a list of what i’ve written under the read more! feel free to send in requests 💚
dr. jack abbot
STRICTLY CASUAL (tag with all these drabbles in one place! the order below is how i wrote them but they can be read standalone!)
it started out strictly casual - the beginnings ;)
not going anywhere - a slice of life: he shuttles your friends home from a night out
i prepped your station - another slice of life: you drag him into the world of skincare
confidence slip - a bigger moment: he’s not feeling as confident as he once did
stuff she mentions - another slice of life: he always remembers the tiniest things you mention
TEACHING HOSPITAL
ex!reader + babydaddy!jack not in the order they were posted, but chronological!
The Start
Beau + the Break Up
Seeing Other People
Restart
Date Night + Proving Himself
Mrs. Abbot
Honeymoon Stage
dr. michael robinavitch
3rd grade teacher - Robby got roped into a frontline workers’ talk at a local elementary school
NOTE: also thank you everyone who reads and interacts with what i’ve written. I’ve been in many fandoms and never felt compelled to write anything until these damn ER cowboys came on screen.
Honestly, I think a big part of why I’m so lukewarm on Abbot is that one scene with Mohan where he says he let her be the one to try the technique they read about because it was risky.
I don’t like the concept that he was willing to let her take the fall if that went wrong, especially when you parallel it with Robby and Collins talking about how lying about the fetus measurement would affect Collins significantly more than it could affect Robby. So the show has already shown that their aware the older, higher up white guy is safer taking risks. Idk that mixed with him just casually having a police scanner made Abbot leave a bad taste in my mouth.
But the scene of Abbot and Santos where he reprimands her but still points out that she saved the patients life and congratulates her for that makes it where I can’t hate him?
am i stupid or was that line not sarcasm? he’s an attending and there were plenty of witnesses to the procedure i imagine if anything happened he would have been the first to step in and/or taken blame?
i needed to write something outside of the series i've been doing recently and this just tumbled out of me. I worry Jack is a little ooc here but guess what! idc! ;)
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 700ish
You keep a similar schedule to Jack.
Well—not exactly. That would be a bit nuts. But you are a night owl, which is why it’s not the least bit surprising when your phone buzzes with his name at 1 a.m.
And why you don’t hesitate to pick up.
“An actual booty call? How retro.”
“Hiiiiiiii,” he drags out, cutting you off mid-sentence. There’s a smile tucked into every syllable, the kind that always makes you feel like he’s happy you answered. You catch the faintest slur in his words.
“How much have you had to drink tonight?” you ask, laughing.
“Heeyyyyy, I’m being good. I’m being soooocial. I’m bonding with my coworkers. I thought you’d be proud of me, not judging me.”
“I could never judge you, Jack. If anything, I’m jealous of you. Or maybe just your coworkers…”
“I would like to see you. But also, I can’t take my truck…”
“You can come over,” you offer. “I’ll call you an Uber?”
“Welllllll that’s the other thing. I don’t wanna get towed… and we’re near your place. So I could walk to you, and then we walk back, and you drive my truck.”
You hear a voice in the background—Robby, you think—grumble, “You don’t even let me drive your car.”
“Jack, this is a lot of logistics for 1 a.m.” You rub your eyes. “Drop me a pin. I’ll walk to you and we’ll figure it out.”
“Baaaby, you know I don’t know how to do that sober, much less in this state. And you’re not walking alone.”
“Okay, compromise: you text me the name of the bar and we stay on the phone.”
He sighs. “Fiiiiiine.”
Four blocks later, you step into a packed bar to the sound of cheers. Way more of Jack’s coworkers than you expected.
You would’ve changed out of your sweats if you’d known.
But then Jack spots you, and his whole face lights up like you’re the damn sunrise. He wraps his arms around you like he’s been waiting all night.
“Let’s get a drink for the lady!” someone yells.
You wave them off. “I’m gonna have to pass. I have work in six hours, so I’m just here to get this drunkard home. Anyone else need a ride?”
A chorus of playful boos goes up before Jack cuts them off with a single look.
“Alright, call your Ubers. Be safe.”
You leave together, and he steers you two blocks toward your apartment—where his truck is parked.
“For a man who spent an ungodly amount of time in school,” you say, “you might be the dumbest person I know.”
He opens the driver’s side door for you.
“What’d I do this time?”
“We’re two blocks from my apartment. You could’ve parked in my guest spot. There’s always room.”
“I didn’t want to assume,” he says, suppressing a hiccup.
You roll your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
You climb into the truck, and he shuts the door behind you with exaggerated care. He fumbles his way around to the passenger side and climbs in, sighing loudly as he slumps into the seat.
It smells like him in here—clean and faintly smoky, like laundry detergent and cedar and something a little spicy that lingers in the upholstery. You reach over and buckle his seatbelt for him because he’s too busy humming along to whatever classic rock station is playing low from the speakers.
“You’re so helpful,” he says, leaning his head against the window dramatically. “I don’t deserve you.”
“No,” you agree, starting the truck. “You don’t.”
You drive the two blocks mostly in silence, save for Jack softly singing along to the guitar solo. When you pull into your building’s guest spot, he doesn’t move to get out. Just turns toward you, slow and heavy-lidded.
“You look really pretty,” he says. “Like… offensively pretty.”
“Okay, now I know you’re drunk.”
“I’m serious.” He leans his head back against the seat and sighs. “I was watching the door all night. Every time it opened I thought—maybe that’s her. You didn’t even know where we were or that I was out but I was hoping. Isn’t that dumb?”
You glance at him. He’s half-asleep already, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.
“No,” you say quietly. “It’s not dumb.”
You sit there for another minute, the engine ticking as it cools. Then you shake his arm gently.
1) Did Jack get sad or upset when you dated Chris? Like I can picture Beau letting it slip that you had a movie date with Chris after pickup, and Jack just going what? 🥺 I can also see him having beers with Robby and Jack is just like ‘I’ve really lost her this time’ because he always held out hope that he could prove to you that he is worth a second chance.
2) Did Jack ever go on a date after you split? Or was it more of a I’ve lost the love of my life, and it wouldn’t be fair to any woman that tries to follow her since I am still in love with her.
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 1.4k
notes: Part ? of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack i really need to update my masterlist and reconfigure my parts lol -- this is between the Prequel and Part 1!
Thank you for this prompt in my inbox!!!! sorry it took me so long to get to! I mixed both together since i felt like the worked -- hope you enjoy!!!
The last thing you’re thinking about in the months after you and Jack officially split is dating.
You barely have time to fold the laundry, let alone entertain the idea of starting over. Your kid is growing at lightspeed. You’re juggling a full-time job. Jack—while frustrating in a hundred little ways—has always been a reliable co-parent. From the moment you separated, he never missed a pickup or check-in. He’s there when he says he’ll be. That’s more than a lot of people can say.
Still, the whole thing stings because Jack makes single parenting look easy. Natural. Like he was always meant to do it on his own.
And you? You’re exhausted. Every time you scroll instagram and see someone posting a date night selfie, you close the app. Not because you miss dating, but because you miss being someone who wasn’t running on fumes.
You would never admit it, but sometimes it feels like Jack is happier co-parenting with you than he ever was being with you.
