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renx01

yournamesnob

May 30

bounty-jes

breaking in

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

content: reader is Robby's niece, cursing, age gap (reader is mid-late 20s, jack is late 40s/early 50s), she/her reader, pet names (sweetheart, sweetie, bug, kid), reader is down bad (and very horny), jack is also down bad, probably inaccurate medical talk, canon-typical talk of injuries, no use of y/n, probably an overuse of italics, six-year-old you is her own character and i love her ngl, Jack Abbot drives a Bronco agenda pt ii, jackie nickname supremecy

word count: 12.5 k (new. longest. fic. im exhausted)

summary: when you move in with your Uncle Mike in Pittsburgh, you don't expect to fall for his best friend.

notes: i am giving these men more and more reasons to live 🙏

line divider by @chrisssiren

You’ve met your uncle before. Your mother claims that the first time he met you was when you were born. The first time you remember meeting him was on your sixth birthday. He hung around in the hall while the rest of the adults conversed casually in the kitchen. Robby had always been awkward around his sister and her late husband’s family. You had watched him as he held a beer with loose fingers, looking almost small. Approachable. Maybe that was why you had grabbed his large hand and dragged him into the living room. Your presents were still scattered across the carpeted floor, torn wrapping paper piled up in the corner.

“Mama says you’re a doctor. Show me how to use these.” You had lifted the play doctor doctor kit from one of your cousins. Then, you paused, your mother’s voice echoing in your head. “Please, Uncle Mikey.”

And Robby couldn’t say no. Not when you had apparently learned to weaponize your shining eyes since he last saw you. Eyes that looked like your mothers. Like his.

That was how your mother found the two of you. She teased her brother as he carefully explained how each little plastic tool worked. They were dwarfed in his hands and you listened with rapt attention. Your mother took a picture, printing it out the next day and hanging it on the fridge. It’s still there, held in place by a magnet in the shape of the Pittsburgh Penguins logo. A gift from Robby when he finished his residency, because he was the kind of person to give gifts when celebrating rather than receive them.

Robby still visits, but his drives to Philadelphia were reserved for holidays and birthdays. A few select days of the year that he deigned take off of work. It’s a recent thing, you think. Robby has always been hesitant around your family. Your family, because all Robby had left was you and your mom. His sister and niece. Your grandparents died before you were born. Before your mom could remember. Your great-grandma died when you were three, taking on the responsibility of raising her two grandkids all alone. You can only remember her through stories and pictures that seem like dreams to you.

(You do remember one thing about her. The home your mom and Robby had sent her to, near the end, had birds in the lobby. Little things that chirped happily and flew around in blurs of vibrant color. There were pictures of her, old ones, with a bird perched on her thin finger. You had asked for a pet bird when you first saw the picture. When your mother said no, you cried all through the night.)

But that was twenty years ago. You’ve graduated college and found a job. A real adult, ready to take on the world. The only kink in this plan is that your amazing new job is in Pittsburgh. A breezy seven hour drive from your home where you still live with your mother in Philadelphia. You don’t love the idea of that commute and neither had your mom when you announced that you had been hired. Which is how you find yourself standing outside of Michael Robinavitch’s apartment, waiting for your uncle to open the fucking door already.

“Hey, you must be the niece Robby told me so much about.” An unfamiliar voice calls from the end of the hall. You turn to find the source of the voice, only to see a man you don’t recognize. He’s not as tall as your uncle, but he’s built. Freckles across his nose and what you can see of his forearms. You have no idea who this man is, but you kind of want to.

“Robby?” You tilt your head instead of climbing this man like a tree and hike your duffel up higher on your shoulder. The man’s smile shifts to something confused and you glance down at the post-it in your hand. Apt 3A, in your mother’s looped handwriting. You look at the door again. 3A. Huh.

The man studies your face a moment longer before his eyes widen just slightly in realization. He scratches at the scruff on his chin, shining silver under the warm hallway light. “Right. Michael? Everyone calls him Robby at the hospital. It's a habit, I guess.”

“You work with Uncle Mikey?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You’ve called him that since you could first pronounce the words with clumsy lips. The man (whose name you really need to learn) looks amused at the name as he nods slowly. You make quick work of introducing yourself. It’s his turn to tilt his head as he hears your last name.

“Not Robinavitch?”

“My mom took my dad’s name. He…he died before I was born.” Your voice softens toward the end and you have no idea why you’re telling this to a stranger. You half expect the usual litany of apologies and my condolences, but the man just nods again. Maybe you should change the subject. “I never got your name.”

“Abbot. Uh, Jack…Abbot.” His voice is nervous, a contrast to his solid exterior. It’s…cute? The thought is shaken from your mind as the man—Jack, your mind supplies helpfully—holds out his hand. You shake it quickly, trying not to focus on the way his calloused hand feels against yours. You cannot do this right now.

“Who are you? James Bond?” You tease, shoving down the flush threatening to rise on your chest. But you can’t bring yourself to look away from the pink heating the tips of Jack’s ears at your words. He laughs anyway and you think you want to hear that sound again. And again. And god, you can see his teeth and they’re just a little crooked. You wonder idly if he ever had braces. If he was one of those kids who refused to wear a retainer after.

“Not quite, sweetheart.” And he’s still grinning. You like the way he says the nickname. Or maybe you just like the sound of his voice. You’re quickly realizing you like a lot of things about Jack Abbot.

You’ve always been like this. Falling faster than you can catch yourself. Your friends have always teased you but you can’t help it. You always loved the story of how your parents met. Like a fairy tale with a tragic ending. The way your mom tells it, she knew the first time their eyes met that she would marry your father. You’ve always wanted that. Not that it can happen with this man. Your uncle’s coworker? Friend? The duffel slips down your shoulder and you hike it back up again and glance at the door.

“Oh! Right,” Jack pats at his pockets before pulling out a key. It’s bright pink. Your favorite color…when you were six. But you know Robby must have gotten it with you in mind and that alone makes you smile softly. “Robby got caught up at work. Asked me to drop this off for you.”

The key is warm against your palm and you shove it into the lock. The door clicks open and you turn to lift your suitcase. You have more boxes at home, but you’re only staying with your uncle until you can find an apartment of your own. Except, your suitcase isn’t on the ground. Jack is holding it in his hands. Big, strong hands connected to big, strong arms that you—no. You turn toward the entry and step inside. Jack follows and doesn’t put down the suitcase until you tell him where to put it.

“Did Uncle Mike tell you how long he’d be?” You ask, studying the apartment around you in lieu of watching Jack move toward the fridge and pull out a beer. He looks so comfortable in the house and you wonder how often he’s stayed over. How often he’s slept in the guest bedroom. Your bedroom, now.

“It was just one patient that came in as he was finishing up, so he probably won’t be too long.” Jack shrugs, taking a sip from the glass bottle. You watch his throat bob as he swallows and you turn back to the apartment. It’s warm and soft. The kind of place that makes it easy to call home. You’re snapped out of your thoughts as Jack speaks again. “I can stay, though. If you want.”

You don’t catch the hesitancy in his voice. The way he watches you move around the space. You’re very busy not looking at him, actually.

“You don’t have to.” Jack just grins as you try to brush him off. The way things are going, you’re afraid you might jump him if he stays.

