𓏵 ┊ younger girlfriend squirting with jack abbot . 18+
you tell jack who’s been knuckles deep inside your pussy for the past hour that something feels weirder than usual, as you’re sitting in between his legs — your back pressed against his chest with your thighs parted giving him the perfect amount of access needed to pleasure you.
“what’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs against your temple with a gentle kiss as his calloused digits are rhythmically plunging in and out of your hole. curling his fingers sweet into that spongey spot inside of you, it’s almost cruel the way he knows exactly how to make you lose it. “it feels weird.” you testify, eyes fixated on the recurring disappearance of your boyfriend’s fingers inside of you.
“yeah? tell me what feels weird, hm.” he hums, feeling you shift and squirm against him as he holds one of your legs open by the backside of your knee. and you can barely utter the words from your mouth, “your fingers keep pressing against my bladder, its making me feel like i have to go— go to the bathroom.” you bite down on your bottom lip.
every time jack’s fingers plunge back inside you, it feels as if you’re peeing yourself already. as if the motion of his fingers are forcing that specific release from you. “that so?” you feel his chest rumble against you as he lets out a gruff chuckle, “that’s good then. that’s the feeling you want when it starts feeling good, sweetheart.” he reassures, as your walls pulse around his fingers.
you whine, throwing you head back against his shoulder. each drag of his digits bringing you closer, and closer towards the edge as you let out soft moans.
jack let’s out an impressed whistle once he starts to feel your hips rock into hand. “fuck— it feels good.” you moan warm against the side of his neck, “so good i might actually pee.” which earns a low, amused groan from jack.
“mhmm, you gonna make a mess on my hand?” he lifts his thumb up, before pressing mean against your swollen clit making you jolt. “w—wait!” you stammer, throwing your hands towards jack’s forearm in attempt to halt his movements as he shakes his head in disapproval. “uh-uh, can’t have you telling me to stop now.” he rasps, pressing circles around your nub as it twitches under the pad of this thumb.
“c’mon and show me how messy you can get.” his breath fans warm against your cheek, before your body’s involuntarily letting loose. your body is shaking, and your walls are caving in around jack’s digits as you’re whimpering. “thaat’s it, baby— give it to me.” he groans, targeting that sweet spot inside of you, before you’re making a wet mess all over yourself.
“mmgh, jack— jack.” you’re whimpering as slight humiliation fills your chest, though the pleasure is far too euphoric as he coaxes every last drop out of you. “atta girl.” he nudges his mouth against the side of your head to whisper in your ear. “i love nasty girls.” he groans.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader
Warnings: fluff, pediatric patients, mention of hospital smells.
Summary: working in the ER means getting used to the clinical scent of antiseptic. Dr. Jack Abbot is a man of protocols, which is why he finds your collection of antibacterial hand gel to be a glittery distraction, until a terrified toddler refuses to cooperate.
A/N i have no idea if doctors can use this, ok? This is pure fiction
The sharp scent of isopropyl alcohol was, for Dr. Jack Abbot, the smell of job. It was efficient, it was clean and it was professional.
So, when he stepped into Trauma 2 to help his favorite resident with a pediatric intake, the sudden burst of Sweet Strawberry was enough to make him pause mid stride.
You were crouched down by the gurney, eye level with a six year old boy who looked ready to bolt. He had a nasty laceration on his forearm and eyes brimming with tears. Jack watched as you pulled a small colored bottle with a glittery silicone holder from your pocket. You clicked it open, rubbed your hands together, and then held them out playfully toward the kid.
"Does this smell like doctors?" you whispered loudly.
The boy sniffed the air, his lip stopping its tremble. "No. Smells like fruit."
"Exactly," you winked, already reaching for the gauze. "No boring hospital smells allowed at this station."
Jack waited until the patient had been stitched, pampered with a dinosaur sticker, and wheeled up to observation before he leaned against the supply cart, crossing his arms.
"Strawberry hand gel?" he asked, a faint and amused quirk to his brow. "I’m fairly certain the hospital spends a fortune on those wall mounted industrial grade dispensers for a reason."
You didn't even look up as you charted, still radiating a faint aura of artificial berries. "The industrial ones smell horrible, Jack. It’s intimidating for the kids."
"It’s sanitary," he corrected gently. "The concentration in those commercial ones is sometimes lower than—"
"Kids hate that smell," you interrupted, finally looking up at him. Your expression was soft but completely certain. "When they’re scared and everything hurts, the last thing they want is a doctor who smells like a chemistry lab coming at them with a needle. This? This makes them think of ice cream and summer. It lowers the heart rate faster than a sedative."
Jack went quiet, watching you tuck the tiny bottle back into your scrub pocket. He looked at the sterile dispensing unit on the wall, then back at you.
He was a man of logic and protocol, but he was also a man who appreciated the way you navigated the chaos of the ER with heart.
"Strawberry?" he asked.
"Sweet Strawberry. And another one of Watermelon Lemonade. The lemonade one is new, bought it yesterday" you corrected, holding your wrist up to his nose. "Want a hit? You look like you’ve had a long shift."
Jack chuckled. He took your hand, leaning in to catch the scent. It was sugary, bright and utterly ridiculous in the middle of a trauma center.
"It’s distracting," he murmured, his thumb grazing your palm before he let go.
"Is it working?"
He looked at you, really looked at you, and felt the tension of the last twelve hours finally start to bleed out of his shoulders.
"Regrettably," he admitted, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I think I might prefer the lemonade."
-
The trail of strawberry, lemonade or vanilla that followed you through the halls had become a quiet constant. Jack’d be mid charting and catch a whiff of sweet vanilla, and he’d know without looking that you’d just finished a consult in Peds.
This shift was a heavy one. The waiting room was at capacity, and the air in the ER felt thick with humidity.
Jack was in Exam 3, trying to calm a frantic toddler who was refusing to let anyone near her.
"I heard we have a tough customer," you said, sliding into the room with a calm energy that always seemed to settle the air around you.
Jack sighed, his shoulders tight. "She’s not a fan of the stethoscope. Or me, apparently."
The toddler peeked over, eyeing your blue scrub top. You didn't move toward her immediately. Instead, you caught Jack’s eye. You reached for your pocket, your fingers brushing the familiar plastic clip of your latest scent.
Before you could even pop the cap, Jack surprised himself.
He stopped arguing for the industrial sanitizer.
He didn't offer a lecture on alcohol percentages.
He simply went quiet and held out his hand, palm up.
It was a silent surrender. He didn't say a word, but the gesture spoke volumes. He was choosing your scent logic over his own rigid protocols.
A smile broke across your face. You squeezed a dollop of the antibacterial hand gel into his hand as the toddler watched closely. "Cozy vanilla almond, it's new" you whispered.
Jack rubbed his hands together, the scent immediately cutting through the exam room.
He held his hands out toward the little girl.
"Look, my hands smell funny" he asked, his voice dropping into a gentle tone.
The girl leaned forward, took his hand with a hard grip and sniffed tentatively. Her grip loosened instantly.
"Muffins," she whispered.
"Muffins it is," Jack agreed, catching your gaze.
You were wearing a look of pure I told you so.
"Don't say it," Jack warned, though there was no bite in it.
"I didn't say a word," you replied, your smile widening. "You're definitely a vanilla guy. Smells good on you."
You stayed with him until the toddler was discharged. You felt something on the air, something that made the vanilla scent feel like the best thing he’d smelled all day.
For the rest of the shift, the sweetness stayed on his skin and you caught him several times smelling his hand or asking for more even though there wasn't any sick child around.
Summary: A night out with Robby, Santos, Whitaker, Javadi, and Mel takes a turn when you get drunk, refuse to leave the bar, and start loudly demanding to know where your husband is. Santos calls Jack. Jack arrives. Unfortunately for everyone in the bar, you are drunk and do not immediately recognize him as your husband.
Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, suggestive jokes, reader being extremely horny for her own husband, Jack being responsible and not engaging sexually while reader is drunk, soft caretaking, lots of teasing, lots of “hell yeah.”
Author's Note:
I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes a woman gets drunk, forgets she is married, and tries to hit on her own husband in public. Sometimes that husband happens to be Jack Abbot. Sometimes he has to provide ring verification every five minutes while trying to get her to drink water.
This is love.
Xoxo, Del
By the time Santos called Jack, you had been singing for twenty-three minutes.
Not continuously.
There had been pauses.
Important pauses.
One pause to tell Robby he was doing the background vocals wrong. Another to inform Whitaker that his attempt to close the tab was “emotionally hostile.” Another to point at a man near the jukebox and announce, with deep conviction, that he was not your husband because your husband had better shoulders.
Mel had tried water.
Javadi had tried fries.
Whitaker had tried logistics.
Robby had tried joining in, which had only made everything worse.
And Santos, because she had the glare of a woman who had spent years keeping doctors from making stupid choices, and no patience left, finally pulled out her phone.
You were standing beside the booth with one hand braced on the table, swaying to the beat of a song that was no longer playing.
“Baby! Woo-hoo, where the hell is my husband? Woo-hoo! What is takin' him so long to find me? Woo-hoo!”
Robby lifted both hands as if he were conducting you. “Great projection.”
Santos pointed at him. “Stop encouraging her.”
Robby shrugged, “She’s an artist.”
“She is refusing to leave a bar because she thinks her husband has been misplaced,” Santos replied.
You turned sharply. Too sharply. Mel caught your elbow before gravity could make a compelling argument.
“He is not misplaced,” you said.
Santos lowered the phone slightly. “No?”
You frowned, “He is missing.”
Javadi nodded from the end of the booth, phone in hand, filming with the calm detachment of someone documenting history. “The distinction is important.”
Whitaker rubbed both hands over his face. “It is not.”
You slapped one palm gently against the table. “My husband is handsome and tall and sexy and has doctor hands.”
Robby leaned toward Mel. “Doctor's hands is specific.”
Mel nodded. “And accurate.”
“And,” you continued, because you were not finished and everyone needed to understand the scale of the emergency, “he has very serious pecs.”
Santos closed her eyes.
Robby whispered, “Here we go.”
You pointed at him. “Respect the pecs.”
“I do,” Robby said immediately.
Whitaker slid your glass of water toward you. “Can we respect the pecs from the parking lot?”
You shake your head quickly, “No.”
“Why?” He groans.
You point towards the door, “Because my husband is not in the parking lot.”
Santos pressed Jack’s contact and lifted the phone to her ear.
You gasped. “Are you calling him?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
“No!” You exclaimed.
Santos looked at you. “No?”
You shook your head, “I don’t want to call him.”
“You have been singing for him for twenty-three minutes,” Santos said.
You rolled your eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “I want him to appear.”
Robby slapped the table once. “That is marriage.”
Santos ignored him and turned slightly away as the call connected.
Jack answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
His voice came through low and alert, and you froze.
Santos looked at you.
You stared at her phone like it had become sacred.
“Abbot,” Santos said.
There was a small pause on the other end. “Santos?”
“You busy?” She asks.
“At home.” Jack’s voice sharpened. “Is she okay?”
You grabbed Mel’s wrist and whispered very loudly, “Is that my husband?”
Mel patted your hand. “Yes, honey.”
You looked down at your left hand.
Your wedding rings gleamed under the warm bar lights.
You gasped. “I have wife jewelry.”
Robby bent forward with a wheeze. “Wife jewelry.”
On the phone, Jack went quiet. “What was that?”
Santos looked at you as you lifted your hand in front of your face and admired your rings with genuine awe.
“She is okay,” Santos said carefully.
Jack exhaled. “Define okay.”
You turned toward the booth again, apparently remembering your mission. “Oh, baby, where the hell is my lover?” You pick up your song.
Jack went silent.
Robby threw his head back and supplied a terrible echo. “Woo-hoo!”
Santos pinched the bridge of her nose.
Jack said, “Is that her?”
“No,” Santos said. “That is the jukebox haunting me.”
Jack sighed, “Santos.”
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Is she hurt?” He asked.
“No.”
“Sick?” He continued.
“No.”
Jack exhaled, “Crying?”
You pointed at a man near the pool table. “Not him. My husband has a better ass.”
Mel covered her mouth with a hand.
Santos stared at the ceiling. “No. Not crying.”
There was a pause.
Then Jack said, dry as hell, “Did she say something about my ass?”
Robby lunged across the table, trying to get closer to the phone. “Tell him she said better.”
Santos shoved his forehead back with two fingers. “She is refusing to leave until her husband comes to collect her.”
You leaned toward Santos’s phone. “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants.”
Santos pulled the phone away from you. “Absolutely not.”
Jack made a sound that might have been a cough. “I’m leaving now. Send me the address.” He was already moving.
“All right,” Santos said. “I’ll send it.”
In the background, Robby shouted, “Tell him she’s been reviewing his ass for twenty minutes!”
Jack went silent again.
Santos closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”
You reached toward the phone. “Wait, I want to talk to him.”
“No,” Santos said, ending the call.
Your lower lip trembled, “But he’s missing.”
“He’s on his way.” She told you.
That stopped you. Your mouth fell open. “He’s coming?”
Santos slid her phone into her pocket. “Yes.”
You laid a hand on your chest, “To me?”
“Yes.” Trinity nodded.
You pressed both hands to your cheeks. “Oh, fuck.”
Whitaker nodded toward the door. “Great. Now we can go.”
“No,” you said immediately.
His shoulders dropped. “Why not?”
You looked at him like he had just asked the stupidest question in recorded history. “I have to be here when my husband appears.”
Robby raised one hand. “I support her.”
Santos snapped, “No one asked you.”
You sat back down in the booth and folded your hands on the table like you were waiting for a job interview.
Mel slid the water toward you again. “Drink some water while you wait.”
You stared at the glass.
Then at Mel.
Then at Santos.
“What if he gets here and I’m drinking water?” You ask.
Javadi tilted her head. “Would that be bad?”
You frowned, thinking hard. “No. Hydration is sexy.”
Whitaker looked at the ceiling. “Thank God.”
You picked up the glass, took one sip, and set it down with a proud nod.
Then you leaned toward Robby. “Do you think he knows he’s my husband?”
Robby’s face lit with dangerous joy.
Santos pointed at him. “Do not.”
Robby held up both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
Her eyes narrowed, “You were about to.”
Robby frowned deeply, “I have never done anything wrong in my life.”
Javadi looked up from her phone. “There are videos.”
You tapped your rings against the table, watching them sparkle. “I’m going to ask him.”
Mel smiled. “Ask him what?”
“If he’s my husband.” You answer.
Whitaker muttered, “This will be efficient.”
“It will not,” Santos said.
And it wasn’t.
Because when Jack walked in seven minutes later, everything in you stopped working.
He came through the door in jeans, sneakers, and a dark hoodie under his jacket, like he had pulled on the first clothes he found and driven over without thinking about anything except getting to you. His hair was messy, his expression serious, and his eyes scanned the bar once before landing on your booth.
On you.
You stopped mid-hum.
Your hand tightened around Mel’s wrist. “Oh no.”
Mel followed your gaze. “What?”
You pointed. “That man has pecs like my husband’s.”
Robby twisted in his seat so fast he nearly knocked over Whitaker’s drink.
Santos sighed. “That man is your husband.”
You shook your head slowly, eyes fixed on Jack as he crossed the bar. “No.”
Javadi kept filming. “Denial phase.”
Jack reached the table and looked you over first, quick and clinical, because he was Jack. No visible injury. No tears. No panic. Just you, drunk and bright-eyed and staring at him like he had been sent from some divine catalog of bad ideas.
His shoulders eased. “Hey, baby.”
You blinked. Then slowly turned to Santos. “He called me baby.”
She nodded slowly, “Because he is your husband.”
You whipped back toward him. “You are?”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
He lifted his left hand without hesitation.
His wedding band caught the bar light.
You looked down at your own rings.
Then back at his.
Then at your rings again. “Oh, my god.”
Jack’s face softened. “Yeah?”
You beam. “We match.”
“We do.” He replied.
You looked him up and down, with a long pause at his chest. “Hell yeah.”
Robby slammed both hands on the table. “And we’re off.”
Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Don’t.”
You leaned toward Mel, still staring at Jack. “He has very serious pecs.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
Mel’s shoulders shook. “I know, honey.”
“Do you think he works out?” You whispered to Trinity.
Santos answered before Jack could. “Occasionally.”
You nodded solemnly. “It’s working.”
Jack opened his eyes. “Okay. Time to go.”
You frowned. Then looked him up and down again. “Hey, soldier.”
The whole booth went quiet.
Jack stared at you.
Santos slowly turned her head. “Oh, my god.”
You gave Jack what you clearly thought was a seductive smile. “You come here often?”
Jack’s mouth twitched again, despite his best efforts. “To retrieve my drunk wife from a bar? No.”
Your eyes went wide. “Wife?”
He lifted his hand again.
You looked at his ring.
Then yours.
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Javadi, still filming, said, “The verification system remains functional.”
Jack looked at her phone. “Are you recording?”
“Yes.” She answered instantly.
Jack groans, “Why?”
“Documentation,” Victoria answered.
“It’s behavioral science,” Robby added.
Jack ignored all of them and reached for the water glass instead of you. “Drink.”
You froze. Then you sat up straighter, eyes suddenly sharp with drunk discovery. “Huh.”
Jack paused. “Huh?”
You pointed at him. “Attending voice.”
Robby made a delighted noise. “Oh, she clocked it.”
Jack gave him a flat look. “Do not participate.”
You leaned toward Santos, whispering very loudly. “He said drink like he was about to order labs.”
Santos nodded. “He did.”
“I did not,” Jack said.
Mel patted your shoulder. “You kind of did.”
Jack pushed the glass closer. “Three sips.”
Your lips parted. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Please just drink the water.”
You picked up the glass with both hands, still staring at him. “You’re very bossy for a stranger.”
Jack opened his eyes. “I’m not a stranger.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Then you looked down at your rings again.
Jack lifted his hand.
You inspected his wedding band with deep seriousness.
“Right,” you said. “Husband.”
“Yes,” Jack confirmed.
You took one sip.
Jack nodded once. “Good.”
You set the glass down too hard. “No.”
His brow furrowed. “No?”
“You can’t say ‘good’ with attending voice.” You frowned.
Robby dropped his forehead onto the table. “She’s right.”
Jack pointed at him. “Not another word.”
You finished the water because Jack stood there with crossed arms and serious eyes, and the world had become a place where hydration was suddenly compelling.
When you set the glass down, Jack picked up your coat. “Arm.”
You inhaled sharply.
Santos pointed at him. “That one was attending voice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “I need her arm in the sleeve.”
You looked at him, dazed. “You need my arm?”
Jack took a slow breath. “Baby.”
You melted back against the booth. “Oh, Jackie.”
That got him. Just a little. His expression shifted, the stern line of his mouth almost breaking.
Santos saw it immediately. “Don’t reward her.”
“I’m not rewarding her,” Jack said.
“You liked Jackie,” Santos replied.
Jack held the coat open and looked at you. “Arm.”
You stared at him. Then slid one arm into the sleeve. “Bossy.”
He guided the coat around your shoulders. “Other arm.”
You looked at Mel. “He wants the other one too.”
Mel nodded, fighting for her life. “Coats usually do.”
You gave Jack your other arm. He pulled the coat into place and zipped it halfway with careful, practical hands. You looked down at the zipper. Then up at him. “That was hot.”
“It was a zipper.” Jack deadpanned.
You sighed happily, “You did it like a procedure.”
Robby lifted his head. “Sterile field: wife edition.”
Jack did not turn around. “Robby.”
“Sorry.” Robby lowered his head once more.
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she proposes to him.”
You froze. Then your head turned slowly toward Jack. “I proposed?”
Jack’s expression softened at once. “No, baby.” He lifted his left hand before you could even ask, wedding band, catching the bar light. “I proposed.”
You looked down at your rings. Then at his. Then up at him, stunned and pleased and drunk-happy. “You wanted to marry me?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Still do.”
Your whole face lit up. “Hell yeah.”
Robby dropped his forehead back to the table. “They’re disgusting.”
Jack crouched slightly in front of you and offered his hand. “Stand up.”
The booth went silent. You stared at him. Then you looked at Santos. “Attending voice.”
Santos nodded. “Full attending voice.”
Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the ceiling. “I am trying to get you upright.”
You nodded, “You’re doing it with authority.”
“You are drunk in public,” Jack replied.
You clicked your tongue, “You’re hot in public.”
Mel made a small sound into her hand.
Jack’s ears went faintly pink.
You saw it. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Jackie’s blushing.”
Jack shook his head, “I am not.”
“You are.” You squeal with delight.
Jack’s hand stayed steady in front of you. “Up.”
You pressed one hand dramatically to your chest. “Fuck.”
Santos stood and grabbed her bag. “We are leaving before she discovers a military kink.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “Santos.”
She shrugged, “What? She’s halfway there.”
You tilted your head, considering. “A what?”
“Nope.” Jack took your hand and helped you stand. “We’re going home.”
For one glorious second, you were upright and triumphant.
Then the room tilted. Jack caught you by the waist.
Your entire body went still. “Oh, fuck.”
“Balance,” he said.
You stared up at him. “You said that like an order.”
“It was an explanation,” Jack replied.
You smiled up at him, “Do it again.”
“No,” Jack answered immediately.
Robby lifted his head. “She’s not wrong.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him.
Robby lowered his head again. “Withdrawn.”
You touched Jack’s chest lightly with one finger. “Responsible soldier husband.”
Jack looked down at your hand. Then at your face. “Doctor husband. Former soldier.”
You nodded solemnly. “Doctor husband with command voice.”
Mel laughed into her hand.
Jack took a slow breath. “Arm over my shoulder.”
Your eyes went wide. “Jackie.”
“Arm,” he repeated, then pointed to his shoulder. “Here.”
You looked at Santos. “He pointed.”
“I saw.” She answered.