But the truth is… he’s not. Jack’s a fucking wreck.
He’s throwing himself into hospital shifts like he’s allergic to free time, offering advice to every resident who so much as breathes in his direction, and texting Robby at 2 a.m. on his days off just to talk about the latest ER policy update. He’s working himself into the ground because he still thinks this is temporary. That if he can prove to you he’s changed—if he cooks enough dinners and shows up to enough pediatrician appointments and keeps the fridge stocked with the yogurt tubes Beau likes—you’ll come back.
Three months. That’s what he gave it.
Three months for you to get it out of your system. The space. The clarity. The breathing room.
Then, month four hits. And Jack starts to unravel.
Robby finds him on the roof after handoff, leaning against the rail like it might hold all the weight in his chest.
“Haven’t seen you up here in a while,” Robby says casually.
Jack doesn’t look up. “You forget this was my spot first.”
Robby nods. Waits. “Tough shift?”
“Tough life.” Jack quips.
“Was waiting for that shoe to drop.”
Jack drags his hands down his face. “I had a plan. Thought I could show her I’d changed. I’m cooking. I’m present. I’ve read five goddamn parenting books. And she still barely looks at me like I’m anything more than a—”
“Co-pilot?” Robby finishes.
Jack nods. Miserable.
“I think I really lost her.”
Robby claps a hand on his shoulder. “Go home. Sleep. Do not come back tonight. I’ll get you coverage. And when i’m off tonight I’m dragging your ass out for a beer.”
Jack gets to their usual dive bar by 7:45, already knowing Robby would show up at his front door if he didn’t.
“You know,” Robby says when he sees him, “I was fully prepared to have to break in.”
Jack shrugs. “What can I say? The love of my life left me and I’ve matured.”
“This is worse than I thought.”
Jack grunts into his beer. “She was, though. Still is.”
Robby sighs. “Brother, you gotta snap out of it. She’s made her choice. You gave her space. You figured out a routine that works for Beau. Now you gotta figure out what works for you.”
“This is working for me.”
“Running yourself ragged and using your kid as an emotional flotation device? Sounds sustainable.”
Jack shoots him a look.
“I’m not saying you gotta run off an marry some girl from an app or whatever,” Robby says. “Just… reevaluate. Figure out what fills your cup. Hell, maybe even go get your rocks off now and then.”
Jack flings a fry at Robby.
Robby grins. “Just saying. A good orgasm never hurt anyone.”
“Alright enough about my dumpster fire of a life” Jack shifts. “Now i get to psychoanalyse you.“
The next day, Dana corners Jack by the trauma board. Jack could kill Robby.
“I have this friend,” she says. “Amy. Divorced last year. Bit of a rut. Not looking for anything serious, just trying to get back out there. Hasn’t dated in over a decade and I told her I knew just the guy.”
“No.”
“She has your number. I told her to wait a couple days before texting you. You’re welcome.”
Jack groans, but two days later, the text comes.
Amy is… fine. They go out a few times. She’s smart, warm, has a killer laugh. But there's no pull. No spark.
Eventually, they both admit it.
“Jack,” she says over tapas one night, “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you. But I don’t want to do this just to do it. I hope you understand.”
“I do,” Jack says, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re great and if you ever need someone to beat up your ex, you know where to find me.”
Amy smiles. “You’re gonna find your forever, Jack. I think you already have. She just needs more time.”
Jack starts therapy.
One of his Army buddies had given him some resources a while back, but it’s Dana’s offhand comments about “emotional constipation” that finally gets him to make the call.
It helps. Not all at once, but piece by piece.
He starts saying no to extra shifts. Makes room for sleep. Finds himself laughing more when Beau does something ridiculous—like trying to microwave a fruit snack “because it was cold.”
And when Beau mentions a guy named Chris for the third time, Jack doesn’t spiral. He breathes. Notes it. And waits for the right moment to ask.
Jack’s cooking dinner at his place, your typical handoff routine. Beau is sprawled on the floor with a cartoon, crayons everywhere. Jack pulls the roasted veggies from the oven.
“Never thought you’d be a regular Martha Stewart, but I could get used to this”
He chuckles “It’s just one of those meal delivery things. I got a month free from Ellis for my secret santa and just stuck with it – made a joke that Beau and I couldn’t survive on MREs.”
“Beau talks about how much he likes your food so it must be working”
“Hey… before we eat,” he says, awkward, “Beau’s mentioned someone a few times. Chris. And that’s totally fine. I just thought maybe we could talk about giving each other a heads-up before introducing new people to him.”
You freeze, hand stilling over the plates. “Shit.”
“It’s okay...really. I don’t need details. Just a heads-up next time would help.”
“No, you’re right,” you say quickly, and Jack actually blinks like he wasn’t expecting that. “Jack, I’m sorry.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. Not unkind—just surprised. Like he’s trying to remember the last time you admitted fault without a qualifier.
“It all just got a little muddled,” you continue, rubbing the back of your neck. “He’s the dad of one of the kids in Beau’s music class. Recently divorced. Having a hard time keeping his kid entertained on his off days, so I offered up a few playdates. That’s the only time he’s really been around Beau.”
Jack nods slowly. “So you’re dating this guy?”
You exhale through your nose. “We went on a couple dates, yeah. But it fizzled out a few weeks ago. Nothing serious. Beau might still bring him up—playdates for the boys are still happening—but I promise I’ll keep you in the loop moving forward. It’s only fair.”
“I appreciate that,” Jack says, voice low, steady.
He lets out a breath then, like some invisible pressure just eased off his chest.
You hesitate, fiddling with the corner of the napkin on the table. “Any updates on your end? Your love life?”
Jack smirks, eyes twinkling. “What happens between my hand and the shower drain is strictly between me and God, thank you very much.”
You bark out a laugh, caught off guard. “I really struggle to believe that a hot doctor DILF can’t find someone willing to help him take the edge off.”
His face turns bright red. “Well, contrary to popular belief, I’m not exactly rolling in spare time. I’m busy co-parenting the best kid ever, saving lives four nights a week minimum, and publishing in not one but two medical journals—practically in the running for a Nobel Prize.”
You raise a brow. “Oh, is that all?”
He grins. “I keep a full calendar.”
Before you can volley back, a small voice cuts in from the living room.
“Dad, I’m hungry.”
“Hi Hungry, I’m Dad,” he says with a straight face, setting the serving dishes down on the table like he’s done it a hundred times.
You shake your head, smile tugging at your lips.
Same old Jack. Still infuriating. Still too charming for his own good.
Sorry I don’t make the rules, we need more ex x baby daddy!Jack!
Especially their wedding, breeding kink Jack, more babies, the whole thing.
Hehe pls & thanks
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 3.6k
notes: part 4 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack
way hornier than the rest of writing but tbh like .5 chili peppers haha and thank you for this req in my inbox!!!! i love these two and i'm working my way through some ideas that have been shared with me but i just started a new job so they will probably be over the next few weeks!
Something unlocks after you get engaged.
It’s not dramatic, not fireworks. Just this quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you. This is it. This is real. There’s a ring on your finger, a boy in the other room who looks like both of you, and Jack—Jack, who once felt like an impossible choice, now feels like home.