“I’m offering, sweetheart.” And there it is again. That name in that voice. Those arms. That grin. Freckles. Why does he have to be hot and funny and sweet? And completely off-limits.

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Jack.” You say quickly, pointedly glaring down at the floor as you force down a flush.

“If you say so.” Jack shrugs, running a hand through his curls. That’s when you see the black band wrapped around his ring finger. Shit. No. Not only is he twenty years too old for you. Not only is he your uncle’s friend. He’s married. A shock of anxiety runs hot through your veins and you take a step back. As if the physical distance will obscure how much you want this man. “Here.”

Jack steps through the kitchen, taking his time to grab a notepad and pen. He scribbles something on the paper, pressing it into your hand with a smile. You can’t bring yourself to look at it until the front door of Robby’s apartment clicks shut. Scrawled across the small sheet is a phone number. A fucking phone number. And words written under it in tall, sharp handwriting that you can barely read.

Just in case.

That’s it. That’s all it says. You tuck the paper into your palm, holding yourself back from adding the number to your contacts. You can’t. Not when you know yourself well enough to know it won’t end well. It will end with you texting a married man.

“He’s married.” You mutter to yourself aloud, like it will stop you from imagining Jack’s face before you go to sleep tonight. The paper crinkles in your grip and you consider burning it for a single second. Just keeping it should be fine, right?

Nah, you’re fucked.

Living with Robby is strange. Different from what you’re used to. They were raised together, but your mother and your uncle are very different people. You’re used to helping her cook and hanging up your jackets when you get home. You’re used to open blinds and music on the turntable. It’s not that Robby is a shut-in or a slob. He’s just tired. But, after a week of watching Robby only eat takeout, takeout leftovers, and granola bars, you decide that if you want him to live long enough to walk you down the aisle (a promise he made to you in a split second when you asked almost twenty years ago, a promise you still plan to hold him to) you’re gonna need to put the work in. And, really, it’s the least you can do with him letting you take over his home.

So you cook dinner and make sure to keep some warm until Robby gets back from work. You hang up jackets that Robby leaves over the back of the couch. You force Robby to actually leave the house on his days off. Little things that will never be able to repay everything you owe your uncle. Even if he insists that you don’t have to. You don’t notice the change until Robby has guests over.

Jack and Dana insist on coming over. At least, that’s what Robby says when the three of them stumble through the door. However, considering the late hour and the smell of alcohol wafting off of the three, you think Robby just didn’t want to deal with getting his friends to their separate homes.

“Sorry, bug.” Robby murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. He hasn’t called you that since you were twelve and you begged him to stop. You don’t mind it so much right now. “Should’a let you know they were comin’.”

You wave him off with a soft smile. Robby usually isn’t so sappy, even with you. “Don’t worry about it, Uncle Mikey.”

Just behind Robby, you can see Jack and Dana huddled close over a phone. You wonder if it’s Jack’s, leaning forward to glance down at the screen. They’re ordering food? Okay, now you know where your uncle got all his bad habits from. Definitely not bubbe. He’s surrounded by bad influences. You huff just slightly before gesturing toward the kitchen behind you.

“I made dinner. There’s leftovers staying warm in the oven. Should be enough for all of you.” You offer before Jack and Dana can start arguing about whose turn it is to pay. Robby pulls you into a quick side hug, used to coming home to a homemade dinner by now. He was hesitant about letting you cook for him at first. About depending on you like that. He came around pretty quick when you threatened to call his favorite Chinese place and have them block his number.

“You cook?” Jack’s voice is soft and full of something close to wonder. Your cheeks heat and you look anywhere but at Jack. His ring glints in the low light, making something curl angrily in your chest. “That’s…hot.”

Your cheeks must be on fire by now. Robby speaks behind you, the oven whining as he pulls the door open. “Jack.” Just his name. In a voice that sounds both sharp and amused. Not something you often hear from your uncle. Jack just grins.

“Just telling the truth, Rob. She’s a grown woman.” You ignore the way Jack’s words make your skin shiver. The way he looks at you when he says it. Robby grumbles something under his breath and rolls his eyes before turning back to the oven. Jack leans in close before you can make your brain work again. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Jack, you’re scarin’ the poor girl.” Another voice says. Dana, now known as your savior. You haven’t met her before, but you’ve seen pictures. Pinned on the fridge next to a drawing you made when you were little, too young to remember. Three wobbly figures holding hands. The only family you’ve ever known.

“You must be Dana. Robby’s told me a lot about you.” Snatching the chance to focus on anything but Jack, you introduce yourself to Dana. She doesn’t take the hand you offer, instead pulling you into a tight hug instead. It reminds you of your mother. You think you might already love Dana. She smells like whiskey and citrus.

Dana just laughs, patting your shoulder as she leans away. “Only bad things, I’m sure.” Then, she turns to Jack, her eyes something between amused and stern. Eerily similar to the tone of Robby’s voice earlier. Like they know something you don’t. “Apologize, Abbot. Or me and Robby aren’t sharing dinner.”

And Jack looks personally offended by that. Dana just brushes past him with a grin. When he turns to face you again, he does look apologetic. But you’re not sure if that’s because of you or the threat of losing his dinner. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

The sentence feels clipped. Not in the uncomfortable, please-stop-talking-to-me way, but like he’s forcing himself to stop talking. To not say something. You wonder if he was going to call you sweetheart again. If you want him to.

“You didn’t.” It’s barely a murmur, closer to a whisper than anything else. You wish you could meet his eyes but your gaze is glued to the dark metal wrapped around Jack’s finger. He leans toward you slightly and you catch a glance of his irises. Bright and sharp. Green and grey with flecks of blue and honest-to-god shining gold.

“That’s good.” Jack’s voice loses its hesitance and he lifts his left hand to his hip, cocking it out. The movement makes you lock your knees. Especially with the gravel in his throat that you want to feel against your skin. But you can’t, goddamnit. You can’t because he’s taken. Some smart lady already snatched Jack Abbot up before you could.

A noise sounds from the kitchen and you turn to see Dana quickly turning away, trying to hide a grin. Her shoulders bounce with silent laughter and your cheeks burn. Suddenly, you feel like a kid. A child surrounded by adults. Like every move you make is wrong and you’re just a fucking kid. It fucking sucks.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot—”

“Jack.” He interrupts, smirk spreading across his lips. You take a sharp breath and force yourself to stand up straight.

“Dr. Abbot,” The name is hard and sharp, a futile attempt to put distance between the two of you. “I can’t do this. Whatever this is. Not when you’re…” Your voice trails off and you gesture vaguely toward his ring as if that explains it. Because, really, it should.

And Jack’s brows do this really cute thing where they furrow together. Something between frustration and confusion. You almost want to smooth the wrinkle it creates with your finger. You don’t. He opens his mouth to speak, but you spin around and step into the kitchen before he can. You wave at Robby and nod toward the hallway.

“I’m going to bed. Love you, Uncle Mike.” His cheeks heat and he smiles at you with a nod, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. You turn to Dana, desperately ignoring the knowing grin on her face. “It was nice to finally meet you, Dana.”

She doesn’t answer, just grins and lifts her half-eaten plate in a mock salute. You return the gesture and turn toward your room, brushing past Jack. He tries to speak again, but you’re shutting your door with a final click before you can hear it.