You licked your lips. “He pointed and said here.”
Trinity nodded solemnly, “You’re going to survive.”
You shook your head furiously, “You don’t know that.”
Jack guided your arm over his shoulders.
You held on to him and immediately looked delighted. “I’m touching him.”
Santos nodded. “You are.”
“Legally?” You asked, looking to Jack, bright and hopeful.
Jack lifted his left hand in front of your face.
You checked his ring. Then yours. “Hell yeah.”
Jack slid an arm around your waist and pulled you carefully against his side.
You went very still. Then you looked down at his arm. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack sighed. “Please walk.”
You looked up at him, eyes wide and delighted. “Can you say it again, but like bossier?”
“No,” Jack said.
“Absolutely not,” Santos said at the same time.
Robby lifted his head just enough to gasp for air. “I can’t believe it. This is foreplay with witnesses.”
Jack pointed at him without loosening his hold on you. “Not foreplay.”
You leaned into his side and whispered loudly. “But later?”
Jack closed his eyes. “You’re drunk.”
You nodded, “But later, when I’m not drunk?”
“Later,” Santos said quickly, “is between you, Jack, and God.”
Javadi nodded. “And possibly the HOA, depending on volume.”
You looked at Jack. “Do we have an HOA?”
He shook his head, “No.”
You leaned closer to him, “Then later?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Walk.”
You inhaled sharply. “Oh, that was better.”
Santos threw both hands up. “Door. Now.”
Jack started moving.
You went with him, tucked carefully into his side, one arm over his shoulders, his arm secure around your waist, your coat half-zipped and your dignity somewhere under the booth.
You made it three steps before he said, “Watch your feet.”
You looked up at him. “Attending voice.”
“Safety voice.” He corrected.
You shrugged, “They’re cousins.”
“Eyes forward,” Jack replied.
You sighed dramatically, “Oh fuck me, that one too.”
Santos followed behind you, laughing now despite herself. “This is the worst evacuation I’ve ever seen.”
Jack kept you tucked firmly against his side. “It is not an evacuation.”
“You’re using evacuation posture,” you said.
He looked down at you.
You smiled up at him, drunk and delighted. “I like it.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”
Halfway to the door, you twisted carefully to look back at the table.
“Everybody be cool,” you announced. “I’m leaving with my husband.”
Robby raised both hands. “Hell yeah, Mrs. Abbot.”
You stopped.
Jack stopped with you, patient but visibly suffering.
You looked down at your rings.
Then grabbed his left hand and checked his.
The band was still there.
You smiled, delighted all over again. “Hell yeah.”
Jack’s face softened.
Then you glanced behind him one more time.
“And he has a great ass!” You cheer.
Jack immediately started walking again.
“Goodnight,” he called over his shoulder.
Santos waved. “Hydrate her.”
Mel added, “Text when you get home.”
Whitaker pointed at Jack. “Do not let her order fries.”
You gasped. “Traitor.”
Javadi lifted her glass. “The record will show we tried.”
Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ask him to walk bossier!”
Jack pushed the door open with his shoulder and guided you into the cool night air.
The second the air hit your face, you sighed dramatically and leaned a little more heavily into his side.
Jack adjusted his hold. “You okay?”
You looked up at him.
The bar lights spilled behind him, catching the edge of his jaw, the tired concern in his face, the little pinch between his brows that meant he was trying to figure out if you needed water, food, sleep, or all three.
Your drunk brain, unhelpfully, sorted those options into one category.
Husband.
“Jack?” You asked quietly.
Jack looked down at you, “Yeah, baby?”
“You’re really my husband?” You whispered the question.
He lifted his left hand between you before you even asked.
You looked at his ring.
Then down at yours.
Then up at him.
Your smile went soft and bright and drunk-happy. “Hell yeah.”
Jack shook his head, but he was smiling now. “Yeah,” he said, guiding you toward the car. “Hell yeah.”
You made it halfway across the parking lot before you stopped again.
Jack looked down. “What?”
You stared at him very seriously. “You came when I sang.”
His mouth twitched. “Santos called.”
“But I sang.” You persisted.
Jack nodded, “You did.”
“And you appeared.” You added with delight.
“I did,” Jack replied.
You nodded, deeply moved. “Powerful.”
Jack opened the passenger door and kept one hand at your back. “In.”
You looked at the seat. Then at him. “I like it when you give directions.”
Jack almost smiled, “I have noticed.”
“Can you say ‘in’ again?” You asked, looking up at him.
His answer comes quickly, “No.”
“Meaner?” You tried.
This answer was faster: “Absolutely not.”
You sighed and got into the car anyway, mostly because Jack’s hand was warm at your back and he looked like that, and you were only human.
He leaned across you to buckle your seatbelt.
You went very still.
Jack paused immediately. “Okay?”
You nodded, eyes wide. “You smell good.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and clicked the seatbelt into place. “You’re drunk.”
“You smell good when I’m drunk.” You amended.
Jack shook his head, “That’s not how that works.”
“It is for me.” You replied with a happy shrug.
Jack braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at you.
His expression was amused. Tired. Fond in a way he would absolutely deny if Robby had been there to witness it. “You need water when we get home.”
You pointed at him. “Bossy.”
“You need sleep.” He added.
You smiled. “Oh, fuck.”
“And no flirting with me until you can walk in a straight line.” Jack continued.
Your mouth fell open. “You’re denying your wife?”
Jack held up his left hand.
You looked at his ring automatically.
Then at yours.
The distress vanished.
You nodded, “Hell yeah.”
He smiled despite himself. “And yes. I’m denying my drunk wife.”
You considered that, then nodded slowly. “Responsible husband.”
He smiled softly, “Trying to be.”
You looked him up and down from your seat. “Hot.”
Jack shut the door before you could say anything else. You watched him walk around the front of the car. The parking lot lights were doing very good things to him. His shoulders. His hoodie. His jeans. When he opened the driver’s side door, you were still staring.
He slid in and caught your expression immediately. “No.”
You frowned deeply, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” Jack commented.
You looked out the windshield, dignified. “I was admiring privately.”
You looked at his hands on the steering wheel. “Oh, fuck.”
He closed his eyes. “Baby.”
You looked down at your rings.
Then, at his hand on the wheel, wedding band visible under the passing sweep of the parking lot light.
“You called me baby.” You sighed happily.
He pulled out of the parking space. “I’m your husband.”
You smiled at his ring. “Hell yeah.”
The drive home was mostly quiet. Mostly.
You hummed under your breath until Jack, without looking away from the road, said, “No more husband song.”
You turned your head toward him. “I like it when you’re bossy.”
“I know.” He replied.
You sat up straighter, “Say something else.”
“No.”
“That was something.” You mumbled.
He sighed.
You smiled out the window like you had won.
By the time he pulled into the driveway, your energy had softened around the edges. The feral husband appreciation was still there, obviously, because Jack existed and you had eyes, but it had gone warm and sleepy.
Less bar announcement.
More gravity.
Jack came around to your side and opened the door.
You looked up at him.
He looked down at you. “Out.”
Your mouth parted.
Jack pointed at you. “Do not.”
You pressed your lips together, nodding seriously. Then whispered, “Attending voice.”
He helped you out anyway.
You wobbled once on the driveway, and his hand found your waist immediately.
You leaned into him. “Good catch.”
He gave you a little grin, “Good wobble.”
You gasped. “You praised me.”
“I should not have,” Jack replied, regretting his choice immediately.
You smiled up at him, “I liked it.”
Jack looked down at you, “I know.”
Inside, the house was dim and quiet. Jack locked the door behind you, then turned back to find you standing in the entryway, looking down at your left hand again.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall. “Checking?”
You lifted your rings toward the hall light. “Still married.”
Jack held up his left hand. His wedding band gleamed.
Your smile went loose and delighted. “Hell yeah.”
He took your coat off first.
Not because you helped.
You did not help.
You got distracted halfway through by the flex of his forearm when he pulled the sleeve down your arm. “Oh, fuck.”
Jack paused. “What?”
You didn’t look up, “Your arm.”
“My arm is removing your coat,” Jack said.
“Yeah.” You stared at it. “That’s the problem.”
Jack exhaled through his nose and hung your coat on the hook. “Kitchen.”
You looked at him sharply. “Attending voice.”
Jack sighed, “I’m getting you water.”
“You said kitchen like an order.” You argued.
Jack inhaled, “It was a destination.”
“A hot destination.” You corrected him.
He pointed down the hall. “Move.”
You inhaled. “Jackie.”
“No.” He said instantly.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” You said with a whine.
Jack gave you a look, “I do.”
You followed him anyway, because his hand settled at the small of your back and your drunk brain apparently classified that as a life-altering event.
At the kitchen counter, he gave you more water and two crackers.
You stared at the crackers. Then up at him. “Are you feeding me?”
“I am preventing tomorrow from being worse,” Jack replied.
Your eyes went wide and affectionate, “You provide.”
“I provide saltines.” Jack amended.
You picked one up and took a dramatic bite. “Sexy.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Chew.”
You froze. Then pointed at him with the cracker. “Attending voice.”
Jack tilted his head, “Chewing is not optional.”
“Oh, my god.” You fan yourself with the cracker.
He dragged a hand down his face. “Please eat the cracker.”
You did, mostly because he watched you with that serious, focused Jack expression, and you had already learned at the bar that being perceived by your husband while he gave basic instructions was dangerous.
After water and crackers, he got you upstairs.
Barely.
There was a brief negotiation on the landing because you stopped to admire his butt from a lower step and whispered, “Perspective,” like you had made a scientific discovery.
Jack looked over his shoulder. “Keep walking.”
You gripped the railing. “Attending voice.”
“Stairs voice.” He corrected you.
You shrugged, “Same family.”
When you finally reached the bathroom, Jack set your makeup remover, toothbrush, and face wash on the counter as if he were preparing for a procedure.
You leaned against the doorframe and watched him. “You’re setting up supplies.”
Jack nodded, “I am.”
“Like an attending.” You add.
“Like a husband who knows you’ll sleep in mascara if I don’t help,” Jack replied.
You gasped and looked down at your rings.
Jack lifted his left hand immediately.
You checked. Satisfied, you nodded. “Verified.”
He handed you a makeup wipe. “Face.”
You took it, then blinked. “Huh.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“You said face.” You answered.
Jack nodded, “I did.”
“Very direct.” You replied with a crooked smile.
Jack looks over your face, “You have makeup on it.”
You touched the wipe to your cheek, still watching him. “Bossy skincare husband.”
Jack leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. That was a mistake.
You stared at his chest.
He noticed. “Face,” he repeated.
You closed your eyes. “That was worse.”
“Makeup off.” He tried again.
You threw your head back in defeat, “Oh, fuck.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the wipe.”
You handed it over without thinking. Jack stepped closer and gently tipped your chin up with two fingers. The bathroom went very quiet. He wiped beneath one eye with slow, careful strokes, his other hand steady at your jaw. His face was close enough that you could see the tired fondness in his eyes.
You swallowed. “Jackie.”
His thumb stilled for half a second. “Yeah?”
“You’re really good at this.” You whispered.
He smiled softly, “At taking off mascara?”
“At being mine.” You said, almost breathless.
His expression softened.
Then, because you were drunk and incapable of letting tenderness survive unbothered, you added, “Also, your pecs are close.”
Jack closed his eyes. “There she is.”
You smiled.
He finished with your makeup, then handed you your toothbrush.
“Toothpaste,” he said.
You looked at the toothbrush. Then at him in the mirror. “Attending voice.”
“Toothpaste voice.”
You brushed your teeth while glaring at him with exaggerated suspicion.
Jack watched you in the mirror, arms crossed, trying and failing not to smile.
When you finished, he pointed to the sink. “Spit.”
You blinked around the toothbrush. Then slowly looked at him. “Jack.”
“What?” He asked.
Your eyes widened, “You can’t just say spit like that.”
His jaw tightened. Not anger. A smile he was trying to kill. “I am asking you to brush your teeth.”
“You are issuing commands in a bathroom.” You say, mouth foamy.
Jack looked down at your mouth, “You have toothpaste in your mouth.”
You pointed the toothbrush at him. “Dangerous.”
“Sink.” He commanded.
“Oh, fuck.” You spat, rinsed, and accepted the towel he handed you.
“Good,” he said.
You pressed the towel to your mouth and froze.
He sighed immediately. “I forgot.”
“You said good.” You grinned.
He sighed again, “I did.”
“With the voice.” You say, eyebrows raised.
Jack shrugged, “It slipped.”
You lowered the towel and pointed at him. “Dangerous.”
“Bed,” he said.
You stared. “Jack.”
He pointed toward the bedroom. “Now.”
Your mouth dropped open. “Oh, fuck me.”
Jack muttered something under his breath and guided you into the bedroom.
He found one of his old T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts from your drawer. Then he turned back to you, clothes in hand. “Can I help?”
You looked at the shirt. Then at him. Then down at your rings.
Jack lifted his hand before you could ask. You checked his wedding band.
“Okay,” you said. “Husband verified.”
He nodded once, “Good.”
You pointed at him immediately. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did not.” He replies innocently.
You pouted, “You weaponized good.”
“I am trying to get you into pajamas,” Jack replied.
Your frown deepened, “Domestic warfare.”
He helped you sit on the edge of the bed. Then he crouched in front of you and touched the hem of your top. “Arms up.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is this a trick?”
He smiled, “No.”
Your brow furrows, “Because I’m drunk.”
“Exactly.” Jack agreed.
You look at him suspiciously, “You’re not going to be weird.”
“I’m not going to be weird,” Jack promised.
You leaned closer, whispering with great seriousness. “I might be weird.”
His mouth twitched. “I know.”
You lifted your arms.
Jack changed you with the careful efficiency of a man determined not to let his drunk wife turn pajamas into a legal incident. Shirt off, sleep shirt on. No lingering. No teasing. No letting his eyes go where drunk you absolutely wanted them to go.
Which, naturally, offended you. “You’re very respectful.”
“I try,” Jack replied.
You groan, “It’s annoying.”
“I know.” He said.
You sighed, “It’s hot.”
“I know that too.” He said with a smile.
He helped you step into the shorts while you held both hands on his shoulders for balance.
The second your palms settled there, you sighed. “Shoulders.”
“Balance,” Jack corrected.
“Shoulders.” You repeated dreamily.
He pulled the shorts up to your hips and patted your side once. “Done.”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. “You dressed me.”
Jack shrugged, “I helped.”
“You’re like a sexy pit crew.” You say with a wink.
Jack stared at you.
You nodded, pleased with yourself. “Fast. Focused. Good with hands.”
He stood and pointed at the bed. “Lie down.”
Your eyes went wide. “Attending voice.”
He continued to point, “Bed.”
You looked at him desperately, “Oh, Jackie.”
“Do not make bed weird.” He groaned.
You pouted, “You made it weird when you pointed.”
He pulled the blanket back. “In.”
You climbed under the covers, mostly because the single syllable nearly took you out.
Jack tucked the blanket around your waist, then set the water on the nightstand.
“You need sleep,” he said.
You looked up at him, suddenly softer. “You’re staying?”
His expression shifted. “Yeah, baby. I’m staying.”
You looked down at your rings one more time. Then reached for his hand.
Jack gave it to you.
You checked his wedding band, slower now, your thumb brushing over the metal.
“You proposed?”
He sat on the edge of the bed beside you. “I proposed.”
“And I said yes?” You asked happily.
His mouth softened. “You said yes.”
You smiled, sleepy and bright. “Hell yeah.”
Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead.
“No sex,” You murmured. “I’m drunk.”
Jack huffed a laugh against your temple, “I know, baby.”
Your eyes closed. “It sucks, though, because you have amazing pecs. And a great ass.”
He laughed quietly and brushed your hair away from your face. “Go to sleep.”
You sighed into the pillow. “Attending voice.”
“Husband voice,” he corrected, softer.
Your smile was almost gone with sleep. “Jackie.”
“Yeah?” He answers quietly.
“Still hot.” You murmur into your pillow.
He stayed there until your breathing evened out, his thumb moving once over your rings before he let go. Then he slipped into the bathroom, changed, came back, and climbed into bed beside you. You rolled toward him automatically, even in sleep, one hand landing against his chest like you were verifying he was still there. Jack covered your hand with his. Your rings pressed lightly against his skin.
The Next Day...
In the morning, you woke up to pain, sunlight, and consequences.
Mostly consequences.
Your head hurts. Your mouth was dry. Your body felt like it had been assembled incorrectly. For one blessed second, you remembered nothing after the second round of drinks.
Then your phone buzzed.
You opened one eye.
On the nightstand, your screen lit up with a message from Robby.
MRS. ABBOT LIVE AT THE BAR: WHERE IS MY HUSBAND TOUR
You closed your eye again. “No.”
Beside you, Jack was already awake.
You could feel it.
You turned your head very slowly.
He was lying on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, watching you with the calm, devastating expression of a man who knew everything.
You swallowed. “How bad?”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Define bad.”
You groaned and pulled the blanket over your face.
He reached over and tugged it down just enough to see you. “You reviewed my body in public.”
Your eyes closed. “Oh, my god.”
“Pecs got mentioned several times.” He added.
“Jack.” You whined.
He grinned, “Butt got a standing ovation.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I need to leave the country.”
“You also called your rings' wife jewelry.”
A pause.
You peeked through your fingers. “That’s kind of cute.”
Jack nodded, “It was very cute.”
Your stomach softened despite the hangover.
Then he added, “You made me show you my ring every time someone told you we were married.”
You lowered your hands. “I did?”
He lifted his left hand. His wedding band gleamed in the morning light. Your eyes flicked down to your own rings automatically.
Jack noticed.
A smile started at the corner of his mouth.
You pointed at him. “Do not.”
He raised both his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked smug.” You replied, eyes narrowed.
Jack tilted his head, “I’m allowed.”
“You are not.” You argued.
Jack smiled, “You kept checking.”
“I was drunk.” You defend.
Jack looked down at his ring. “You were thorough.”
You groaned again and rolled onto your back. “I hate myself.”
“No, you don’t,” Jack said.
You stared at the ceiling. “I hate Robby.”
“That’s fair.” Jack agreed.
Your phone buzzed again.
This time, Jack picked it up before you could stop him.
“Jack.” You warned.
He looked at the screen. Then his mouth twitched.
“No.” You groaned.
He turned the phone toward you.
The video thumbnail showed you in the booth, hand dramatically raised, mouth open mid-song. At the same time, Robby performed backup vocals, and Santos looked as if she were reconsidering friendship as a concept.
You stared.
Then slowly turned to Jack. “Delete it.”
“It’s not on my phone.” He replied.
You groaned, “Tell Robby to delete it.”
“I will,” Jack answered.
You narrowed your eyes.
Jack’s expression stayed too innocent. “After I watch it once.”
You huffed, “Jack.”
He pressed play. Your own drunk voice filled the room with devastating commitment. On-screen, Robby echoed you terribly.
Then the video shifted as Santos muttered, “I’m calling Abbot.”
Your face lit up. You grabbed Mel’s wrist and shouted, “Tell him to wear the gray sweatpants!”
Jack paused the video. Silence. You stared at the ceiling. Jack stared at the phone.
Then he looked at you. “The gray sweatpants?”
You pulled the blanket over your face again. “I was unwell.”
“You were specific.” Jack corrected you.
“I had a medical condition.” You attempted to explain.
“Being horny for your husband is not a medical condition,” Jack replied.
You slowly lowered the blanket.
Jack’s eyebrow lifted.
You pointed at him. “You’re a doctor. Diagnose it.”
He laughed then. Really laughed. Warm and low and unfairly pleased.
You groaned, but you were smiling too. He set the phone aside and leaned over you, bracing one hand near your shoulder. Your eyes flicked to his arm before you could stop yourself.
Jack noticed that too. “Still?”
“Shut up.”
His smile widened.
You looked down at your rings, partly because you were embarrassed and partly because the habit had apparently survived the alcohol. Then, quietly, Jack lifted his left hand beside yours.
The rings caught the same strip of morning light.
Your chest softened. “We match,” you said, voice rough from sleep and singing and terrible decisions.
Jack’s expression went gentle. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We match.”
You stared at the rings for a second.
Then at him.
Even hungover, even humiliated, even with video evidence waiting in the group chat, you could not help it.
summary: the new nurse in the pitt has caught jacks attention.
content: fluff, hurt/comfort, yearning, protective jack, age gap, miscommunication, slow burn, he snaps at you, descriptions of reader injury/blood, mentions of abuse (patient)
wc: 10.5k
note: this is my first fic, enjoy :))
masterlists
You desperately wanted to make a good first impression on your first shift at PTMC.
The universe had a different idea, with your plan actively unravelling.
You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.
This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.
While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.
Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.
“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift.
A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.
“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you.
You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question.
He’s incredibly attractive.
The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.
You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man.
Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”
He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you.
You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked.
“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.
“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.
“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you.
He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors.
“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.
You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,
Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.
“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.
“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed.
Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.
Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.
“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him.
Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”
Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”
Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.
“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”
During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.
Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.
You hope otherwise.
───────
True to your words, you’re never late again.
Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.
Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.
However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–
That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.
From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.
It bugs him.
How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.
Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches.
He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.
“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.
No.
His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.
You’re his.
───────
Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.
You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.
Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.
He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.
So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.
Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him.
He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–
His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.
He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen.
“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard.
Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.
He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.
The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.
“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”
His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.
You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand.
You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.
But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.
───────
He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all.
He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.
Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.
He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.
You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food.
His quiet, tired voice cuts through.
“S’alright if I join ya?”
You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.
“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.
You pause.
Uncomfortable?
Fuck.
You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.
“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself. Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.
He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,
“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”
You shake your head again, cutting him off.
“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning.
Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.
“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?”
You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–
“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”
Oh.
He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.
Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.
“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.
The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over yours where it rests on the table.
“I mean it. Anything.”
───────
He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space.
