Waking up is a slow, warm, languid thing. It's emerging from one dream only to find yourself within another, sighing and stretching and pressing into blissful comfort. It's peace in the truest definition of the word.
Grace's return to consciousness feels like floating in warm syrup. Sensation returns gradually, the slip of sheets against Grace's bare skin and the firmness of a body beneath his. There's an arm wrapped around Grace's waist, firm and fast in its possession as Grace sprawls atop the other man.
Grace sighs, pressing his face into Simon's neck and drawing in a slow breath. His lungs are flooded with the scent of iron and shared shampoo, a clean musk that makes the anxious critter in Grace's mind settle every single time. Not that Grace is anxious right now— Grace can think of little other than the rise and fall of the broad chest beneath his, a calloused hand lazily tracing the knobs of Grace's spine.
Neither of them speak. They're both awake, content to simply luxuriate in the undemanding presence of the other. Their bedroom is lit by a sunrise just as sleepy as the pair, reds and oranges falling over blankets deemed favorite enough to earn a place on their bed.
The hand fluttering over Grace's back disappears, an action that begins to earn a protest before Simon is slipping his hand into Grace's hair. Simon drags his nails along Grace's scalp, twisting through soft strands of gold with a practiced ease that makes Grace purr with contentment.
Simon chuckles as Grace drags his cheek along Simon's collarbone, stubble scraping over soft skin in sleepy delight. Simon continues his ministrations, movements sluggish but no less affectionate as the pair gradually wake with the rising sun.
Grace lets one of his hands wander along the side of Simon's ribcage that he can reach, the tips of Grace's fingers trailing over the thin material of a borrowed shirt and finding the dips and divots where flesh softens between bone. Simon grumbles above him, a half-hearted protest pressed to the top of Grace's head.
Grace giggles sleepily, delighting in the reaction of the other man enough to redouble his efforts. Grace is intentionally light with how he skirts his fingers up Simon's side, grinning into Simon's neck when the man jolts beneath him.
"Quit that." Simon mumbles, voice hoarse with disuse. He sounds far from displeased, more of a fond protest for the sake of protestation as his nails dip to scratch at the nape of Grace's neck.
The placation works easily, Grace dropping his hand and humming as he leans into the gentle touch. Simon makes a small, pleased noise, clearly delighting in how pliable Grace became when lavished with enough affection and Grace is far from complaint.
Simon ducks just enough to press his lips to the top of Grace's head. A smile blooms across Grace's face, a delight so pure and simple and raw with affection that it makes Grace feel like his chest is going to burst.
Grace lifts a hand, blindly flailing as he reaches back until his hand knocks against Simon's own. Simon huffs a laugh as Grace's fingers wriggle in demand, obligingly lacing their hands and giving Grace's a soft squeeze before letting them fall to rest against Grace's back. They sigh in mutual contentment, so little said but everything understood.
summary - no matter how hard you try, you can’t quit jack abbot.
wc - 12.4k (SORRY IM USED TO WRITING SERIES FR)
warnings/tags - MDNI, toxic jack, toxic reader, reader is described as female, angst, good friend ellis, probable inaccuracies for nurse duties, jealous jack, avoidant reader, avoidant jack, unprotected p in v, reader does something so toxic for jack, resolution at the end
a/n -- inspired by the song 'stop' by bella kay -- ok i had a real fun time with this one. This is for all my baddies who have been in a situationship beforeeeee shit is not for the weak! This went on for a while and possibly lost the plot toward the end but idk yall let me know what you think I’m still new to one-shots hehe
masterlist
The lights in the PTMC were giving you a headache.
Bright, fluorescent, and just harsh enough to remind you that you hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep this afternoon. And now an incoming GSW was exactly what you needed to get the adrenaline pumping again.
You’d always loved the night shift. There was something about working while most of the city slept, even though the world outside never really stopped moving.
Sure, it didn’t leave much room for a social life beyond the friends you’d made in the ED, and your version of nightlife looked a lot different from most young, single people your age.
Not that you minded.
You’d traded clubs for dive bars sometime in your mid-twenties anyway.
These days, your idea of unwinding was nursing a strong cocktail in a dimly lit booth, the kind of place with sticky floors and questionable music. Sometimes with your favorite coworkers. Sometimes alone.
And afterward?
Well.
A little stress relief never hurt anybody.
“Where’d you go just now?”
The sound of a tablet scraping across the main desk of the Pitt pulled you from whatever mental vacation you’d been taking.
You blinked twice and looked up to find Dr. Ellis standing across from you, peering down slightly as you practically slumped against the desk. Papers were scattered in front of you, charts half-finished, and your collection of glitter pens lay in disarray from when you’d knocked over the holder while chasing a naked patient down the hallway an hour ago.
“Oh, you know.” You waved a hand vaguely. “My happy place.”
The sarcasm was obvious—a reference to the self-care seminar Robby had forced every nurse to attend last month.
You waved yourself off, changing the subject. “What’s the ETA on the GSW?”
“Rerouted to Westbridge. We may actually get a chance to—”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
Shen appeared beside you, leaning onto the desk with an iced coffee in hand.
“You gonna put a coaster under that Pink Drink?” you asked, nodding toward the condensation already racing down the side of the plastic cup. “Or you gonna let it sweat all over someone’s x-rays?”
Shen scoffed.
“I’ve told you before. It’s only pink because of the limited-edition strawberry syrup.”
He said it like you were somehow the ridiculous one.
“As long as it’s not the Sabrina Carpenter drink anymore, I don’t give two shits what’s in it.”
Ellis shot you a look of agreement. “I cannot listen to the chorus of Espresso one more time for at least six months.”
“But it’s the song of the summer!”
“It was the song of the summer. Two years ago, Shen.”
Shaking your head, you grabbed a coaster and slid it beneath his cup since he seemed entirely uninterested in doing it himself.
Shen muttered something under his breath about being “culturally underappreciated” before taking a giant slurp from his iced coffee.
“See?” Ellis said, watching him intently. “This is why we can’t have nice things.
“No, lack of public funding is why we can’t have nice things.”
“You seem slightly more aggressive than usual. What’s up?”
“Other than the fact that I slept maybe three hours earlier?” You rubbed your forehead, keeping your eyes trained on the double doors like if you stayed vigilant enough, gurneys and EMTs would simply stop coming through them. “Existential dread. The naked patient practically assaulting me earlier. The parent who claimed I was indoctrinating their child into Buddhism—a religion I do not practice.”
She whistled.
“Been a minute, huh?”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Since what?”
“Since you’ve seen him.”
Your face twisted into something that could only be described as a mixture of surprise and disdain.
Shen’s eyes darted between you two, leaning in slightly closer to you in anticipation as his mouth was somehow still wrapped around the orange and pink straw.
“Am I supposed to know who you’re talking about?”
“Oh, come on. Every time you show up here in a foul mood, it’s been at least a week since you and him met up. You’re practically a billboard with ‘needs to get laid’ written across it in bright red font.”
“I am not that readable.”
Shen decided this was a good time to join in, adding, “Earlier, you told Whitaker he should consider putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign for tiny elves to live in his hair.”
You frowned, eyes still fixed on the double doors as your fingers fidgeted with your badge.
“Okay, and was I wrong? He needs a curl routine. I’ve been telling him that for a year now. It’s not a good look for us.”
She offered you an amused smile, the kind she always did. Parker Ellis was probably your favorite doctor in the department—always willing to help despite half of it falling outside her responsibilities, always ready with advice when you needed it. You knew she didn’t hand that out to everyone, which only made you appreciate it more.
And Shen was…well, he was Shen. You got a laugh out of him every so often.
You didn’t typically make a habit of getting close with the doctors, as they tended to be in and out of a hospital most of the time. The other nurses were more your speed, but something about the doctors of the night shift—
“Hey, we all need ways to relieve stress when we work in a place like this. I take edibles. Shen plays a concerning amount of Minecraft. You choose to indulge in a toxic situationship with a guy who only calls you when he wants to get his rocks off.”
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”
“Shen’s Minecraft addiction is pathetic.”
“The fuck?” Shen scrunched his face at the stray comment, but Ellis only continued.
You bit the inside of your cheek, failing miserably at suppressing your laughter as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead briefly against his shoulder.
She pointed a finger at you. “—You’re a consenting adult. As long as nobody’s getting hurt, who cares if all you and this dude see each other for is sex?”
Your stomach tightened a little at that.
Her question didn’t exactly sit well because—
She added, “Plus, from what you’ve told me, it’s pretty damn good.”
A throat cleared beside you.
You were a nurse in an emergency department. It didn’t exactly say it in the job posting, but “know the vibes of every doctor who works here and find a way to cohesively fit into the team so you can make their lives easier because that’ll actually make your life easier” might as well have been in the fine print. At least, that’s what Dana told you on your first day.
So you knew how different residents operated. You knew how the interns behaved. And you definitely knew how attendings liked to, well, attend.
And this particular attending usually cleared his throat when he found you chatting at the desk with doctors that weren’t him.
You straightened, your expression tightening—not at all like a kid caught talking in class—as your eyes met his.
Dr. Jack Abbot had a particular habit of appearing whenever you were having a perfectly pleasant conversation with another doctor.
It was one of the more irritating things about him.
You’d noticed it months ago.
The second he caught you leaning against a desk with Shen, laughing at something Ellis said, or discussing anything not directly related to patient care, he’d suddenly remember a task that needed doing. A chart that needed updating. A patient that needed medication. An ortho consult that should’ve been paged five minutes ago.
Always work-related.
And always suspiciously timed.
You knew how attendings operated. You knew which ones were strict, which ones were laid back, which ones expected perfection and which ones expected effort.
Jack wasn’t actually hard on you.
The annoying part was that he seemed to save this particular brand of impatience exclusively for moments when you were talking to somebody else.
Which bothered you more than you’d ever admit out loud because you were good at your job.
Your patient satisfaction scores were always high. You stayed late when people needed help. Even Gloria had thrown the occasional “good work” your way, which was practically a standing ovation.
So every time he acted like you were one conversation away from bringing the entire department to its knees, it got under your skin.
“Are we almost through with the social hour,” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets, “or can we get some morphine to bed three sometime tonight?”
Right on schedule.
You glanced at the clock—you’d been standing there for approximately forty-five seconds.
“No, we’re through,” you offered him a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Good.” He nodded once, now turning to Shen. “You’re needed in Peds.”
He stepped past Ellis, whose eyes tracked him before flicking back to you. Shen trailed behind, a mischievous look on his face. She let out a small huff of laughter, then glanced after him again.
Until she looked at you, which, your facial expression could only be described as someone who had just had their parade rained on, set on fire, and then clinically assessed by Jack Abbot
“Yeah…maybe call dude up and see if you can find some time,” she said. “Because you’re wound tighter than wire around a coil.”
“I can relieve stress without sacrificing my self-respect, Ellis.”
“Can you?”
You scoffed, clutching a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense.
“I don’t need some man to help me relax—especially not one who’s as emotionally constipated as this guy is.”
You gathered your pens quickly and messily, stress and dishonesty practically radiating off you in waves. Ellis watched with a knowing look as you shoved a blue glitter pen into the pocket of your scrubs. One sleeve of your baby pink undershirt was pushed halfway up your arm, the other hanging past your wrist.
You were a mess.
“You can’t quit him, can you?” she asked bluntly.
Your head jerked up, strands of hair falling across your cheeks.
“I can stop whenever I want.”
The rest of the shift didn’t get any kinder.
It never did.
A patient screamed at you because the wait time “felt like a violation of human rights,” which, according to him, apparently included triage priority and two actively coding traumas that had rolled in back-to-back.
Another tried to leave against medical advice with an IV still in, insisting you were “controlling the narrative of his body autonomy,” which you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t already three coffees deep and running on pure spite.
The coffee was its own horror story.
Burnt, lukewarm, and somehow still sour, like it had given up on being coffee halfway through its existence. You drank it anyway.
By the time the worst of the chaos finally slowed, your scrubs felt like they had absorbed the entire shift—bloodless but heavy, like your exhaustion had physical weight. Your head ached in that dull, persistent way that made every overhead announcement sound like it was being shouted directly inside your eardrums.
You charted on autopilot. Answered pages. Signed off on things you barely remembered reading.
And all the while, there was that steady hum underneath everything.
Not the monitors beeping or the coding alarms.
You.
Something restless in your chest that wouldn’t settle no matter how much you moved, no matter how much you did, no matter how many people you helped.
When you finally clocked out, the morning air hit you like a kind of mercy.
It was quiet. Empty enough to feel almost unreal after the controlled chaos of the ED. You liked how walking out of a shift into a brand new day felt like a fresh start.
You sat in your car for a moment before starting it.
Hands on the wheel. Forehead leaning briefly against it. Eyes closed.
The silence should’ve helped—but it didn’t. Because now there was nothing to distract you from your own thoughts.
From the shift replaying in fragments—flourescent lights, Ellis’s teasing, Jack’s annoyed glance across the desk, the way your body always seemed to register him before your mind caught up.
And worse than that.
The way your mind kept circling back to the same thing, over and over, like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The way his eyes flicked between your chin on Shen’s shoulder, the sharpness in his stare when he’d paused—just for a second too long—before speaking.
The way it shouldn’t have meant anything.
And the worst part was how quickly he’d buried it again, like nothing had happened at all.
You exhaled slowly, started the car, and just drove.
Traffic lights sliding over your windshield in slow, rhythmic pulses. Red. Green. Red again. The city moving around you like it didn’t know or care what kind of night shift you’d had.
Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind didn’t.
It kept drifting back to relief.
To something that would make the tightness in your chest loosen for even a little while.
And the more you tried not to think about it, the more obvious it became what your body was already deciding for you.
You didn’t end up at home.
You didn’t even hesitate when you pulled into his building.
You just sat there for a second in the driver’s seat, engine ticking softly as it cooled, staring up at the familiar windows.
Then you got out.
Second guessed your decision.
You walked up anyway.
Because you could tell yourself a lot of things.
That it was just stress.
That it was just habit.
But your hand was already lifting before you could talk yourself out of it.
And then you were knocking on Jack Abbot’s door.
Like he was expecting you, he swung the door open with a familiarity that always managed to piss you off.
You hated being expected. It meant you weren’t as convincing as you thought every time you swore it was the last time.
“Back so soon?” he asked.
There were two voices in your head.
The first was logical. The one that listed consequences and self-respect and the long, boring, very healthy path of walking away.
The second was louder.
And a hell of a lot faster.
“Shut up,” you said.
And then your lips were on his.
There was no hesitation from him.
His hand came up to your jaw like it had done this before, like it knew exactly where you’d break and where you wouldn’t. The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely registered it.
Not when he was already pulling you closer.
Not when the shift started dissolving at the edges the way it always did the second he touched you.
You told yourself, distantly, that you’d meant to stop.
That you’d been serious this time.
That you were still someone who made decisions and followed through on them.
But that version of you didn’t stand a chance in his apartment.
“What did I tell you about sitting around and talking on shift?” His voice was low against your mouth.
Your hands found his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't entirely sure. The fabric of his shirt was soft under your palms, warm from his body, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath it. Steady. Unhurried.
Like he had all the time in the world.
“I told you,” You glared up at him defiantly. “I’d stop when you admitted why it bothers you so much,”
He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, and the impact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the collision. His knee slid between your thighs, and you made a sound that would've embarrassed you if you had any dignity left to spare.
You didn't.
Not here. Not with him.
“It doesn’t bother me,”
His lips moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your breath hitch.
“You’re such a liar,” You tilted your head without thinking, giving him access, and felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.
Smug bastard.
"Guessing this is the last time?" he murmured, changing the subject like he always did, rough in a way that shouldn't have worked as well as it did.
Your eyes snapped open.
The audacity.
"Keep opening your mouth," you said, breathless but sharp, "and I'll walk out."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was infuriating. Amused. Knowing. Like he could see straight through every lie you'd ever told yourself about this.
About him.
"We both know you won't."
Your jaw tightened.
Because he was right, and you both knew it, and that made it so much worse.
You should've said something cutting. Should've shoved him back and proven him wrong just to wipe that look off his face.
Instead, you kissed him again.
Harder this time. Angrier, maybe. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as some distant part of your brain screamed at you to stop. To leave. To have even a shred of self-respect.
But his hands were on your waist now, thumbs pressing into your hips through the thin fabric of your scrubs, and every coherent thought you'd had dissolved under the weight of it.
This was what you'd come here for.
Not conversation. Not comfort.
Just this—the way he touched you like he'd memorized every place that made you fall apart. The way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The way everything else faded into background noise.
His mouth moved back to your neck, and you felt his teeth graze your pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make you gasp.
"You're terrible at this," he said against your skin.
"At what?"
"Pretending you don't want to be here."
Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make a point.
"You're terrible at shutting up."
He laughed—low and quiet and far too pleased with himself—and the sound vibrated through you in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.
His hands moved lower, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your scrub top, and the contact of his skin against yours sent a shiver up your spine. Warm. Rough in places. Familiar in a way that made your chest threaten to explode.
You'd told yourself you wouldn't do this again.
You'd meant it, too.
At least in the moment.
But here you were, pressed against his entryway wall at six in the morning, letting him unravel you piece by piece like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Because it was for him.
That was the problem.
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, and there was something in his expression that you couldn't quite read. Something that looked almost like concern, if you didn't know better.
"Long shift?" he asked.
You let out a breathless laugh. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend you care."
His jaw tightened, just slightly, and for a second you thought he might actually say something real. Something that wasn't wrapped in sarcasm or deflection.
But then his mouth was on yours again, and the moment passed.
Maybe that was better.
Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in it as you kissed him back with everything you had left. All the frustration and exhaustion and restless energy that had been building under your skin for hours—and since the last time a week ago—poured into it.
He made a sound low in his throat, and his grip on your hips tightened.
You were going to regret this.
You always did.
