butterflies.  

“We miss anything good?” Shen plied. Ellis shook her head. 

“We were just talking about renewing our lease.” 

“I forgot you two were roommates,” Abbot commented. Ellis must’ve told him, and you couldn’t fathom why he’d remember. 

“What’s the verdict?” Shen asked.

“We’re gonna stick,” You reported as you looked at him. “Rent is going up, but, like, barely…Barely.”

“And the location is too good,” Ellis tacked on. “Half an hour to the Pitt walking, fifteen minutes by car—utilities don’t suck, either.” 

“Decent space,” You added, “And allows dogs—if this one goes through with getting a dog.”

“I’m still in research and development.” 

“Aren’t you allergic?” Shen nudged your arm. 

“Yeah, but not deathly. And if she picks a breed that doesn’t shed much and has a low can f 1 gene—” 

“I want to adopt from a shelter—” 

“So I’ll probably be moving out as soon as that happens,” You teased, “Because god knows she’ll wind up with a mutt.” 

“And sublet?” 

“Sure, John. You can move into my room, I’ll move into your place. Even trade.” 

“I don’t know about that—” 

“Better rent, better location.” 

“You won’t mind being further from the Pitt?”

“Nah,” You shrugged, “I like a long walk.” 

“Sure does,” Ellis rolled her eyes, “I don’t know anyone that spends more time just wandering around on their days off.” 

“Is it a crime to enjoy being outside when the sun is up?” 

“You ever think of switching to day shift?”

Abbot’s question caught you off-guard—it was like you’d fallen into such an easy rhythm with Ellis and Shen that you'd almost managed to forget that he was there. Your fingers tightened around your beer as you forced yourself to meet Abbot’s eye again. 

“Not once.” 

It was the truth, and it made Abbot’s smile widen in a way that felt dangerously vindicating. Unnerving quiet wrapped around your shared gaze, and Ellis clearing her throat was what finally snapped you out of looking at him. 

“So, hey,” Shen jumped in, “Did I tell you guys about my latest acquisition?”

“Jesus fucking christ,” You muttered over Ellis’ low whistle. 

“Another ebay war?” She asked.

“Not a war, an easy buy,” Shen insisted, “You know, for—”

“Yeah, your shank bank, we remember,” You insisted, smile pulling wide as both Abbot and Ellis’ laughter catches from that side of the table. “That weird-ass collection of antique medical equipment—fucking medical history nerd.” 

“I keep them as a display!” 

“Must really get ‘em going on a date night. Nothing hotter to a woman than rusty scalpels,” You batted back, nudging Shen’s shoulder with yours. You didn’t mean to catch Abbot’s eye on your way back to looking at Ellis again. And this look didn’t hold for as long as the one before it—but it was just long enough to reawaken the butterflies, even as Shen insisted,

“This one isn’t even rusty!”

--  

As you turned in for the night, Ellis teased you, insisted, “See, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You didn’t argue, because she wasn't wrong—it wasn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon out. But it was…Different. 

Your aversion to Dr. Abbot’s attention had started your first week at the Pitt, when he’d stuck close during an intubation. He hadn’t been breathing down your neck, but his steady focus had made you so damn nervous. You were used to your attendings being just a little scattered, torn in six different directions. And other matters had vied for Abbot’s attention, sure, but he hadn’t heeded them until the patient was in the clear.

You’d started to avoid his gaze after that, and it had just become second nature. Avoiding eye contact turned into avoiding him during the quiet moments of your shifts, which turned into a patient-treatment-only conversational focus. Abbot consulted on your cases, made recommendations, listened to your rationalizations. 

When he did insist on meeting your eye, you gave him just a long enough look to show that you’d heard him, but never anything more. You’d avoided palling around with him, even though you palled around with your fellow residents, and with other attendings—but you were comfortable with them. 

And Abbot didn’t make you uncomfortable, per se. But the nerves that had welled around him during your first few weeks at the Pitt had never really gone away. If you were hard-pressed to examine and classify your feelings, you would (grudgingly) sort them into the mild to moderately romantic category. You blamed him for that entirely.

It wasn't fair, of course. He was handsome, knowledgeable, charming when he wanted to be. He was an amazing physician, an excellent teacher. And it wasn't his fault you had a bit of competency kink. Abbot had never made you feel anything but valued—and nervous.

Besides, it was embarrassing to admit that you had a crush on a man that you’d hardly looked in the eye for the last few years. 

You could understand how Abbot may’ve thought you didn’t like him—if he really thought that. But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed everyone to like him. It probably helped, sure, but you were positive that your countenance had never caused a slow-down or a hitch in the ER, no matter what Ellis said. You were just focused—and since when was that a bad thing? 

Either way, today had been kinda…okay. You’d made nice with Abbot, made eye contact multiple times without Ellis or Shen kicking you in the shins again. Whatever wound up happening, you’d tried, and they couldn’t take that away from you, right? 

You settled in bed, letting your eyes slip closed, drawing in a deep breath to relax yourself.

For all your initial irritation, Ellis was right—it wasn’t that bad. 

But it didn’t stop Abbot’s warm gaze from lingering behind your eyelids when you closed them, and it couldn’t keep the mirthful roll of his chuckle from playing through your mind as you tried to drift off. 

-- 

You decided to make it a little experiment, approach it as something that you could train yourself out of. Seeing him over drinks had laid the groundwork—and you had managed to look at him twice a few shifts ago, hadn’t you? 

You went into your next shift determined to look Abbot in the eye three times.

You only managed it once when you passed him by the board—a glance and a small wave.

The smile that he returned flustered you so much that you nearly walked into the sandwich cart, and it scared you out of looking at him for the rest of the night. As a matter of fact, it scared you out of it the next shift, and the one after that. 

You talked yourself out of the whole foolish endeavor. You’d managed to work with Abbot perfectly well before, why change things now? Especially when looking at him seemed to awaken something girlish and fluttering inside of you—and you couldn’t afford to be girlish and fluttering at work. 

-- 

She was doing it again. 

Jack had thought they had turned a corner after Shen and Ellis had invited them all out together, but things seemed to be moving in reverse. It had gone beyond sticking in his craw—it was almost nagging at him now, and worse now that he knew what the full force of her focus was like. It was easy to brush off before, but these days Jack was hard-pressed to admit that he felt something in him wilt whenever she avoided his eye. 

She was making a meal of it now, focused stalwartly as she instructed Javadi on setting a bone. He’d seen her head tip in his direction a couple of times, but she’d always given her head a little shake before refocusing. Was the shake for Javadi? For him? 

“...You didn’t hear me, did you,” Ellis asked, forcing him to refocus. He had heard her—and he could feign that his silence had been fueled by contemplation. He turned away from the treatment bay, arms folded across his chest. 

“See if the OR can take Mr. Tosches yet," He instructed. "I don’t want him down here too long. You follow up with the raccoon kid?” 

“That’s my next stop.” 

“Perfect, thanks.” 

“Sure—Hey, are you coming by this weekend?”

That weekend. He’d been dodging giving Ellis an answer for the last couple of weeks. She’d invited him to the last four get-togethers at the apartment, but he’d never made it to one, either because he was working, or because he just wasn’t in the mood to socialize. 

He wasn’t sure he was in the mood now, but…A fleeting smile flashed through his mind. They’d seemed to come easier to her when they were away from the hospital. And his therapist had been nagging him about leaving the house more…

“Yeah,” He nodded. “Yeah, I can make it.” 

Ellis didn’t cover her surprise well, but her, “kay, sweet. I’ll text you the address," Told him that she was just as surprised by his answer as he was.

Abbot nodded, casting another glance toward the treatment bay before turning away fully. It was just an experiment, he told himself. He would see if her smiles for him came easier outside of work, or not at all. 

If it was not at all, he’d let it go, once and for all.

--  

“Is there any coffee?” 

The question made you freeze in front of your cabinet. Your eyes darted through its contents, but you didn’t take in a damn thing. He was in your kitchen. He never came to these things, why the hell did he come to this one?

“Uh—” You turned, looking around your kitchen as though you’d never been there before. “It’s um—Yeah. Right there. It might not be hot, though. I can turn the pot back on.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“You're on shift tonight?”

“Mhm.”

You nodded, turning back to the cabinet. Hell, what did you open it for? Goddamn, but you came in here looking for something—You huffed, shoving the cabinet door closed as you scrubbed your hand across your forehead. He wasn’t allowed to do this, he wasn’t allowed to make you feel this out of sorts in your own damn kitchen. 

“Everything alright?” 

“You know, I feel like half the time you talk to me, you’re asking if I’m okay.” It was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and embarrassment sprang up the second it did. “I should, um—You need a mug, don’t you,” You muttered, turning to the other cabinet, and glancing back toward the living room when you heard a swell of laughter. Damnit, but Ellis sent you into the kitchen for what? Napkins? Napkins would be in the cabinet.

“Well forgive me for being concerned when one of my best residents seems to spend half of her shifts avoiding me.” 

You whirled around, too stunned to do anything but meet Jack’s eye. The steady contact seemed to catch the both of you off-guard. Your mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as your mind reeled. What the hell could you say to that? Well—what would you say if you were talking to Ellis or Shen? 

“...Just one of your best residents?” 

Abbot’s brows lifted, his lips quirk with a smile, and your stomach filled with that girlish fluttering again. 

“You’re certainly not avoiding me now.”

You press your mouth together, gaze instinctively dropping to the floor. 

“I don’t avoid you at work, either. I’m just—” You turned back to the cabinet, reaching into it for a mug. “I’m focused when I'm at the Pitt.” 

“Seem to be focused right now, too.” 

“Do you want a mug for your coffee or not?” 

“Oh, that old excuse.” 

“Fine, drink it from the pot. That’s Parker’s machine, anyway. She’ll kill you.” 

“She wouldn’t. We’re short-staffed as it is.” 

“Well, that’s true.” You crossed the kitchen, holding the mug out. And, though you knew the answer, you asked, “Do you need milk or sugar?” 

“No.” 

“Alright.” You turned, reaching for the cabinet by the coffee machine. Maybe it was something in there.

“...You don’t really think I avoid you," You plied, unable to stop yourself.

“Certainly avoid looking at me.”

“Focused.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You’re fine to look at.” 

“Oh?”

“Good—Good to—” No, nothing in that cabinet. Check the next one. At least, you needed to get a few feet away from Abbot before you said anything else stupid. “You’re fine.” 

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” 

“...Look at me.” 

It was so firm that you went still in front of your cabinet again, hands on the knobs, doors half-open as your heart leaps into your throat.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re not at work, you can’t need to be that focused. If I’m so fine to look at, look at me.” 

Your fingers flexed around the knobs, palms growing sweaty. 

“Ellis asked me to grab something for her and you’ve already distracted me enough.”

“Is that so.” 

“You can be very distracting sometimes.” For fucksake. What was it about being alone with this man that had your head so horribly scrambled?

“I suddenly feel like I oughta apologize,” He commented.

“I feel like you’re making fun of me.” 

“A little.” 

You scoffed out a laugh, your nerves only worsening when you heard Jack take a few steps closer, saw him lower his coffee onto the counter beside you. 

“It won’t take long,” He reassured, raising his hand to close one of the cabinet doors. “One quick look.” 

You drew in a deep breath, planting your hand on the counter and turning to face Jack with wide eyes. You were prepared to stare at him pointedly—but you faltered at the look on his face. His eyes were softer than they had any right being. They searched your expression, sweeping over your nose, across your cheeks, to your lips, and up again—as if he was seeing you for the first time. 

“...See?” He murmured. “This isn’t so bad.” 

You struggled to swallow, throat dry; your face was flooding with heat. If this was a cartoon, you were certain that your heart would be beating out of your chest. 

“No,” You finally managed, shaking your head a little, unable to tear your eyes from his, “No, it isn’t.” 

Jack’s smile widened as he leaned against the counter a touch, fingers skimming against yours. And you knew that you ought to look away, go ask Ellis what she sent you into the damn kitchen for in the first place, but you couldn't bring yourself to move.

“You just gonna keep staring at me, Jack?” You murmured. His brows jumped slightly at the use of his first name, lips quirking with a smirk.

“You’re staring, too.”

“Making up for apparently avoiding you.” 

“Very kind of you.”

“Do what I can.” 

Maybe it was better that he was looking at your face, anyway—if he looked down, he might see the goosebumps sweeping up your arm from the gentle sweep of his fingertips against yours. It felt pathetic to get so worked up from such a simple touch. Goddamn, did he look at everyone like this? Did everyone feel like this when he looked at them? There was no way—if it was, nothing would ever get done at the Pitt. 

“Hey, did you find the Triscuits?” 

Ellis bottle snapped you out of the trance-like stare, and you whirled away from Jack like he was trying to set you on fire. The Triscuits, son of a bitch, that was what you were sent to look for. 

“I just—I just saw them,” You fumbled, pulling the cabinet open again. 

“My fault,” Abbot spoke up. “I asked for some coffee.” 

“You’re on tonight?” Ellis frowned, and you were relieved to hear her come deeper into the kitchen. “I thought you were taking the day.” 

“We had two call outs. Matter of fact, I should get going.”

You glanced doggedly back toward Jack, watching him pick his mug up and take a deep swig. You busied yourself with poking through the drawer beneath the cupboard, vaguely catching Abbot saying his goodbyes to Ellis in the background. Jeez, did the Trisuits fucking evaporate? 

You glanced toward the mug as Jack set it down in the sink, and, against your better judgement, met Jack’s eye when he turned to look at you. 

“Thanks for the coffee.” 

“Sure,” You nodded. “Have a good shift.” 

“Good luck finding those, uh…” He glanced toward Ellis. “Triscuits?” 

“Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Thanks for coming, man.” 

“Have a good night.” 

You listened to his retreating footsteps, marked the opening and closing of the door…And tried not to die from complete mortification when Ellis tapped your shoulder, then pointed out the box of Triscuits where it was sitting on the counter. 

Next Part

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage​​​ ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @artsymaddie

@winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[planetnini]

absolute perfection

[saccharinespring]

Over It (jack abbot x reader)

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Reader WORD COUNT: 6.8k SUMMARY: Jack Abbot broke your heart without rhyme or reason. Now you're just trying to get over it, despite his constant attempts in not letting you. CW: ex!jack abbot/nurse!reader, some swearing, thoughts about killing men(jokes), very inaccurate medical procedure, happy ending, mohabbot mention (not actually), age gap implied but not stated so make it whatever you wish

ao3 link | masterlist

You were certain you must have done something truly evil in a past life to have the type of luck you had. Not only were you broken up with not even a full six months ago by a man you thought was the one, but you were also doomed to spend nearly every night with him due to your poor choice of job. 

You had become a night nurse at Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Centre over two years ago, sure you would have preferred a day shift but you were new in the city and low on funds, so you took what you could get. At first it was fine, you were in the ER department so it was rarely quiet, but the doctors were nice and the other nurses held your hand as you got used to the new system. You even managed to make a few friends, John Shen becoming your main coffee supplier by your third shift. You felt like, despite the ruined sleep schedule, that you had managed to make a place for yourself.

Then there was Doctor Jack Abbot, a man who could make anybody in the near vicinity weak in the knees with his casual flirting and pessimistic outlook hidden behind a boyish charm. He was strong and firm, always five steps ahead of everybody else, while handling not only the patients but the staff with care, and to top it all off - he was handsome. Salt and pepper curls and a smirk that made many of the drunk girls with twisted ankles blush, while his hands twisted their bare legs checking for pain. 

You wished you could say you were immune to his charms, that every sassy comment and flirty winks he sent your way did nothing to you… but it only took five months, one terrible shift and two drinks in a nearby bar before your lips were pressed to his and his hands were gripping your waist. 

It started off casual, a simple hook up whenever one of you needed company, but then came the sleepovers and the breakfasts in bed and constant checking for each other in every room you entered. By the third month you couldn’t hold it back and you forced the older man to have the conversation and that was it, he was yours and you were his. 

He told you about his time in the army, about how he lost not only his leg but his wife, bearing his heart open to you like he had never done before. You took it with grace, told him he could trust you, that you will keep it locked away in a safe and never dream of breaking it. You told him about your past, about the constant moving, how you never really felt like you had a place called home… or somebody who would stay. He reassured you he wasn’t going anywhere, that there was nothing you could do or say to make him run away. You believed him.

For ten months the two of you were happy. You had your arguments here and there but each of them ended with both of you apologising and long nights of making it up to each other. You found that Jack slept best with you and soon he was over in your small shoebox of a flat most days of the week, always telling you he preferred how homey your place felt compared to his. The two of you discussed moving in together, of a future you could share - maybe even adopt a dog or a cat or a ferret. You went out for dates and you made love and you were happy.

That was until six months ago, after a few weeks of Jack being distant, spending more and more time either at work or at his own house, he finally broke the news. It was a Tuesday, the two of you had just spent the last 18 hours dancing around each other in the ER, you constantly seeking him out as he ran away, by the time your shifts ended you had him cornered in the locker room.

You knew it before he said it, could see the way he looked at you as if he pitied you or wanted to take away your pain, even though he was the one inflicting it. 

There wasn’t a huge discussion, Jack made sure of that, it was simple and straight to the point, like you were a patient on his hospital bed and he was telling you bad news. He refused to show emotion, refused to explain why he came to this decision - instead telling you that he will return your things by next week. It was a ten month relationship that ended in a five minute talk, your coworkers just on the other side of the wall. It was clinical… surgical… it broke your heart.

You had managed to contain your tears until you returned home, breaking down before you had even unlocked your apartment door. You were sure that your next door neighbour could hear your wails and it was somewhat comforting knowing they didn’t care. You had contacted work after an hour of crying, informing them that you were taking your leave and that you would return in a month's time - claiming a family emergency needed your attention. They weren’t happy but after HR’s recent suggestion of preventing burn out they let you take the time you needed.

You allowed yourself to grieve that month, to cry as much as you want, gorge yourself on terrible takeout and ice cream. You watched romcoms that made you cry and dramatic movies that just made you angry. Jack had stayed true to his word and dropped a box of your things off by your door not even two days after he ended things - you had thrown his things in a garbage bag and left it by the front door before he arrived. He didn’t knock, didn’t try and let himself in - just simply texted you that he had left the box on your doormat. 

Despite your unwillingness you couldn’t avoid work forever, which is why a month later you returned to your regular scheduled shifts, avoiding Jack at all costs. There was no more sneaking a kiss in the down times, holding hands as you left in the morning, surprise coffees waiting for you at the nurses station. There was no love, no connection, just an overwhelming sense of loss.

The other around you had noticed, word spread pretty quickly about the golden couple of the night shift break up. Shen attempted to cheer you up by telling you the work gossip you had missed while away, Lena constantly took over when you and Jack were forced to work together and Ellis had attempted to set you up on the newest dating app. You would never admit it, keenly aware that your night shift pals didn’t need their egos stroked, but without them you weren’t sure you would have stayed.

By month three of the break up you swore you were over it, any feelings you had for Jack Abbot had shrivelled up and died, replaced with a new found anger and spite. It’s what spurred you on and forced you to continue to show up - there was no world where you were going to let a man ruin the home you made for yourself. You helped him with patients, never letting on the malice between the two of you, treating him as if he was any other coworker. 

That’s why you were swearing your luck now, that despite the fact it had been six months since your heart was ripped from your chest and shred into a million pieces, you had pulled yourself back up. Only for it all to crash down again.

Shen meant well, not meaning to upset you when he told you that there were rumours that Abbot and Mohan were getting cosy. You tried to play it cool when he mentioned, hiding your internal panic and heartbreak by a simple raised eyebrow. It killed you, the idea that Jack was so willing to move on, with another coworker no less, and you knew you should have let the comment rest there. Instead you pressed for more information.

Apparently the day shift staff made mention to Shen during the shift change that Abbot had come in early, only to spend most of his time with Mohan, and it wasn’t the first time this had happened. According to Shen’s sources (you were ninety percent sure it was from Jesse) Abbot had come in early every shift for the past week.

The rest of your shift was spent mulling over the idea of Mohan and Abbot. You held nothing against the girl, she was young, pretty, wickedly smart and one of the few doctors you had met that cared about their patients being listened to. You had only worked with her once or twice, when you covered for Jesse or Mateo. She was kind, and she respected you, so it didn’t surprise you that you couldn’t be mad at her for even a moment.

There was a part of you that considered that maybe the reason Jack had ended things was because he had already started something with Mohan… it took you an hour to decide that despite how badly he hurt you Jack would never do that. He wasn’t that cruel.

By the time your shift ended you had made up your mind, if Jack was seeing others, you should too. That’s how you ended up in the pediatric ward, talking to Doctor Hotty (a nickname used by the nurses that you were sure Princess had made up). He was a handsome man and he asked you out a few weeks ago after he was brought down to the ER to help with a young child. You had originally shut him down, letting him know you were just getting out of a relationship and wouldn’t want to put him through your mess. He respected your decision but told you to find him when you were ready to move on. The two of you scheduled a date for the upcoming weekend, both of you being lucky enough to have the Saturday night off.

Although you had originally intended to finish your shift by 8am that Saturday morning and try to get some sleep before your date, fate had other plans. If it was any other coworker you would have told them no, that you couldn’t swap shifts that day and to find someone else. Unfortunately you owed Jesse (thanks to your month long sabbatical he was sacrificed to the night shift to cover you) so when he messaged you the Friday morning begging to take his shift on Saturday you agreed. You texted Doctor Hotty afterwards, letting him know that you were still on for the date but he would need to pick you up from the hospital due to the schedule change.

You were slightly irritated that you now had to pack your date outfit into your back pack, along with your makeup up and heels, you hated changing for a date at work - always keenly aware of the eyes you got when you were dolled up. 

You arrived at the ER by 6am, date night outfit shoved into your locker, instead fitted out in your grey scrubs and comfy clogs. You were thankful that Jack must have had the night off or you missed the shift change by some miracle - you don’t think you would have been able to stomach his interactions with Mohan since hearing the news. 

The day shift was a nice change of pace, it was interesting to see the types of patients that would come in and you were grateful to be able to spend time with the new “Pittlings” as they were deemed. You found it to be a peaceful day, even managing to make Robby laugh once or twice when talking about a patient who had thought parkour was still trendy (the broken arm would beg to differ). You hadn’t even realised that it was your end of your shift until you noticed Jack walk through the doors, wearing a simple black shirt and khaki pants. 

You looked away before he caught you staring and informed Dana that you were going to get changed and head off. She gave you a small thank you, shooing you off while teasing you with the idea of switching to day shifts. You managed to sneak past Robby and Abbot before grabbing your bag from your lockers and moving straight to the changing rooms. 

You didn’t have a huge amount of time to make your transformation, instead you settled for a quick shower (hair staying up and dry) before pulling on your outfit and heels - only slightly rushing through your makeup. You allowed yourself once over in the mirror, despite the fact Doctor Hotty had texted you that he was out by the nurses station, you felt good. Your makeup was slightly messy but in a way that made you look sexy, and your outfit helped as well, accentuating all of your favourite features about you. 

You walked out into the ER with a pep in your step, despite how you usually despised the way people stared at you when you were in your regular clothes, this time it felt nice to be noticed. There may have even been a small part of you that hoped Jack noticed, and another part of you that hoped he didn’t. 

You spotted Doctor Hotty leaning against the nurses station, chatting politely to Princess as she gave him the eyes. You could only giggle to yourself as you stepped up beside him, placing a hand on his arm.

“Ready to go?” You ignored the shocked stares you were receiving from your coworkers, especially Shen’s who must have arrived not longer ago with his iced coffee still barely drunk in his hands.

“You’re going out with him?” Princess asked, not in any way to hurt your feelings, but just in shock - it was very well known within the ER how your last coworker relationship. Doctor Hotty however paid her no attention as he turned to face you, eyes trailing your body before locking into your eyes.

“You look beautiful” You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, sure it was the most basic thing a man could say but you couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling. “Lets get out of here.” 

You simply nodded as your hand found his, allowing Doctor Hotty to lead you out of the ER. You spared a glance over your shoulder, mainly to poke your tongue out at the very jealous Princess. Instead you were met with a very sad looking Jack, eyes focused on your hand interconnected with Doctor Hotty. He had glanced at you briefly and you ignored the way your breath caught in your throat before you simply turned your head and continued to walk away. He had his chance. He had you. He couldn’t be sad about you moving on, not when he had Mohan.

“So yeah… the couples counseling didn’t work and here I am!” 

You hummed in response, spooning another forkful of pasta into your mouth and silently cursing whatever god put you in this situation. The date was terrible. Not only did Doctor Hotty order for you, but he had also spent the better part of the hour going into every detail of his failed marriage. You felt bad for him, but you also couldn’t stop thinking about how lucky his ex-wife is for not having to be here. He was painfully boring and clearly overcompensating every time he opened his mouth.

You were certain that you hadn’t spoken more than ten words since you sat down at the table, simply offering a simple smile and nod whenever there was a pause in conversation (could it be considered a conversation if you weren’t speaking?). You had already excused yourself to the bathroom three times just to get a breather - and to text Shen about how terrible the date was going… he was not as empathetic as you hoped, instead choosing to send a 2 minute voice recording of him and Ellis laughing at your pain.

You were going over all the ways you could get yourself out of continuing this date when you were both interrupted by your phone ringing. You gave Doctor Hotty a small apologetic smile before answering the phone and stepping out into the street to have some privacy, not bothering to check who was calling - just happy to have a break.

“So Doctor Hotty?” You felt your breath disappear as you recognised the voice over the phone, seemingly cheery.

“I don’t think it’s your concern.” Your voice is clipped, eyebrows already furrowed as you feel the anger rise. In what world does Jack Abbot have a say in who you are dating.

“I’m just looking out for my favourite nurse, I’ve heard rumours about that guy.” You could hear the amusement in Jack’s voice, like this was just some sort of banter between friends and not the love of your life taunting you for moving on.

“Well I’m sure they’re no worse than what people say about you.” You heard him let out a chuckle over the phone which only increased your rage. 

“And what are people saying about me sweetheart?” You rolled your eyes, even though you knew he couldn’t see it before letting out a frustrated sigh.

“Doctor Abbot, is there a reason that you are calling me after my shift?” You know that he would consider this a win, that you dodging his questions shows how he can still Affect your mood.

“Other than to check in on your horrible date? Yes,” you could hear the background noises of the ER through the phone, letting you know that Jack was back in the middle of it all. “Bridget needs to get home to the kids so I was wondering if you could come in to cover, I’ve had an inside source tell me that you needed an escape anyways.”

You were going to ruin Shen’s life.

“Well I am sure your inside source is wrong but for Bridget of course - I can be there in 20.” You didn’t give Jack a chance to respond before you were hanging up the phone and storming back inside the restaurant, picking up your bag and coat.

“I am so sorry but that was work and they need me to come in right away.”

“Oh of course - I’ll drive you over.” You offered Doctor Hotty a small smile and followed him out the restaurant (after he made a show of paying the bill and leaving a 25 percent tip) and back into his car. You were grateful that it was too far of a drive to the hospital as you really did not have it in you to make awkward small talk with the world's worst date.

By the time Doctor Hotty pulled up just outside the ambulance bay you were ready to sprint off, you didn’t offer him a chance to organise a second date or a goodbye kiss - just giving him one of those awkward over-the-console-hugs before rushing out of his car. You will most likely have to text him later telling him that he was nice but you just weren’t ready for a relationship (or more accurately ready for a relationship with him).

You snuck your way in through the ambulance bay doors, hoping that you could get changed into your scrubs before being spotted by anyone, well not just anyone… you didn’t think you would be able to control your tongue if you ran into Jack as you escaped your terrible date.

“Missed me already?” You felt your shoulders tense from where you were grabbing your scrubs out of your locker, thankfully it wasn’t the last person you wanted to see in the world - just the second.

“Shen, unless you want to see me bare ass I suggest you move along.” You gave the man a playful glare as you shut your locker with a bang.

“Don’t tempt me with a good time baby.” You gagged at his sleazy flirting (you knew he meant nothing by it - Shen was not that kind of guy… he just enjoyed pissing you off.)

“I’m going to give you five seconds to reflect over what you said and leave before I purple-nurple you… again.” You held up your fingers in a pinching motion, moving closer to his chest and he let out a gasp, hands covering his clothed nipples.

“You wouldn’t dare… remember what HR said last time?” He was teasing you, but deep down he knew that if it came to it you would inflict trauma to his nipples that even the ER couldn’t save him from. You didn’t respond, just raising an eyebrow and lunging towards him - pulling yourself back when he let out a small scream and ran from the locker room. 

If there was one thing you could count on it was John Shen cheering you up, even if it was to his own demise.

You had changed from your date night outfit back into your worn scrubs and prepped yourself for the long shift ahead of you. Usually when working a double you could find yourself an hour or so break to catch up on sleep, however thanks to your disastrous date you were now running on pasta and despair to get you through the next 12 hours.

You didn’t have a chance to catch Shen once you were back on the ER floor, everything seemingly busier than usual (and you were certain he was avoiding you). You moved from room to room making sure all your duties were done, it was like being a cog in a well oil machine. You found yourself enjoying the shift a bit more, maybe the lack of sleep was making you delirious or maybe it was due to the fact that it seemed like all the patients were actually happy to see you when you entered their rooms. You chalk that up to still having a face full of makeup done - was it frustrating that people tended to respect you more when you were done up? Yes. Were you going to enjoy the fact you hadn’t had one patient try and curse you out yet? Also yes.

And maybe it was because you were coming off a terrible date, but you didn’t mind it too much when you found Jack watching you through the ER. Serves him right for what he did you think to yourself - look as much as you want buddy but you’re never getting it.

When 3am rolled around you finally felt the exhaustion start to settle in your bones, your movements were slightly slower and your brain lagging behind just slightly when trying to calculate medications. You tried to push through - it was still annoyingly busy for the night shift and you knew that everybody needed to help out where they could - you just needed a small break and a good coffee and you would be back on your feet. At least that’s what you thought when you were making coffee in the break room, until you woke up to the feeling of your head smacking the kitchen cabinet, right on the pointed handle.

You let out a noise of pain as your hand rushed to your forehead - grateful that you didn’t smash your eye into the metal hardware. Pulling your hand back you saw bright red blood covering your fingers and you felt the tears pool up in your eyes, not from the pain (although it was stinging like a bitch) but from the frustration of the day. It wasn’t enough for the universe to set you up on a terrible date and then make you work a double with your ex who seemed to either ignore you or tease you relentlessly but now you had a head wound.

“Woah - you good there sweetheart?”

You felt your blood already start to boil as Jack’s voice rang out throughout the break room, his hands already reaching to pull your hand away from your forehead. You shrugged out of his grip, trying to move around him to find somebody else to patch you up.

“M’fine.” You mumble, not daring to look into his eyes. You did not want to deal with Jack’s teasing tone today - couldn’t stomach the thought of him trying to care for you.

“Doesn’t look fine to me, you need to sit down.” His hands were back on your shoulders, pushing you to sit down in a break room chair. You felt your resolve give in slightly as the blood continued to pour down over your eye - the frustration of your entire feeling like a cruel joke played by the universe.

“Jack seriously it’s fine, small accident you can go.” Your tone was harsh and you were too busy trying to keep the blood out of your eye - you were aware enough that it wasn’t a concern to be bleeding that much, knowing that a cut to the brow lends itself to an excessive amount of blood for a minor injury.

“I’m not going anywhere, not until you’re all patched up.” Jack moved from the breakroom to grab a suture kit as well as washing his hands before returning back to you. If you could see him you would roll your eyes at his level of precaution - knowing that he wouldn’t apply the same safety to himself.

“How’d this happen?” Jack asked as he pulled out the clean gauze, removing your hands and pressing it to your forehead, returning your hand over the pads to keep the pressure. You wanted to kill him, or yourself - at this point you didn’t care who just as long as one of you wasn't here.