You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.
One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.
You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.
You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.
“All good in here?”
You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.
Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass.
“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.
Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.
“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.
You’re starstruck. Sweetheart.
You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.
Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now?
The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?
Wrecks him.
He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.
───────
The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.
During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night.
You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.
He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety.
But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch.
He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.
He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.
And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.
He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along.
His heart breaks.
You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave.
Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.
“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you.
You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.
“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.
You dip your head shyly,
“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.
His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.
“I notice.”
His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.
He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.
“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?”
You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.
When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.
“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”
You give him a little confused look shaking your head.
“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.
“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.
“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.
On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.
He’s proud.
───────
Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least.
His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.
“Good catch, sweetheart.”
“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”
“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”
And he always delivers.
Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather.
But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges.
Tonight is no different.
You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.
You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry.
He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.
“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath
“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off.
“No!” He shrugs her off
“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.
The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security
The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate.
Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.
The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over.
“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.
Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.
You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,
“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.
You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this.
───
Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.
He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,
“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.
“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.
You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”
“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.
“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.
“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.
Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.
“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.
Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–
“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.
───
Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.
The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.
You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.
She’s gorgeous.
She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you.
Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.
It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.
God you’re so stupid.
Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.
“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.
Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.
“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.
“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”
Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.
“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”
She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone?
You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.
Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.
───────
Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever.
You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.
You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again.
He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.
But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.
One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.
“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”
Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”
“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”
Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.
He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.
His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.
“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.
“I’ll talk to her.”
───
Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.
When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.
Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.
He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.
He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.
Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.
“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?”
Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now.
His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.
“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.
He watches your face fall. Fuck.
Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically.
“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.
“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.
───
The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.
He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.
He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.
“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?
Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again.
“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.
Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.
“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.
“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it.
He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.
Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off.
What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.
───
You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.
You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself.
You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.
“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh
“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.
“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.
“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile.
“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?”
You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot.
What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.
You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”
“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”
You don’t want it to pass.
───
You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.
The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.
“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.
You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you.
“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”
You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.
The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.”
“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving.
She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.
Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
“BP 78/40.”
“We’re losing him, Abbot.”
Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.
And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.
“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.
But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.
“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.
Nothing.
The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.
His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.
He snaps.
“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.”
You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.
Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.
You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.
Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.
Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.
You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.
You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.
The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?
Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.
───
Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.
Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain.
He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.
───
You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.
Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts.
You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white.
You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.
You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate.
“Shit–”
The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain
“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.
“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.
Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.
You’re not that lucky.
“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.
Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.
The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.
“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.
Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.
“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern.
“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.
You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.
He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.
“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.
You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.
“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”
His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.
“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”
His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.
“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.
You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.
“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me?
His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.
“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”
Baby.
He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.
“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.
Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”
You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious.
Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:
“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”
You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.
“Jack–” You practically whimper his name.
His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly.
He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.
Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.
You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.
He crashes his lips to yours.
It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt.
He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could.
He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him.
He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you.
“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.”
Oh.
He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.
“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.”
Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding
He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.
“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches.
“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”
He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation.
“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.
You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.”
Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.
He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.
“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh.
He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.”
He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.”
You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.
“There she is.” He coos at your smile.
───────
After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.
It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.
He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.
You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times.
The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat.
Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.
Until you get deeper into country backroads.
You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.
Until you seem to keep passing more animals.
Deer.
Squirrels.
Rabbits.
Foxes.
Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone.
Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you.
His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.
Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side.
His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg.
“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.
Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.
Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby.
You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.
“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall.
Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.
“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips.
“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed.
Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology.
“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.
You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch.
You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.
“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.
Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.
“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.
The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.
Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.
“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.
Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”
For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.
His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”
You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.
“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.
“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down.
Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.
“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does.
Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest.
“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.
“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.
Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.
“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.
“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.
Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.
─
Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.
“Jack!”
His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow.
Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking.
You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,
“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.
Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”
You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.
“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him
He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”
You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”
He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.
“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”
warnings: 18+, dbf!brett richards (yahoooo!), age gap, first meeting, conversation filled with innuendos, sexual tension, smut, pet names (baby, kid), penetrative sex (p in v), coming inside (yippee), cum mentions
requested by: @bookbombshell
authors note: babe this is my favourite one and i saved it to be posted on my actual birthday, I was giggling and twirling my hair while writing it. this fic was requested from my birthday event! the fic is inspired by the song that was chosen.
Woah. When did Brett Richards get hot?
You’d never actually met him, his presence in your life was through the stories your father would tell about his days in the fire academy and through the pictures hung around your house. In the picture frames the Brett you knew was young, in his late twenties and early thirties, baby faced with freckles and auburn curls. He always smiled at the camera with a big boyish grin, his arm typically slung over your father’s shoulders.
The man across the lawn at the barbecue was definitely not baby faced. Brett was much older now, pushing fifty, with laugh lines and grey hair to prove it. His face had thinned out while the rest of him seemed to have grown - chest, arms, thighs. Looking at Brett now you understood what people meant when they said some people are made to be middle aged. Brett had been a pretty boy and now he was a sexy man, totally a silver fox.
You chewed on your lower lip as you crossed the lawn towards him, a heat swirling in your belly that had nothing to do with the July weather. It had been so long since you’d been with someone, let alone interested in anyone, that you almost didn’t recognize what the feeling was. Watching the way Brett expertly flipped the burgers on the grill with a flick of his wrist, his forearm muscles bulging, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You wanted to fuck Brett Richards.
You weaved through the crowd of people who had gathered for Edgewaters annual Fourth of July barbecue and came up to stand next to your dad’s best friend, who was delightfully alone.
“Hi,” You said, clasping your hands behind your back to avoid accidentally reaching out and touching his bicep like your fingers were itching to do. “I haven’t seen you in Edgewater before.” Brett gave you a friendly smile as he closed the grill and your knees shook at how handsome he looked when he smiled, with wrinkles in the corner of his eyes. You wanted to kiss his crows feet.
“I just got here a few weeks go.”
“Oh, me too! I just moved back.” You commented, giving him a beautiful smile back. You saw how his eyes flickered down to your mouth for just a moment and your heart soared in triumph.
“Why’d you move away?” Brett asked, mirroring your stance with his hands behind his back as he turned to face you fully. You knew that stance well, it was one firefighters did when they were standing at attention. You licked your lips as your eyes raked over his chest and broad shoulders before you replied.
“For school.” You said, your eyes moving back to his face and seeing amusement in his features. He caught you staring and you didn’t mind one bit. “But I came back because my grandmother is recovering from hip surgery and she needs some help. My job is remote so I can be here with her.” Another small smile crept onto Brett’s face as he nodded at your explanation. You could tell he was impressed by your decision to drop everything and return home to help your family.
“And you’re a firefighter?” You asked playfully, your eyes shining with mischief as Brett chuckled.
“What gave it away?”
“Oh, just your arms and your hands.” You said with an innocent shrug. Brett narrowed his eyes a fraction, thrown by your answer. He was sure you’d point out the t-shirt he was wearing with the fire department logo on it.
“My arms and hands?” He asked, tilting his head towards you in confusion. You nodded and held out your hand for him to give you his. He gave you a quizzical look but complied, unclasping his hands to give you his arm. You stepped unnecessarily close as you took his hand in both of yours, turning it over as you spoke.
“You clearly work with your hands, you have callouses and tiny scars,” You ran the tip of your finger over the palm of his hand, following the lines like you were telling his fortune. His fingers twitched like they wanted to grab your hand but they stayed flat for you.
“And your muscles show lots of strength,” Your fingers trailed across his wrist and up his forearm, sliding over the corded muscles under his skin. “Probably from swinging an axe and you’re too clean shaven to be a lumberjack.” You looked up at him then and saw his face was flushed a shade of pink it hadn’t been before. You bit your bottom lip and tilted your head at him.
“Am I right?” You watched Brett swallow, the muscles of his throat working as he stared at you with darkened eyes. He nodded, his eyes locked on your lips. You smiled and stepped back, hoping he’d chase you, which he did until a voice broke through the crowd.
“Oh you two met already!” Your mom appeared next to you, giving you a quick side hug as she beamed at her husbands old friend. “Your dad will be so pleased you recognized Brett, honey.” She said to you, completely oblivious to the charged energy between her daughter and her husbands best friend.
Brett stood there slack jawed as you conversed with your mom. He’d spent the last few minutes basking in the attention you gave him, his eyes greedily looking at the tops of your breasts peaking out of the neckline of your summer dress and imagining sliding his hands up your thighs and under the skirt of the dress. But you weren’t some random young woman flirting with him at the barbecue, you were his best friends daughter! He suddenly felt like a dirty old man, lusting after you like that.
You didn’t seem to mind, casting Brett glance that told him you wanted to eat him alive. His cock jumped at the look in your eyes, his imagination running wild with all the positions he could fuck you in.
Your mom broke Brett’s train of thought when she had to bid farewell suddenly to go help with some dispute at the raffle table. Alone with you once again, Brett tried to deflect.
“If you’re waiting on a burger they’re almost done.”
“That’s not what I’m hungry for.” You commented, your words heavy with innuendo.
“You’re playing with fire kid.” Brett warned, trying to hold onto his last shred of morality.
“Good thing that’s your specialty Deputy Chief Richards.” You said with a flirtatious smile.
“We can’t.” Brett whispered back.
“Why not?”
“Your dad-”
“Will never know.” You cut him off, squashing his worry. “C’mon Brett, you’re not gonna leave me all cold and alone tonight, are you?” You asked coyly, batting your eyelashes at him. Brett swallowed thickly, half his brain shouting this was a bad idea and the other half chanting ‘do it!’ again and again.
That half of his brain and his cock won out and soon he was leaving the function about two steps behind you. Your dad stopped you both, none the wiser to what was about to happen, and you lied to him effortlessly when he asked where you were going.
“Brett offered to come over and fix that leaking pipe my landlord has been ignoring.”
“Thanks for helping Brett!” Your dad commended his friend as he slapped him on the back while you all walked to Brett’s truck before your dad started heading back to the party. “I know you’ll take good care of my girl.”
And take ‘good care’ he did, alllllll night long.
“Fuck, fuck, you feel so good baby.” Brett groaned as his cock thrust into you over and over, his hips slapping against yours as he pressed you into your mattress. You moaned in response, your legs wrapped around him as you clung to his body for dear life. The room was hot and humid, partially from the July heat and partially from the marathon sex you were having with Brett. Your bodies were covered in a sheen of sweat, your breaths hot and quick as Brett fucked you.
He knew this was wrong, you were his best friends daughter. Hell, his own daughter was only a few years older than you. But Brett couldn’t deny how good this felt, plunging his cock deep inside you, watching your face scrunch up at the pleasure he gave you. He wanted to get lost inside you, forever nestled between your perfect thighs.
“You’re doing so good baby, takin’ me so well.” Brett grunted, his forehead pressed against yours as his hot breath fanned over your face. Your nails dragged down his back as you whined, your pleasure nearing its peak.
“You gonna come?” You nodded frantically in response, a whimpered ‘mm hm’ sounding from your throat.
“Yeah, yeah, come on my cock baby. Be good for me kid, come on my cock like the good girl you are.“ Brett cooed softly, sending you over the edge. You came, your back arching as much as it could under his weight as you screamed his name. Brett fucked you through it, not letting up for a second. As your pussy fluttered with aftershocks around his cock, Brett muttered praises against your skin.
“Good job kid, you did so well. ‘M so proud of you.” Your pussy clamped down on his cock at his praising words as another whine was pulled from your throat. Your whole body shifted on the mattress from the force of Brett’s thrusts as he chased his own orgasm, the bed creaking in rhythm.
“Look at me baby.” He ordered. “Eyes on me when I come in you.” Your whole body grew hot at his words and you forced your eyes open so he could stare at you.
“Yeah, yeah, just like that. So good for me. Fuck, I’m gonna come."
"Please Brett," You begged, your ankles locking across his ass and pulling him impossibly closer.
"Yes, oh fuck yes, oh fuck baby I’m gonna come! I'm gonna come!” Brett panted, his hips slamming into yours frantically as he came, his hot cum spilling inside you. Brett sighed contently as his hips slowed to a stop, his cock buried fully inside you before he collapsed on top of you, his weight like a comforting blanket. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, heaving breaths against your skin, hot and fast. Your hands rubbed over his back as you tried to catch your breath too, your whole body tired and satisfied from the sex. It had been a long while since someone ravished you like this, you were practically floating.
“You’re amazing baby.” Brett sighed happily and you giggled with the little energy you had left.
“Worth it then?” You asked. Brett peppered kisses over your neck, trailing upwards to your lips. He kissed you soundly, his tongue sliding over yours.
“Very worth it. And if I’m already going to Hell, I might as well have some fun.” Brett kissed back down your jaw, pulling himself back until he was slipping out of you along with gush of his cum. Brett kissed down between your breasts, his intended destination clear. Your hands found their way to his grey curls and followed his head down between your legs as Brett showed you just how much he liked you all night long.
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
the artemis ii mission reminds me why i love humanity so much. they play pink pony club for the astronauts. they have issues with microsoft outlook. one of the astronauts named a moon crater after his late wife. a jar of nutella just flew by. they make 67 memes because they’re big nerds with huge hearts who say that we look beautiful from there. they call dibs on sleeping arrangements and the mission specialist likes sleeping like a bat. the pilot’s daughter shows her dad off on her social media.
dunno just sometimes helps to think that we can do things like that.
Summary- When you find out you ex and his new gf are attending the same event as you, your anxiety reaches a new panic with the only thing you wanting is your secret boyfriend Jacob...
Notes- Starting to write for people who I adore and make me happy... and when I tell you this man is my dreammmmmm!!! Hope you all enjoy! L xx
The limousine glides through the Los Angeles streets like a sleek shadow, and you watch the city lights blur past the tinted windows, your heart doing that familiar flutter it's been doing for the past eleven months whenever you think about him. Jacob. Your Jacob. Though the world doesn't know that yet.
You smooth down the fabric of your custom Valentino gown—a stunning deep emerald that your stylist promised would photograph beautifully—and check your reflection in the compact mirror one more time. The memory of this afternoon makes you smile: Jacob's hands on your waist as you stood in your shared hotel suite, his lips brushing your temple as he whispered, "You're going to be the most beautiful person there." You'd turned in his arms, straightening his bow tie, and replied, "Second most beautiful. Have you seen yourself?"
That's how it's been between you two. Easy. Natural. Like coming home.
The plan was simple, rehearsed a dozen times with your respective teams. Arrive separately. Sit in different sections. Maybe exchange a polite greeting if your paths crossed, the kind of casual acknowledgment that fellow actors give each other at these events. No one could know. Not yet. You both valued your privacy too fiercely, and the relationship was still so new, so precious. You wanted to protect it from the harsh glare of public scrutiny for as long as possible.
Your phone buzzes. A text from Jacob: Already here. Missing you. Can't wait to see you in that dress properly. Love you.
You type back quickly: Five minutes away. Love you more.
Impossible, comes his immediate response, and you're grinning like a teenager as the limo slows.
"We're approaching the drop-off point," your driver announces, and you can already hear it—the roar of the crowd, the shouting of photographers, the controlled chaos that is a major awards ceremony red carpet.
Your publicist, Maya, is scrolling through her phone in the seat across from you, her face illuminated by the blue light. Suddenly, her expression changes. Her lips press into a thin line.
"What?" you ask, knowing that look. "What's wrong?"
Maya hesitates, which is never a good sign. She's normally unflappable. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
"Maya."
She sighs, turning her phone toward you reluctantly. "They're here. Both of them."
Your stomach drops.
The screen shows a photo from just minutes ago: your ex-boyfriend, Derek, and his new girlfriend, Sienna, posing together on the very red carpet you're about to walk. She's wearing a dress that's trying way too hard, and he's got that smug smile you once thought was charming but now recognize as arrogance.
For weeks—weeks—they've been subtly dragging you online. Never anything direct enough to be called out, but pointed enough that everyone knew. Sienna's "cryptic" Instagram stories about "upgrading" and "finally being with a real man." Derek's liked tweets about "toxic exes" and "dodging bullets." Their friends piling on with comments that their followers screen-shotted and spread across social media like wildfire.
You'd wanted to respond. God, you'd wanted to. But you'd held back, taking the high road, refusing to engage. And Jacob—protective, fierce Jacob—had been ready to say something a dozen times. You'd stopped him every time, your hand on his chest, reminding him that responding would only feed the narrative, would only make things worse.
"Stay private," you'd told him. "They'll get bored eventually."
But seeing them now, knowing you're about to face them, knowing they'll probably find a way to make some snide comment or pose for a photo that will inevitably be compared to ones of you and Derek from when you were together...
Your chest tightens.
"I can handle it," you say, but your voice sounds far away, even to your own ears.
The limo stops. You can see the flash of cameras through the tinted windows, an endless strobe of light. The door is right there. Your handler is probably already reaching for it.
But you can't breathe.
Your chest is constricting, like someone's wrapped steel bands around your ribcage and is pulling them tighter, tighter, tighter. The air in the limo suddenly feels thick, suffocating. Your vision starts to tunnel at the edges.
"I can't—" you gasp, and your hand flies to your chest, clutching at the fabric there. "I can't—"
"Hey, hey," Maya is moving, sliding across to sit beside you, her phone forgotten. "What's happening? Talk to me."
But you can't talk. You can't breathe. The panic is rising like a tidal wave, crashing over you, pulling you under. Your hands are shaking. Everything is shaking. The walls of the limo feel like they're closing in.
Somewhere in the distance, you hear Maya talking urgently to someone—your driver, maybe, or your handler outside. There are voices, concerned and confused, but they sound like they're coming from underwater.
Your mind is spiraling. They're out there. They're going to see you. Everyone is going to see you. The cameras will catch every moment, every angle. They'll compare you to Sienna. They'll write articles about your body language, your expression, whether you look jealous or hurt or bitter. Derek will probably find a way to make sure you're in the background of one of his photos, just to twist the knife a little deeper.
And you'll have to smile through it all. Pretend you're fine. Pretend it doesn't hurt.
But it does hurt. It hurts so much.
"I need—" you try to say, but the words won't come. Your throat is closing up.
"What do you need?" Maya asks, her hand on your shoulder. "Tell me what you need."
There's only one thing you need. Only one person who can pull you back from this edge.
"Jacob," you whisper, so quietly you're not sure she even hears it.
But she does. Maya's eyes widen in understanding—she's one of the few people who knows, who's helped coordinate your secret meetings and separate arrivals. She doesn't hesitate.
"Stay here," she commands, already moving toward the door. "Don't go anywhere. I'm getting him."
Then she's gone, and you're alone in the limo, drowning in panic, your carefully applied makeup probably running with the tears you can't seem to stop.
Outside, the red carpet is a circus of controlled chaos. Jacob stands in front of a backdrop covered in sponsor logos, his hands in his pockets, that easy smile on his face as photographers shout his name.
"Jacob! Over here!"
"To your left!"
"Give us a smile!"
He obliges, turning this way and that, years of practice making it second nature. He looks good and he knows it—the custom black tuxedo fits him perfectly, tailored to his 6'7" frame. But his mind isn't really on the photos. He's thinking about you, wondering if you've arrived yet, wishing he could be the one to escort you down this carpet instead of having to pretend you're just colleagues.
Soon, he tells himself. Once things settle, once you're both ready, you'll go public. And then he'll never have to hide how much he loves you again.
He's just finishing up with one group of photographers when he notices a commotion near the arrival area. Security guards are blocking someone, voices raised. He can't quite see what's happening, but something about it makes him pause.
Then he sees her. Maya. Your publicist. She's arguing with security, trying to push past them, and even from here he can see the panic on her face.
His stomach drops.
Something's wrong.
He doesn't think. He just moves, striding away from the photo area, ignoring the confused calls of the photographers. His long legs eat up the distance quickly, and he's at the security checkpoint in seconds.
"Maya," he says, and she spins toward him, relief flooding her features.
"Jacob, thank God. She needs you. She's—" Maya's voice cracks slightly. "She's having a panic attack in the limo and I don't know what to do. She asked for you."
He doesn't wait to hear more. He's already moving, pushing past security with an authority that makes them step aside. Maya is right behind him, explaining rapidly to the guards that yes, he's supposed to be here, no, don't try to stop him.
The arrival area is a maze of limousines and SUVs, but Maya guides him to the right one. He can see it now, the door still closed, the windows tinted. You're in there. You're in there and you're hurting and he's not with you.
He reaches the door and pulls it open, ducking his head to look inside.
The sight breaks his heart.
You're curled in on yourself in the corner of the seat, your arms wrapped around your middle, your breathing rapid and shallow. Your face is streaked with tears, your carefully styled hair falling out of its elegant updo. You look so small, so vulnerable, and every protective instinct he has roars to life.
"Everyone out," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."
Your driver and handler, who had been hovering uncertainly, scramble to exit. Maya starts to follow, but Jacob catches her eye.
"Give us ten minutes," he says quietly. "And make sure no one comes near this car."
She nods and closes the door behind her, leaving you alone with him.
Jacob slides into the limo, his tall frame filling the space. He doesn't crowd you, doesn't touch you yet. He just sits there, his presence solid and steady.
"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, baby, I'm here. I'm right here."
Your eyes find his, and the relief in them is palpable. But you still can't breathe, still can't speak.
"It's okay," he continues, his voice low and soothing. "You're okay. I've got you. Just focus on me, alright? Just look at me."
He reaches out slowly, telegraphing his movements, and takes your hand. It's ice cold and trembling, but you grip his fingers like a lifeline.
"That's it," he encourages. "Now breathe with me. In through your nose." He demonstrates, taking a slow, deep breath. "And out through your mouth."
You try to follow, but your breath hitches, catching in your throat.
"That's alright, we'll try again. You're doing great. In through your nose..." He breathes with you, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of your hand. "And out through your mouth."