But right now, with his body pressed against yours and his hands pulling you closer, you couldn't bring yourself to care.
Not when this was the only thing that made the tightness in your chest loosen. The only thing that made you feel like you could breathe.
Even if it was temporary.
Even if it was a lie.
His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, and you arched into the touch without thinking. Your back pressed harder against the wall, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that you were still wearing your work shoes.
That you hadn't even made it past the entryway.
That this was exactly how it always went.
But then his mouth found that spot just below your ear, and every rational thought you'd ever had scattered like smoke.
"Bedroom," you managed, though it came out more like a plea than a command.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face was devastating.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."
And then his hand was in yours, and he was leading you deeper into the apartment.
Into the same mistake you'd made a dozen times before.
The one you'd probably make a dozen more times.
You were going insane, to say the least.
After that last time, you once again swore you could stop, and when Jack Abbot laughed in your face, you swore that spite would carry you through.
That was three weeks ago.
Your body was practically screaming at you for release.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried—you had your own methods of relief at home, in various sizes and shapes, but he might as well have put a curse on you. He plagued your mind, your thoughts, and now, even your damn fantasies. You couldn’t even get past closing your eyes with your head on the pillow without hearing his voice in your ear.
“Are you listening?”
“No,” You admitted.
Ellis smirked. “Wow, that was easy.”
“I gotta stop,” You said, more so to yourself. “I need to get past this guy, this can’t be healthy.”
“I mean, I could’ve told you that a year ago,”
“See? Even that is embarrassing—doing this for an entire year.”
“How did it even start, anyway?”
Her question was one you often asked yourself.
You were literally there, and somehow it was still remarkable that any of this had managed to happen in the first place.
It had started on one of those rare nights when you didn’t have work. Even rarer, you didn’t have a shift the next day either. So you joined a few of your ED friends for their weekly gathering at the pub down the street from the PTMC.
He was there too.
Before you’d ever spoken to Jack Abbot, you’d noticed him.
You noticed everything about him, actually.
The commanding presence that never felt overbearing. The quiet charm. The way people naturally gravitated toward him without him seeming to ask for their attention.
Then you started working together.
And assisting Jack was easy in a way that shouldn’t have mattered. The two of you seemed to fall into a rhythm almost immediately, anticipating what the other needed before it was said aloud. You worked well with plenty of doctors, but with him it felt different. Smoother.
Natural.
The night at the pub passed slowly, conversations drifting from work gossip to stories about patients to the kind of personal details people only share after a drink or two. You got to know some of the day-shift staff in a way you never really could during a chaotic handoff.
Then, little by little, people started peeling off.
Heading home to partners, spouses, kids, pets.
Eventually, it was just you and Jack left at the table—and neither of you had anyone waiting at home.
So the conversation kept going.
And going.
Until the bartender started flashing the lights for last call.
You could admit now that the alcohol wasn’t the only reason you agreed when he suggested moving the party to his place.
That began a bad habit of spending nights off together at his apartment, which turned into you following him home from work twice a week. Until it was happening every day.
Until—
“I’m calling psych,” Ellis said abruptly. “Dude has you dissociating.”
“Can you cut me some slack?” you groaned. “My sleep score on this stupid Oura ring is averaging like a 42, and no amount of Dunkin from Shen is helping. In fact, it’s probably making it worse.”
“I told you that ring is full of shit.”
“Probably,” you admitted, “but there’s no doubt this whole…situation has tanked my ability to sleep.”
“You know what?” Ellis leaned in slightly, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I’ve got a friend who’s recently single. Maybe I can set you two up.”
You ignored the immediate flicker of alarm in your chest—the automatic warning your brain always set off at the mere suggestion of entertaining any man who wasn’t the night shift attending.
“I don’t know,” you said instead, fingers fidgeting with your badge—the stupid tell he’d pointed out once.
The second Ellis said it, something in you tightened.
A sharp, instinctive recoil you didn’t get a vote in.
Like your body had heard the suggestion and decided, absolutely not.
It made no sense, really. It was just a date. Just an option sitting harmlessly on the desk between you.
“You know,” you added lightly, like it didn’t matter, like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of your own pulse, “I’m… probably just not in a dating place right now.”
Her head tilted in that knowing way. “Not in a dating place.”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Night shift keeps me way too busy—”
“Yet you have time to get in that man’s bed?”
The words hit before you could stop them from hitting. Your brain didn’t even get a chance to form a response—
—Because, conveniently, Crus appeared like a lifeline in scrubs, walking up with a chart for Ellis to sign, as if he’d been sent by the universe specifically to rescue you from this conversation.
Your face lit up at the sudden exit.
“I totally forgot Crus put a pot of coffee on earlier. I’m gonna go try it!”
And before anyone could stop you, you were already backing away from the desk.
Fast.
A little too fast.
“No, I didn’t—” He started.
“Thanks, Crusy!”
You were gone before she could finish.
Crus blinked, looking between you and Ellis as you disappeared down the hall. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”
Ellis didn’t even look up from the chart.
“Avoidant attachment.”
Your eyes squeezed shut in relief as you slipped into the break room, the door still in your hand behind your back as you exhaled slowly.
Then the illusion cracked, and you heard a low chuckle cut through the silence.
You didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t need to.
“Mid-shift pick-me-up?”
You scowled in the direction of his voice, finally letting your eyes open. Jack was standing between you and the whirring coffee pot, one arm lazily leaning on the back of a chair like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just fucked your entire attempt at emotional escape.
“Is there any more?” you asked, because you could be strong. You could be level-headed around him.
“I’m makin’ some,” he said. “Someone drank all of it.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking down over you in that quiet, habitual way he had. Not obvious—never obvious. Just enough to feel.
“Someone tired.”
“Hm,” you hummed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that you, in fact, were not getting any sleep.
“Been a while,” he added after a beat.
His gaze lifted again, slower this time, like he was taking inventory. Like he needed to memorize you again after any stretch of absence.
“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms as you stepped further into the room. “That was the last time.”
“Sure it was.”
Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was the disbelief. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d tried—unsuccessfully—to get yourself over the finish line this morning three separate times before you finally gave up on hearing his voice in your head.
Either way, something in you snapped.
You walked closer, eyes locked on his, mouth set in a thin, controlled line.
“I meant it that night,” you said, tipping your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m done.”
“Are you?”
“Yep. I even have a date.”
Something flashed in his eyes—quick, unreadable—but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by something sharper. More challenging.
“A date.”
“Ellis’ friend. She’s setting it up.”
“And when is this ‘date’?”
You hated the way he said it.
Like it wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t solid yet. Like it didn’t deserve space in the same room as him.
And sure, okay, it wasn’t.
But it still made your jaw tighten.
“What do you care?”
“So I can be available,” he said evenly, “for when you inevitably come by after.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Well that’s presumptuous.”
“Is it?” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
You almost choked on the speed at which you snapped back.
“That—that was because we had just had that mass casualty that fucked me up and you know that.”
“I also know,” he said, voice calmer now, almost tired in the way he said it, “that you tend to try to date other people.”
A beat.
“And somehow,” he added, eyes still on you, “you still end up here.”
“I can assure you, Dr. Abbot,” you said, smiling softly—mocking, sweet—using his title the way he’d told you to in public. “I can, in fact, date other people.”
He bent down slowly, bringing himself to your level. Close enough that the space between you stopped feeling like space at all.
“I’d love to see you try.”
And that’s how you ended up at a bar.
Sitting across from Ellis’ friend.
Ordering drinks. Making polite conversation. Nodding at the right moments. Smiling at the right times.
You did everything you were supposed to do.
You even laughed once or twice.
Ellis’ friend was nice. Normal. Stable in the way that should’ve felt like relief.
He didn’t have a traumatic past, or carefully measured words that felt like something else was always hiding underneath them. No guarded edges. No unreadable silences that made you feel like you were constantly trying to translate him.
And yet, every time your phone buzzed against the table, your attention flicked to it before you could stop yourself.
Every time the door opened behind him, something in your chest tightened on instinct.
And every time it wasn’t him, you hated yourself a little more for noticing.
This was what you wanted, right?
Distance.
Options.
Proof.
A life that didn’t orbit a man who barely admitted you mattered outside of four walls and a locked door.
But instead, you just kept thinking about how quiet your apartment would be after this. How loud your thoughts would be.
And how unfair it was that even here—on a date you’d insisted you could handle—you still felt like you were waiting for something else.
Ellis’ friend excused himself to use the restroom, giving your brain a brief opening—just enough quiet to pull you back to a night you hadn’t fully unpacked.
A night you almost told Ellis about.
It had been somewhere in the middle of it all—those weeks where “indulging” had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a routine.
You remember stopping at his front door, scrubs wrinkled from where they’d been tossed somewhere on his bedroom floor, hair slightly mussed, still carrying the aftermath of him in the most intoxicating way.
You’d turned to him in the doorway, eyes lifting to his.
That expectant look you wore sometimes. The one that, for some reason, seemed to scare him more than anything else.
“Hey,” you started carefully. “What do we say if people ask, you know…”
“We don’t say anything.”
His voice hadn’t been soft.
It hadn’t been cruel either.
Just certain.
You blinked. “Right, but… like, what is it?”
A shift.
Barely there, but you saw it. The way he opened the door a little wider. His mouth parted, like he was going to explain it. Clarify it. Do something that would either help you or hurt you.
And you couldn’t stand the idea of either.
So you stopped him.
“Sorry,” you laughed quickly, even though something in your chest was already starting to cave in on itself. “Right. Yeah. Obviously this is nothing—you’re the attending. I just meant like, so no one at work mentions it. And you don’t get in trouble. I mean, you’re not technically my superior anyway, so we’re probably fine. And now I’m rambling. I’m gonna go.”
“Hey, I—”
“No, Dr. Abbot, you really don’t need to say anything. We’re good.”
A beat.
“You can… uh. Call me Jack. Here, anyway.”
It should’ve meant something.
And it almost did.
But his usual composure was slightly off, like he was trying to catch up to the moment and not entirely succeeding.
You just nodded. “Sure,” you said softly, already stepping back. “Anyway… see you at work.”
And then you left.
With your pride carefully, quietly, and completely dismantled.
What you didn’t say out loud—what you never said out loud—was that those weeks had started to feel like something you could accidentally get used to.
Sleeping over on nights off. Coffee in the morning. His apartment slowly becoming familiar to you.
And you were naïve enough, back then, to think that familiarity might mean you were building something.
Not just…falling into it alone.
And of course you were—what did you expect? That sleeping with the night-shift attending would somehow evolve into anything other than an inevitable fizzling out?
You had a habit of falling too hard in places you didn’t belong.
And this was just another version of that.
After that night, you both pulled back.
Careful, deliberate distance.
At work, you moved around each other like opposing currents in the same hallway—efficient, professional, slightly off in rhythm. Enough acknowledgment to function, not enough to blur anything further. Contact reduced to necessity. Words clipped.
Waiting, almost.
For something to shift.
For someone to say something that neither of you were willing to be first to say.
Until you broke first.
And after that, the pattern settled in: you’d show up at his place after hard shifts, or on days off when your mind wouldn’t quiet down. You’d get exactly what you knew he was willing to give—nothing more, nothing less.
And then you’d leave.
You’d swear it was the last.
Until it wasn’t.
“Ready to go?” Ellis’ friend asked as he returned to the table.
You nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave before your brain wandered any further down memory lane.
“Yeah. Early shift tomorrow.”
It was a lie.
A small one, but a useful one.
The check was paid and a few minutes later you found yourself in the passenger seat of his car. You’d Ubered to the bar, assuming you’d just call one home afterward.
Back when you’d thought you’d actually be paying attention to this date. But how could you refuse a free ride home?
The drive was pleasant. He was pleasant. That seemed to be the problem—nothing was wrong. No red flags. No awkward silences. No glaring incompatibilities.
Just an overwhelming absence of whatever stupid thing—or person—your brain seemed determined to chase.
Streetlights blurred past outside the window.
You stared at them.
Half-listening as he talked about something involving his neighbor and a broken sprinkler system.
“Alright,” he said eventually, slowing at a red light. “Where am I taking you?”
You answered without thinking.
“Fourth and Mercer.”
The words left your mouth automatically.
Like muscle memory.
Like reciting your own address.
Then you froze.
Because Fourth and Mercer wasn’t your address.
It was Jack’s.
The realization hit about half a second too late.
For a moment, you just stared out the windshield.
Then you laughed.
Once.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You rubbed a hand over your face.
The normal response would be to correct yourself.
Give him your actual address. Go home. Take off your makeup. Get some sleep.
Maybe unpack whatever psychological damage had just caused you to instinctively send a date to another man’s apartment.
Instead, you found yourself shaking your head.
“Actually…” You looked back out the window. “Yeah. That’s right.”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to launch yourself out of the moving vehicle.
Because what the fuck was wrong with you?
Seriously.
What kind of person goes on a date with one man, accidentally gives another man’s address, realizes what they’ve done, and then decides to commit to it?
Apparently you.
You, who had spent the last month insisting you were done.
You, who had spent the last week avoiding him in the hospital whenever possible.
You, who had sat across from a perfectly attractive, emotionally available man for two hours only to subconsciously recite Jack Abbot’s address like it was your own.
Insane.
Clinically insane.
Potentially diagnosable.
If Ellis found out about this, she’d never let you hear the end of it.
Hell, if you found out someone else had done this, you’d tell them to seek professional help immediately.
And yet, the thought of seeing Jack—
You shoved that one away immediately.
Nope.
You were not about to sit here and unpack whatever deeply concerning emotional implications were hidden inside the fact that his address lived in your head rent-free.
Maybe it didn’t mean anything.
Maybe it was muscle memory.
Maybe your brain had been permanently damaged by night shift.
All plausible explanations.
Far more plausible than the alternative.
True delusion and toxicity drove you out of the car.
You offered your date a small wave through the passenger window, ignoring the increasingly bewildered expression on his face, before shutting the door and turning toward the building.
If he had questions, he was kind enough not to ask them.
Which was good.
Because you didn’t have answers.
Your feet carried you up the familiar steps before your brain could mount any meaningful objection. Through the front entrance. Down the hallway. To a door you could probably locate blindfolded at this point.
The realization should’ve horrified you.
Instead, it barely registered.
You knocked once.
And the door swung open almost immediately.
"Don't."
The word came out sharp. A warning.
To him. Maybe to yourself.
But Jack just stood there in the doorway—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt, hands in his pockets—and that look on his face that said he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Smug didn't even begin to cover it.
You should've turned around.
Should've walked away.
Instead, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you.
Your mouth found his before either of you could say another word, and the kiss was immediate. Desperate. All teeth and urgency and the kind of need that made rational thought impossible.
He didn't hesitate.
His hands were on you instantly—one sliding to your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he walked you backward until your spine hit the entryway wall with a dull thud.
This was the pattern.
The same one you'd fallen into a dozen times before.
You never made it all the way inside.
Not at first.
Something about the threshold—the space between leaving and staying—always unraveled you both.
His mouth moved against yours with the kind of confidence that made your knees weak, his body pressing into you until there was no space left between you. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his lips.
"Even had him drop you off, huh?"
The words were low. Amused. Spoken directly against your mouth between kisses.
Your stomach dropped.
Because of course he knew.
Of course he'd been watching from the window. Of course he'd seen you get out of another man's car and walk straight to his door like you had no other choice.
"Jack—"
"Shh." His thumb brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth found the corner of yours. Then your cheek. Then just below your ear. "It's okay."
It wasn't okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
You'd just come from a date with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who didn't make you feel like you were constantly drowning.
And yet here you were, pinned against an entryway wall, heart racing, breath coming in short gasps as Jack's hands roamed over you like he owned every inch.
The worst part?
You wanted him to.
God, you hated yourself for it.
Hated how easily you melted under his touch. How your body responded before your brain could catch up. How the shame of it all only seemed to make you want him more.
His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hem of your dress, and you bit down on your lip to keep from making a sound.
"So eager to see me," he murmured against your neck, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. "Couldn't even wait to get inside."
Your hands fisted in his shirt as he kicked the door shut, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to push him away.
"What a good girl, always coming back to me."
The words hit you like a physical thing.
Your breath caught. Heat flooded your face—and lower—and you wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to fuck off, wanted to do anything other than stand there and let him see exactly what those words did to you.
But you couldn't.
Because he knew.
He always knew.
His mouth found yours again, slower this time, more deliberate, and his hand finally slipped beneath the fabric of your dress. Fingers trailing up your thigh with maddening patience.
You made a sound—something between a whimper and a protest—and he smiled against your lips.
"That's it," he said quietly. "Just like that."
You were going to hell.
Or maybe you were already there.
Because the only thing worse than how much you wanted this—wanted him—was how much he knew it.
How easily he could unravel you with a look, a touch, a handful of words that made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
Even if it was the last place you should've gone.
His hands moved to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and he hiked your dress up in one smooth motion. The fabric bunched around your waist as he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around him.
The wall was cold against your back. Unforgiving.
He wasn't.
Or maybe he was—just in a different way. Unforgiving in the way he kept you circling the same drain, always one step short of whatever this was actually becoming. Always dancing right up to the edge of it, like neither of you could decide who was supposed to fall first.
His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his other hand worked between you, pushing aside fabric, finding exactly what he wanted with the kind of precision that made your head spin.
"Jack—"
"Yeah," His voice was low, thick with desire. "Right here, sweetheart."
And then he was inside you.
The stretch, the fullness, the way your body yielded to him so easily—it was too much and not enough all at once. Your head fell back against the wall, a broken sound escaping your throat as he held you there, pinned between him and the plaster.
He didn't move. Not yet.
Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed against your temple, his breath hot against your ear.
"Tell me," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this."
Your nails dug into his shoulders.
"Jack—"
"Say it." His hips shifted slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "Tell me you don't need this."
You couldn't.
The words wouldn't come.
Because they'd be a lie, and you both knew it.