And you continue to see a side of him you’re not entirely used to.
He's still Jack—still grumbles about budget cuts and leaves coffee mugs in strange places—but he’s also… attentive. Almost absurdly so. Sweet in a way that feels like he’s been saving it all up. And maybe a little unhinged in the best, horniest way. He touches you constantly. Always finds a way to press a kiss to your temple, your shoulder, your stomach. Like he still can’t believe he gets to.
“I locked you down,” he mutters one morning, arms snug around your waist as you brush your teeth. “You, Beau, and a damn ring. The trifecta.”
“You make it sound like a hostage situation,” you laugh, spitting into the sink.
Jack grins against your neck. “Maybe I should squirrel you away to the courthouse before you change your mind.”
“Oh, we were dangerously close to that, don’t kid yourself,” you say, rinsing. “But I wanted the view.”
And the view was worth it.
Lake Como in late May. A small villa perched on a hillside, all warm stone and blooming vines. The ceremony was intimate—friends, family, a very small and slightly chaotic PTMC contingent somehow made the trip. Robby cried, and Dana pretended not to. Your sister wrangled Beau through the flower-petal aisle like she’d been training for it her whole life.
You danced under string lights. Said “I do” to a man who still sometimes forgets to fold towels correctly but looks at you like you hung the stars.
And somehow—shockingly—you agreed to let your sister take Beau back with her, so you and Jack could have a true honeymoon.
Just you. Just him.
The first night, you’re on the balcony in a linen robe and nothing else, wine glass in hand, the lake glowing below you.
Jack comes up behind you—barefoot, shirtless, lazy smile on his face—and wraps his arms around your waist like he can’t help himself.
“I love this,” you murmur. “I love you. I want to stay here forever.”
“I know,” he says, kissing that spot just beneath your ear. Then, after a beat, “But… is it just me, or does it feel like missing a limb without Beau? …no pun intended.”
You laugh and spin in his arms, wrapping your hands around his neck. “God, I love you. This is why I married you. You’re in my brain.”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, brushing your hair back. “Maybe we wouldn’t miss him so much if you were already carrying another little Abbot with you.”
You raise a brow. “Wow. Wasting no time, huh?”
“I’ve been waiting six years Mrs. Abbot. You can’t be surprised.”
“Careful,” you say, teasing, “you sound like you get off to me being barefoot and pregnant.”
Jack hums, low and amused. “I mean… if the shoe fits.”
You groan, half-exasperated, half turned on. “God, you’re such a menace.”
“An insatiable menace,” he says, sliding his hands beneath your robe. “Who happens to be very good at making you come. Efficient, even. Fill you so good we’d get twins. Two for one.”
“Okay, Doctor Abbot,” you laugh, swatting at his chest. “Did you hit your head or is this just post-wedding delirium?”
He grumbles into your neck.
You swat his chest. “You know, for a doctor, you know nothing about conception.”
“I know the basics,” he says, hand smoothing over your hip, “and that I’m pretty damn good at it.”
“God, you are so full of yourself. Should’ve never married a jock.”
He smirks. “Did someone say cock?” His hips roll against yours, slow and deliberate, pressing a point.
You groan, laughing into his mouth as he kisses you. “You’re ridiculous. And I thought you’d go for the “and you’ll be so full of me’ route”
“What can I say, I’m maturing,” he mumbles, deepening the kiss, his hands roaming now. “You’re lucky you married me. Any other man would’ve passed out from post-wedding exhaustion.”
“Instead I got the energizer bunny in scrubs.”
He scoops you up with ease—one arm under your thighs, the other around your back—and carries you inside like it’s your first night all over again. He drops you onto the bed gently, then follows, kissing a path down your stomach.
“Jack,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair.
“I’m just doing a thorough exam,” he says into your skin. “You’ve under my care, it would be negligent not to check on you after such a major life event like getting married.”
“You’re annoying,” you say, breath hitching.
“You love it.”
You do.
You love all of it. The warmth, the ease, the hunger in him that never faded, just changed shape over time. You let him take his time—relearn your body like it’s the first time all over again. You lose yourself in him, in the soft press of lips to skin, the whispered confessions that slip out only when his guard is down.
Laughing, gasping, kissing like it’s the only language you know. After, you lay tangled together, sweat-damp and boneless.
He traces circles on your back, eyes half-lidded. “Seriously. Twins.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“I’m just saying, it’s efficient.”
“Beau is six and I’m still tired.”
Jack chuckles. “Fine. No pressure. Just practice. Lots of practice.”
You roll over, facing him. “You happy?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “More than I knew I could be.”
The room is quiet. Outside, the lake glimmers in moonlight.
“I was scared, you know,” you whisper.
Jack glances down at you. “When?”
“All of it. Letting you back in. Saying yes. I kept thinking, what if we just mess it up again?”
He brushes a hand along your jaw. “We probably will. Sometimes. But I’m not going anywhere. And I won’t let you carry the weight alone.”
Your eyes sting. “That’s what scared me before. Feeling like I was alone in it.”
“I know,” he says softly. “I felt it too. But I didn’t know how to fix it then. I was still trying to outrun things.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m tired of running.”
You press a kiss to his chest. “So no running. No hiding.”
“No hiding,” he repeats.
There’s a long silence, filled only by the soft hum of the night and your breathing slowing in sync.
Then Jack says, so quietly you almost miss it: “I want a big life with you.”
You look up. “You already have one.”
He smiles. “I know. But I want more of it. All the messy, beautiful pieces. Soccer games and parent-teacher conferences. Slow Sundays. Another baby. or two. or ten. Just—more.”
Your throat tightens. “God, you’re such a sap now.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, pulling you in closer.
You grin into his skin. “Don’t worry. I’m into it.”
And he’s into you—clearly—because within minutes, he’s proving again just how committed he is to “practice.”
That night, you fall asleep in his arms, lulled by the gentle lapping of water against the shore and the quiet certainty that this time, you didn’t choose wrong.
His arm is slung heavy around your waist, one leg wedged between yours. His hand is resting possessively on your hip, thumb tucked just under the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. You don’t move. You just lay there, soaking in the stillness.
The lake outside is calm. There’s birdsong, a faint breeze, and nothing else.
You sigh into the silence.
“Mmm,” Jack mumbles, tightening his grip. “Alive?”
“Barely.”
“You wore me out,” he says, voice hoarse and self-satisfied.
“You begged for it.”
“I did,” he agrees. Then, after a beat: “I’d do it again.”
You smile, pressing your nose to his chest. “We’ve officially entered the honeymoon stage.”
“We skipped it the first time. I’m cashing in.”
You shift slightly, pressing your cold toes to his shin. He flinches.
“Jesus.”
“Sorry,” you murmur. “Poor circulation. Still your wife though.”
“Unfortunately.”
You laugh, then kiss his shoulder. “What time is it?”
“No idea. But I think I’ve achieved full body paralysis.”
“Same.”
There’s a long, quiet pause. Then Jack says, “We should go swimming.”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah. Why not? Lake’s right there. We’re in Italy. No Beau to referee. Might be our last chance before life crashes back in.”
“Very romantic. Also, I don’t even know where I packed my swimsuit.”