“Must’ve nodded off or something, smacked my head into the kitchen cabinet.” You watched as he set up the suture kit on the breakroom table - grateful that he wasn’t forcing you into a bed and making you go through the whole process. Yes it was hospital policy but the last thing either of you wanted was to write an incident report over a minor head laceration.

“Nodded off? Are you sure you're good to work?” You hated the way that he said it, as if he was genuinely concerned for wellbeing. Jack Abbot didn’t care about you, not when he had another lover in his life.

“I’m fine.” You snapped, allowing Jack to remove the gauze to check the bleeding. “Just a long day.”  Jack only snorted a laugh in return, a small smirk creeping up on his face.

“So the date really was that bad.” You felt yourself glare at Jack before hissing as the movement from your brows pulled the cut further.

“Shut it Abbot. Not in the mood.” You mumbled, just wanting this whole night to be over with. Jack only raised his hands in surrender before slipping on a pair of gloves, hands moving to your forehead to check the damage. You were lucky that it wasn’t too deep, but it was long and slightly jagged and part of you knew deep down you would need a couple of stitches. 

“So are we doing this with or without the drugs?” Jack asked as he began to clean your wound, soaking the pad in the antiseptic liquid and dabbing it over the cut, hand holding your head stable as you winced and tried to pull back.

“No drugs - don’t want to have to deal with the inquisition.” Jack only laughed as he tossed the used pad into the tray, hands setting up the small needle.

“What a brave girl.” You felt your body tense at Jack’s words, hating the way that you felt a heat rush to your core over the small praise. You know he was teasing you but after almost a year of hearing those words whispered in your ears as he thrust inside you, you couldn’t help but react.

“Just get it done Doctor.” Rolling your eyes as Jack smiled at you once again, hands coming back to your forehead.

“So bossy - missed that about you.” 

You felt the wind be knocked from your chest at the words. What did he mean by that? Why on earth would he miss anything about you considering he was the one who broke your heart. You tried to ignore the sting of the needle and willed yourself to relax and Jack worked his magic.

“Don’t.” It was all you could say, you weren’t sure what you meant by it, truly, just aware that if he continued to say those things to you, you would only end up confused. You didn’t need that type of confusion, you were over him - so totally over him.

“Just complimenting my best nurse - am I not allowed to?” Jack wasn’t looking you in the eyes, instead focused on the stitches he was currently giving you. He knew that you didn’t truly care about scaring but he didn’t want to leave you completely deformed because he was too distracted looking in your eyes instead of your wound.

“Jack I’m serious,” tears were welling up in your eyes, not from the pain of the stitches but from the treatment. “You don’t get to say those things to me anymore.”

Jack knew you were right, that his selfishness led to him letting go of the very best thing he had since he lost his wife. He didn’t even truly know why he did it, part of him was sure that he was doing the right thing; letting you go to live your life without being tied down by his nightmares. The other part thought that maybe he did it because he was scared; scared to let you in completely and have you hate what was inside.

“What if I told you I made a mistake?” 

There was a long silence between you as Jack tied off the end of the stitches, cutting the end. You didn’t know how to respond, a mix of anger, confusion, hope and heartbreak swirling around your chest.

“I would tell you to save it for your therapist - are we done?” Without waiting for a response you stood up from the chair and stormed out of the breakroom. Your coffee and Jack both forgot and as speed walked to the bathroom - head down so nobody noticed the dried blood that remained on your face along with the stitches.

You allowed yourself five minutes in the bathroom to catch your breath and clean off your face. You couldn’t believe him - that he would choose that moment out of all the opportunities he had to finally talk to you. It was just like him - thinking only of himself with no regard to your well being. You ended your pity party by wiping away your tears, planting a smile on your face and exiting the bathroom as if nothing had happened - choosing to ignore the way Jack kept trying to get your attention for the rest of the shift.

The end of your shift arrived later than you would have liked and you felt bad as you barely acknowledged the day shift trickle in as you grabbed your stuff from your lockers and borderline ran away from the hospital. You were tired, had a slight headache and were emotionally spent over the brief moment you and Jack had that night - you needed a 12 hour sleep and 3 hour shower to even think of recovering from it all.

After the world's longest shower your prayers of sleeping the rest of your life went unanswered as you heard a loud knock at your door. You could feel the annoyance you managed to leave behind at the hospital creeping back in as you assumed it was a neighbour coming over to complain about your loud music (so you like performing concerts in the shower - it's not the end of the world Janice.)

Instead, however, of your elderly neighbour standing in your doorway it was Jack Abbot. Your Jack Abbot. The Jack Abbot that admitted not even 12 hours ago that he made a mistake. The Jack Abbot who broke your heart without warning and is apparently seeing Samira Mohan.

“What do you want?” You spat as you leant against the door frame - hoping Jack would get the message that you were in no mood for him to be around.

“We need to talk,” Jack held up a plastic bag in his hand, almost as a peace offering. “I brought you wonton soup considering your dinner was interrupted.” 

You felt your eyes turn into a glare as you glanced between the bag and his face, it wasn’t as cocky as it had been back at the hospital - now it felt like you were staring into the eyes of a stray puppy that had just been kicked to the curb… in the middle of a storm.

“Jack. You had your opportunity to talk to me six months ago when you broke my heart - remember that?” Your hands, despite your words, reached out for the plastic bag and ripped it out of his grip. “Thank you for the soup. Now go home or back to Mohan or whatever you do with your life now.”

You attempted to shut the door but your actions were stopped when Jack blocked it with his good foot - you only felt slightly guilty as he let out a groan as the door slammed into him - the feelings dissipating as he wormed his way in through the gap.

“What do you mean go back to Mohan?” You only scoffed in response - placing the bag on the ground so you could attempt to push Jack out of your home.

“You know what I mean - I’m a nurse Jack. We talk.” 

Jack only stared at you with confusion as his hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping your feeble attempts of getting rid of him.

“Well I’m sorry to say but whoever you have been talking to is making things up - there is nothing going on with me and Mohan.” You rolled your eyes, ripping your hands out of his grasp. You accepted that he wasn’t going to leave, not yet anyways, so you instead grabbed the takeaway bag and walked off to your kitchen.

“So you haven’t been arriving to work early just to spend time with her?” Jack was silent, answering your question without saying a word. “Yeah that’s what I thought.” 

You shook your head as you pulled the bowl out of the bag, rummaging through your cupboards and drawers for a bowel and spoon.

“It’s not like that,” Jack moved over to your kitchen island, arms coming to rest on the wooden countertop. “I get in early so I don’t run into you.” 

“Oh so you aren’t seeing another girl - you just don’t want to see me?” Jack could only gawk as you twist his words against him. 

“That’s not fair - I was trying to give you space.” Jack retorted.

“Well then why are you here now Jack? Sure doesn’t look like you’re giving me much space now.”

You watched as Jack only opened and closed his mouth; watched as cogs turned over in his brain.

“I’m here because you went on a date.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes again as you poured the soup into your bowl.

“Jack you broke up with me, you don’t get to come back into my life after six months of avoiding me all because I decided I deserved to move on.” 

“I know. I know I’m being selfish but seeing you leave with him… it killed me.” Jack pleaded with you, hands reaching out for yours, where they had been gripping the bench, you pulled back before he could touch you.

“And how do you think I felt?” You questioned. “What about the fact you killed me when you told me you didn’t want to see me anymore?”

You could feel the tears return to your eyes as they had done many times over the past few hours and you hated the way that he still had such a hold on you. That despite the fact you hadn’t been together in six months you still felt that pull - that urge to let him in; to let him comfort you and make you feel better.

“I’m sorry,” Jack tried to ignore the way you rolled your eyes again, pulling yourself away from him further - your arms wrapping around your body as if you were trying to sooth yourself. 

“I wasn’t thinking straight when I did that… all I could think about was how I was bringing you down - that you would’ve been better off without me pulling you under with me.” 

“Jack,” your voice had gone soft. “You never pulled me under, you were my light, the reason I found myself smiling again… you were my home.”

Your words hung heavy in the air, filling your home with a sadness that neither of you could escape from. You hated the way you felt your resolve begin to crumble, that all the work you had put in in getting over Jack was falling away with one simple conversation. You watched as tears fell from his eyes, his whole head staring down at the kitchen countertop, and it broke your heart.

“I can still be your home,” Jack was pleading now, moving around the kitchen island to meet you. “We can go back to that.”

Jack pulled your hands into his, desperately searching your face for any sign of agreement. You didn’t want to give it. Didn’t want to give him the benefit of the doubt, not when he could easily turn around once again and break your heart all over again.

“Jack, I don’t think I can - when you left me I had no idea why and you wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think I could go through that again if you ever decided that you didn’t want me.” 

Jack shook his head, small no’s leaving his mouth as he pulled you into his chest.

“No I wouldn’t - I wouldn’t ever leave you again I promise… my life has been miserable without you.” You didn’t struggle as Jack held you in his chest as tears rolled down both of your faces. “I made a mistake and I didn’t treat you right but I promise I will do whatever it takes to get you to forgive me - to trust me again.”

You didn’t want to give in; you didn’t want to admit the way his words made your heart beat again; admit that all you want is Jack Abbot, even with the pain. That a life with him was better than any other life you could have.

“We can’t go back to the way we were,” You pulled away from his hug, staring into his eyes. You watched as they seemed to fall, his arms going limp by his sides. “But… I’m willing to try something new.” 

Jack could only smile at you, tears still in his eyes as he searched your face for any sign that this was a joke - a cruel prank you were pulling on him for hurting you so bad. He didn’t find any.

Jack lent in, hands moving to hold your jaw to stabilize you as he went to kiss you but you placed your hands on your chest and pushed him back.

“Not yet… If you want me back in your life Jack you have to earn it. I’m not just going to let you kiss me and forgive you, I want the romance and the trust needs to be rebuilt.”

“Anything you want, just as long as you don’t date that dickhead again.” You felt a laugh bubble out of your chest, and despite the fact you were still hurt you couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of laughing with Jack again; as well as the feeling of his hands on your waist, as if your body was molded perfectly for him.

“I’ll make you trust me again, whatever it takes.” You smiled in response, unwrapping yourself from Jack’s grip before turning to your soup, forgotten in the bowl you had gotten out.

“You can start with letting me eat my dinner and sleeping in peace.” 

Jack only nodded, placing a small kiss on the top of your head before you walked him over to your front door. He knew that he still had a long way to go to earn back your forgiveness but he was willing to put in the work - to show you that he was an idiot and that there was nobody else for him but you.

a/n: AHH i hope y'all enjoy this fic!! I honestly struggle to write Abbot, I feel like he is equal parts flirty/pessimistic/cheeky that its hard to find the line while adding in heavy trauma. pls let me know your thoughts and feelings hehe i love reading what yall have to say!!

also all my medical knowledge comes from greys anatomy, scrubs, the pitt and my mum (shes a nurse) - also i remember being a kid and playing with the suture kits my mum would bring home so its definitely not accurate as that knowledge is twenty years too old

[planetnini]

i love hurt/comfort angst with jack abbot!!!!!!

[levanterhaze]

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁

summary: You and Jack Abbot become romantically involved, and at first everything seems like a fairy tale. But then he disappears without any warning, ghosting you. As a result, you are forced to deal with his existence on duty, without having an answer. characters: jack abbot x reader (robby, javadi, dana, perlah & princess, santos, langdon, whitaker, al-hashimi, dr. shen mentioned) contents: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of blood and medical procedures (not accurate 'm sorry!) low self-esteem, problems with anxiety and depression (briefly mentioned). word count: 3.8k

And who's gonna hold you like me? And who's gonna know you, if not me?

The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.

It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna kill myself.”

The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.

“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.

You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.

Holy shit.

"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."

“But I—”

Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.

Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”

Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.

From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.

The moment landed wrong in your chest.

Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.

No fucking way.

Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.

“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”

Robby nodded and glanced at you.

“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”

What? Your stomach dropped.

“About...?”

“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”

You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.

As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.

“No. I have to go.”

And you left without saying another word.

Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”

You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.

“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”

He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”

“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”

You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.

“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”

“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”

“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”

You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.

“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”

“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”

He continues leafing through the medical record.

“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.

“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.

“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”

“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”

Robby raises his eyebrow.

“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”

You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”

“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”

“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”

He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”

Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.

“Hiro?”

Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”

Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient. 

Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.

And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.

A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.

Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.

Why is he still here?

The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.

But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.

A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.

It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.

Jack and you, it was inevitable.

You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.

Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.

It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.

And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.

Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.

He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.

“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”

“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.

You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.

Instead, you see skin.

Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.

You freeze.

The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.

“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”

Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.

“Wait.”

His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.

“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”

“Me too.”

He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.

“Not now.”

“I know I screwed up...”

“Jack, please.”

“And that I disappeared and...”

Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.

“I can't do this right now.”

“Then just listen to me.”

You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”

Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.

“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”

He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.

And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.

“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”

“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”

You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.

“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”

“What? No—that’s not—”

“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”

Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.

The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.

And the five-minute break never comes.

The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.

He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.

Robby crosses his arms.

“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”

Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.

“She... came in here.”

Robby deadpans. “Astute.”

Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”

“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”

It hits him.

Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.

“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”

Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.

The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.

You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.

You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.

With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.

“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”

Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.

“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”

Oh, damn.

Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.

“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.

“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”

Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.

As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.

And there he is.

You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.

Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.

Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.

You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.

Jack doesn’t turn.

For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.

Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.

“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.

Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”

“Should I be worried?”

“I'm fine.”

You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.

Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking.”

“Be careful.”

You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.

The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.

“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“Careful—”

Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”

“Jack.”

He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens. 

“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”

You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.

You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.

“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”

There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.

“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”

There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.

“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”

His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.

“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.” 

He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.

You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.

“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”

You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.

“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”

“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“It's just—”

“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”

Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.

“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”

He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”

“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.

“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”

That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.

“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.

You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”

You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”

You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.

“You don't have to ask twice.”

When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.

When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.

“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”

“Worth it.”

You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He holds you tighter, kisses your head.

“I love you more, sweetheart.”

[planetnini]

i live for hurt/comfort!!!! this is everything

[stellamarielu]

soft

jack abbot x female reader

summary: jack gets injured on his shift and you’re there to help him get stitched up, making it impossible for him to ignore the soft side you bring out in him— especially when it makes his heart rate jump alarmingly high.

content: just a whole lot of fluff, reader is a resident on robby’s shift and jack has a capital c crush, i’m talking down astronomically bad, cursing, lots of cheesy banter between robby and jack bc i couldn’t help myself, reader is described to be upbeat and positive, very sunshine x grump coded, also the reader wears bright colors and patterns from time to time [sorry if that’s not your jam it just has to be that way for the plot, you get it], mentions of a brief altercation, mentions of blood and stitches, bad medical terminology [don’t yell at me i tried my best]

word count: 3.5k

author’s note: ok so hi this is my submission for the A DOCTOR A DAY event! but it's also a request from the lovely and talented @letsgobarbs so I thought I'd put them together and make this bad boy. thank you loops for the extraordinary idea, and thank you to my lovely babies, @clubsoft @ananonymousaffair and @letsgobarbs for putting on such an incredible little event! very very excited to see all the entires! my assigned dialogue was, “nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft.” and the color i got was green!

A reoccurring psych patient, and an elbow straight to the eye, landed Jack a seat in his own emergency department.

“I’m fine,” his voice came out with a twinge of annoyance, and a profusion of frustration as he side-eyed Robby from across the room.

But he was indeed, not fine. He was annoyed— borderline livid— at the current situation.

He should be on his way home, not sitting in an open treatment room with blood trickling down the side of his face.

It was completely unintentional, just an unstable patient throwing limbs in an effort to avoid an IV. What he thought would be his last case of the day, was now the reason for his friend making jokes at his expense, while Jack waited to get his brow sutured up so he could finally go home. 

“Yeah Okay. Whatever you wanna tell yourself.” Robby’s voice filled the room as he gathered supplies for the simple procedure.

“If Gloria found out you got a work related injury and walked out of those doors without somebody clearing you— on my shift? She’d have my neck.”

“Whatever, just make it fast.” 

All Jack could think about was how last night’s shift felt like the longest one he’d worked in a while. Taking a hit straight to the face was just the cherry on top of a dreadful night. The comfort of his bed was starting to look unbelievably far away as his presence at the hospital persisted long after it was supposed to.

“What’s the rush? You got a hot date I don’t know about?” Robby’s expression was a little too amused for Jack’s taste, as he placed a pulse oximeter on his finger.

“Yeah actually, her name is a breakfast bagel from Cal’s and 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep.” Jack stared down at the contraption sitting on his pointer finger, almost chuckling to himself at Robby’s commitment to care.

“A pulse ox? You’re really serious about this whole Gloria thing huh?”

“Yeah she’s been on my ass lately. Plus you got hit pretty hard, gotta make sure you don’t go down on us. Your risk for a heart attack is only going up with your age.” The smug curl of Robby’s lips as he pulled at the latex of his glove, made Jack instinctively roll his eyes.

Before Robby could start stitching, Dana’s voice carried into the room as she passed by the open door, “Robby, we’ve got a motorcyclist coming in. Multiple open fractures, severe blood loss with trauma to the head, and a possible pneumothorax, about 3 minutes out.” 

Robby shot Jack a knowing look as if to say, sorry buddy, duty calls.

“Oh c’mon, you’ve got this in three minutes.” Jack was desperate to get out of the hospital and on his way home. He was right, they both knew Robby was more than capable of lacing up two or three quick stitches before he was needed on the incoming trauma.

“As much as I would love to sit here and miss potentially the best case of my day to be ridiculed by you, I’m gonna have to make your fucked up eyebrow somebody else’s problem. Don’t worry, I’ll leave you in good hands.”

The sudden smirk Robby shot his way, had confusion clouding Jack’s mind. It wasn’t until the smug attending was calling out your name, that Jack understood the motive behind Robby’s words.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me.” The murmured annoyance from Jack’s lips sent Robby chuckling.

The laugh was no doubt caused by the memory of a shared confession over a couple of beers not more than three weeks ago.

Jack and Robby went out for drinks on their day off. It was a regular occurrence, but that specific night was a little different, because that night, Jack let it slip that he thought you were pretty. 

The men were sat side by side at the bar, recounting some of their best cases of the week, when Robby brought up your impressive intubation record.

Jack’s comment on your abilities had Robby stunned into a quick moment of silence.

“Pretty and she knows how to clear an airway.”

It was a subconscious declaration of affection from Jack, spoken into his glass as he took a sip of beer. 

A meek confession that Robby clung to, because he’d always noticed it— the way Jack’s stare lingered a little too long on you in those fleeting minutes when your shifts overlapped.

It was impossible for him to miss his friend’s not-so-subtle flirting when you were around. He’d been patient, waiting for Jack to bring it up first.

“Just your type.”

Robby’s words met Jack in the same way, stumbling off his lips and into his glass before taking a swig.

You were one of Robby’s residents. One of his favorites actually. A phenomenal doctor, always one step ahead of everyone else and charting your own course without having to be told what to do, it made Robby’s life a whole lot easier. What didn’t make Robby’s life easier? Watching his best friend dance around his undeniable attraction to you. He knew better than anyone that Jack had been out of the game for a while.

In fact, he hadn’t seen him show interest in anyone until you came along. Over the three months of shy smiles and round-about compliments paid to each other in passing, you and Jack's interactions had become impossible for Robby to ignore. He'd even tried bringing them up multiple times to see if Jack would admit to having a crush on you, only for him to jokingly brush it off every time.

“You could ask her out, you know?” Robby kept nursing his drink, trying to look nonchalant because the moment he put too much attention on the topic, he knew Jack would shut it down. 

“Yeah, we’re not doing this.”

And there it was, right on cue. Shut it down, and brush it off, like he did every time.

“Oh come on Jack. She’s great, you’re great, I see the way your demeanor changes when she's around.”

“Oh does it now?” Deciding to indulge in Robby’s incessant need to meddle in his lovelife, Jack fed into his friend’s accusation with raised brows and chuckle on his lips. 

“Yeah you get a little softer.”

“And, what makes you think I’m not just tired after a long night of people griping at me.”

Robby let a brief blanket of silence fall over the two of them before adding one final thought to the conversation.

“Nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft.” Robby smiled as he said it. He knew Jack would give him a hard time for saying something so introspectively cheesy, but he also knew it would resonate with him whether Jack chose to admit it or not. 

“I’m sorry?” Jack nearly choked on his IPA at the abnormally poetic words leaving Robby’s mouth. 

“Did you just pull that right out of your ass or what?” He was giving Robby a hard time, but couldn’t deny the truth hiding in the statement. 

That night he went home and lost more sleep than usual thinking about you— playing out past conversations over and over again in his mind, just to hear you say his name, or to see the captivating curve of your lips. The visions kept him up, even if it was just glimpses of you in his memory.

Robby didn't bring up Jack's comment about you after that night.

A few lingering stares and silent chuckles slipped from him when he watched the two of you interact, but he decided against bringing up that specific conversation. He knew Jack would just dismiss him, and keep to his stubborn reservations when it came to you, so he didn't push. 

This was the first time Robby took a chance, venturing into the territory of Jack’s confessed feelings. The timing was impeccable, with him needing to find someone else to do Jack’s sutures. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity to force the two of you to be alone in a room together. 

“What can I say? I like watching you squirm,” a low giggle remained on his lips as Robby aimed his words at Jack, just before you appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, what’s going on?” 

Soothing with a gentle glimmer of energy, your voice flooded the room in mellow twilight and shimmering stars, hitting Jack’s ears in a way that instantly made his face heat up.

“Dr. Abbot here, took an elbow straight to the face first thing this morning. I was gonna stitch it up, but they need me on the incoming trauma.” Robby barely looked your direction as he spoke, but Jack couldn’t take his eyes off you, only a few feet from him, watching from the doorframe.

“Think you can handle it?” Robby glanced over at you as he joked, a grin stretching across his face.

“I’ve got it covered, boss.” You matched his playful tone, and the whimsical change of your voice made Jack’s eyes divert to the ceiling because— fuck Robby for doing this to him. 

“Make sure to keep an eye on his vitals, he took a pretty hard hit.” Robby’s voice carried from down the hall as he walked out of the room, leaving you and Jack alone.

You took to the space in front of Jack. 

Your body slid so effortlessly next to him, that he had to fight not to adjust his position under the sudden nervousness of having you so close. 

Drawing a quiet breath at the feeling of your thigh resting next to his, he sat still on the edge of the cot. You were on his right side, your left leg gently pressed against him as you leaned closer toward his body to get a good look at his face.

“Damn that’s bad. Someone really had it out for you this morning, huh?” Your fingertips barely touched his temple as you examined his forehead. An audible swallow pushed down his throat at the contact.

He didn’t know what was more embarrassing, his body’s immediate response to your touch, or the fact that he’d nearly been taken out by a patient, and you were the one witnessing him in such a vulnerable position. 

“Yeah well, he had a really effective defense response. I'll give him that.”

Thank god his voice didn’t betray him. His words came out clear and concise, despite the fluttering in his chest at your body right next to his.

Then you laughed. 

He really loved your laugh. In fact, he went out of his way to make jokes just to hear it. It was soft, but rich. The kind of distinctive, infectious sound you could hear in a crowded room ten years later and know exactly who it belonged to. 

“Well, I’m sorry you had to be on the receiving end of it.”

The laughter fizzled from your voice and was replaced with genuine concern as you cleaned his brow. The gentle passes of gauze against his forehead made his mouth go dry, only because he knew it was your fingertips behind the motion.

“Somebody’s gotta take one for the team.” His response was quick as he focused on the words leaving his mouth, trying not to think about the way your hands were working so carefully to take care of him.

Your presence made him nervous enough, but your touch? He couldn’t get a handle on the distraction of your fingers on his skin, even if there was a veil of latex and gauze in between.

You bent further forward into his body, the warmth of your thigh pressing harder against his as your hands carefully angled his head where you needed it, fingertips underneath his jaw, and at his temple. He forced his stare to the floor out of fear that looking into your eyes would send him straight into cardiac arrest.

Looking down at your shoes, he memorized the pattern of your laces to keep himself from thinking about the mildly intoxicating scent radiating from your body. He’d never been this close to you before— close enough to get a whiff of something fresh and so distinctively you.

Maybe it was your shampoo, or laundry detergent? Perfume perhaps?

Shoes. Back to your shoes. It was the same pair of white sneakers you wore most days, but the green socks peeking out at your ankles made him grin. A subtle smile that he was sure you wouldn’t notice as you prepared a needle at your fingertips. 

You always wore a pop of color, something to bring your own personal style into the doldrum of the ER.

It was something he shouldn’t have noticed; the patterned shirts you sometimes wore under your scrub top, the red hair tie you left on your wrist every so often, the memorable collection of colorful socks you constantly sported with your tennis shoes…

The subtle excitement of your accessories matched the bright charisma you brought into the building every time you walked through the doors. You appeared every morning like his own personal ray of sunshine, equipped with an irresistible laugh, sweet smile, and lime green socks. 

“Are you feeling okay?” His sock induced trance was broken at the sound of your voice— abrupt and concerned.

“Yeah, I’m good.” His eyes peered up only to notice your stare fixed on the pulse ox resting on his finger.

He almost forgot about it entirely, busy with the distraction of your proximity taking over his entire being.

“Your heart rate is just really high.” 

Of course it was. 

His heart was nearly beating out of his chest from the moment Robby called out your name earlier. 

“I’m fine.” He tried to move his hand further from your view, hoping to brush it under the rug, and get a move on with the mortifying interaction. 

“Are you sure? If he hit you hard enough to break skin maybe-”

“I promise. I’m fine.” He pulled out a tone in his voice that people usually didn’t argue with. It was a deep, commanding timbre that he had perfected over the years. It came in handy when he had an especially combative patient, or in this case an extremely beautiful woman hounding him for an incredibly humiliating confession as to why he couldn’t get a grip on his bodily reaction to her presence. 

“Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot.” Finally giving up the fight, you let a spirited air back into your words. Jokingly dismissing your concern, and trading it in for weary trust as you let him convince you that he was okay despite his alarmingly high heart rate. 

“But if you go AFib on me…” 

“I won’t,” his voice still held the same robust sound as he looked you straight in the eyes.

“Just stress.” He looked at you as he spoke, and the desperation in his eyes contradicting the tone of his voice.

His stare was tender, and almost pleading while his words spread through the room, sturdy and sure. 

“Or adrenaline or something… I’ll be fine.” He didn’t look away as he continued explaining the reason for his quickening pulse. You found it slightly unnerving, and undeniably endearing as he kept his eyes fixed on yours for far too long. His words began to trail quietly, slowly losing their robust momentum. 

Jack was in a complete daze. He made the mistake of looking up into your eyes, and now he was stuck, getting lost in the all too familiar color, illuminated by the concentration in your gentle stare. He was enamored.

“Well I’ll be quick so you can get out of here.” You reached down to grab some supplies before bringing your hands back up to Jack’s face, finally starting to suture his brow. 

“Although I’m sure Robby would’ve been done by now.” Your eyes zoned in on his injury, while Jack’s stare stayed trained on your face. 

“Eh, I’m glad you’re here and not him.” His voice was amiable and subdued, dripping with a delicate sound you’d never heard from him before. 

“Why’s that?” Still watching the careful work of the needle threading at his forehead, your eyes narrowed in focus, as the question formed on your lips.

“I’d have to deal with his smartass jokes. Plus, he’s too perky in the mornings.”

“And I’m not?”

He wanted to laugh at your question. Of course you weren’t too perky in the mornings. You weren’t too anything. You were perfect. 

“I don’t mind it when you are.” Your movements paused for a split second when the words left his mouth in that same strange, fragile tone.

You could feel his eyes watching- peering up, as you tried your best to keep your attention on your hands.

He felt you stop, internally panicking that he’d said something wrong, he kept talking. 

“I just- you’re different.” The words stumbled out, losing a bit of their fragility as they tripped over each other in an effort to reassure you. 

Your brows furrowed slightly at the word and Jack was convinced he’d just dug a deeper hole to bury himself in. 

“Different?” The one word question left your lips as they struggled to withhold a smile. 

You were amused at the way Jack was fumbling over his words.

It was rare to catch him in such a flustered state. You chalked it up to the fresh wound he’d just received, and his abnormally high heart rate that he really should be paying more attention to. 

“Pleasant.” 

Then you stopped. Longer this time. It must’ve been at least 30 seconds that your fingers paused their threading, as you glanced down at the pulse ox between sutures. Sure enough his heart was racing again.

110 bpm.

You would be concerned about his inevitable descent into a questionable cardiac rhythm if it weren’t for the way his eyes were fixed on yours. His stare was so deliberate, you could feel your own pulse quickening underneath the growing heat of your skin. 

“Pleasant? How so?”

112 bpm.

“You just have this way of making everyone happy. It’s subtle. You’re always smiling and positive, but it’s never performative, it’s just who you are.”

A warmth spreads through your body at the compliment, rolling like waves as each of his words washed over you, completely enveloping you in a state of coy flattery. 

“You’re just easy to be around.” 

The heat threatened to reach your face, as he continued talking. His words were nearly a whisper with his voice floating up to you, low and smooth. 

“I like being around you.” 

115 bpm.

You open your mouth before you’ve even decided how you want to respond to Jack’s innocent confession, then unexpectedly, a voice that’s not yours fills the room.

“Still not done in here?” Robby came barreling into the room. His presence was loud and boisterous compared to the sheepish exchange taking place between you and Jack.

He stopped a few feet into the room. Seeing your body so close to Jack’s, with your hands still working at the injury on his forehead, and your eyes locked on each other, seemed to make him apprehensive about continuing into the room, like he was interrupting something.

“Jesus, let the man go home.” His chuckle echoed around you as he decided to come closer, inspecting your work. 

“That was fast. What happened to that being the best case of your day?” Jack piped up from underneath your touch. He was careful not to move his head as he aimed his question at Robby, eyes averting to the man standing next to you. 

“Yeah, it went south pretty quick.” Robby’s voice finally found a level close to silence, as he watched in concentration while you tied off the last stitch. 

“You need some help there? I could send in one of the medical students-” He joked looking over at you. He knew you were quick. The way you were taking your time, being overly methodical with Jack, was out of character for you. 

“Very funny. I’m done.” You softly glared over at Robby as you took a step back, pulling your gloves off.

“See what I mean about the smartass jokes?” Jack’s eyes were on you, still holding a lingering softness from your unfinished conversation just moments prior. 

“Oh so I leave you two alone for a few minutes and you just use it to talk bad about me?” Pretending to be offended, Robby scoffed at the notion of you two discussing his comedic timing, watching as you and Jack just stared at one another.

“Something like that.”

Your response was hidden behind a smile while you and Jack stayed submerged in a brief moment of smitten eye contact and unquestionable curiosity, before you made your way to the open door.

“I’m gonna get back out there. Try not to take anymore elbows to the face Dr. Abbot,” You joked before taking a single step into the hallway, turning your back for a split second to look at him one last time.

“and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

With that, you were already halfway down the hall, onto the next patient.

Robby stared at Jack with a goofy smile forming on his mouth as your absence left the room silent.

“Don’t.”

The single word snapped from Jack as he brushed past Robby, leaving the room before he could be hit with his friend’s smug confrontation.

He left for the day, but not before stopping by the triage desk on his way out, purposefully walking past you just to get one last glimpse of your smile for the day.

the pitt masterlist

[planetnini]

HUGGEEEE fan of the bpm going up trope🙏

[lauraneedstochill]

“The Pitt”: Jack Abbot’s appreciation post 🔥 (original posts: x, x, x, x, x, x, x + other characters: part 1, 2, 3, 5, 6)

[planetnini]

meow

[honeypiehotchner]

merry christmas, please don't call (ex!Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

Hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas/wonderful day yesterday! Here's a mostly angst-filled festive one shot about our other ER cowboy (clearly I love the ex!trope with them) (based on this post I made!)