This time, you manage it, though it's shaky.
"Perfect. Again. In... and out."
Slowly, gradually, your breathing starts to even out. The panic is still there, still clawing at the edges, but Jacob's presence is an anchor, pulling you back to reality.
"There you are," he murmurs when your eyes finally focus properly on his face. "There's my girl."
"Jacob," you manage, your voice hoarse. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't," he interrupts gently. "Don't apologize. Never apologize for this."
He shifts closer, and you immediately lean into him, burying your face in his chest. His arms come around you, strong and secure, and you breathe in his cologne—something woody and expensive that you've come to associate with safety.
"They're out there," you whisper against his shirt. "Derek and Sienna. I saw the photos and I just... I couldn't..."
"I know," he says, his hand stroking your back. "Maya told me."
"I ruined everything. My makeup is destroyed, and everyone's waiting, and—"
"Hey." He pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up, making you look at him. His blue eyes are intense, focused entirely on you. "You didn't ruin anything. This isn't your fault."
"But—"
"Listen to me." His voice is firm but gentle. "Those people out there? They don't matter. Not compared to you. Not compared to how you're feeling right now."
You want to argue, to say that it does matter, that this is your job, that you have obligations. But the words won't come.
Jacob seems to read your mind. "I'm going to give you two options, okay? And whatever you choose, I'm with you. No judgment."
You nod, waiting.
"Option one: we forget about this whole thing. We go back to the hotel right now, order room service, and spend the night watching terrible movies and cuddling. You don't have to face anyone or anything. We just... exist together."
The offer is tempting. So tempting. The thought of hiding away in the safety of your hotel room, wrapped in Jacob's arms, away from the cameras and the judgment and Derek and Sienna...
"Or," Jacob continues, "option two: we walk in there together. Not separately, like we planned. Together. We show them—show everyone—that you're not alone. That you have someone who loves you and supports you and will stand beside you through anything."
Your breath catches. "Jacob, that would mean—"
"Going public. I know." He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the remnants of your tears. "And I know we wanted to wait. I know we wanted to keep this private. But baby, I can't stand the thought of you walking in there alone, feeling like you have to face them by yourself."
"But you wanted privacy too," you protest weakly. "You said—"
"I said I wanted to protect what we have. And I do. But I also want to protect you." His expression softens, and when he speaks again, his voice is thick with emotion. "I'm sorry someone got to your heart before me and damaged it. I'm sorry that asshole hurt you and made you doubt yourself. But I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to make sure nothing like that ever happens to you again."
The tears come again, but these are different. These aren't panic or fear. These are relief and love and overwhelming gratitude that somehow, impossibly, you found this man.
"You mean that?" you whisper.
"Every word." He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. "I love you. I'm in love with you. And I'm tired of hiding it. But only if you're ready. This is your choice. I'll support whatever you decide."
You close your eyes, weighing the options. Part of you still wants to run, to hide, to avoid the inevitable media frenzy that will come from going public. But a larger part—the part that's been aching to hold Jacob's hand in public, to kiss him without looking over your shoulder, to simply exist as a couple without secrecy—that part is screaming yes.
And more than that, you don't want to let Derek and Sienna win. You don't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing you scared or alone. You want to walk in there with your head high, with the man you love by your side, and show them that you've moved on to something infinitely better.
"Together," you say, opening your eyes to meet his. "Let's go in together."
Jacob's smile is brilliant, lighting up his entire face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You manage a small smile of your own. "But Jacob, I look like a mess. My makeup—"
He pulls back to assess you, and then he starts to laugh. Not cruelly, but with genuine affection. "Okay, so you look like a beautiful raccoon right now. But we can fix that."
"A raccoon?" You swat at his chest, but you're laughing too, the tension finally breaking.
"A very beautiful, very elegant raccoon," he amends, grinning. "The most stunning raccoon to ever grace a red carpet."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I do," you admit. "I really do."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a handkerchief—because of course he has a handkerchief, he's that kind of gentleman—and gently starts wiping away the smudged mascara under your eyes.
"We'll get Maya," he says as he works. "She'll have your makeup artist fix you up. We'll take our time. There's no rush."
You nod, letting him care for you, marveling at how steady his hands are, how focused he is on this simple task. This is what love looks like, you think. Not grand gestures or public declarations, but this: someone wiping away your tears and calling you a beautiful raccoon and meaning it.
When he's done the best he can with the handkerchief, he taps on the window. Maya appears immediately, her face anxious.
"We need the makeup artist," Jacob tells her. "And then we're going in. Together."
Maya's eyes widen. "Together? You mean—"
"We're going public," you confirm, and saying it out loud makes it real. Terrifying, but real.
Maya's professional mask slips for just a moment, and she grins. "It's about damn time. I'll get Sarah. Give me five minutes."
True to her word, your makeup artist appears with her kit, squeezing into the limo and immediately assessing the damage.
"Oh honey," Sarah says, but there's no judgment in her voice, only sympathy. "Let's get you fixed up."
Jacob moves to give her room, but you grab his hand. "Stay."
So he does, holding your hand while Sarah works her magic, repairing your makeup with practiced efficiency. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't pry, just focuses on making you look camera-ready again.
"There," she says finally, sitting back to admire her work. "Good as new. Better, even."
You check your reflection in your compact. She's right. Somehow, you look even better than you did before—your eyes are brighter, your skin glowing. Maybe it's the makeup. Or maybe it's the fact that you're about to walk into that ceremony with Jacob by your side, no more hiding, no more pretending.
"Thank you, Sarah," you say sincerely.
She pats your shoulder. "Go knock 'em dead, sweetheart."
Then it's just you and Jacob again. He's watching you with such tenderness that it makes your chest ache in the best way.
"Ready?" he asks.
You take a deep breath. "Ready."
He steps out of the limo first, and you hear the immediate reaction—the surge of camera clicks, the shouts of his name. Then he turns back, extending his hand to you.
This is it. The moment everything changes.
You place your hand in his and let him help you out of the limo.
The reaction is instantaneous and deafening. The camera clicks increase to a roar, and you can hear the confusion in the photographers' voices as they try to make sense of what they're seeing.
"Is that—"
"Are they together?"
"Jacob! Are you two dating?"
But Jacob ignores them all. He's looking only at you, his hand firm in yours, his other hand coming to rest on the small of your back.
"You okay?" he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
You nod, and you realize you mean it. Yes, your heart is racing. Yes, this is terrifying. But with Jacob beside you, you feel like you can handle anything.
"Then let's do this," he says, and guides you toward the red carpet.
You walk together, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. His height makes you feel protected rather than overshadowed, and the way he looks at you—like you're the only person in the world who matters—makes every camera flash worth it.
The photographers are going wild, shouting questions, begging for poses. Jacob handles it like a pro, positioning you both for photos, his arm around your waist, pulling you close. At one point, he leans down to whisper in your ear, "You're doing amazing," and the cameras capture the intimate moment, the way you smile up at him in response.
You do the interviews together too. The reporters are clearly dying to ask about your relationship, but they're professional enough to stick to questions about the ceremony, your projects, your outfits. Jacob fields them with charm and ease, and when appropriate, he defers to you, making sure you're not overshadowed.
"You look stunning tonight," one reporter says to you. "Can you tell us about your dress?"
"It's Valentino," you reply, finding your footing, remembering how to do this. "Custom made. I fell in love with the color."
"It's perfect on her," Jacob adds, and the way he says it—with such genuine admiration—makes the reporter smile.
You're halfway through the carpet when you see them. Derek and Sienna, standing off to the side, watching. Derek's smug smile has vanished, replaced by something that looks like shock. Sienna's expression is harder to read, but there's definitely surprise there, and maybe a hint of jealousy.
You feel Jacob tense beside you—he's seen them too. His hand tightens on your waist, protective.
But you don't need protection from them anymore. Not really. Because standing here, with Jacob, you realize that they have no power over you. Derek is your past, a chapter that's closed. Jacob is your present and your future, and the difference between the two men is stark.
You lift your chin and keep walking, and if your smile gets a little brighter, a little more genuine, well, that's just a happy coincidence.
Inside the ceremony, you and Jacob are seated together—Maya somehow worked her magic to rearrange the seating chart. You're tucked into the back of the auditorium, which is perfect. Less scrutiny, more privacy to simply enjoy the evening.
Jacob keeps his hand in yours throughout the ceremony, his thumb tracing absent patterns on your skin. When a particularly boring speech drags on, he leans over to whisper jokes in your ear, making you stifle laughter. When one of your friends wins an award, he cheers loudly, genuinely happy for them.
This is what it should be like, you think. Easy. Fun. Supportive.
During one of the commercial breaks, Jacob stands. "I'm going to run to the bathroom," he says. "You good?"
"I'm perfect," you assure him, and you mean it.
He drops a kiss on your forehead—not caring who sees—and heads up the aisle.
You're checking your phone, scrolling through the already-exploding social media reactions to your red carpet appearance with Jacob (the consensus seems to be overwhelmingly positive, with lots of "THEY'RE SO CUTE" and "POWER COUPLE" comments), when a shadow falls over you.
You look up, and your stomach sinks.
Derek and Sienna are standing in the aisle, blocking your row. Derek has that fake-friendly expression on his face, the one he always used when he was about to say something cutting disguised as a joke.
"Well, well," he says, his voice carrying that condescending tone you'd forgotten you hated. "Look who decided to show up. And with a date, no less. That's new for you."
Sienna giggles, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. "We were so surprised to see you on the carpet. With Jacob Elordi, of all people. How did you manage that?"
The implication is clear: how did someone like you land someone like him?
You feel the old instinct to shrink, to make yourself smaller, to apologize for taking up space. But then you remember Jacob's words: I'm here now to make sure nothing like that ever happens to you again.
"Derek. Sienna." You keep your voice level, polite. "Enjoying the ceremony?"
"Oh, we're having a wonderful time," Sienna says, her hand possessively on Derek's arm. "Aren't we, babe?"
"The best," Derek agrees. He's looking at you with that assessing gaze, the one that used to make you second-guess every outfit choice, every word. "So, you and Elordi. How long has that been going on? Seems pretty sudden."
"Not that it's any of your business," you reply, "but we've been together for almost a year."
Derek's eyebrows shoot up. "A year? Really? And you kept it quiet this whole time?" He laughs, but there's an edge to it. "That's not like you. You always loved attention."
The accusation stings because it's so unfair, so completely backwards. Derek was the one who always wanted to be photographed, who orchestrated paparazzi shots, who treated your relationship like a PR opportunity.
"Things change," you say simply. "People change."
"Clearly," Sienna mutters, looking you up and down in a way that's meant to be insulting.
You're about to respond when you feel it—a shift in the air, a presence behind you. You don't have to turn around to know who it is.
Jacob has returned.
He slides into the row, and the space suddenly feels much smaller. At 6'7", Jacob is an imposing figure under any circumstances, but right now, standing at his full height, his expression cool and assessing as he looks at Derek and Sienna, he's downright intimidating.
"Is there a problem here?" Jacob asks, his voice pleasant but with an undercurrent of steel.
Derek's eyes widen slightly as he takes in Jacob's full height. He has to tilt his head back to meet Jacob's gaze, and you can see the moment he realizes he's outmatched—physically, certainly, but also in every other way that matters.
"No problem," Derek says quickly, his bravado deflating. "We were just saying hello."
"Were you." It's not a question. Jacob's hand finds your shoulder, a gentle, possessive touch. "Because from where I'm standing, it looked like you were bothering my girlfriend."
The word—girlfriend—said so casually, so publicly, makes your heart soar.
Sienna's eyes narrow. "We were just catching up. We're old friends."
"Is that what we're calling it?" you say before you can stop yourself, and Jacob's hand squeezes your shoulder in support.
"I think," Jacob says, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous, "that you two should move along. Find your seats. Enjoy the rest of the ceremony. Somewhere else."
It's not a suggestion. It's a command.
Derek opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but one look at Jacob's face—at the protective fury barely contained there—and he thinks better of it.
"Whatever," Derek mutters. "Come on, Sienna. Let's go."
They slink away, and you can hear Sienna's whispered complaints as they go, but you don't care. You're too busy watching Jacob, who's still staring after them with that intense expression.
"Jacob," you say softly, and he immediately turns to you, his expression softening.
"Sorry," he says, sliding back into his seat. "I know you can handle yourself. But I saw them standing over you and I just—"
"Thank you," you interrupt. "For having my back."
He takes your hand again, lacing your fingers together. "Always. That's the deal, remember? I'm here to make sure nothing happens to you again."
"I love you," you say, not caring that you're in the middle of a crowded auditorium, not caring who might overhear.
"I love you too," he replies, and then he kisses you, soft and sweet and perfect.
When you pull apart, you're both smiling.
"So," you say, settling back into your seat, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. "We're really doing this. We're public now."
"We're really doing this," Jacob confirms. "How do you feel about it?"
You consider the question. Your phone is probably exploding with notifications. Tomorrow, you'll be on the cover of every entertainment website and magazine. There will be think pieces and speculation and probably some negativity mixed in with the support.
But right now, sitting here with Jacob's hand in yours, you feel...
"Free," you say finally. "I feel free."
Jacob's smile is radiant. "Good. That's exactly how you should feel."
The ceremony resumes, and you settle in to watch, but you're not really paying attention to the stage. You're too aware of Jacob beside you, solid and real and yours. You're thinking about how you got here, about the panic attack in the limo that somehow led to this moment of perfect clarity.
Sometimes, you think, the worst moments lead to the best decisions.
Your phone buzzes. A text from Maya: You two are trending worldwide. #JacobAndYN is the number one topic on Twitter. How are you holding up?
You type back: Never better.
And you mean it.
As the ceremony continues, you catch glimpses of Derek and Sienna several rows ahead. They're sitting stiffly, not touching, and you realize with a start that they look miserable. Whatever they have, it's not real. It's performance, all surface and no substance.
What you have with Jacob is the opposite. It's real and deep and built on actual love and respect. And now the world knows it.
"What are you thinking about?" Jacob murmurs, noticing your distraction.
"Just that I'm really glad I whispered your name in that limo," you admit. "I'm glad Maya found you. I'm glad you came."
"I'll always come when you need me," he says seriously. "No matter what. No matter where. You call, I'm there."
"Even if I look like a beautiful raccoon?"
He grins. "Especially then. You're my favorite raccoon."
You laugh, and it feels good. It feels right.
The ceremony ends eventually, and you face the gauntlet of after-parties and press lines together. Everyone wants to know about your relationship, and you and Jacob navigate the questions with practiced ease, revealing just enough to satisfy curiosity without giving away everything.
"We've been together for almost a year," Jacob tells one reporter. "We wanted to keep it private at first, but tonight felt like the right time to share our happiness with everyone."
"He's been incredibly supportive," you add, smiling up at him. "I'm very lucky."
"I'm the lucky one," Jacob counters, and the reporter practically swoons.
By the time you make it back to your hotel room, it's nearly three in the morning. You're exhausted but exhilarated, your feet aching from your heels, your face tired from smiling.
Jacob closes the door behind you and immediately pulls you into his arms.
"We did it," he says into your hair. "We survived."
"We did more than survive," you reply, wrapping your arms around his waist. "We thrived."
He pulls back to look at you, his hands framing your face. "I'm so proud of you. You know that, right? The way you handled everything tonight—the panic attack, the red carpet, Derek and Sienna—you were incredible."
"I had help," you point out. "I had you."
"You've always had me," he says. "From the moment I met you, you've had me. I'm not going anywhere."
You kiss him then, pouring everything you feel into it—gratitude and love and relief and joy. He responds in kind, his arms tightening around you, lifting you slightly off your feet.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathless.
"So," Jacob says, his forehead resting against yours. "What do you want to do now? We could order room service, watch a movie, just decompress."
"That sounds perfect," you say. "But first, I need to get out of this dress. As beautiful as it is, I've been wearing it for about eight hours and I'm ready to be comfortable."
"Need help with the zipper?" he offers with a grin.
"Always."
He helps you out of the dress with gentle hands, hanging it carefully in the closet while you change into soft pajamas. He does the same, trading his tuxedo for sweatpants and a t-shirt, and then you're both curled up on the bed, room service menus spread out between you.
"What are you in the mood for?" Jacob asks, scrolling through the options on his phone.
"Everything," you admit. "I barely ate today because I was so nervous."
"Then everything it is."
He orders an absurd amount of food—burgers and fries and pasta and dessert—and while you wait for it to arrive, you finally allow yourself to check social media properly.
The response is overwhelming. Photos of you and Jacob on the red carpet are everywhere, and the comments are almost universally positive. People are calling you "couple goals" and "the cutest thing ever." There are already fan accounts dedicated to your relationship, compilation videos of every moment from the evening.
"Look at this," you say, showing Jacob a particularly sweet tweet: The way Jacob looks at her... I'm not crying, you're crying.
He looks at the accompanying photo—a candid shot of him gazing at you on the red carpet, his expression soft and adoring—and smiles. "Well, they're not wrong. That is how I look at you."
"You're going to make me cry again," you warn. "And I've done enough of that today."
"Happy tears are allowed," he says, kissing your temple.
The food arrives, and you spread it out on the bed, eating directly from the containers and feeding each other bites. It's messy and informal and perfect.
"Can I tell you something?" you say between bites of the best burger you've ever tasted.
"Anything."
"When I was with Derek, I never felt like I could just... be. Everything was always about appearances, about how things looked from the outside. I was always performing, always trying to be the version of myself that he wanted."
Jacob's expression darkens slightly at the mention of your ex, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.
"But with you, I don't have to perform. I can have a panic attack in a limo and look like a raccoon and eat burgers in bed at three in the morning, and you don't judge me. You just... love me. All of me. Even the messy parts."
"Especially the messy parts," Jacob corrects gently. "That's what love is, isn't it? Seeing all of someone—the good, the bad, the beautiful, the broken—and choosing them anyway. Choosing them every single day."
"When did you get so wise?" you ask, your voice thick with emotion.
"I've always been wise. You just didn't notice because you were too busy staring at my face."
You laugh and throw a fry at him, which he catches and eats with a triumphant grin.
"But seriously," he continues, his tone softening. "I meant what I said earlier. I'm sorry someone hurt you before I could love you the way you deserve. But I'm here now, and I'm going to spend every day making sure you know how valued and cherished and absolutely extraordinary you are."
The tears come then, but they're happy tears, just like he said. He pulls you into his arms, and you cry into his chest while he holds you, one hand stroking your hair, murmuring soft reassurances.
"I love you so much," you manage between sobs. "So, so much."
"I love you too," he replies. "My beautiful, strong, incredible raccoon."
That makes you laugh through your tears, and soon you're both laughing, the emotional weight of the evening finally lifting.
You finish your food and clean up the containers, then settle back into bed. Jacob finds a movie on TV—something mindless and funny—and you curl into his side, your head on his chest, his arm around you.
"Hey," you say drowsily as the opening credits roll. "Thank you for today. For coming to get me. For walking in with me. For standing up to Derek. For everything."
"You don't have to thank me for loving you," Jacob says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "That's the easiest thing I've ever done."
You fall asleep like that, safe and warm and loved, and when you wake up the next morning to a flood of notifications and interview requests and congratulations from friends, you face it all with Jacob by your side.
Because that's what you do now. You face things together.
And somehow, that makes everything—even the scary parts, even the hard parts—feel manageable.
Later that week, you're doing a joint interview for a major magazine. The journalist asks you about the moment you decided to go public.
You and Jacob exchange a look, a whole conversation happening in that glance.
"I had a moment of panic," you admit. "Right before we were supposed to walk the red carpet separately. And Jacob came and reminded me that I don't have to face things alone anymore."
"She's stuck with me now," Jacob adds with a grin, taking your hand. "For better or worse."
"Sounds like a wedding vow," the journalist observes with a smile.
"Maybe someday," Jacob says, and the way he looks at you makes your heart skip a beat.
The interview continues, but you're barely paying attention. You're too busy thinking about the future, about all the possibilities that have opened up now that you're not hiding anymore.
It won't always be easy. You know that. There will be challenges and scrutiny and probably more moments of doubt. But you'll face them together, just like you faced that red carpet.
And that makes all the difference.
That night, back in your shared apartment (because yes, you've been living together for months, another secret that's now public knowledge), Jacob pulls you onto the couch and into his arms.
"No regrets?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
"Not a single one," you reply, tilting your face up for a kiss.
He obliges, and as his lips meet yours, you think about how far you've come. From that panic attack in the limo to this moment of perfect peace. From hiding your love to shouting it from the rooftops.
It's been a journey, but you wouldn't change a thing.
Because every step, every struggle, every moment of fear led you here. To Jacob. To love. To home.
Hii!! I saw you were taking some Jacob as himself requests. Maybe something where he’s shooting for a movie late and reader tried to stay awake til he got home but fell asleep on the couch? When he comes home he just admires reader and wakes her up sweetly?? Just fluffy cuteness!! I know you’ll conjure something amazing up!! 💕🤭
god yes. he’s so sweet and precious and would 100% feel guilty and want to just hold you. akshdjwksldh here u goooo
⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔
(cw: none. just boyfriend!jacob with sleepy fem reader fluffiness <3 no mentions of y/n. sfw. he’s annoyingly obsessed with you even when you’re eepy)
“what time did y’say?” jacob asked one of the makeup artists who had just helped him out and given him some remover, the bit of powder on his face uncomfortable after being reapplied twelve times the last four hours.
he had finally completed shooting for the day, a coffee in his large hand as he sat in his own clothes now, utterly exhausted but unable to fight the growing excitement of the work he had done today. he loved it. every bit of the hard work and grueling hours if it meant he could keep living in the surreal dream that was somehow his life now.