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before driving back in with enough force to make you cry out. The sound echoed in the narrow entryway, shameless and desperate.
"That's what I thought," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
He set a rhythm then—slow, deliberate, controlled. Each thrust calculated to pull sounds from you that you didn't want to make. Each movement designed to remind you exactly who was in charge here.
"You can't get enough of this, can you?" His hand tightened on your thigh, holding you open for him. "Can't stay away."
"Don't—" The word came out as a whimper.
"Don't what?" He punctuated the question with a particularly deep thrust that had your vision blurring. "Don't tell the truth? Don't make you admit it?"
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough that it should've hurt, but he just groaned and moved faster.
"Say it," he demanded, his mouth against your jaw. "Tell me you need this."
"I—" You couldn't finish. Couldn't force the words past the shame and the pleasure tangled so tightly together you couldn't separate them anymore.
He slowed. Almost stopped.
"Say it, or I stop."
"No—" The protest was immediate, desperate. "Please—"
"Please what?"
You swore you hated him.
Hated how easily he could reduce you to this—begging, pleading, completely at his mercy.
"I need it," you gasped out, the admission burning in your throat. "I need—fuck—I need you."
The smile you felt against your skin was pure victory.
"There she is," he murmured, his pace picking up again. "My good girl. So honest when I'm inside you.
The wall dug into your spine with each thrust. Your leg was starting to shake where it was wrapped around him. Everything was too much—the angle, the intensity, the way he looked at you like he'd won something.
Because he had.
"You came straight here," he continued, his voice rough now, control starting to fray at the edges. "Didn't even go home first. Just needed me that badly."
"Yes—" The word broke on a moan.
"Even after your little date. Even after trying so hard to move on."
"Jack—please—"
"Please what? Make you come? Make you forget about him?" His hand slid between you, finding exactly where you needed him. "Make you remember who you belong to?"
You shattered.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation. Your body clenched around him, trembling, and you heard yourself crying out his name like a prayer or a curse—you couldn't tell which anymore.
He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.
He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.
Your leg was still wrapped around him. His hand still gripped your thigh. The wall was still cold against your back, but his body was warm—solid—and for just a second, you let yourself stay there.
Before reality could catch up.
Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and his hand moved to your face. Thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache. Mimicking a softness he once showed you, way back before this all got entangled in the way these things did.
"Stay."
The word hung between you.
You blinked. "What?"
"Stay over." His voice was quieter now. "Tonight."
Your heart did something complicated.
Because he'd never asked that before—at least, not since that morning. Not since you'd tried to define this thing and shut it down and he let you walk away pretending it didn't matter.
You stared at him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you what this meant.
But his expression was unreadable.
Guarded.
Same as always.
"I—" You started to pull away, to put distance between you, but his hand on your waist kept you there. "I should go."
"How?" he asked simply. "Your date dropped you off, remember?"
The logic of it hit you like cold water.
Right.
You'd given Jack's address. You'd gotten out of the car here. You didn't have your own car. You'd have to call an Uber, and it was late, and—
"I can call a ride," you said, even though the words felt hollow.
"You could."
He didn't move.
Didn't push.
Just waited.
And somehow that was worse.
Because you couldn't tell if he actually wanted you to stay or if he was just Jack Abbot, night shift attending, solving a problem. Couldn't tell if this was something or if you were reading into it the way you always did—seeing meaning where there wasn't any.
"Jack—"
"It's late," he said. "You're here. Just stay."
Your throat tightened.
"Why?"
The question came out smaller than you meant it to.
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then his hand dropped from your face, and he stepped back, giving you space. Letting your leg slide down until you were standing on your own again.
"Because I'm asking you to."
That was it.
No explanation. No declaration. No answer to the question you were really asking.
Just that.
You wanted to leave.
Wanted to walk out the door and prove to yourself—and to him—that you could.
But your feet didn't move.
And he knew it.
He always knew.
"Okay,"
It started small.
It was always small things with him—never enough to point at, never enough to accuse, never enough to justify the way it started messing with your head.
But you noticed everything anyway.
The way he paused—just briefly—before walking away from your station, like he was deciding whether or not to say something that wasn’t strictly necessary.
He never used to hesitate.
That was new.
And it made you hyper-aware of everything else.
He didn’t lean into the sarcasm as much when Shen made some comment that would’ve normally earned a dry remark from him. He didn’t linger in the doorway of trauma bays the way he used to, but he also didn’t leave as quickly either—like he was calibrating your distance instead of defaulting to it.
Even his silence felt different.
Intentional.
And it was fucking with you.
Because if you were being honest—if you were being brutally honest—you had built a system around the predictability of him.
Cold when he needed to be. Detached when he wanted to be. Clear lines, clear roles, clear nothing-you-could-misinterpret.
It had been easier that way.
Safer.
Even if it drove you insane.
But now?
Now there were these almost-imperceptible deviations in the pattern.
Like he was…paying attention in a way that wasn’t strictly required.
And you hated that your brain immediately started translating it into something dangerous.
Hope, maybe.
Or worse—meaning.
You were charting at the nurse’s station when he appeared behind you, not speaking right away. Just there. Close enough that you registered him before you turned.
“Can I see bed six’s labs?” he asked finally.
Normal.
Professional.
Except he didn’t leave immediately after you handed them over.
He looked at them.
Then at you.
Then back at the chart like he was stalling for time that didn’t exist.
“You didn’t get coffee,” he said.
You blinked once. “I did. Earlier.”
A pause.
“I meant since then.”
There it was again.
That thing.
That quiet attention that didn’t match the version of him you had built your rules around.
“I’ve been busy,” you said carefully.
“I know.”
You turned back to your chart like it was suddenly fascinating, because looking at him for too long felt like stepping too close to something you’d been actively trying not to name.
“You’re being weird today,” you muttered.
A beat.
“I’m not.”
You almost laughed at that.
Because if this was him not being weird, then you didn’t know what reality you were in anymore.
He finally took a step back, but not before his eyes flicked over you once more—quick, practiced, familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten without permission.
“You should eat something,” he said.
Then he walked off.
And you sat there for a second too long, staring at the space he’d just occupied, wondering when exactly “professional concern” started feeling indistinguishable from something else entirely.
Your mind thought back to that mass casualty that happened six months ago—the day that the PTMC turned dark.
All hands on deck. Every hallway filled. Every monitor screaming for attention it didn’t have time to get. Voices overlapping until they stopped sounding like words and started sounding like pressure.
You remembered moving on autopilot.
Remembered the way your body kept going even when your brain started lagging behind it.
Remembered the moment you couldn’t take it anymore.
The stairwell had been quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not peaceful—just empty. Like the building had forgotten how to breathe.
You don’t even remember deciding to go there.
Sinking down on the step with your head in your hands while everything you’d held together for the last hour finally split open without asking your permission.
You weren’t sobbing like in movies. It was worse than that—it was silent. Like your body was trying to process too much at once and failing in real time.
You heard the door before you saw him.
He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t do any of the things people do when they’re trying to create distance from something they don’t know how to fix.
He just came down the steps and sat beside you.
Close enough that your shoulders touched.
And then closer.
Until there wasn’t really space between you at all.
His hand didn’t hesitate when it found your back. Slow, steady pressure like he was anchoring something that kept trying to drift away.
You don’t know how long you stayed like that.
Minutes. Hours. Something outside of time entirely.
At some point, you stopped shaking.
At some point, your breathing stopped feeling like it belonged to someone else.
And at some point, you became aware of the fact that he hadn’t moved—hadn’t checked his watch. Hadn’t said a single word about needing to go back.
Just stayed.
Like leaving wasn’t an option he was considering.
When you finally pulled back, it was gradual. Reluctant. Like stepping out of water that had been keeping you alive.
You didn’t look at him at first.
Neither did he speak.
You wiped your face, exhaled once, and nodded like that was enough to reset the universe.
“Back to it?” you had said.
A pause.
Then, like nothing had happened at all:
“Yeah.”
And spent the next six months acting like something inside that stairwell hadn’t quietly rearranged itself without either of you acknowledging it.
And now, here he was, rearranging everything again.
Not in any dramatic way. Not in a way you could point to and accuse him of meaning something.
Just the damn small things.
Restocking your glitter pens without being asked. Answering patients with a clipped patience when they got too loud with you, stepping in before you even had to react. Sliding a chart back into your station that you hadn’t realized you left open, like he was quietly tidying up the edges of your shift when you weren’t looking.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
That was the rule.
That was always the rule.
But your brain kept betraying you anyway.
Because it felt like that day in the stairwell.
And now, watching him move through the department like that again—steady, controlled, too observant for his own good—you couldn’t help the thought that crept in at the edges.
That maybe this wasn’t nothing to him either.
That maybe it had never been.
And that was the thought you needed to stay away from.
So you needed to do something drastic.
You were halfway through your coffee when the break room door opened hard enough to make you look up immediately.
Not in alarm—just recognition.
Jack stood in the doorway for a second too long, not stepping fully in right away. His attention went straight to you, skipping over everything else in the room like it wasn’t relevant.
“Why is Robby asking me about switching you to days?”
You set your cup down slowly.
Not because you were rattled.
Because you were trying to decide how much of this conversation you were willing to have before your shift even started.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably because it has to go through you. Staffing, scheduling, whatever.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
That was the first sign this wasn’t just about paperwork.
“It doesn’t go through me like that,” he said after a beat.
You nodded once, like that detail didn’t matter much. “Okay.”
That seemed to irritate him more than anything else so far. He stepped fully into the room now, letting the door fall shut behind him.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said.
You leaned back slightly against the counter, keeping your posture loose on purpose.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
A pause.
His jaw tightened briefly before settling again.
“You’re changing your schedule at this hospital,” he said, more controlled now. “And I’m only hearing about it through Robby.”
“It’s not finalized yet,” you said. “It’s just a request.”
“That’s not the point.”
You watched him for a second.
He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t raising his voice. Wasn’t doing anything obvious.
But there was something contained in the way he stood there that you were starting to recognize too well.
Like he was holding himself in place more than he was standing.
“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” you said.
“It’s not a problem,” he answered too quickly.
Then stopped.
Corrected himself, slower this time.
“It’s just…unexpected.”
You hummed slightly, almost thoughtful.
“Since when do you care what shift I work?”
His eyes flicked to yours at that, steady but sharper now.
“I don’t,” he said.
It didn’t land convincingly.
Not even close.
You didn’t push it—instead, you let the silence sit there for a moment, thickening.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
“You won’t be around as much.”
It came out like a practical observation, but it didn’t sit like one.
You looked down at your coffee for a second before answering.
“I’ll still be here,” you said. “Just different hours.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
He shifted his weight slightly, then stilled again like he’d caught himself mid-movement.
“You don’t work days,” he said.
It wasn’t a correction.
Something closer to resistance.
You glanced up again. “That’s not really a rule.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
Another pause.
This one was longer.
He looked like he was considering something he didn’t like the shape of.
Something quieter.
Something he was actively not letting develop into words.
“You’ll be harder to find,” he said finally.
You frowned slightly.
“I’m not disappearing.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
But he didn’t elaborate.
And that was the problem.
Because the things he didn’t say were starting to feel louder than the things he did.
You straightened a little, watching him now instead of your coffee.
“You’re acting like this is a bigger deal than it is,” you said carefully.
A beat.
“I’m not,” he replied.
It was immediate again.
Too immediate.
Then, quieter, like he was correcting something internal more than responding to you, “I just want to understand why now.”
You held his gaze for a moment.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was challenging your decision.
It felt like he was trying not to lose something he wasn’t allowed to call his.
“I’m tired,” you said simply. “That’s it.”
He nodded once, but it wasn’t satisfied.
Just contained.
Like he’d accepted the answer without believing it fully.
The silence stretched again—long enough that it started to feel like a decision neither of you were saying out loud.
Finally, he looked away first.
“Do what you need to do,” he said, quieter than before.
And then he stayed there a moment longer anyway.
Like leaving first would make it real.
Like not saying anything else was the closest he could get to asking you not to go.
You didn't go home after your shift.
You went to his place instead.
The drive was short enough that you didn't have time to second-guess it, which was probably the only reason you actually showed up. By the time you were standing outside his door, your scrubs still on, your bag still slung over one shoulder, the momentum was the only thing keeping you upright.
You knocked once.
Not politely.
Hard enough that it wasn't a question.
The door opened after a few seconds, and Jack stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking like he'd just gotten home himself. His hair was still damp from a shower.
He didn't look surprised.
That was the first thing that pissed you off.
"We need to talk," you said.
He stepped back without a word, holding the door open.
You walked in, dropped your bag by the entrance, and turned to face him before he'd even closed the door fully.
"Why didn't you fight me on it?"
He shut the door carefully, then looked at you.
"On what?"
"Don't do that," you said. "The schedule change. You stood there earlier like it mattered, and then you just—let it go."
He exhaled slowly, like he was buying time.
"You said you were tired.”
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you gave me."
You stared at him.
He wasn't deflecting exactly—it was more like he was staying behind something. Some line he'd drawn for himself that you couldn't see but kept running into.
"You do this," you said, quieter now but no less sharp. "You act like it matters. And then the second I push, you back off like it was never a thing to begin with."
"I'm not backing off."
"Then what are you doing?"
He didn't answer right away.
You took a step closer.
"You’ve been checking on me during shifts," you said. "You ask when my dates are. You ask when I’ve eaten. You don't do that with anyone else."
"You don't know that."
"I do," you said flatly. "Everyone knows that."
His eyes flicked away briefly, then back.
"So what?" he said, and there was an edge to it now. "You want me to stop?"
"No," you said. "I want you to admit what it is."
Silence.
He shifted his weight slightly, and you saw it—the crack forming.
Small, but there.
"It doesn't have to be anything," he said finally.
You laughed, short and humorless.
"Bullshit."
"It's not—"
"Then why don't you see other people?"
That landed.
You saw it in the way his expression stilled, like you'd just said something he wasn't ready to hear out loud.
"I don't—"
"You don't," you interrupted. "I know you don't. You haven't since this started."
He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see him deciding how much to give.
Not enough.
Never enough.
"That's not your business," he said quietly.
"It is if you're going to act like I'm yours without actually saying it."
His jaw tightened again, sharper this time.
"I never said you were mine."
"You didn't have to."
Another pause.
Longer.
Heavier.
He turned slightly, like he was going to move away, then stopped himself.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was lower now. Rougher.
"The truth," you said. "Just once."
He looked at you then—really looked—and for a second you thought he might actually do it.
Might actually let whatever he'd been holding back finally break through.
But then he shook his head, just barely.
"It's not that simple."
"It is," you said. "You're just making it complicated because you're scared."
"I'm not—"
"You are," you cut in. "You're terrified that if you call this what it is, it'll mean something. And if it means something, you'll have to actually do something about it."
He didn't deny it.
That was answer enough.
You stepped closer again, close enough now that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had curled slightly at his sides like he was holding himself back.
"Why do you think I asked for the schedule change?" you said, quieter now.
He looked at you, and something shifted in his expression.
Something wary.
"I don't know," he said.
"Because I can't keep doing this," you said. "I can't keep waiting for you to figure out what you want while you act like I'm the only person in the room."
His throat worked briefly, like he was swallowing something down.
"I'm not asking you to wait."
"You don't have to ask," you said. "I've been doing it anyway."
That hit him.
You saw it in the way his eyes closed briefly, in the way his breath came out just a little too controlled.
When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.
"I don't want you on days," he said.
It came out rough.
Unfiltered.
Like he'd finally let something slip that he'd been holding onto too tightly.
You stared at him.
"Then say the rest of it."
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just stood there, close enough to touch, looking at you like he was trying to decide whether letting you in would break him or save him.
"I can't," he said finally.
And it sounded like the most honest thing he'd said all night.
You held his gaze for another moment, then stepped back.
"Then I'm switching to days," you said.
He flinched.
Barely—but you saw it.
"And if you want me to stay," you continued, "you're going to have to give me a reason that isn't just showing up and acting like I'm supposed to know what this is without you ever saying it."
You picked up your bag.
Turned toward the door.
His voice stopped you before you reached it.
"Don't go."
You looked back.
He was still standing in the same spot, but something in him had shifted.
Something raw.
"Not yet," he added, quieter.
You waited.
He didn't say anything else.
But he didn't look away either.
"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."
His voice came out rougher than before, like the words were scraping their way out.
You stayed where you were, hand still on your bag.
"I don't know how to—" Another pause. His jaw worked briefly. "How to be with someone. Not like this. Not in a way that—that means something."
He looked down, then forced himself to look back up.
"I've never—" He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. "I've never had to name it before. Never wanted to. Because if I don't name it, then it's just—it's just there. It exists without me having to—"
He stopped again.
You could see him fighting for the next words.
"Without me having to risk it," he finished quietly.
The silence stretched.
You didn't move.
Didn't help him.
He needed to get through this on his own.
"I'm terrified," he said, and it came out almost angry. Not at you. At himself. "I'm terrified that if I call this what it is, if I say it out loud, then it becomes something I can lose. And I—"
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I can't lose you."
It was barely above a whisper.
"That's why I didn't fight you on the schedule," he continued, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "Because fighting you would've meant admitting why I wanted you to stay on nights. And I couldn't—I couldn't say that. Couldn't say that I needed you there. That I needed to know where you were, that I could find you, that you were—"
He stopped himself.
Breathed.
"That you were mine," he said finally. "Even though I had no right to think that."
You felt something shift in your chest.
"All of it," he said. "The checking on you, the showing up, keeping you close—it was because I didn't know how else to keep you. I didn't know how to just—to just be with you like a normal person. So I did it like this instead. Like I could have you without actually having to say I wanted you."
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
"But you matter too much," he said, quieter now. "You matter too much for me to keep doing that. And I don't—I've never had that before. Never had someone matter so much that not having them felt like—"
He didn't finish.
Couldn't finish.