Summary: Jack fucked up two years ago and he never got the chance to fix it before you left the Pitt entirely, moving on to bigger and better things. But when Dana convinces you to come back to town for a holiday party, maybe, maybe Jack will get his second chance.

Warnings: far too much alcohol consumption (be more responsible than this), mentions of nausea/vomiting, so much angst, reader's grandparents are dead, reader is described as wearing jeans + a sweater + slightly shorter than Jack, Jack is emotionally constipated but he's trying his best, very platonic reader x robby, one bed trope I guess, hopeful/open ending (but y'all idk if i'll write a part 2/how long it would take me 😭), not really proofread i am too tired from working retail at this time of year </3

WC: ...10k

Jack Abbot left your life the same way he entered it: out of the blue and all at once.

The first time you met him in the Pitt, he came in because the dayshift was short. One second you knew of him only by name, and the next, a curly, grey-haired man was sidling up next to you in Trauma One, asking you what you had and what you needed him to do. By the end of the shift, he had invited you to drinks in the park, and by the end of the night, when it was only the two of you left on the park bench, he asked if he could take you out to dinner that weekend. 

And by the end of that dinner, he was in your bed.

It wasn’t technically an HR nightmare because you never did the nightshift, and the one time you did, it was because Jack was out of town and someone else was out sick. You stuck to the dayshift. For all intents and purposes, you were Robby’s star resident, not Jack’s.

You kept things professional when you did cross paths at shift change, so much so that it took months for anyone outside of Robby and Dana to catch on to your relationship status. 

The thing most damning wasn’t even something you were there to witness. You and Robby butted heads more often than not on shift. The two of you held a great deal of respect for one another, and maybe that was the exact reason the two of you were quick to press the other. It wasn’t arguing, per se, or at least neither of you ever called it that. Until one day a nightshift nurse said something about hearing Robby yelling at you, the rumor mill stated that Robby made you cry -- you were crying, but not because of Robby or what he said -- and the next thing everyone knew, Abbot was at Robby’s throat about “practice what you preach, man” and “don’t fuckin’ yell at a resident just because they have a better idea than you.”

It equally warmed your heart and made you grin mischievously when you heard about it. Jack Abbot, defending you, to his best friend’s face, over something that was actually a giant miscommunication. It was too good. You had to restrain yourself from pulling Jack in for a kiss in the middle of the ED, right then and there.

It’s funny, in a morbid sort of way, when you remember that specific occurrence. Because you had no idea that less than a month later, he’d end things.

One day everything was fine, and the next, Jack was standing in your living room, wringing his hands, telling you he wasn’t actually staying for dinner because the two of you were done.

Just like that.

His reasons? You roll your eyes every time you think about them -- or maybe that’s just to stop yourself from crying.

“It’s not working out.” 

In the moment, you didn’t have any words to reply with; he had stolen them all. But after, you began to wonder. What wasn’t working? Because it surely wasn’t the two of you together, not if the night prior was any indication.

“It’s inappropriate, as your senior.”

Your response had clawed at your throat then, desperate to come out, but you knew it would make no difference. But still, but still, you wanted to cry. We talked about this before. He was senior to you as an attending, but he wasn’t your senior; Robby was. And if he was talking about the age gap, you had talked about that too, and it didn’t bother you. If it had bothered you, you never would’ve kissed him in the first fucking place.

“You need to get out there and live, you don’t want to be tied down to your first boyfriend.”

Oh, that one had stung. So what if he was your first official boyfriend? So what if you only had time for a handful of dates and the rare hookup in med school? Did he think you didn’t have enough life experience for a relationship? Did he think you were inferior to him because of it?

You stopped really trying to make sense of why Jack ended things when he gave you the cold shoulder at the following shift change. You had tried to remain professional and ask a simple, normal question about one of the patients, and he ignored you. Looked right through you as if you weren’t even there.

So, you thought, two can play at this game.

You gave him the most impressive cold shoulder in return. If he was ever around, well, he didn’t exist to you, and if he was ever brought up in conversation -- mainly by Robby -- you’d leave or act so disinterested that it shriveled up and died. The same way he did to you.

You were due to finish your residency in a couple months, anyway, and the last thing you needed was to worry about how Jack felt or why Jack was ignoring you as if you were the one who broke up with him with little to no explanation. None of that mattered.

What did matter was the hospital three hours away that offered you an attending position with nearly twice the pay that PTMC offered you. You took it and fucking ran.

You said goodbye to everyone, but not Jack, because what the hell did it matter to him anyway? He’d probably be glad to have you gone, so he didn’t have to put any effort into ignoring you anymore. He’d probably be glad to not even have to see your face anymore. He’d be glad, you convinced yourself.

Except, he wasn’t.

Because what you didn’t see was the aftermath of your leaving. The way it took Jack Abbot one singular day to notice you weren’t on the schedule for that week, or the next month, or the next one, and so he went to Robby in a panic, only to hear that you were gone. Entirely. Locker cleaned out and everything.

“Friday was her last day,” Robby had explained, scratching the back of his neck, eyeing his friend warily. “I thought you would’ve heard. It wasn’t a secret. She was saying goodbye to everyone.”

“But not to me,” Jack had added, pathetically. It wasn’t a secret. Except it was. Or maybe it wasn’t, and Jack just hadn’t noticed, because he started putting so much work into not noticing you.

Robby just sighed and hung his head. “Well, man, did you really expect her to?”

The glare that Robby received might as well have killed him. Clearly Jack didn’t want to hear the truth, so Robby backed off.

But Jack knew. He knew the truth. He knew Robby was right. He knew he couldn’t -- and shouldn’t have expected you to say goodbye to him. Not when he left you so abruptly and then ignored you as if you never happened. 

He had wanted to give you space. From him. Because you were finishing residency, you were at the top of your game, and he didn’t want you considering him in any of your big life decisions. It just. It came out all wrong.

It came out all wrong and then suddenly he was standing across from you in your living room, watching the tears gather in your eyes. He watched the way your throat closed up like it always does when you get emotional, and how you held your palm over your neck as if it might help. He watched the way you fought back a million emotions. Sadness, anger, confusion. He wished you had screamed at him, done anything other than just stare at him like he was ruining your life. He didn’t mean to ruin it. He wasn’t trying to ruin it.

But he did. In his twisted, fucked up way, he did. He ruined it all. And then you took a job three hours away, moved apartments with Robby’s help (Jack found that one out a few months after), and you were gone. Disappeared from Jack’s life as if you were never in it at all.

But, he guesses, he did that to you first.

He went to therapy for the first time a month after you left. Starting scaring himself with the thoughts he was having and the way he’d get just a bit too close to the edge of the roof. So, he found a professional. Started working through his shit. Got better. Started to breathe a little earlier.

But it didn’t really matter. Because you were gone. And he couldn’t even apologize because you blocked his number. Not that he didn’t expect you to, but it still stung when he worked up enough courage to call one night and got sent to voicemail each time. He left one message that he’s not proud of, but you probably never heard it. It probably went straight to your trash.

What Jack doesn’t know is that he wasn’t blocked -- not at first.

The first time he called, it scared the shit out of you. You were on call for your new hospital that night. You thought you were being called in just as you settled down to try to catch some sleep, but no.

It was just Jack.

You panicked and declined the call after two rings, heart nearly pounding out of your chest. What the fuck could he possibly have wanted? It had been months of the cold shoulder, then months of radio silence after you moved -- not that you exactly expected or wanted a housewarming gift from him -- and now he wanted to talk?

And he did want to talk. That much was obvious by how many times he tried to call you. You let the second one ring out. Declined the third after one ring. And by the fourth, you knew you had to block him. He wasn’t even leaving a voicemail, clearly wasn’t taking the hint, and it was just starting to make you cry.

Because every time that damn phone rang, you wanted to answer it.

But you couldn’t. You knew you couldn’t. It wouldn’t be good for you. For either of you.

So, you blocked him and rolled over. Didn’t get called into work. Slept the whole night through.

You checked your inbox in the morning, the hidden folder for messages from blocked numbers, and found one. You hit play before you could stop yourself.

He sounded stone-cold sober. You weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

“I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I think you’ve got me blocked, so you probably won’t see it anyway and uh,” he paused, clearing his throat, “I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry. The-- When I ended things, it came out all wrong, and I never got a chance to explain, and I’m sorry. I hear you’re an attending now, congratulations. I know you’re doing great. And um, yeah, that’s--”

It cut out there, whether by him doing it or the message timing out, you didn’t know. But you didn’t care, either.

It came out all wrong and he didn’t get a chance to explain? That was his excuse? That was rich coming from him. It was so rich that it had you laughing until you had tears in your eyes.

You went to work that day like a woman possessed, fueled only by energy drinks and pure, unbridled rage at the man you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with. The man who told you he might never get married again but he wanted to settle down -- with you -- and you were content with that. You never really cared about marriage anyway, but wanted a long-term partner, someone to come home to. Someone that made you feel the way he did. Before it came out all wrong.

You went back to your roots, started going on random dates and hooking up after. Found one man and let it go on for a few weeks before moving on to the next. Over and over. Sometimes it ended because you pulled the plug, sometimes he did it. You didn’t care either way. You didn’t want it to last anyway. None of them were who you really wanted, and so by default you weren’t who they wanted either.

All you knew was that you would never let yourself feel as much as you did for Jack. And for that to never happen, you could never be in an actual relationship. Random dates were safer.

Random dates didn’t leave you crying on your bathroom floor. Random dates didn’t rip sounds from your throat that still haunt your ears to this day. 

So what if you put up walls? So what if you locked your heart inside and vowed to never let it out again? So what?

It didn’t matter. You were never going to see Jack again anyway.

+++

Jack Abbot re-entered your life just the same as before. 

One moment you’re hugging Dana’s neck, squeezing her so tight because it’s been too long, and the next you’re locking eyes with a certain man halfway across the Christmas-themed bar. The colorful lights dancing off his features make him look so handsome that a long-forgotten ache settles in your heart immediately. 

You hold Jack’s gaze for one moment, your expression neutral. Your eyes flick back to Dana, settling on a scowl. “You didn’t tell me he’d be here.”

“Who-- Oh,” Dana grimaces, hand reaching out to your arm. “I’m sorry, kid. I heard last minute, and I knew if I told you--”

You sigh. “I know.”

“We’ve missed you,” she says. “Selfishly, this was an excuse just for all of us to get together and see you again.”

You give her a look, turning to face the bar. “I know that’s a lie.”

She elbows you with a laugh. “Only a little one. It’s also an excuse for us all to get drunk.”

“Why isn’t he at work?” you ask, flagging the bartender down. “No one else from nights is here.”

“Ellis said she might pop in later,” Dana protests. You just barely glance at her out of the corner of your eye. Dana shakes her head, finally explaining, “He’s been taking some days off for once.”

“Huh,” you say quietly. You order your drink, something mistletoe themed because of course it is. You just hope it’ll give you a buzz that’ll make tonight bearable. Because if neither of you will budge -- and you most definitely will not -- then it means you’ll be in the same room as him for the next few hours. Which means he’ll likely try to talk to you.

Fucking Christ.

“You don’t have to speak to him,” Dana says quietly as you wait for your drink. “He’s been in therapy.”

You can tell she isn’t telling you this to guilt you, but just to let you know. A simple fact. Just as simple as the fact that he’s here on his night off, wearing what can only barely be called a Christmas sweater even though it’s grey because it at least has white snowflakes on it.

You just nod. “Good for him.”

Your drink barely hits the bar before you’re taking two long sips of it. It burns, sort of tastes awful, and is a shade of green you haven’t had in a drink since med school, but it will absolutely get you the buzz you’re looking for, and maybe a little more.

“Alright,” you grin. “Let’s mingle.”

Dana just laughs as she hooks her arm through yours. “You’ve got to meet the new kids. The old kids still love you, don’t worry, but we’ve got some new blood and they’re a handful and a half.”

“I bet,” you snort, remembering the med students you witnessed when you were there. 

“There you are!” 

You gasp and turn, Samira Mohan staring right back at you with the widest smile. You give her the biggest hug you can manage with a drink in hand and practically squeal. She was just finishing her first year of residency when you left, and you had practically taken her under your wing for that year. Saying goodbye to her was one of the hardest.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, just a little too loud right in your ear, so she’s definitely had a drink, maybe even worked a shift today and is still riding that high. “When Dana told me you’d said you’d make it I was so happy! And Jack too!”

You go rigid against her. While the two of you were close at work, it never really translated into a friendship outside of the hospital, thus you never really told her the ins and outs of your relationship with Jack. Of course people knew, but it was unspoken. Just like the breakup had been.

Samira feels you stiffen and pulls back, the grimace on her face saying she knows exactly what she said. “Sorry,” she whispers. “I know something b-- I know you don’t talk anymore, or at least, he just gets this look in his eyes whenever you get brought up--”

“You guys still talk about me?” you’re half-joking as you say it, but really there’s a tugging sensation in your chest. 

“All the time!” she beams. “I mention you to the med students a lot, actually. You taught me a lot.”

“Samira,” you groan. “I was only two years ahead of you.”

“And still,” she says with a shrug. “You’re a great teacher.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, soft now, forgetting momentarily about Jack. Without meaning to, you’ve let the breakup taint everything about the Pitt for you. And it shouldn’t have. Jack isn’t the only person in that ED, and when everything weighs out, you certainly have more to be thankful for than upset over. You need to forget about him.

But it’s so hard to forget when you look up and he’s just there. And you make eye contact with him again. Because he won’t fucking stop staring at you. And he’s standing with Robby, goddamnit, which means if you want to say hi to one, you’ll have to be near the other.

Part of you wonders if Robby’s doing it on purpose. Since, apparently, Jack’s in therapy. So he must be a changed man. He must be brand new. Therapy makes up for it all. 

You head back to the bar instead of toward Robby, running into Mateo and Donnie, hugging them both. They introduce you to Trinity and Dennis, one intern and one med student. They follow you to the bar and you find Cassie who started soon after you left. 

“Have you seen Robby yet?” they all ask. As if none of them know who Robby is standing next to.

“We miss you a lot,” Donnie says. “He does too.”

“Which one?” you scoff. He never tells you.

+++

Jack Abbot feels (and he imagines, looks) like he’s seen a ghost. And in a way, he supposes he has.

Because you’re here. At this stupid holiday work get together that he, for some God forsaken reason, let Robby rope him into. He can’t even be angry with Robby right now for convincing him to get out of the house on his night off because you’re here. 

You’re here, and you look good. Healthy. Like you’ve been sleeping more and eating good. Like the new hospital treats you well -- and they fucking better be. 

You look like you don’t miss him.

You miss everyone else. That much is obvious to Jack as he watches you wrap your arms around Dana, a wide grin on your face. Dana must’ve been the one to text you.

Jack’s always had a staring problem. Been called out on it a few times at work and a few times by you when the two of you would be in the comfort of your own home and he would be staring you down as if he couldn’t believe you were choosing to spend your time next to him.

He guesses he must wear a similar look right now. Because he can’t believe you’re real, you’re here-- And then your eyes find his.

He’s not sure what he expects you to do, really. He long let go of the notion that if he ever saw you again you’d come running at him and hug him close and tell him how much you missed him. And you’d listen as he apologized profusely and begged for one more chance, and then you’d grant him said chance. That fantasy is childish. Impossible.

What’s real is the stare you give him right now in return. It’s not exactly a cold-hard glare because…well, it’s not anything. There is nothing behind your eyes when you look at him. And it fucking hurts.

You look away first because of course you do. He’s in a trance and you’re completely unfazed, as if he doesn’t faze you anymore. As if he never did.

And that’s what he deserves, he guesses, so he can’t even be angry with you for it.

“Sorry,” Robby says, and that one word is all he needs to say to incriminate himself.

Jack just chuckles, shaking his head. “You knew she was coming, didn’t you?” Robby nods and Jack says “asshole” around a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, well,” Robby laughs. “When Dana was putting this together she wanted to get some old people back, especially her, and,” he pauses to raise his eyebrows, taking in a breath with his next words, “I knew if I told you…”

Jack rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t want to talk to me. What part of ‘I’m blocked’ do you not understand, old man?”

“I’m not saying you have to talk to her,” Robby says, ignoring the usual jab. “I’m just saying I wanted you to socialize and I knew you wouldn’t do it if I told you she’d be here, so I left that part out. I’m looking out for your mental health.”

Jack laughs loudly at that one. “You aren’t looking out for shit.”

Robby entertains some of the med students when they come over to say hello, drunk off their asses already, but it’s endearing because they deserve it. Times are tough. They’re young. They deserve a night to get plastered.

Jack goes back to watching you. He makes sure to look away periodically, trying not to catch anyone else’s attention, because that would be some fucking shit, wouldn’t it? If Dana catches him, it’s over. It’s bad enough that Robby caught him, but that was inevitable. If Dana catches him from halfway across the bar, he might as well cut his losses and leave early.

He’s still debating on that. He initially agreed to come out for two hours. Just a couple beers. But you showed up at the hour and a half mark, and Jack isn’t sure he’s ready to leave just yet. 

He doesn’t have to speak to you. And you probably won’t speak to him. But he can look at you.

He’s missed looking at you. Used to be his favorite thing to do. He never could sneak up on you at home -- not with his crutches or even his prosthetic that you told him one night clicks ever so softly -- so you always knew when he was watching you. He thought he’d be self conscious about that, but you said it with such a soft smile on your face that he couldn’t help but kiss you. You once said you loved how much he looked at you, that at first it weirded you out, but that was because you hadn’t realized yet why he was always looking at you. It’s because he was enamored with you.

Was. Is. He still is. Even as he watches you drink a hideously neon green drink just a little too fast. Even as he watches you swivel around to start greeting old friends. Even as he watches you lock eyes with him for the second time tonight.

Even, damn him, as this time your gaze levels into a glare.

Yeah, he won’t be speaking to you tonight. Not unless you speak to him first, but that possibility grows more and more unlikely with every passing second.

And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. He made his bed -- two years ago when he broke your heart in your apartment -- now he has to lie in it. Forever.

+++

You had a plan for tonight. A concise, safe plan. And seeing Jack fucking derailed it all.

You told yourself you’d have at most two drinks tonight. Then you see his face and suddenly you’re ordering a fourth. You can’t blame him though, not really. He’s not exactly forcing you to order the drinks. 

He is, however, watching you from across the room like some lovesick teenager who doesn’t understand where he went wrong and why you won’t give him the time of day. Which you guess is just as bad.

You haven’t even said a word to Robby yet, not by choice necessarily because you have been catching up with everyone else, but also because of the fact that he designated himself guard dog of Dr. Jack Abbot tonight -- for whatever fucking reason.

The problem fast approaching is that now you’ve had just enough alcohol that your body is warm, your tongue is loose, and your feet have a mind of their own. Because the next thing you know, you’re making your way over to Robby, and his eyes are going just as wide as his grin the second he spots you.

“The two old guys, holding up the wall as usual,” you joke, opening your arms for a hug that Robby accepts easily. “How are you?”

Robby laughs as he hugs you back. “I’m just fine. Clearly not doing as good as you.”

You roll your eyes, stepping back to look at him. “I never have time to drink. This is me treating myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Robby smiles, all soft. “You deserve it. Still loving the new hospital?”

“It’s not new anymore, it’s been two years,” you remind him, and you see Jack go stiff in the corner of your eye. You almost forgot he was right there. “But yeah. They love me there.” You try not to shoot such a pointed look in Jack’s direction, but you’re drunk and you fail.

“We love you here too, you know,” Robby chides, his tone just a bit jilted.

You just shrug, purposefully not looking at Jack. 

Until he speaks. To you.

“It’s good to see you,” Jack says, and it comes out a bit uncertain, like even he can’t figure out if he’s justified in speaking to you. He nods, just barely smiling at you. “I’m glad you’re…you know, doing good.”

You stare at him a second. Narrow your eyes. “Thanks,” you finally say, and you leave it at that, leaving the two of them there to go back to holding up the wall.

You try not to grumble as you walk away. It could’ve gone worse. Jack could’ve said some ridiculous “Can we talk?” line and you could’ve said yes. He could’ve commented on your appearance and thank fuck he did not. 

Still, seeing him up close has done something to you. Hearing his voice again has made you dizzy. You’re absolutely blaming that on him and not the drinks you’ve had tonight. Because it’s his fault. All of it. It has to be.

You know you stumble a bit walking away, but god, you don’t have it in you to give a single fuck about how it might look. You, still unable to hold your liquor. You, still having learned no better of your limits. You, still so easily effected by Jack fucking Abbot.

You turn and head for the doors, hoping some cold air will do you good. Clear your head. Or some other bullshit.

The cold air does sober you momentarily, purely by its shock factor. You turn and press your back against the brick wall, tipping your head back and shutting your eyes. 

Fuck. Fuck this fucking night, what were you thinking, coming back here? You should’ve told Dana that you couldn’t make it. That they’re strict about schedules at the new hospital, that you can’t ask any favors. But you know why you didn’t.

Deep down, you wanted the chance at a glimpse of Jack. Just to see if he looked better off. Or if he looked worse. Or if he looked like he hadn’t changed and hadn’t learned a damn thing from how poorly he treated you. The worst part is that right now, you don’t know which of those three options fits. Because all you can think is how handsome he looks. Still.

It’s not fair. Everything about this is so unfair. He broke your heart and got to stay at the Pitt, got to go back to his life as normal, and you had to move. You had to run away from it all, just as more horrors chased you down, and then when those got to you, you were all alone in a brand new city with a brand new job with brand new people who weren’t entirely sure what to make of you yet, and their first impressions of you were you in the middle of a mental breakdown that you were trying to stave off by being a workaholic.

Before you know it, there’s a wetness on your cheeks, and that sobers you up just about as much as it pisses you off. You wipe the tears and practically slap your palms on your pants, two seconds away from punching the brick wall next to your head when the door to the bar opens and--

“Here.” Jack Abbot steps out in all his dull Christmas sweater glory with a bottle of water. For you. 

You take the bottle but not without glaring at him. He studies your face a bit and you glare harder, as if daring him to say something about the leftover tears in your eyes. 

He’s smart -- for once. He doesn’t say anything. He even looks away.

With any luck, he might go back inside and leave you alone, but that hope quickly fades away when he decides to lean against the brick wall next to you. The only consolation is the distance he places between the two of you.

If you were sober, you wouldn’t say anything. Hell, if you were sober, you wouldn’t even be in this situation to begin with. Which you guess is your fault. Like everything else.

And if you were sober, you wouldn’t have said that last part out loud.

Jack’s head whips toward you, his gaze disbelieving and gentle and harsh all at the same time. “What did you just say?”

You cap the water bottle and roll it against your forehead, the cold a welcome feeling despite the cold air already wrapping around you. “I honestly don’t even remember.” 

He looks like he wants to comment on that, but he doesn’t. He just nods. Turns his gaze forward again. Pauses.

“Why are you out here?” you blurt, a weak, defeated exhale disguised as a chuckle leaving your lips.

“Saw you stum-- walk out here,” he corrects himself, then shrugs. “I know you can be a bit of a lightweight--”

“Thanks.”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way.”

“I know,” you murmur. You never did. “Thanks for the water.”

“It’s nothing,” he says. “You deserve a lot more than water from me.”

“Yeah, I do,” you agree, not caring that your smile is a bit sardonic. “But it’s fine.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not. I--”

“Jack,” you try not to say his name so harshly and so loudly, but it happens all the same, the anger still quick to boil over. “Don’t. I really don’t want to hear it.”

“I know you don’t, but I-- Can I at least say it?”

“Do you have to?” you aren’t even shouting, but you’re not exactly speaking at a normal volume either. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know what he still does to you. “Was the voicemail not enough?”

He opens his mouth and promptly shuts it, eyebrows furrowing as he stares at you. Blinks. Then says, “You listened to that?”

“Of course I fucking did,” you grumble, exasperated. “You blew up my phone after I kept declining the calls and then left a voicemail and you expected me not to play it?”

“No, it’s not that, I just-- Why didn’t you say anything?”

You just give him a withering look.

He sighs. “I’m sorry--”

“Yeah, you said that.”

“Will you just let me explain?” he asks, and it shocks you because he doesn’t actually sound annoyed with you at all. He sounds desperate.

And fuck. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the night air. Maybe it’s the fact that he still notices you enough to know you needed to drink some water -- it has helped. Maybe it’s also the fact that he wears the same damn cologne and you can smell it right now and it’s driving you crazy just how badly you want to bury your face in his damn neck.

Whatever it is, you stay silent long enough and Jack takes that as your answer.

He rakes his hands through his hair, like he’s two seconds away from tugging it all out at the roots. You look away from him, waiting.

“When we broke up-- When I ended things, it wasn’t-- I never meant for it to--” He pauses, shakes his head, curses under his breath. “I’ve had this damn speech rehearsed for years and now I can’t-- I can’t get it to come out right.”

“Seems to be a common excuse for you,” you mutter, still not looking at him. You know you can’t drive like this, and maybe it was stupid to drive yourself here in the first place, but you had a plan, you remember. One that didn’t involve getting so plastered you now might as well sleep in your car until sunrise. Anything would be a great option instead of listening to his same excuse of ‘It came out all wrong.’

“Yeah, I know,” he replies. “I’m working on it.”

“Right, therapy,” you comment and when you practically feel the shock radiating off him, you add, “Dana told me.”

He nods slowly. “I started it soon after you left.”

“Good for you.”

“Don’t worry, my therapist thinks I handled it all wrong too.”

It makes you snort out a laugh, just a small one. You don’t have a therapist. Maybe you should, after all the shit you’ve gone through, Jack Abbot’s infamous breakup aside.

“Listen, I--” He stops himself again and you raise an eyebrow, wondering if he’ll ever get it out. “I was in way over my head and instead of talking to you about it, I stayed in my head about it, and thought that ending things was the smartest option. For both of us.”

You glare at him. “How? How could you possibly have come up with that?”

“You were finishing your residency,” he says, and it’s just stating facts and he’s got two seconds before he pisses you off again. “I was so attached I was lashing out at Robby because of a whisper that he had made you cry.”

You remember that day. “I told you he didn’t.”

“I know, he told me too, he set me straight,” Jack says. “And told me I needed to keep my head on straight, which I clearly wasn’t.”

“Sorry-- You listened to Robby of all people for relationship advice?”

“Not exactly,” Jack says, a small smirk creeping in. “And I over-corrected. I thought if you were feeling even an ounce of how I felt, there’s no way you also had a clear mind, and you, out of the two of us, needed to have one. You were about to make a big decision, finishing residency, deciding where you wanted to go next. I didn’t want you to think about me. I wanted you to just think about yourself.”

You stand there, shellshocked, mulling his words over in your mind. Replaying them as he stands in front of you. Wondering if you’ve heard him correctly. 

And then you laugh. God, you can’t help it, you start laughing. So hard that you get damn tears in your eyes.

“You really-- You broke up with me because you-- Oh my god, that’s too good.”

Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “It is?”

“You broke up with me right before my residency ended because you wanted me to think about my next step and not think about you?” You shake your head as you repeat his reasoning. “That fucking backfired for you.”

“No, it didn’t,” he argues. “You have a great job--”

“Yeah,” you laugh, “that I took because I knew I wouldn’t have to watch you pretend I didn’t exist every day.”

He freezes. You can see the pieces finally clicking in his head. Because, of course, why would he think you’d take the job for any other reason?

“You know, Jack,” you make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh and it is so, so bitter. “You didn’t have to hide behind all of the good samaritan bullshit. If you didn’t want to be with me anymore, you could’ve just said that. The truth probably would’ve been a lot easier to stomach.”

+++

Jack watches you head back inside with a pit deep in his stomach. He tips his head back against the brick wall. Still, even after the years in between, his words come out wrong. It was and had never been about not wanting to be with you anymore, but that’s clearly how it looked, didn’t it?

He debates not going back inside. It would be all too easy to slip away now, send Robby a text once he’s far enough down the road to tell him he’s gone. To tell him he tried, it was a bust as expected, and he really shouldn’t push his luck with you anymore.

But the stupid side of his brain wins out, the one that wants to keep an eye on you, especially after how fast you downed those four drinks and how you stumbled out here. He knows it isn’t his place, and he knows that everyone inside that bar right now would keep a good enough eye on you. But still.

So, he goes back inside, orders another beer that he’ll probably nurse until the end of the night, and goes back to standing beside Robby.

Robby pretends to show self-restraint and doesn’t ask Jack how it went with you for a whole five minutes. He actually doesn’t get to ask because Jack blurts out the answer for him.

“It didn’t go well.”

“Did she take the water?”

“Yeah.”

“It went well enough, then.”

Jack just shakes his head. You were right, he shouldn’t take advice from Robby of all people on this kind of thing. No matter how much he loves the guy.

He watches you from afar for the rest of the night, as he should’ve been doing for the entire time.

The hours grow later and soon people are beginning to file out. Some have shifts tomorrow, some had shifts today and need to finally sleep them off. 

You remain at the bar, nursing your second (or third?) drink since you came back inside, chatting up a storm with complete strangers. Jack can’t remember which number drink this one is, and is of course beating himself up for it. He’s supposed to be in here to keep an eye on you.

And he is, especially when your head starts drooping a little.

Robby notices, too, straightening up beside his best friend. “I’ll go.”

“Yeah,” Jack nods. Probably the better idea.

Robby strides over and leans against the bar right next to you, and you in your drunken state give him a wide grin before practically throwing yourself at him in a hug. It startles Jack, but he knows it isn’t like that. You’ve always said that you and Robby have a sort of fucked up father-daughter, begrudging mentor-mentee relationship. If you had wanted to jump Robby’s bones, you would’ve done it already.

What Jack isn’t prepared for, though, is your loud protest when Robby says he should get you home.

“No,” you whine, and Jack thinks, thank fuck it’s just the three of you left here. “I wanna go with Jack.”

Jack’s eyes widen and his gaze meets Robby’s across the bar. You’ve definitely had too much to drink.

You’re already twisting around in Robby’s arms, eyes searching for Jack. “Where is he? Where’d he go?”

And Jack, god fucking help him, nearly breaks his good leg trying to get over to you. “I’m right here,” he says, not questioning anything you’re saying, but also trying like hell to not lose his mind over it.

“Jack!” Your whole face lights up the way it used to and you practically fling yourself at him, arms around his neck. “I thought you left.”

He’s watching Robby’s face, both of them trying to gauge just how drunk you are right now. “No, I’m-- I’m right here.”

“I accept your apology,” you say, words muffled by his neck. “Even though you were a dick to me.”

He knows you don’t mean it. He knows you’ll sober up and you either won’t remember this, or you’ll walk all of it back. And he’d deserve it.

“Come on,” he says instead, arm tightening around your waist. “You need to sleep this off.”

You put up very little protest as Jack walks you to his truck, Robby not far behind the two of you. He’s not worried about driving because didn’t touch his second beer at all; he was too worried for you.

“Call me if anything changes,” Robby says to Jack, eyeing you warily where you sit in his passenger seat, head resting on the window.

“Don’t worry, I’m a doctor,” Jack tries to joke, but it falls flat because of the sheer worry surrounding him.

“Drive safe,” Robby says, clapping Jack on the shoulder. “Let me know how she’s doing in the morning.”

Jack just nods, hopping in his truck. Your eyes crack open at the sound of the door opening and shutting, but they fall closed again when you see Jack.

“Doing okay over there?” he asks gently, starting the engine.

“Just tired,” you mumble, and he takes that as a good sign, but he will be making you down some water before you fall asleep.

“We’re going to my place,” he tells you, even though you won’t remember this. “We can come get your car tomorrow. Do you work tomorrow?”

“Nope,” you sigh. “Cashed in on a favor.”