Going out with your coworkers had been a terrible idea in hindsight. Not that hindsight will actually kick in until you’re terribly hungover tomorrow morning. For now, the alcohol running through your veins is the only thing keeping you from crying because your fucking leg is broken. Probably. Most likely. At least, your coworkers are panicking and called an ambulance. But maybe we should start from the beginning.

You love your job. The work, the people. It’s what you’ve always wanted. And your coworkers are great. It’s just…you’re the youngest person there and they all treat you like it. Not in a disrespectful way, but like you’re some kid they need to watch out for. So maybe you agreed to go out with them. And maybe you had a few too many shots in a misguided attempt to show them that you’re a goddamn adult. So, yeah. Tomorrow, you’re definitely going to regret the decisions you’ve made tonight. But right now you feel like a warrior who just won the war.

“Please stop trying to sit up.” The paramedic in the back of the ambulance sounds almost pitiful as he pushes you back down onto the gurney. You huff, glancing over at where one of your coworkers is sitting, swaying slightly as she looks at your leg. “We’re almost to the hospital, just a few minutes.”

“Which hospital?” You murmur. Under the oxygen mask (which you’re sure you don’t need since you can breathe perfectly fine) it sounds more like wih ospil but you can’t bring yourself to care. The paramedic seems to understand at least, checking your vitals one more time before looking back at you.

“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” The name is awkward on his tongue and you wonder if he’s used to saying the whole name. You remember your coworker saying something about how you’ve only been in the city for a while. He probably thinks you don’t know it. You giggle, the alcohol making everything seem silly and inconsequential.

You would probably be worried if this had happened during the day. Showing up in the emergency room, drunk as hell, to your already stressed uncle? Not a good idea. But Robby is safely tucked away in bed at home. You checked before leaving. So you have nothing to worry about. Well, maybe whatever the fuck is wrong with your leg, but that’s probably nothing. You feel fine, after all. Dandy, even. Then the ambulance slows to a stop and you’re being jostled as people surround you.

“Drunk versus tabletop. Possible broken tibia, sprained wrist,” You glance down at the wrist you used to catch yourself earlier. It’s swollen and gross-looking and you turn your head away. The rest of the paramedic’s words float over your head. Fuck, okay maybe you’re sobering up now because your leg decidedly does hurt. Like, a lot. Maybe it did break. Maybe trying to climb onto a bar top table hadn’t been your best idea. Maybe this whole night was a bad idea. Ugh, now your head hurts.

“Hurts.” You mutter through the oxygen mask (that they still have yet to remove even though you’re sure you still don’t need it). You decide to tug it off yourself with your good hand. The doctor at the end of your bed furrows her brow at the action. That’s when you realize the paramedics are gone. Your coworker sits across the room, slumped in a plastic chair. You’re on a hospital cot, in a hospital room. When did that happen?

“I’m Dr. Ellis.” The woman steps toward you, pulling away the mask as she can see you breathing perfectly fine. “Heard you fell from a table? Did you hit your head?”

You groan but shake your head. You caught yourself and you’ve got the swollen wrist to show for it. Although, you remember a girl in college telling you that falling head-first and trying to catch yourself with your hands can cause a shoulder dislocation. You shrug your shoulders experimentally. At least they feel normal. “What’s the damage, doc?” You ask with a slow grin.

“You’ve got a displaced oblique fracture on your right tibia and your right wrist is sprained. A few other bruises, but your leg is what I’m most worried about.” Dr. Ellis steps away from you, toward a computer. She rolls it toward the bed, scanning her badge and pulling up a picture. Or, more accurately, an x-ray. A dark, diagonal line cuts across the thick bone of your tibia. The top and bottom pieces don’t quite line up, one shifted slightly to the right. You wince.

“Surgery?” You ask before she can speak. Ellis nods, pointing at the obvious break. She opens her mouth to say something when the door clicks open.

Jack Abbot stands in the doorway, looking like he just ran a marathon. You can’t look away from the flushed skin of his cheeks. You definitely can’t help imagining those cheeks flushed for a different reason. His voice is hard when he speaks, a tone you haven’t heard from him yet. “Ellis, go take care of the lac in North 7. I’ll take care of this one.”

“But—”

“Go.” His voice leaves no room for argument. You’d never admit it out loud, but if your leg wasn’t currently screaming at you for your stupid decisions, you would probably make another one right about now.

“Jack.” Oh no. Is that longing in your voice? This is terrible. Absolutely horrible. Not good at all. Not that any of those tiny details stop you from reaching out to run your fingers across his arm. You trace the freckles there, creating imaginary constellations on his skin.

“I thought I was Dr. Abbot.” He pulls his hand away and you whine. You actually fucking whine. Okay, you need this man away from you right now. Five minutes ago would have been preferable, but you’ll take what you can get. It’s made worse by the teasing in Jack’s voice. The amusement dripping from his smile. You glance over at your coworker. She’s still sleeping. Thank god. You could not take an audience to this humiliation. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you fixed up. But you’re gonna need surgery to move the bone back in place. And you’ll need to keep weight off the leg for at least a month. Preferably two.”

You’re not sure you heard anything past sweetheart but you nod along anyway. They don’t have you on painkillers, right? This is just your natural reaction to this man. Maybe you should just crawl to the roof and throw yourself off.

“You listening?” He leans over the cot, over your legs, so he can meet your gaze. It burns. He’s careful not to touch your leg. He’s careful in general, you’ve noticed. Careful with his things, careful with his work. Not in a way that speaks of hesitance. It reminds you of the fact that careful begins with care. Reminds you that even rough hands like Jack’s can be soft when they want to be. Hands with a wedding band—

“Where’s your ring?” His left hand is bare. There’s a ring around his fourth finger where the skin isn’t quite as tanned. You can’t help staring at it. Why would he take off his ring? What could have possibly happened to make a woman leave Jack? “Oh god, did you—? Did I—?”

“Hey, calm down. Listen to me, okay?” You can hear the rapid beeping of the heart monitor as panic fills your chest, hot and sharp. Jack’s voice is soft and smooth. Steady. You grab onto it, an anchor in the roaring ocean around you. “That’s it. Good. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

And his hand is on yours. Warm and rough but so gentle. His thumb traces over your knuckles and you want to lean into the sensation. You wonder how his fingertips would feel on the rest of your skin. Your shoulders, arms. Your legs.

“You can’t tell Uncle Mike.” A new panic floods through you, desperate to change the subject Jack winces slightly as you flip your hand to grip his.

“Kid, I think he’s gonna find out whether I tell him or not.” Jack’s voice has a certain teasing quality to it but he doesn’t move to tug his hand out of your hold. He just lets you squeeze his bones together. “Would you rather he wakes up to an empty apartment and panics? Look at me, please.”

You do. Because how could you possibly deny him when he asks like that? His eyes are just as beautiful as you remember them, warm and bright and just a little teasing.

“My ring is right here.” Jack tugs on a chain around his neck. A familiar dark ring of metal slides down the chain and your cheeks go hot. When you try to look away, he moves to stay in your gaze. You can see the light glint off of the ring, an inscription on the inside, S&J. “I take it off at work when I can.”