"I don't know how to do this," he repeated, and this time it sounded like a confession and a plea at the same time. "But I don't want you on days. I don't want you anywhere I can't find you. And I know that's—I know that's not fair, but it's the truth."
He looked at you then, fully.
Unguarded.
"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever this is. I just—I don't know how to do it without ruining it."
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then shook your head slowly.
"Then why," you said, voice tight but controlled, "did you say it was nothing?"
He blinked.
"What?"
"Months ago," you said. "When we—when this started. You said it was nothing. You agreed it was nothing."
His jaw tightened.
"I didn't say—"
"You did," you cut him off. "You stood there and you let me say it was casual, that it didn't mean anything, and you agreed."
"I didn't get to say what it was," he said, and there was an edge to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration turned inward. "I didn't—I didn't know how to say what it was."
You felt your chest tighten.
"So you just let me decide for both of us?"
"You already had decided," he shot back, quieter but sharper. "You said it first. You called it nothing before I even had a chance to figure out what the hell I was supposed to call it."
That landed harder than you expected.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
"It was easier," he continued, voice dropping. "It was easier to just—to go along with what you said. Because at least that way I didn't have to try and fail to explain something I didn't have words for."
He looked away briefly, then forced himself to look back.
"You named it," he said. "And I let you. Because I didn't know how to name it differently. And I was terrified that if I tried, I'd say the wrong thing and you'd leave."
The silence between you felt heavier now.
Different.
"So you just—what?" you said quietly. "You just let me carry that? Let me think that's all it was?"
"Yes," he said, and it sounded like an admission of guilt. "I did."
Another pause.
"Because it was easier than risking you," he added, barely audible.
You exhaled slowly, something unraveling in your chest that you hadn't realized was wound so tight.
"That's not fair," you said.
"I know.”
He didn't move. Didn't try to defend himself further.
Just stood there, letting you see exactly how much of a coward he'd been.
"You should've said something."
"I know."
But this time, he moved.
Finally.
He crossed the space between you in three steps, and then his hands were on you—one sliding around your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your head as he pulled you against him.
The contact hit you like a shock.
Solid. Warm. Real.
His arms tightened around you, and you felt something in your chest crack open—something you'd been holding closed for so long you'd forgotten it was even there.
You didn't pull away.
Couldn't.
Your hands came up automatically, fisting in his shirt, and you pressed your face against his shoulder as everything you'd been carrying suddenly became too heavy to hold on your own.
He held you tighter.
Like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice rough against your hair. "I'm sorry I made you carry that alone."
You felt your throat tighten.
"I've been in love with you," you said, and it came out muffled against his shoulder. Quieter than you meant it to. "For a year."
His breath caught.
You felt it—the way his chest stuttered against yours, the way his grip on you shifted, became more deliberate.
More certain.
"I know," he said softly.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his hand slid from the back of your head to cup your face instead, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.
His eyes were darker now. Softer.
"I know," he repeated, "because I've been in love with you too."
The words landed between you like something fragile and vital all at once.
You stared at him.
"The whole time?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
"The whole time," he confirmed, and his voice cracked slightly on it. "I just—I didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to be someone who could say it."
Your eyes burned.
"You're saying it now."
"I'm saying it now," he agreed quietly.
His forehead dropped to yours, and you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of a year's worth of unnamed things finally settling into place.
"Don't switch to days," he said, and it wasn't a command. It was a request. Vulnerable. Raw. "Please. Just…stay with me."
You opened your eyes.
He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
Like maybe you always had been.
"I'm not leaving," you said finally.
His exhale was shaky with relief.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay."
He kissed your forehead, then pulled you back against him, and you let yourself sink into it—into him—for the first time without wondering if you were allowed to.
"I love you," he said quietly, like he was testing the words out. Seeing how they felt.
You felt them settle into your chest, warm and certain.
"I love you too," you said back.
And this time, when he held you, it didn't feel like he was trying to keep you coming.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 132k┊ongoing┊updates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
⤷ CHAPTER INDEX:
⚕one.┊two.┊three.┊four.┊five.┊six.┊seven.┊eight.┊nine.┊ten.┊eleven. ┊twelve.┊thirteen.┊fourteen.┊ fifteen. ┊ sixteen.┊seventeen.┊eighteen┊ nineteen ┊twenty ┊twenty one
⤷ BLURBS INDEX:
⚕ long shift
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow @s-writing-s-fics to get notified when i post a new chapter <33
I like to imagine Simon’s favorite hobby is asking Grace whatever random question pops into his head whenever Grace is at his most vulnerable, solely for the amusement of watching him get increasingly flustered until he can’t get another word out.
summary: the pitt notices the growing tension between you and dr. jack abbot, even after you're moved to the day shift temporarily - spurring forth a secret bet you're both unaware of. jack is there when you get injured at work, and he shows you just how helpful his hands can be.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, porn with a lotta plot (we work for our porn in this household), undefined age gap, hint at power imbalance (they're both consenting adults), sloooow burn, swearing, jealousy, mutual pining, jack is a yearner, so much tension it's dizzying, santos is a menace, lots of dialogue, reader has had knee surgery, reader gets injured, mentions of jack's prosthetic, swat jack, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, baby), detailed explicit smut, reader is desperate (aren't we all for that old man), dirty talk, teasing, praise kink, nipple play, fingering, oral (f!recieving), squirting, jack comes untouched, thigh grinding, unprotected pnv (reader is on birth control), service dom!jack, aftercare, dual pov, no use of y/n, not beta read, partly proofread, smut is not proofread (whatever i wrote is between me and the demon that possessed me)
word count: 16.7k (last 6k is straight up smut)
authors note: part 2 is finally here 😭 i have been going back and forth on this for weeks; i cannot just go full smut so apologies for the additional plot to part 1 (i'm not sorry, i love the pitt shenanigans 🙂↕️). i finally listened to yes, chef - shawn...the man that you are. i live for praise so don't be shy 🫦
song inspo: ooo - amber mark
divider credits: red line divider by @/omi-resources, medical divider by @/sisterlucifergraphics
part one masterlist
Have you ever thought about the things we could do?
Wakin' up next day smellin' like my perfume
I'll turn you on, I know you want those
Late night views, just us two, me on you
Jack Abbot knew what he was doing was wrong.
Well, maybe not wrong per se—but it wasn't typical attending behaviour. He knew for a fact he wouldn't guide Crus to an empty patient room if he caught him with a slight limp, knew he wouldn't touch Ellis' bare leg let alone fucking massage it.
The first time it happened he convinced himself that no, it was typical attending behaviour—he was concerned that your pain would affect your ability to treat patients. And yeah, there was a sliver of understanding as well—he knew how hard it was to ignore the physical ache, how once it reached a point it became an obsessive loop of pain, pain, pain.
Having an excuse to touch you, to get close to you—that was just a bonus, it wasn't the sole reason he was helping you. At least that's what he kept on telling himself, to convince himself that the professional boundaries were still there.
The second time he dragged you into an empty patient room, he was able to admit to himself that it wasn't typical attending behaviour. And while helping to relieve your pain wasn't wrong, the thoughts he had with your leg on his lap definitely were.
The thoughts he carried home with him after every shift with you, they were wrong. But, fuck, did they feel so right. Touching himself remembering how your skin felt under his hands, replaying your small pained whimpers and the look of relief on your face —he knew that was wrong. Moaning your name out as he came over his fist and stomach, he knew that was wrong. But no one would ever know—you would never know.
"So," he started, his fingers pressing into the spots on your calf he knew were the worst. "Any more first date horror stories?"
He didn't know why he was asking. He didn't want to know about you going out with other men. But it was on the long list of things about you that kept him up as he tried to sleep—the incessant thoughts about you spending your time with a man that was undeserving. Endless thoughts about another man's hands tending to your knee, hands that were allowed to drift higher and pull sounds from you he could only dream about hearing.
You placed your hands behind you on the patient bed, leaning back on them. "No, I've learned my lesson. Think I might get started early on that whole single, crazy cat lady thing."
His breathy laugh brushed across your bare shin. "Oh, yeah? How's that going?"
You pretended to think for a second with a hum. "I went to an animal shelter the other day, there was a cute three legged cat that I wanted to adopt."
He felt his chest crack open with something warm at the thought of you with a little amputee cat.
"Why didn't you?" His hazel eyes were tender when they met yours.
"Just…don't know if it's the right time. They're much less work than dogs, but it's still a pet—something that would rely on me." You shrugged, looking up at the ceiling because his eyes were too intense. A small wince left you as he worked on a tight knot.
"You're a very reliable person, I'm sure you could manage just fine. Plus, it's a three legged cat—those guys are adorable." He finished with a half smile.
You looked at him again, a small smile gracing your lips. "It sounds like you really want me to adopt this cat."
Jack was ready to go to every animal shelter in Pittsburgh to find that cat himself, if it guaranteed you wouldn't waste any more time on a man that wasn't him.
He finished off the massage with a soft pat to your shin. "If it means that you won't date any more assholes, then yeah, I want you to adopt the damn cat."
You were aware of the eyes on you and Dr. Abbot since he began helping with your knee. It was obvious when Ellis' and Shen's eyes trailed after you both as Abbot steered you towards South seventeen the second time he noticed your pained wince and limp. And it was especially obvious when Nurse Vivi came into what she thought was an empty room, intending to prep it for a patient from chairs.
"Oh! I'm sorry, doctors." She shot you a peculiar smile, her eyes flicking down to your exposed leg. "You okay?"
Dr. Abbot stood up and approached the door that Vivi was half standing in. "Yep. Just an old injury flare up." He said casually, like he did this for every one of his staff. He gave you a single nod before walking back into the ED.
The few hours until the end of your shift after that incident were full of raised eyebrows from Lena and Bridget—mainly directed at Dr. Abbot—and curious side-eyes from Ellis.
Lena approached you in the staff locker room as you grabbed your bag, Ellis doing the same at her locker next to yours.
"Hey, sweetie," she gave you a warm smile. "You know you can tell me if anything, if anyone, is making you uncomfortable, right?"
You felt heat rush up your neck—you understood what she was insinuating immediately. "Yes, of course!"
She tilted her head to the side, a look of suspicion pulling at her features.
You sighed, "it's nothing, really. I have an old sports injury that's been acting up, and Dr. Abbot has been helping when it slows me down."
Lena nodded slightly with a small smile. "He's a good man."
You didn't need the reminder. It was something that had you spiralling while trying to sleep more often than not lately.
"Let us know when it acts up again, okay? An ex once told me I have the hands of a masseuse." She ended with a wink before exiting, throwing a wave at you two over her shoulder.
The fourth and last time Dr. Abbot sat on a stool in front of you, it felt like you were under a microscope. You caught the double takes nurses did as they walked past the open curtain, and the small smirk on Ellis' lips had you wanting to shrink in on yourself.
You couldn't even enjoy the feel of his hands on your skin.
You couldn't enjoy the way his scrub sleeves were pulled taut around his biceps, the fabric straining against his thick muscles. You couldn't enjoy how every tendon in his arm tensed and moved while he massaged your calf, a sight that normally left you speechless—that left you with an ache you could only satiate with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was his instead.
Then there was the way Dr. Abbot looked at you in those brief moments you were alone—like he was memorising every detail about you. It made you want to crawl out of your skin. He was so goddamn attentive, catching every micro-flash of pain your face betrayed. And despite the sinking feeling that what you were doing was wrong, his hands on your skin felt so right—they left you feeling dizzy and flustered every time.
His voice was always softer, the rough edge of his professional doctor side falling away. He spoke to you almost as if you were a friend, and made it seem like this was something he often did with friends.
It was in that soft voice of his that he opened up about his own pain with his amputated leg—telling you the small things he did to help alleviate the pain, recommending you the cream he used, reminding you to take a small break whenever the chaos quietened enough.
"Can't have my best resident suffering," he mumbled, his eyes flicking to your mouth when one of your pained whimpers slipped free.
You chuckled through the tightness in your chest from his praise. "Don't let Ellis or Crus hear you say that—they might swap to the day shift in retaliation."
He let out a scoff. "Nah, they're too weird for the day shift," he gave you one of his signature winks. "Besides, I think Ellis would end up in a fist fight with Robby if she had to spend a full twelve hour shift with him. God knows how many times I've been close to punching him."
You threw your head back with a loud laugh, your body shaking from the intensity. You gave him a teasing smile after you caught your breath. "Isn't he one of your closest friends?"
Jack couldn't stop the full blown grin on his face, the sound of your laughter filling his body with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.
"And? You telling me you haven't wanted to cause your friends physical harm when they were being dicks?"
Another giggle slipped out of you. "Yeah, you've got me there. Santos has a photo of a bruise I gave her when we went out a few weeks ago." You held up a finger as his eyes shot up to yours, his eyebrows raised in surprise and his mouth parting to no doubt give you shit. "Before you say anything, she totally deserved it."
He shook his head with a small laugh, squinting his eyes at you. "I'm sure she did."
He finished massaging your leg, rolling your scrub pant down over your knee. He flashed you a small smirk before giving your calf a light pinch.
"I always knew you had a fiery side."
Fuck.
At the end of your next shift was when you realised how serious it really was. You were standing in the ambulance bay before morning rounds, catching a breath of fresh air when Dana joined you outside.
"I can already feel this is gonna be a long one," she huffed, pulling out a cigarette and lighter.
She lit the cigarette and took a long drag before looking at you with a glint in her eye. "You nightcrawlers are great at leaving a mess behind."
"Hey, that's not on me. I clean up after my weirdos." You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the exterior wall.
"You ever think about coming back to us, kid?" She flicked the butt of her cigarette, bringing it to her lips for another puff. "Step back into the light, you need the sunshine." She patted your cheek lightly.
You rolled your eyes fondly. "Always the mama bear, Dana. I get plenty of light, seeing as how my shift finishes when the sun comes up."
She let out a soft chuckle. "Touché."
She cleared her throat softly before taking a step closer and laying a hand on your arm. Her voice dropped low, soft. "Nurses, they like to talk. And you have been a hot topic lately, missy."
You tensed immediately, a nervous laugh slipping past your lips. "What—what are you talking about? Has my…work been called into question?"
She rubbed your arm with a squeeze. "No, no, nothing like that. People are just worried, maybe a little intrigued. Is there anything I should know, doll?"
"Is this about Dr. Abbot?"
She gave you a brief nod and you sighed, your head dropping forward. The exhaustion from the twelve hour shift was bordering on unbearable and all you wanted was to crawl into bed.
"I swear, nothing is happening. I would never do that, would never jeopardise my career like that. He just happened to notice my knee injury a few weeks back and has been helping when it hurts. I told Lena all this…" you trailed off, your voice dropping to a mumble.
She finished her cigarette, pressing the butt against the wall before chucking it in the bin next to her. She turned back to you, a look of understanding on her face and a glimmer in her eye.
"Okay, I just wanted to hear it from you." She pulled you into a side hug, squeezing tight. "I'll tell the rumour mill to pipe down, don't want you running off before you become an attending."
You both walked back into the ED, only one of you aware of the conversation that was happening on the hospital's rooftop.
The brisk morning air was biting on the roof, tingling Robby's cheeks as he pushed the door open and let it swing shut with a loud thud behind him.
Jack was leaning against the roof's railing, both arms braced against the cold metal with tension lining his shoulders. He didn't bother turning—there was only one person who knew to find him on the roof at this hour.
"What are you doing, brother?" Came Robby's gruff voice, partially swallowed by the early morning sounds from the city around them.
"Engaging in quiet contemplation. You?"
"Not what I'm talking about." Robby stopped beside his friend, resting his side against the railing with his hands in his pockets.
Jack shot him a side glance, "I have many talents; mind reading isn't one of them."
Robby raised his eyebrows, giving Jack a pointed look. "I'm talking about your resident."
"Crus? I've left him in charge for ten minutes tops, he can't have caused that much damage."
"Don't play dumb. It's not a good look on you."
"You're wrong, everything is a good look on me." Jack shot his friend a half smirk, the tension in his shoulders betraying his nonchalant behaviour.
Robby let out a frustrated scoff, growing tired of Jack's obvious deflecting. He straightened his posture and crossed his arms over his chest, showing his friend that he was serious.
"You know what's not a good look? Dragging your resident into empty patient rooms and massaging her fucking leg." Robby said, a sharp bite to his words.
Jack winced, dropping his head forward slightly. He didn't think word would get to Robby that fast.
"I'm just trying to help her." Jack grumbled, feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "It's not a big deal."
Robby let out a loud incredulous laugh. "Tell her to go see a goddamn physio, Jack!"
Jack sighed and shook his head, growing frustrated at this conversation. Tell you to waste money seeing a physio? When he was more than willing to help, to provide the relief you need?
"I want to help her."
For a second, everything around them froze. The wind came to a halt, the sounds of early morning traffic dissipated. All that was distinguishable was the sincerity in Jack's voice, the conviction behind his words. And that's when Robby knew that this—whatever it was, whatever Jack was feeling—ran deeper than what Lena had insinuated to him and Dana the day before.
Robby shook his head with a small, disbelieving laugh. "You're fucking screwed, my friend."
Jack twisted his wedding ring around his finger, trying to ground himself. He didn't want to accept his feelings for you, didn't want to unlock the door that was clearly labelled 'DANGER' in bright red letters.
"I'm moving her to the day shift."
Jack's reaction was instant.
He pushed off from the railing, crossing his arms over his chest and levelling a cold glare at Robby.
"No. She's my best resident." His tone was sharp, his annoyance bleeding through.
"It's just for a week, while Whitaker is visiting his family." Robby sighed as Jack stood strong, his shoulders moving in a shrug that said 'why should I care'. "You know we need all the help we can get on the day shift—you nightcrawlers can survive without her."
Jack didn't believe that for a second. He needed you on the night shift with him—needed it like he needed air to breathe. The thought struck him deep in his chest, a cold realisation seeping into his bones.