He smiles. “They do those at the new hospital?”

“Yeah,” you let out a breathy little laugh. “‘Cause they love me.” Then you go quiet. “Hey Jack?”

“What is it?”

“Do you still love me?”

He nearly runs the truck off the goddamn road.

He doesn’t answer you fast enough because then you’re saying, “Please.”

He answers too fast this time, unable to think his words through before they’re flying out of his mouth, “Please what, baby?” 

“Please don’t make me go through this again.”

His heart nearly chokes him with how far it’s lodged in his throat. “I still do,” he answers. “I always have.”

Jack’s not sure if that’s the right or wrong answer, or maybe it’s both, because then you’re sniffling and there’s still three more redlights before you’re at his place.

You don’t say anything else and he doesn’t press, he just lets you sniffle into your hands until he pulls in his driveway. And then he’s hopping out and practically sprinting around to the passenger side, opening your door and catching you when you crumble into his arms.

“Okay,” he groans with your dead weight. “Gonna need you to walk for me.”

You cling to him as he walks you up to his front door, fishing his keys out and shoving them inside. 

“Kitchen first,” he says, and you automatically turn, your body still remembering the way, and something in Jack’s gut twists deep and sharp.

“You’re gonna make me drink water, aren’t you,” you grumble, your eyes fully closed.

“I am,” he says, trying and failing to not be so amused by you in this state. “And you’re going to take some Tylenol.”

You scrunch your nose up at him, still clinging to him as he fills a glass with water for you, and then shakes out two Tylenol.

“Drink that,” he says.

You pick it up immediately, but not without a muttered, “Bossy” first.

He watches you drink and if you were sober you would’ve commented on the intensity of it. Instead, you don’t even notice. Or at the very least, you say nothing.

You finish the water and set the glass down, your gaze expectant as it finds Jack’s. “I need to sleep this off, don’t I?”

He just nods. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

You wrap your arms around him again, snuggling into his neck. “Are you coming too?”

He will not be sleeping in the same bed as you, purely because if you wake up next to him there will be hell to pay. But if he says that to you in your current state, there might also be hell to pay.

“Yeah,” he says instead. “Let’s get in bed.”

You sigh contentedly, quiet as he walks you down the hall to his bedroom.

He just needs to get you settled in bed, preferably in some other clothes because you’ll wake up a sweaty mess if you sleep in your jeans and sweater like this. But getting you undressed without your mind thinking he has other intentions is nearly impossible.

He’s only ever seen you drunk like this one time. And for more positive reasons. Not like this. Not because of him.

Which doesn’t mean you haven’t been this drunk before, since the breakup. He just didn’t witness it, if you were.

He tries not to think about it, the guilt quick to eat at him as he helps you to his room and to settle you on his bed.

“I’m gonna get you some shorts to sleep in,” he says, and almost immediately, you start undoing your jeans. He smirks and turns away, rummaging in his drawers for a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt.

By the time he turns back, you’re tugging your sweater over your head. Heat flares in him at the sight of you in only your bra and panties, but, he reminds himself, now isn’t the time. It hasn’t been the time in two years.

“Here,” he hands you his clothes. “Put those on.”

You pout for all of a second before you do as you’re told, pulling the shirt over your head. It’s backwards, but it’ll be fine that way to sleep in. But you don’t touch the shorts. 

You crawl backward on the bed, stumbling a bit, all limbs, just like a fawn, as you scramble to get under the covers. “You coming?”

Jack just gives you a tight smile, walking around the edge of the bed to tuck you in. “Just need to lock up and shower.”

You sigh as you settle down, turning onto your side. The amount of alcohol running through you is clearly starting to exhaust you. You’re no doubt exhausted in general from working as much as he’s sure you do. You always were working too many hours.

Jack smooths the back of his knuckles over your cheek as your eyes flutter closed. He waits just a few moments before your breathing evens out.

He leaves the room before he can do something stupid. Like crawl into bed beside you and pull you against his chest.

Instead, he goes and checks that he locked the door (he did). He checks that the windows are locked (they always are). He checks that all the lights are off (neither of you turned any on when you came in). He paces until his leg absolutely fucking aches, and then he stops.

He sits down on the couch. He’s a light sleeper, but he doesn’t know that he trusts himself to hear you down the hall in case you need anything. He doesn’t think you’re drunk enough that you’d be at risk of vomiting in your sleep, but he also doesn’t want to chance it. But he can’t sleep in the same bed.

So, he does the next best thing. He carefully walks down the hall, carefully grabs a pillow from the bed, and carefully grabs a blanket off his dresser.

He sits down next to the bed, next to the side you’re asleep on, and works his prosthetic off. He props it against the wall, massaging the irritated skin. He’s had it on for too long today, he knows. But he always does.

He lies back, adjusting the pillow under his head. He’s slept in worse conditions than this, but he knows his back will feel like hell tomorrow. It’s his price to pay.

He glances up at the bed, where your hand hangs loosely off the edge. He smiles just a little at it, and then settles down to sleep.

+++

When you wake up, it’s still dark out, and you have an absolutely horrific headache. 

To make matters worse, you know exactly where you are. You’d recognize it anywhere.

“Fuck me,” you mutter, feeling around in Jack’s bed for, well, Jack, but you come up empty. But you can hear him -- or rather, you hear him snoring. “What the--”

You lean over the side of the bed, finding Jack fast asleep under a poor excuse for a blanket and on the bare fucking floor.

“Jack!” you hiss, reaching down and swatting at him. “Wake up!”

He jolts awake, eyes wide as they find yours. “What’s wrong? Do you feel sick?” He sits up as he says it, hands reaching up toward you.

“What the fuck are you doing sleeping on the goddamn floor?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Get up here!”

“What?”

You’re close to smacking him, but instead you grab his hands and pull until he gets the message. You scoot to the other side of the bed, pulling him with you, helping him onto the mattress.

“What are you-- Okay, fine! I’m on the fucking bed! Fine! Happy?”

“No,” you mutter. “But you’ll be grumpy as hell tomorrow if you sleep on the fucking floor and murder your back.”

He stares at you in the dark and you stare back, equally as incredulous.

You slide back down under the covers, still tired, still grumbling. “Just lay down and go to sleep. And don’t touch me.”

Jack just barely chuckles, but you finally feel him settling down. “Yes ma’am.”

You’re glad you’re turned the opposite way so he doesn’t see you smile.

+++

When you wake up for the second time, the sun is streaming through the window, and the bed is empty. Again.

You’re not upset about it. You’re not.

God, you’ve just woken up and you already need to get out of here as soon as possible. The only problem is you can hear Jack in the kitchen, so fleeing without him noticing isn’t an option. 

And. Your fucking car.

“Fuck,” you whisper, reaching for your phone, finding it plugged in on the nightstand. Definitely Jack’s doing.

There’s a message from Robby. And Dana. And Samira.

You at least look at the previews. Robby’s and Dana’s a similar variation of You okay, kid? And Samira’s is her expressing how good it was to see you again and how much she’s missed you.

You respond to Robby’s with a simple Alive and to Dana’s with a more in depth I’m okay, alive, at Jack’s, will explain later. You’ll respond to Samira later when you can think better and accurately express just how much you also enjoyed seeing her again.

You look down at yourself and notice you’re in Jack’s clothes, of course, just his t-shirt. You hardly ever sleep in clothes, especially not when you’re drunk.

You shove your face into your hands. At least you’re not that hungover. Probably also Jack’s doing.

Speaking of, you can smell coffee brewing, and that never fails to drag you out of bed.

You do at least have half the mind to put shorts on before you go. 

You find Jack standing at the kitchen counter, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt not unsimilar to your attire. He’s using a crutch this morning, always so stubborn about them sometimes. His curls are a mess, his bedhead having not changed in two years. It makes you giggle.

The sound causes Jack’s head to turn comically fast, eyebrows raised in surprise and you don’t need to ask why.

You frown. “What am I doing here?”

Jack just turns back around to the coffee pot. “You were too drunk to drive.”

You scoff. “I gathered that.” You move further into the kitchen, leaning against the counter next to him, not looking at him. “How drunk was I?”

“You wanted to come home with me.”

“Yeah,” you laugh, rubbing your forehead. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Thanks for making sure I didn’t like, choke on my own vomit.”

He smirks. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t completely murder my back.”

“Anytime, old man.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Truce?”

You just give him a look.

He smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

You sigh, dropping your head. “Half a truce. Maybe.” You pause, looking up to meet Jack’s hopeful gaze. “Just because you kept me alive. I know I was probably a terror.”

“Not at all,” he says, shaking his head again, watching the coffee drip. “You were just…”

“Clingy?” 

“Yeah,” he answers quietly. “That.”

“Fuck, I didn’t kiss you, did I?”

“No, no,” he shakes his head rapidly this time. “No. You just-- Wrapped yourself around me. Look, we don’t have to talk about--”

“We kind of do, though, don’t we?”

“We don’t,” he says, but he doesn’t sound at all convincing. “Do you still like coffee with your sugar?”

“Very funny,” you reply. “And no, black is fine.”

His head whips up toward you as if that is the most shocking thing you’ve ever said to him. “Really?”

“Just pour the coffee so I can drink it and leave,” you snap, without your usual heat, face breaking into a smile when his starts. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Can’t help it,” he says, still smirking when he reaches up to grab two mugs. His hand freezes, though, because sitting right there, still in his cabinet, is your mug.

You see it, too. Your favorite mug. The one that you assumed got lost in the move or, more likely, got lost here at Jack’s place. And you were not, under any circumstances, going to ask him about it. Not while he was ignoring you so expertly.

“Sorry,” he says as he brings it down, along with one of his. “Saw it a few weeks after and by then we weren’t really-- Anyway, you can have it, obviously.”

“Thanks,” you say. “I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”

He pours your mug nearly to the brim, doing the same to his. You grab his mug before he can protest, walking both of them over to his table.

“I could’ve gotten that,” he mutters, sliding down into the chair across from you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off. “Last time I do something nice for you.”

It was a running joke, back when you were together. An old habit that just slipped right out.

“Sorry,” you add. “I should’ve let you.”

He just shakes his head. “You were just trying to be nice. Thanks.”

Tight smiles pass between the two of you. You sip your coffee and hate that it’s good this way, with nothing else in it, and that it’s Jack’s.

“What are you, um,” he stops, straightens his shoulders, “what are you doing for Christmas? Still going to see your grandparents?”

You stiffen. “No,” you stare down at your reflection in your coffee. “They uh, they died. Few months after I moved.”

You take a long sip of your coffee while Jack fails to find any words. He knows how close you were with them. How much you worried about them passing and you being unable to travel for the funerals.

You decide to put him out of his misery. “I’m working on Christmas, so.” You pause, finally meeting his eyes again. “Are you?”

“No, I actually uh, took Christmas off this year.”

You hum. “Cool.”

“I could come visit you, if you’d like that.”

You can’t help it, you start laughing. “Sure.”

“I’m serious,” he says, his expression stern, but not because he’s angry. “When you get off shift, we could have dinner.”

“It’ll be Christmas, Jack. Nothing will be open.”

“Well it’s a damn good thing I can cook then, isn’t it?”

You start to smile around your mug. “You’re serious?”

“If you’ll let me,” he nods. “Let me make that day easier for you.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re actually serious.”

He nods, his gaze not once wavering. “If you’ll have me.”

You wait a beat. Mull it over. “I’ll think about it,” you settle on saying. “And I’ll text you when I figure it out.”

“So I’m out of jail?”

“Your number will be,” you quip. “Not so sure about you, though.”

“There’s time,” he says confidently. “I can make it up to you.”

You’re still not even totally sure that you want him to, but the thought is sweet. The gesture is even sweeter. The idea of coming home from what will no doubt be one hell of a shift on Christmas to Jack in your apartment with dinner cooking is way too tempting.

You finished your coffee and he poured you another without you even needing to ask.

“I can give you some sweatpants to drive home in,” he says. “And a hoodie. It’s cold today.”

“I have heating in my car.”

He ignores your comment. “I’ll go grab them for you.”

You roll your eyes and let him go, not wanting to argue with him on this. It’s a nice gesture.

And you have missed wearing his clothes.

By the time he returns, he’s got his prosthetic on too. “Left the clothes on the bed for you.”

“Thanks,” you say, standing up. “I’ll go change and then we can head out. I should be getting back anyway.”

He nods just a little and you think he looks disappointed, but you can’t touch that right now. You need to get dressed, get back to your car, and blast music for three hours while you think about what the fuck has happened to your life since last night.

Jack says next to nothing as he drives you back to your car. You try to remember when you were here in his truck last night, but everything is too hazy. Who knows what you said to him.

When he pulls up beside your car, he cuts the engine on his truck and sits. You know him too well, though, so you wait. You know there’s something he needs to say. You don’t have a single guess as to what it might be, though.

“I’m glad you came last night,” he says quietly, turning his head to look at you. “It was good to see you.”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You too.”

He nods. “Got your keys?”

“Yep.”

“And you’re stopping for breakfast?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, Jack, I’ll stop and eat something. I’ll probably need gas too. And no you are not allowed to pump my gas for me. Go home.”

He clenches his jaw, absolutely not wanting to relent on this, but he has to. “Next time.”

“Sure,” you huff, hand on the door. “Next time.”

“See you at Christmas,” he calls out as you slide out of his truck and shut the door.

You just glare at him in response, but he knows you. He knows it’s a yes just as much as you do.

Which is why once you make it home, you text him your address, along with Don’t forget my mug.

[planetnini]

as you can tell by all my jack abbot reblogs, i LOVE angst

[bitters-n-sweets]

spare keys — jack abbot x fem!reader brilliant idea by @xrandomnevx !! thank you for letting me write this TLDR summary: Jack has a shit day and asks for his spare key... not in the best way.

warnings: making out, hurt/comfort, angst/fluff, misunderstanding trope wc: ~2.5k I've been in a writing slump and this helped ❤️ I have some asks in my inbox so I'll be getting to those now -- sorry to those who've waited! masterlist

The night shift has a way of binding people together, especially after rough shifts, especially those who’d rather not talk about their feelings despite being on the verge of breaking down.

That’s how you and Jack found yourselves under a shared blanket, warm drinks in your hands, while Grey’s Anatomy plays in the background. It’s trash TV—at least, that’s what you both call it—but you’re so physically, mentally, and emotionally fried that somehow it’s the only show either of you has managed to watch a full episode of.

You’re pretty sure neither of you is actually paying attention. Maybe it’s just an excuse to have the other person there.

You were the first to ask, “You wanna come over?” like it didn’t mean I don’t want to be alone right now. That was a few months ago, and ever since then you’ve been drifting between each other’s places. To the point of even exchanging spare keys.

Jack’s place is bigger than yours. Cleaner. Neat in a way that feels deliberate. Yours—being a resident—is cluttered with takeout menus and mismatched mugs. Jack has his own go-to mug at your place now: a pale green one with a pickle wearing glasses printed on it, the words ”kind of a big dill” stretched across the front.

On the TV, someone is yelling. Someone is crying. Someone is definitely violating at least three hospital protocols.

Jack scoffs quietly into his drink.

“That’s not sterile,” he mutters.

You hum. “It’s television.”

“They’re running a trauma without gloves.”

“They do that a lot,” you say. “It’s kind of their thing.”

“…I don’t really like that Owen guy.”

Your lips press together at Jack’s comment as you turn to look at him because of the irony of Owen Hunt also being a combat medic. “You’re telling me you weren’t like that when you first came back?”

Jack frowns, head cocking back like he’s surprised. “’Course not. You wouldn’t even know I was in the military if I hadn’t told you.”

That earned him an eyeroll. “Jack, you carry a knife with you at all times.”

“Regular people can carry knives anywhere.”

“Regular people don’t.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real heat in it. His shoulder presses into yours, warm and solid beneath the blanket, and you lean on him with a small smile.

This is how it usually goes—quiet commentary, shared exhaustion, leaning on each other in a way that you can’t really explain. You tell yourselves it’s nothing. Just two doctors who understand how bad it can get. Just convenience. Just habit.

Still, when you’re both gently dozing through the end of the episode, Jack’s hand doesn’t stop moving through your hair. And when Netflix asks if you’re still watching, neither of you move to turn it off.

❦

Jack’s never late for work. Not usually.

But he was having trouble sleeping, and now he’s running on three hours of sleep. He has a piece of toast in his mouth, his backpack in one hand, a water bottle in the other, and his mind stuck somewhere between paperwork and the echo of your laugh from last night.

He locks the door from the inside in a hurry and shuts it.

Halfway down the block, his fingers reach into his jacket pocket out of habit and he stops mid-track.

Nothing.

He pats the other pocket. Then his bag. Then the back pocket of his jeans.

Still nothing.

Jack exhales slowly, tilting his head back toward the sky like it might give him answers. He can see it in his mind immediately: his keys, sitting smug and useless on the kitchen counter, right next to the sink after he finished his coffee.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

He checks his watch. There’s no time to go back. Even if there were, he’d already committed to being late, and that alone is enough to sour his mood. He considers his options, then realizes:

You have a spare.

He sighs in relief. He’ll ask you when he sees you, before the shift starts getting busy.

But by the time he makes it to the hospital, Shen has apparently spewed out the Q-word multiple times, and the board is already lit up. A bus collision on the freeway. Multiple incoming traumas.

Jack doesn’t even have time to put his things in a locker. He sets them down by the nurse’s station and jumps straight into action. He spots you in the crowd prepping for incoming trauma, but you’re pulled in another direction almost immediately.

And it goes on throughout the night.

Every time he thinks, I’ll talk to you now, something else crashes in. He’s being called left and right as the assigned primary emergency MD. And even after the MCI is handled, there are violent patients, a family sobbing in the hallway, a trauma that turns into a code that turns into silence.

Night shifts can be weird and busy, but this is out of the ordinary. And Jack hasn’t had the chance to breathe. He catches himself staring at a monitor for half a second too long, brain lagging before it snaps back into place. He gives an order and has to repeat it because it comes out wrong the first time.

The rest of the shift drags on. By the last hour, his foot aches, prosthetic chafing his skin, and his patience is threadbare, his words sharp by necessity more than intent. And he still has to find you—

“You don’t look so great.”

Ah.

Jack barely lifts his head to look at you.

He pushes himself off the chair after putting his prosthetic back on. He should explain. He knows that. The words line up in his head— I Locked myself out. Meant to ask you earlier. They don’t make it past his lips.

Exhaustion wins.

“Can I get my spare key back?” he asks.

Something feels wrong. But he doesn’t know what.

“Oh,” your reaction is immediate. “Yeah. Sure.”

You don’t look at him as you dig through your bag. The key lands in his palm, cold and heavy. You don’t let your fingers brush his.

“Thanks,” he mutters. He should be glad that he’s no longer locked out of his place, but it doesn’t feel like that.

When he looks up, you’re already gone.

He stands there longer than necessary, spare key clenched in his fist, feeling like he’s misstepped, even if he doesn’t fully understand how.

Shit.

❦

You knew from the start that whatever this thing is between you and Jack, it wouldn’t end in sunshine and rainbows.

You hoped—stupidly—but you’d always known better than to trust hope. People like you don’t get to keep things that felt this steady without paying for it later. And men like Jack Abbot don’t stumble into soft, uncomplicated endings.

You were going to ask Jack to come over to your place last night when he asked for his key back. You saw how wrung out he was during the shift. He barely had anything to eat, and when you gave him protein bars, he’d just put them in his pocket. So you knew he could use the extra care. You could put on his comfort trash movie, make some tea, let him lean on you…

But he asked for his key back instead, and so you got the hint. You left before he could say anything else. Before he could see the tears in your eyes.

Maybe you read too much into the nights you shared together. How could you be so blind? It was just for convenience, it was a habit. It couldn’t possibly turn into something more. Because Jack couldn’t possibly…

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. You didn’t sleep last night.

“You alright, hun?” Lena asks, glancing at you with worry.

“Yeah, just,” You sigh again, “exhausted.”

You haven’t seen Jack since the shift started, but that’s also probably because you’ve been avoiding him and keeping your head down. You move through the ED on autopilot: charting, assessing, responding when your name is called. You don’t linger. You don’t joke. You don’t look for Jack the way you usually do.

But you can’t avoid him completely.

You need to talk to him about a patient. With the patient’s chart in your sweating hands, you approach him slowly.

“Dr. Abbot?”

Jack snaps up to look at you, his eyes more confused on why you just called him that.

You keep a straight face. “I have the lab results for our patient in bed 13.”

He doesn’t tear his eyes away from you, eyes narrowing just slightly. You discuss the results together, professionally, though you refuse to look him in the eyes. And just before you can turn away from him, he grabs hold of your wrist.

That’s when you finally look at him, and you think you might break.

“We need to talk.” He says. “Please.”

You bite your lip and glance around. People are starting to look. Jack starts to notice too and he lets go of your wrist.

“…I’m swamped tonight.” You tell him and walk away.

Jack’s jaw tightens as he watches you leave.

There’s one question that you’re still thinking about and can’t seem to think of an answer. What about your key?

Jack asked for his key back. Why didn’t he give yours back as well?

You could go ask for it back—oh my god. Is that why he wants to talk?

The realization makes your stomach drop.

You bonk your head against the wall. Of course. You’ve misread it. You always do. This was never something that required a conversation—just a cleanup. A return of borrowed things. An ending, neat and quiet.

Not that there was anything to end.

You still try to keep your distance after that. You know it won’t last—nothing ever does in a place this small—but you’re not ready. Not for the look on his face when he hands your key back. Not for whatever careful, considerate explanation he thinks you deserve.

But Jack’s also relentless.

It guts him when he realizes that you’re avoiding him. You don’t look for him anymore. You don’t even look at him when he passes by. And he does that on purpose several times just to get you to do it.

Every time he sees you across the department, his chest tightens with something sharp and urgent. He opens his mouth—and you disappear. Turn a corner. Get intercepted by a nurse. Vanish into a room that suddenly needs you more than he does.

He needs to talk to you. Wants to.

Because after last night, he couldn’t sleep. He thought he’d be well rested by himself but the reality hit him: he missed you.

And he kinda knows why you’re like this. He thinks it’s because he was mean, didn’t talk to you the way he normally would, didn’t invite you over or offer to go to your place after a shift from hell. You probably needed him too, but he was too exhausted with his own shit.

Not to mention the way he asked for his key… he should’ve explained, but he didn’t.

And now you won’t let him fix it.

Now, in the middle of the shift, as he watches your sullen face while charting, Jack’s run out of patience.

Just as you put down the chart, he grabs your hand and leads you to the on-call room before anyone could see.

“Jack??” You curse yourself internally for saying his name.

The door clicks shut behind you, muting the ED slightly.

Jack faces you, but doesn’t sit. He drags a hand down his face, exhaustion pulling his shoulders forward, his voice rough when he finally speaks. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’m busy,” you reply, a little too sharp.

“So am I,” he says. Then, quieter, “That’s not what this is.”

Your stomach twists.

He searches your face and continues, “I didn’t ask for the key back because I wanted you out of my life.”

You stiffen.

“I locked myself out,” he says, immediately. “That morning I left my keys on the counter in a rush, and I locked myself out. I meant to tell you before the shift got insane, but it never slowed down and by the time I found you, I was—” He stops, sighing. “I was a mess. I should’ve still said something, but I didn’t… that’s on me.”

You still haven’t said anything, but your shoulders relaxed. A sigh of relief quietly escapes you.

“I heard how I sounded,” Jack continues, quieter now. “I know it wasn’t great. And when you handed it over like that—” He swallows. “I knew I’d fucked up.”

He takes a step closer, towering over you. “I wanted to give you this back.” He brings a key in between you, his key. “It’s yours. If you still want it.” if you still want me.

You stare at the key for a second too long before a shaky, disbelieving laugh slips out. You take it from his hand and tuck it safely into your pocket. Shyly, gingerly, you rest your head on his chest.

“…I thought you were gonna give me my key back.”

Jack also lets out a small chuckle from hearing that. He wraps his arms around you. “You’d have to pry it off of my dead body.”

“Won’t be long then.”

“Rude.”

You laugh, genuinely, in relief, and sniffle. Your arms circling around him.

“You crying on me?” Jack murmurs, resting his chin on your head.

“…no.”

He smiles at that.

“You know,” Jack says before he can stop himself, “After yesterday’s shift from hell, I couldn’t sleep. And I realized… I missed you.”

You lift your head to look at him, eyes sparking from your tears and full of longing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His smile is small but sure as he leans down, pressing his lips to yours.

He kisses you softly. Gentle and loving. Your hands slide into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck, and his grip tightens at your waist.

You part for air, and Jack kisses you again, deeper this time—weeks of unsaid things pressed into the way his mouth moves against yours.

You make a quiet sound before you can stop yourself.

That does something to him.

Jack’s grip tightens, his thumb slips under your scrubs to rub circles on your spine, while his other hand comes up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head just enough that the kiss turns slow and consuming, like he’s memorizing you.

You forget where you are.

Your fingers slip under the hem of his scrub top, resting against his skin. He groans softly into your mouth, barely restrained.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, breathless. “We should—”

Knock knock.

You freeze.

Jack goes completely still.

The knock comes again, louder this time. “Uh—Dr. Abbot? You in there?”

You stifle a laugh against his chest as Jack exhales, long and pained, his head tipping back slightly.

“Give me a minute.”

There’s a pause outside. “Sure, doc.”

Jack looks back down at you, eyes warm and unmistakably fond despite the interruption. He brushes his thumb across your cheek, soft, deliberate.

“We’re not done,” he whispers dangerously low.

You bite your lip, heart still racing. “Good. My place after shift.”

[planetnini]

i love this smmmm

[thatfanficstuff]

Too Much - Jack Abbot

Jack Abbot x Reader

warnings/notes: reader has some self esteem issues. Jack is an ass. This part is angsty. there will be at least one more part. Nothing else I need to write was working and this one wouldn't shut up so enjoy.

Jack Abbot dragged himself to his front door, the last fourteen hours weighing him down. The shift had been brutal, filled with more blood and death than usual. Two STEMIs, a multicar pile up and a knife fight had been just the highlights of his night. His leg was killing him, chafing uncomfortably. His sock was sweat soaked and he’d forgotten to replace the backup in his bag after he’d washed it so he hadn’t been able to switch it out. All he wanted was silence, a shower and his bed in that exact order.

He fumbled his keys, dropping them to the hardwood as he opened the door. Bending to retrieve them had an uncomfortable jolt of pain shooting up his spine. He huffed a tired sigh. He hadn’t even been able to sit for more than a five minute stretch and was utterly wiped. Usually the post-shift adrenaline would carry him through getting some food and a shower but even that seemed to have abandoned him leaving him with only a bone deep fatigue.

Soft yellow light spilling from his kitchen made him pause. He hadn’t left any lights on, he was sure of it. It was the last thing he always checked when leaving the house.

“Jack?” your soft voice called from the kitchen.

He closed his eyes briefly. Not now. Please, not now.

You appeared in the kitchen doorway with a soft smile. “Hey. Go get cleaned up. I made you some breakfast so you could get some food in you before you crashed.”

Jack closed the door, wincing as his prosthesis pinched when he shifted his weight. “What are you doing here?” The words came out harsher than he’d intended but he couldn’t summon the effort to soften them.

Your small smile faded but didn’t disappear completely. “I just wanted to take care of you. I know it was a tough night so I—”

“So, I can’t give you the attention you’re always begging for because I’m having a shit night so you show up here to get it in person?” Jack cut you off, watching your face fall with a detached sort of awareness. He knew he was being cruel. He knew he would regret it, but he couldn’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out. “I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now.”

Your shoulders climbed up around your ears as if you were trying to shield yourself from his words. “I wasn’t…I just wanted to help.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.” The devastation on your face should have stopped him. Instead, it spurred him on, as if your pain would somehow alleviate his own. “You can’t just show up here whenever you want. I need space. Quiet. Neither of which you are capable of giving me.”

You took a step back, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m sorry, Jack. I just thought—”

“That’s the fucking problem. You’re always thinking about what you want. What you need. What about what I need?” Even as he said the words, he knew they weren’t true. You were nothing but considerate, always careful not to push too hard, always willing to give him space when he needed solitude. The guilt began to seep in but exhaustion kept it at bay. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He brushed past you, catching a glimpse of your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. For a split second, he nearly turned back. Nearly apologized. Nearly pulled you into his arms and admitted he was being an asshole that he didn’t mean any of it. Instead, he kept walking. The bedroom door closed behind him with a click, leaving you alone in the hallway.

“Yeah, of course,” you whispered to the empty hallway. The sound of the shower soon provided a steady backdrop to your pain. You pressed a palm against your mouth, forcing back the sob that threatened to escape, and blinked rapidly to clear the blur of tears. It was happening again. You’d fucked it up again by being too needy, too clingy. What the fuck was wrong with you. One tear escaped despite your best efforts, trailing down your cheek before you angrily wiped it away with the back of your hand.

Your mother’s voice echoed in your head. You’re suffocating him. Men don’t like clingy women. Your father chimed in. Give the poor guy some breathing room. Then your sister. This is why your relationships never last. You’re just too much.

Too much. The words had followed you most of your life no matter how small you tried to make yourself. You glanced at the plate of bacon and eggs you’d made, hoping to get some protein into Jack’s stomach before he slept. You’d thought it a loving gesture, one full of concern but now you saw it for the invasion it was.

The shower continued to run in the background as you moved through the apartment gathering your things. There wasn’t much. You’d been so careful not to leave too many things at his place, not wanting to encroach on his space. But things had accumulated over the months just the same.

You pulled your overnight bag from the closet and began methodically collecting your things, as quickly and as quietly as you could. The spare clothes from the drawer he’d given you. The items from the nightstand on your side of the bed. Your gaze flicked briefly to the bathroom door, deciding to leave your belongings there so you didn’t disturb Jack any more than you already had.

In the living room you grabbed a couple of books before moving to the kitchen to grab your mug and the book on phantom limb pain you’d been reading while you waited for him to come home. You’d been so eager to help with his discomfort, to show you could be useful, that you’d spent hours researching. Just another example of you pushing yourself into spaces where you weren’t wanted.

You considered leaving a note. The pen hovered over the notepad on the counter. What should you write exactly?

I’m sorry for bothering you?

I didn’t mean to love you too much?

I’ll try to be less needy?

Each message seemed more pathetic than last. A further burden on someone who had already made it clear they didn’t have the energy for you. In the end, you sat the pen down without writing a word. A note would be just another demand for his attention.

You glanced around one more time, memories flashing through your head as you did so. Jack pulling you into his lap as you brought him coffee, his sleepy smile against your neck. The two of you lounging on the couch, legs tangled together under a blanket. When he’d given you his key, telling you to use it whenever you wanted. That he liked having you here. That he wanted you to feel safe, comfortable.

Perhaps you’d imagined the affection in all of those moments. Saw something you wanted to be there rather than the reality that Jack tolerated you more than he wanted you. Maybe you were overreacting. You knew his shift had been shit. Maybe he was just lashing out due to exhaustion and stress. Maybe you should stay, talk it through when he emerged calmer from his shower.

Then you remembered his words. I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now. Deal with. As if you were a chore, something to be managed or handled. You swallowed hard. Your family was right. You were too much. Too needy, too eager, too clingy. And now Jack had seen it too, just as you’d always known he would.

The shower was still running when you shouldered your bag and slipped out the door. You closed it gently behind you, careful not to make a sound. Your final act of consideration was to leave without disturbing him. To give him the space and silence he so desperately needed and you were apparently incapable of giving him. You locked the door with the key then slipped it into the mail slot, knowing he’d find it later, sure he’d be relieved he didn’t have to deal with you anymore.