“three fifty, jacob,” his assistant replied instead, already helping someone grab his belongings in the makeup trailer he was in. jacob nodded, taking a sip of coffee and quietly enjoying the way his feet felt in his own shoes instead of the stiff boots he had to wear on set. he was used to being on set for long periods of time that led to early morning.
but then it hit him when he rubbed his tired eyes: you. oh god, you had been texting him earlier during a break he’d had, on and off. sweetly telling him you were going to wait up on him so he could tell you all about shooting. jacob was often energetic after shooting, even after long days like this one. and you would always listen and ask all sorts of questions, eager to hear every word about something he was passionate about. but lately, the shooting for this film had been going for longer and he usually came back to the air bnb you’d been staying at to stay close to him and find you asleep, rarely getting to see him for even an hour before he had to get up again and go back to set.
you never complained though, but jacob did. only to you. because he wanted you to know how hard it was to be away from you at all. jacob was very serious about his work, acting a priority and being worthy of the task to build a character through himself was important to him. and despite wanting to beg you to come with him to set so he could keep you close and feel utterly warmed by your presence, he was afraid he’d get distracted or nervous for you to watch him, even if it was silly to think.
“shit,” jacob mumbled, immediately searching the pockets of his jeans for his phone, unlocking it and seeing that it was indeed now three fifty-one in the morning and he’d missed a call from you an hour and a half ago. his chest ached as he wondered if you were upset and not expecting shooting to last this long, even if he’d already warned you it would again.
moments later, he was in the backseat of a car, being driven back to the air bnb and trying to ring you again. your sweet voice only came through as a voicemail, making jacob tap his foot impatiently against the floorboard, assuming you’d missed each other again and would have to settle for mid-morning goodbyes all over again instead of actually spending time together.
when the car finally arrived, jacob politely thanked the driver like he always did, grabbing his bag and practically jumping out of the vehicle to run up the path to the house. you’d kept the door unlocked for him, which made something warm bloom through his chest and a hint of guilt ring through him. he ducked beneath the doorway to get inside when he pushed the door open, dropping his bag and looking around. his brown eyes scanned the space, a modern lamp in the corner of the room on and casting a warm light across the well decorated space.
he called your name as he kicked off his shoes, but was met with no answer, his fingers tapping against his jeans as he stepped into the living space.
and that’s where he found you, still in a sweater and pair of jeans, curled up on the couch and snoring softly. a grin broke out onto his face at the sight, his tall frame growing warm as he carefully stepped over to you, making sure not to cause too much noise so you wouldn’t wake.
you were so perfect. hair a mess against the couch cushions, lips parted to make way for your soft snores. he spotted your phone next to your face on the cushion, making him let out a quiet breath of guilt as he crouched down beside you. it was only worse when he saw two glasses set up on the side table beneath a lamp, the novel you’d been reading that he’d recommended beside the glasses and what looked to be some sort of bottle of wine.
“christ,” he sighed quietly, biting his lip as he returned his gaze to your sleeping face. he slowly reach one of his hands up, gently tucking strands of hair that had fallen across your face during sleep behind your ear. you didn’t stir, still dreaming and snoring. jacob couldn’t help himself, utterly enamored by you as always and feeling guilt for the way you’d probably been waiting hours for him. so sweet and thoughtful that it made him melt.
he whispered your name once, his deep, australian voice as quiet as he could make it as he leaned his face closer to where yours was resting on the couch cushion. his long, slender fingers traced your cheek, feeling the warmth beneath his fingertips as he admired you silently for another moment. he couldn’t take it, even if he knew you were probably just as exhausted as he was, he needed to be close to you right now.
jacob then leaned closer and pressed his lips to your forehead. and then your cheek. and then your nose. before finally kissing your parted lips and only leaning back slightly when you stirred.
“hm?” you murmured, your eyes fluttering as your hands moved to rub one eye before opening it, “jacob? oh. you’re home.”
you smiled at him sleepily and he grinned again, cupping your cheek against his warm palm as he kept his face close to yours, tall frame still crouched as much as he could beside the couch where you lay and closed your eyes again.
“do y’know how bloody precious you are?” he whispered, leaning in again to nuzzle his nose against your own, hearing you yawn before he felt your hand reach for his cheek as well. his eyes were closed as he felt your touch, immediately feeling ten times more relaxed. like just having you close made him breathe easier.
your eyes were still shut, though a small, sleepy smile graced your lips now, your hand just rested against his cheek as he kept his face forward and his tall frame crouched close. “you…got wine,” he smiled, a sound of thoughtful amusement leaving his lips.
“mhm,” you hummed, obviously not very awake, but still acknowledging the gesture. jacob pulled his hand from your face to grab yours, pulling it from his own face slightly to press a kiss to your wrist, seeing your sleepy eyes flutter from the feeling of his lips on your pulse point.
he sighed, biting his lip for a beat and debating just pulling away to let you rest or at least getting you to move from the couch and into bed to sleep comfortably. truthfully, he wanted you up, no matter how tired you both were. but jacob was too considerate to disturb you too much, so instead, he placed another kiss to your wrist before he spoke.
“scoot over, love,” he whispered, gently laying your hand back down on the soft cushion. you complied, even in your barely conscious state, and it made his whole body warm and chest tighten with pride. he absolutely adored you. through and through. and the thought of you automatically wanting him close, even in sleep, made him want to wrap you in his arms and never let you go.
jacob found himself trying to crawl onto the couch beside you, trying his best to fit his long limbs on the couch by your warm, sleepy frame. he eventually settled on resting one long leg off the couch, turning his top half slightly to curl into you. he found himself smiling, one hand placed on your back, gently rubbing your skin beneath your sweater with his fingers as he pressed his face into your hair, inhaling deeply.
“m’sorry…about tonight,” he whispered, deep voice almost reverent and slightly guilty as he leaned his face back to watch your sleeping one, taking in the small part in your lips as you breathed and the way your brows slightly furrowed. to his surprise, you seemed to register his words slightly as you hummed again.
jacob bit his lip again, finding you too incredibly cute and trying his best to not be selfish and to just let you rest after you tried to wait for him. but, alas, he’d never been very good at not wanting your attention.
“come…come to bed with me,” he whispered, blinking down at your still closed eyes. when you didn’t seem to wake or acknowledge his quiet offer, he bit his lip again, his hand still moving beneath your jumper.
he said your name, a bit louder than a whisper and you cracked one eye open again, lashes fluttering. you raised your arm up and stretched it before settling it around his lean upper half.
jacob hated to be selfish but he couldn’t help but disturb your peaceful rest. after all, he was there with you now and only had five hours before he’d be expected on set once more. he felt restless, his stomach fluttering and the leg that was hanging off the couch shook.
“come on, lovely. wake up, yeah? please? need to spend time with m’favorite person.”
god, he knew he was being a pest, but how could he not want you up? he grinned when your brows furrowed as he tapped your cheek with the fingertip of his index finger gently, leaning back down to repeatedly press his lips to the tip of your adorable nose that was now scrunching up.
“jacob,” you murmured, voice a bit rough from your peaceful slumber he was disrupting, “what? w-what? m’up. i’m up. i’m awake.”
“barely,” he snickered, watching as you refused to open your eyes, obviously preferring sleep at the moment than giving him the attention he was craving. he felt guilty, not just from trying to rouse you from what looked to be a comfy sleep, but from the fact that he wasn’t there like you’d wished earlier. that production had run late and you probably couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer, even though you’d wished to see him and waited all that time.
“let’s go to bed,” he offered again, his deep voice not as soft so hopefully you’d wake up fully, “i’ll… i can’t leave you here, love. let’s just—don’t fall back asleep. come on now. wake up f’me. you know y’want to. fuuuck, you’re killing me… really. m’sorry, darl—love, come on. please? pleeaaassse?”
he was being the absolute worst, but you opened your eyes then and his smile grew. best of all, you sleepily pressed a kiss to his jaw, missing his lips entirely and adorably.
“i’m up, i’m up,” you murmured against his face.
“you’re so fuckin’ cute,” he grinned, opting to lean down again to kiss all over your face, eager and happy that you were trying to wake up for him, “let’s go cuddle up, yeah?”
moments later, his tall body was wrapped around your tired one as you tried to walk through the air bnb, barely awake. his long arms were around you, his body leaned down a bit to stay glued to you, long legs right behind your shorter ones. he felt every warm feeling that always vibrated through him in your presence, unable to resist staying close and placing his chin on your shoulder as you both slowly shuffled to the expensively furnished bedroom.
“love you,” he whispered, squeezing you more in his arms as he kept his face in the crook of your neck, the warmth of him almost overwhelming as you sleepily walked to the bed, “love you love you love you lov—”
you hopped into the soft surface and jacob practically tackled you, breathing in your scent deeply before moving his body off of your own to curl into you from behind. “you’re the loveliest person,” he murmured into your shoulder, his hands running up and down the side of your body, “sweet angel, you are. i… i shouldve tried to shoot through quicker. fuck—m’sorry.”
“it’s okay,” you breathed, eyes already fluttering closed as you felt yourself struggling to stay awake, especially with jacob behind you and holding you so close to him, “don’t be sorry for something that’s not your fault.” you yawned again.
“i… i’m still sorry for keeping you waiting,” he whispered then, his face in your hair and his arms wrapped around your middle, keeping you as close as possible and practically drowning in the feeling of having you pressed against him. he reach a hand up from your waist as he leaned up some on the mattress, his brown eyes scanning your already closed eyes and relaxed expression as he gently ran his fingers through your hair. he licked his lips, watching with quiet amusement as you nuzzled into the soft pillow beneath you. he laid back down and fell asleep soundly beside you—his favorite place to be.
he’d bring you with him tomorrow to set, even if you were tired from trying to stay up for him and would spend the day napping in his dressing room. he would just wake you up periodically for kisses anyway, making sure you were tucked in or letting you share his coffee when you woke up fully.
hai!! hope this was cute. cuz it felt cute. i haven’t written jus fluff b4 cuz im a little disgusting freak but eh, i can picture bf!jacob so clearly. gunna fill some more requests so check back to my masterlist here. <3 ok, love u bye
Your Jacob fic was great! Could you please do a Jacob x normal reader fic where maybe she gets a little jealous of Margot? Maybe they’re freshly dating-getting to know each other so she can’t really express how she feels and gets a little distant :)
The space between pages- Jacob Elordi
Thank you so much for requesting my love! Hope you all enjoy it xx
The party is too loud, too bright, too much. You've wedged yourself into the corner of someone's ridiculously expensive Los Angeles apartment, perched on the arm of a leather chair that probably costs more than your rent, trying to disappear into the pages of your book. It's a well-worn copy of "The Song of Achilles," the spine cracked in all your favorite places, pages dog-eared despite your best intentions to treat books with respect.
Your friend Maya had dragged you here with promises that you needed to "get out more" and "stop being such a hermit." She'd disappeared twenty minutes ago into the crowd of beautiful people—actors, models, industry types who all seemed to know each other, who all seemed to belong in a way you decidedly did not.
So you read. It's what you always do when you're uncomfortable, when the world feels too big and you feel too small. You let yourself sink into the story, into the tragedy of Patroclus and Achilles, into words that feel safer than the conversations happening around you.
You don't notice him at first.
Jacob Elordi stands near the kitchen island, beer in hand, half-listening to some director talk about their latest project. But his attention keeps drifting to the corner of the room, to the girl who looks completely out of place at this party, curled up with a book like she's in her own living room instead of surrounded by Hollywood's elite.
There's something about the way you're completely absorbed, the way you occasionally smile at something on the page, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear absently. You're wearing a simple black dress, nothing like the designer outfits most women here are sporting, and you have this quality about you that feels... real. Unpolished. Genuine.
"Who's that?" he asks, nodding toward you.
Maya, who's just returned to grab another drink, follows his gaze and laughs. "That's my friend. And before you even think about it, she's a hard nut to crack. Like, seriously. I've been trying to set her up for months and she shoots down everyone."
"I wasn't—" Jacob starts, but Maya gives him a knowing look.
"Sure you weren't. Look, she's been through some shit. Bad relationship, really bad. The guy did a number on her, and she's been pretty closed off since. Plus, she's not really into the whole celebrity thing. She'd probably run if she knew half the people here."
Jacob should probably take that as a sign to leave you alone. He's used to women approaching him, used to a certain ease in these situations. But there's something about the way you're sitting there, completely content in your own company, that draws him in.
He makes his way over, weaving through clusters of conversation, until he's standing beside your chair. You don't look up.
"Any good?" he asks, gesturing to your book.
You startle, nearly dropping the paperback, and when you look up at him, your eyes go wide. He watches you recognize him, watches the walls slam up almost immediately. You close the book, marking your place with your finger.
"Um. Yeah. It's... it's good." Your voice is quiet, cautious.
"Mind if I sit?" He gestures to the actual seat of the chair you're perched on the arm of.
You hesitate, and he can see you calculating, trying to figure out if you can politely say no. Finally, you nod, shifting slightly to give him space. He sits, and suddenly you're very aware of how close he is, how tall he is even sitting down, how he smells like expensive cologne and something else, something warm.
"I'm Jacob," he says, even though you clearly already know that.
"I know," you say, then wince. "Sorry. That sounded... I mean, I'm Y/N."
"Nice to meet you, Y/N." He nods at your book again. "Madeline Miller, right? Have you read Circe?"
Your eyebrows raise slightly. "You've read Madeline Miller?"
"Why do you sound so surprised?" He's smiling, and it's disarming, the way his whole face lights up.
"I just... I don't know. I guess I didn't expect..." You trail off, realizing you're about to say something potentially offensive.
"Didn't expect the actor guy to read?" He's teasing now, gentle. "I get that. But yeah, I love her writing. The way she takes these ancient stories and makes them feel so human, so intimate. Circe wrecked me."
And just like that, you soften slightly. Books are your safe space, your comfort zone. "The ending," you say, and your voice has more life in it now. "When she finally chooses mortality, chooses to be vulnerable. I cried for like an hour."
"Right?" Jacob leans forward, animated. "Because the whole book she's been so isolated, so afraid of being hurt, and then she just... chooses it anyway. Chooses love even though it means pain."
You talk for the next hour, tucked away in your corner while the party swirls around you. He asks you about your favorite books, and you find yourself opening up in a way you haven't in months, telling him about your love for the Brontë sisters, for Donna Tartt, for Ocean Vuong. He listens like he's genuinely interested, asks follow-up questions, shares his own favorites.
"I just finished filming this adaptation of Wuthering Heights, actually," he says. "Playing Heathcliff. It was intense, getting into that headspace. All that obsession and passion and destruction."
"That's my favorite book," you admit. "I've read it probably ten times. It's so dark and twisted and romantic in this completely unhealthy way, but there's something about it that just... I don't know. It gets under your skin."
"Exactly," he says, and his eyes are bright with enthusiasm. "That's exactly it. It's not a love story, not really. It's about how love can destroy you if you let it consume you entirely."
You're so caught up in the conversation that you don't notice Maya watching from across the room, smiling to herself. You don't notice the way Jacob has angled his entire body toward you, the way he hasn't looked at his phone once, the way he seems completely absorbed in what you're saying.
When you finally check your phone and realize it's past midnight, you're shocked. "Oh my god, I didn't realize how late it was."
"Can I get your number?" Jacob asks, and there's something almost nervous in the way he says it, like he's not sure you'll say yes.
You hesitate. This is where it always falls apart, isn't it? When it becomes real, when it moves beyond a conversation at a party. Your ex's face flashes through your mind—the way he'd been charming at first too, the way he'd seemed so interested in you, before everything turned dark and controlling and cruel.
"I..." you start, and Jacob must see something in your expression because he backtracks.
"Or not. That's totally fine. I just... I really enjoyed talking to you. But no pressure."
It's the "no pressure" that does it. The way he's giving you an out, not pushing. "Okay," you say quietly, and you type your number into his phone when he hands it to you.
The first text comes the next morning: Hey, it's Jacob. From the party. The guy who interrupted your reading. Hope you made it home safe.
You stare at it for a full five minutes before responding: Hi. Yeah, I made it home fine. Thanks.
What are you reading today?
It's such a simple question, but it makes you smile. Rereading The Secret History. Comfort read.
Ah, the murder academia classic. "Beauty is terror" and all that.
And just like that, you're texting. It starts with books, safe territory. He sends you photos of his bookshelf, and you send him yours. You argue about whether The Goldfinch is Donna Tartt's best work (you say yes, he argues for The Secret History). He asks for recommendations, and you send him a carefully curated list.
Three days later, he asks if you want to get coffee.
You almost say no. You've been down this road before, and it ended with you in therapy trying to rebuild your sense of self. But there's something about Jacob that feels different, feels safer. Maybe it's the way he talks about books with such genuine passion, or the way he hasn't once made you feel pressured, or the way he seems to understand when you need space.
You meet at a small coffee shop in Silver Lake, the kind of place that's too cool for tourists and too low-key for celebrity spotting. He's wearing a baseball cap and glasses, dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, and he stands when you walk in, smiling that devastating smile.
"You came," he says, and there's relief in his voice.
"You sound surprised."
"Maya might have mentioned you're a flight risk." He's teasing, but there's a question underneath it.
You slide into the booth across from him. "I'm working on it."
The coffee date turns into lunch. Lunch turns into a walk around the Silver Lake Reservoir. He tells you about growing up in Australia, about his family, about how strange it is to be recognized everywhere he goes. You tell him about your work—you're a freelance editor, working mostly with indie authors—and about your tiny apartment in Los Feliz that's more books than furniture.
"I'd like to see it sometime," he says. "Your apartment. I want to see this legendary book collection."
"It's not that impressive," you deflect, but you're smiling.
"I doubt that."
He doesn't push for an invitation, though. He just walks beside you, occasionally pointing out dogs or interesting architecture, keeping the conversation light and easy.
When he drops you back at your car, he hesitates. "Can I see you again?"
"Yeah," you say, and you're surprised by how much you mean it. "I'd like that."
The second date is a bookstore crawl. He picks you up in a car that's nice but not ostentatious, and you spend the afternoon wandering through The Last Bookstore downtown, through Skylight Books, through small independent shops where the owners know you by name. He buys a stack of books based on your recommendations, and you try not to think about how much you're enjoying this, how much you're starting to look forward to his texts, how much you like the way he listens when you talk.
At dinner afterward—a small Italian place in Los Feliz—he tells you about the Wuthering Heights promo tour that's coming up.
"It's going to be a lot," he says, twirling pasta around his fork. "Press junkets, premieres, the whole thing. I'll be traveling a lot over the next few months. London, New York, back here for the LA premiere."
"That sounds exciting," you say, and you mean it, but there's something tightening in your chest.
"Yeah, it's part of the job. The film is really good, I think. Emerald—the director—she's brilliant. And Margot Robbie is producing and playing Catherine, so that's been incredible."
Margot Robbie. Of course. Beautiful, talented, successful Margot Robbie. You push the thought away, annoyed at yourself for even having it.
"I'm sure you were amazing," you say, and he smiles at you across the table, reaching over to brush his fingers against yours.
"I'd love for you to come to the LA premiere. If you want. I know it's not really your scene, but..."
"Maybe," you say, noncommittal. The thought of walking a red carpet, of being photographed, of being identified as someone Jacob Elordi brought to a premiere—it makes your skin crawl. "We'll see."
He doesn't push, just squeezes your hand gently before pulling back.
The weeks that follow fall into a pattern. You see each other when you can, which isn't as often as you'd like—he's busy with reshoots and meetings, and you're working on a particularly demanding manuscript. But you text constantly, long conversations that span from morning to night. He sends you photos of his day, and you send him snippets of particularly bad writing from the manuscripts you're editing (names redacted, of course).
He starts showing up at your apartment with takeout, and you curl up on your couch together, watching movies or just talking. He kisses you for the first time on your fourth date, soft and tentative, pulling back to search your face for any sign of discomfort. When you pull him back in, kissing him harder, he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat through your entire body.
But you don't sleep together. You're not ready for that, and he seems to understand without you having to explain. He's content to make out on your couch like teenagers, to hold you while you watch movies, to sleep over occasionally, wrapped around you in your bed with all your clothes on.
"I like this," he murmurs one night, his face buried in your neck. "Just being with you. No pressure."
And you're falling for him. You know you are. It terrifies you.
You haven't defined what this is. You're not officially together, not boyfriend and girlfriend. It feels too soon for that, too scary. You're still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to show his true colors, for this to turn into something ugly like it did with your ex.
But Jacob is patient. He's gentle. He backs off when you get skittish, gives you space when you need it. He never makes you feel guilty for your hesitation, never pushes for more than you're ready to give.
"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you one night when you apologize for being "difficult." "I like you, Y/N. I like you exactly as you are, walls and all. I'm willing to wait for you to trust me."
It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you, and it makes you want to cry.
Maya notices the change in you. "You're seeing him," she says over brunch one Sunday. It's not a question.
"We're... hanging out," you say, noncommittal.
"You're glowing. I haven't seen you like this since before..." She trails off, not wanting to mention your ex.
"It's still new," you say carefully. "We're taking it slow."
"But you like him."
"Yeah," you admit. "I really do. Which is terrifying."
"He's a good guy, babe. I wouldn't have let him near you if I didn't think so."
You want to believe her. You're trying to believe her.
The first photos drop on a Tuesday.
You're working, deep in edits on a manuscript, when your phone starts buzzing with notifications. Instagram, Twitter, texts from friends. You ignore them at first, but they keep coming, insistent.
Finally, you check.
It's photos of Jacob and Margot Robbie at some press event for Wuthering Heights. They look stunning together—him in a perfectly tailored suit, her in a dress that probably costs more than your car. They're laughing in one photo, his hand on her lower back. In another, they're looking at each other with an intensity that makes your stomach drop.
The headlines are predictable: "Wuthering Heights Stars Heat Up Press Tour," "Jacob Elordi and Margot Robbie's Undeniable Chemistry," "Are Jacob and Margot More Than Co-Stars?"