“What’s her name?” You really do look away this time. To the other side of the thin cot, at your swollen wrist. It’s easier to look at than Jack. His hand moves to your chin, gently guiding you to face him. It suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer in the room.

“Sarah. Her name was Sarah.”

The door slams open before you can respond to that and the both of you turn to see Robby standing in the doorway. He’s breathing heavy and still wearing his plaid flannel pants. His t-shirt is wrinkled to hell and his hair is sticking up in the back in that way that you always smooth down for him before he leaves the apartment.

“Fuck, bug, what happened?” Robby rushes to your side, leaning over the cot to check you over. You can see the way his eyes scan across your body, cataloguing every injury. The panic in his eyes dims just slightly as he finally sets his eyes on you. You’re sure he was overworried about you, worst cases running through his head on the drive over. You just huff, glaring at Jack as he steps back from the bed.

“I had Shen call him.” Jack says simply, grinning. His biceps bulge as he crosses his arms across his chest. You turn your gaze desperately back to your uncle.

“Fell off a table at a bar. I’m fine.”

Robby raises one brow and immediately pokes your wrist. You hiss, smacking his hand away. “Yeah. Fine. This’ll take at least six months to heal.”

“I guess this means I won’t be moving out any time soon.” You groan. It’s not that you’re rushing to move out. You just…feel bad. Invading Robby’s home longer than you’d promised. An awful feeling bubbles in your stomach and you disregard it as nausea from the alcohol. “‘M sorry, Uncle Mikey.”

“Don’t apologize, bug. You’re welcome to say as long as you want.” Warm lips press against your forehead and any nausea melts away. You suddenly feel like you’re home, wrapped in your mother’s arms. Warm and safe from everything. Maybe Robby is more similar to your mom than you thought. You glance toward the door when you hear it squeak, only to see Jack’s broad shoulders as he slips out. He waves. You smile.

Was. He said was. It’s been two weeks since you saw Jack, drunk as hell with a swollen wrist and an even more swollen leg, and all you can think about was how he said was. It makes something fester inside of you. An ugly knot of emotions that you refuse to spend time untangling. Jack Abbot may be single, but he’s still your uncle’s friend. He’s still twenty years too old. He’s still unattainable. You hate the spark of something horrifically close to hope that refuses to be snuffed out in your chest.

(He’s also a widower. Because you don’t say was unless that person has passed. You don’t know how long they were married or how long Sarah has been dead. You do wonder what she was like. If the two of you would have gotten along. If she was anything like you.)

Not that it matters. You have much more pressing issues. Like your broken leg, wrapped in a thick cast. There are four pins screwed into your bone. Pins that, apparently, are supposed to stay there, as Robby had informed you. He had also let you know that the pins were not big enough to set off most metal detectors. You had asked if it would set off the ones at the airport. The last time you got on a plane, you were twelve.

Oh, and your wrist. Sprained, with an ugly brace that clashed terribly with your bright pink cast. When the doctor had asked what color you wanted for the cast, you immediately thought of the key to Robby’s apartment. Something about the color felt like healing. Or maybe you just think your six-year-old self would approve of the decision. Her judgement always seemed sound.

Robby mutters quietly as he gently rotates your wrist. You wince at the movement and he gently velcros the brace back onto your wrist. The pressure actually feels kind of nice. Especially cool fabric pressing against your hot skin. “Yeah, that’s gonna need at least another week.”

Of course. You truly regret going out that night. For the past two weeks you’ve been mostly sequestered to Robby’s apartment. The first few days were the worst, in and out of sleep as you curl up in your bed. Moving hurt like hell and the pain medication made you sleepy. Robby had taken care of you a lot on those days. He still does, making you lunches the night before and calling you from work when he can to check up. It’s strange, the routine you had established with Robby flipped entirely on its head.

“When does the cast come off again?” You whine, leaning back into the plush cushion of the couch. You have decided to spend as little time in your room as possible after being stuck in there for most of a week.

“Well, considering you just got it on yesterday I’d say about six weeks.” The lines around Robby’s eyes crinkle as he grins. It reminds you of your mother. The longer you spend with your uncle, the more similarities you see between the two. Like one of those pictures where new details pop out the longer you stare. It’s fun to watch the tapestry of Michael Robinavitch slowly unfurl in front of you. But all you do in the moment is groan.

The splint had been bad enough. But the fucking cast. It restricts the movement of your entire foot and most of your right leg. Movement was difficult even with the stupid crutches that Robby had given you. Much less trying to get around without some kind of aid. And it’s all more frustrating than anything else. Oh, and completely your fault. You can’t blame someone else for your stupid decisions. So you live with it.

For the next week, Robby drives you to work. He drops you off at the door, making sure you have your lunch and your crutches. You feel like a kid all over again. You realize that Robby seems to bring that feeling out in you. But it’s not bad. You like the color of the cast. You like the way people compliment it. You like depending on someone else again. Your mom never told you how exhausting it can be. To be the one someone relies on. Rewarding but tiring in a way that sneaks up on you.

This part, though, is definitely embarrassing. In your attempt to show your coworkers that you’re not a kid, you got way too drunk and broke your leg. And you’re being dropped off at work by your uncle. The last time you got dropped off at work, you were fourteen. Needless to say, you’re counting the days until your cast comes off.

“What’re you doing here?” Jack’s voice calls out as you lean against the nurse’s station. You whip around to face him, cheeks hot. You hope the heat doesn’t show on your cheeks. Jack’s lips tick up into a tiny grin and all hope leaves you. Your ears burn. “No new injuries, right?”

“Just getting my cast checked out before work.” You hate how soft your voice is. No sharp edges or harsh tones. You want to be angry. At yourself, for being an idiot. At Jack, for being so hot. But you honestly don’t have the energy to be angry at anything right now. Crutches, you have decided, are bullshit. That’s why you’re leaning against the hub, exhausted and too lazy to attempt to balance on one leg. The aforementioned crutches are leaned against the countertop next to you, laughing at your misery.

Jack laughs. The kind that makes his head fall back just enough to expose his throat. The kind that makes you fight to keep yourself from smiling. You think infectious is a great way to describe this man. And you’re the stupid host who decided the bacteria was cute enough to keep around. You really need to start charging this man rent.

“What’s the verdict?” His voice has that teasing lilt that makes you want to feel how it vibrates against your skin. Your mind goes blank for a second, staring at Jack as if he will physically put your train of thought back on track. He just grins and taps his foot against your cast.

“Oh!” Right. The cast. The reason you’re in this godforsaken hospital in the first place. The infection has long since spread to your brain, slowly eating away at the muscle there. “Uh, at least another month? Then physical therapy to strengthen the leg again.” You parrot what the doctor told you. Robby had been the one to take the pamphlets and further care instructions, shoving them into his jacket pocket before you could argue. Once, years ago, your mother told you that sometimes you just have to let Robby take care of you. Even before he became a doctor. Like it had always been in his blood to help. You try to remember that now, as you wait in the ED for Robby to pull the car around into the ambulance bay. Because, apparently, you can’t even make the walk to your uncle’s reserved Chief Attending spot in the second row of the parking lot.

“Hey, kid.” Dana’s voice comes from the other side of the counter. You turn to face her, glad to have an excuse not to look at Jack anymore. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the large sliding doors. “Robby’s pullin’ into the ambulance bay.”