Hot water pounded against Jack’s shoulders as he sat slumped on the shower seat. It did nothing to wash away that expression on your face when he’d snapped at you. Steam filled the bathroom, making it hard to breathe, yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn down the temperature. He deserved the discomfort. A minor penance for the words he’d hurled at you when all you’d done was try to take care of him.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he squeezed his eyes shut, but your face appeared in the darkness behind his eyelids. The way your smile had crumbled as you tried to make yourself smaller as if trying to disappear. You hadn’t even fought back. That was the worst part. You’d just accepted his cruelty as if you’d deserved it.

He'd been a fucking asshole of the first order. Exhaustion and pain had loosened his tongue but the words had been his own. He couldn’t blame them on anything but his own stupid embarrassment. He’d been embarrassed you’d seen him at his lowest, limping and exhausted. Embarrassed he couldn’t be strong for you. Embarrassed by his need for the comfort you were offering. And in his embarrassment, he’d lashed out.

You’d just wanted to help and he’d thrown it back in your face like your care was an imposition rather than the gift it was. As he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, his mind ran back over his outburst. I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now. Christ. As if your presence wasn’t the very thing that restored him during horrible shifts. Your smile, your humor, the way you seemed to understand when to talk and when to let him be silent.

He shut off the water and reached for a towel. He’d apologize. Make it right. You’d understand. You always did. Sometimes he wondered if you forgave his moods too easily. He wrapped the towel around his waist and used his crutches to maneuver to the door and opened it.

“Baby,” he called, his voice softer now. “I’m sorry about before. I was a dick.”

Silence answered.

He frowned, as he moved into the bedroom calling your name, louder now. “Are you still here?”

His eyes landed on the bed, taking in the details he’d missed when he’d passed through to take his shower. The bed was made with fresh sheets, the super soft gray ones you’d bought him. Lounge clothes were laid out on the bed and everything he needed to take care of his leg was arranged neatly on the nightstand.

He closed his eyes briefly before getting dressed as quickly as he could. He headed toward the kitchen, calling out for you again but knowing you were already gone. The breakfast you’d prepared remained on the table, covered with plastic wrap. A note should have been next to his plate. You always left messages whether they be funny or sweet or practical. But there was no note. His stomach sank.

He sat in the chair, staring at the food that had gone cold. His stomach rumbled reminding him he hadn’t eaten since a hasty protein bar somewhere mid-shift. Mechanically, he pulled the plate toward him and took a bite. Then another. He was certain the food was good, you’d always been an excellent cook, but it all tasted like ashes on his tongue. With each bite, his guilt intensified. You’d come over here on your night off to take care of him and he’d treated your sacrifice with contempt.

After finishing half the plate, he returned to the bedroom where he’d left his phone. He scrolled past notifications desperately hoping you’d sent him something. Anything. Finding nothing, he typed out a text to you.

I’m sorry.

It was woefully inadequate. There should be more but his brain was foggy with exhaustion and the right words wouldn’t come. He hit send. After a beat, he sent another.

Please call me when you can.

As he slid between the sheets, he checked his phone one more time. No response. Not that he was surprised, he’d hurt you badly.

Tomorrow, he promised himself as his eyelids grew heavy. He’d find you and make this right. He’d explain, apologize properly and beg if necessary. The thought of losing you, made his chest tighten with panic. But exhaustion won out. His last conscious thought was of your face.

Jack jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment, he couldn’t place what had woken him. He couldn’t recall a dream and no alarm was going off. Then the memory of that morning rushed back.

He fumbled for his phone, knocking over a bottle of moisturizer. The screen showed it was just after 15:00. More importantly, there were no missed calls or texts from you. “Shit,” he muttered, pushing himself up.

He dialed your number, pressing the phone to his ear as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. It rang four times before going to voicemail. Your warm voice asking him to leave a message made his stomach clench.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said after the tone. “I…Listen, about this morning, I was a total asshole. Please call me back. I need to talk to you.” He paused, then added, “I’m sorry,” before hanging up.

Jack put on his sleeve and secured his prosthesis with practiced movements despite the slight tremor in his hands. Standing, his gaze swept the room only to pause when he noticed that your nightstand was empty. No book, no charger, nothing.

He yanked open the drawer he’d cleared for you in his dresser to find it empty. A glance in the closet showed your overnight bag missing as well. An uneasy feeling crept up his spine as he moved through the house, checking spaces where you’d left pieces of yourself over the months. The books you’d had on the living room bookcase were gone. That stupid mug with the cartoon dog that he pretended to hate but secretly loved was gone as well.

The only place there was any trace of you was the bathroom where he’d been showering when you left. “No, no, no, no,” he muttered, his movements becoming more frantic as he searched. This wasn’t you giving him space, this was you removing yourself from his life entirely.

He called again and again it went to voicemail. “Please pick up,” he said this time, not trying to hide the desperation in his voice. “I know I don’t deserve it, but please just let me know you’re okay.”

Jack ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. “Shit, shit. Fuck,” he hissed as he paced the living room. You hadn’t just left, you’d erased yourself from his space. He needed to find you. His stomach growled reminding him he hadn’t eaten.

He wrenched open the refrigerator door to grab a protein shake and froze. Neatly stacked containers lined the shelves, each labeled in your handwriting. ‘Tuesday lunch,’ ‘Wednesday dinner,’ etc. Enough meals to last him through the week. He stared at these tangible reminders of your care. Several of the notes had small hearts or smiley faces drawn on them.

“God, what the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispered, closing the refrigerator door and resting his head against the cool surface. He’d been tired and in pain but nothing excused what he’d done. Nothing excused making you feel like a burden when you were anything but.

He needed to find you. Needed to explain. To make you understand. Jack dressed in cargos and a t-shirt, shoving a scrub top into his bag in case he didn’t have time to come home before his shift. The apartment you shared with Samira was a short walk away but his body still ached from yesterday’s shift so the truck it was.

Securing his keys and wallet, he headed for the door, freezing as the light caught something lying on the floor. A lump formed in his throat as he bent over to pick your key up from the floor. His hand fisted around it and a guttural yell escaped his lips. He almost threw it before stopping himself and putting it into his pocket instead. He’d need to give it back to you after all.

Twenty minutes later, Jack stood outside your apartment door. He knocked sharply, then again more gently, not wanting to piss off your neighbors.

No answer.

He knocked again, calling your name. The hallway remained silent except for the sound of a TV in another unit. He tried the doorknob. Locked, of course. He pressed his ear to the door but heard no movement from within. He stepped back, rubbing his hand over his jaw, the stubble rasping against his palm.

Where were you? At work maybe but you weren’t scheduled. Your family lived hours away (thank fuck for that). You could possibly be with friends, but he wouldn’t know how to start tracking you down.

Jack pulled out his phone again, thumb hovering over Samira’s contact. She would know where you were. She might even be with you right now. But if he called her, he’d have to explain why he was looking for you, would have to admit how badly he’d fucked up.

Pride warred briefly with necessity before he hit dial. The call went straight to voicemail. She was either working or had her phone off while sleeping.

He sent one more text to you.

I’m at your place. Please let me know where you are. I need to see you.

He slumped against the wall opposite your door. Neither you nor Samira were home and he had no idea where else to look.

He glanced at his watch. It was after 16:00. He had to be back at the Pitt for his sift at 19:00. The thought of working twelve hours not knowing where you were or if you were okay made his stomach turn.

Jack sat in his truck outside your apartment building staring at his phone as if it might suddenly reveal your whereabouts. His thumb hovered over Robby’s contact. He was expecting Jack to relieve him for the night shift but the thought of working tonight was impossible. He couldn’t focus on patients when his mind was filled with you, with the need to find you and fix what he’d broken.

He hit dial, pressing the phone to his ear. Robby answered on the third ring. “Brother, tell me you’re calling to say you’re coming in early,” Robby said in lieu of a greeting. “I’s a zoo here today.”

Jack closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. “Actually, I’m calling to say I can’t work tonight. I’ll need to find someone to cover.”

A beat of silence. “Are you sick?” Robby asked, concern coloring his voice.

Jack gripped the steering wheel with this free hand. “I fucked up, Robby. I need to find my girl.”

There was another pause, filled with the background noise of the ED. Then Robby said, “She’s here.”

Jack’s eyes snapped open. “What?”

“She’s been here since noon. We had three call out with the flu.”

“She’s there right now?” he asked for confirmation, already turning the key in the ignition and putting the phone on speaker.

“Yes, I’m looking at her right now.” There was a shuffling sound then Robby’s voice became clearer as if he’d moved to a quieter area. “What the fuck did you do, Jack? She’s been acting weird all day.”

Jack winced, backing out of the parking space with more speed than caution. “I was an asshole after my shift. Said things I didn’t mean.”

“Must have been some horrible shit, Jack,” Robby remarked. “She’s doing this fake smile thing. And she called me Dr. Robinavitch. Twice.” He sighed. “Mohan’s been hovering as much as she can, but they’re on different cases, of course.”

So Samira was there too. That explained while neither of you had been at the apartment. “Don’t let her leave,” Jack said.

“She’s working her shift. I don’t think she’s just suddenly going to leave,” Robby grumbled, but his tone had softened. For all his gruff exterior, Robby had a soft spot for you. “Just get here and fix whatever you broke, Abbot. I hate seeing her like this.”

Jack ended the call and focused on getting to the hospital as quickly as possible without breaking any major traffic laws. His mind raced trying to decide what he’d say when he saw you. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t going to cut it. Not when you’d taken all your belongings from his place and returned his key.

Twenty minutes later, Jack strode through the ambulance bay doors, scanning the ED for any sign of you. He found Robby first who motioned down one of the corridors.

Jack moved past the hub where Samira stood reviewing a chart. She glanced up, her expression hardening when she saw him. Whatever you’d told her about what had happened, had clearly painted him in the light he deserved. “I know,” he said as he passed without stopping.

He found you in the quiet corridor at the far end of the ED, your back to him as you studied a chart. Your shoulders curled forward like you were trying to hide when he said your name. You didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge him.

“Baby, please look at me,” Jack begged, his voice low but urgent.

Your body went completely still but you didn’t turn around. “Please don’t call me that, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack made a sound low in his throat. Part protest, part pain. “Please,” he said moving closer but not touching you. “I’m sorry. I am so fucking sorry.”

Slowly, you turned to face him. The sight of your eyes, usually so warm and expressive, now dulled, made his chest constrict. You’d been crying, though he doubted anyone else could tell.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Jack,” you said, voice unsettlingly calm. “I know I’m a lot. I told you when you asked me out that I wasn’t worth the effort. I’m too pushy, too clingy, too needy. I’m too much.”

Each word sounded like an accusation, though they were directed at yourself rather than him. Jack reached for your hand, relieved when you didn’t pull away even though you didn’t return his grip.

“You’re not,” he insisted, ducking his head to try to meet your gaze. “You’re not too much. I was an asshole. I was tired and in pain and I took it out on you. There is no excuse for that. It’s not enough, but I am so fucking sorry.”

Your lips curved into a smile though there was no warmth in it. “It’s okay. I get it. I’ll be fine.” You gently pulled your hand from his. “I need to get back to work. Make sure you eat something before—” You cut yourself off abruptly. “I’m sorry. That was pushy. You know when you need to eat.”

“No,” he said firmly. “No. That is not pushy. That is you caring about me and I threw that back in your face like an ungrateful bastard.”

But you were already stepping away, creating distance between the two of you. “I really need to finish this chart,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

Jack watched helplessly as you walked away, catching the whispered “stupid” you directed at yourself. That single word told him everything he needed to know about how deeply his words had wounded you. Not just because they were cruel but because they’d confirmed your worst fears about yourself.

How was he going to fix this? He ran a hand through his hair remembering the only time he’d met your family. Your father’s barely concealed surprise that you were dating someone he clearly thought was out of your league. Your mother’s whispered warning that he’d heard anyway. “Don’t get too attached, sweetheart. Once he finds out how you really are, how much work you are…well, men like that have options.”

He hadn’t said anything then, though he should have. He’d been afraid of embarrassing you. You’d laughed it off at the time, but Jack saw now that you’d believed it on some level. You’d been waiting for him to realize that you were ‘too much’ and this morning he’d confirmed that fear in the cruelest possible way.

He spotted Samira watching him, her expression a mix of disapproval and concern. If anyone knew you better than Jack did, it was Samira. She’d know how to help him fix this. Or at least understand the depth of the damage he’d done. Jack took a deep breath and headed toward her. He might have screwed this up spectacularly, but he wasn’t giving up. Not on you.

Next Part

[planetnini]

ilove this

[francixoxoxo]

• just across the hall masterlist

• Frank Castle x reader

series desc; Frank Castle is starting to be more than a neighbor who does you favors without being asked. He knows it; and it terrifies him as much as it thrills you. It's a strange 'friendship'. sometimes he's making you laugh your ribs thin, and other times you could cut the air with a knife. The biggest challenge is keeping him from backing away, while not risking ruining the only relationship you have in your apartment complex.

notes; slow burn, just-neighbors to friends to lovers! Frank is horrible at feelings, very manly (yes plz fix everything in my house and don’t let me pay you back), curtis hoyle makes an appearance, teeeennnsssioooon, rom com esque, banter, eventual smut

on ao3!

part 1; don’t like debt

part 2; blueberry muffins

part 3; olive branches, wood bookshelves

part 4; grocery runs and guard dogs

part 5; a night in

[planetnini]

in love with this series op, can’t wait for more!!!! raarrrr

[planetnini]

hello all!

might be a surprising update but i’m looking to rewrite my gojo roommate series ‘bewitched’ but it will go under some changes and construction. i just felt like it is a concept/work of mine that i adored to bits … i revisit it every now and then and think i could have written this better or found new things to add… gojo and reader in that story are everything to me so hopefully after my exams i can focus on it and start re-releasing it. i only released one chapter but i’m excited to rewrite !!!!

[kthologue]

honeymoon phase — gojo satoru

synopsis. the elders have always warned you that men lose interest over time. that they’re bound to find a younger, prettier toy years down into the marriage. you think your day has come. 

contents. hurt/comfort, established relationship, husband!gojo, pining (so much of it), insecurity, miscommunication, mentions of pregnancy, gojo is a freak for his wife, shoko is the voice of reason as always

notes. im back n this is not proofread. what’s new!!! anyways, enjoy yet another self indulgent piece!

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

The walls of the Gojo compound were made of wood and paper, thin enough for you to hear secrets that weren’t made for your ears. You had grown up used to tuning out the constant noise from footsteps on tatami and shuffling robes to muttered curses from sorcerers-in-training. But today, the voices were just close enough, just loud enough for you to hear. 

 “Still no heir after five years?”

 “What a shame. All that potential, and she retires to become a housewife.”

 “They marry young these days, but if a woman can’t carry on the clan, then what’s the point?”

 “She’s not a wife. She’s a waste.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.

You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.

You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.

To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.

But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.

Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.

He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.

Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.

You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.

Satoru was late. Again.

And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.

Tired of what, you’re not sure.

You, perhaps.

He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.

But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.

“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”

And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.

You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.

This had become a pattern. 

He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.

But now he barely looked at you.

He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.

You believed him. Of course you did.

But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.

It happened in a moment of weakness.

The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.

It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.

You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.

Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.

But the messages were right there.

And what you saw made your stomach drop.

Gojo: Shio, I need your help.

Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.

Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.

Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.

Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~

Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.

You blinked.

No.

No, no, no.

The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.

You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention. 

And it made you sick.

Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.

He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.

You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.

Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.

The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.

When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”

You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.

It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you. 

Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.

“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.

Satoru grinned.

“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”

Your stomach dropped.

Kyoto. 

Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.

“I’m not hungry.”

You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.

He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.

But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.

“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.

“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”

“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”

You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.

A silence stretches between you.

Shoko picks up on it. She always does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. 

Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.

When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”

There’s a pause.

“Is this a joke?”

“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”

Another silence. This one lands heavier.

“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”

You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.

“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”

“Shoko… you don’t get it.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“No. Not yet, but—”

“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”

You sigh and lean back.

 “I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”

Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”

You’re quiet. 

“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”

“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”

You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.

The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.

Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.

“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”

You blink, startled.  “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”

Something in you snaps.

“Don’t you dare make this about you.”

He stares, stunned.

“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.” You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.

You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.

“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.

He flinches.

“What?”

“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”

“[Name], it’s not what you think—”

“Then explain it!”  Your voice breaks.

 “Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”

You yank your hand back.

“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—” You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”

Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.

You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.

You step back.

“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"

“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Desperate. “Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”

“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”

He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”

You stare at him, your heart in your throat.

“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”

You blink.

“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.” His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”

You suck in a breath.

He steps closer, eyes pleading. “I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”

His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.

“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”

You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.

“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—” He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”

You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

“You should’ve just told me.”

“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.

“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”

You breathe him in, your voice shaky. 

 “So… you want kids?”

“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”

You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”

“That sounds like heaven.”

 He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.

When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.

“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”

“Nine.”

“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.

“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”

You smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Can I bribe the jury?”

“With what?”

“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

You lean in close, breath brushing his ear.

“Hmm, two months… and a foot rub every night.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

[planetnini]

i missed reading gojo fics

[eloiscbridgerton]

THE BEAR 4.08 – Green // 1.08 – Braciole

[planetnini]

which could mean nothing

[plsreturnhonouredone]

𝐒𝐍𝐀𝐏𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 - g.satoru

synopsis. the first years find your old videos burned onto a dvd of you, satoru, shoko, and geto from high school.

wc. 2.7k

tags. gojo x reader, you+shoko+gojo+geto being in the same year and besties, present/past, fluff

a/n. before there's any confusion, i am just reuploading this onto my new account. if you want access to all parts find them here on ao3. i'm no longer a huge fan of how i continued the series so i will be only keeping the first part on tumblr.

"is it recording?" asked one muffled but familiar voice. the screen was black, the camera covered by something or someone. the pitch was marginally higher than they were used to but yuji and nobara grinned at each other as they recognised the voice of their teacher.

"how can anyone see when you're holding it like that?" this one was more feminine and unfamiliar to the two - but not for megumi who smiled sadly at the laptop screen.

"give it to me idiots," this was another female voice. there was some more chattering in the background but the audio hadn’t been picked up over the rustling of the camera being passed around. then, for a moment, the screen goes completely white as it focused on the figure in front: shoko ieiri. 

she turned the camera around so it was looking at her three peers all wearing the same sheepish grins. "you hadn't even taken off the lens cover." 

“it was satoru’s fault,” the other female sorcerer accused the white haired boy next to her.

“no it wasn’t!” gojo whined, geto on the other side of him stifling a laugh at his childish mannerisms. he looked in disbelief that his best friend was not defending him, “why am i always the scapegoat?”

yuuji paused the video to point at the unknown girl, “who is that?”

megumi hesitated for a brief second before responding, “yn.”

“you knew her?” nobara raised a brow at her dark-haired friend. he was often stoic and kept to himself but they’d been together for several months now and even she could pick up on the uncomfortable change in his demeanour. 

megumi hummed, avoiding eye contact as he stared at the paused screen, “mhm.” you looked happy in the clip, always amused when it came to winding up gojo. he’d seen it with his own two eyes.

“did she leave jujutsu?” yuuji pondered aloud.

“something like that,” he swallowed thickly.

nobara gave megumi’s hand a light squeeze, but didn’t say anything. megumi had initially been against the idea of looking through the dvd to see their teacher’s teenage years at jujutsu high - this explained why.

yuuji, on the other hand, was oblivious to the interaction, more eager to see a young gojo (and nanami too, he hoped). he reached across nobara to unpause the video without another question.

"can we just do what we actually came out here to do?” geto asked in an exasperated tone, but he was clearly smiling as he spun gojo around so the two could go back to back. “who's taller, me or satoru?" the two had been arguing over the fact all morning so it had been shoko to suggest recording it so that there was actual evidence that neither could deny.

before either could stand fully straight against one another, you interrupted with no hesitation, "suguru." gojo’s eyes widened and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing at his expression.

"you didn't even look properly!" he threw his hands out dramatically and you shrugged, dismissing his distress.

"didn't need to," you waved a finger up and down, “shorty.”

there was a brief second of back and forth between you and gojo, no actual words being said until his pout lifted into a mischievous smile. that had you spinning on your heel in a futile attempt to try and escape him but it took only three of his strides till he’s got you in his hold, fingers tickling your sides.

“can we go ten minutes without you two flirting?” shoko complained over your laughs from behind the camera, panning over to geto who was shaking his head with a similar look that she undoubtedly wore too.

yuuji’s eyes were blown wide when he paused it again, looking at megumi in disbelief (even nobara had to sneak a glance for an explanation because she’d never seen their teacher so physically close to anyone like that). “sensei had a girlfriend?” 

“sort of,” megumi shrugged.

“oh my-” yuuji begun to exclaim but megumi cut him off by placing a hand over his wide mouth.

“if you ask any more questions, i will turn it off.”

instantaneously, yuuji mimicked zipping his mouth, locking it and throwing the key away, settling back into his seat. the dark-haired teenager unpaused the video.

the clip comes back to life again, gojo with his arms wrapped around your centre as he ceases his tickling in full view. his sleeves are rolled up so it’s visible on camera where you had dug your nails into his skin trying to prise his hands from you (very unsuccessfully, might you add). “that was not flirting. this is flir- ow i just wanted a kiss.” 

the camera dropped as shoko laughed and the video ended several seconds later, the screen swapped back to one full of files and thumbnails. there had to be well over a hundred videos, maybe more, all ranging from a few seconds to even an hour for some. 

nobara scrolled down until she came across a clip with gojo as the thumbnail. this one, she decided.

the video buffered for a brief moment before beginning. this one was outside this time, somewhere on the grounds of the high school. gojo had forgone his uniform jacket once more and his glasses were perched on the edge of his nose as he slightly bent down to hear what was being said.

shoko was the one holding the camera again – as she often was – and the one asking questions, "what's your favourite thing about being a sorcerer?"

gojo pretended to deeply ponder the question, tapping his index finger against his chin thoughtfully. just as he went to answer the question, voices came from behind both of them: two other students began walking towards them from a path on the other side of the open field.

“is that yn and geto?” gojo asked to no one in particular. he held up a finger to shoko as his feet were naturally leading him in the direction of the two people he care for most, “one second.”

shoko panned back to herself, nose scrunched up and a cigarette between her lips. she looked like she was going to complain about gojo’s inability to stay focused on one task at a time when she too got distracted by her friends in the distance. 

"someone's in love," she sung as she spun around, pointing at you and gojo and then her mouth as she pretended to gag. gojo had already presumably checked in on geto and now his whole focus was on making sure you’d come back from the mission in one piece. in the footage he pressed one long kiss to your forehead, hugging you closely to his body. “i need to smoke.”

yuuji was practically squirming in his seat, itching to say something. one sharp look from nobara, however, and he thinks better of it. the orange-haired sorcerer went back to her scrolling, finding a short fifteen second clip that lasted only twenty seconds.

initially, the screen was dark once more as it was being readjusted and then a young male, no older than sixteen came into view with a wide smile. “i’m going to be japan’s strongest sorcerer one day!”

“yu!” you appeared behind him, passing him a soft drink bottle, “of course you are! best the world has ever seen.”

“after me,” geto, who was sat next to haibara, joked as he looked at his junior with a fondness that you shared. there were some more voices and haibara glancing between talking sorcerers but nothing overtly interesting in the final few seconds.

“i have no idea who that was,” megumi admitted, and yuuji nodded nonchalantly like his silence wasn’t killing him. even the dark-haired sorcerer couldn’t stop himself from being somewhat amused by his peer.

megumi was the one to scroll down this time. he was more methodical than nobara had been and looked at several thumbnails before deciding finally on one of you and gojo. he recognised the date underneath as a date gojo had scribbled on the back of a photo that he kept in his wallet.

you were holding the camera this time, pointing it at gojo who was staring up at the clear night sky. it was well past curfew and you were both going to be in for it when yaga found you but the conflict to come could not be felt in the serenity of the fireflies’ buzzing.

“look at how beautiful the stars are,” you said aloud, though you’re entire focus was on your boyfriend in front of you. he turned to agree (and probably tell you some random fact that he knew about one particular constellation) only to catch your sly smile and your heart-eyed stare.

there was a split second as his eyes darted between yours and the camera that he almost appeared… nervous? bashful? but he quickly recovered with an eye roll, “you’re literally blessed to even be in my presence.”

you panned the camera around to yourself where you stared at gojo with a raised eyebrow. “if you can’t handle my rizz just say so.” gojo snorted and you could only keep up the facade for another second before you were giggling too. 

he rolled closer to you so he could lay his head on your chest and you lifted the camera higher to make sure you both stayed within the frame.

“smile toru,” you poked his cheek lightly and pointed up. it was odd for his students to be watching this – to see their powerful sensei with his guard completely down, tired, and in love. gojo did as he was told, ocean blue eyes almost illuminating under the night’s shadow.

it was that moment that he had saved as a photo; gojo smiling up at the camera with his body covering yours whilst you look down with him with more love than he thought he could ever deserve.

“hey! i was watching that,” yuuji complained after megumi pressed escape, cutting the video short.

megumi sniffed lightly, but shrugged it off by giving yuuji a distraction, “you choose the next one.” this was sufficient enough to distract the minor disappointment and yuuji was quick to find one he liked.

“yn’s crying! i wonder what happened,” yuuji hurriedly clicked onto the video, invested in the life of a sorcerer he could never know.

“guess who broke up again,” shoko said in a sing-song tone as you glared at her. she was sat at her desk and you were on her bed, a mountain of used tissues behind you. your face was red and blotchy from tears and you clearly did not want to be recorded right then.

“it’s not funny,” you sniffled, “and it’s just a break.”

you mumbled the last part and shoko deadpanned to the camera, mockingly mouthing what you had just said. “still disrupting my beauty sleep by coming in my room and crying,” she turned in her chair towards you, “believe it or not i don’t just wake up looking this flawless.”

“ha ha,” you uttered sarcastically, “it’s not my fault i love him.”

“you’re seventeen,” shoko dragged out, “there’ll be other ones.”

you stopped your pity party for a brief second to look shoko dead in the eye, “have you seen his bank account? there will not be other ones.” you both broke out into laughter almost instantly, the healing sorcerer agreeing with your argument.

shoko pointed to the camera, “gojo satoru i hope you see this. your girl is a gold digger confirmed.”

the video then gets cut off once a pillow has been launched directly at shoko’s head.

“next one! next one! they have to get back together!” nobara insisted. megumi lets her play the next video, he didn’t tell her about what he knew — that he’d seen you and gojo in love and together well after the video. that you survived the tribulations that came with being a teenager and overcame more as sorcerers than the average couple should have to deal with.

“so it’s been…” shoko held up one finger, then two, then glanced to geto for help.

“three days and six hours,” he recounted, knowing exactly what she was referring to.

“three days and six hours since gojo and yn called it quits and now here they are, making out at an official jujutsu event very not subtly,” shoko informed the camera, swapping the view so that it was in fact exposing your escapades at the formal event. it was nothing overtly raunchy, just gojo pressing you to a wall as he kissed your lips. still, there’s a time and a place.

“are you seriously recording this?” geto asked.

shoko spun the camera to him, “you want the camera on you?”

geto winked, adjusting his tie and leaning back on the bench as he manspread. “i look good right?” shoko shook the camera to say ‘no’ and he shrugged, pulling out a lighter for the cigarette he held between his lips. he lit his and then offered it to shoko.

just as she grabbed the lighter, a loud crash came from the direction that the two of you had been. somehow in the thirty seconds that she had been focused on geto, you two had stopped your kissing session, zenin naoyo had showed up and gojo was throwing punches with the zenin.

geto dropped his cigarette as he quickly raced to help out his best friend. shoko too followed after, running with the camera facing the fight as she called out, “the girls are fighting!”

“i bet sensei won,” yuuji smugly said as the video ended. 

nobara scoffed, taking back control of the laptop as she tried to find their next video, “obviously. he never loses – especially not to zenin naoya.” unable to make a decision with the hundreds to choose from, nobara closed her eyes, scrolled and clicked on a random video.

you and shoko were the two on screen, sat at a table seating on the train. 

“shopping haul!” you held up the bags excitedly and shoko hushed you, pointing to the seats across from you and mouthing ‘they’re sleeping’. you whispered an ‘oops’ and briefly showed a young nanami and haibara resting his head on his shoulder. 

quietly lifting up the three massive bags of shopping the two of you had between yourselves (a difficult task given the rustling of the paper), you began to lay out your items on the table. the both of you took it in turns, shoko showing off the new lighters and lipsticks she’d bought followed by you presenting several tops that you’d probably never get the chance to wear given the fact you were always in uniform.

“why are we stuck so far away when those two are just sleeping?” gojo rudely interrupted your little haul from where he and geto sat. shoko laughed, grabbing the camera to point at the two who were sat facing away two rows down. the train was pretty busy so they’d been lucky to grab the table. gojo and geto were left to fend for themselves.

gojo was peering down the isle, a pout on his lips whilst geto knelt on his chair and held his hands up pleadingly for… you two to kick your two sleeping juniors out of their peaceful seats so they can disturb your peace? there was no way that was happening.

“they’re not allowed on the adult table because they almost got us kicked out of the restaurant,” shoko explained with a tut and you oh-so-solemnly shook your head in disappointment.

the white haired sorcerer rested his head back against the chair, rubbing his brow in a frustrated manner, “the old lady started it.”

geto placed a hand on gojo’s shoulder, waving a middle finger to the camera with the other. “don’t waste your breath, satoru. they probably paid her to trip over your chair.”you and shoko glanced at each other with knowing grins before both of you started mimicking two people kissing with your hands, "mwah mwah mwah, and they're both boys."

[planetnini]

oh my love is back <3333

[roselites-deactivated20260321]

bad blood / scott miller x reader

summary: set after twisters. when scott initiates a lawsuit against javi and his new business partners, they choose to take you on as their attorney—no matter that you and scott were once high school sweethearts, that you still have his ring in your closet, or that things between you ended catastrophically six years past. this is business. no need to go down memory lane… right?

content warnings: f!reader, alcohol use, language, offscreen parental death, one open door scene (unprotected piv), couple angst, riggs is his own walking red flag, questionable legal ethics

word count: 21.6k (sorry, guys 😬)

author’s note: here it is! i tried to rein in the length, but clearly i failed ✌🏼 shoutout to @/hederasgarden and @/sailor-aviator for giving scott his fandom-approved surname. on a final note, i am not a lawyer, i took one (1) business law class in college, so don’t take my word on any of this and definitely don’t do stuff with your ex while he’s the opposing party in a case you’re working (but if it’s david corenswet, i meannnn… should anyone be blamed?)

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

Well-meaning, and with typical Arkansan practicality, Tyler Owens leaned back in his chair and said, “Javi, you need to chill out, man.”

Immediately, you knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“What makes you think I’m not? It's not like my entire livelihood is on the line or anything, so why would I not be chilled out?—Dammit!”

“Actually, lose the tie,” you suggested, having watched him fumble for the last five minutes. You were sure it was nerves that did it, not a lack of dexterity.

Javi sighed and let the two ends hang pathetically around his neck. “I thought I was supposed to wear one…”

“I think that’s only for court,” Kate put in, “like with an actual judge and stuff.”

“Maybe in the 1970s,” remarked Tyler under his breath. Javi glared. “Bro, it’s gonna be fine.”

“We should be out there, tracking tornadoes!” There was a mounted television in the little waiting area, playing a 24-hour news channel on mute. Javi gestured at the weather report. It was March, and Tornado Alley was looking active, “robust,” as the weatherman put it… not that your clients would know firsthand, seeing as they were stuck in a high-rise in the city instead of out in the fields of Sapulpa County. Kate and Tyler were watching the radar images with twin expressions of restless longing. Javi yanked the tie from his neck. “That son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing, tying us up in meetings at this time of year.”