“Who said anything about swimsuits?”
You arch a brow. “You want to skinny-dip? In the daytime?”
He shrugs, rolling onto his back. “I’m just saying, we’re legally married. What are they gonna do, arrest us for being in love?”
“Jack.”
“Live a little, Mrs. Abbot.”
You stare at him. “You’re serious.”
“I’m proposing an impulsive memory. Don’t make me swim alone like some pervert.”
You groan dramatically, grabbing a sheet as you roll out of bed. “Fine. But if I get arrested in a foreign country for public indecency, you better bail me out.”
He grins. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”
You wrap yourself in the linen sheet toga-style and pad barefoot out onto the balcony. The stairs down to the private dock are warm beneath your feet, sun already high and bright.
Jack follows behind, also barely dressed, with two towels slung over his shoulder and that cocky post-wedding glow.
The water is cool but not cold. Crisp. Clean. You wade in first, shrieking at the initial shock until Jack yanks you forward and pulls you under with him.
When you surface, sputtering, hair slicked back and gasping from laughter, he’s looking at you like he can’t believe this is his life.
“You’re unreal,” he says, reverent.
You splash water in his face. “I married you, didn’t I?”
“Best scam I’ve ever pulled.”
You drift closer, legs brushing. His hand cups the back of your neck. You kiss, slow and deep and lazy, and when he pulls back, you can see the smile in his eyes.
The lake stretches out behind him. A postcard come to life.
You stay in the lake until your fingers are pruned and your stomach’s growling. Breakfast is pastries you picked up from a little corner bakery, still flakey and warm. Jack makes espresso in the tiny kitchen, whistling off-key. It’s stupidly domestic. And perfect.
You sit on the floor of the villa, legs tangled, plates on your laps. He steals a bite of your sfogliatella without asking.
“Do you think we should call Beau today?” you ask, chewing.
Jack nods, swallowing his own bite. “Yeah. Just to check in. Not now though. He’ll be with your sister at the zoo or the pool or learning how to disassemble small electronics, depending on her mood.”
You laugh. “She does run a very strange babysitting operation.”
“She’s a miracle worker. Honestly, I’m still shocked she agreed to take him.”
“She told me every married couple deserves three uninterrupted days after the ‘I do.’ Then handed me a jumbo box of condoms and said not to come home pregnant unless it was intentional.”
Jack chokes on his coffee. “Jesus Christ.”
You shrug, smug. “Just saying—her words, not mine.”
He leans back against the couch, eyeing you. “And is it?”
You glance at him.
“Intentional.”
The air shifts.
You don’t answer right away. Just push your plate aside and crawl into his lap. He adjusts instantly, arms wrapping around you, palms dragging up your thighs.
“I think… I’m not not open to it,” you say slowly. “Before, it felt impossible. Everything felt so fragile. But now? I look at you and Beau, and it’s like—yeah. I want more of this. More of us.”
He swallows, throat bobbing. “You’re sure?”
You smile. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure about.”
His mouth finds yours, urgent now, full of promise. You kiss like it’s a decision, a vow, a whole damn future.
And when he finally pulls back, he’s flushed and breathless.
“I love you so much it’s physically uncomfortable.”
You laugh against his jaw. “Sucks to be you, I guess.”
He grins. “Yeah. Tragic.”
That afternoon, you nap in the sun. The villa has a hammock strung between two cypress trees and Jack insists on sharing it, even though he’s too long and your legs keep tangling and one of you always ends up with an elbow in the ribs.
“I hope Beau’s having a good day,” you murmur, eyes closed, head on his chest.
Jack’s hand is tracing idle circles on your bare arm. “I’m sure he is. You think he’ll remember the wedding?”
“Some pieces,” you say. “The dancing. The cake. Robby giving him ten euros to yell ‘just kiss already!’ before we even got to the vows.”
“God,” he sigh. “What a circus.”
You hum in agreement.
Then, “Do you think we’re doing okay? With him? With this?”
Jack shifts beneath you. “Honestly? I think we’re doing great. Not perfect. But real. He’s kind. Confident. Feels safe. That’s what matters.”
You nod slowly. “I used to worry so much about what we were showing him, you know? The split. The mess.”
“He saw love,” Jack says simply. “Even when it was hard. Especially then.”
You press your face to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him—sun, sweat, skin.
“I’m glad we waited to do this right,” you whisper. “I don’t think I could’ve survived a version of us where we never figured it out.”
Jack’s voice is thick. “Me either.”
That night, you dress up.
No real reason. Just a silky dress you’ve been saving, heels a little higher than you usually wear. Jack puts on real pants—well, linen slacks—and a button-down that’s already half undone by the time he finishes wrestling with the cuffs.
He sees you and stops short.
“Jesus.”
“Too much?”
“Not enough.”
Dinner is just a short walk into the village—twinkly lights and hand-pulled pasta and a carafe of wine that disappears too quickly. You talk about everything and nothing. The neighbors at home. Future holidays. How much more you can fit in your suitcase without paying extra baggage fees.
“You’re going to check my carry-on and judge me, aren’t you?” you accuse.
“Only because you brought six pairs of shoes and wore the same ones every day.”
“They’re options, Jack.”
He leans over the table, resting his chin on his hand. “God, I love you.”
You stop. Just for a second. Let it wash over you.
“I love you too.”
Later, you walk back slow. His hand finds yours. Your shoulders brush.
Back at the villa, Jack peels the dress off you like he’s unwrapping a gift. Kisses every inch of bare skin he uncovers. You let him take his time.
You make love slow. No rush. No hunger. Just reverence. It feels different this time—heavier, softer, but still electric.
You don’t remember falling asleep—just the weight of Jack’s body against yours, the slow press of his kisses, the steady rhythm of your breath returning to normal in the quiet afterglow.
What wakes you is the light. It spills through the shutters, golden and soft, casting lazy stripes across the sheets.
Jack’s already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching you like you’re some kind of sunrise. His hair’s a mess, lips kiss-bitten, and he has the nerve to look smug about it.
“Morning, Mrs. Abbot,” he says, voice rough with sleep.
“God,” you groan, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re going to say that all the time, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” he grins. “Until it’s on your driver’s license.”
You roll onto your back, stretch slowly. His eyes follow the movement like he’s hungry again.
“You’re staring,” you say.
“You’re glowing.”
“I’m sweating.”
“Still counts.”
You nudge him with your foot. He catches it, presses a kiss to your ankle, and suddenly you feel a whole lot warmer.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“Starving.”
“I’ll make breakfast.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You brought me to Italy just to feed me scrambled eggs?”
Jack swings his legs off the bed and stands—naked, unabashed. “I’m a man of many talents. But fine. Pancakes?”
“In Italy?”
He shrugs. “International pancakes.”
You laugh as he heads toward the kitchen, grabbing a pair of boxers on the way. He whistles while he moves, some Sinatra song you vaguely recognize, and your heart tugs in your chest like it still can’t quite believe this is real.
You pull on one of his shirts and pad barefoot after him. The villa is quiet, the lake just barely visible through the open patio doors, glittering in the morning sun.
Jack’s already got flour out. There’s a pan warming on the stove. You wrap your arms around him from behind, rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.