Robby clapped him harshly on the back, throwing an arm over his shoulders as he pivoted them to walk to the rooftop door.
"You could be more grateful—I'm saving your sorry ass from a gruelling trip to HR."
When Robby told you they needed you back on the day shift to cover for Whitaker you were hesitant at first. Not that you had much say in the matter, but the timing of it felt suspicious—Dana had just questioned you about the Abbot situation, and not even thirty minutes later Robby was pulling you aside for a chat about your schedule.
It didn't help that multiple pairs of eyes were not so subtly watching your conversation with your chief attending. You tried your best to not let your surprise show, offering Robby a small smile and a "no problem". One pair of eyes was harder to ignore than the others—eyes that you fantasised about more often than not, eyes that you had to pinch yourself from getting lost in.
Eyes that followed you as you said goodbye to your colleagues, engaging in excited conversation with Mohan and McKay who were ecstatic to have you back on the day shift. Eyes that didn't care that their obvious staring had drawn unwanted attention.
Ellis was finishing up her notes on a patient, tablet in hand as she prepared to pass them off to Santos. She was watching her night shift attending with a small smirk on her face—his forlorn puppy dog expression making her disturbingly pleased. Santos let out a snicker beside Ellis, her own eyes clocking Dr. Abbot's yearning disposition.
Ellis turned to Santos, both sporting matching smirks on their faces with a mischievous gleam in their eyes.
"Want to start a new bet?"
Jack was furious with Robby.
Actually, he was angry with a lot of people lately. He was quicker to snap, his patience wearing thin—on track to lose his title of being the 'fun dad' of the PTMC Emergency Department.
Robby had told him that you were only going to be back on the day shift for one week, just to cover while Whitaker was away. It had been three weeks since Whitaker had returned to the Pitt, and you were still on the day shift.
The night shift had been surviving without you, though barely hanging on by a thread. The main issue they were having? Abbot's perpetual foul mood.
The only time the night shift ever saw a flicker of something warm cross their attending's face was during shift change. It had them all raising their eyebrows, looking at each other knowingly, and digging into their wallets.
"Thirty bucks on Abbot making a move after a paramedic hits on her." Shen murmured to the group gathered at the Hub during shift change, him and Ellis keeping watch in case you or Dr. Abbot appeared. He had witnessed a paramedic hit on you once before, right in front of Abbot. He thought he heard a bone in Abbot's hand fracture from how tightly clenched his fists were.
"Nah," Princess breathed out. "I'm putting twenty on them being together for at least a month."
Perlah hummed next to her. "You thinking they got together after that bad date?"
Dana peered at the group huddled at the counter over the top of her glasses. "Have you seen how he's pining after her? There's no way they're together."
Ellis let out a little whistle, the signal for one of you nearby. The group split off in different directions, Shen slipping a handful of cash into Ellis' hand as they passed each other.
Robby hummed from his spot next to Dana, eyebrows raised as he read over a chart. "You know you shouldn't be entertaining them…"
Dana scoffed, her eyes tracking you as you stepped into Central nine. "You're one to talk—I heard you bet fifty on him confessing after she gets hurt."
"I bet twenty," Dana gave Robby a knowing look, raising her eyebrows at him. "What? I know my friend and I know his white knight complex."
"Yeah," Dana murmured quietly, "that's going to catch up to him one day." She gathered a stack of papers on the counter, stamping them down on the surface to straighten them. Her eyes flicked back up to Robby. "You really think he's going to do somethin' before she becomes an attending?"
Robby sighed, dragging a hand down the side of his face—his beard audibly scratching against his palm. "He stopped wearing his wedding ring a couple weeks ago. I think he's been holding himself back longer than he'd ever care to admit."
The first week you were on the day shift, Jack found himself walking into the ED twenty minutes earlier than he usually did. By the third week, he was standing at the Hub over an hour before shift change. He quickly found out his early arrivals were both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because it was an extra hour he got to see you; to hear you laugh at something Princess said, to admire you as you cared for your patients, to be by your side the second you let out a wince.
A curse because Santos was hell bent on torturing him. He knew she was doing it on purpose—she had a whole twelve hour shift to talk to you, to gossip about your personal lives, yet it seemed that whenever he was near you two all she wanted to talk about was your dating life.
"I know you're still pissed about Mark," Santos started, slinging an arm around your shoulder as you checked the board at the Hub. "But—hear me out—there's a pedes attending at Presby I want to set you up with."
Jack slowed down on the other side of the Hub, pulling up a random chart on a discarded tablet to act busy while his ears strained to hear the rest of your conversation with Santos. A pedes attending? Really?
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "You're joking, right? I am not going out with anyone you suggest ever again."
Santos groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "How many times do I need to apologise? I'm sorry, okay—I promise Ben is the real deal, he won't make you pay for anything."
You shrugged her arm off your shoulder, turning to face her with your arms crossed. "Wow, that's a real high bar you got there, Trin. I feel spoiled," you drawled sarcastically.
She held her hands up in defence. "Fine, don't believe me. You're the one who's going to be sorry you let a catch slip through your fingers."
Her eyes glanced over to the other side of the Hub, catching the way Abbot was standing still with rigid shoulders and a frown pulling at his face. She couldn't stop the small smirk twitching her lips—he was definitely listening.
"Garcia can vouch for him, they did their residency together." She watched, delighted, as your arms loosened, your mouth moving side to side like you were considering it. "And," she dragged out, "he's exactly your type."
You rolled your eyes, but the small bite to your bottom lip gave away your interest. "What, emotionally unavailable?"
You watched as Santos eyes lit up, a slow smirk taking over her face as she subtly nodded towards where Dr. Abbot was standing.
"Old."
A rush of heat crawled up your neck and you elbowed her in the ribs. "Shut up," you hissed with wide eyes.
"You two done gossiping over there?" Dr. Abbot's voice barked out. "I'm sure your patients would love to know they bled out because you were busy planning a date."
You whipped your head to the side, your shocked eyes meeting his cold glare. His hands were gripping the counter's edge, his eyebrows raised as he gave you a pointed look.
You scrambled under his attention. "Sorry, Dr. Abbot, won't happen again." You shot Santos a sharp look before turning on your heels and hurrying towards the North nurses station.
Santos jutted her hip out and crossed her arms over her chest, levelling her superior with a knowing look across the Hub.
"What's the matter? You jealous, Abbot?"
He straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back. Everything about his posture screamed composed—except for the muscle that flexed his jaw.
"Get back to work."
Trinity turned back to the board with a hum, satisfaction thrumming through her veins. She was definitely going to win the bet.
The torture didn't stop there. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, Jack had to hear more about your dating life—this time at the end of a punishing twelve hour shift.
You were walking through the ambulance bay doors with Santos on your right and Mohan on your left. The three of you were fresh-faced in the early morning hours, each of you holding a cup of coffee in your hands. Jack's eyes were drawn to you instantly, catching the way the fluorescent lights brightened your eyes and highlighted the sleepy smile stretching your lips.
He was too busy getting lost in the mere sight of you to notice the sly look Santos threw his way.
"What is it that you like about older guys?" Trinity asked, nudging you with her elbow. Mohan let out a chuckle from your other side, suddenly finding her coffee very fascinating.
You shot Santos a bewildered look, your brows furrowing and mouth parting slightly. Before you could express your confusion, she continued.
"Is it the knee thing?"
"What?" You asked, a puzzled laugh lacing your words. "What are you talking about?"
"Do you bond with them over your upcoming knee replacements?" Santos asked with a cocky grin.
"Oh, shut up," you shove her shoulder lightly. "It's way too early for me to deal with your abuse."
The three of you reached the Hub, exchanging soft smiles and greetings with the night shift nurses. Your eyes flickered to Dr. Abbot briefly, his broad frame hard to ignore. He met your eyes for a second, giving you a small nod before turning to Lena.
"But seriously, I'm curious," Santos said, resting her elbows on the counter and cocking her head to the side. She didn't bother lowering her voice, gaining the attention of your colleagues scattered around the Hub—which, unbeknownst to you, was her full intention.
You narrowed your eyes at the mischievous smile on her face, a sense of dread tightening your throat. That look never meant anything good for you.
"How do you fuck your geriatric boyfriends when you've both got bad knees?"
A chorus of sounds echoed around the Hub.
Mateo snickered loudly behind his hand.
Samira let out a shocked gasp beside you.
Lena muttered, "oh dear."
Robby let out a long exhale, his mouth trembling in effort to not bark out a laugh.
"What the fuck, Trinity!" You exclaimed, slapping her arm harshly. Your response earned a few chuckles to sound out around you, causing the embarrassment you were feeling to clog your throat. Your wide eyes found Dr. Abbot's, his blank expression giving nothing away.
You quickly brushed past your amused coworkers, shoulder checking Santos on your way to the lockers. For a brief second, mortified tears blurred your vision. It was one thing for her to talk about setting you up on dates while working, but to make a joke about your sex life—in front of the unattainable attending she knew you had a crush on—was a step too far.
Jack watched as you bolted through the ED, a mix of emotions storming within him. He was irate with Santos, jealous about whoever these 'boyfriends' were, and concerned about you. He caught the flicker of hurt that crossed your face at Santos' question, the panic in your eyes when you looked at him.
And, he couldn't ignore the desire pooling low in his gut. Because it was something he had thought about—what position would feel best for you, what would guarantee you the most pleasure without hurting your knee. And he knew that if he ever was lucky enough to have you writhing under him, he wouldn't give a fuck about his leg.
Whilst Santos' jabbing was uncouth, it did confirm one important thing for him—you liked older men. Enough to want to fuck them.
That fact had his cock twitching in his scrub pants.
"You hear that, brother?" Robby murmured quietly, standing closer to Jack than he was a second before. "You might have a chance." Robby chuckled and gave Jack a pat on the shoulder before turning to the staff gathered at the Hub.
"Alright," he exclaimed, clapping his hands together once, "day shift, gather round."
The PTMC Emergency Department was a high stress, fast paced environment. You had seen multiple of your fellow coworkers take a tumble, faint from exhaustion, or be injured due to a patient's aggression. Every time it happened, Dana sternly directed them to the staff break room without fail. You had made it to your fourth year of residency without being dragged there once. That's not to say you didn't get injured, you just hid your pain better than others—one of the pros of living with chronic pain for so long (or a con, depending on who you asked). You were just two months away from becoming an attending, and you were determined to keep the record for the least amount of injuries endured during your time at PTMC—even if it was a record that you were the only one keeping track of.
Stupid Ogilvie and his lack of spatial awareness.
You let out a hiss as Dana pressed an ice pack against your knee. You were sitting at the small round table in the break room with your injured leg resting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
"Oh, hush, you big sook," Dana said with a small teasing smile. The faint line between her eyebrows gave away her concern, though.
A small rush of air left your nose—something that might've been a laugh if you weren't preoccupied with the unbearable throbbing in your knee.
Dana brushed a stray hair back from your forehead, fixing you with a pointed stare. "I need to get back out there or else the whole place is going to fall apart." She poked your forehead gently, "you need to stay put, missy. Understood?"
You nodded with a small pout. "Yes, understood. No more life saving today," you grumbled out.
"Good. If you need anything…you're Ogilvie's patient now," she said over her shoulder, throwing you a wink before closing the door behind her.
"I never want to see his face again," you mumbled petulantly to the empty break room.
With nothing else to do but sit, you grabbed the tablet off the table and started to catch up on charting—or what you could catch up on without a hospital computer. Twenty minutes later you were groaning with your head in your hands, your good leg on the ground bouncing impatiently. Ten minutes of doing nothing and you were already bored shitless. You could hear the symphony of a busy ED calling to you through the closed door—voices shouting over one another, an urgent page being called over the speaker system, a child with a healthy set of lungs screaming.
Back in the ED, Jack was ripping off his blood soaked gloves in Trauma two. He had just finished performing a clamshell thoracotomy on his buddy Officer Riveria, who had been shot in the chest from crossfire during an armed bank robbery. Jack walked the short path towards Central, tearing off his SWAT vest and dumping it on a chair in the Hub—barely paying any attention to Dana who scoffed at his appearance.
He could feel his t-shirt clinging to his skin uncomfortably, sweat soaking through to his SWAT uniform leaving visible patches—which he couldn't care less about in that moment. He had been in the ED for half an hour already, and he had yet to hear your voice. It was unsettling.
Even during the most adrenaline inducing, hectic shifts he could still make out your voice above the noise. And last time he looked at the schedule, you were meant to be working the day shift.
"Hello to you, too," Dana mumbled, raising her eyebrows at Abbot's swivelling head.
"Hi," he glanced at her briefly before looking at the board, trying to see if you were assigned to any patients. "Where is she?"
Dana chuckled, shaking her head. Of course he noticed you weren't on the floor. "Who?"
Jack responded with your name quickly, just as McKay stopped next to him at the Hub—letting Dana know a patient was ready for discharge.
"Oh," McKay snorted, "Ogilvie knocked her down with a gurney earlier."
"What?" Jack seethed, levelling a glare at Dana—why wasn't that the first thing she said to him?
"Take it easy, soldier." Dana gave him a sharp look. "She's in the break room, she's fi—"
Jack didn't wait to hear the rest of her sentence, darting through the ED in a rush to get to you. He flung the door open to the break room with force, making you look up at him with startled eyes.
"Dr. Abbot? What are you doing here?"
He ignored your question, making his way to you in two long strides and squatting down next to your injured leg. You watched as his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched tightly, an irritated huff leaving him. Your eyes wandered from his face to his shoulders, your eyebrows scrunching at his camo sleeves—was he wearing fucking SWAT gear?
"What are you wearing—"
"I'm going to fucking kill Robby," he seethed.
"Robby? What did he do?" You asked, your head swirling with more questions.
Dr. Abbot lifted the ice pack off your knee gently, drawing in a sharp breath at your red, swollen joint. His eyes snapped up to yours, a battle of concern and anger warring in the hazel depths.
"This wouldn't have happened if you were with me."
Jack realised his slip a second too late, watching your eyes widen in surprise at his words.
"If you were on the night shift," he mumbled quickly, his eyes darting back down to your injured leg.
A calloused finger pressed softly to the bottom of your knee, just below the swelling. A pained wince left you at the barely there touch.
"Fuck, sweetheart." Abbot whispered, his brows pulling together in worry. "This doesn't look good."
"I'm fine," you breathed out quickly, your heartbeat picking up at him calling you sweetheart again. "It's fine, it was an accident."
"It's not fine," he said sternly. "You're hurt."
"I've dealt with worse."
He let out a deep sigh, shaking his head at your stubbornness. He stood back up—his leg twinging briefly in complaint. He took a few steps back, leaning against the kitchenette and crossing his arms over his chest.
"Alright—if you say you're fine, stand up."
You met his raised eyebrows with a deadpan stare—your bruised pride fighting against the desire to submit to him, to let him take care of you.
You sucked in a breath, lifting your injured leg off the chair and placing it on the floor hesitantly. The pull of gravity had your knee aching in an instant, the swollen joint throbbing incessantly. You tried to keep your face blank as you braced both hands on the table, using it to support yourself as you rose to your feet. You put all your weight on your good leg, and Dr. Abbot clocked it immediately—his eyes glued to your legs as you tried to stand nonchalantly.
"Take a step."
That stupid stubbornness flared hot despite the agony you were in, not wanting someone—especially the attending you thought about obsessively—to take care of you. Well, the problem was how badly you wanted him to take care of you, and you refused to let that show—to be the damsel in distress.
You took a small step forward on your injured leg and crumbled in a second, trying to bite back a pained whimper and failing. Abbot was there before you could catch yourself on the table, one strong arm wrapping around your waist and a steady hand supporting your upper back.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," he mumbled low, his body so close to yours that you could feel his voice rumble through you.
Jack stood still, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. Your breath was warm against his neck, your curves soft beneath his hands, and he could feel you leaning into him. It was fucked up—you were injured, biting down your pain to try not be an inconvenience, and he wanted more. He wanted so much more.
Keeping his arm around your waist, he grabbed your bag hanging off the chair and hiked it up his shoulder. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket, drawing your attention to the gun on his hip—
What the fuck, since when was that there?
"What's your address?"
Your eyes snapped up to his face, your mind trying to process the sight of him in sweaty SWAT gear with a fucking handgun strapped to his hip. "Huh?"
He didn't look at you, thumb tapping on his phone. "I'm getting you an uber home. Give me your address."
"N-no, thank you, but I—"
He levelled you with a hard look, his eyes unrelenting. "This is not a discussion. Your address, now."
A thrill shot up your spine, his bossiness doing concerning things to your mind and body. You gave in, mumbling out your address—your body still actively aware of his thick arm wrapped around your waist, his warmth radiating through your clothes.
Jack grabbed your arm, slinging it over his shoulder and bringing you closer to his body—your perfume and something uniquely you cutting through the antiseptic and settling in his chest. His body screamed at him to turn his head, to bury his nose in your hair and inhale your scent like it was oxygen. His hand on your waist gripped tighter.
"What are you—" you started, shocked by his sudden closeness. The lines and freckles on his face were even more deadly this close.
"It's either this or I carry you. Your choice."
You slowly limped your way towards the door, consciously leaning as little weight on Dr. Abbot as possible—worrying about the strain you were putting on his prosthetic leg. Pain shot through your knee with every step you took.
"That's not gonna do, sweetheart."
He pulled you closer to him, essentially lifting you with every step. It took the weight off your leg, and had your breath stuttering at his strength.
Heat flushed throughout your body as you neared the Hub, your head dropping to ignore the curious and teasing stares from your coworkers.
"Hey, prince charming!" Dana's voice called over the rush of the ED. "This isn't your dumping ground!" Both your heads turned to see her holding his SWAT vest, shaking it with a pointed look before swinging her arm back and throwing it.
The hand steadying your arm on his shoulder lifted, catching the vest with ease. He handed it to you without a word, your free hand clasping around the slightly damp fabric.