“Yeah, he did,” you replied. “I know it’s inconvenient as shit, but believe me, I’m going to do everything I can to get you back out on the field. There’s no reason for all three of you to be here. I mean, it’s the modern age: some of this could be a Zoom meeting.”

 “You think we’re gonna Zoom in the middle of a storm?” Tyler quipped. Kate turned to him with a chastising look.

She was clearly just about as done as her other two partners, but a lot more level-headed about the fact that they were being sued for everything they had. Which you appreciated. Suits between friends and former business associates had a tendency to turn into mud-slinging wars, and there was nothing you hated more than a client stuck in denial. Kate was the opposite. She was cool-headed, calm. A happy medium between Tyler’s annoyed outrage (“who does this guy think he is!”) and Javi’s frustrated melancholy (“guys, I’m sorry, this is all my fault”).

Right now, Javi was sinking well into the latter.

“Just remember we’re here for you, Javi.” Kate rubbed a soothing hand across his back. “All the way. We know this is personal.”

“Yeah, which means it’s gonna get ugly. I hate the thought of our company going under because I had shitty taste in business partners, you know?”

“Well, you don't anymore. That’s character growth,” Tyler pointed out. “Now, I’m no legal expert, but as far as I can see, he’s got no legs to stand on—”

You held up a finger. “Uh, that’s not entirely true…”

“—and he’s going to come out of this looking like a complete and total tool. Which he is! If he wants to spend all this time and boatloads of his uncle’s money on a belligerent witch hunt, then so be it.”

“You mean our time, our money,” said Javi.

Kate looked at you. “If this ends up going to court, is it likely he’ll win?”

You sighed. “Okay, listen.” You sat on the coffee table. There was no avoiding the sight of three pairs of eyes with varying degrees of hopefulness trained on you, hanging onto your every word. Javi you had known before, but after a brief acquaintance, you’d decided that you liked Kate and Tyler too, had even spent an hour or two watching Tornado Wrangler videos on YouTube, and, while storm chasing seemed, well, kind of unhinged, their enthusiasm was contagious. They were passionate, not in a purely thrill-seeking or overly scientific way. They actually cared. And you wanted them to win. “The whole point,” you explained, “is that we’re trying to avoid this going to trial. If you’re looking to cut down on the cost to your bottom line—not to mention how this could drag on for literal years—it’s best to reach a settlement before this ever sees the inside of a courtroom. Either way, things are going to get a little worse before they get better. But the point is a clean break, right? When all this is over, StormPAR will never have any sort of claim over you. You’ll be free to chase storms, build your doo-dads—”

That got you a trio of chuckles. Good, let them think you were a meteorological idiot; all the better to make them feel like a united front.

“—and it’ll be like Scott and Riggs never happened.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tyler said, that steely determination from his old rodeo days coming through.

Kate gave a nod. “No matter what, we’ll be okay”

Javi put his hand on your knee. “Thank you… for everything. I know this has gotta suck for you too.”

“Who, me?” you asked, feigning ignorance. “I’m fine.”

“Mm-hm…”

“Do I not look fine?”

“You look great,” Kate said honestly.

“Miller’s gonna shit his pants.”

“Tyler!”

“Hey, we’re up,” your assistant announced, her fingers not pausing for a second as she typed on her phone. Abby may have the social skills of a polar bear, but her organizational skills were top-notch and you relied on her predatory instincts. Plus, you were sure that her geometrically perfect French bob had magical powers.

Signaling for the others to follow, you made your way down a hallway bordered by walls banded in frosted glass, the sound of typing and muffled phone calls familiar and yet not. This was enemy territory. Having you meet here instead of at the offices of Conway & Fine was a calculated move.

Before entering the conference room, you took Tyler by the elbow. “Please just… try to behave yourself.”

Me? He pointed at his face.

“Yes, you! Don’t provoke him—as a matter of fact, don’t even look at him—don't piss him off unless you want to make this a hell of a lot worse for everyone. Capisce?”

“I’ll be the picture of civility.”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“I’ll be a gentleman!”

You glared. “Tyler Owens, I’m holding you to that.” Adjusting your power suit, you put on your best Professional Face. “Alright guys, it’s showtime.”

Through the glass, your eyes landed on Scott. The temptation to bolt left you breathless, though you couldn’t say whether you wanted to run towards or far, far away. You wouldn’t. You were all too aware of the people standing behind you, counting on you, while Scott himself had been a stranger to you for the last few years.

You owed him nothing; this was simply business, you reminded yourself.

Simply business.

He turned his head and spotted you, and kept his eyes on you as you opened the door.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

You’d been working on the same calculus assignment for the last three-quarters of an hour, the sound of rain lashing against your window doing nothing for your frazzled nerves.  While math was by no means your obvious strong suit, you would have finished by now if you hadn’t spent most of it staring at the wall beneath your windowsill, bouncing your leg, tapping your pencil compulsively against the edge of your AP textbook and imagining all the ways in which your life could go horribly, unfixably wrong. An outcome that now seemed likely.

“You still have time, sweetheart,” your mom tried to say at dinner that night. She smiled at you and patted your hand. “It’s only March.”

“Exactly—it’s March!” you’d wanted to say, but bit your tongue. There wasn't any point; your mom would always believe you were capable of walking on the moon, which was lovely, you guessed. Or it would be, if all your classmates weren't overachievers and if a lot of them hadn't already received acceptance letters and stuck pennants to the inside of their lockers for all the rejects to see.

It was hopeless… you should’ve gotten an answer by now.

Tossing the book and papers away, you buried your face in your hands and tried to hold it together. The sleeves of your sweatshirt emanated a woodsy, clean smell, kind of like rain in a forest, and you breathed in deep to let it ground you.

Slowly, the intensity of the storm outside faded to background noise, no longer angry, insistent—it was only rain after all, only weather. You sniffed, feeling silly, and snuggled into the navy-blue sweatshirt, wrapping your arms around your knees. The gold lettering read NICHOLS ACADEMY ATHLETICS. On you, it was practically a dress, and you’d been living in it all week, ignoring Mom’s teases about how “you’re going to have to wash it at some point!” while your dad watched you pass by, saying nothing, only flipping the page of whatever biography he was reading, not wanting to comment or so much as reference your boyfriend of two years, who played center field on Nichols’s prize baseball team and from whom you’d stolen the sweatshirt after a date at the park.

Try as you might, your dad had never warmed up to Scott, but you thought it had more to do with an objection to Scott’s father rather than to Scott himself. The whole family’s trouble, he said once, prompting a fight that ended with you slamming your bedroom door and not speaking to him for two days, until your mom laid down the law and said she wouldn't have that sort of tension around the house.

He didn’t get it. Scott wasn't like his father—if anything, you saw the way his jaw tensed whenever he heard rumors (whispered, unless intended to get a rise out of him by a school rival) about the private club scenes, the drinking, the reckless gambling, the other women. Of course your straitlaced dad assumed the apple wouldn't fall too far from the tree, but you knew Scott. You trusted him. And, fine, so you were seventeen, but you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him—it happened, didn't it?

Granted, this was why that damned letter was so important. It was the perfect plan… so long as Scott got into MIT, which seemed like a given, and you into Harvard, the culmination of four years of meticulous planning and candle-burning work. But what if it didn’t happen? Could your relationship survive the time and long distance? As much as you hoped so, you didn’t want to find out.

Out of nowhere came sharp rap at your window. Startled, you looked up to see a familiar face peering through the rain-lashed glass, and automatically you sprang to your feet. “Scott! What the hell were you thinking!” you hissed, mindful of your parents, probably in bed at this hour. He paused halfway through the window, pretending offense.

“Wow, okay, here I thought I was making a big romantic gesture…”

“You’re soaking wet! You could’ve fallen and broken your neck!”

As you lowered and latched the window behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible, he defended, “I’m a tree connoisseur. If anything, I’m a that-tree connoisseur and she’s never let me down before. Literally. Sturdy branches on her.”

He had a point there. The tree directly outside your bedroom window had played makeshift ladder to him over the last couple of years—not that your parents were any the wiser. If your dad knew, he’d go straight to the nearest hardware store and buy the ax himself. (What he would do with that ax, having never done a day’s manual labor in his life besides recreational fishing, was beyond you.)

You shook your head, watching Scott drip all over the hardwood. God, he was stunning.

And there was a chance you might lose him forever in a few months.

You felt the sting in your throat and behind your eyes. “I’ll go get you a towel,” you said, averting your face and turning towards the ensuite so you could get a few seconds to yourself. He caught you by the wrist and spun you into his body.

“Wait a minute, kiss me first,” he demanded, a cocky grin on his face. You managed to see a flash of it before his lips met yours. You closed your eyes in spite of everything, melting into the kiss, into Scott, because it was as easy as breathing and just as pointless trying to resist.

His cheeks were cold, his mouth warm. Coaxing. The pressure of his hands on your waist like an anchor in the storm. He was perfect for you. How could you belong with anyone else? It was impossible.

His tongue brushed your bottom lip, and it was a move so practiced, so instinctive, so perfectly well-known, that it made the fear swell in your chest again. You held onto the front of his rain-drenched hoodie, breaking the kiss. Your breathing was ragged. You felt you could burst.

“You’re insane,” you tried to cover, burying your head in his chest. “My dad will kill you if he catches you.”

He took a step back and tilted your face up, gently, by the chin. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you replied.

“Tell me.”

Instead of answering, you made your way to the bathroom and got a towel out of the linen closet. You could feel Scott’s questioning gaze, but he waited, rubbing the towel across his head, brows knitted together as you hesitated, still trying to hedge. “I just—we have that exam next week and I’ve fallen behind on calc and I think I’m going to have to start over on my AP Civ end-of-the-year project, and my mom—”

“Your mom’s great,” Scott interjected.

“Why, d’you want her?”

He pursed his lips. As soon as you said it, you knew that it had sounded kind of bitchy.

“Fine, okay. She’s great, she’s just… trying to help.”

“Is this about Drexler getting her Harvard letter? Because it’s only—”

“It's only March. Yeah. That’s what Mom said. But I’m cutting it close, right? Some people got their letters in December, Scott—December!” You looked down at your feet. “I’m not going to get in.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Well, it sure feels like it!”

“C’mere.”

“No.” You shook your head.

“Come here,” he insisted, tossing the damp towel onto your bed and holding your arms loosely, his hands stroking up and down. No matter how much you held onto the scent-memory of him on his Nichols sweatshirt, nothing compares to the real thing. He made everything better; and if not, he made everything feel like it could get better, because he was Scott Miller, and the world bent to his charm or else. “You’re going to get in,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “They’d be crazy not to have you.” And the thing was, despite being utterly convinced only two minutes before that the worst was inevitable, you wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself that everything would settle into place as it should.

Scott dipped his head to brush his lips against yours, a deliberate barely-there sweep that made your eyes flutter closed and your arms lace around the wide breadth of his shoulders. Scott’s hands traveled down your back, pressing into your hips until you were flush against the length of his body. You felt him smile as he let you deepen the kiss, and the little rumble of his almost-laugh pinged all the way down to your toes, warming you from the inside the way only Scott could.

As his mouth moved down to your jaw and then the side of your neck, you slid your hands down his chest and then stopped, feeling something other than the hidden planes of his stomach through the fabric of his dark hoodie. You pulled away. Scott’s face had frozen into a look of mild panic and his hands wrapped around your wrists, holding them loosely, which only made the alarm bells ring louder in your head. That was not the sort of face he would make if he was hoarding old receipts.

“Scott?” you asked. He looked away, exhaled, and let your wrists drop with a resigned expression. You reached into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of white letter paper folded into quarters, carefully and with Scott-like precision. “What…” you began, glancing at him briefly and opening the sheet.

At the top, in cardinal red: Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

You might have gasped. At the very least, one of your hands flew up to your mouth. “Oh my God… Scott…”

“We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Scott! This is from MIT! You got in?”

“It's really not a big deal.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his shoulders curved slightly inward.

Not a big deal? “Scott, shut up! You got in!” you exclaimed, aghast.

“You’re not upset?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” You set the letter down to the side, knowing he’d want to keep it—that so much as folding it and putting it in his pocket so he could make the ten-minute run to your house in the middle of a downpour must have been a minor sacrifice on your account. Because he wanted to tell you. Because he wanted you to be the first person other than his mom to hear the good news. “We’ve talked about this. This is your dream school, babe.”

“Yeah, well, it feels kinda shitty celebrating now.”

“Stop.” You reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, stroking his cheeks, resting your forehead against his. “I'm so freaking proud of you. You’re going to be the best, most kick-ass engineer.”

You looked into his eyes so that he’d know it was true, and for a moment you could tell he was letting himself feel the achievement—his shoulders relaxed, he caressed your hands gratefully, but there was something about his smile that signaled not all being well.

“I heard Mom talking on the phone with my uncle today,” he confessed.

“Your uncle Riggs? Down in New Orleans?”

“Yeah. She doesn't want me to know, but I heard her talking about college and…”

You placed your hands on his chest. “Is it that bad?”

He didn't like talking about it but you knew his father had made a few bad investments lately, and from your own dad, who had confided it to your mom in secret one night—not that he saw you lurking outside the kitchen, drawn by the mention of the name “Miller”—you were aware that he had made a truly catastrophic impulsive bet with some Swedish businessmen he’d been trying to impress. Add to that the drawn look on Mrs. Miller’s face whenever you saw her, and the overly sympathetic way your mom referred to “poor Pamela,” and you had enough evidence to assume that Scott’s father had royally fucked up this time. 

“They’ve been talking about selling the house,” he said with a dark look. “I think my parents are going to split up… for good this time.”

“Oh, Scott…”

“So who knows? I might not be able to go to MIT anyway—even with this.”

“Are you okay?” you asked, aware that nothing got his back up more than pity. But you had to ask.

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

This was a side of him you’d never learned how to handle, not even after two years of dating. For all that he was an expert at making you feel like the world was yours for the taking, when it came to his own struggles, he was a tightly closed book. Instead of admitting when he was hurt or disappointed, he resorted to indifference and the kind of dark humor that could put you in a bad mood if you weren't careful.

Right now, all you wanted was for him to know that you were there for him. Nothing you could say or do would make Ray Miller grow practical common sense or an ounce of familial consideration—you weren't even sure that he knew your name, despite being Scott’s long-term girlfriend; he was hardly ever home, and never present even on the occasions when he was. But you could state the obvious, just in case he’d doubted it for a second.

“Hey, I love you,” you said to him.

“I love you, too,” he replied. “Now, no more shop talk—why do you think I risked my neck climbing up here?” And just like that, the matter was closed, the dark look disappeared, replaced by the telltale lowering of his dark lashes as he dropped another kiss at the side of your neck, his arms tightening around you, turning you so that the backs of your knees hit the edge of your bed.

“And here I thought your intentions were pure,” you replied, trying to downplay the butterflies in your stomach.

“Darling, there’s no such thing… especially when it comes to you.”

“What an idealist,” you rejoined, then fell quiet when he kissed you again. Without missing a beat, he lowered you onto the bed, hands gliding beneath your sweatshirt with apparent purpose. “Scott,” you protested, “my parents are across the hall.”

“So we’ll be quiet. Or we’ll get caught. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Um, you flying headfirst out that window?”

He pretended to think about it, then, by the warm glow of your bedside lamp, you saw his mouth quirk into a smirk before he dove towards your lips, eyes twinkling. “I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a price I’m willing to pay.”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

“The damages your client is seeking are absolutely unreasonable. I would even say they border on the ridiculous—and, quite frankly, even frivolous!”

“Frivolous! Your client founded his new company with StormPAR assets—”

“His assets!”

“—accumulated during his tenure as a business partner to my client. Assets which came out of the pocket of Mr. Riggs as well, might I remind you!”

“We were equal partners!” Javi exclaimed, no longer able to keep his temper in check. You supposed the moment you snapped at Mr. Rankin, Javi figured the gloves were off.

Maybe instead of worrying about Tyler, you should've worried about yourself.

Rankin stabbed a finger at the files stacked in front of him. “Exactly, and Mr. Miller deserves to be compensated for the financial losses incurred from your breach of contract.”

Javi balked. “What, I can’t decide to leave my own company?”

“You can do whatever the hell you want, just not with my money,” Scott said in a dangerous monotone. For the last half-hour you’d been trying not to look at him, focusing instead on his middle-aged bespectacled lawyer, but to say you weren't losing your shit would be disproven by the Montblanc you’ve been fidgeting with since the meeting began. When he wasn’t glaring daggers at his former business partner, you could feel the power of his gaze, daring you to meet his eyes again.

“Oh, you mean your uncle’s money?”

“Javi.” You touched his hand in warning.

“You weren't turning your nose up at my uncle’s money when you were trying to found StormPAR.” Scott gibed. In your periphery, you saw Kate rubbing her left temple.

“Me? I thought we were partners, partner.”

“Like you give a shit! You jumped ship, Javi—you jumped ship, set up shop with the opposition, then hired my ex-girlfriend so you could get away with robbing us blind!”

You gritted your teeth. “Mr. Rankin, control your client.”

“‘Control your client’?” Scott spat out, leaning forward and turning the dial up to ten. “What the hell is wrong with you? What are you even doing here?”

“My job, Mr. Miller.” This time you did risk staring him in the face, ignoring the play of light on his cheekbones, the shape of his lips, the triangle of exposed skin at his throat that you used to know so well. “I work for StormLab. You might find my presence objectionable, but that’s neither here nor there as long as my clients choose to keep me on retainer. If you don't like it, you’re free to leave and we can negotiate with Mr. Rankin directly.”

He said nothing. Scott was never at a loss for words unless he was well and truly pissed, the force of his intelligence diverted into barely suppressed anger. You could've heard a pin drop in that conference room. His hands were on top of the table, tense, almost shaking, and the rise and fall of his chest was visible even to you. Against your will, your brain threw up images of those same hands holding yours, threaded through your hair, brushing gently against the small of your back; those same arms drawing you close; the same mouth smiling.

You cleared your throat, shuffled a few papers around, and once again addressed the general room and Mr. Rankin. “Now, if you turn to page 16, you’ll see that Mr. Rivera is willing to formally sell his share of StormPAR for less than he’s entitled—if both Mr. Miller and Mr. Riggs agree to desist in interference with StormLab, which, need I remind you, was founded two-thirds of the way with assets entirely independent from the former. If this action’s purpose isn’t frivolous, then Mr. Owens and Ms. Carter should be removed from this suit.”

“Like hell,” Scott interrupted, prompting Javi to fire back with:

“What, you think we’re not good for it? I’ll have you know—”

“You expect me to believe you started your little company on the merits of an NWS salary and a fucking YouTube channel?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Tyler lean forward, ready to pounce. Rankin muttered, “Language,” and pushed his eyeglasses up his nose. You knew he was a personal friend of Scott’s uncle—you could also tell that he would rather be out on the golf course than in the middle of this friend-divorce and embarrassing squabble, one where his input seemed superfluous and his counsel went unheeded even by his client.

Scott went on, full of accusation. “You used StormPAR money, didn’t you?”

“If you want to request any financial disclosures…” you began.

“We’re talking.”

Bitch. “No, you’re berating,” you shot back.

Javi put his hand on your wrist. “It’s fine. Yeah—I guess if you want to look at it that way, if I was making a living off StormPAR and taking Riggs’s money, then yeah, technically my share of StormLab exists because of what we had.”

“Javi.”

“No. Fair’s fair and all that. I don’t want any part of it anymore. Hell, you can have it. But come on, man, don’t pretend you’re doing any of this because you’re broke. Even if I gave you half of whatever StormPAR’s worth, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’re mad that I left. I get it. Let’s settle this, you and me. Leave Kate and Tyler out of it.”

“You stole our data!”

Now, that couldn't stand. “He made the executive decision to share data with Mr. Owens’s team.” Sure, it was a technicality but it was a true technicality.

“Bullshit!”

You sighed. “Are we getting anywhere here, Rankin?”

The lawyer glanced down at his watch and shook his head almost mournfully. “It’s not looking likely.”

“Wonderful.” You stood up, gathering your things and motioning for Kate, Tyler, and Javi to do the same. “Well, we’re all very busy people and clearly meeting in-person is counterproductive. Shall we agree to make this a video call next time? My clients have places to be.”

“I’ll bet they do,” Scott mocked, staring not only at Javi but at his new partners for probably the first time all afternoon. “How’re your investors doing, by the way, knowing you’re getting sued for infringement, breach of contract and fiduciary duty…”

You wanted to strangle him. In a voice that matched him venom for venom, you turned to your assistant and said, “Did you get that on record, Abby? Please, keep going,” you urged Scott, “you might just win us a dismissal.”

After a moment of charged silence, you told your clients: “We’re done here.”

“You’ll be hearing from me,” said the reluctant Mr. Rankin.

You snatched the chrome door handle from Tyler. “Boy, am I looking forward to it.”

Outside, you didn’t stop until you’d turned the corner into another section of the office, not wanting to be within eyeshot of Scott when you gritted your teeth and let the mask of cool indifference fall.

“Well, that went…” Tyler trailed off, leaning against the metal doorframe of Copy Room 3. The smell of toner and ozone was strangely comforting, bringing you back to your professional self now that Scott and his stupid, handsome-as-ever face were out of view. That, and you were noticing that Tyler Owens in a corporate-adjacent setting didn’t sit well with you; you couldn’t decide whether it was the outdoor tan or the in-your-face belt-buckle that gave it away. Regardless, he seemed too big for the confines of a downtown law office.

“It went like a garbage fire,” you confirmed, “which means about as well as I expected.”

Kate crossed her arms. “So we’re going to court, then.”

“I’m going to keep pushing for him to drop StormLab from the suit.”

“That just leaves me,” Javi remarked, downcast, but still willing to take one for the team.

“I mean, Javi, dear, you did abandon the partnership without ironing out all the kinks first.”

“How was I supposed to know I needed to hire a lawyer?”

“Um, literally everyone knows you’re supposed to hire a lawyer,” said Tyler, “especially if you’re dealing with someone like Textbook Type A over there.”

Javi ran a hand down his face, then shook his head. “What can I say? I-I thought he was my friend.”

“I know.” You clapped your hand on Javi’s shoulder. I understand. “But sometimes all that does is make it worse.”

After a bit more commiserating you parted ways with the three, hanging back with Abby to touch base on a few points and clear up the rest of your schedule, which included a deposition in an hour-and-a-half and witness prep at 4:30. Understandably, you were in the mood for none of this and wanted nothing more than to retire to your apartment with a glass of red and a bowl of popcorn as big as your head à la Olivia Pope, but alas… you were trying to make junior partner.

No rest for the wicked and all that.

You released Abby for a late lunch and made your way to the bank of elevators after a brief pit stop at the restroom, side-eyeing the fancy automatic taps and the whiff of something hotel-like emanating from the vents. You’d have to tell the office manager at Conway & Fine to up your game.

Fishing your phone out of your bag, you pushed the elevator button and began scrolling through a frightful amount of emails—there were intraoffice communications and check-in requests from clients, a few items of junk not caught by the email filter, the latest newsletters from PennAlumni and the Oklahoma Bar Association, as well as an invitation to an old mentor’s golden anniversary celebration. You were in the middle of responding to this when Scott sidled up next to you, giving no indication other than the familiar scent of his cologne and the tap of shined leather shoes against the polished tile. Of all the bad luck…

“So what is this, some kind of a decade-old revenge plot?” he finally asked, disconcerting you with the fact that he was standing so close to you that you couldn't glance at his expression without craning your neck. “Maybe I should’ve expected it from you, but Javi? I didn't know he had it in him.”

“Go away, Scott. This is business.”

“Really, is that what you want to call it? He could've hired anyone.”

“Well, he chose to hire a friend.”

“Right…” A laugh. Dry, cynical. “And what's your excuse?”

You stared at the light above the door, willing it to flash green and put you out of your misery. “Believe it or not, my taking this case has nothing to do with you. Forgive me if I thought you could be a fucking adult about it—clearly I was wrong.”

Ding!

You walked into the elevator without looking back. As parting words went, you thought they passed muster. Except, instead of being a regular person and taking the next car, Scott followed you in, ignoring the outrage written plain on your face.

You looked at him as if to say, “Do you mind?” It was obvious that he didn't. Whatever composure he’d lost in the conference room had been regained now that it was just you, and him, and the shared knowledge that you would have avoided being alone with him if you could.

He stood next to you, towering. As the floor number inched downward from 22, you were all too aware of his presence: the Scott smell of him, the warmth of his body, and the brush of his dark linen jacket against your arm. You wished you handed discarded your own in the restroom; you needed armor, and while Scott had donned his as soon as he was able, he had caught you unawares, expecting him to play fair even when all the evidence of the last two hours had told you that “fair” was no longer in his vocabulary.

As if to illustrate the point, you felt him lean in, his voice the closest it had been in over six years. “You always did love making a show of taking the moral high ground. How’s the view, sweetheart? You must love getting the chance to look down on me for change.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Not bothering to contain your disgust, you stepped away from him, clutching your bag in a white-knuckle grip. For a moment you felt struck by lightning. There was a time when you knew the planes of his face better than your own—the slope of his nose, the variations of blue in his eyes; you knew the shade of his hair in every light; how to tell a false smile from the true. But this Scott… the one with the shuttered expression, the see-if-I-care set to his shoulders, “how’re your investors doing, by the way”… It wasn’t like those things came out of left field—Scott had always been capable of a certain amount of pride, petulance, vindictiveness, even. But it was like the best parts of him had been filed away, or else hidden so deep that you couldn't find nary a sight of them when you looked into his face. “What happened to you?”

You saw his jaw clench. “If you want to know, then you shouldn’t have left.”

8…

7…

6…

You took a breath. “That whole last year—you pushed me away and you know it.”

Instead of answering your honesty in kind, Scott hitched up his sleeve so he could glance at the time on his fancy Swiss watch, a present from Good Old Uncle Riggs on the event of his graduation from MIT. “Yeah, well, you made it easy.”

4…

3…

2…

The doors opened onto a vast lobby. Incredulous, you kept waiting for him to take his words back, to apologize, to so much as glance at you, damn it. When you saw there wasn't any point, you swallowed the knot in your throat, stepping out of the elevator car and feeling twenty-one all over again.

This time, he didn't follow you. He leaned against the back handrail, not reacting even when you mustered every remaining ounce of dignity to say, “Go fuck yourself, Scott.” Then you turned on your heel and walked away.

TEN YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

Once more on your bedroom floor. Scott sat at your back, his arms wrapped around you and his head bent over yours. “Hey, listen to me… we’ll make it work. I’ll call you every day.”

“With a full slate of classes? That doesn't make any sense.”

“I don’t care if it doesn't. Hey,”—he kissed your temple—“it’s you and me. That doesn’t need to change”

“You say that now…”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” You sighed. “It’s the hot nerds I don’t trust.”

You felt him laugh. “You’re a hot nerd.”

“Stop it.” But you smiled anyway, probably for the first time since you’d opened the rejection letter from Harvard. Concerned, your mom had called Scott while you were holed up in your room, ugly-crying into the bedspread, and it was enough to make you regret having been so bitchy about her the week before. She really had been trying to help… not that it mattered now that Harvard had given you the hard pass.

It wasn’t like you had no other options—you’d have been crazy not to line up a contingency plan or two. But Harvard had been your dream since you could remember caring about college. It was your castle in the sky, the thing that kept you going through four years of grueling hard work, a neverending grind of AP and Honors classes, student clubs and extracurriculars. And still it wasn’t enough.

“We regret to inform you…”

Well, not as much as you regretted it.

As if reading your mind, Scott wrapped his arms a little tighter, his tone light when he said, “UPenn’s nothing to scoff at, you know. You’re upset because you got into an Ivy League?”

“An Ivy League in Philadelphia,” you protested.

You didn’t add “and not the one I wanted” because you knew, objectively, that he and your parents and Ms. Andersson, your favorite teacher, were all right. You were incredibly lucky to have gotten into the University of Pennsylvania—the campus was beautiful, it was close to home, and, like Harvard, it boasted its own fair share of Supreme Court Justices and legal luminaries. It wasn’t like your future was in complete and utter shambles. You would still have everything you wanted… except Scott.

You felt him shrug behind you. “So what? It’s just a five-and-a-half-hour drive—or an hour-and-a-half by plane if we’re desperate.” You shifted so you could shoot him a funny look. “I might have googled it,” he admitted, “right after you told me you got in.”

“Of course you did…” The fact that he had started making plans without waiting on Harvard made you feel better; it meant he had every intention of making it work and maybe you were the downer, seeing the situation as near-hopeless when, really, there had to be couples who didn't let physical distance stop them from being together.

Glass half-full. All you needed was a little faith, a little more optimism.

“At least we’ve got the whole summer,” you said, trying to implement this new, sunnier outlook.

You felt Scott stiffen.

“What?” You turned around properly, anchoring your hand on the side of his neck. You had a minor panic when he wouldn't look at you, and at the guilt written on his brow. “Tell me,” you said.

“Uncle Riggs wants me to spend the summer down in NOLA—something about getting to know me better. I think he must’ve worked it out with Mom. She’s finally put the house up for sale, doesn't want me around when strangers start traipsing through and asking about whether or not she’ll throw in the vintage furniture for an extra few grand.”

At last, after years of painful back and forth, the Miller divorce was imminent. True to Scott’s prediction, “poor Pamela” had hired an attorney and filed paperwork on the very week he climbed through your window. So far his dad had been uncharacteristically passive, perhaps figuring he had put his family through enough, or else fearful of the very same Marshall Riggs who had been summoned from the rafters to come through for his sister after a period of long estrangement.

It was Riggs who had retained Pamela’s ace divorce attorney, Riggs who agreed to pay most of Scott’s tuition. Spending a few months with him seemed like the least he could do. You were disappointed. But you understood.

“When do you leave?”

“Two weeks after graduation.”

“So we have a month,” you said. “That’s thirty days.”

“More like twenty-six… and three quarters.” He smiled the same wistful sort of half-smile that was on your face, and you kissed him, savoring the familiar taste of mint on his mouth from the gum he chewed out of habit.

“Then let’s not waste a second,” you answered back.

He placed a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

When he said it, it sounded like a promise that everything would be all right, and in spite of your worries you chose to believe him.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For the last ten minutes you’d had trouble hearing Kate’s voice clearly over the phone, but you figured it was to be expected since she was calling from the middle of nowhere (at least to your urban- and suburban-bred estimation), and really, after almost three months of similar experiences, you’d grown tired of plugging your ear and saying, “Kate? Kate? You’re breaking up!”

On the upside, your cognitive skills had to be getting a real workout from filling in the weather-induced gaps in your conversations. Case in point:

“—bad luck with the last two, but I—feeling—building in the east—”

“Yeah, her Spidey Senses are tingling!” you heard Javi yell in the background.

Kate laughed. “Go away!”

“Ask her if she caught the livestream!” Tyler said, no doubt from the driver’s seat.

It sounded like she had you on speakerphone, so you spoke to him directly. “Ty, need I remind you that I have an actual job.”

“Ouch! Did you hear that?—thinks we don’t have real jobs!”

“I did not—”

The clarity improved, and you could hear the sound of car doors slamming and voices cracking jokes in the background, which usually meant they’d returned to Kate’s mother’s farm in Sapulpa, where StormLab kept a satellite office in Cathy Carter’s barn. It was makeshift, but what you saw of it during one of Tyler’s Facetime calls had a rustic charm completely at odds with the glass-and-chrome offices where Herb Rankin worked.

Actually, now that you gave it a moment’s thought, not even Herb Rankin fit into his office.

“Listen to her, the Big City Bigshot slumming it with the rednecks,” Tyler went on, earning a few spirited hoots and howls from the other Wranglers.

“Kate is from New York!” you objected. You waved an arm in the middle of your dim-lit apartment as if anyone could see you, vaguely aware that you were holding a pair of chopsticks and had probably sent a strand of shredded cabbage flying behind your couch.