You nod, sharing goodbye’s with the charge nurse before turning toward the cursed crutches. Displeasure must show on your face because Jack laughs behind you, just over your shoulder.

“Want me to carry you?”

And that makes you spin around so fast you’re almost dizzy. God, your cheeks burn and you can practically feel the way your pupils grow at the idea, subconscious taking in every detail of this man. Even the mental image makes your one good leg feel weak. Jack’s thick arms wrapped around you while his heart beats right against your ear. His lips twitch and you realize you haven’t answered. Your still-mush brain seems incapable of forming sentences. So you stick with one word. “What?”

“You’re glaring at those crutches like you want to burn them, sweetheart.” Jack leans in closer and you grip at the crutches in your hand. His grin is sharp, like he knows what he’s doing. “Just offering to help.”

His voice does not sound helpful in the slightest. It sounds like velvet wrapped in something simmering hot that you do not have the bandwidth to study right now. You wish the stupid crutches weren’t so smooth. You need something digging into the skin of your palm. Something to ground yourself, to keep you from combusting on the spot.

“Kid, you comin’?” You hear Robby’s voice and turn away from Jack. Your uncle stands in to the side of the ambulance doors, dramatically tapping his watch when he sees you looking. Maybe there is a god, after all. You hurriedly shove the crutches beneath your arms and begin your pathetic limp toward where Robby is waiting. Jack easily keeps pace behind you.

As you scramble into the car, Jack hovers close behind. When your foot slips on the runners, he’s right there, hand solid and warm against your back. Not too low. A respectful touch that still makes you shiver. By the time you settle into the passenger seat, his hands are shoved so deep in his pocket you half-believe that the touch was a figment of your imagination. But you can still feel the outline of his broad palm pressed to your shirt. You really need to get out of here before you do something stupid in front of your uncle.

“See you, sweetheart.” It’s a promise. You can tell from the curve of his lips and the shadowed glimmer in his eye. You can only blink. He gently pushes the door shut and leans through the open window. “Have a good day at work.”

And, oh god. He winks. He winks at you while saying those painfully domestic words. It makes something in your stomach revolt. You force a tight smile and turn pointedly through the front windshield, thighs pressed tight together. His smile doesn’t falter as he leans back, away from the car. Jack and Robby exchange a casual greeting before your uncle is pulling away. Jack stays in your rearview mirror for two blocks before Robby turns.

“You and Jack seem close.” It’s an innocuous question. Innocent enough if you don’t know about the storm of emotions spinning inside of you right now. And Robby’s voice is the kind you’ve been dreading for weeks. The kind that does know. Knows too much. But you’re stuck. In a moving car. Even if Robby got stuck at a light, you can barely walk. So, yes, you’re trapped. A kid in a safety seat.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” Jeez, your voice practically drips with something between loss and resentment. Like a death you could have saved, if things had been different. If you weren’t Robby’s niece. Maybe—But you would give the world for your uncle. Anything for the man who made sacrifices for your mother. For you. You wouldn’t betray your uncle like that. Not for anything. Especially not for a man. Even a man like Jack.

It must show on your face, the conflict between someone and the one thing they absolutely cannot have. Robby doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. The quiet is cut through by the sounds of the city. Cars honking and people yelling. All underpinned by the light songs of morning birds. You lean out the passenger window, wishing the breeze could blow away every issue you’ve ever had. But the world doesn’t work that way. The wind stops as Robby puts the car in park and you sigh, gathering your bag and crutches.

Robby speaks before you can push the door open. “I won’t stop you. Jack is a good guy.” His voice is awkward and you almost smile as he pats your shoulder exactly twice. It’s probably supposed to be soothing or reassuring. It just feels surreal. Fake. “He—you both deserve something good.”

Something cracks inside you and the world seems to shift beneath the car. Just a slight tilt to the left. For the past few months in Pittsburgh, you’ve been having a continuous, low-level panic attack. One that reared its ugly head every time Jack Abbot came within ten feet of you. Because you can’t have him. Because he’s married. Because that would be wrong. Because you can’t do that to your uncle. But, apparently, it was all for nothing. Weeks upon weeks of second-guessing and biting your tongue. All because Robby is trying to set you up with his best friend? It’s all a bit much at the moment. Your brain feels like it got dropped in the middle of the desert, unsure of what’s real and what’s just a mirage.

“I have to go.” You spit out. You really do. You need to get out of this goddamn car and sit at your desk and pretend the last few weeks never happened. The scramble out of the passenger seat is just as pitiful as the one into the car, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You wave at Robby before disappearing into the building without another word. You’re not exactly sure what you would say right now if you had it in yourself to speak.

Sometimes, you just need to call your mom. General life advice, honestly. Good stuff. About ninety percent of the supposedly impossible problems you’ve had in your life have been solved after a conversation with your mother. This one seems especially impossible, but you know she’ll at least have something to say about it.

“That’s…a lot, honey.” Her voice is hesitant and a little tinny through the phone. You can picture her now, standing at the landline in the kitchen, twirling the cord around her finger. You think she might be the last person in Philadelphia who actually uses a home phone. Let alone a landline. The sound is comforting, though. You’re used to the way it shifts her voice.

“I know. Trust me. It’s just…I don’t know what to do, Mom.” The words shake on your tongue. It takes physical effort not to call her momma. The way you used to. It’s always been a warm blanket around your shoulders, a motherly hug. But you’re an adult, no matter how much of a child you’ve felt like these past few weeks.

“You know what I’ll say, hon. Just be honest.” She says softly. It’s a familiar phrase. Everything in life can be solved by being honest. At least, that’s what your mother told you as you grew up. Especially when it comes to people you love. She’s right. You knew it was coming. That doesn’t mean it’s not relieving to hear. Something steady in the ever-changing life you’ve started. “Be honest with yourself and what you want. Be honest with your uncle. Be honest with the hot doctor you have a crush on.”

“Mom!”

“What?” She sounds genuinely confused and you can’t help laughing just slightly. Your cheeks burn red hot and you grumble something into the phone. You’re not exactly sure what you say, but it must translate to something, because she acquiesces. You can hear laughter through the speaker and think that maybe she knows exactly how embarrassing her words are. For about three seconds, you consider hanging up without another word. “Okay, okay. How is work?”

The conversation moves on to more innocent topics after that. Asking after Robby and his health. How he’s eating. Telling her about your job and your coworkers. She shares the latest drama about the neighbors who always yelled loud enough to be heard through the walls. It’s not that you haven’t called her since the move, but it always feels like a relief when the two of you talk. You just wish you could have her warm arms wrapped around you, soothing the simmering panic. But it’s okay. Her voice will smooth over the wrinkle between your brow. Enough to get through this.

“Mom, I love you.” You’ve said it before. You say it every time you hang up and every time you say goodbye. Habit by this point. But you mean it every single time.

“I love you, too, hon. Say hi to Mike for me.”

The call ends with a click, the line going dead. You listen to the dial tone for a moment, lost in the relaxing drone. It drowns out the thoughts in your head and you feel like you can finally think. Just be honest. Okay, maybe you don’t need to think. What would six-year-old-you do? Probably ask your mom. Check. What next? Follow her advice. Damn.