It felt like it took hours to get to the ambulance bay, all the eyes on you two making you feel like an animal on display at the zoo. As you reached the doors, you faintly heard Javadi's voice behind you.
"Why didn't he grab a wheelchair?"
The uber was already waiting and Dr. Abbot helped you in the backseat before rounding the boot and getting in the other side. The door slammed shut, leaving you enclosed in the small space with your devastatingly attractive attending and crush.
"What are you doing?"
He grabbed your bag off his shoulder and the vest from your hand, putting them on the floor in front of him. His fingers clasped around your injured leg gently, lifting it and resting it on his lap.
"Making sure you get home safe."
The twenty minute drive to your apartment was quiet, the soft music droning from the car's speakers the only noise filling the uber. Dr. Abbot's hands rested on your leg the whole time, his thumbs rubbing absentminded patterns on your scrub covered shin.
Your brain stopped functioning approximately two minutes after the car pulled away from PTMC, when the first slow circle of his thumbs started. Instead of feeling the throbbing pain of your knee, you felt a throb grow north of it—slow strokes of fire coursing up your leg and gathering at the apex of your thighs. It was embarrassing, how desperately your body reacted to him and he wasn't even touching your skin.
You stared out the window the whole ride, despite how badly all the cells in your body ached to look at him—to map the lines of his face, to catch the way the sunlight coming through the window highlighted his stubbled jaw and changed the colour of his eyes. God, his eyes. You wanted to get lost in them, to watch them shift from honey amber to sunlit green—you wanted to know what colour they shifted to when dark with hunger, when dilated pupils eclipsed the sunburst irises.
Jack tried to keep his gaze locked on the seat in front of him, distracting himself with counting every individual stitch in the fabric. This was the fifth time he had placed your leg in his lap, but it felt different than the times previous. Maybe it was the protective anger curdling his gut—he had already drafted three carefully worded texts to Robby in his head—or the dangerous pull in his chest telling him that you were right where you belonged, next to him. All he knew was that the aching need to take care of you was now etched into his bones. Sitting next to you in the uber on the way to your place had nothing to do with him worrying about you as your attending—he was just a man needing to look after the woman he cared about deeply.
He couldn't stop his eyes finding the side of your face even if he tried—he was a moth to a radiant flame. He stored more details away in the overflowing file cabinet with your name on it; how the sunlight made your hair glow, how your lashes fluttered as you fought off fatigue, how despite the exhaustion and pain shadowing your face you still looked beautiful—ethereal. He wanted to worship at your altar.
Once the uber parked outside your building, he was quick to lower your leg—hands oh so gentle, again—and grab the bag and vest off the floor. He was out of the car before you could blink, opening your door and helping you out of the car with the strong hands you fantasised about daily. He offered the driver a quick thank you and it struck you deep in the chest—such a simple, kind act that you had watched men fail to do time and time again.
Your arm was back over his broad shoulders, one of his securely wrapped around your waist. It only hit you then how badly your body had missed the warmth of his pressed against you. And then something more frightening—exhilarating—hit you: Dr. Jack Abbot was going to be in your apartment.
Your step faltered, your heartbeat picking up in terror—or anticipation, only god knows.
"Thank you for your help—for the uber—but you should go—"
"No."
"Your shift is in a few hours, you should rest."
He let out a frustrated huff through his nose, turning his head to shoot you a hard look—his fingers on your waist tightening.
"Quit being stubborn and let me help you."
You opened your mouth to protest more, to say he's helped you enough, but the words died on your tongue before they had formed. You were sore and exhausted—that was the excuse you told yourself for letting your attending guide you into the building.
Your place was exactly how you left it—half a dozen medical textbooks littering your coffee table, your laptop still open on the dining table with sticky notes of varying colours covering the surface, a few dirty dishes stacked next to the sink. Your basket of clean underwear sitting on the couch waiting for you to put away. Because, of course the day Dr. Jack Abbot helps you home is your lingerie wash day.
Heat rushed up your neck as he helped you limp towards the couch, dumping his SWAT vest on the coffee table before grabbing the basket and putting it on the floor out of the way. You watched, intrigued, as red dusted along his neck and cheeks, his eyes looking everywhere but you.
His hand lingered on your waist as you sat down, before he cleared his throat and helped you get situated—placing a throw pillow under your injured knee and another behind your back. He started to take off your shoes, and it hit you at a dizzying speed how natural and domestic this all felt.
How nice it felt to have him in your home, taking care of you with no fuss. You can't remember the last time someone treated you with such care—the few times you asked your exes for help with your knee pain they made you feel like a burden.
Having Abbot treat you so gently, so delicately, only made the butterflies storming in your stomach increase tenfold. You were starting to feel sick, overcome with dangerous emotions at the hands of your attending.
You dropped your eyes to your hands fidgeting in your lap. "Thank you again, Dr. Abbot. For—"
"Jack."
You looked up at him to find him already staring down at you. Your hands started to shake.
"What?"
His voice was soft, low. "When it's just you and me, it's Jack."
You heart decided to find a home in your throat. "Oh…well, I appreciate your help," you smiled up at him softly, "Jack."
In that moment, Jack knew he was done for. He had noticed you only ever called him by his doctor title or last name, and now he knew why. His name sounded like it was made to slip from your tongue, like everyone else before you had said it wrong. He had to be careful—if you said his name with that little smile again, he was sure he would drop to his knees before you.
He stepped away from the couch, needing to do something else to distract his brain from the fantasy of you gasping out his name as he tasted you. He grabbed his vest and walked towards the kitchen—the open plan layout allowing him to keep an eye on you still.
You watched as he removed his gun from its holster, checking the safety was on before pulling the clip out, disarming it—the act alone sending a shiver racing up your spine. He didn't need to do that, but you figured he did it for your peace of mind—to ensure you felt safe in your own home. It had no right being that hot.
Your eyes landed on the gun and vest now sitting on your kitchen counter before you ran them over his sweaty uniform again, unconsciously biting your lip.
"So, you moonlight as a…SWAT medic?"
He started to look through your kitchen cabinets, pulling out a water glass. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."
"And all the men's shed's in Pittsburgh were at full capacity?"
He filled the glass with water, the side of his mouth quirking with a smirk. "Didn't meet the age requirement. I'll try again next year."
He brought the glass of water over to you, an amused glint in his eye.
"That where you scout for your dates? The men's shed?"
Your cheeks grew warm. "I am going to kill Santos," you muttered.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket and you pulled it out to see multiple texts from Santos. Speak of the devil.
Trin: (412) 858-5725
Trin: Ben's phone number
Trin: If your knight in sweaty swat gear doesn't make a move
You put your phone away quickly, grabbing the glass from the coffee table and taking a deep gulp to try soothe your nerves.
"Where do you keep your pain meds?"
Jack was still standing next to the couch, looking down at you with his hands in his pockets.
"There's a box under the bathroom sink," you told him. "First door on the left."
Jack returned less than a minute later, carrying your overflowing plastic container of pain medication—an eyebrow raised in surprise.
"Should I be concerned you're going to start a meth lab with these?"
"Medical textbooks are ridiculously expensive."
He chuckled in response, putting the container on the kitchen counter and grabbing a handful of pills for you. You accepted them with a small thank you, watching as he sat on the small armchair diagonal to you.
He nodded towards the textbooks splayed out on your coffee table. "How's the studying going?"
An involuntary sigh slipped out of you. "It's going fine, I guess." His furrowed eyebrows prompted you to elaborate more. "I'm—being on the day shift, I'm struggling to find the time to study." You watched his jaw clench and you quickly backpedalled. "I mean, that's not an excuse—I'm not trying to blame being on the day shift! It's my own poor time management, Samira seems to be doing fine. I just think the night shift suited me more…I miss you—it. I miss the night shift."
Your face was a furnace by the time you finally shut your mouth, refusing to look at Jack and instead glaring at the textbooks on the table like they had caused you grave pain.
"We miss you too."
Jack was struggling to control his breathing, feeling angry at Robby for keeping you off the night shift for the past month. Angry at himself for not pushing harder to keep you with him. It was obvious the day shift was not what was best for your well-being; here you were in front of him injured—by a day shift intern—, exhausted from the long shifts, and barely finding the time to study for your attending boards. He would bet his good leg that the only thing in your pantry was packets of ramen.
He took the lull in conversation to look around your apartment properly, a faint smile curving his lips as he spotted the decorations and trinkets that were very you. Something fond gripped his chest at the photos on your bookshelf. There was one of you and Santos on a night out—tipsy smiles and arms slung over shoulders—another of you and Ellis in your scrubs pulling the finger at the camera, and one on a higher shelf that had his heart tumbling.
It was of the night shift, everyone crammed into a small diner booth after a particularly rough shift. You two were sat next to each other, his head leaning back on the booth seat as he slept and your head turned to him with a soft smile on your face. He remembered the day it was taken—everyone called him grandpa for a week afterwards for falling asleep—but he didn't remember you looking at him like that. Like he hung the moon and the stars.
He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the emotion clogging it. He opened his mouth and said the first thing he thought of. "No cat?"
You lifted your head, looking at him quizzically. "I've never had a cat."
"What about the one we talked about?"
"Oh, that cat." You shrugged, "someone else adopted the little guy before I could."
"That sucks." And because his jealously won out over his logical mind when he was near you, he continued. "Does that mean you're still dating assholes?"
You laughed nervously, crossing your arms over your chest. "Do we have to talk about my sorry excuse of a dating life?"
Jack stayed quiet, not sure how to downplay his interest in your dating life—in you.
You sighed. "No, I'm not dating assholes—I'm not dating anyone at the moment, despite Trin's persistence."
Jack let out a gruff hum, feeling both pleased that you're not wasting your time dating and annoyed at the reminder of Santos' terrible matchmaking. "So I've noticed."
You winced. "Sorry, I'll tell her to stop talking about it at work. Not that she listens to anything I say, but it's unprofessional."
Jack dragged a hand along his scruff, tempted to tell you that it was the jealously souring his gut that bothered him, not the unprofessionalism.
"How's your knee?"
You shifted your injured knee on the pillow, relieved when you only felt a dull ache instead of sharp throbbing. "Stiff, but the meds are kicking in at least."
"Did you get that cream I recommended?"
You started to get up from the couch, lifting your leg and clenching your teeth when the pain came back."Yeah, but I can go get it. You've done more than enough, you should—"
Jack was by the couch in less than a second, putting a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder to keep you seated. "If you tell me to go one more time, I swear to god."
You looked up at him, your breath catching at his broad frame towering over you.
"I don't want you to think I'm a burden." Your voice was smaller than you would've liked, a crack lacing through.
Jack's heart fractured at your words, his walls starting to crash down. "You're not a burden to me. I want to help you."
The sincerity in his voice made yours shake. "Why?"
He took a deep breath. "For reasons I shouldn't say out loud."
Your heart stumbled before picking up, feeling like it was going to beat out of your chest.
"Jack…"
"Don't. Don't say my name like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you have no clue what you do to me."
But, you didn't know what you did to him. This was the first time you were aware he might've shared a fraction of the feelings you had for him.
"Let me take care of you and then I'll go, okay?"
You gulped, now feeling unsure of where you stood with your older attending. You gave him a small nod.
"Okay."
He stepped back, looking both satisfied and torn at your response. "Good."
"The cream, it's in my bedroom—but I'll go get it."
"No, you can't even walk by yourself. Stay there, I'll get it." He raised an eyebrow at the panicked look on your face. "Unless, you don't want me in your bedroom. You hiding dead bodies in there or something?"
That got a small laugh out of you, and he felt his shoulders relax the slightest—some of the tension from his almost confession dissipating.
Jack Abbot in your bedroom was a thought you had way too frequently, but that wasn't what had you stubbornly trying to stop him from getting the pain relief cream. It was because you knew the cream was in your nightstand—the same one your small collection of vibrators were in.
You were an adult. Owning a vibrator or two was normal. Jack was also an adult, you're sure he's seen sex toy's before. So, you sucked in a breath and put your big girl pants on.
"No, it's fine. I just—the cream's in the top drawer of the nightstand on the left."
Jack found your bedroom easily in your small apartment, your perfume and scent hitting him hard as soon as he pushed the door open wider. He stood still for a second, breathing in a deep lungful and feeling himself get even more addicted—if that was possible. He beelined for the nightstand, opening it and finding the cream he had recommended to you what felt like a lifetime ago. His hand faltered, his gaze finding the toys next to the cream—sticking out like a sore thumb. Your hesitation about him coming into your room suddenly made complete sense.
His cock twitched in his pants at the sight of them alone, and his traitorous mind didn't take long to supply him with the fantasy of you using the toys on yourself—laid out on your bed in front of him, listening to his commands as he told you how to fuck yourself.
He adjusted himself in his pants, shaking his head to try rid himself of the thoughts before walking back into your lounge.
You watched as Jack came back with the cream in hand, nerves tightening your throat at the deep red covering his neck and cheeks. He definitely saw the vibrators.
He didn't say a word, just waved the cream at you and sat on the other end of the couch—moving the pillow under your leg aside so he could move closer and rest your leg in his lap. Despite this not being the first time he's helped with your knee, it felt entirely different. Maybe it was his half confession lingering in the air, or the fact that you've been wound tightly for so long. Either way, the first touch of his fingers on your bare skin as he rolled your scrub pant over your knee had your core clenching desperately, embarrassingly.
The late afternoon sun streamed through your sheer curtains softly, painting your apartment in a dreamy haze that softened the edges of your mind. Neither of you spoke, the soft sounds of your breathing filling the room. His touch was featherlight on your knee, gently prodding to assess your pain—his intense gaze never leaving your face.
The first slide of the cream on your inflamed joint offered a small reprieve, a small sigh leaving your lips.
"This okay?"
You nodded, staring down at his hands on your leg—noticing the absence of his wedding ring. They drifted higher, rubbing the cream into the tight thigh muscles above your knee. A gasp slipped from you as his fingers pressed deeper, rolling a knot that had formed due to the tension from your injury.
Your eyes flicked up from watching his hands, finding his glued to your parted lips. They stayed there for a second longer before meeting yours and your breath caught in your throat. You could see where the amber bled into green, the faint blue ring on the edge of his irises. You watched his pupils dilate, his eyes darkening like a storm rolling through a forest.
Your eyes dropped to his lips, the soft light highlighting the stubble framing his face and making the cupids bow on his top lip stand out—looking incredibly enticing and kissable.
You both leaned in slowly, the thread between you pulling tighter. His breath brushed against your lips and the tension you'd been harbouring for months—years, even—snapped. You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his in what you wanted to be a tender kiss but was anything but—your desperation bleeding out of you.
He breathed in through his nose sharply, his hands on your thigh tightening before he returned your kiss slowly. One of your hands bunched the fabric of his SWAT top, the other sliding up the back of his neck and finding its place in his silver curls. You pulled him closer, kissing him with more urgency.
A moan rumbled in Jack's throat at the feeling of your hand tugging his hair, and he brought a hand up to cup your jaw—losing himself in the press of your soft lips against yours. His hand on your thigh gripped tight and pulled you closer, briefly forgetting that you were in pain.
He sucked your bottom lip between his, nibbling on the plump flesh and drawing a soft whimper out of you—your hips trying to rock despite the awkward position of you half pulled onto his lap.
The sound had Jack's cock jumping eagerly, still half hard from thinking about you fucking yourself with your toys. His hand on your jaw slipped to grasp the back of your neck, tilting your head back. His tongue ran along your bottom lip and you opened for him without hesitation. The first caress of your tongue's against each other drew matching, low moans from both your chests.
You felt your core grow wetter and you needed more, your hand fisting his top travelling down to slide under his layers of clothes and touching his solid, yet soft, abdomen.
The feeling of your hand touching his skin had reality crashing down on Jack, making him pull away from your lips with visible effort. Your mouth chased after his with a small whine, the hand in his curls trying to yank him back to you.
"We shouldn't," he panted, his breath hot against your lips.
"Please," you whispered, not caring how desperate you sounded.
He dropped his forehead to your collarbone, a shaky moan leaving him at how needy you sounded and the intoxicating scent of you wrapping around him.
"You're injured, I'm your attending, this is—"
You grabbed his hand clutching your thigh, dragging it up until his fingers grazed your scrub covered core. All logic and reasoning faded from his mind as he felt the heat radiating through your clothes. He was shocked for a brief moment, that your aching need for him matched his own for you.
"Touch me, please. Make me feel good."
Jack thought he had died and gone to heaven—those sweet words whispered into his ear sounding even better than he had dreamed.
"Fuck," he breathed into your scrub top, his hand moving and cupping your core. A gasp shot out of you and you ground your hips against his hand.
His head lifted and he peppered light kisses on the side of your neck—his stubble scratching your skin lightly. You pushed his head harder into your neck, desperate for him to take more. He let out a chuckle at your eagerness.
"You always this needy?"
His teeth sinking into your neck stole any response you may have had, a moan leaving your lips instead. His kisses grew in confidence, his mouth leaving trails of spit across your skin as he relished in the sounds he was pulling from you. His hand on your core moved, his palm pressing harder against your clothed clit—your hips rocking faster in response.
You pulled his head from your neck, his dark eyes meeting yours before he lunged for your mouth, his kisses turning punishing—teeth clashing, tongues fighting for dominance, stubble scratching and burning your skin.
The warmth in your core transformed into a raging fire—you had never been this turned on by a kiss before. You could feel slick oozing from your cunt, your underwear sticking to your core where his hand was moving against you. You were sure you were leaking through your scrubs, and you might've been embarrassed if it weren't for the lust lighting up your body.
Jack pulled back, his hand stilling against you causing you to let out a displeased whine. He looked down at his hand, an expression of awe on his face as he saw his palm with a light sheen of wetness and the dark patch on your pants.
"You're wet." He said, like it was a miracle.
You nodded, both hands gripping his jaw to pull his lips back to yours. He turned his head, still looking at his hand in amazement. It had been a long time since he last touched a woman, but he didn't remember them getting this wet from some kissing and light groping.