This assertion was too much for Javi to bear. “Excuse me! Kate is OK to the bone, New York’s just where she keeps her apartment.”

Kate laughed as she said something you couldn’t catch, then Tyler’s voice came, audibly close to the phone. “Hey, that reminds me, where’re you from, again?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“That is not a Philly accent.”

You were about to say that not everyone in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania sounds like Rocky Balboa when Javi replied, “That’s ’cause she’s from the fancy part of Pennsylvania—but we don't hold that against her.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Tyler asked, “Wait, you’re not billing us for all this shit-talking, are you?”

You let out a snort, picked up your phone, and held it close to your mouth. “You know, maybe I should, Arkansas.”

At first you couldn’t work out what the hell was going on when Tyler broke out in “It's the spirit of the mountains… and the spirit of the Delta… it's the spirit of the Caaapitol doooooome,” but by the time the other Wranglers pitched in, with all the gusto of a drunk karaoke night despite being stone-cold sober, you understood that you had been treated to a rare and hopefully never-to-be-repeated rendition of one of the state songs of Arkansas. A short while later you hung up, cheeks sore and still laughing to yourself. The silence in your apartment was deafening by comparison.

Sometimes, you called them just because you lacked company. There wasn’t much to report on the Rankin front—as much as you had tried to negotiate on Javi’s behalf for a less hostile resolution, Scott insisted on keeping Kate and Tyler in the suit and seemed determined to take their tiff before a judge if his terms weren’t met.

Even Rankin seemed fed up.

Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe it was the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner or the post-ballad high. Maybe you wanted to be the one to make StormLab’s problem go away. Whatever the reason, after you put the dirty dishes in the sink, you found yourself calling the one person you swore you’d never speak to ever again.

For good measure, as the dial tone rang you poured yourself another glass. When he answered, you nearly choked.

“Can we talk?” you managed to ask, swallowing down a mouthful of Syrah. There was a long silence on the other end. You didn't know if he had your number saved, if he knew who had called him, or whether he’d recognized the sound of your voice. You remembered that the last thing you had said to him was “go fuck yourself,” and added it to the mental list of why maybe you shouldn't have called him after all.

Tyler’s impulsiveness seemed to be as contagious as a rash.

Scott answered: “Not without my lawyer present.”

Okay, fair. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. He sounded clipped, like he’d rather be lowered into a tank of leeches than be on the phone with you. You were reconsidering the wisdom of your actions when he asked, “What do you want?”

Your eyes darted around the living room. Thinking on your feet wasn't new to you, it couldn't be, in your profession. But a part of you knew you’d taken a stupid gamble in pressing the call button, and now that the die was cast, you had to make it count.

You opted for the aggressive approach.

“Rankin says you're being uncooperative.”

You could feel the animus on the other end. “No, he didn't.”

“It was implied. No one wants to keep drawing this out, Scott. So, come off it. What is it that you’re actually looking to get out of all this?”

If he opted to tell you to go fuck yourself, you figured it would be fair play. This really was business, and not having to look him in the eyes made it easier to feel the rush of adrenaline that came with making a risky move in the name of work. You knew that technically, and in the strictest interpretation of the word, reaching out to another lawyer’s client crossed the line into inappropriate, but you were also a couple years beyond green. If you could cut out the middleman and get Scott to come to the table in a serious way, it would all be worth it. And Rankin could go back to playing 9 holes without losing face in front of his old school mate Riggs.

You waited for Scott’s response with bated breath.

“I want StormLab run into the ground.”

The answer came as no surprise but his tone did. Dark, intense, almost as bad as one of the nights he snuck into your room after a fight with his dad. It was the one and only time you’d ever heard him say he hated his father—his lack of control, his thoughtlessness, his inability to keep his word. Afterward he’d pretended he never said it, or rather, he was careful to never bring it up again, but you knew he had meant it.

And he meant it now. He wanted to take StormLab down. He’d succeed over your dead body. Javi and the others were counting on you.

You moved the phone to your other ear. “Right, well… that's not gonna happen, so any other alternatives?” You could feel he was about to end the call, so you tacked on, “Wait, just… hear me out, okay? Forget about Tyler and Kate—this isn’t about them, really, this is about StormPAR. Compromise on this one thing and you have a better chance of being compensated for what went down last year. You and Javi can just… move on with your lives. On paper it's about money, right? Riggs’s investment? So let’s settle this as soon as possible.”

“You and me?”

“And Rankin,” you added, your conscience getting the better of you.

There was a pause before Scott repeated, “You and me.”

“I don’t…”

“That’s my final offer.”

Alarm bells of a different sort rang in your head. On the phone was one thing, but in person, alone? Could you really sit across from Scott and keep your cool?

You had to. More than that, you wanted to prove to yourself that you’d grown up since you were twenty-one, that you were assured and confident and could handle messy things like sitting across from your ex. There were many things you regretted from that time; the one you regretted most was a reluctance to stand up for yourself. What was Tyler always saying? You don’t face your fears, you ride them. Frankly, you still weren't sure what the hell he meant by that, but it sounded a lot like “put your money where your mouth is.” At some point you had to choose to take action.

“Okay, fine,” you said. “When and where?”

“You busy tonight?”

You scoffed, casting a glance at your open laptop and the piles of paperwork lying on top of the coffee table. “I’m busy every night.”

“Perch. In an hour. Don’t be late.”

THREE YEARS AGO PARK HAVEN, PENNSYLVANIA

As a rule you’d been avoiding your hometown for the last three years, ever since your breakup with Scott. It was easier to stay in Oklahoma, where the possibility of running into someone who knew the Millers or would ask “are the two of you still together?” was slim. After your father died, you started to regret being such a coward. So much lost time… although your mom kept telling you that your dad understood the need to have your own life and never held it against you.

You held it against you, and all the more when your mom decided to downsize and move in with a friend.

After requesting two weeks off you got on a plane to Philadelphia and drove south to Park Haven to help her pack. You stayed up late, wore holiday pajamas, filled your hand with paper cuts, and inhaled about four pounds of dust in the attic. It was nice to spend time with your mom. All the old grievances seemed minor in comparison with the massive changes that lay ahead. Always one for sentimentality, sorting through boxes full of clothes, keepsakes, and old mementos put your mom in an especially chatty mood, and you soaked everything in, not having realized before how little you knew about your dad. He was so reserved in life, so buttoned-up, with clear expectations of himself and others that you were surprised to learn about his stint in an amateur dramatics troupe, the year he tried his hand at playing the alto sax, his fear of geese.

“Geese?” you asked your mom.

“Yes, geese. Those fuckers are vicious!” Having never heard your mom swear before, you froze while elbow-deep in a box of photographs dating back to the 70s. All she did was shrug and finish the rest of her margarita while lightbulbs flashed on her navy blue Rudolph sweater. “What do you want me to say? Parents have secrets, too.”

“Well, I think this parent went a little hard on the tequila,” you said.

Your mom plucked a faded Polaroid from the box. “You know… he didn’t look it, but your dad was actually a lot of fun. We both were. Then… life gets in the way, you start caring about PTA meetings and getting the HOA off your back…”

“Fuck the HOA.”

“Right on! Can’t say I’ll miss any of those jerks.” She sighed, and with a little shake of her head, put the Polaroid back in the box. “Sometimes I worry—” She stopped herself and glanced at you nervously.

“What?”

“Sometimes I worry that you think about us, about your dad and me, and that you don’t see us as having ever been in love. Especially after you and Scott—”

“Mom,” you warned.

“I know, I know, me and my big mouth.” She held up her hands, chuckling to herself. Normally you’d seize the opportunity to change the subject, but you were thinking a lot about how you could’ve been a better daughter, all the times you shut the door in their face because you didn’t want to feel scolded or uncomfortable, because you weren’t interested in what they had to say.

Your mom was trying to respect your privacy. The least you could do was not leave her with the impression that you thought she had a “big mouth.”

You reached across the box and touched her arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

“All I mean is… I know you’re not dating.”

“How do you know that?”

She grinned. “Mothers have their ways. I just don’t want you giving up, is all. If Dad and I weren’t the model marriage—”

“What are you talking about?” you asked. “Half of my friends have divorced parents. And even if you were divorced, the whole ‘nuclear family or you’re a failure to society’ thing is so five-decades-ago.”

“Well, good! Because I was happy—I want you to know that. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of romance people write songs about—God knows your dad had his faults. He wasn't perfect. No one is. But when you love someone… it’s less about keeping score and more about what you build. Together.”

She looked off to the far wall, where their wedding portrait sat propped in its frame, ready to be wrapped in old newspapers and put away. You turned around and looked at it, too—at your mom’s curly updo and poofy skirts, the sleeves that looked like pool inflatables, at least to your modern eyes, at your dad before his hair went gray, the sheepish smile on his face like he couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with the steal of the century.

You’d gotten so used to its presence in the living room that you couldn’t remember the last time you gave it more than a passing glance.

Lit by an alternating flash of blue and purple lights, your mom’s face was cast in an otherworldly glow. Then the spell was broken, and she was your mom again in an ugly Christmas sweater, smiling fondly at an old memory to which you weren’t privy. “For some reason, we brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything we ever did wrong.” And that was that, a twenty-nine year marriage summed up in a few sentences.

You said, “I guess that does sound romantic… in a super-practical, boring, construction-analogy sort of way.”

She laughed and threw a wadded-up newspaper at your head.

“Dad never liked Scott,” you said after a while, rolling the ball between your hands.

“What makes you say that?”

You threw her a pointed look. Her expression said, Oh, alright.

“He wasn’t disapproving, exactly. He was worried about you. Who wouldn’t be? Your first boyfriend, your first love… I don’t think he was quite ready to see his teenage daughter all head over heels over some guy on the baseball team. And the Millers, well… they had their issues, as a family. Maybe your dad didn’t want you becoming collateral damage. But, oh sweetie,”—it was her turn to touch your arm, Rudolph’s nose squished against the cardboard—“it was never about Scott. When you told us you were engaged, we were so pleased for you! And then a few months later… just like that…”

You swallowed the knot in your throat. How much time would have to pass before you could think of Scott without a tidal wave of sadness hitting you square in the chest? Collateral damage, that was one way of putting it. “I guess Dad was right, after all.”

“He never said ‘I told you so,’” your mom pointed out, “and he never would’ve wanted to.”

You squeezed her hand. “Yeah, I know.”

A phone call from your mother’s friend Rose prompted a break in packing. She went into the kitchen to discuss sideboard dimensions, and you went upstairs, where you were slowly going through your childhood bedroom and putting things in boxes marked Keep and Donate, or else in bags to be discarded when trash day rolled around.

You were almost finished, the walls empty of medals and photos, the corkboard of mementos lying in the recycling bin outside. Already it felt like a bedroom that had belonged to someone else, and while you were sad to know that, after the house was sold, you would never step foot in it again, the process of taking things down one at a time had given you a sort of detachment. There were items, like the snowglobe your friend Tash gave you when she got home from a skiing trip in the Alps in the seventh grade, that you had once thought you could never do without. But now Tash lived in LA with her wife and kids, and you hadn’t spoken much since high school except for a few text messages now and then.

You’d decided to keep the globe but you knew it would live in a box in your closet, a relic rather than an everyday part of your life in Oklahoma.

Speaking of closets, you tackled the wardrobe next, marveling at how many items would be considered “trendy” now that the fashion cycle had taken a turn—or God forbid, “vintage.” There were stuffed animals shoved into the top shelf, your old 50 State quarter collection, debate club certificates, a landscape picture from your senior year mock trial, and a shoebox falling apart at the seams.

You took it to the stripped bed with shaking hands, knowing you’d been dreading this most of all but that it had to be done, so why not now.

After you broke your engagement off with Scott, you’d gone home to lick your wounds. This was before you found a job, before you decided to move to Oklahoma on the literal toss of a coin, knowing only that you couldn't stay in Pennsylvania and that you needed a fresh start. Left with no other options, home had been your best bet, even though the weeks spent living with your parents and avoiding their worried questions had seemed at the time like cruel and unusual punishment. When you moved out you had left something behind, hidden beneath seashells and baubles and silly notes you had passed during class, movie stubs, train tickets, an inexplicable piece of gum, the collar that had once belonged to Clover, your old childhood dog.

You lifted a school ribbon and found it: a blue velvet box with a golden clasp. Your heart pounded in your ears. You took a deep breath, let it out again before lifting the lid… and there it was, glinting in the light of late afternoon.

“Honey, Rose wants to know if you’d like to join us for dinner at her place!”

Box, ring, and all tumbled onto the hardwood. Though you were alone, your mother calling to you from the bottom of the stairs, you felt incredibly guilty. “I’ll be right down!” you yelled back. You got on your hands and knees and slipped the ring back in its cradle.

It felt dangerous somehow, like a live grenade. But you couldn't get rid of it. When you went back home at the end of the month you packed it at the bottom of your suitcase and it’d been living with you ever since, moved from closet to closet, unseen but never quite forgotten.

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

The jewel twinkled in your hand, an oval diamond surrounded by small clusters and set in a ring of yellow gold. It was one of a kind. Scott told you he found it at an antique jeweler’s who dated it to the summer of 1880; it was a genuine Victorian piece, and for nearly four months it had been your most prized possession.

The same foolhardy impulse that made you call Scott and agree to meet him made you dig it out of your closet, right after you spent twenty minutes agonizing over what to wear and the state of your hair. This isn’t a date, you kept reminding yourself. If anything, it might be a trap. He was, after all, Marshall Riggs's nephew.

Letting your lesser sense win out, you slipped the ring on your finger and watched it catch the light. It truly was a beautiful ring. And it was sentimental, as though its selection revealed a hidden truth about Scott.

Its weight on your hand, present and comfortable, calmed your racing thoughts and the nerves roiling in your belly. You kept it on as you dressed and got ready, then chalked it up to a desire for punctuality when you rushed to the elevator, through the lobby, and into your waiting Uber still wearing it. The driver’s presence snapped you out of your momentary lapse in sanity. They were chatty, and the more you talked about work and the weather and what you liked doing in the city, the sillier it felt to be wearing your ex-fiancé’s engagement ring. Before getting out, you stuck it in the pocket of your linen duster… which was also, admittedly, kind of a stupid thing to do.

(You blamed Tyler for all of it.)

Located at the top of a fifty-floor high-rise, Perch was a bar and restaurant with full views of the city and a James Beard Award-winning chef. The atmosphere was relaxed and unfussy, the lighting unobtrusive, and the cocktails reasonably priced. At the door, the vest-clad host directed you through the assemblage of diners and beyond a decorative glass partition to the tables reserved for business meetings, minor celebrities, and men who didn’t want to be seen with their mistresses. Scott was there in rolled-up shirtsleeves. You watched from a distance as he rubbed his stubbled cheek and his pointer finger came to rest at the seam of his lips.

You would not stare at his mouth or let your eyes linger anywhere on his person. This was business, goddammit.

But hell if he didn’t look good. You hated that after all this time you still found him maddeningly attractive.

“Seriously?” he asked, casting a pointed look at the portfolio in your arms.

“Well, this isn’t a social call.”

“By all means.” He gestured at the seat in front of him, mockingly formal. You glanced at the coupe waiting on your side of the table, a cheerful yellow with a perfect white foam on top and a twist of lemon peel. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

You sat down and set the portfolio to one side, adopting an air of casual indifference. “Actually, it’s not my usual anymore.”

“Really?”

“But thanks anyway. So, from previous conversations with Javi—”

“What is this mythical new usual?”

“Are you kidding?” you balked, narrowing your eyes.

“No, I’m just curious.” He propped his chin in his hand. Maybe lying had been a petty move on your part but you’d be damned if he forced you to backtrack and you came out of this looking a fool.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but at some point you’re gonna have to learn to live with uncertainty. Anyway—”

“You don’t have a new usual.” Scott smirked. “It’s still a gin sour and you’re just being difficult.”

“Difficult… Wow, okay! We”—wagging your finger in the space between you—“are not together anymore, so these mind games you’re trying to play are highly inappropriate and also kind of a dick move—”

“A dick move!” he repeated.

“Yeah, a dick move! Which I know is, like, your whole personality now—”

“Is it?” he laughed.

“—but I’m trying to settle this like an actual grown-up and all you’ve done for three months is make that very difficult for everyone involved!”

He rolled his eyes. “This is such a fucking boring conversation.”

Incensed, you had the fleeting thought to throw your drink in his face, but people only did that in soap operas. “You were the one who wanted to do this in person!” you fired back, shrill and drawing the attention of a server who promptly beelined to a different table and pretended not to hear. Which only made you wonder what sort of clientele frequented her section.

“And you were the one who called me,” Scott pointed out, “not the other way around.”

His being right made you even angrier. You had thought you were prepared, that magically you’d be able to have a civil conversation that settled the matter in a way that left you with your pride intact and StormLab the clear winner on the side of good. Clearly, you’d miscalculated. “You know what… fuck this.” After downing half your cocktail in a single gulp, you gathered the portfolio in your arms and made to stand before deciding that, actually, you wanted to get a few things off your chest first so that abandoning your PJs would be worth it. “I am so over this whole… fucking… stupid… mess. I’ve had actual divorces that were easier to mediate, Scott. Whole marriages—and not short ones either! Just take the fucking shares! Please… take the shares and go back to Riggs and leave us all the hell alone. We’re tired, okay? This is just… so unbelievably tiring. And fuck you, by the way—yes, it’s still a gin sour.” You finished yours, figuring that if Scott was paying, you might as well.

And now I’m ready to leave, you thought.

But Scott had other ideas.

“You spoken to your mom lately?”

“What?” You gaped at him, wondering if you were losing your mind. Was he? Was there a dimensional shift happening that you weren’t aware of?

“Pardon the observation,” Scott went on, “but you don’t seem… well.”

“Are you being for real right now?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

And how else could you mean it? was on the tip of your tongue. But the look on his face made you stop. No bullshit, no smug provocation. He was serious. Somehow, that was more unsettling than when he was fucking with you. It brought back too many memories.

“I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

He looked you straight in the eyes when he said it. You wanted to burrow into a hole in the ground—into him, if you were being honest. It didn’t matter how many years had gone by. A part of you was still twenty-seven and glancing at the door wondering if maybe, just maybe…

“Oh, I’m gonna need another one of these,” you whispered to yourself, stunned back into a seated position. The server came around and eyed your empty glass, asking meekly if you would like anything else. “I might as well,” you answered, sounding patently glum. All the while Scott kept a neutral expression, even waited until you had another drink—and a glass of water—in front of you, giving the server a soundless thanks before she scurried away.

Probably off to the kitchen to tell her coworkers about the crazy lady at B25.

“I thought about showing up to the funeral, actually,” added Scott when you had regained most of your composure. “But I didn’t know if I’d be welcome. Mom, being a firm believer in Emily Post, thought it’d be better if we skipped it. She sent flowers, though.”

“She what?”

“She sent flowers. Your mom never said?”

You shook your head. She must’ve been trying not to upset you. But you had been upset anyway, thinking about how Scott should’ve been there, how you had always expected him to show up and make things better.

All this time you had used his absence as yet another example of how little you must’ve mattered in the end. Which made no sense, because you were the one to break things off—and yet, that entire winter’s morning, you had bargained with yourself that if he showed up through those chapel double doors you would forget everything and beg him to take you back. It was too late for that. But knowing that he’d thought about going loosened a painful knot in your chest that you weren’t aware you even had.

You cleared your throat. “How’s your mom, by the way?”

“She’s doing all right. She’s part of a sewing circle, believe it or not.”

“Please tell me that isn’t a euphemism.”

“God, I hope not.”

You smiled involuntarily, picturing Pam Miller in her sweater sets and pearls. “I’m glad she’s doing okay. Your dad…?”

He picked up his drink, a Macallan on the rocks. It was his uncle’s drink, too. “I haven't heard from him in years. Guess neither of us ever saw the point.”

“Scott—”

“How’d you and Javi become an ‘us’ anyway? He never said.”

Fair enough. It made sense that he wouldn’t want to talk about his dad, let alone with you. But talking about Javi? When an hour ago he had admitted to wanting to bankrupt Javi’s company?

“I’ll be on my best behavior for the next”—he looked down at his watch—“fifteen minutes. Promise.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s better if we table all the personal talk,” you hedged.

“Better for whom?”

“Better for my clients. And better for me, too. We’re not friends.”

“We’ve never been friends,” Scott pointed out.

“Exactly. So why lie and pretend like we are?”

“Call it a term of this negotiation.”

“Scott…” Already this night was going nothing like how you’d planned. Your defenses had all the strength of a thin paper bag; he was in front of you, all dark-haired, blue-eyed, 6’4” reality and you weren’t unaffected. You wanted to keep talking to him, make the moment last… and all the more because you knew it had to end at some point. Scott would never be yours—not again. You’d made your peace with that a long time ago. But he has a right to know. Maybe if you could convince him that there was no grand conspiracy against him, he would be more amenable to Javi’s offer.

This is business, you reminded yourself. Redirect, bring it all back to StormLab.

“Fine,” you decided, settling in to tell the story of how you and Javi first met. “It happened maybe a year after I moved to Oklahoma City… I was out with a new friend and she took me to this bar after dinner to meet a bunch of people, one of whom was Javi. We get to talking, he tells me all about this new company he’s starting with a friend of his, says it’s a lucky coincidence or maybe fate having a twisted sense of humor because—”o

You broke off. You hadn’t considered how to broach this particular detail in the story. Obviously, Javi had no idea at the time how messy your backstory with Scott was. He had only thought to poke fun at his friend and seemed delighted to have solved a long-standing mystery for himself.

“So you’re the girl!”

“Come again?”

“The girl, you know. He has a picture of you in one of his old notebooks from college. What a small world!”

“What?” Scott prompted. You felt your face heating up and took a sip of water to hide it. You couldn't well omit the rest having already begun, but the knowledge that Scott had kept a photograph of you, whether by accident or otherwise, made you flustered then and it flustered you now.

You settled for: “He said he recognized me, and that he thought we might have a friend in common. Obviously, he meant you. He was dating one of Christa’s friends at the time—”

“Rachel.”

“Yeah. So he’d show up, be around… You know how Javi can be.”

“Like a persistent terrier.”

“Sounds like your kind of business partner.”

Scott looked away.

Not wanting to push things further in that direction just yet, you explained, “I work a lot, so it’s hard for me to make friends. Javi seems to make them wherever he goes. It’s nice having people like that in your life, to open you up, remind you there’s more to all this than billable hours and senior partner tracks. But we never talked about you. Not until this whole thing happened.”

“What thing did he say happened?”

Tread carefully now. Scott was watching you intently—if you said the wrong thing it might start a new argument between you and make his relationship with Javi a hell of a lot worse. In polished business-speak, you recited: “Just that you had a fundamental disagreement about the direction of the company.”

Your reward was a skeptical laugh.

“Also, that he might have left you on the side of the road during a tornado… which he feels bad about, by the way.”

“Not bad enough.”

“Scott, you can’t really want to ruin him, can you? I mean, this is Javi we’re talking about.”

“That’s not part of this discussion.”

“Okay?” you shot back. “I don’t remember agreeing to that condition.”

“You’re still at this table.”

“And that can easily be fixed!”

“All right, calm down.” Maybe it was you in danger of starting another fight. Scott, holding up his hands in a show of good faith, said, “I thought we were playing nice here, being civilized, acting like adults… What else have you been up to?”

“You want to know about my life?”

“Like I said, I’m curious. And seeing as this is a momentary parley, I plan on making the most of it.”

Again, you took in his face in search for any signs of subterfuge and found none, only the barest hint of levity in his eyes at your willingness to argue. It reminded you of the old days, when Scott would delight in teasing you for the sole purpose of seeing what your reaction would be. “Fine. But it’s going to be quid pro quo,” you demanded. “Call it a term of this negotiation.”

His mouth curved into a smile. Then he held out his hand across the table and waited for you to take it before saying, “Term accepted, counselor.”

In the end, playing nice with Scott turned out to be a lot easier once you’d established a few ground rules, mainly the stipulation that either of you could say “pass” if you weren’t willing to answer a question.

You went through the whole gamut of discussing your first jobs after college, gossiped about the old Park Haven crowd, the who-married-who and the who-got-divorced of it all. It turned out that, like you, Scott hadn’t returned to Pennsylvania much in the last few years. StormPAR kept him traveling through the Great Plains for most of the spring and summer, and during the rest of the year he lived in New Orleans, where Riggs and his mother lived. You got the sense that his life revolved around work, and that StormPAR, while not the be all and end all of his professional fate, had been an important part of it until Javi called it quits. You figured this explained, in part, why he took the loss so personally, and though you kept your thoughts to yourself you lamented that his one attempt to branch out for himself and away from his uncle—if you could call taking a major investment from Riggs “branching out”—had gone badly.

Either way, by the end of the evening you felt you’d been a little hasty in believing the old Scott had left the building for good. You exited Perch in higher spirits, glad to see that the night was clear and that the air felt good on your cheeks. When he asked if you were getting a car, you shared your desire for a long walk and he responded with mild horror until you explained that you didn’t live far. “Maybe twenty minutes? Thirty at most.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he insisted. You didn't argue because you were secretly pleased. The only thing you had to guard against was the urge to take his arm as you used to do. You felt giddy with it, which you were sure had to be the alcohol, but it was also the fact that Scott was here, in the flesh, that you were cracking jokes and sometimes even pulling smiles from his otherwise deadpan expression. You’d forgotten how that could make you feel like you’d won the jackpot.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re going to take this the wrong way,” you prefaced while walking backwards on the sidewalk, “but I have a really hard time imagining you as a storm chaser.”

“Excuse me!”

“I mean…” You stopped and full-body gestured. “I mean, look at you!”

“What?”

“Even your slacks are pressed!”

“Objection, why are you studying my slacks like a degenerate?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you replied, and fell into step beside him, if only to keep him from seeing that you were embarrassed by the implication that you might’ve been checking him out. “All I meant to say was—”

“That I don’t look like a rugged adrenaline junkie? Maybe ‘Rodeo Clown’ is more your thing these days.”

“Don’t—Tyler’s actually quite decent, you know.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about.” Scott snapped his fingers as if to say, Gotcha! as you ruefully shook your head. Something about Tyler Owens tended to evoke a Neanderthal-like competitiveness in certain men—Scott, being competitive by nature, fell for it all too easily.

“This is me.” You pointed at your building. It was a relatively new construction with climbing greenery and pop-out balconies where you’d lived for a year-and-a-half after a not inconsiderable raise, and the reason why you worked sixty hours a week.

“Can I come up?” Scott asked.

You whipped your head so hard that your temples throbbed. “That’s…” A no good, awful, terrible, ill-conceived, perilous idea?

Scott seemed to find your distress highly entertaining. “Jesus, would you relax?” he said. “I’m not asking to tuck you in—unless, if there’s someone—”

“There isn’t,” you hurried to say.

“Oh? How come?”

The knowledge that the man with whom you were formerly engaged was inquiring as to the current state of your love life with all the breeziness of do you have the time? was enough to make you believe in karmic punishment. “Like I said, I’m busy,” you managed to eke out, which only made him lift his shoulders as if to say, Then, what’s the big deal?

Scott Miller was good at that, getting his way.

“Fine,” you caved. “But only for ten minutes! Fifteen, tops!”

“Scout’s honor.”

In the elevator car you stuck your hands in your pockets, searching for your keys only to find the cold hard metal of your engagement ring. You looked guiltily at the oblivious Scott, who was staring at the floor display with a contented expression and was none the wiser about your having worn it earlier in the night like some kind of weirdo. Should you give it back? At the time he’d wanted nothing to do with it, but was keeping it the proper thing? Was it good for you to even have it?

At last you found your keys at the bottom of your purse. You opened the door, trying to remember how well you’d tidied after dinner as he walked in, inspecting everything. You watched as his gaze traveled over the open-plan kitchen and living area—the work files, magazines, and old mail stacked on various side tables; the midcentury beechwood couch you got for a steal at a secondhand warehouse when you first moved; the shelves, filled with books and framed photographs and trinkets you’d brought from home; and the view from your window, which wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the one from Perch, but it faced west, and if you were home during golden hour you could see the other buildings lit orange and gold.

“Yeah, this is exactly how I pictured it,” Scott mentioned at last.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, it’s just… you,” he answered. Your stomach turned to knots. He made you feel seen like nobody else could, not least of which because you’d let him back when you were younger and less guarded. Your heart kicked wildly in your chest, urging you to go to him, go to him, explain everything, get him back, because he was the one. Then Scott looked away, pointing at a sad fern that sat on a pedestal next to your mounted TV. “You still can’t keep a plant alive worth shit.”

“Rude,” you fired back, grasping at levity in order to shove the other thoughts away.

Scott drifted back to your bookshelves, seeing a few paperbacks he must’ve recognized from your old room at Park Haven. “And yet you keep trying. Do you actually use any of these?” he inquired, motioning towards the half-dozen board games you kept piled on an open top shelf. There was Clue and Monopoly, Candy Land, Sorry!, Scrabble and Life.

“Sometimes,” you replied, “when I have friends over. Which hasn’t happened much this year, if I’m being honest.”

“Let’s play.”

You laughed. You didn’t believe him. He pulled one of the boxes out and took it to the coffee table and all you could do was stare, incredulous, as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, actually sitting on the floor and looking expectantly at you to join him.

“You want to play Life with me?” you challenged. “Doesn’t that seem a little…”

“And you call me uptight.” He waved you over, determined not to take no for an answer. “Come on, hotshot, live a little.”

Despite your better judgment, and after a moment’s panicked hesitation, you lowered yourself next to him. He still smelled the same, like rain and sandalwood and pine. You wanted to curl into his side and feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your ear, like you’d done on the nights he spent hidden away with you in your room. You had never gotten to live together; all you had were countable memories of waking up next to him and thinking, One day… one day we’ll have this every day.

As he set up the board, all you could do was stare at his hands.

SIX YEARS AGO NEW ORLEANS

Marshall Riggs greeted with you a double-kiss at the door, one on each side of your cheeks. Then he held you at arm’s length so he could look you up and down. “Would you take a look at that,” he said to Scott, “pretty as a picture! I suppose this is the part where I welcome you to the family?”

It was midsummer in Louisiana, on the hotter side of balmy and with the cicadas out in force. Shortly before you graduated Scott traveled to Philadelphia and asked you to marry him. Saying yes had been a no-brainer. You were in love, had put up with four years of distance and near-breakups, and now here was the culmination of all your compromise, communication, and hard work. For a second there you’d thought it would end badly; you were both in highly-intensive undergrad programs, there was only so much you could hash out over phone and video calls, and you were young. The question of “do we really want to make a life-changing decision at twenty-one?” had crossed your mind. But upon further reflection you realized that the answer was yes—had always been yes. And Scott seemed to agree.

In the absence of his father, “meeting the family” entailed paying court to his Uncle Riggs, a man you had spoken to a few times, at holiday parties and summer outings hosted by Pam, now settled in New Orleans and much happier than you’d known her before. But all those other times, you’d met Riggs as Scott’s girlfriend. Now you were his fiancée, with a fancy law degree and a diamond ring and everything, and while you would’ve preferred keeping your distance you knew this was important to Scott—that Riggs was important to him.

So you put on a smile and indulged the old man. Do it for Scott, you said to yourself. You’ve come this far. No point faltering while you were at the winning stretch.

You bowed your head. “Thank you for having us, Mr. Riggs.”

“Please, just Riggs,” he laughed. “Or Marshall—but only my ex-wives call me that.”