You’re not used to flirting back with men. Not really used to them flirting with you in the first place. At least, not noticing the flirting. Jack Abbot must be going out of his way if even you have caught on. Or, maybe it’s because you always notice Jack. The guys throwing shitty pickup lines at you in a dark bar aren’t exactly the kind of guys you want to notice. But Jack makes you glad to notice him. Rewards your eye contact with a grin and listens when you talk. He draws light toward him like a black hole. His broad shoulders and shiny curls. Those eyes that crinkle just perfect when he laughs. You want to feel his laughter against your skin. You want to bite into those shoulders, see how much give they might have.

And it’s so annoying because he’s not just hot. He’s brilliant. Whip smart with great instincts. Jack Abbot is smooth confidence wrapped in muscle and tight t-shirts. You can still remember how he leaned over you, so gentle. So kind. You know what those hands can do. You’ve heard plenty of stories from Robby about resetting bones and tearing open chests. But you personally know that those hands will be gentle with you. Maybe the knowledge makes you feel special. Maybe it just reassures you, relieving some deep-buried fear. What you do know is that you’ve been resisting the gravitational pull of Jack Abbot and once you let go, there will be no going back.

It’s fucking terrifying. Because this isn’t just your life. It’s Jack’s and Robby’s and everyone they work with. Because if this goes wrong, it either changes Robby’s relationship with you or it changes his relationship with Jack. Because if this all implodes and falls apart, you have to move back to Philadelphia. Maybe change your name. Just to make sure.

You know Jack wouldn’t be weird about it. He’d probably take whatever blame and distance himself. Even if you fucked up. Because he’s so good. So kind and selfless and you’re afraid that losing Robby would kill him. (You don’t know how he’d react to losing you. If he’d be sad, even if you weren’t Robby’s niece.)

“What’s got you thinking so hard, kid?” Dana’s voice asks. You’re back in the ED again. It’s becoming somewhat of a habit, but you’re sure none of the other doctors or nurses mind so long as they don’t have to treat you for anything. And, this time, your leg is free. No longer trapped in its Barbie-pink cage. You can’t even be excited about it because your brain is so preoccupied by a certain five-foot-nine situation.

“Nothing. Just bored.” Not a lie. Not technically. You are bored. A coworker dropped you off earlier for your appointment to have the cast removed. So, now you’re stuck in the staff lounge, waiting (im)patiently for your uncle’s shift to end so he can drive you home. You would walk…if you could. Just because the cast is off doesn’t mean you’re suddenly healed. After almost two months without use, your leg is just about as useful now as it had been in the cast. Except now you’re supposed to start putting weight on it when you can, to strengthen the muscles again. That’s how you find yourself leaning back against the counter, occasionally shifting from one foot to another.

Dana raises a single brow that says I-don’t-believe-you-at-all as she lifts a mug to her lips. The steam from the coffee fogs up her reading glasses and she pushes them up absentmindedly. “Uh-huh.” Her voice echoes in the ceramic, making your cheeks heat. The cup clacks against the counter when Dana sets it down. “Wanna be honest with me?”

Damn. Clocked. Genuinely, you feel like someone just punched you. Shock from the impact and lingering embarrassment at not being able to dodge the hit. You know you’re still young. A twenty-something with her entire life ahead of herself. Robby and Jack and Dana are older than your mom. Definitely old enough to be your parents. It makes sense that there will be times where you feel like a kid around them. That doesn’t change the way your entire body feels like it’s being pricked with exactly one million needles. Your eyes almost hurt from the effort it’s taking to not look away. Dana Evans would get along with your mother, you think. Maybe that’s why Robby seems to gravitate toward her.

“I like Dr. Abbot.” You force the words out, around the lump quickly forming in your throat. “And I think he likes me back. But I don’t want to make things weird between him and Uncle Mike if it doesn’t work out.” Oh god, you’re rambling now.

“Kid, listen to me.” Dana’s hands are warm on your shoulders. You wonder if she’s always like that or if it’s from the hot coffee mug she was holding just a moment ago. “Jack and Robby’s relationship is not your problem. And if Jack fucks up with you, he deserves whatever Robby throws at him.”

And that feeling? The one where you’re small and scared? It starts to feel more like arms around your shoulders. Like your mother scolding you. Like you know she’s right but you’re too stubborn to admit it. It feels a little like coming home.

“Dana, how many times have your daughters been through this?” Your voice is way too vulnerable to joke, but Dana rolls her eyes and laughs anyway. “You’re way too good at this.”

“My kids don’t have any uncles to crush on their best friend.” You glare at her, but even you can tell it’s weak. She just grins and lifts a hand to pat your cheek. “I manage an emergency department populated by emotionally repressed old men. That’s pretty much the same thing as a teenage girl, sweetie.”

“I am not a teenager!”

Dana slings an arm around your shoulders, grinning something suspicious. “Everyone goes through this, kid. Well, maybe not the whole uncle’s-best-friend thing. But the not-knowing-how-to-deal-with-a-crush part is pretty universal. A right of passage, kiddo. You’re just…a little late.”

You take it all back. You can handle being treated like a kid. What you absolutely cannot accept is that this pain is a part of growing up. An inevitability. Did your mom feel like this? Like her heart was breaking before she could even act on the feeling there? Did your dad?

Not for the first time, you wish you could speak to him. It was an angry feeling at first. Teenage hormones making the entire world your enemy. Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t your dad have pushed through? Survived, for you? Now, it’s grown into a dull thud that occasionally vibrates your brain. An ache for someone you never even got to meet. Maybe that’s why you like Jack. Deep-seated daddy issues that bubble to the surface every time his eyes meet yours. But it doesn’t matter because Jack is good and kind and hot and you have a debilitating crush on him. And maybe it’s time to be honest.

“Hey, so I like you.” Lame. Holy shit, so lame. The reflection of your face in the mirror is nothing short of panicked. You literally know for a fact that Jack Abbot likes you back. He’s been more than obvious enough with his flirting. It’s not an issue of reciprocation. It’s an issue of making it real. Existing in the nebulous space between nothing and something is easier than picking one over the other. You know which one you would pick, if it were your choice. Because it doesn’t matter that Jack likes you if he’s not ready for…whatever could happen between the two of you.

You want it to mean something. It feels selfish, to want this man the way you do. The thing suspiciously close to guilt in your gut doesn’t change that feeling, though. You want to know that he feels the same. That he thinks about you so often, you invade his dreams. You want Jack Abbot to practice how he’ll confess to you in his bathroom mirror. You want him to daydream about having your last name. Something which you’ve only done once. Still, one too many times for an adult woman with (most of) her shit together, despite what recent evidence may show.

“Hey, bug. You okay in there?” Robby’s voice calls through the door, muffled by the thick wood. The sound makes you jump and bodily pulls you from your thoughts. Before he can speak again, you yank the door open. You’re sure Robby can see the manic look you try to school from your face.

“Fine. Great.” Yes, totally believable.Not at all excuse-sounding. Totally legit. But Robby doesn’t question it. Just shrugs with a little shake of his head. Probably not worth the effort of asking. Or maybe he already knows why you’re currently panicking. He’s the one that started all of this with his…blessing?