Your lips found his neck, lavishing the wrinkled and freckled skin with the same attention he gave you. You bit along his jaw gently, soothing the bites with a wet glide of your tongue. His chest vibrated with a deep groan and you doubled your efforts, sucking on a spot below his ear. The sounds he was making made you even more wet, small whines getting stuck in your throat as your need for him ricocheted.
"Fucking hell, sweetheart." He groaned, his dick starting to leak from your mouth on his neck and the little sounds you let out. "You're gonna make me come in my pants if you keep doing that."
His words stroked the fire in you higher, your nerves singing with pleasure at the fact you were unravelling him just as he was you.
He pulled you away from him and stood up, watching as your hazy eyes blinked up at him unfocused, a small frown pulling your kiss swollen lips down.
He hooked an arm around your back and the other under your thighs, lifting you off the couch.
"Jack, your leg—"
"Is fine. Let me do this."
He ignored the strain on his amputated leg, carrying you the short distance to your bedroom. He laid you down on your bed gently, taking extra care to not jostle your knee.
You sat up on your elbows, biting your lip as he stood at the edge of your bed—not moving, just staring down at you with his mouth slightly agape.
"You have no idea how long I've thought about this. How long I've spent wanting you."
Your chest stuttered at his admission, heat licking up your spine at the raw want in his voice.
He leaned down, placing his hands either side of your head and kissing you slowly, tenderly. Your hands settled in his curls, your lips responding in kind—your chest aching with something far more dangerous than need.
He trailed kisses down your jaw and neck, nuzzling his nose into the junction where your neck met your shoulder and inhaling deeply. An almost pained groan tore from his throat and it made you arch up into him in need.
His hands gripped your hips and lifted you further up the bed, your head resting on your pillow. His thumbs rubbed on the sliver of bare skin your bunched scrub top exposed, his questioning eyes meeting yours. You lifted your arms up before he could ask, and he pulled the fabric over your head—throwing it somewhere behind him.
His eyes dropped to your chest and he licked his lips, his hand slipping behind your back to undo your bra clasp. He pulled your bra straps down your shoulders slowly, like he was unwrapping a delicate present.
"Jack," you breathed out, impatience lacing your tone.
He dropped his head, kissing along the swell of your breasts.
"Didn't know my name could sound so sweet until you said it." He mumbled into your skin.
He finally pulled your bra away, throwing it in the same direction as your top. He sucked in a sharp breath at your exposed breasts, his eyes closing briefly as he gathered himself.
"You're beautiful."
Then he latched onto one of your nipples, sucking lightly and pulling a gasp from you. A large hand cupped your other breast, his thumb rubbing circles around your nipple—the dual simulation making fire sprint down your abdomen to your core. Your hips rocked underneath him, and he chuckled at your desperation—the sound vibrating through your body.
Your hands found the hem of his SWAT top and pulled, wanting to see the thick muscle he hid underneath scrubs. His touch left you for a second as he pulled his top off, exposing the black t-shirt underneath. And you swear you'd never seen a simple t-shirt look so hot before. It was tight around his bulging biceps, his muscular abdomen pressing through the fabric. You only had a second to ogle before he was stripping it off as well, leaving you with a sight you had only dreamed about.
The only word in your head at that moment to describe Jack Abbot was thick. You knew he was big, but seeing it without clothes felt surreal. You ran your hands over his bare chest, marvelling at the muscles jumping beneath your touch. His skin was dusted in freckles, a patch of light hair covering his chest that was soft under your fingers. His shoulders were broad and your jaw ached to cover the sturdy flesh with bites.
You gripped his shoulders and pulled him down, your lips meeting in a desperate kiss that had you both moaning. Your hands travelled down his shoulders to his back, pulling his bare chest down to meet yours. The feeling of his pecks against your breasts had you sucking his bottom lip with need.
You slid a hand down his bulky abdomen, revelling in his body jerking under your hand. You dipped a finger in the waistband of his camo pants, pulling slightly before moving your hand down and cupping his hard cock through the fabric. The feel of him had your core clenching—he was big, bigger than you had ever taken. It sent a thrill coursing through you and you gripped him harder.
"Shit," he hissed, grasping your hand and pulling it away from him. "Not today, sweetheart. It's all about you now, okay?"
He kissed down your chest, lavishing at your breasts again and you let out an impatient whine, pushing his head down to where you needed him most.
"Stop teasing."
You could feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin. "But you sound so pretty."
He sucked harshly on your nipple, pulling it between his teeth and biting down. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, your knee throbbing from the sudden jolt but you didn't care. He repeated his ministrations on your neglected nipple before—finally— his kisses travelled down your stomach and stopped at the waistband of your scrub pants.
His lips sucked light marks along your lower stomach and hips, his fingers toying with your waistband and dipping under before tracing the marks his mouth left.
"Jack, please." You whined, your need echoing in your quiet room.
"You sound so good begging, baby."
He pulled away, hooking his fingers around your pants and underwear—slowly pulling them down your legs like he had all the time in the world. A groan rumbled out of him at the sight of your slick clinging to your underwear, a line keeping them connected to you until they reached your knees. He doesn't think he's seen anything hotter.
He was careful pulling your pants down over your injured knee, pressing a light kiss to your inflamed skin before your pants were finally off of you. He grabbed a spare pillow near your head, propping it under your knee and adjusting you so you were comfortably spread open with no weight bearing down on your knee. He kept his eyes on your face the whole time, checking for any hint of discomfort.
"You tell me if it starts to hurt, okay?"
You nodded in response.
"Words. I need words, sweetheart."
"Yes, I'll tell you, Jack. Just touch me already, please."
His eyes left your face, travelling down your heaving body and ending at your core. Your need was glistening all over your mound and a moan vibrated through him at the sight. He brought a hand to your core, his fingers lightly trailing down your wet slit making your hips jump off the bed. His other hand pressed flat against your lower stomach, his weight holding your hips down.
"You're fucking soaked. This all for me?"
You nodded quickly, your breaths coming quick—pent up from months of wanting and his merciless teasing.
"Yeah? I get you this wet?"
"Yes, Jack—only you. Been wet since I saw the SWAT uniform." The confession slipped from you, need obliterating your filter.
His face morphed into a shit-eating grin. "That right, pretty girl? I'll make sure to wear it more often."
He pulled away from you and you groaned in annoyance.
"What the fuck, Jack!"
He chuckled at your impatience, a cocky smirk plastered across his face. He sat on the edge of your bed, quickly pulling the leg of his pants up to take off his prosthetic leg and leaning it against your bed. He turned back to you, lowering himself between your legs—the feeling of his breath against your core making your thighs twitch.
"Just getting comfortable. No more teasing, promise."
And then he was licking a long strip up your dripping slit, his dark eyes holding your gaze captive. You threw your head back, a sigh of relief leaving you. One of his hands gripped the thigh of your injured leg, keeping you steady as the other pressed down on your lower stomach again. He licked torturous and slow, his eyes closing as he made out with your lower lips.
"Taste so fucking good, better than I imagined." He moaned into your core, eliciting a gasp from you.
Your hands found his soft curls, gripping tight as he feasted on you. You tried rocking your hips to chase the friction but his strong hand kept you still, making you whine pathetically.
His tongue found your clit, alternating between flicking it and drawing circles around it. Fire built up in your core quickly, gasps of his name and please falling from your lips.
Jack's cock was painfully hard, precum leaking and dampening his pants as he listened to the sweet noises you let out because of him. He knew this was going to be ingrained in his brain forever—you panting beneath him, all desperate and needy, his taste buds overloaded with your delectable nectar. You were better than any drug and he was irrevocably hooked.
His tongue dipped down to your entrance, circling it twice before plunging inside your walls. Your core clenched down at the intrusion and he moaned into your core—delicious vibrations spreading up to your clit.
"Yes," you gasped, hips trying to chase the pleasure his mouth was unleashing. His tongue started to thrust in and out of you and a hand left his hair to grip his hand on your stomach. "Please, feels so good."
Obscene slick sounds filled your room, your core drenched from your arousal and Jack's spit. His tongue went back to your clit, the hand on your thigh moving up and tracing light fingers around your entrance. Jack watched in hunger and fascination as your core clenched in anticipation.
"You want my fingers? Be a good girl and tell me how bad you need them."
Your whole body lit up at him calling you a good girl. You opened your eyes to see him already staring at you, his gaze heavy and hungry.
"Yes—fuck, please—Jack I need them so badly. Want you to fuck me with them, please."
You didn't need to beg for long, one of his fingers dipping into you and curling against your walls. A moan slipped out at you, your walls clamping down on the single digit.
"Fuck, you're tight." He moaned into your clit, sucking it into his mouth harshly. You let out a wanton moan, your hips pushing against his hand holding you down. Another finger slipped inside you and he pushed them deeper, thrusting them against the spongy spot that no other man cared to find. You mewled, embarrassingly needy as a familiar tension built in your core.
"Oh my god, right there," you moaned out and his fingers picked up their speed, curling to stroke against that spot over and over. A third finger joined in and your eyes shot open at the stretch. His mouth doubled down on your clit, sucking harshly and nibbling gently.
"You gonna come for me?"
Incoherent babbling spilled from you—his name, please, and fuck being the only words your brain seemed capable of forming.
Jack was grinding his hips on your bed, feeling like a teenager ready to bust from the first moan that you let slip free. His cock was pulsing in his pants, so close to coming already.
"Yeah, that's a good girl. Come on my fingers."
The hand on your stomach pressed harder and the tension in your core shifted, still familiar but also different—tight and overwhelming. One last sharp suck to your clit had you soaring off the edge, your whole body tensing and head throwing back as pleasure rushed through you like a roaring fire. You came with a loud cry of his name, your ears ringing and white spotting your vision. You felt wetness gushing from your cunt, warm and sticky—amplifying and drawing out your release until it bordered on painful.
Jack groaned against your core as you gripped his fingers tight, sucking them in deeper as you squirted over his face, his hand, your bedsheets. Your fingers in his hair pulled as you panted and heaved beneath him. He pulled his mouth off your clit, moaning out your name as he spilled in his pants—your release making him come untouched. He continued moving his fingers inside you, drawing out your orgasm with his eyes focused on where release was squirting out of you with every thrust of his fingers.
"Good girl. You did so good."
Your fingers in his hair trembled, yanking softly as you tried to squirm away from his touch. "It's too much, Jack." You whined and he finally relented, drawing his fingers out of you with a loud, sinful pop. Your half open eyes met his, watching through a hazy fog as he lifted his soaked fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean—a deep groan tearing through him and you almost moaned at the sight.
He kissed up your body slowly, sucking and biting on a nipple and drawing a yelp out of you—your overstimulated body shaking underneath him.
"That was fucking incredible," he whispered into your neck, sounding starstruck. "You're incredible."
You giggled softly, his stubble tickling your neck. "That was all you." One of your hands brushed along the broad expanse of his shoulders, the other toying with the curls at the top of his neck. "I've never done that before," you admitted in a small and dazed voice.
He continued to nibble on your neck. "What, hook up with your boss or squirt?"
You slapped his shoulder lightly. "Both."
"Pleasure was all mine, sweetheart."
He removed his head from your neck, soft eyes gazing into yours before he leaned in and kissed you sweetly. His arms wrapped around your back, pulling your chest to his as he kissed you deeply—pouring everything he couldn't say yet into the kiss.
He pulled back, his eyes roaming around your face trying to memorialise this moment in his brain. He caught sight of the clock on your nightstand, a frustrated groan vibrating his chest as he saw he had to be at work in just over an hour. He dropped his forehead to yours for a few seconds, before pushing himself off of you with pained effort.
"I gotta go get ready for work. I—uh, need to clean myself up."
You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion before looking down, finally spotting the dark wet patch on his camo pants.
"Oh."
He put his prosthetic leg back on, standing and looking back at you still naked on your bed—spread out and glistening in your own release. He quickly walked to your bathroom, grabbing a clean towel from the cupboard and wetting it in the sink. He returned to your room, hit with the overwhelming smell of you—your perfume, your natural scent, your release. It had him debating calling in sick to lay tangled in the sheets with you, making you feel good until you passed out.
He cleaned you up gently, the soft press of the damp towel on your sensitive cunt making you twitch and flinch away.
"Easy, baby. Almost done."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead once he was done, a thumb brushing across your cheek.
"Okay, now I really have to go or Robby will send out a search party."
You bit your lip, your come down leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. "What…what does this mean?"
Jack didn't want to leave you alone, the uncertainty in your eyes making his chest ache. "We'll talk about it properly later, yeah? Just rest now—I'll order you some food."
He grabbed you some pyjamas out of your dresser, leaving them folded next to you on the bed. He left you with instructions on how to look after your knee—despite your insistence that you had been living with the pain for over a decade and you were a doctor as well, you knew how to take care of your injury.
After your front door clicked softly behind him you stared up at the ceiling for what felt like hours, your mind still not comprehending that you had hooked up with Jack Abbot—and he had made you come harder than you ever have in your life. So much was still left unsaid, but there wasn't a cold ache in your heart like you expected at the uncertainty. You trusted Jack, and you trusted that he wouldn't leave you spiralling for too long.
Just after seven pm your phone lit up with a text from Robby.
Robby: You're back on the night shift once your knee is better. Rest up.
A smile took over your face, a sigh of relief leaving you. You knew Jack was responsible for the shift change, and it had warmth spreading through your body from your chest.
Not even twenty minutes later, your screen flashed with texts from Trinity.
Trin: DID YOU AND ABBOT FUCK
Trin: Don't even try to lie to me
You: We didn't fuck
Trin: Then why is he smiling like he won the lottery
Your lips stretched into a grin.
You: Maybe he did?
Trin: Tell me what happened right now
Trin: I'm gonna be pissed if Robby won the bet
You: What bet, Trinity?
Trin: Shit gotta go! Someone's dying
You: Someone is always dying. Did you guys make a bet about Jack and I?
Trin: SMS ERROR: The phone number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.
Trin: …did you just call him Jack?!?!?!?
You were drafting a profanity filled response to her when a text from Jack came through.
Abbot: Dinner is 10 minutes away. Hope Vietnamese is all good.
Abbot: Ice your knee afterwards.
You didn't see Jack for seven days after that. He text you throughout the week, checking in and assuring you that you would talk but not over the phone—that you deserved more than that. The swelling in your knee eased by day three, and by day six it barely hurt anymore. You were under strict orders to not even think about the hospital, and you only left your apartment to go for walks around your neighbourhood—you didn't even go to the grocery store, there was no need to when Jack arranged groceries to be delivered to your front door.
He called you a couple times after a long shift, just wanting to listen to your voice as he struggled to sleep. He sat on the phone while you studied for your boards, giving his input when you started to ramble and spiral about a topic you thought you didn't understand—to which he reminded you that you were one of the most capable residents he'd seen walk through the PTMC doors. His confidence in you helped with the spiralling, and only made your need for him build to dizzying heights.
Neither of you brought up what happened at yours, both silently agreeing that it was a face to face conversation. It didn't stop you from thinking about it every night though, about him. You didn't ask him to come over before or after his shifts, not wanting to come on too strong despite how badly you wanted to see him again.
It was on day seven of not seeing him that you said fuck it. You were basically climbing the walls by that point, growing restless from doing nothing but sitting and studying and dreaming about all the ways Jack could fuck senseless. You knew it was his first scheduled day off in two weeks and while you should've let him rest, the demon he had unlocked inside of you didn't care.
You made it to mid afternoon before you sent him a text.
You: Hey, you busy?
Jack: No. What's up?
You: Think you could come over so we can have that talk?
Jack: I'll be there in 30.
True to his word, Jack knocked on your door twenty-eight minutes later with a takeout bag in his hand.
"Hey, I got us some sandwiches from the new deli on—"
You didn't give him time to finish, yanking on his sweatshirt's collar and dragging his lips down to yours. A shocked noise sounded in the back of his throat before he responded in earnest, his free hand wrapping around you waist and pulling you into his body. He staggered into your apartment, blindly closing the door behind him as you kissed him with a bruising intensity.
He pulled back to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You moved your mouth to his neck, sucking and nipping his neck as the desperation you'd been feeling for the past week clawed at your chest and core. You slipped your hands under the hem of his sweatshirt, relishing in the heat of his bare skin beneath it.
"Slow down, sweetheart." He chuckled, his hand moving from your waist to grip your jaw and pull you back. You let out a small whine, your brows furrowing in annoyance. "Did you ask me to come 'round for a booty call?"
You huffed. "No—I mean yes, but I wanted to talk too." You stepped back from him, feeling a drop of embarrassment for how you pounced on him. You took the takeout bag from his hand, offering him a soft smile. "Thank you for getting food."
"Of course."
He followed you as you made your way to the kitchen, putting the food on the counter and turning back to him with a sheepish expression.
"Thank you for everything this past week. The groceries, the late night—for you—study sessions. It…means a lot."
He stepped forward, resting his hands on your hips before pulling you into a hug—his strong arms wrapping around your back making you melt into his embrace. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and you nuzzled into his neck with a soft, content hum.
"Anything for you, sweetheart." He mumbled into your hair. Your heart soared in your chest.
He felt the tension from the last week dissipate from his body now that you were back in his arms. He hadn't realised just how stressed he was until that moment.
He pulled back slightly, keeping an arm wrapped around your back as a hand cupped your jaw. He leaned in, kissing you softly before resting his forehead against yours.
"Hi."
You giggled in response. "Hi."
"I haven't stopped thinking about you, about this."
Your hands gripped his curls, pulling him down for another bruising kiss. His hands slid down your back before resting on your ass, giving it a light squeeze and making you sigh into his mouth. You traced your tongue along his lips and he opened willingly, his moan ringing throughout the kitchen as he tasted you again. You pushed your hips flush to his, grinding against the hard length you could feel growing in his pants.