You soon found he had a way of twinkling his eyes that made you feel like you were sharing a joke. As he pointed out the features of his home—the old tapestries, the mural commissioned by Candice, his second ex-wife, the wall he knocked down because he wanted to “open up the space”, and his plans to expand the front garden, which, as it was, made the house look like it was in the middle of a tropical rainforest—he regaled you with stories about the people he knew, going off on tangents and bringing it back to the topic at hand. He was genteel and witty, and though he carried himself with Southern indifference there was no doubt he had power: he cocked his head, and a woman in an apron appeared with a tray of mint juleps; Scott held onto his every word; and when you were led into a dining room that might’ve fit forty or fifty at least, it was taken as a matter of course.

He pulled out your chair and sat you at his right hand because it was “the place of honor,” and Scott smiled encouragingly. You were doing so well.

You only wished that you could feel it.

“So, you want to be a big-deal attorney,” Riggs announced, digging into a perfect roast chicken. “What kind? Criminal?”

“Oh, no,” you replied. “Civil all the way. I’ve got a few offers but I want to shop around, make sure I’m making the right first move.”

“The right first move!” He pointed his knife at you. “I like that. By any chance, are you a chessplayer, sweetheart?”

“Can’t say that I am. My family are more into board games, really. Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?” you explained.

He got a kick out of that. But he was partial to chess. “Opening moves—if you look at the big picture, they don't seem all that important. But well, in that case, why the hell’re there so many of ’em? Napoleon Opening, Greco Defense, Bled Variation, Balogh Defense… Sometimes how a thing starts dictates how the rest of it’ll unfold, from midgame all the way down to the end. If you're gonna do something, might as well do it right the first time or so I always say. Don’t I, boy?” He turned to Scott for confirmation.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yessir…” Riggs chuckled, spearing a roasted sprout. The ends of his bolo tie shifted on his neck. A turquoise the size of an acorn sat between his collar, and he was dressed to the nines—for your benefit, the guest of honor’s.

Nevertheless, there was something of the austere in his eyes. You couldn’t shake it when he put down his fork and sat back, looking from you to Scott, nodding like a king about to give his blessing to a pair of kneeling courtiers. “Pretty as a picture…” he repeated. “Look at you both—young, on the cusp, and none too hard on the eyes, if I do say so myself. A real golden couple on our hands! To opening moves”—he raised his glass—“may we always know when to make the right one.”

You raised your glass to be polite.

Scott leaned across the table. “Before you ask, yes, he is always like this.”

His uncle laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and called for “champagne! To my nephew and his beautiful bride!”

As the night wore on, you convinced yourself that any discomfort was all in your head. You worked your way through three dinner courses, all impeccably cooked, and by the time the doberge was served you decided that you had judged the man too harshly. Sure, he was old-fashioned, but he was also jovial, polite, and he clearly doted on Scott.

“How nice it is to spend some quality time,” he remarked when Scott left the table, saying Pamela was on the phone. She wanted to know what plans you had for the rest of the week, whether you were still on for the garden fête on the 25th, and what dates you were considering for your engagement party, whether that would be here or in Pennsylvania, but I really do think you’d better do it here.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he said to Riggs, leaving you alone with his uncle. Now he had focused all of his attention on you, the full glare of his eye-twinkle and magnetic allure. He wasn’t a handsome man; it wasn’t about his looks—which were well past their prime—but about the knowledge that he could get almost everything he wanted simply by wanting it.

“It’s a shame we never did this sooner,” he went on. “Why do you think that is?” You shifted guiltily. The truth was, Riggs had always made you a bit uneasy. He had a reputation as a difficult man—ruthless, exacting, guileful, hard to please, and he liked doing business in the gray, always legal but never quite on the up-and-up.

Over the last four years, you may have avoided him on the grounds of self-righteous principle, but you couldn't admit to that if you were trying to leave a good impression.

You hedged, “I’m afraid law school doesn't leave much time to spare.”

“Very true… Not that I would know—it was always too much book learning for me, I’m a man of action,” Riggs explained, sipping his whiskey and looking happy as a clam. He had polished off two slices of cake earlier, but only because we’re celebrating. “Now, my nephew… he’s a bit o’ both, isn’t he? Either way, he’s got too much of his mother in ’im.”

You frowned, wanting to say a word in defense of Pamela. Riggs waved you off. “Don’t mind me, I’m just a silly old man with too many opinions. It tends to rub people up the wrong way—don't think I haven't noticed!” Another laugh, another narrowing of the eyes that could have been humor but which you felt like a lightning strike down your back.

He knows and you’re making something out of nothing struggled for dominance within your head, and still he kept on talking, forcing you to pay attention and leave the question unresolved.

He pointed in the direction where Scott had gone. “That nephew of mine—I don’t have any children of my own, did you know that? It never happened for me. Four wives and nothing to show for it—imagine that! But that boy… good thing his father never knew what to do with ’im—smart as a whip he is, and like a dog with a bone once he’s got an idea in his head. That part I’d say he got from me,” he said with a chuckle, wagging his finger in the air. He gave your hand a few avuncular pats and then kept it there, meaty and warm.

“I can see that you love ’im… I can see that you really love ’im. What bright, young, sensible girl wouldn't? You should see him ’round the office! He breaks hearts left, right, and center wherever he goes—a real catch, my secretary always says, and she’s been with me since Scott was yea-high. He’s got his mother’s looks, which I’ll say not to sound too self-serving, heh!” A slight tug on your wrist. You kept your objections to yourself, saying, He’s just a strange old man. As your discomfort grew, stretched to its very limits, he removed his hand and was back to being an innocuous grandfatherly man again. He seemed a little sad, wistful, even. Almost frail.

“I don’t know what I would do without him,” said Riggs, staring at his empty plate. “I really don't. Oh, here! before I forget—I have something for you.” He reached into the inner pocket of his cream suit jacket, extracting a long envelope which he slid across the table with a paternal expression, his gaze warm. You began to object, and, “Go on, now!” he insisted. “I don't hold with false modesty! Nothin’ but a waste o’ time in my book. Open it! Call it a graduation present to help you get started. Scott said your old man was taking some time off from his job, feeling under the weather.”

You opened the flap to find a check with more zeros on it than you could’ve reasonably imagined, payable to your name and typewritten in official font.

“Mr. Riggs, this is…” Your hands shook, you felt too hot in the enclosed dining room. Where was Scott? What was taking him so long? You slid the check in the envelope and tried to push it back to Riggs’s side of the table. “There is no way I can accept this,” you said. “It’s too much money, and while I appreciate the gesture—”

“Nonsense! It’s my pleasure and I won’t hear no can’ts or won’ts about it! I want you to know how well Scott’s been doing here since he finished school. He’s flourishing, all my business associates love him. I can’t possibly make do without him now.”

“I don’t understand,” you said, a pit growing in your stomach.

Once more Riggs pinned you with that twinkle in his eye. “I think you do, a smart girl like you. A man should sow his wild oats while he's young. I had a pretty young wife when I was his age. Marjorie, her name was. My first. It's true what they say—you never forget your first… By God, she was beautiful! and we had all these plans… so many plans! Dreams, really. But mine were always just a little too big for her, you understand, and at first that didn't matter much—we were in love. But then… the kids never came, and Marjorie had too much time on her hands—at the very least, she had more time on her hands than I did, that’s for sure! That gets to a woman sometimes.

“I know you won't have that problem, big city lawyer and all,” he said to you, as if in you he had the fullest confidence and he was speaking about other, less distinguished women. “But really, even if Marjorie’d been an ambassador to the United Nations she’d still have had a compunction about something or other… Ambition’s a hard pill for most folks to swallow.

“Now, you seem like a nice girl… really, I like you plenty! But let’s talk facts here for a minute. You are not the girl for Scott—not when he’s trying to become the man that he’s trying to become. The boy’s got the instincts of a killer. Really! All I’ve gotta do is stand back and look at him! But you, my dear, you’re nothin’ like him. You’ll never be. For most of my life, I thought the perfect woman would be someone to ‘balance me out,’ as they say. It’s taken me almost fifty years to find out that ain’t nothin’ but bullshit made up by Hallmark or whoever to sell us some cards. There ain't no use fighting one’s true nature. You and Scott are doomed to fail—if not now then in five years, if not in five then in another ten! You’ve seen the cracks, haven't you? He’s not the boy you met in Park Haven. He’s becoming his own man. He doesn’t need you anymore.”

You were almost too stunned to speak. Between the casual misogyny, the callous worldview, and the envelope that lay between you on the table like a coiled snake, you felt like you had left reality—there was no way this conversation could be taking place with Scott just in the other room.

“Let me get this straight,” you began, willing your voice not to shake, “you’re offering me money to break up with Scott because you think I’m not good enough for him?”

“No, no, no!” Riggs drew in close to you and took both of your hands, his face earnest and pained. “You’re getting this all wrong. I’m not some mustache-twirling villain trying to thwart the course of true love! You’re a wonderful girl, I’m sure Scott’s been very happy with you. But everything has its season. The time for moons and Junes and Ferris wheels is over. You can leave him to me now.”

“With all due respect, you’re out of your mind!” You slid your chair back, making an angry scrape along the tile. Riggs closed his grip around your hands.

“Sittdown before you wreck the boy’s life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did Scott ever tell you about his old man? How he squandered the family fortunes and left him and Pamela all but bankrupt? Now, me, I’d have done the decent thing—put a pistol to my head for all my sins—but the man has his pride, though I don’t know where-all he gets it from. You see Pam now, up in her French colonial sunning her face and drinking cocktails like the belle of the ball?” He pointed to his chest. “I did that. Scott’s shiny new diploma from M-I-T? Right again! Now, I don't believe in somethin’ for nothing. Everything in this here world has its cost, sweetheart. Everything. I have invested in that boy—not just money, but my blood, sweat, and tears! I won’t abide a loss. I won’t abide it.”

“Scott isn’t an investment,” you shot back. “He isn't yours to own.”

“And yet it would seem he’s worth more to me than he is to you. If he marries you, he and Pam won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter. I’m telling you I would throw my own sister out on the street for him—my own flesh! Can you say the same? Could Scott? Would he choose you over his poor, silly mother? Now, I highly doubt that.”

The crazy thing was, he seemed genuinely aggrieved by this predicament of his own making. In his face you could see him imagining the scene—him in his black town car, driving past Pam. And yet he remained immovable. Either you gave up Scott or he would make good on his threat.

It was callous, immoral. I have invested in that boy.

The sound of Scott’s shoes came up the hallway. Riggs folded the check into your hands and said, “Don't make a scene. Think about it.”

“What did I miss?” Scott stopped to kiss the top of your head before resuming his seat. You felt nauseous, your hands clammy around the paper you hid in your lap. To you, Scott seemed like he belonged in another world, another time—a Before-Time.

As you tried not to cry, Riggs smiled at him broadly and said, “Oh, nothing much. But I have a little present for you.”

He pulled a box from the bottom of his seat, crimson leather and beautifully stitched. Scott lifted the lid. Inside was a silver Patek Philippe, the watch he would wear when you saw him six years later, sitting across from you at a conference table with a strange coldness in his eyes. He showed it to you, beaming with pride, and while you couldn't remember what canned response you gave, you did recall that he pulled Riggs into a hug, and said, “Uncle, you really shouldn’t have…”

PRESENT DAY OKLAHOMA CITY

For nearly an hour you and Scott sat on the floor of your living room, playing at marriage and midlife crises and how many babies you would have, which on any other occasion would have made you hysterically laugh or, as Javi said on the night you met, remark upon the universe’s odd sense of humor.

But you were strangely levelheaded. If anything, you felt slightly out-of-body and yet entirely in your body, if that made sense.

You were aware of every piece put on the board. You watched the spinner turn in a rainbow of colors, the clack of the spokes sounding faster and faster before it slowed and then drew to a stop. You felt the couch cushions at your back. Scott’s shoulder brushed against yours sometimes, when he reached for one of the tiny bright pegs that went on top of the tiny bright cars. It felt like you were inside of a dream, and because dreams didn’t matter and had no consequences unless you let them, you started to ease into surrealism.

You played the game, and gradually your body began to relax. This was familiar to you—Scott taking it way too seriously, you poking fun at the furrow between his brows, the way you alternated between cold-hard strategy and chaotically negligent gameplay just to see a reaction flicker across his face. He stretched his legs out beneath the table, threw an arm across the seat-edge of the couch; sometimes, you would recline further back and your neck would touch his arm. You did it a few times, feeling embarrassed at first. But when you saw he didn’t mind, you let your head fall back, waiting as he picked a card.

Something was building beneath your skin. You felt restless, and a little reckless. Despite the law you laid down at the restaurant, you couldn’t stop your gaze from lingering. It lingered everywhere: on the hollow of his throat, the shape of his nose, the play of light across his cheeks, his mouth, the spaces where his white shirt gapped between the buttons and you could see his bare chest underneath. Oh, you’re in trouble… you said to yourself, and yet it didn’t matter. You didn’t care. This was a liminal space, a void where you could be honest and unafraid of the truth.

Even when Scott caught you looking, all he did was look back. He let the tips of his fingers touch yours when sliding a card from your hands, knocked his knee against yours. There was a time—or maybe you imagined it—when you felt his hand stroke your shoulder and you almost did something out-of-line. Because there was a line, blurred, but it existed; you kept within the bounds because you knew it was the sole condition to prolonging this state, so you bought owner’s insurance and traded in stocks, changed careers, had twins, repaid a loan (with interest) and made your slow and steady way to retirement at Countryside Acres.

At the end of the game, after all the remaining play money had been counted, it was Scott who said, “Looks like I win,” and all you said was, “Why am I not surprised?”

Then you glanced at the clock. “It’s late.”

“And we haven’t killed each other. How’s that for a détente?” Scott began putting all the parts away, pulling the pegs out of the cars first, sticking each one inside its appropriate little plastic bag. You would’ve thrown them straight in the box and not had a care in the world about it, but you liked that he did.

It was a Scott thing—patient, methodical, kind of annoying, and mostly well-intentioned. You sat back and watched him do it.

“Wow… they teach words like that at MIT?”

“They tried it out with our class—apparently, word was going ’round that STEM nerds lack empathy.”

You smiled. “Now where would they go and get an idea like that?” His eyes flicked down to yours. Having finished, he went back to reclining against the couch, one arm draped over his bent knee.

His gaze on your skin felt like a physical touch, and when it stopped at your lips, a shock of heat went through your body, from the crown of your head down to your toes. You watched him swallow. The urge to kiss him was vicious, urgent and unrelenting, and when you saw his mouth part, his tongue emerging to wet his lips, you thought, Now now now, but then Scott stood so fast he almost upset the table.

“I should go,” he managed to say, his voice ragged. He sought sightlessly for his discarded jacket, found it lying over the top of the couch, and he couldn’t escape fast enough. Frustration rolled off him in waves.

“Scott!” You scrambled to your feet. You might have touched the very edge of his sleeve, but he held up his hand to stop you coming any closer.

“This was a mistake.”

You went stock still. The spell was broken—this was no longer the dreamworld where nothing mattered, this was the Real World. The one where everything had been broken, not least of which because of you, and it was all a mistake. Calling him had been a mistake, meeting him had been a mistake, thinking that you could control anything you felt about him had been a mistake.

And now there was this: Scott raking his hands through his hair, turning in the middle of the room, almost a decade’s worth of anger and disappointment and confusion and, why not, maybe a little hatred thrown into the mix.

“You never trusted me!” he threw in your face. “And I mean never—even when we were in high school, especially not in college—”

“Why are you talking about college?” you demanded, your voice rising to meet his.

“Every time I called, it was like you were expecting me to tell you it was over. Every girl I so much as spoke to when you came to visit—”

“I was eighteen! What the fuck do you want me to say? That I was insecure and kind of an idiot? Yeah, no shit! I thought we’d moved past that!”

“No, we didn’t move past it because it never changed! Maybe it stopped being about other women, but then it was about work, about the time I spent shadowing at my uncle’s company. Do you have any idea how exhausting it was to keep having to convince you that I was all in? And what, somehow we went from that to ‘you’ve changed, Scott, I don’t think I like who you are anymore, Scott’—?”

“What the fuck? I never said that!”

“The night we had dinner at my uncle’s—the night you left! And again in the elevator—”

“Can we not do this?” you plead. “I thought we weren’t going to do this. We agreed!”

“Well, maybe I'm changing the terms.”

“Then this ends right here.”

There was silence. You knew it was coming, and yet it still hurt like a freight train hitting you square in the chest when he looked you in the eyes and said: “What else is new?”

You flinched. You felt your whole body recoil, your eyes sting. Your fault. The one who couldn’t stand up for herself, couldn't commit, who ran at the first sign of trouble. You and Scott are doomed to fail. Riggs had laid down his vision for the future and you had believed him, had chosen to believe him more than you had ever believed in Scott, or in yourself.

You’re not the girl for him. You’re nothing like him.

Hadn’t you always told yourself the same in the darkest recess of your mind? Hadn’t you, in truth, been just a little bit relieved when you packed your things and moved back to Park Haven, play-acting ended, no more trying, no more waiting for the other shoe to drop?

“I’m sorry.” Scott took an immediate step towards you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did,” you shot back with more vitriol than you intended.

“Don’t do that—don’t pretend to know how I fucking feel.”

“You forget, Scott. I know you.”

“I thought the whole point was that you didn't! That I was so… unrecognizable!”

“Well, you are!” you exclaimed, shouting again. “Suing Javi? Trying to take down his company? Being Riggs’s, what, fucking loyal dog—”

“Oh, spare me the hysterics…”

“Did you say it?” you cut in. “Did you really say you didn’t care about that town full of people?”

Scott froze. You watched his jaw clench, and you knew in that moment that he'd been counting on Javi’s discretion on that score.

If your intention had been to preserve any goodwill between them, that was all going up in flames now. Hell, after tonight, you and Scott might be incapable of being in the same room together, let alone working towards a peaceful resolution to a civil suit.

“You weren’t there,” he ground out. “There were other things going on.”

“Did you say it, Scott?” It was obvious that he had. The shame kept him from saying another word when you finally stepped around the coffee table. “But God forbid I say a word against Marshall Riggs, the undoubted patron saint of Tornado Alley. I'm sure his real estate empire only exists so he can share his considerable wealth with the downtrodden and needy!”

“What do you want me to fucking say? Do you want me to apologize for who my family is? I'm sorry if you find my uncle objectionable, but he is the only reason I ever made something of myself—you ever consider that? I’d be nothing without him—nothing! You think my father could have lifted a finger? Riggs is the only reason Mom and I made it through that summer. I owe him everything! So he makes business decisions you don't agree with—”

You scoffed.

“—but Javi knew exactly where all that money came from. He wasn't duped, I didn’t trick him… he made a choice. He made a choice! And then, what, Kate Carter comes along and he grows a fucking conscience? Give me a break…”

“And where the hell is yours! You think I give a shit what Marshall Riggs does? I care about you, you fucking idiot! Are you really going to stand there and tell me you’re happy? That it… that it feels good to know you’re suing your best friend, that you seemingly have no other friends, that you’ve hitched yourself to your uncle and the most you can say is you’re doing it out of obligation? You used to want more for yourself, Scott!”

He laughed at that. Rubbing his hand across his mouth, he regarded you with a derisive humor.

“Tell me, how’s the trust fund going? Your dad—he was always a pretty shrewd investor, right? and your mom’s family… they’ve got those boutique hotels along the eastern seaboard, the ones that get their pictures in the magazines and all over social media? It’s pretty easy to talk about wanting more for yourself when your father didn’t sink your family prospects on a deck of cards. I do what I have to do. Not that you’d ever understand.”

Money—had it been this big of an issue the whole time? Had you ignored it all the years of your relationship? Money… and jealousy of your father, Scott’s resentment towards his. You felt so blind, so stupid. The “cracks” Riggs had referenced had been there all along, and instead of talking about them you had stuck your head in the sand, worried that if you said the wrong thing all your insecurities would be proven right. That Scott would leave.

Scott… Did you ever stop to consider the damage that leaving him alone with Riggs might cause?

“You only think you can’t make it without him,” you dared to say. “But he doesn’t care about you.”

“What, not like you do?”

“No,” you affirmed. “Not like I do.”

Scott frowned at you. He appeared almost childlike, vulnerable. A boy calling “no fair!”, probably with Riggs’s voice in the background saying, Life isn't fair. “You don't get to do that. You don’t get to do that after all this time… you—you fucking left!”

“He offered me money. Did he ever tell you that? How he tried to buy me off to leave you? You talk about my trust fund, and it’s true—I grew up lucky, but we never had Marshall Riggs Money. There’s rich and then there’s capital-R Rich, the kind you only get when you’ve turned being a ruthless son-of-a-bitch into an art form.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes—you know I’m telling the truth. I never liked him. What's more, he could tell I didn't like him, and he couldn't have that… no, not Riggs. He’d gotten used to you being his right-hand man and he wasn’t about to lose you. So he waited until you left the table—”

“I’m not going to listen to this.”

“—he waited until you left the table,” you repeated, almost toe to toe. You forced yourself to continue, even in the face of Scott’s patent distress. You couldn't live like this, not anymore. Keeping secrets, taking the biggest share of the blame. “‘If he marries you, he and his mother won’t see another cent from me even if I have to drive past them through the gutter,’” you recited. “Those were his words. I’m not lying to you—I wouldn't, not about this.

“He was never going to let us be together. Obviously, I didn’t take the money, but he was dead serious about his threat. And I was angry. I thought if only you’d stood up to your uncle before, if you weren’t blind to what he really was, I would never have been put in that position. So I took it out on you. I blamed you. And I said things…”

You faltered, remembering the night you returned to the hotel. You couldn’t stay, not with Riggs’s check in your pocket and the memory of his hand gripping your wrist. But Scott didn’t understand. He didn't know what had made you so upset, why you were throwing your clothes into your suitcase and talking about flights and returning his ring and about how it was time you stopped pretending. And, yes, you took to heart what Riggs had implied about other women. You weren’t picky. You weren’t careful. You just had to leave.

You were ashamed of it now. The knowledge of how you’d acted lodged in your throat like a stone you couldn’t swallow down. Scott remembered it, too. His eyes flickered this way and that, recalling, wondering how much of it was true.

“I said things to you that I wish I’d never… that I still think about, and I still regret, because I love—” Your voice broke. You placed your hands over his chest, then cradled his face, willing him to believe you, willing yourself to be brave. “I still love you, Scott. I love you. I should’ve told you the truth, but I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“No… you left,” he said weakly, bracing his hands around your wrists.

“I know I did… I know, but he can’t have you.” You kissed his mouth, once, twice, as many times as he allowed, and all the while you said the things you should’ve said that night in New Orleans. “I won’t let him have you… not this time… not again.”

Scott turned his head and the heat of his tongue met yours.

One second he was all coiled tension and the next he was all over you, walking you back towards the couch, kissing a trail down your neck, one hand tangled in your hair while the other was already up your skirt matching his strokes to the curl of his tongue. He laid you down on the couch, settling between your thighs, and even clothed the weight of him felt familiar—the pass of his hand up and down your leg, the way he liked to tease you by wandering just close enough to where you wanted before pulling away, distracting you with a searing kiss or a shallow roll of his hips.

In the past, there were times when he would draw it out for hours, taking you to the brink and back until you were sure you wanted to curse him.

At a friend’s New York wedding, he made you come three times before he entered you, and you weren’t too proud—now, with the real Scott on top of you, all over you, soon to be in you if there was any justice in the world—to admit that you had replayed that night in your head sometimes when you were lonely. When a bad day at work or an ill-advised night of drinking too much ended with you trying to chase sleep on the heels of an orgasm that was never as satisfying as the ones you got with Scott.

Even when you managed to make yourself come—really come, that full-bodied electricity-followed-by-deep-silence feeling—you had been all too aware of his absence. What was the point, you had wondered, if you couldn’t curl up next to him or listen to the steady flow of his breathing or hear him sigh into your neck when he wrapped his arms around you and went to sleep? What was the point if, upon waking, you wouldn't have Scott and his early-morning voice, the clarity of his eyes, the smell of the coffee he made in his stupidly expensive espresso machines? (God, you missed that coffee.)

It was Scott… it was only ever Scott.

The couch was a perilous place to be doing any of this. You weren't sure that he fit in it, for one, and for another, you were mildly worried about the potential costs of fixing a broken midcentury piece of furniture. Oh, well, you thought, life’s too short. Not bothering to undress, you pushed aside articles of clothing, hands bumping into each other, scraps of fabric pushed aside, belt buckle rattling as it landed on the floor, until finally he surged into you, gripping the side of the couch and burying a curse against your neck as you stretched around him.

He slid a hand below your hips and fixed the angle. The sex was hurried, messy and it had nothing of grace; it was imperfect and rather cramped, really, but all that mattered was how he felt. He felt like home. As you came, he entwined his fingers around yours, and then he finished, trembling, prolonging a wave of pleasure that took your breath away.

Don’t go, you want to say into his heaving chest.

Somehow, he turned you on your side so you could stretch along the couch. He wrapped his arms around you, stroking feather-light touched along your arm as his breathing slowed. You felt tired, hollowed out, but not in a bad way. In a quiet-before-the-storm way, when you can smell water in the air and the breeze picks up, and the world sits on the cusp of being new.

“I miss you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I miss you too.”

After that, there was a silence so long it made you think he’d dozed off, but then he spoke again, painfully honest and a little scared. “I don't think I can do what you need me to do. I’m not… that’s not who I am anymore.”

“I think you are,” you said back. “I think he’s who you’ve always been.”

THREE WEEKS LATER

You were enjoying a rare weekend off from work. Figuring you could do with some real time off the clock, you’d let the office know you’d be holding all work calls and emails until Monday. Abby’s eyes had nearly popped out of her skull in a rare show of feeling, but after the emotional turmoil of the last few months, you knew you needed to walk around the city, have a massage, touch some grass, maybe eat a pint of ice cream in front of a frothy period drama—a true-blue staycation.

The morning after you and Scott slept together, you’d agreed that it was in everyone’s best interest to let things be. He needed time to think about a few things, and regardless of your shared history, you were still Javi’s lawyer. You distracted yourself by doubling down on other cases. It helped that dealing with Mrs. Richardson-Burkhardt and the four Barone siblings was as eventful as watching an HBO television series—between the scathing one-liners and last-minute twists, there was little bandwidth left over to think about Scott.

And yet you always managed.

For better or for worse, Scott had always been good at making you hope for things. Even when you wanted to err on the side of caution, expect the worst and thus avoid disappointment, just the fact that he loved you made you feel like anything was possible, like you could make things happen.

“We brought out the best in each other. That mattered to us more than anything your father and I ever did wrong.”

At a department store downtown, you watched across the way as a young couple studied a tray of rings at the jewelry counter, diamonds sparkling in the light. The woman grabbed her partner’s arm and pointed at one of the selections as if to say, “That one!”, and for a moment they were in perfect sync. The salesman offered up the band with elaborate flourish, the groom-to-be took his bride’s hand, slipped the ring on her finger, and they admired it together, the play of white gold on her black skin.

The woman beamed. So did he.

“Looks like we have ourselves a winner,” the pleased salesman declared.

After lunch and an overpriced iced coffee, you arrived home with a gift for the Travises’ golden anniversary party, a pair of gold-accented crystal champagne glasses you hoped would survive the flight. It would be nice to see your mom again, to reunite with your old college friends, and revisit old haunts.

The thought of going home no longer filled you with dread—for which, even if nothing came out of your night with Scott, if he decided that upending his life was too much for him to handle right now, you would always be grateful. For years, your idea of a worst nightmare was running into him and having the truth spoken aloud, plainly, and for both of you to hear. Nothing will ever be as bad as this, you told yourself.

But it was a half-lie. Not seeing him again would be worse.

Already, you felt his absence like a hollow in your chest.

On the kitchen counter, you saw that your phone began to ring. “Javi, how’s the weather looking?” you asked, putting him on speaker as you poured yourself some water.

 “She’s a fickle mistress, I’ll tell you that! Hey, I just wanted to let you know… Scott called this morning. He says he’s dropping the suit.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t sound too surprised. Any of that you're doing?”

“No,” you replied, picking up your phone, “that’s all Scott. I haven’t spoken to him in weeks, actually.”

“Well, he sounded different. Still Scott, but a shorter stick up his ass, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I know a part of how everything went down was my fault—business is business, as my Ma always says. I sold him my share of StormPAR, which means I also have to pay back some of the money we took from Riggs. That’ll hurt like a—well, you know… I’m not the guy’s biggest fan these days. But if I don’t have to hear the name Marshall Riggs ever again, I’ll count myself lucky and say it’s a price well-paid.”

“And Scott?” you ventured to say.

“Honestly, I think he’s done with the whole thing. Sounds like he’s closing up shop, which makes sense. He’s a damn good engineer but kind of hopeless as a chaser.”

You laughed. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Are you okay?”

“Me, or me and Scott?”

“Both.”

To Javi’s credit, he took a few moments to actually think about it. “Yeah, I’m good. You know me… I never stay down for long. Man with a thousand plans. Me and Scott? Man, I don’t know about that one… I did leave him by the side of the road. Ruined one of his immaculately pressed shirts.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

“Yeah, God forbid. Listen, if it were up to me, I’d just let bygones be bygones. Life’s too short, you know. Shit happens… I don’t want to be a guy who burns bridges over money.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“What I mean to say,” Javi spoke over a sudden burst of wind, “is that if Scott ever wants to give me a call, I’ll answer. You can even tell him I said that.”

“Me?” You set your glass down with a clatter, heat rising to your face.

“Yeah, you! I’m not an idiot, hotshot, that history’s not gone ancient yet.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm… Anyway, the wind’s picking up. Kate’s off reading her dandelions.”

“You know, I kinda wish I could see her doing that…”

“Watch out, we might make a chaser of you yet!” Javi crowed.

You shook your head, said, “I wouldn't hold my breath,” but you were smiling. The sun streamed through your open windows and anything was possible.

Once Javi ended the call, you stared at your phone, wondering… And then you decided to be reckless one more time. Call it a calculated risk, you thought instead. You held the phone up to your ear and listened to it ring. The dial tone sounded a few times, and then it stopped.

He’d answered.

“Scott, it’s me,” you said, trying to relax the thrumming in your heart.

There was a pause and then you heard his voice: “Did Javi tell you?”

“Yeah, we just got off the phone.”

“Open your door.”

You made a face, glancing at the screen and holding it against your ear again. “What?”

“Open your door, UPenn!”

You dashed to the entryway, patting your hair, blotting your face, wondering if your shirt was wrinkled. When you pulled the door open, you saw Scott in full view, in the middle of the day. Not wearing white. The blue of his shirt brought out his eyes, which looked tired but less burdened, too.

He seemed lighter, if not happy then trying to get there.

“Thought I’d skip out on being a sore loser this time.” He gave a half-shrug.

“I don’t know, Miller… from here it doesn't seem like you're losing.”

He smiled at the floor, almost shy. And when he looked into your face you saw the boy you fell in love with at Nichols Academy, the one who took baseball too seriously, who loved Hemingway and your mom’s apple crisp, the one who sang bad Sinatra and got into fights and thought James Watt was something of a god. It was like the worst of the last few years had gone away, leaving only space for something new to grow, to be built—together.

“All I want is you,” promised Scott, taking you into his arms.

You stuck your hand in your pocket, extracted the ring you’d kept there for almost a month like a talisman, like a good-luck charm, and held it up to Scott. He stared at it, and then at you, with something like shock.

Something like awe and wonder.

“Don’t you know? You've always had me.”

And in that hallway, Scott Miller, a man who’d never cop to having a romantic bone in his body, spun you around and kissed you and wouldn’t have cared if your neighbor at Apartment 424 had noticed or if one of his investors appeared. Maybe there was something to Tyler’s corny catchphrase, after all: If you feel it, chase it—no matter the odds, no matter the obstacles in your path, because feeling it was purpose and inspiration and direction when you lost your way.

It took you a while, but you understood it now.

[planetnini]

why am i crying