“Don’t burn them.”
“You wound me.”
“I’ve seen you try to flip a pancake. You get too cocky.”
“That’s because you heckle me,” he says, flipping the first one with unnecessary flair. “Watch and learn, Mrs. Abbot.”
You roll your eyes but sit at the table, watching him with something dangerously close to adoration. There’s something ridiculous about how seriously he takes this—like he’s proving something. Like if he makes these pancakes just right, he’ll have earned it all over again.
He sets a plate in front of you with a flourish. “Bon appétit.”
You take a bite, eyes widening. “Okay. Okay, maybe you have improved.”
Jack smirks, sitting across from you, fork already in hand. “I’ve been practicing.”
“For this moment?”
“For this life.”
The words hit you low and deep, like a drum. You look at him—really look—and see it there: the steadiness. The certainty. He’s still Jack, but he’s… more. Softer around the edges. Not smaller, just less armored.
You reach for his hand across the table.
“I still can’t believe we’re here.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t think I let myself imagine it,” you admit. “Not after everything.”
Jack’s expression sobers. He sets his fork down. “Can I tell you something?”
You nod.
“That night. The one when you said you needed space. I thought… I thought that was it. I thought I’d ruined my life beyond fixing.”
You squeeze his fingers.
“I let it happen,” he continues quietly. “I was so afraid of screwing it up that I stood back and watched it fall apart. It’s like—if I didn’t fight for it, I couldn’t be blamed for losing it.”
Your throat tightens. “Jack…”
He shakes his head. “But I realized it wasn’t fair. To you. Or to Beau. Or to myself, honestly. But I didn’t know how to be better then. I didn’t even know what better looked like.”
“You do now,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “Because of you.”
There’s a silence that stretches, heavy but full. Then you stand, walk around the table, and sink into his lap. He holds you like he’s anchoring himself.
“You did all the hard work, I just pushed you to do it. We’re allowed to be happy now,” you murmur into his neck.
Jack’s arms tighten. “Yeah. I don’t think I ever thanked you”
“I can think of a few ways to start showing your gratefulness”
The rest of the day unfolds like a dream.
You spend the afternoon wandering through the nearby village—stone streets, small shops, gelato for lunch. Jack insists on carrying your bag. You make fun of his touristy camera strap, and he makes fun of your obsession with ceramic bowls.
You take a million photos together, and he looks so happy—so open—that you save one immediately as your phone background.
When you get back, you read on the balcony while he naps on the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his eyes like a romance novel hero. You don’t even wake him when he starts to snore.
By evening, you’re tangled again in bed, warm skin against warm skin, and Jack is tracing his name on your thigh with his fingertip.
“You know what I was thinking?” he says, voice low.
“Mm?”
“That I want to take you everywhere. That we should do a honeymoon part two, with Beau. Paris. Or Morocco. Or Tokyo. Somewhere Beau can try weird candy and yell at me in public without getting in trouble.”
You laugh. “He already does that.”
“True. But we could do it under the guise of cultural education.”
You turn to face him. “You really want to travel?”
“I want to do anything that keeps us feeling like this,” he says. “Like we’re not just surviving.”
You study him. The honesty. The hope.
“Then let’s make it a plan,” you say. “Once a year. Somewhere new.”
Jack’s smile softens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright. Deal. Annual Abbot Adventures.”
“Trademark pending.”
“You, me, a six-year-old with a suitcase full of Legos. What could go wrong?”
You laugh, leaning in to kiss him. “Everything.”
“Exactly,” he grins. “Perfect family vacation.”
Later, after you’ve both showered, after he’s poured you a glass of wine and rubbed your feet and claimed it was “medically necessary to assess swelling from travel,” you’re curled together in bed with the windows open to the night air.
Jack’s arm is around you, fingers resting on your stomach again. Always that same spot. Like he’s waiting. Or willing.
You place your hand over his.
“You really want another?” you ask, voice soft.
“I want whatever you want,” he says.
You don’t respond right away, “You’d be a great girl dad.”
He snorts. “God help me if she’s anything like you.”
“Smart, stubborn, charming?”
“Dangerous,” he says. “too smart, perfect.”
You smile. “You’re already soft. You’d fold the second she looked at you.”
“Don’t tell Beau.”
You laugh, and the sound is easy. Real. Everything feels easy tonight.
i have most of another part of ex!reader x babydaddy!jack that i want to post but i need to proof!!!!! and i don’t think ill have time to do until sunday or maybe monday????
i have so many thoughts but i start a new job on monday so sorry if im a little delayed!!!!!
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 2.1k
notes: Another part to ex!reader and babydaddy!jack thanks to @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange's reply to part 3! Fits before the Prequel!
Jack Abbot does not want to be interviewed.
He’s made that clear to everyone — grumbling to Gloria, threatening Robby, muttering under his breath about “puff pieces” and “PR bullshit.” But he shows up anyway. Apparently, losing rock-paper-scissors and the thought of Gloria owing him a favor are enough to get him in the room.
He’s already five minutes late when he walks into the break room at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, barely glancing your way.
“Dr. Abbot?” you ask, voice a little too bright.
He doesn’t answer right away — just finishes pouring his coffee. Then, deadpan: “That’s what the name tag says.”
You blink. Smile tight. Off to a great start.
You introduce yourself, give a quick rundown of the piece — community health spotlight, frontline ER coverage, equity in urban hospital settings.
“Yeah, I read the email,” he says, finally turning. He looks like hell: scrubs wrinkled, hair a mess, a twitching vein in his temple that suggests he’s running purely on caffeine and spite. But his eyes — sharp and unexpectedly curious — hold on you.
“Let’s get started?”
You pull out your notes and recorder, settling into the seat across from him.
“This is for a piece on how ER staff are adapting to systemic constraints in—”
He lifts a hand. “Please don’t say ‘in these trying times.’”
You smirk, hitting record.
Thirty-five minutes later, your recorder is full. Your notes are chaotic. And your opinion of Dr. Jack Abbot… has evolved.
He’s still kind of a dick. But he’s compelling — sharp, honest, surprisingly self-aware. He talks with his hands, voice softening when he mentions residents by name. There’s a story there. Probably a few. But every time you try to dig, he deflects with dry humor and pointed looks that feel more teasing than defensive.
You’re packing up when he clears his throat.
“So,” he says, “you get what you need?”
“Think so,” you reply. “Unless you want to give me a stirring quote about resilience. Maybe something involving a phoenix.”
He leans back, arms folded. “How about: ‘Most days I want to punch a wall, but we’re out of budget for drywall repair.’”
You laugh. “Wow. Poetry.”
“You asked.”
You hesitate. “Honestly, I expected you to be more…”
“Hostile?”
“I was going to say ‘buttoned-up.’ But sure. Hostile works.”
He smirks. “If you wanted polished, you should’ve interviewed Robby. But I lost rock-paper-scissors.”
“Lucky me.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, voice low, “I think I’m the one whose luck is shifting.”
You sling your bag over your shoulder, suddenly aware of how close he still is.
“Well… thanks for the time. I know your shift was long.”
“Mm.” He doesn’t commit to gratitude — just watches you.