You kind of hate how you need permission to ask out Jack. Permission from a man. It’s first grade again and the teacher is asking for a couple of strong boys to carry something for her. You never offered your hand. Because you weren’t the one she asked. Because you don’t have the arbitrary permission. It never stopped the other girls. And now, as a grown adult, you still need to be told you’re allowed. You hate that you can’t make yourself break the rules. Even the ones that only exist in your head. What you hate even more is that you’re too much of a coward to even ask for permission.

“Okay…” Robby steps out of the doorway, but his eyes are trained on your face. You step out, letting Robby into the bathroom. He watches your movement carefully, but doesn’t say anything more.

“Hey, Uncle Mikey?” No. This is a terrible idea. You should not do this. Not with your uncle of all people. Emotionally stunted, allergic to talking, Michael Robinavitch. So, yeah. Bad idea. “Does…I mean, does Jack ever talk about me?”

Something flashes across Roby’s face and you can see the split second that he considers simply walking away from the conversation. Instead, he breathes in and lets it out in a long, measured breath. His hand scrubs over his beard. You can see the gears turning in his head. You wonder if he’s trying to remember a time or if he’s trying to pick one.

“I—yeah.” He sighs. You can’t help grinning at the exasperation painted across his face. If he didn’t want this, he shouldn’t have encouraged you in the first place. When you open your mouth to ask more, Robby holds up a hand. “And that’s all I’m saying. I am not going to—this is not happening.”

A laugh bubbles up and out of your throat. You just can’t help it. Robby’s cheeks are stained red and he looks like he just swallowed a sour grape. But when he hears your laughter, Robby laughs too. This is not the end of the world. It’s a crush that you hope can become something more. If it doesn’t, you’ll be okay. Probably cry in your bed for a week straight, but you’ll get over it. Eventually. The realization alone takes an invisible weight off your chest and you can breathe deeper than you have since you arrived in Pittsburgh.

“Uncle Mike? Thank you.” Your arms loop around him in a tight hug. He responds in kind, more out of instinct than purposeful action. Robby pats your back awkwardly as you refuse to let go. Eventually, he shoves gently at your shoulders. You relent easily. It’s a familiar pattern to the both of you, practiced over decades.

“Not sure what I did, but I’m glad to help.” Robby’s smile is soft. The kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. You know that most people have never seen it before. You’re glad you get to.

The phone screen seems overly bright in the dimming room. It’s barely 6:30 and the sun is already halfway past the horizon. Robby won’t be home for at least an hour and you’re too lazy to flick on the lightswitch across the room. So, you lay back on the couch and stare at the little blinking line above your keyboard. The top of the phone screen says Jack in tiny letters. No contact picture yet, but no texts either.

You had found the crinkled paper in the bottom of your bag after an hour of frantic searching. The idea of asking your uncle for Jack’s number wasn’t even something you entertained. You’d rather wait until the two of your paths meet again. But now you stare at your too-bright screen, trying to come up with some kind of opening line.

You’ve been on the apps before, written plenty of these. This time is different. You care. All those people online were ideas. Not real human beings out in the world. Jack is, well, he’s way more than a person. He’s someone you can picture a life with. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll be fine. Survive. You desperately want it to work out. Which is why you’ve been staring at your goddamn screen for almost an hour. At this point, you almost want to wait until seven. Until Jack’s shift starts and he won’t look at his phone for a solid twelve hours. But the idea of waiting that long for a response makes your gut wrench painfully.

Ugh. Fine, whatever. Fuck it.

Hey Jack! Okay, no exclamation mark. Hey Jack. Much better. It’s me you type out your name and consider tacking on Robby’s niece. But you don’t want that to be how Jack sees you. Why is this so hard? Alright. Greeting? Check. Introduction? Check. Now the hard part. Asking Jack on an actual date. Nothing too serious, but nothing vague either. Casual and cool. Because that’s definitely how people describe you. I think you’re hot. Wanna get breakfast after your shift? Hmm. Not quite the casual-cool-girl you were going for. You make me panic. Want to kiss? Arguably worse. Third time’s the charm (as in, you are sending this text no matter what, before you can talk yourself out of it).

>> I like you. You live in my head and I’d like to know more about you. Breakfast at Carla’s near the hospital? I’ll be there at 7:30

Horrid, but your will is waning by the second and if you don’t send it now, you never will. So you press your thumb against the little send button and stare at the screen for exactly one second before jettisoning your phone across the room. The next few minutes pass by as an eternity. So slow, you check the wall clock four times in a single minute. But you can’t bring yourself to crawl across the couch and grab your phone until the clock hits seven. When the screen lights up, you can see the text notification. You click on it.

<< See you then, sweetheart ;)

And, oh. Fucking god damnit. Is that little winky-face? You suddenly can’t breathe. Something to do with an image of Jack winking flooding your mind. Winking at you during breakfast. Winking at you somewhere…less public. Alright, down girl.

>> Can’t wait!

Is it too eager? Do you care? Does Jack care? Probably not. He seems like the kind of guy to denounce modern dating culture. People trying to seem too cool to care about anyone else. He’ll probably hold open a door for you or something. He’s probably a gentleman.

The phone buzzes in your hand, another text. A thumbs up. God, he’s so old. A fucking thumbs up? You hate how endearing it is. How the smile forms on your face without permission. You glance at the clock. 7:01.

>> Shouldn’t you be working?

<< A pretty girl just asked me on a date. I can’t just ignore her.

Your cheeks burn, hot enough to make your vision fuzz for a fraction of a second. Because you’re that pretty girl. Jack just called you pretty. Jack Abbot. Definition of pretty. Yeah, he’s a fucking gentleman.

The diner isn’t as bustling as you’ve seen it before. The streets are busy, overrun with commuters trying to get to work on time. You can hear the birds chirping in the park across the street and the sound of the bell on the door as you step inside. You’ve been here before, once. A few years ago when you came to visit your uncle. He brought you here after his shift. So the warm scent of breakfast is familiar as it hits you. It’s always breakfast time at Carla’s, even at nine o’clock at night when Robby brought you before.

Today, however, sun fogs through the windows, still hidden behind the Pittsburgh skyline. Well, that and Jack Abbot sits in a corner booth, tugging at the sleeves of his scrub top. You know, logistically, that he must have just gotten off work. The badge still hangs from his cargo pants and his hair has suffered the strong winds blowing through the city streets. It is not fair to look that good. Not right after a twelve hour ED shift. Especially as the light shifts, setting Jack in his own personal sun beam. A spotlight on his angelic beauty.

Jeez, you need to calm down. Because that’s when he sees you, staring like a loon while the hostess awkwardly waits for an answer to a question you never heard. Too busy staring at Jack Abbot. Honestly, you’re a little surprised he’s already here. Robby almost always stays an hour past his shift, pulled between handing off a million different tasks. You had expected to wait at least fifteen minutes. Needed it. To rehearse what the hell you’re going to say, because the mirror had not been enough. You consider turning around and leaving, but Jack is already standing. So you politely wave off the hostess and head toward the booth.

“Hi.” Oh, god. You just squeaked. Like, actually squeaked. Yeah, you’re gonna kill yourself. But Jack just smiles like you made a joke instead of being one.

“Hey,” He replies, standing as you approach the booth. You can see the way his face twitches as he puts weight on his right leg. The one you know is half metal and plastic. “You look good.”