You know it's stupid. You know it's just press, just part of the job. They're promoting a movie about one of the most passionate love stories ever written—of course they're going to play it up for the cameras.
But the photos keep coming. Over the next few days, there are more events, more photos. Jacob and Margot at a screening. Jacob and Margot at dinner with the cast. Jacob and Margot looking absolutely perfect together in every single shot.
And you're just... you. A freelance editor who wears the same three pairs of jeans on rotation and whose idea of a fancy night out is trying a new restaurant that doesn't require a reservation.
Jacob texts you throughout it all: Miss you. This press stuff is exhausting.
How's the manuscript coming?
Wish you were here. These events would be so much better with you.
You respond, but your messages are shorter, less enthusiastic. You can feel yourself pulling back, retreating into the safety of your walls.
He FaceTimes you from London, and you almost don't answer. When you do, he's in a hotel room, looking tired but happy to see you.
"Hey, you," he says, and his smile is so genuine it hurts. "I miss your face."
"How's the tour going?" you ask, keeping your voice light.
"It's good. Exhausting. I've done about a million interviews, and they all ask the same questions." He runs a hand through his hair. "But the film is getting good buzz, so that's exciting."
"I saw some photos," you say, trying to sound casual. "You and Margot look great together."
Something flickers across his face. "It's just press stuff, you know how it is. They want us to sell the romance of the film."
"Right. Of course."
"Y/N..." He leans closer to the camera. "You okay? You seem distant."
"I'm fine. Just tired. Working a lot."
"I'll be back in LA next week. I want to see you."
"Yeah, maybe. I'm pretty busy with this manuscript."
He's quiet for a moment, studying your face through the screen. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No," you say quickly. Too quickly. "Not at all. I'm just... I'm fine. Really."
But you're not fine. You're spiraling, and you know it. Every new photo of Jacob and Margot feels like confirmation of what you already suspected—that you're not enough, that he's going to realize he can do so much better, that this was all too good to be true.
Your ex's voice echoes in your head, all the things he used to say: You're too much. Too needy. Too broken. No one else is going to want to deal with your damage.
When Maya invites you to a dinner party the following weekend, she mentions that Jacob will be there—he's back from London for a few days before heading to New York. You make an excuse about a deadline.
"Come on," Maya says. "You haven't been out in weeks. And I know you want to see him."
"I really can't. This manuscript is due, and I'm behind."
It's not entirely a lie. You are behind. But you could make the time if you wanted to.
You just don't want to see Jacob and have to pretend everything is fine when you're actively trying to figure out how to protect yourself from the inevitable hurt.
The next invitation, you decline too. And the next.
Maya starts to notice. "Are you avoiding Jacob? He asked me if he did something to upset you."
"I'm not avoiding anyone. I'm just busy."
"Bullshit. What's going on?"
"Nothing. I just... I think maybe we moved too fast. Maybe this isn't a good idea."
"Because of some press photos?" Maya's voice is sharp. "You're really going to sabotage this because you're scared?"
"I'm not sabotaging anything. I'm being realistic. Look at him, Maya. Look at his life. And then look at me. We don't make sense."
"That's your fear talking. That's your ex's voice in your head. Jacob is crazy about you."
"He'll get over it," you say quietly. "He should be with someone like Margot. Someone who fits into his world."
"Oh my god, you're an idiot," Maya says, but her voice is gentle. "You're going to lose him if you keep this up."
"Maybe that's for the best."
But it doesn't feel like it's for the best. It feels like you're tearing your own heart out preemptively, trying to hurt yourself before he can hurt you.
Jacob's texts become more frequent, more concerned:
I feel like you're pulling away. Can we talk?
Did I do something? Please tell me if I did.
Y/N, I miss you. I miss us. What's going on?
You respond with short, noncommittal answers. You're fine. You're just busy. Everything's okay.
Everything is not okay.
Two weeks after you started avoiding him, Maya texts you: Jacob's coming over tonight. He's really upset. He thinks he hurt you somehow. You need to fix this.
You stare at the message for a long time. Part of you wants to keep hiding, keep protecting yourself. But a bigger part of you knows that's not fair to him, that he deserves an actual explanation, even if that explanation is just that you're too broken for this.
You're sitting on your couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at your phone, when there's a knock at your door.
Your heart stops. You know who it is before you even look through the peephole.
Jacob stands in your hallway, and he looks wrecked. His hair is messy like he's been running his hands through it, his eyes are red-rimmed, and he's wearing sweatpants and a hoodie like he just threw on whatever was closest.
You open the door slowly.
"Hi," you say quietly.
"Can I come in?" His voice is rough, strained.
You step aside, and he walks into your apartment, into this space that's become so familiar to him over the past few months. He turns to face you, and that's when you see the tears on his cheeks.
"Jacob—" you start, but he cuts you off.
"What did I do?" His voice breaks. "Please, Y/N, just tell me what I did wrong. I've been going over everything in my head, trying to figure out where I messed up, and I can't—I can't figure it out. Did I push too hard? Did I not give you enough space? Was it something I said?"
"You didn't—" you try again, but he's not done.
"Because I've been trying so hard to do this right, to be patient, to let you set the pace. And I thought things were good. I thought we were good. But then you just... disappeared. And Maya said you've been avoiding places if you know I'll be there, and I just—" His voice cracks completely, and a sob escapes him. "I can't stand the thought that I hurt you. That I did something that made you feel like you had to run from me."
He's crying now, really crying, and it breaks something in you. You've never seen him like this, so raw and vulnerable and devastated.
"I'm so sorry," he continues, tears streaming down his face. "Whatever I did, I'm so sorry. Please just tell me so I can fix it. I'll do anything. I'll give you more space, I'll—I'll back off completely if that's what you need. I just can't stand this silence. I can't stand thinking that I hurt you."
"Jacob, stop." You move toward him, reaching for his hands. "You didn't hurt me. You didn't do anything wrong."
He looks at you, confused, still crying. "Then why? Why have you been avoiding me?"
And here it is. The moment of truth. You can keep lying, keep protecting yourself, or you can be brave. You can be as brave as Circe choosing mortality, as brave as all those characters in the books you love who choose vulnerability even when it terrifies them.
"Because I'm scared," you whisper. "I'm so scared, Jacob."
"Of me?" He looks horrified.
"No. Not of you. Of this. Of how much I like you. Of how much I'm falling for you." The words tumble out now, unstoppable. "I saw all those photos of you and Margot, and I just... I spiraled. Because she's perfect, and she's beautiful, and she fits into your world in a way I never could. And I started thinking about how you could do so much better than me, how you should be with someone like her, someone who isn't broken and scared and—"
"Stop." His voice is firm now, and he's cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away tears you didn't realize you were crying. "Stop talking about yourself like that."
"But it's true—"
"It's not true. None of that is true." He's still crying too, but he's also laughing a little, this incredulous, relieved sound. "You silly, silly woman. You've been avoiding me because you think I want to be with Margot?"
"You looked so good together in those photos," you say miserably.
"They're photos, Y/N. Staged, promotional photos. Margot is married. Happily married. And even if she wasn't, I wouldn't want her. I want you."
"But—"
"No buts. Listen to me." He leans his forehead against yours, and you can feel his breath on your face, can feel him trembling slightly. "I'm falling for you. I've been falling for you since that night at the party when you were reading in the corner and looked at me like I was interrupting something important. I love how passionate you are about books, how you light up when you talk about stories. I love your tiny apartment that's more books than furniture. I love how you're shy and cautious and how you make me work for every smile, every laugh, every moment of trust."
"Jacob..." Your voice is barely a whisper.
"I don't want someone who fits perfectly into my world. I want someone who makes me want to build a new world, one that fits both of us. I want you, with all your walls and all your fears and all your damage. I want to be the person you trust enough to let in."
He pulls back slightly to look at you, and his eyes are so earnest, so full of emotion that it takes your breath away.
"I'm falling in love with you, Y/N. And it scares the shit out of me too, if I'm being honest. But I'm willing to be scared if you are."
You're crying harder now, but they're different tears. Relief, joy, terror, hope—all mixed together.
"I'm sorry," you sob. "I'm sorry I pulled away. I'm sorry I didn't just talk to you. I just... my ex, he really messed me up, and I keep waiting for you to turn into him, to show me that this is all too good to be true."
"I'm not him," Jacob says firmly. "I will never be him. And I will spend as long as it takes proving that to you."
"I'm falling for you too," you admit. "So much. It terrifies me."
"Good," he says, and he's smiling now through his tears. "We can be terrified together."
He kisses you then, soft and sweet and a little desperate, and you kiss him back, pouring all your fear and hope and love into it. When you finally pull apart, you're both laughing and crying, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you so tight you can barely breathe.
"Please don't run from me again," he murmurs into your hair. "If you get scared, if you start spiraling, just talk to me. We'll figure it out together."
"Okay," you promise. "I'll try. I'm not good at this, at being vulnerable, but I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
You stand there in your living room, wrapped around each other, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you let yourself believe that this might actually work. That you might actually get your happy ending.
"So," Jacob says after a while, pulling back to look at you with a teasing smile. "Does this mean you'll come to the LA premiere with me? I really want you there."
You hesitate, but only for a moment. "Yeah. Okay. I'll come."
"Yeah?" His face lights up.
"Yeah. But I'm going to be terrified the entire time."
"I'll hold your hand through all of it," he promises. "We'll be terrified together, remember?"
"Together," you repeat, and the word feels like a promise, like a beginning.
Description; In which you always lived in the shadow of your older sister, but only one person seemed to see you, for you.
Warnings; Attempted sexual assault. mentions of abuse, kissing, mentions of alcohol, child mistreatment.
___________________________________________
Growning up in Wuthering Heights was bad enough, that was, without even mentioning your family situation. The northern moors the weather was unforgiving, cold and miserable, and so was your home. With no father, a dead brother and a drunk for a father, you had only your older sister Catherine, or Cathy to keep you entertained.
However Cathy was unfortunately the most selfish person you knew, and worse, she was completely oblivious to it. Her cruel comments had left you in tears while she’d calmly walk away.
Your father, known only to you as papa, and the housemaids and servants as Mr Earnshaw was a drunk and a gambler. Every night he would go into town and return during the night. He drove both you and Cathy away, but he had always favoured her. Perhaps it was because she looked like his late wife. Who knows, all you did know, was that he despised you.
However one night, your father had loudly stumbled in. It had woken you from where you slept in your bed. The moon shun through your window, and she swallowed, crawling under your duvet for comfort, for you were nothing but a ten year old girl.
When you heard your father yelling at someone and tables clashing you had assumed your father had brought a woman home. Though at this age you did not understand why it is that he did that, you heard awful sounds when he did.
This time, once your father’s door closed you heard little, and so drifted back to sleep. The next morning you were rudely woken by Cathy barging into your room ordering you to rise and dress at once so the two of you could play.
However when you did, and peaked your small head out of your door, you heard Nelly and Zillah discussing that Mr Earnshaw had brought home a young boy last night, a beggar on the street.
Sneaking up to her father’s room, you saw it to be empty. You opened the door and swallowed, looking around but seeing no one.
“H-Hello? Is anyone there?” You asked quietly.
Hearing a small noise under the bed you swallowed, getting down onto your knees to look under. Before you could see, a hand grabbed your arm and tugged you under. She screamed in surprise, but the boy had covered your mouth with his hand, to muffle the sound.
Eventually, after staring at each other he pulled his hand away. You swallowed, staring at the boy, who seemed around two years older. “It is alright, he is downstairs….he will be off the ale by now” you whispered softly.
Though the boy had never responded, it was clear that your soft words had calmed in down. You looked down to see his hand linking with yours as he trembled. The two of your stayed like that for a few more minutes, while you had told him a few things about the Moors, about yourself, and about who lived with you in Wuthering Heights.
He never did reply to anything you had told him under that bed, but as you told him of how you and Cathy liked to play in the rain by the Rocky Mountains while Joseph or Zillah would chase after you he’d smiled from the idea of freedom.
When your gotten him to come through the house with you, Catherine immediately found the both of you. You saw the glint in her eyes when she saw the boy and it saddened you. You knew like everything else in Wuthering Heights, Cathy would want him as her own little plaything to entertain her.
When she had brought the two of them downstairs, her yellow hair moving as she walked quickly. She dragged them both into the small kitchen where the maids and your father were.
“Ah, Catherine, my darling I see you have found the boy” The hungover man sighed.
“Indeed papa! What a delight indeed, we needed another person to play with, me and (y/n)! What a bore my sister becomes after a few hours” Cathy laughed but it only made you blush in embarrassment.
As your eyes stayed at the ground you felt someone’s hand link with yours and you looked up to see the boy now holding your hand making you smile softly.
“Ah…my other daughter. Do you think him suitable to stay here? He was a beggar a man was discarding. I told him, you cannot throw a child on the street, no sir! I took him, am I not charitable” The man boasted.
However you only looked up at the boy making your father scowl “I said, am I not charitable, daughter?”
She swallowed, quickly whipping your head up to look at your father “Of course father”
“Can I keep him father, dress him up as I like” Catherine said smiling at you smugly, assuming your father would agree to anything she said.
“Let little (Y/N) guide this boy in our house” Mr Earnshaw replied making you and Catherine look up in surprise.
“What?! But!-“ Catherine scoffed.
“Enough, daughter. I pay Nelly to raise you properly yet still you remain rude and disrespectful. Perhaps this will teach you a lesson, you do not speak back to your father”
“He is just a boy!” Catherine scowled before storming out of the room making Nelly hold back a laugh of amusement.
“A boy indeed, what is his name?” Your father asked then.
“He does not like to speak father” You replied softly and shyly.
“Oh no that will not do, you must teach him”Your father nodded.
There was a beat of silence until your father spoke again “What is his name I ask?” He repeated.
“I think…..Heathcliff, after my late brother…or-or not…” You suggested shyly.
As soon as the name left your lips the boy looked up with a smile, seemingly very approving of your suggested name. “Ah, Heathcliff…yes. Yes you may teach him to speak up indeed, and Joseph shall teach him how to work here. In return he may get a hot meal, and he can sleep upstairs in the stable.” With that your father left.
As the maids followed after him to clean up the mess he had made when he’d returned last night you and Heathcliff were left alone.
The boy, he had still been holding your hand spoke to you for the first time “You are the prettiest girl I have seen”
_
As the years passed, you turned fifteen, and Heathcliff was almost eighteen. Your brown hair had grown longer than before, and your body had matured slightly. The two of your still played like children though you were almost considered a woman.
You liked to chase each other in the rain, like you and Cathy used to, this time though it was a friendship, not Cathy dragging you around like her pet and being cruel to you. She had married the new neighbour, Mr Linton.
Your father had become worse, drinking during the day, crueler to you now that Cathy was gone out of the house. You feared him even more than you did when you were a little girl.
It was your father’s birthday, and you and Heathcliff were late to supper. You had spent hours playing outside in the rain. He had warned you that your father would be mad, but you wanted to get away from him.
But now you were late. You were practically trembling behind Heathcliff as you both walked into the kitchen. It was only slightly lit, by a few candles.
Your hands clung to one of Heathcliffs arms as they stood before your father. “Come out from hiding, girl” your father spat.
You swallowed but stepped forward. Your eyes went to your feet in fear. “Look up you fool”
You looked up at him “Are you trembling? Why do you fear me, I care for you, do I not?”
You swallowed back the tears, fearing what was to come “Yes father…forgive me”
“Sit then” Your father slurred, some of his wine spilling onto the floor as he help his cup with a loose grip.
You swallowed, sitting obediently. However when Heathcliff went to do the same your father yelled “Not you! You animal! I should never have brought you home! Useless, only for the work I keep you! Out with you!” He yelled making your flinch.
Heathcliffs jaw clenched in anger. He stared at you until you nodded for him to go, wanting him to stay out of trouble. He reluctantly left, his eyes staying on you until he left, closing the door.
“Thank god that animal is gone. You ought to stay away from him daughter. I thought you could mold him into a gentleman” Your father sighed, gulping down the rest of his wine.
“He-He is a gentleman father” your small voice croaked.
Your father gaze sharpened as he slammed his cup down making you jump in your seat “Is that cheek you give me, daughter?”
As he stood and began to walk over to you, you nodded your head no vigorously “I-No father, forgive me!”
Your father smiled in satisfaction, placing a hand on your chair. “Of course not, my daughter would do no such thing”
As his hand reached your shoulder you bit your lip to trying to hold in your tears. You could smell the alcohol on him.
Your throat tightened as his hand began to move down your chest, until it reached your covered breast making you jump out of your seat “Father! What…what are you doing?! You cried in fear, taking steps backwards.
He only scowled, following your steps to reach you again “you remind me of your mother..quiet..obedient” he said, his hands grabbing your hips harshly and turning you to push you against the table.
You screamed, tears falling down your cheeks. However as soon as you felt his hands on you, you felt someone pull them off. Turning quickly you say Heathcliff yanking your father off you.
He began to punch and kick the old man while you stood there afraid. Your arms hugged yourself as you watched Heathcliff attack the man “Heathcliff stop….i want to go” You cried.
Heathcliff, who had blood on his knuckles, stared down at your father with a dangerous look in his eyes. “Go near her again old man, and I swear I shall see to it you will reside with the worms in the soil” with that he kicked the man’s side one last time began leading your out of the room.
_
After an hour of your crying in his arms, Heathcliff had finally consoled you enough to hold you in his arms without you breaking down. You lay on his bed in the stable. It was a comforting place for you.
It was Heathcliff as a place.
Your head was on his chest, your eyes closed and your breathing slow. Heathcliff that you were asleep. His hand played with the ends of your brown hair that cascaded down your back.
He whispered sweet nothings in your ear. Until he suddenly said “I love you, more than day and night combined, and in death my love shall haunt your very being”
Your eyes opened then and his lips parted slightly, as he had only confessed his love to you believing you to be dreamily happily.
Though you did feel as though you were dreaming.
“Forgive me I…..I..” Heathcliff whispered.
You only stared up at him in shock, before lifting your head off of his chest. “You love me?….”
He met your eyes and nodded “More than u can begin to express. Ever since you found me under that bed my heart has been yours…that you must know”
You smiled fondly “Then you in return must know…I love you entirely too much for my own good. You are my soul and heart personified Heathcliff” you admitted in a passionate whisper.
Heathcliff did not waste another moment, and leaned in to connect your lips. One may believe the kiss would be rough. He was a rough young man, raised in hatred.
But when it came to you he grew soft inside.
He pulled apart only to whisper “I belong to you only”
Jacob sliding his ringed fingers under your gown under the table at an award show and slipping two fingers past your soft walls.
And you're so tight that he's leaning over, guised under the impression he's just whispering something to you admit the loud chatter of the theater.
He's biting at your ear and kissing at the soft skin beneath your jaw, "y'so fuckin' tight," and you're nearly in tears, spreading your legs as he slips another finger past your sopping folds.
"Jesus christ, y'that horny from gettin' fingered under the table?" You nod with teary eyes, and he just – "good girl."
And before you can reply, you're suddenly aware that the camera's have turned towards the audience, more specifically, both you and Jacob.
His fingers slip out from beneath your dress and in the same moment, he's sliding his finger through his left over desert on his plate and bridging it up to suck around the digit softly – blue eyes set on in direct line with the camera lense, he winks.
And the cameraman pans the view away, and you're looking at him near horror. Jacob cups your chin in one large hand, "Now's not the time to be modest, pretty thing."
you’ve really fucking done it this wasn’t even a thought and now i’m a different person because i’m frothing at the mouth.
this is really short because my brain started to short-circuit at the thought 😝😝🤪🤪
stormbound.
The storm shakes the cottage like it’s trying to warn you—or maybe complain that it’s not invited.
You manage to get the candle lit, flame flickering weakly, when the doors slam open and Heathcliff barrels in. Rain pours off him, hair wild, eyes burning like he walked straight out of the moors and into your bloodstream.
Adam follows a heartbeat later, ducking under the doorframe, the storm clinging to him too. Water drips down his throat in slow, devastating lines.
They’re both soaked, huge, wild, and staring right at you.
You toss the candle onto the table and step between them.
“Both of you are dripping everywhere.”
Heathcliff smirks instantly—that wicked, knowing curve of his mouth that always spells trouble.
“You weren’t complaining last night.”
Your breath catches and Adam’s does too.
Lightning flashes behind him, and the entire room snaps into sharp, heated focus—Heathcliff’s dark amusement, Adam’s dawning realization, your pulse hammering loud enough for all three of you to hear.
Heathcliff closes the distance first, boots echoing on the warped floorboards, water still dripping off him like he brought the storm inside.
“You left the window open,” he murmurs, circling you slowly. “Almost like you wanted us to find you.”
Adam steps up behind you, heat rolling off him despite the soaked fabric clinging to his chest. His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles on your waist with surprising certainty.
“You’re shaking,” Adam murmurs near your ear. His breath is warm, even through the cold damp, sending sparks down your spine.
“She likes being caught,” Heathcliff adds, brushing his fingers along your arm. The touch is slow, claiming, sinful in how soft it is.
“And tonight, she has two hunters.”
Your knees threaten to buckle and Adam senses it first.
He pulls you back against his chest, steady and solid and overwhelmingly warm.
Heathcliff watches your reaction like it’s his new favorite obsession.
“Look at her,” he says to Adam, stepping close enough that his warm breath brushes your face. “She’s practically begging.”
Adam’s fingers flex at your hip.
“I don’t want to overwhelm her,” he says softly.
Heathcliff smirks. “That’s the point.”
Then he takes your wrist, gentle but firm, and places your hand against his covered groin, pressing your palm to his obvious arousal.
“Feel what you do to me,” he whispers.
Adam reacts instantly, his hand tightening against your hip to pull you flush against him. So you can feel every part of him as you let out a soft gasp.