You hesitate. Then — against instinct — you reach into your bag and pull out a card. “Here’s my email. Just in case anything else comes to mind.”
He takes it, thumb brushing over the raised print. “Of course. Let me show you out.”
Two days later, Jack is in a mood.
“Who pissed in his Wheaties this morning?” a nurse mutters.
“He’s been like that since that hot journalist left,” another chimes in.
“Maybe he got rejected.”
“I didn’t get rejected,” Jack snaps, startling them. “I’m just a sleep-deprived idiot who washed her damn business card with my scrubs.”
“Oh my God,” someone groans. “She’s a journalist. Just look her up and make up a reason to email. Jesus.”
Your inbox pings.
Subject: Quote Clarification
From: [email protected]
I meant “systemic negligence” not “strategic indifference” in that part about state funding.
Also, I never said “heroic.” Ever. Want to make that crystal clear.
If you want to double-check the phrasing, I know a place with good fries and strong drinks.
-Abbot
You stare at it. Then reread. Is he… asking you out?
God help you, you kind of hope he is.
You reply:
Sure. As long as you don’t try to rewrite your quotes mid-pint.
The bar is dim, divey, absolutely his pick — confirmed when the bartender greets him with, “You back already?” and your drinks hit the table before you sit down.
“You have a tab here?” you ask.
“I had a chair with my name on it,” he says. “Until they caught me revising journal drafts on my days off.”
You laugh. “Work-life balance going well, I see.”
“The fries help.”
He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt. Still rumpled, but clearly intentional. Hair pushed back, eyes clear. The difference is subtle. But it’s there.
“So,” he says. “Am I worse in print than in person?”
“Oh, definitely,” you tease. “But very quotable.”
“That a line you use on all your sources?”
“Only the ones who share their fries.”
You both reach for the same one. Fingers brush. His breath hitches.
The air shifts.
You fall into easy rhythm. He tells stories — the worst shift, the weirdest patient, the quiet things that don’t make the cut but still shape the job. You tell him about being locked in a janitor’s closet at a mayoral debate. By the time you finish your drinks, you’re both laughing more than talking.
Your knees knock under the table.
He glances down. Then up. “So… is this part of the fact-checking process?”
You tilt your head. “Would you prefer it was?”
“Depends,” he murmurs. “You gonna quote what I say next?”
You pause. Then: “Not unless it’s good.”
His eyes stay on you. Then he leans in.
“How about this?”
The kiss is quiet at first. Soft. Testing. But deepens fast — hands in your hair, thumb at your jaw, like he’s been thinking about this since the interview and just needed the excuse.
When he trails down your neck, you forget your name.
You’re still catching your breath when he mutters, “Too forward to ask if you want to get out of here?”
“Yes,” you say. “But I like forward.”
He grins, hand low on your back. “Fifteen minutes this way. If you don’t mind walking.”
“Lead the way.”
You wake up slowly — not to an alarm, but to the quiet shift of weight beside you. Sheets tangled, room faintly lit by the early gray of morning. For a moment, you don’t move. Just listen.
Jack’s already awake. You can feel it in the way his breath has steadied, his body warm and solid beside yours, one hand resting lightly at your waist like he forgot to move it.
Your voice is quiet. “You always up this early?”
“I don’t sleep well. Occupational hazard,” he murmurs.
You turn toward him. He’s propped on one elbow, hair a mess, shirtless, gaze already on you. There’s something cautious in it — like he doesn’t want to push too hard, too soon.
“You okay?” you ask.
He nods. “Yeah. You?”
“I think so.” A beat. “Little disappointed you didn’t try to sneak out. Would’ve made things easier.”
He smirks. “I thought about it. But then I realized, this is my house and I didn’t have anywhere to sneak off to.”
Your heart drops a bit “Oh shit, I spent the night. I don’t spend the night.” You try to get out of bed but his arm has you lightly locked in.
He watches your expression, then adds, voice lower, “I’m not in a rush. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
You search his face. “So what is this then?”
He shrugs, but it’s not dismissive. “Something I haven’t stopped thinking about since the break room.”
You huff a laugh. “God. I really thought you hated me.”
“I did,” he says. “For like the first two minutes. And then I realized you were just really fucking good at your job.”
You smile. “You know this is probably a bad idea, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, gaze lingering on your lips. “But not the worst one I’ve ever had.”
There’s a stillness between you. Not awkward. Just quiet.
From then on, you’re basically attached at the hip. Any free moment either of you has is spent together—or texting, though Jack is, hands down, the worst texter you've ever met. Half the time it’s just one-word replies. Sometimes emojis that don’t make sense. Once, a photo of a traffic cone with no context. But you find it weirdly charming.
Two months in, he invites you to grab breakfast after one of his night shifts. “Swing by the hospital,” he says. “We can walk from there. Just let them know you’re here for me, they’ll let you in.”
You’re nervous walking in. You’ve been here before, obviously—it’s how you met Jack—but it feels different now. Like meeting the family. And you haven’t even talked about labels.
But the moment he spots you, his whole face lights up. He cuts across the nurse’s station toward you without hesitation.
“Hi,” he says, giving you a quick kiss. “You haven’t been waiting long, have you?”
“No, no,” you murmur, caught off guard by the PDA, especially in his workplace. “Just got here.”
“Perfect.” He glances at a chart in his hand. “I just need to hand this off and then we’re good to go. Mind sitting here for a sec?”
He leads you to his desk, and it’s all so… Jack. A photo of him and a few Army buddies, a coffee-stained mug with a jackrabbit on it, a bumper sticker that reads Honk if you love amputees, and—tucked behind his monitor—your article, folded up like something worth saving.
You don’t even get a chance to sit fully before a couple of nurses wander over.
“That article you wrote? Incredible,” one of them says. “You really captured the systemic issues. We appreciate you shining a light on it in such a visible way.”
“Oh—it was an honor to be trusted with the story,” you reply, a little flustered. “You all do the hard work. I just hope it helps spark something.”
You feel Jack behind you before you hear him.
“You two done harassing my girl?” he teases, placing a hand on your shoulder.
You don’t miss the look exchanged between the nurses before they excuse themselves, already whispering as they disappear down the hall.
“Alright,” he says, tilting his head toward the exit. “Ready to go?”
“What, no grand tour? You were so rude the first time I was here—I didn’t get one then.”
He smirks. “Fine, whatever. Let me show you around.”
He takes you on a brisk loop, introducing you to a few of the names you've heard in passing—Santos, Samira, the guy who once threw out his back trying to do a TikTok challenge. Then a voice rings out:
“Abbot, leave. You were off fifteen minutes ago. Get out.”
You turn to see Robby, grinning, arms crossed.
Jack sighs. “Just showing a guest around before heading to the diner.”
“Ohhh,” Robby says, eyes narrowing.
“This is the Robby?” you ask, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for being so good at rock-paper-scissors. I wouldn't have met this guy without you.”
Robby laughs. “Ah, the journalist. It’s about time. Great article, by the way.”
“Had some great sources,” you reply.
You leave the hospital together, walking a few blocks to a small diner. Once you’re settled in a booth and sipping coffee, you nudge his knee under the table.