You’re glad he thinks so. It took you over an hour to pick out this outfit. Trying to find clothes that are nice, but not too nice. Because you want to make a good impression on Jack, even if his first impression of you was in sweats and a too-old college tshirt. Comfy travel clothing that he must have found at least somewhat endearing if he agreed to this date.

“Thanks. You do too.” You both slide into opposite sides of the booth. The tall back of the bench seats creates an intimate bubble for just the two of you. The sound of the diner around you quiets just a bit.

“No need for flattery, sweetheart.” Jack laughs. Like he thinks you’re lying. Like he doesn’t know that every detail of his fucking face is a distraction. It’s a little rude, considering you’ve been thinking about him for almost two months straight. So you let out a huff. An actual huff, because you already squeaked so you may as well do whatever you want now.

“It wasn’t flattery, Jack. Just the truth.” And maybe you sound a little too earnest. A little too demanding, as if you can make it true simply by saying it, putting the words out into the world. You’re not going to apologize because there’s really nothing to apologize for, but you are about to make up some excuse about how Jack Abbot being pretty is a universal law of some kind. That’s when you see the gentle flush spreading across his cheeks. It makes his freckles stand out even more and you want to trace them, looking for constellations both real and made up. You smile something warm and soft. “What? Can’t take a compliment?”

“Only when they come from pretty girls.” His grin is sharp, but you’re too distracted by the pink on the tips of his ears.

“You already used that line.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Banter flows easily between the two of you, words falling out before you can process them. It feels natural to be around Jack like this. Relaxed and smiling. The sun steadily rises in the sky, illuminating Jack in a way that you want desperately to look away from, but you simply cannot bring yourself to lose a moment of this man. You want to inject yourself into his veins and pump directly through his heart. You think, maybe then you could have all you need from Jack.

“Let me give you a ride home.” Jack says as you both climb out of the booth. He says it like it’s simple. Like you haven’t been afraid to call Robby’s apartment your home. Yes, you want to move out at some point, maybe find a place of your own. But to call Robby’s home yours as well, seems like too much. Going too far. Claiming something that isn’t quite yours.

And then you remember how your uncle reacted when you apologized for overstaying your welcome. Part of him had been amused. He thought the very idea of overstaying was silly. You’re his niece. Part of the only family he has left. So, yeah, he thought you were joking at first. Then, slowly, you saw something between sorrow and determination cross Robby’s face. He had grabbed you, gently and awkwardly, and said you were welcome to stay as long as you need. And then as long as you want after that.

The thought, memory really, makes you smile. A soft thing that reaches your eyes. “I’d like that.”

Jack’s hand settles on your lower back, high enough to be respectable but low enough for you to note. As if you don’t have an entire rolodex in your head of every single time Jack Abbot has so much as brushed against you. When you both reach the door, Jack does a little shuffle to step ahead of you. Because he’s a gentleman who gets the door for you not only at the diner, but circles around his car to hold open the passenger door of his old Bronco. You have to draw the line as he reaches to buckle your seatbelt. Even the image of him leaned over you in your mind makes your cheeks warm. And your face is plenty warm already, thank you very much. So you swat his hand away, buckling your seatbelt yourself. Jack doesn’t close the passenger door until he hears the click of the buckle in place.

“I may be a bit younger than you, but I can, in fact, buckle myself in.” You chuckle as he slides into the driver’s seat.

“A bit.” Is all he says in response, more of a hum than actual words. You try to study the side of his face you can see as he starts the car. The sun streams through the windows and you can suddenly see every freckle on his face. His curls are tinted auburn underneath the silver-grey. He looks hand-painted by a master, with care and attention paid to every beautiful detail. What you do notice is the way his face tightens just slightly, despite how he tries to hide it. You know what he’s thinking. It was the same thing you were thinking restlessly about for the past forever. That you’re still thinking about and trying desperately to ignore.

“If you’re worried I haven’t thought this through, don’t.” You say firmly, crossing your arms over your chest. Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but you can feel the weight of his attention on you. “I’ve been thinking about this since you introduced yourself in that hallway. I am an adult, Jack.”

You’re careful to keep your tone casual. No accusation. No sharpness. Because if he’s thinking like you were (still are), Jack knows that this will either be the best or worst decision of his life. You wonder which one he’s leaning more towards right now.

“You’re sure?” He’s about to say more, you can tell. The way he sucks in a breath like he has to warn you about himself before it’s too late. You interrupt him before he can.

“I’m sure.”

The rest of the ride is quiet, with only the hum of the engine on busy Pittsburgh streets and the steady feeling of Jack’s hand on yours. The warmth of his palm only leaves occasionally to change gears, because obviously Jack drives a manual. You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at how much sense that makes.

Jack rolls to a gentle stop outside of Robby’s apartment building and you wonder if he’s the kind of guy to kiss a girl after the first date. Or if he’s so old-fashioned that he waits until the second or third. You laugh softly and Jack tilts his head at you.

“Sorry, sorry, just…wondering if you’re going to kiss me.”

His cheeks turn pink again and you’re starting to realize how much you like being the cause of that. Jack doesn’t answer. He just slips out of the car and rounds the front to pull your door open for you. He even holds your hand as you step out. “I am not kissing you in the car, sweetheart. I still have to walk you to your door.”

“Do you walk Uncle Mike to his door every time you drop him off?” You ask, raising a brow. Jack simply guides you into the tall building, holding open every door like it’s his job instead of saving lives.

“Only when he’s so drunk he can’t stand.” Jack laughs, hitting the third floor button in the elevator. He turns to you as the doors close and his smile is the sharpest you’ve seen it since that night. When he was drunk and lost his filter and called you hot in front of your uncle. His coworker. (And Dana, but you’re almost positive that she has seen more embarrassing). “He’s not quite as charming as you, though.”

You disagree. You’re just as awkward as your uncle when it comes to other people. As evidenced by you floundering in a silly crush while everyone around you rolled their eyes. Every time you’ve seen Jack in the past two months, you’ve embarrassed yourself. But he holds a hand in front of the elevator doors as you step out and walks you to apartment 3A. It’s strange. You’ve been here before. Standing outside of Robby’s apartment (your home) with Jack Abbot. Except, this time you know his name. You know that the ring on his finger is for a woman he is still mourning. You know that he likes you, at least enough to think about how and when and where he wants to kiss you. You know you like him more than that. You hope he does, too.

“Time for that kiss yet?” You ask. Or, you were about to ask. Before Jack’s lips are on yours and his hands are on your cheeks, holding you close. It feels like burning. Hot and hot and hot and oh so bright. Not fireworks, but a burning fire deep in your stomach. When he pulls back, satisfied grin on his face, you try to follow. Try to capture his kiss once more.

Jack presses a finger to your lips. You feel like a kid again, except this time it’s the joy and color that comes with youth. The way everything seems to soften at the edges and colors seem to shine brighter around every corner. And Jack Abbot’s smile is so soft and so bright that you can’t bring yourself to be mad. Annoyed? Yes, very much so. “If you want another kiss, you have to promise me another date, sweetheart.”

You nod. It seems like a more than fair deal. More Jack. So you smile and press a kiss to his fingertip and pull back. “Whatever you say, Jackie.” You have the rest of your life with this man. You can wait a little longer.

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