“You do it to both of us,” Adam murmurs, voice thick.
You’re pinned between them now—Heathcliff’s heat at your front, Adam’s solid body at your back. Their breath mixes with yours. Their hands bracket your hips, your wrists, your waist.
Heathcliff leans in until his lips hover a whisper from yours.
“Tell us,” he says, “what you want.”
Adam’s mouth drifts so close to your neck you can feel the ghost of his lips.
“Or show us,” he rumbles. “If you cannot speak.”
Your body moves before your voice can catch up, one hand clutching Heathcliff’s coat, the other curling into Adam’s shirt behind you.
Both men inhale sharply—like you just set something loose inside them.
Heathcliff’s smile turns feral as Adam’s grip on you tightens, reverent and desperate all at once.
Then, Heathcliff leans in, voice barely a breath against your lips. “Careful, love…keep looking at us like that, and neither of us will stop.”
‘Unknown Number: I said if he’s too pussy to date you, then he should move along and let someone else shoot their shot with you.’
‘Unknown Number: that someone else being me.’
‘Unknown Number: and this is me shooting my shot with you.’
When you replace a girl on your mom's cheerleading team, you don't expect much of your life to change. But, when your bully, Nate, reveals his feelings for you, you're thrown into a whirlwind of confusion, reluctance and desire.
Tags: enemies to lovers, bully romance, plussize reader, fatphobia, therapy-talk, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, protected sex, 69 position, face sitting, implied/referenced fluid and furry kinks (not between the characters), implied/referenced kidnapping/cannibalism (not between the characters), light spanking, body worship.
Part 1 < | > Part 3
****
“This one seems good.”
You and Kat stood between the crowded shelves of Book Nook the next day. The small bookstore stayed nestled on a corner near the hardware store. Sweet, rich coffee going through the air, the cafe took up half the store while several shelves stood on the other half. Right up front, the newest addition of your favorite series sat on a display table with dozens of copies. The Wicked Flames series was your favorite by far, and you were grateful it kept going. Holding the hardcover in your hand, you’d normally go for the slightly cheaper paperback for your mom’s sake, but not today. Waking up to sore thighs, legs, arms and everywhere else, you would heal your aching with whatever you wanted.
“Yeah,” Kat said, reading the back of her copy. “This one’s a mafia romance, I think.”
“Hm, cool,” you examined the front cover depicting a well-dressed couple in each other’s arms, each of them holding a gun behind the other’s back. “I don’t know about mafia romances though. They all feel the same to me,” you shrugged, flipping through and reading a few lines for a feel of it. “It’s always some scary guy meeting a good girl and a series of events leads to steamy sex and romance.”
“Come on,” she replied, “Not all of them end up like that.” She browsed the rest of the table, and smirked, “Unless you want to change it up and get a juicy sports romance?”
She shows you a book with a pink and red silhouette of a jock holding a girl with glasses. ‘Off the Field’ was written in white cursive letters.
“No thanks,” you gagged, turning from the book. “Light romances never interested me.”
“Right,” she nodded slowly, putting the book back on the table, “I forgot. You like the ‘mean to everyone but you’ trope in your leads. I remember you crushing on Xavier in that one book we read.”
“He was the perfect dark romance lead,” you reasoned. “He was the right amount of possessive and obsessive, a gentleman and an energetic freak. What was there not to like?”
“The fact that he was a masked serial killer?” Kat said as if this were obvious. “That might have been it.”
“He wasn’t a serial killer,” you remind her. “He was a vigilante like Batman.”
“Still a masked dude that murdered people.”
“Sorry that I have a more refined taste.”
The store had put down the first four books in the series, each one being about a different couple alongside other book recommendations, though there were ten books in all. You’d already read them, but thought about getting your favorite as a hardcover: Wicked Destiny. Xavier, a finance bro by day and a ruthless vigilante by night, falls for school teacher, Michelle, and becomes obsessed with her. A sort of stalker romance that intrigued you in fiction. Only in fiction.
“Yeah, which are total assholes,” she added, “You do have a type.”
“They’re not ‘my type’. I simply attract them, I guess,” you sighed.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket, and you naturally looked at it. An Instagram notification, it only said someone messaged you. When you opened it, you wished you hadn’t.
AtotheB69: I heard you’re going to McKay’s with Nate. That true?
‘Yeah.’ You’d forgotten to block him on other things too.
AtotheB69: wow girl, you move on quick
‘Nothing to move on from.’
“Is it Nate?” Kat asked a bit hopefully, the two of you moving over to another section.
“Aaron.”
“I thought you blocked him?”
“Not on Insta,” you sighed.
“What is he saying?”
“Nothing of substance. He wanted to know if I was really going to the party with Nate.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes.”
AtotheB: i thought u want to see me tho
‘Why would I do that? You dumped ME Aaron.’
AtotheB69: to make up
‘No thanks.’
“Men are so pathetic,” you grunted, picking up a thriller that caught your eye. “Now he’s saying he wanted to make up at the party. How much you wanna bet he’s only saying this because he saw Nate and I kissing?”
“My whole collection,” she said, taking one off the shelf.
AtotheB69: i miss you.
‘No, you don’t. You miss fucking me. Things must’ve fallen through with whoever you dumped me for, and now you’re crawling back to me.’
AtotheB69: doesn’t that show u how i feel about u?? Ditch Nate’s bitch ass and chill with me tonight. Just me and u.’
“Nah, I’m good. Nate’s hotter and got a bigger dick. Bye Aaron.’
You blocked him. You happened to learn the possibility of the second statement much earlier than you thought. Meaning to send a harmless gym selfie, telling you about his day, Nate's gym shorts were a bit tighter. A slight bulge showing on the side, you couldn't help commenting on it.
‘Working out gets you pretty worked up, huh? 😏’
‘Nate: oh shit lmao i swear i didn't mean to send that to you.’
‘Nate: do you like it though?’
You felt tempted to say no to dash his hopes, but your thumbs worked the answer before you did.
‘It looks bigger than I thought, that's for sure.’
You should not be humoring him. Humoring him was a one way ticket to Embarrassment Town. It starts with suggestive flirting and ends with him sharing your nudes to everyone.
“I gotta get Julius Caesar for English,” Kat huffed, already walking to the classics section. “I'm getting the Sparknotes version though. It makes my life a million times better.”
“Cliffnotes is just as good,” you replied, following her.
Then you stopped. Standing at the end of the aisle was Nate. You noted that the shelf only beat him by a few more inches. In a plain grey shirt you noticed his biceps and arms more than usual. They'd likely flexed when he lifted you off the ground last night, holding you with ease. You shook it from your head and hoped he didn't notice you. Of course he did when you and Kat reached the Shakespeare section.
“Hey,” he said. God, you never noticed how brown his eyes were. Not too dark or too light, they still stood out when he looked at you. “Nice seeing you here.”
Kat grabbed the Sparknotes book and slunk away before you could catch her.
“And surprised to see you here,” you said, gripping your book to your chest. “You need Julius Caesar too?”
“Yeah,” he said, showing you the Cliffnotes version of the book, “Are you?”
“Nah, I have mine at home.”
“That's a shame. I was hoping we could share and read it together,” he pouted.
“I prefer solo reading.”
He noticed the hardcover against your chest, and you saw him read the title and smirk. “I bet you do,” he stepped closer and you could smell the faint cologne on him. Other guys always doused themselves in it, but not Nate. “Is that the new one?”
“Yeah. It came out last week.”
“Did you like the last one? I thought it was kind of boring,”
“Do you know the name of it?” you asked, sensing a lie in his words.
“Wicked Dreams,” he answered, brow furrowed. “The one about the chick who hooks up with a ghost that visits her dreams. I felt it kinda dragged and the whole thing with the serial killer angle was kind of boring. She'd done it in the one before, so it was kind of repetitive to me, you know?”
“You got that from my review…” you accused, “And you follow me?”
“I read the book before I read your thing,” he answered, “And yeah, I follow you.”
“How?”
“I found you and clicked the follow button?”
“Why?”
“Because you're gorgeous and I like looking at pictures of gorgeous women? I'm not seeing where the confusion is here.”
“It's weird.”
“What is?”
“That you suddenly start liking me out of nowhere.”
“I don't think it came out of nowhere. I thought it was obvious after a while.”
You scoffed, “How was it obvious?”
“I thought the teasing and pet names and general attention seeking was enough for me,” he rolled his eyes. “It's sort of our thing, like Michael and Rosie.”
A couple from another book, you recalled the enemies to lovers story. “We're nothing like them,” you chuckled, “I'd say you're more of a Gaston than a Michael.”
“What? I am not,” he defended, though he still laughed with you. “I would never throw your mom in an insane asylum to get you to marry me.” He then added, “I'd slowly integrate myself into every aspect of your life until you fell madly in love with me, then marry you.”
“Oh please, like I'd let that happen.”
“It worked for Michael, and Rosie fell for him right away.”
“That's because she already liked him,” you replied, “And it's fiction. That wouldn't work in real life. Plus, my mom would see right through you and stop it from happening.”
“Hm, I don't know,” he said in a singsong voice, “She thinks I'm helpful and dependable. She said so when I gave her a jump the other day.”
“What? When?”
“Her car had broken down in the parking lot after practice and I offered to give her a jump since I had cables in my truck,” he said. “She said, and I quote, ‘You're a lifesaver, Nate. You have my full blessing to marry my daughter.’”
“She did not!” You couldn't help but laugh with him.
“She did, I swear. She said I'd make a great son in law.” You shoved him lightly, earning another laugh. He then said, “Can I pick you up?”
“Tonight? Sure, then I don't have to drive my mo-Nate!”
Using both arms underneath you, Nate lifted you off the ground like he'd done last night. He started slowly spinning you, laughing at your shock.
“Put me down,” you grumbled, holding onto him around his neck.
“Hey, you said I could.”
“I thought you meant tonight!”
“I can do this again tonight then?”
“Not this. I meant you picking me up in your car to go to the party, idiot. Put me down,” you couldn't stop the giggle that left you, unused to being held as if you were weightless.
“Not until you kiss me again,” he replied.
“I'm not doing that.”
His lips went next to your ear, soft and low, “Not even for the only guy who can lift and hold you like this?”
“Um, uh…”
“I'm not Aaron, Princess,” he said, “I can handle you perfectly fine. No weak shit here.”
You gulped thickly and tried not imagining that. You gazed around for signs of Kat, but she was on the other side of the store.
“Just one? I won't ask anymore after that,” he pouted.
“Take me over to the fantasy section, then I'll think about it.”
Positive walking and holding you would be difficult for him, you gasped when he walked with ease. “How often do you work out, dude?” you asked in shock.
“I do a lot of endurance and stamina stuff,” he answered, taking you past two aisles. “You know, to keep up with insatiable little bunnies like you.”
“Aaron told you…”
“Nah, it was a lucky guess,” he said, putting you down in the Fantasy aisle. “I mean, look at the stuff you read. Those aren't exactly vanilla books, are they?”
“That doesn't mean it's a reflection of the things I like.”
“Then why read it? For the enchanting love story?” He smirked when you looked away from him. “Well, I gotta go. I'll see you tonight, Cupcake.”
He placed a chaste kiss on your lips, then walked away. The exchange left you stiff in place, the warmth of him slowly slipping from you and his lips imprinting themselves in your mind. You had just gotten him out of your head, and he managed to get back in. Turning around, you saw Kat leaning against a bookcase and sneering at you.
“What?” you asked, annoyed by her teasing smile.
“Nothing. Just cute, that's all.”
“Kissing me without consent and carrying me around a store isn't ‘cute’.”
“But there you were giggling and doing the barest of minimums to escape his lustful clutches,” she giggled, her voice pouring with seduction. When you picked up a random book, she said, “I know you’re worried. I know you think it's all a big joke at your expense, but does it feel that way? It doesn't to me and I'm like you.”
“It's Nate,” you flipped through the pages, though you didn't read anything. “It's weird.”
‘Worth it,’ you heard him say in your head again.
“Maybe seeing you with Aaron bothered him? I mean, you never hooked up with any guys he knew personally, so he didn't have much of a reason to be jealous until now.”
“He told me he kissed me as a bet with Aaron,” you said bitterly. “He got fifty bucks and a chance to kiss me out of it.”
“Which he could be lying about.”
“I doubt he is.”
“Ask Aaron.”
“I am not asking Aaron.”
“Why not?”
“I’m sorry I don’t want confirmation that I’m a joke.”
“Fine, then I’ll ask.” She pulled out her phone and began typing before you could get the phone from her.
“Kat,” you pleaded, “Just drop it, please.”
Kat quickly typed on her phone, then made a final tap. “There,” she smiled in satisfaction, “If we’re lucky, your ex-fling will clear up some stuff for us. Now, I’m getting a latte. You want one?”
“Yes, please. A muffin too.”
Except you only picked at the muffin. While you and Kat poured over the book, Aaron’s response floated in your head. He’ll no doubt admit to the bet with a laughing emoji and you’d be proven right. Thinking of Nate’s lips on yours and his arms around you, you didn’t want to be right.
“Ooh, he messaged back!” Kat said during your opinion about the last heroine of the series. “Hold that thought-”
“-Kat, for real?” You watched her read Aaron’s message and a smile grow on her face, “What does it say?”
Kat didn’t answer. She put the phone on the table and slid it over to you. Aaron’s last message batted at the butterflies in your stomach.
AtotheB69: why would i make that bet?? Thats mess up. Nate’s got a hella crush on her, everybody knows that.
“He’s lying,” you immediately decided and pushed the phone away.
“Or he could be telling the truth.”
“Or he could be lying to save his own ass.”
“YN, why is this so hard for you to believe?”
“You know why,” you picked at the muffin, rolling a chocolate chip between your fingers but not eating it.
Or he’ll do it at the party. It would be the best place to do it. Everyone you both know will be there, and it’s the perfect spot for public humiliation. Mom eventually found the two of you, and bought the books. Neither you or Kat brought up Nate again the rest of the time. During your pedicures, he messaged you stupid things like:
Nate: this julius guy sounds like a real dickhead. No wonder they jump him.
Nate: do you really not like me picking you up? I won’t do it anymore if it does bug you.
Nate: i wanted to prove that it doesn’t bother me at all. I can handle you. All of you 😏
“And your friends?”
Nate: what about them?
“They’ll rag on you for liking me.”
Nate: YN
Nate: I’m the six-foot-five quarterback of the football team. I can lift way more than whatever you weigh and my therapist says I have anger issues. Do you REALLY think I care what they fucking think?
Nate: I’m gonna prove it to you tonight. Watch.
It did make sense when you thought about it. Nate was massive compared to most of his teammates and friends. Considering his track record of getting into fights, you didn’t see many people having the gall to bully him. As you start preparing for the party, you let yourself dive into the fantasy for a while. You and Nate being a real couple: Him taking you out on dates in the day time that aren’t in his house. Him giving you gifts and flowers and not being ashamed to say he liked you. Being close to him like you were in the store. Being in his arms and not worrying about when he’d find someone more suitable for society. You wanted to believe him. For once, you wanted to be proven wrong. Yet, as you slipped on your denim shorts and a crimson off-the shoulder top, that lingering doubt kept floating around. You’d think about Nate’s eyes staring down at you and praying the fondness in them was real.
Like the face he gave when he saw you coming down the stairs. He stood there as if time stopped just for you. He didn’t smile right away or make a flirty joke. Nate only stayed in place, holding a small bouquet of flowers, and looked at you. You didn’t know what to say or do with him simply staring like that.
“Are those for me?” you asked, giving a nervous laugh.
“Oh yeah,” he snapped back into reality, “Yeah. Here.”
The ruffled petals of the red and pink carnations were broken up by the small baby’s breath stems with their white blooms. A real bouquet, not something picked up anywhere, it had a red ribbon and wrapped in shiny green plastic. You looked up at Nate, seeing him nervously tuck his hands into his back pocket and wait for your response.
“They’re beautiful, Nate,” you said, “Thanks.”
“I didn’t want to be boring and get roses, so the chick at the store said carnations mean, like, love and and Maddy said they were your favorite-
“-You talked to Maddy?”
“Yeah, she gave me the whole ‘hurt-our-Judy-and-I’ll-make-sure-you’re-never-seen-again’ speech and said you like romantic gestures, so…here’s one of them,” he gestured to the flowers.
“That’s sweet.” You put them aside, unsure how to really react. “Really, thanks.”
“Glad you like them. We should get going,” he nodded to the door. “I can’t show you off if we’re standing here.”
“Show me off, huh?” You let him guide you by the waist to the door and open it for you like he lived there. “I’ll believe it when I see it, sir.”
“Then prepare to be amazed.”
****
“Nate, Nate, Nate, Nate!”
People chanted his name the moment he entered the house. You saw that typical cocky smirk go over his face when he heard them, clapping hands and nodding at people as he guided you through McKay’s house. You waited for someone to notice you with him. There’d be an envious eye or a disgusted glance in your direction somewhere. Some people did see Nate’s arm around you as he brought you into the kitchen where they set up the drinks. You spent less time on them and more time trying to find his friends. They’d likely be lying in wait for the plan to be put into motion and then pounce. Then you’d be humiliated for sure.
Nate poured you both shots and you each downed one right away. The burning alcohol stung your throat on the way down, but warmed your insides. You kept staring around the room, still expecting something to happen. Why did you agree to this?
“Hey,” he turned your chin away from the crowd, “Over here. Hi.”
“Hi,” you said nervously, watching him pour you both drinks in red cups. You thought of something he’d said earlier, “You said you’re seeing a therapist?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, taking a drink. “My mom made me go after my dad left us. She said I have anger issues.”
“Oh do you? I never noticed,” you smirked.
“Ha-ha,” he smirked back, laughing a bit after, “My mom said it’d be good for me to work out my problems in a healthier way than raging out.”
“Is it helping at all?”
“I guess?” he shrugged. “I don’t see much of a difference, to be honest. It’s all psycho-babble bullshit. I only go because she drops me off and waits for me outside. She even times it so if I’m, like, five minutes late so goes inside to see if I’m there.”
“What? She thinks you’re gonna run off or something?”
“She knew I wasn’t really into the idea, so she’s been super on top of me.”
“Do you like it now, though?”
“Sharon’s cool, and I guess it’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t a judgemental bitch,” he said. He paused, looking at you for a moment before he said, “She’s the one who told me to ask you out.”
“What?”
“I told her I had a crush on this one girl that isn’t the sort of girl people expect me to like, and that I was afraid to ask her out,” he began. “She asked me why and I said because I worried about what my dad or my friends would say about it. I also told her…” he hesitated, looking down into his cup, “I also told her I wasn’t always nice to this girl; that I could be a dick to her sometimes, and made fun of her and stuff because my friends did. I wanted her. I really want her, but you know, I’ve been told my whole life that I’m only supposed to like a certain kind of girl. Tha-That jocks like me are meant to get with hot cheerleaders or the brainless preppy girls who eat like birds.
“You want to know what really fucking cemented it for me?” You heard the anger starting to linger in his tone, and you moved closer to him. “I was in fifth grade, and there was this girl named Kelly in my class. She was big too, but super nice and sweet and I really liked her. I remember sitting in the parking lot with my dad one day, telling him how nervous I was to ask Kelly to the fifth grade dance. You want to know what the asshole said when I pointed her out to him? ‘I didn’t know you were a whale hunter, son’.”
You might’ve not been Kelly, but that still stung. “I’m sorry he said that to you, Nate.”
“Yeah, he said a lot of shit,” he grumbled, taking a gulp of his drink. “Sharon, my therapist, said that society has a way of influencing us when we’re young. To her, I was mean to you because I was angry about my attraction to you and felt I couldn’t do anything about it. She pointed out that perhaps the reason I picked on you is because I wanted your attention, even if it was negative.”
“To be honest, now that I think about it, ‘Cupcake’ is a strange choice for a bully to use,” you said.
“It was the least hurtful sounding,” he said. “I tried being mean to really sell how much I wasn’t attracted to you, but I couldn’t. I’d…” he took a deep breath and looked into your eyes, “I’d see those eyes of yours and I’d…I don’t know. It wouldn’t happen. I dated girls my dad and my friends approved of, but I thought about you all the time.” He stared down at your lips, “And that pissed me off more because I’d think about you, then remember what my dad said and the shit he’s said before, and I wanted so badly for him to approve of me for anything, that I stuck to girls I dated. If my achievements on the field and in school didn’t get his attention, then maybe me dating a hot girl might. Not that it did. I never brought them home.”
“Your dad sounds like an asshole.”
“He is,” he agreed. “He walked out on us after my mom found these sex tapes he had in his office.”
"Woah, wow,” you coughed, nearly choking on the bit of liquor left in your throat, “Wow, that’s…That must’ve been a shock for her.”
“Yeah, it definitely was, especially since it was videos of him with loads of different people and doing all kinds of freaky shit,” he finished off his drink. “I thought I was a freak,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he poured himself another, “Then I saw what she was talking about. Jesus. It’d even make you blush.”
“And what do you mean by that, huh?” You asked playfully, downing the rest of your own drink. “Even it’d make me blush?”
“You read a kinky book series where there’s a masked man chasing a woman through a dark forest with the intention of railing her brains out,” he said flatly. “There’s also another one where they fuck in furry suits-”
“-Only one was in the suit, if you’d actually read it-”
“-I did and it was weird.”
“Oh furries aren’t that weird. Lots of people do it. The people in fluid stuff are the weird ones.”
“Yeah, that is gross. I’m surprised it wasn’t in that one book,” he snapped his fingers as he tried thinking of the name, “I forgot the name. It’s the one with the chef? That the girl gets kidnapped by him? It’s the super dark, weird one that everyone thinks was ghostwritten?”
“Wicked Kitchen,” you answered. “Yeah, that one is pretty dark. I don’t see how someone can fall in love with a dude that planned on eating them.”