“Demoted from ‘your girl’ to ‘a guest’ in a matter of minutes. Think I failed the family meet-and-greet.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah, I’ve been panicking about that for the last twenty minutes. I froze. First time felt natural… saying it again, in front of Robby, just felt…presumptuous.”
“I didn’t mind,” you say, voice a little quiet. “We haven’t talked about it, but… I didn’t mind. I’m not seeing anyone else. Just… so you know.”
He looks at you, serious now. “Yeah. Me neither.”
You smile, tentative. “Good to know. I’m not really planning on seeing anyone else.”
“I sure hope not,” he says, then falters. “I, uh… don’t really want to keep doing this unless we’re exclusive. But if that’s not what you’re looking for, I—”
“Jack,” you interrupt, amused. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
He groans again. “You don’t have to make it sound like we’re in third grade.”
“Well, you’re kind of acting like it.”
“Okay, yes,” he says, finally meeting your eyes with a grin. “I’m asking. Officially. Want to be my girlfriend?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmmm. Depends. Will you start texting like a normal person?”
“Not a chance.”
“Then yes,” you say. “But only because you’re cute.”
He laughs, reaches across the table to tangle his fingers with yours. “Deal.”
And just like that—without fireworks, without ceremony—you’re his. And he’s yours.
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 2.4k
notes: part 3 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack
WAYYYYY fluffier than the prequel — a gift to me and all of you.
Also I think this might be the last part??? unless any of you have questions or one shots you want to hear about these two 🥹
You’re late to Beau’s baseball game. Not wildly—just enough that your pulse is up, your hair’s a mess, and you feel that twist in your chest that only happens when Jack gets there first.
You scan the bleachers, hand shielding your eyes. He’s easy to spot. Legs stretched out, ball cap pulled low, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. One arm draped across the bench beside him, claiming space.
Of course he saved you a spot.
“Christ,” you mutter, flopping into the seat beside him. “It’s mid-April. Why is it still so cold?”
Without missing a beat, Jack tilts his head toward the parking lot but reaches down at his feet. “There’s a coat in the car, but I’ve got a blanket here.”
He pulls out a slightly-rumpled camping blanket and offers it without looking—like this is just what you do now. Like he’s still the guy who knows when you’re cold before you say it.
You shake your head, tugging the sweatshirt you’ve been holding over your head.
“I’m good. Just needed this.”
Jack turns. Looks. And comically blinks.
It’s the team hoodie. The one the team mom handed out last week. Big enough to swallow you whole. Team logo on the chest. But it’s the back that gets him—ABBOT in bold block letters, above Beau’s number: 4.
You pretend not to notice how he’s staring. Pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips when his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“God,” he finally breathes. “You could’ve warned a guy.”
You smirk, tugging the sleeves down over your hands. “What, and ruin the surprise?”
“You’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, low and hoarse. “You realize that, right?”
“It’s not like I put your name on it for you, Jack. There’s no player with my last name. I’m supporting our kid.”
His eyes drag down your body again—slower this time. Less surprised. More… appreciative.
“Right,” he says, blinking slow. “Supporting Beau. Totally normal. Not suggestive at all.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You’re being dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. It’s a losing game—trying not to feel everything you’re feeling. Want. Nostalgia. The sharp edges of maybe.
“He’s almost up to bat.”
Jack lifts his phone like he’s just remembered he has it. “Gotta document the moment. Hold still.”
You hear the shutter click.
“Send that to Robby and I’m never wearing it again.”
He grins as he taps the screen. “Too late. It’s already in the group chat. Dana’s gonna combust.”
You groan, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. “You’re such a menace.”
But you feel his gaze still on you. Heavy. Intent. Like he’s remembering the nights he used to get to see you in nothing but one of his sweatshirts—and wondering if this counts.
He nudges your knee with his. “You know, it’s not too late to get one with your last name on the back.”
You glance sideways.
“I mean it.” His voice softens. The grin tugs at his mouth, but his eyes are steady. “You wear my name like that again, I might get ideas.”
Your breath catches—just for a second.
You look away, toward the field, voice deliberately casual. “Let’s just focus on the game, Romeo.”
But he leans in, not quite touching, his breath warm against your ear.
“Sure,” he murmurs. “For now.”
And when Beau steps up to the plate, Jack sits back with one arm stretched casually across the bench behind you, fingertips grazing the letters printed across your back.
–
The next weekend is Beau’s half-birthday—his idea, obviously—and while you and Jack didn’t plan a full-blown party, somehow it’s turned into one.
Robby’s manning the grill like he’s auditioning for Food Network.. A couple of interns are tossing a ball with Beau and his friends on the lawn. You’re watching from the shade with a drink in hand.
Jack sits beside you, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s second nature now. And it kind of is.
“You need anything?” he asks.
You hum a soft no, your shoulder brushing his.
Across the yard, Dana lowers her sunglasses and stares you down as she approaches.
“Well, well, well.” Her grin is pure mischief. “Look at you two. Domestic as hell.”
“You say that like it’s a threat,” Jack mutters, sliding his arm around your waist.
Dana smirks. “No, I say that like I’m preparing a toast for the wedding.”
You roll your eyes.
“Not yet,” Robby calls from the grill. “But someone got tagged in a very cozy park bench photo last week.”
Jack winces. “Jesus.”
“It’s okay,” you say, leaning into him. “People were always going to talk. At least now it’s about something we’re proud of.”
He glances at you—really looks—and nods once.
Just then, one of the neighborhood moms hustles over, diaper bag slung low. “Do you mind watching the baby for a few? Would love to pee in peace for the first time in years.”
“Been there,” you say, arms already out. “Take all the time you need.”
You settle with the baby, Jack beside you, the baby nestled against your chest. Comfortable silence settles between you.
“Now is this grill a time machine?” Robby shouts. “Feels like we’ve turned back the clock five years.”
Jack chuckles, leaning in to nibble the baby’s socked foot. “Yeah. I miss this age.”
You hesitate, heart in your throat. You’ve been dealing with major baby fever lately—but you never thought you'd get to feel this again. Not with him. Not here.
You bite the bullet. “Always thought I’d have two or three, y’know?”
Jack hums. “Never even thought I’d have one. But after Beau, I figured we’d end up with a whole football team.”
A neighborhood kid runs up and squints at you. “Mrs. Abbot… is this your baby?”
You laugh. “Nope, this is Mrs. Turner’s baby. I’m just holding her. My only baby is Beau—and he’s all grown up now.”
The kid nods solemnly and runs off.
“Tough crowd,” you murmur.
You turn—and find Jack still watching you.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” he says, but there’s a quiet look on his face, “...you didn’t correct her on the last name.”
“She’s four. It's a bit complex to explain that yes, my son’s last name is Abbot, but mine isn’t.”
His lip quirks. You nudge his shoulder gently with yours.
–
It’s Beau’s Pre-K graduation and he’s somewhere outside, bounding around in his paper cap with the usual crew.
Inside, you’re balancing a lukewarm coffee in one hand and a paper plate of grocery store cookies in the other. Someone’s mid-way through an impassioned pitch about why you should join the PTA next year.
Jack’s at your side—polished enough for a school event, sleeves rolled, one too many button undone, looking every bit like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Present in a way that feels new. Like he wants people to know he’s here, with you.