You whimpered into his mouth. "Please, I need you."
He pulled his mouth back from yours an inch, his hands still groping and squeezing your ass. "Thought we were gonna talk?"
"After."
He laughed, the wrinkles on his face deepening. "You're a little minx, you know that?"
"Only for you."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" He pressed a kiss to your cheek, another to your jaw, a line down your throat. "I heard you've got a thing for old men."
You sighed, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Thought I did, but I think it's just a thing for you."
He groaned against your throat. "You can't just that, baby."
"Why not?"
Jack's mouth moved to your ear, catching your lobe between his teeth and tugging. "Makes me want to skip the talking." He whispered low into your ear, your body wracking with shivers.
"Jack Abbot, you're a goddamn tease."
He pulled back fully, hazel eyes swirling with desire locking onto yours. "If we do this, it changes everything. I'm not—you're it for me. I'm not letting go of you."
"Fine by me."
He smiled, shaking his head lightly before diving back down to kiss you. He walked you backwards through your apartment, leading you to your bedroom like he had done it a thousand times before.
"How's the knee?" He mumbled against your mouth, pushing you back against your bedroom door once he closed it.
"Better. Swelling's gone, minimal pain."
He pulled back, squinting his eyes at you. "And you wouldn't be lying to me?"
"Never."
His mouth quirked up, an appraising look in his eyes. "Good girl."
A whimper slipped out of you and his eyes lit up.
"You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?"
You nodded, one of your hands gripping his shoulder and the other slipping into his curls. He gave you a peck on the lips before moving down to kiss your neck, mouthing at the spot below your ear that had you unleashing sighs and soft moans. One of his thick thighs slotted between your legs, pressing against your core and making you dizzy.
His hands grasped your hips, dragging you back and forth on his strong thigh. Your hips followed his lead, sparks shooting throughout your body from your clit. You could feel the wetness starting to leak out of you, making the friction even more delicious. Breathy pants and sighs slipped from your lips, your hips rocking faster as your body lit up under his touch. His fingers pressed harder into your hips, grunts tickling the skin of your neck as he got achingly hard from you getting yourself off on his thigh.
"Yeah, like that, pretty girl."
He latched his mouth onto your pulse point, sucking hard and making your head drop with a thud against the door.
"Jack," you breathed out. "Please."
"Tell me what you need."
Your hand on his shoulder trailed down the front of his sweatshirt, landing on his hard bulge and squeezing. His broken moan sounded in the quiet room.
"You. Fuck me, please."
"You need it that bad, huh?"
You nodded eagerly, giving him another squeeze before his hand gripped your wrist and pulled it away.
"Shit—yeah, okay. I'll give you what you need."
He spun you around, walking you towards the bed and pulling your top off. He let out a groan as he saw you were braless, your already hard nipples ready for him to feast on. He pushed you down to sit on the bed, pulling his sweatshirt over his head. Your hands grasped the waistband of his pants, trembling with anticipation as you worked the button open and zipper down. His hands found yours, pulling them away from him and you huffed in annoyance.
He moved his hands to the waistband of your leggings and pulling them down slowly. You fought back the frustrated groan working it's way up your throat—you didn't need his slow hands, you wanted him to fuck you dumb.
He ran a finger down your underwear, a damp spot already formed. He pressed down on it, earning a soft moan from you and his cock twitched in his pants. His finger moved faster, more slick soaking your underwear and he became addicted to the sight—addicted to the way your hips moved forward eagerly. He gripped both hands around the fabric and pulled them down your legs, much to your relief.
"No foreplay. Trust me, I'm already wet enough." Your desperate voice sounded out, your hands making their way back to his pants. He let you pull his pants and boxer briefs down to his knees, your wide eyes latching onto his cock as it sprung free against his stomach.
You were right. He was really well hung; thick and long, curving slightly to the left. You felt your mouth watering, wanting nothing more than to choke and drool on his length. Maybe next time.
"Did you pop a viagra before you came over?" You teased, your lips curving into a smirk as your eyes met his.
He squinted at you, giving your thigh a light smack. "Watch it, sweetheart."
Your nerves sang from his smack, and you felt the strong urge to roll over onto all fours and ask him to slap you again—though you knew he would just flip you back over because of your knee.
He toed his shoes off before pulling his pants off all the way, giving you a good look at his stupidly big thighs and his prosthetic leg. Your breath caught at him standing fully naked before you—he was beautiful; his freckles, wrinkles, and scars telling you a story of a long life that you hoped you would continue to be a part of.
"Don't need a little blue pill when I've got you. Just need to think of you and I'm already half hard."
"That was strangely sweet."
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. One of your hands found his cock, using the precum leaking from the tip as lube to slowly drag your hand up and down his length. He groaned into your mouth, his hips jerking forward into your touch.
He pushed at your shoulders, encouraging you to lay back on the bed with your legs dangling off the edge. He grabbed a pillow, slotting it under your hips so they were tilted up.
"I'm gonna take the leg off, okay?"
"Whatever is comfortable for you, I really don't mind."
He took his prosthetic off, the process quick and like second nature. He rested his amputated leg on the bed beside your thigh. "There might be a bit of adjusting, but we just need to communicate. That okay with you?" You nodded your agreement.
He leaned over you, one hand next to your head as the other came up to squeeze your breast and roll your nipple between his fingers. He kissed you passionately, his tongue slipping into your mouth and stubble scratching your skin. You moaned into his mouth, grabbing his cock and tugging it slowly, teasingly.
His kisses grew sloppy as your pace picked up before he pulled back, resting his head on your collarbone.
"You got a condom?" His warm breath elicited goosebumps across your skin.
"I'm on the pill. And clean."
His cock jumped in your hand at your insinuation and he stood back up to get a good look at you. His sweet girl laid out on her bed before him, telling him he could fuck her raw. Yeah, he was pretty sure he had died and gone to heaven—or hell, either worked.
"You sure?"
"Please," you breathed out, dark and lidded eyes gazing up at him desperately.
"Fuck, don't know how I got so lucky."
He brought his cock to your soaked core, dragging it back and forth with ease—the tip catching on your clit making you gasp. He repeated the motions until you were writhing under him, pretty mouth falling open and moaning out his name.
"Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me." He rasped out, his control thinning by the second.
"God, I want this so badly. I want you—I have for so long, please." You whined, snapping his restraint.
He grabbed your legs, resting your ankles on his shoulders in the butterfly position. He gripped your hips before he brought his tip to your entrance, captivated by your tight hole clenching at the slight press of him. He pushed in slowly, a guttural moan leaving him as your walls gripped tightly.
"Shit—fuck, you're tight."
You let out a whine, your cunt stretching to accommodate his girth. Your chest heaved with heavy pants, your core lighting up with pleasure and only half his length was in you. Your hands found his forearms, your fingers digging in as he pressed into you more. A wail left you once he was fully in, your walls clenching impossibly tight. You both stayed still for a few seconds, both your staggered breaths filling the room. You squeezed around him and he let out a pained groan.
"That's—you feel so fucking good."
"Move, please." You begged.
He pulled his hips back, leaving just the tip in before he thrust back in harshly.
"Fuck!" You yelled, his cock hitting against your sweet spot perfectly. He picked up the pace, his hips alternating between slow, dragging thrusts and harsh, quick thrusts—his eyes watching your face carefully, learning what made you whimper and your eyes roll back. His grip on your hips tightened, tilting them up as he delivered a harsh thrust that had a cry leaving your lips.
"You like that? Does that feel good?" You nodded mindlessly, pressure building in your core as your room filled with the sounds of your pleasure and skin slapping against skin.
"Don't stop, Jack—oh, god—"
He groaned out as you squeezed even tighter around him, his release nearing embarrassingly fast. Your nails dug into his skin, a hiss leaving him at the burning sensation. He moved a hand from your hip to your core, rubbing tight circles on your clit. Your back arched as a loud moan escaped your chest, echoing throughout your room and probably being heard by the neighbours.
He kept his pace on your clit as his thrusts sped up, the effort making his face shine with a sheen of sweat.
"That's a good girl. You close, sweetheart?"
You mewled at his praise, nodding your head and uh-huhing as the fire licked higher. Your stomach clenched as your orgasm built, and you could feel Jack's nearing—his thrusts starting to lose rhythm.
"Come inside me. Please, Jack." Your eyes shining with tears met his as you begged, and he almost blew his load right then.
"Tell me you're mine," he gritted out through clenched teeth.
"I'm yours—only yours," you gasped out.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come. Shit, sweetheart—oh fuck." Jack moaned out, and the sound combined with the dual simulation on your cunt had you coming with a sharp cry—warmth spreading out from your core, your body feeling weightless and mind going fuzzy with pleasure.
You clenched down on his cock as you came, your slick walls keeping him locked deep and he rutted two times before coming—spilling in you with a long groan.
He brought your legs down from his shoulders and collapsed on top of you, peppering your chest with kisses as his cock softened inside you.
"That was…" He started.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, your arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding him to your chest. "Pretty good for an old man," you couldn't help but tease him, earning another smack to your hip.
"Smartass."
After showering and eating you found yourself back in bed with Jack, lying next to him with your head on his bicep, one leg slung over his hip and a finger lazily tracing his chest—mapping his freckles like constellations. His free hand was running a path up and down your thigh and hip, goosebumps erupting from his touch.
You turned your head slightly to look at his face. "Did you know there was a bet about us?"
He turned to give you a bewildered look, before realisation slowly dawned on him.
"Well, that explains Robby pestering me with questions all week. Kept asking if I was getting laid, apparently the smile on my face was concerning."
You laughed softly, your heart glowing at the fact he was caught smiling at work because of you. "What did you tell him?"
hihi i never comment or interact with like.. anything.... but i LOVED ur fic sososo much!! the slow burn is slow burning oh my god. pls tell me theyre gonna be okay 🥹✌️
despite how much i love making them suffer, this fic was always planned to have a happy ending. it just might take a second to get there :)
could not get this comment on ch50 out of my mind… if only it were so simple
(i don't really draw people so don't look too close at simon)
not pictured: grace in the background, sewing pins in his mouth, doing his best not to laugh
(i couldn't find a tumblr for the og commenter but if you’re on here please say something! such a great comment thank you)
still giggling about this, rocky being covered by the shirt is so silly i would die for them. i think this is absolutely something that grace, former middle school teacher, would do
I believe it HAS to be on AO3, if not here on Tumblr.
bloodyMary, and I'm pretty sure it was a shorter one (2-3 chapters MAYBE)
Grace does science things and finds out through Simon talking about his mother that he is part Korean. He gives him a thing (basically Duolingo) that teaches him Korean.
short | fluff | smut | “wiping my drink after him”
synopsis: you try a trend on jason by wiping your bottle after he takes a sip. clearly he doesn’t appreciate it.
a/n: was supposed to be fluff but i’m freaked out sorry
it’s nearly 10pm when jason comes home from patrol. he had planned to get here earlier and switched his shift with dick all because you told him you finished work.
without even asking if you wanted him to do so, he just did it.
“baby?” he calls out as he shuts the front door.
you’re sitting on your bed, practically buzzing as you’d just been scrolling on tiktok and saw a trend you just had to try on him.
“i’m in here jay,” you reply from your bed, fingers idle on the screen as you quickly place it on the nightstand.
enough to capture the both of you.
heavy footsteps approach the room and he opens the door with sweat wicking his brow. he gives a low hum as he takes on the sight of engulfed in just one of his shirts, a habit you’d taken when you missed him and wanted him home. curled up in your comforter with just your torso peaking out, jason plops right on top of you. no care in his sweat on your skin now of his weight resting on you entirely. you giggle as you run your fingers through his hair.
“don’t you think you should, i don’t know, shower before you come into bed?” no real annoyance behind your words.
he nuzzles even closer to you, shakes his head in the crook of your neck. almost like he’s motorboating your neck.
“nah, i’ll wash the sheets in the morning. they’ll need it after i’m done with you.”
the heat reaches your face and a fluttery feeling sits low in your stomach. he always knew how to throw the words back at you. but alas, the show must go on. you stroke his hair back once more, cupping his face with both hands to kiss his sweet face. jason melts into it immediately, but he shrugs like he were shy from this attention. when you pull away, a piece of him was disappointed.
“you hungry?” you ask him. “i was gonna make something to eat.”
he shakes his head, “don’t worry about it. i came home to take care of you. i’ll cook.”
you raise a brow as you reach for your water bottle, ready to play in his face. “take care of me? i’m a grown adult babe.”
he watches as you lift the bottle to your lips, his eyes trained hard on how they part and press against it. taking in how your throat swallows down the water and he gulps in anticipation as though he was drinking it too. his lips part as he leans in to kiss you again. though this time, you bring the bottle between you and put it to his lips.
“you look dehydrated,” you say like it’s the easiest thing in the world. tilting your head slightly and watching the gears turn in his head. “have you been using the bottle i bought you?”
he sighs and nods, “yeah, but i like using yours better.”
sitting up enough to take the bottle and take a long sip. probably draining your ice cold water from how thirsty he was and didn’t even realize. he makes a sound of approval and hands it back to you when you do the unspeakable.
you take the bottle from him, lift your opposing hand and wipe it with your sleeve. jason is absolutely dumbstruck. his lips part in confusion as his brows furrow. he looks to you, then the bottle and then back to you again. he scoffs softly and then points at the bottle.
“the fuck was that?”
he’s blinking hard at you and waiting for a response. you just take a long sip and furrow your brows back.
“what do you mean jay? i’m drinking water?” feigning confusion.
“you just wiped me off of it i’m some freeloader, with germs and shit.”
you can’t control your laughter and shake your head at him. “i’m just wiping your spit off of it jason. it’s not a big deal.”
he knows you have never cared about germs with him before. besides, you live in gotham, and it’s hardly the cleanliest place to be living.
then he’s stammering, pointing between you and the bottle again. “but babe you just kissed me! how is that any different! wait, does my breath smell?” before he leans back and puts his hand in front of his mouth and breathes out to sniff his breath. “i didn’t smoke or anything and i brushed my teeth i swear.”
this only makes you laugh harder, pushing this chest and grasping tightly at he bottle in your hands. jason only seems to get even more confused. he sits up completely and watches you giggle to yourself, finding this entire thing amusing. jason however, does not.
with a loud scoff, he takes the water bottle from your hands and tongues at the mouth piece. he fully lets his tongue fall out of his mouth, licks it all around before pulling back and handing it to you. you grimace a little at the wet sheen on it.
“ew jay, what the hell.” holding the bottle like something toxic.
“take a sip.” he says with the most stern expression you’d ever seen on him.
oh, he was pissed.
you decide to play along longer and shake your head in defiance at him.
he blinks at you, “i’d let you spit in my mouth and you’re sitting here telling me you won’t drink from the same bottle as me?”
“no, not until i wash your slobber off of it.”
that’s when he huffs out like a kid throwing a tantrum and grabs the bottle from your hand, mumbling under his breath. you watch him with genuine confusion while he is the one to take another sip before grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.
he squeezes your cheeks until your lips part and spits the water directly into your mouth. you make a sound of surprise the sudden intrusion makes your eyes widen but you were definitely not opposed. you swallow it down immediately. he keeps his hold on your cheeks as he squints and a small smile begins to take form on his face.
“you’re liking this,” he states rather than asks.
the contagious smile takes home on your face as you stare back at him and nod. “it’s a prank.”
“ha,” he says flatly, “now can you lay back down please?”
sighing as you lay down for him, he immediately follows after you. weight resting directly over you like a weighted blanket that wouldn’t budge if you tried. when you squirm a little, he wraps his arms over yours so you’re bracketed between him and the mattress. then he really does give you some sloppy, wet kisses that leave a trail in its wake.
he’s mumbling lowly as he starts to tug on your shirt, pulling the fabric up and huffing like he’s still annoyed. kisses getting a little rougher as he starts to bite the flesh beneath it and knead it with his teeth. you can’t help but tilt back for him.
“slobber, huh? i’ll show you slobber.” murmuring against your skin enough to tickle. he pulls his head up to look at you while you’re still giggling, “okay jokes over. was gonna do all the work but—”
jason lifts you from beneath him and places you firm onto his lap. hand tight in your hip as you straddle him and he settles his back on the pillows. he clears his throat and something behind his light eyes darken enough to tell you you were really in for it now. the thick bulge beneath you was unmistakable. you open your mouth in a gasp and say his name.
“there’s no way that turned you on.” making the horrible mistake of letting a giggle out again.
he breathes out of his nose and pinches your side to make you jolt. groaning like he’s not the cause of you shifting around and tightening his hold on you so you’d stop moving.
“i spat in your mouth. of course i’m hard.” he sighs as his fingers slide across the waistband of your underwear and tug them just to let them snap. you jolt again but he doesn’t stop you from moving or say anything about the desperate sound you make at the friction.
instead, jason smiles a little harder, “go ahead then.”
guiding your hips back and forth until your breath caught in your throat and you grip his shoulders for dear life. you breathe out his name again but it’s barely a whisper.
he tsks and bucks up into you, dragging his hard length against your clothed core. hips with a mind of its own as you chase your own release, dragging your hands down his chest and pushing him further into the mattress. you’re already a mess, panting heavily and moving desperately.
dangerously close and he’s just grinning like he’s won.
one of his hands come up to the nape of your neck and pulls you down towards him, whispering lowly in your ear.
“there you go ma, take what’s yours.”
movements getting sloppy and uneven while he’s keeping you folded against him. one strong palm kept your faces close and the other moved you in accordance what he knew got you there. he knew you were a goner before you even let go, gasping and stilling just for him to continue moving against you. even when you make a whimpering sound he continues and holds you hard against him.
you’re trying to catch your breath when he finally stops and kisses the side of your face sloppily again. his hands rubbing up and down your back like he’s soothing you. it feels like you’re purring against him as you come back to yourself. but this time, he’s the one laughing while he whispers in your ear like a coo.
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