“He ended up eating her in other ways too.”
“Oh god,” the two of you laughed together, “To be fair, she was on the dinner table so yeah…”
“But she was on her fucking period. That shit’s gross,” he huffed. “I skipped over that part.”
The two of you began talking about the Wicked series. Nate actually had read most of the very long-standing series, as well as the clean romance spin-offs that always featured a side couple. You found it refreshing to talk to someone besides Kat and internet followers about it. Did you expect it to be Nate? No. The two of you had been laughing at a part between the leads in a friends to lovers installment when someone came up to him.
“Hey Nate,” a petite blond in a frilly skirt and tight top smiled when she approached, “What’s up? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Hey, Arianna,” he sat up straighter, coughing to clear his throat, “Just been busy, that’s all. Football season started back up and everything so that’s taken up a lot of my time.”
“Yeah, I was at the game. You played really well,” she drew closer to him, “It’s a shame. You said you’d call me over the summer.”
“Yeah, I went on vacation with my parents.” A blatant lie that you spotted a mile away, but one Arianna didn’t pick up on.
“That’s cool,” she said, touching his bicep, “Do you want to dance with me?”
“Sorry,” he stood up right when she touched him and took your hand, “I’m not interested in Dexter’s leftovers.”
“Wow, Nate,” she said, face dropping from flirty to stone cold.
“Let’s go dance,” he said to you before pulling you towards the dance floor.
Once out of earshot, you spoke up, “You could’ve been nicer.”
“I was being nice,” he reasoned, bringing you to the crowd of dancers in the living room. Arms around your waist, he said, “Plus, she was flirting with me in front of you like you weren’t there.”
“I’m used to that, to be honest,” you replied a bit sadly. “Most people do that.”
“They shouldn’t,” he said, the two of you swaying even with the high-tempo music playing through the room.
Having to get closer to hear you, the faint cologne from before came back a bit stronger. The strong hands that held you earlier today slipped down your spine to the small part of your back where his fingers idly traced the spot. You stared around the room and noticed certain people watching you. Your stomach clenched inwards when you saw them whispering and talking. This could be your chance to get away before anything happens. You thought about Nate’s story and how too perfect it seemed. Guys like Nate didn’t take to therapy so well or considered it at all. This was all part of his plan to put your guard down just enough to go in for the kill.
But, looking up at him, you realized he’d been looking nowhere but at you. “What?” you asked.
“Just admiring you,” he said, giving a soft smile. “That’s all.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Compliment you?”
“Yeah.”
“How come?”
“Because we both know what’s really going on here.”
“What?”
“You’re fucking with me again.”
“I’m not fucking with you,” he insisted, “Would I like to be fucking you right now? Absolutely, but not with you.” His hands rubbed your back, causing you to restrain a gasp, “But I swear this isn’t a joke or a prank or anything like that. Sharon said you might react this way because of our, you know, history. You have nothing to worry about.” He pecked your lips lightly and pulled you until your bodies pressed together, “If it was, something would’ve happened by now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re in a vulnerable and very public position,” he answered. “If I wanted to do something, it’d be in the middle of a dance floor where loads of people would witness it. I’d have a friend in that corner,” he nodded to the left side of the room. “Another over there and someone on the stairs to get multiple angles, because I’d film it, of course. No bigger humiliation than one that leaves a digital footprint.” His arms encompassed you, and brushed his nose with yours, “Why would I wait this long?”
“The long game.”
He chuckled, “You’re so ridiculous.”
He bent down and kissed you again. ‘Worth it’ came back as he held you close to him. The big moment you expected when he kissed you did not come. All Nate did was use both hands to cup your ass as he deepened the kiss. Your hands resting on his shoulders, you took in the way his tongue easily slid into your mouth and onto yours. Like the last time, you felt yourself becoming slowly addicted to how Nate kissed you. He did it softly, but kept his dominance behind them. All thoughts of pranks and jokes went out the window when he cupped your cheek and kissed you.
“If you thought that,” he asked, lightly pecking your lips, “Then why did you come out with me?”
Liquor loosening your filter bit by bit, you answered, “Because a part of me hoped that you really did like me and wasn’t ashamed of it.”
“I do and I’m not.”
“Prove it.”
“Kissing you in front of all these people isn’t enough?”
“Nope.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Shout it.”
“Shout it?”
“Yeah, shout ‘I love YN YLN’ and me-”
Nate tilted back his head and shouted into the air, “Hey everyone!” Some people turned their heads to his loud voice, “I love YN YLN! If any of your fuckers have a problem with that, take it up with me! Got it?!”
His sudden outburst made you cling to him laughing from secondhand embarrassment. A few people looked between the two of you, then began whispering while some were too drunk to really care much. While you did catch an envious look or two or three, nobody else said anything to him. As Nate said, who was going to give him shit over liking you? Turning to you with a cocky grin, Nate pulled you against him and kissed you again.
“I’m going to do it again,” he murmured, close enough that you heard him over the music.
“Do wha-AH!”
In one fluid motion, Nate lifted you off the floor bridal style this time. You giggled madly as the uneasy feeling of being off the ground hit you.
“Hold on, Cupcake,” he said, taking you through the house towards a staircase. “Let’s make our party more private, huh?”
“Nate!”
He carried you up the stairs easily. It began scaring you how easy he handled you compared to the one other guy who attempted to carry you. He brought you into one of the empty rooms, kicking the door closed. You bounced on it when he tossed you onto the bed, giggling and shaking your head at his ridiculousness. He quickly locked the door and then turned to climb on top of you.
“Have I passed your test yet, Ms. YLN, or is there another part to it?” He said, laying down on you and kissing you deeply. “Please tell me there is because, fuck, there’s things I want to do to you right now.”
Your body immediately accepted him, wrapping your legs around him as he kissed you. Fingers sliding into his short brown hair, giving it a slight tug, you slid your tongue past his lips. Soft smacking sounds came each time you two pulled away, tongues rolling together in your mouths. His body, strong and long, felt like a weighted blanket on top of you; his muscles tensed under his shirt when your hands slipped underneath the back of his neck to his shoulders. The resistance you’d been putting up slowly broke down as he kissed you. Magic blossomed in the fireworks bursting behind your eyes. It always felt awkward with other boys; their touch felt strange and unfamiliar to you. They never knew how to touch you, sometimes gripping too hard or thinking you were filming a porno. Not Nate. He roamed your body softly over your clothes, going over curves and rolls repeatedly.
He didn’t skip over them.
He didn’t turn off the lights.
He took his time getting to know what made your breath hitch, focused on pleasuring you rather than himself. It wasn’t what you expected from a guy like Nate, but maybe this wasn’t the Nate you knew.
“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmured on your neck, hands moving up your stomach to your ample chest. “I could do this forever.”
“Me too.”
Your hands broke from him when he took your top off, and he groaned in a breath. You’d put on a lavender bra for the occasion, mostly because you couldn’t find anything more comfortable. Nate didn’t stare long as he helped you out of your sandals, tossing them away before working on your pants. With Aaron, you felt nothing when he stared. Under Nate’s brown eyes, you warmed up at the apples of your cheeks. When you turned your head shyly, he gingerly moved it to look at him.
“Eyes on me,” he whispered before kissing you.
Then he took off his shirt. You knew Nate worked out and therefore had an athletic body, but seeing it up close was different. His collarbones showed more than you thought, and his chest was more defined. He smirked when he caught you staring.
“Like what you see, baby?” he asked, bending down to capture your lips again.
“I definitely do,” you finally admit as you run your hands up his torso.
“Wait until you see the rest.”
The rest of him looked equally delicious. His size surprised you, especially after all those times you thought he had a small dick because of his arrogance and big truck. When it pressed to your clothed sex, the both of you groaned together. Nate finally started kissing over your cleavage as he slowly pulled down your bra. He groaned against your supple skin when your breasts spilled out to the sides the way he always imagined. Nate didn’t waste time taking one hard nipple in his mouth, sucking and slowly rolling his tongue around it. He held you close to him when you shivered, almost as if he worried you might turn to smoke and disappear. His tongue flicked one of them rapidly, and you grinded into him. He knew you liked this. You didn’t know how, but he did.
You bit your bottom lip once he trailed soft kisses down your body. “Let me prove it to you one last time,” he said, lips pressed to your hips.
“Please…”
The feeling of his hands sliding up and down your thighs as he kissed them stirred your insides. His splayed out fingers explored them while his lips dotted them. When other guys did this, you laid there awkwardly waiting for them to get on with it. With Nate, your body melted like ice cream on a hot day. A certain need built in your panties once he began traveling towards the center. Soft kisses to your pantyline sent more sparks that filled your veins. Strong hands lifted your thighs higher, bringing your knees to your stomach and exposing more of you to him. He smirked when he spotted the tiniest wet spot in the middle. Nate glanced up at you as he pressed the lightest of kisses there. The gentle pressure was enough to make you want more, which he obliged. He kissed up and down your slit first, then added his tongue.
“You wore these for me, didn’t you?” he asked, playing with the line of the matching see-through and lace panties.
“I wanted to feel cute,” you say. “It had nothing to do with you.”
“Eh, I think it did,” he smiles, kissing your pussy in tandem with pulling your panties aside. “Fuck, there she is,” he groans once he uncovered your wet sex. “It’s so much nicer than I thought.”
“You thought about it a lot?”
“Loads of times.”
He licked a single stripe up the center. The tip of his warm tongue slowly swirled around the nub of your clit, making you squirm. You heard the soft smacks of light kisses, featherlight and quick as he started from the top to the bottom. It was electrifying. You laid flat on the bed with your hands to your chest as he took your clit in his mouth. The low hum from his chest briefly vibrated you, and you writhed underneath him. If you expected Nate to be good at anything, it was not this. His tongue was magical. It hit all the places that made you quiver on the soft bed covers. When he pushed your thighs further apart, hands kneading the soft flesh, the sensation of being pinned down and at his mercy turned you on more.
“Is this good?” he asked, voice husky and low. He knew the answer, but needed to hear you say it. In every fantasy of his, you told him so.
“Yes,” you exhale as two of his fingers push you open to expose your clit, “Fuck yes, that feels so good.”
Keeping you open, he licked and sucked you a bit faster. The two fingers rubbing you added more pleasure before they slunk away. Your body froze in anticipation when they touched your entrance.
“Is this ok-” he began to say against your sex, but you cut him off.
“Fuck yes.”
He slid one at first. It massaged your walls gently as it sank inside. His tongue focused on your clit still, lapping at the wetness forming there the longer he teased you. When you felt his finger hit the very center, curling and brushing slowly, you grabbed the pillows under you and pushed into his face more. Nate didn't stop you. He encouraged you with more moans and faster movements. Whether because you haven’t orgasmed lately, or because he naturally knew your body, you came faster than you’d hoped. The spot he kept pushing radiated pulses of pleasure that caused your clit to spark with sensitivity. You wriggled around when it happened, but Nate did not let up. He kept going, his tongue focusing on that spot above while he shoved a second finger inside. You swore he prolonged it on purpose, proving once again that his feelings and desire for you were real. He wanted you to know he always wanted you, though never said it out loud until a therapist told him he should.
“We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured as he kissed your inner thighs, “Sit on my face.”
You paused, unsure if you heard him right. “Sit on your face?”
“Um, yeah?” He said, already laying down next to you and situating himself in preparation. “Hop on. You sound so pretty when you come, I wanna do it again.”
“Are you…Are you sure, Nate?”
“I asked you, didn’t I?”
“But, Nate I’m…”
“Oh my god, YN,” he groaned, “I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t handle it.”
“Sorry, I just never had a guy ask me to do…that…before.”
“Yeah, because they’re pussies,” he scoffed, “Now get up here before I lose my mind and come all over myself.”
You looked down at his toned body to see his dick poking a large tent in his boxers. A wet spot already seeped through the dark fabric, giving away where his tip was and how he twitched inside them. Tentatively, you straddled his head in reverse and kept yourself a few inches above him to avoid suffocating him to death. This wouldn’t do for Nate. Hooking his arms around your thighs, he forced you fully onto his face. You gave a soft yelp when his mouth latched to your wet sex again and sucked firmly. In a backwards position, you ended up close to his cock. Tempted, you pecked the throbbing head through his boxers and earned a soft groan. Propped up on one elbow, you stroked the long appendage through the thin fabric. Boxer briefs, they'd ridden up to reveal his muscled thighs and long legs. You saw them tense slightly when you reached the very bottom of his cock, bordering on his balls which appeared more sensitive than most guys. You noticed him twitch whenever you cupped them before going back up his thickness.
“Stop teasing me,” Nate panted, mouth pulling gently at your soaked lips, “I’ve been dying to have those lips around me. Please…”
Still stroking him, you started kissing and sucking the wet spot on his black boxers. This made the spot grow around his tip, and you tasted hints of him on it. You did your best to stay still as Nate licked at your entrance again. It felt so good and you wanted more of him. You actually wanted Nate. You wanted him in more ways than just this one. His large hands smoothing up and down your thighs before grasping your ass cheeks only added to the feeling. This caused you to finally pull him out and gasp softly to yourself. He was big. Not so big you felt intimidated, but certainly above average. You hand around his base, you took the pink head into your mouth and sucked. Nate groaned deeply into you, your sex throbbing when he did this. Small droplets of precome fell onto your tongue as you went further down, tasting sweeter than you expected. You stroked what you couldn’t reach, which wasn’t too much but when in tandem with your mouth, drove Nate wild. His hips started pushing up to your mouth, trying to go deeper, but you kept your usual pace. It was quite fun teasing him this way.
However, like with most of your interactions, Nate shot it right back at you. Instead of fully filling your pussy with his tongue, Nate only put the tip. Only the end of his tongue went around your tender clit, lazily moving side to side and up and down. He chuckled when you whined, and kept the same pace the entire time. The two of you ended up in some strange Battle of the Teasers where one kept trying to elicit a break from the other. Your body gave away how much you enjoyed Nate in your mouth. Most girls didn’t like giving blowjobs, but you did. Hearing your partner moan and groan because of you always struck your arousal. Feeling their cock on your tongue and filling your mouth made you feel good about yourself; as if you were in control and not them.
Nate figured this out and did not hesitate to use it. Out of nowhere, when you’d given your mouth a break by stroking him, Nate flipped the two of you around. He pulled you to the edge of the bed, your head hanging off the end, and pushed himself back into your mouth. Long arms made it easy for him to bend over and reach to rub your clit again.
“Just like in those smutty novels we read,” he smirked, hips gingerly pushing into your mouth. He rubbed faster to hear you cry around him. “You told me Wicked Destiny is your favorite. I wonder why…” he kept going, and soon saliva and precome started spilling onto the sides. He pushed two fingers inside, filling you in both ends in a way that made you dizzy. “Is it the lengthy blowjobs and eating out? How he used her mouth like a fucking toy while he teased her?”
“Oh god, Nate,” you moaned hoarsely, swallowing the mixture in your mouth and licking around your lips.
“Answer me, baby,” he said, keeping the same pace with his fingers and hitting your g-spot again, “Is that why it’s your favorite?”
“One of them,” you confessed in a whine as you kissed his cock whenever he rubbed on your face, “I also liked one other thing.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“When he fucked the shit out of her at that party they went to.” Now, this didn’t happen in the book, but Nate picked up on what you meant and smiled.
“I loved that part,” he said, pulling his fingers out to circle your clit. “It was my favorite.” He forced himself back into your mouth, pushing until you gagged around the head reaching your throat. “But, you’re going to come again before I do that. I want this as wet and sloppy as I can get it before then.”
And he meant it. When he pulled out to give your throat a break, he forced one thigh further away as he started fingering you faster. You used to wonder how women in porn videos could enjoy such a fast pace, but now you know. Nate could hit it without making it painful. He kept his fingers deep inside and wriggled his fingers, and this immediately undid you. Right as you started coming again, he thrusted back into your mouth.
“That’s it, that’s it,” he cooed as you clenched his fingers, “Good girl. Keep going just like that.”
He only pulled out of both sides when you finished, smirking down at your breathless, messy self on the bed. “Fuck me,” you said, that desire never leaving despite how much you came already, “Now.”
He pushed you back onto the bed, put a pillow under your hips and reached for his jeans on the floor. You watched eagerly as he tore open a condom, quickly rolled it on and then shoved himself inside you. Pure bliss filled you once he was inside. Usually, you’d be spent after a second orgasm, but not with Nate. You wanted to keep going; keep feeling him against you, inside you, in whatever way he could. Staring up at him, you watched the football star, this king of East Highland High, unravel in front of you. He held onto your thighs, keeping them apart as he rutted into your cunt. You saw the desperation, frustration and satisfaction coming over him. He was beautiful with his flushed cheeks, tight muscles and swollen lips. The usual cockiness in his eyes gave way to something like submission. Not to you, but to the dormant desires he kept locked up inside him. When he used a corner of the sheet to clean your face, he did this tenderly and with love in his eyes.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he muttered through gritted teeth, propped above you and causing your hips to angle upwards. “I’ve wanted this for such a long time. I don’t think I can stop…”
“Don’t then…”
He kept himself hovering over you, and started moving faster. The sound of your bodies slamming together joined your symphony of conjoined moans. Nate occasionally kissed you, your neck or your nipples. You clawed at his back when your need started growing again. Having come already, you knew it’d take a bit more than usual to make it happen a third time, but this didn’t bother you. Nate’s cock stretched you enough that you felt it, his head pushing deep inside you that you knew you’d be feeling it tomorrow. It was mind-bending after a while. Neither of you spoke as pleasure overcame the two of you, too focused on chasing the high you could only achieve together. Because it was inevitable how addicted you became to one another. When he put you onto your side, lifting your leg and sinking inside from behind, you knew this was the end. No way would you go back to Aaron or any other guy after Nate made your eyes roll back in a few well-placed thrusts. His breath cascaded down your neck and your heavy breasts filled his hands.
“I’m close…” he grunted in your ear, kissing your neck, “I’m so fucking close, baby.”
“Me too,” you whimpered, reaching to your clit to rub it in time with his thrusts, “Keep fucking me just like that…just like that.”
He didn’t change pace or angle as requested, instead pinching your nipples and kissing your neck and shoulder. Nate soon brought you to the edge, then pushed you off it in a few more thrusts. You came harder. You shook and clenched your fists when it hit you, then kept hitting you more after. The pillow you brought to your face muffled any moans someone might hear, but Nate heard them and pushed you onto your front with one leg lifted high up. Sensing your orgasm ending, Nate finally focused on his own. You feel his hands grasp and smack your ass.
“Fuck, I love your ass,” he pants, whimpering and grabbing it.
“You mean this one?” You start pushing back, purposefully making it jiggle on his hips.
“Yes, this one,” he smacked both sides with slight stings and grabbed them roughly. You heard the orgasm rising up in his voice, “I lov-love it. It’s so fucking hot…All round and soft.”
“Asses are your weakness, huh?” You teased, ass cheeks smacking into his hips, “Asses like mine?”
“Just like-like your-yours…Only yours…”
You giggle, panting and fighting your own sore muscles to keep milking his cock. A little more moving had his hands gripping your hips as he stiffened behind you. The headboard hitting the wall, mattress starting to faintly squeak, Nate’s groans overcame both. You kept going, cheeks meeting in the middle. Nate didn’t stop until the last trembling drops spilled into the condom, thrusting deep and hard. You felt the burn in your arms, your thighs, your knees and everywhere else. A layer of sweat coated you both once the heat died down, the two of you pools of jelly on the bed. A hazy afterglow came over you when he pulled out, leaving behind an empty feeling.
“That was incredible,” he panted, head against your shoulder. He kissed there a few times, “Absolutely incredible.”
“Very,” you agreed, gasping for breath.
There you laid in his arms, content and cozy in them. The sounds and music of the party became faint background music to your silence. People likely passed by the door and maybe overheard what was going on. You should feel embarrassed or a twinge of shame, but when you saw Nate’s dark eyes looking down at you on his chest, you couldn’t find it in you to care. You slithered up his side and snuggled close, briefly kissing his lips, his cheeks, his jaw, and the cleft of his chin. Nate hummed contently at the lips idly dotting his neck and chest with kisses while he stroked your spine. You wanted to know every part of him: the birthmark just under his pecs, the scar he’d gotten from falling out of a tree as a kid, and the particularly nasty one on his knee from a football accident (“Doctor said I was lucky it didn’t take out my knee. I wouldn’t be able to play if it did.”) You traced the lines of his muscles, which had softened and were less defined now. Nate did the same to you, discovering parts of you he didn’t know about before. So intimate in a way outside of sex, Nate Jacobs easily peeled away the layers you tried hard keeping together.
“The fair is starting next weekend,” he said, voice low while he kissed your breasts. Not in a sensual way, but explorative. “Want to go?”
“Sure,” you replied, fingers gently scratching his scalp until he came up to kiss you. “I’ll warn you that my mom might pull me away for a while. She enters the pie competition every year, and it’s a tradition in my family for everyone to go.”
“I can help out,” he shrugged simply. “After all, I am very helpful, remember?”
The two of you laughed and shared another kiss before peeling apart. As much as you wanted to, neither of you could stay in the random bedroom you’d found. Once cleaned up and dressed, Nate suggested going back to his house. His mother and brother weren’t home tonight (she had a date and his brother went clubbing on weekends), so you’d be alone. You smirk when you sense the suggestion.
“One time isn’t enough?” you ask, arms around his neck when he brings you into his arms.
“Not nearly enough,” he shook his head, and kissed you one more time. “Come on, Cupcake. I want a few more bites of you.”
He tugged you out of the room, and you were filled with butterflies.
'Worth it,' you said to yourself this time.
****
A/N: thank you for waiting forever for this part 2! I was in a bit of a slump mentally so writing was hard. I hope you guys enjoyed these two finally getting it on, and leave a reblog/like <3
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