You barely even catch the name slip:
“So nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s hand finds your hip, giving it a firm, familiar squeeze.
You smile without missing a beat.
The conversation wraps. You make polite excuses. You and Jack step out into the hallway toward the playground.
Behind you, the buzz of small talk fades.
“Felt kinda nice, didn’t it?” he says.
You roll your eyes. “I knew you were going to make a comment.”
You turn the corner—and he catches you. One arm braced against the wall, the other slipping around your waist, pinning you gently between him and the cinderblock.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, mouth brushing yours. “They called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t flinch.”
You shrug, breath hitching when he kisses the corner of your mouth.
“I told you,” he says, lips skating down your jaw, “you keep playing this game, it’s gonna give me ideas.”
“Maybe I want you to get ideas,” you whisper, fingers curling in the front of his shirt.
His mouth finds yours again—firmer this time. Slower.
Footsteps echo down the far end of the hallway.
You both break apart, laughing quietly.
“Down, boy” you say, smoothing your hair. “We’ve got a graduate to wrangle.”
Jack grins, still close. “For the record, Mrs. Abbot has a real nice ring to it.”
You laugh, “There are worse last names to be stuck with”.
But when he laces your fingers together and leads you out into the sun, you don’t let go.
–
It’s the last month of Beau’s summer break when you head out to the lake. Your parents will be there. Your sister and her kids. Jack’s brother and his family are driving in, too.
You’re panicking, of course. Jack is cool as a cucumber. Beau’s bouncing off the walls with excitement about a whole week of cousin chaos.
You gave your family a stern talk before you left. Be nice. You love him. Beau loves him. He’s doing the work. He’s different now. You’re making it work—and yeah, you’re scared—but you’re also the happiest you’ve ever been.
Naturally, you three are the last to arrive. Of course it’s your fault. One final Zoom dragged long and you left straight from Pittsburgh with your laptop still warm in your bag.
The cabin is palatial. Jack found it. He definitely went over budget, but you know he’d never charge your family. It’s just who he is now—present, generous, steady.
You send Jack and Beau to the backyard with the others while you start unpacking.
A soft knock on the doorframe makes you glance up. Your sister walks in and flops dramatically on the bed.
“Okay,” she says. “You didn’t tell me you replaced your ex with a well-adjusted clone. Where’d Dr. McBroody go?”
You laugh. “I know. It’s weird. You guys didn’t know him when we first started dating. He’s… back. The guy I fell in love with. I didn’t think I’d get that again.”
She hums, skeptical. “Then why are you still keeping him at arm’s length?”
“What?”
“Just trying to figure out why you’re still holding back when he keeps proving himself—over and over—from what I’ve heard and seen with my own two eyes.”
You glance out the window. Jack’s lifting Beau to dunk over the older cousins, both of them laughing.
You sigh. “I’m scared. I can’t go through that again.”
She softens. “You can’t live like that. Cut the poor man some slack. Either go all in, or cut him loose. But don’t keep him in limbo. It’s not fair.”
“I know,” you murmur, following her downstairs.
It’s a surprise when Jack books dinner for just the two of you on the last night of the trip. At the waterfront place you told him your parents went to every summer.
“You’ve got a house full of babysitters,” your dad says, shooing you out the door. “Go enjoy yourselves. Beau’ll be asleep before you’re back.”
It’s a quick drive, and Jack reaches for your hand over the console as soon as you hit the main road. His palm is a little clammy. Yours too.
“I think this might be the best week of my life,” you say, squeezing his hand.
He’s quieter than usual. But relaxed. Smiling.
At the restaurant, he rounds the car to open your door, hand warm on your lower back as he leads you in.
“Reservation for Abbot.”
“Ah yes—right this way, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot.”
You give him a look. “You paid them to say that.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he says, smug as he pulls out your chair.
Dinner is easy. Familiar. Dreamy.
“Can I ruin the moment?” you ask.
“Nothing you say could ruin this.”
“I miss Beau. He’d hate it here—no kids menu. But I love our little unit.”
“I love our unit. I love Beau. I love you.” His fingers trace absentminded circles over your ring finger.
“I love you too.”
After dinner, you walk along the beach, your head resting against his shoulder. He leads you to the edge of a quiet pier.
“You know,” he says, voice soft, “we’ve been through a lot. And yeah, I’d change so much… but also nothing. Because it all got us here. And I know we’ve talked about this, kind of, but I still wanted it to feel a little traditional—”
You blink, heart racing. “Jack…”
“Just let me finish—before you turn me down, let me say this. I know I’m not perfect, but I’ve been trying. Really trying. And I think you’ve seen that. I think—” his voice catches. “I think we can do this. For real. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Tears are already slipping down your cheeks. “Jack. Just ask me the question.”
That snaps him out of it.
“Oh—right. Okay.” He drops to one knee, pulling a ring from his pocket. Your breath catches.
“Baby,” he says, eyes shining, “I know I don’t deserve you. But would you do me and Beau the honor of becoming an Abbot?”
You drop to your knees in front of him. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” You kiss him between each word.
He slides the ring onto your finger. You kiss him again, a little breathless.
“Alright,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Let’s get you home.”
In the car, you stare down at your hand.
“This ring is perfect. It looks just like my mom’s. It’s my dream ring.”
Jack chuckles. “It’s not like it. It is your mom’s.”
“What?”
“They knew how much you loved it. They gave it to me.”
You stare.
“We still can go ring shopping if it isn't what you want. But when I told them I was going to ask… they offered it. Thought it might mean more.”
“It does,” you whisper. “They know?”
“Of course they know. And Beau knows. And your sister. My brother. Robby. Half the ER. Even the grocery store checkout lady. I haven’t shut up about it.”
You laugh as he pulls into the driveway.
The house is dark, unusually quiet after a week of family chaos.
You lean across the console to kiss him, half-climbing into his lap. He grins against your lips but gently stops you.
“Let’s get inside first.”
You cock your head. “Since when are you the voice of reason?”
He rounds the car, opens your door, and leads you inside, where the lights flip on and the entire house bursts into shouts of “CONGRATULATIONS!”
Beau barrels into your legs and you scoop him up, laughing through tears as Jack presses a kiss to your temple.And for the first time, you don’t flinch when someone calls you Mrs. Abbot. You just smile, because it’s exactly who you are now.
In love with your jack series can we have a hint of what might of happened to cause them to break up ?
This literally made me so sad i need to follow up with a fluffier moment tonight but it was fun to write, thank you for asking!!!!!
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 800ish
notes: prequel of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack also yes i did steal another scene from ER so SUE ME
It was never one big thing. It was the slow build — compounding fractures on both sides that never quite healed.
Jack wasn’t the one to suggest space. You were. He would’ve let it spiral into a blowout or let his guilt fester into something ugly. But you knew you both deserved better than that.
You’d been dating for six months when you realized you were late. He was on a tangent about work, barely coming up for air.
“These budget cuts are bullshit. We don’t have enough nurses upstairs, the boarders are piling up, and it makes everything ten times harder—”
“Jack,” you whisper, “How early can you get a pregnancy result from a blood test?”
“Seven days. Did I tell you what Robby said Gloria said?”
“Several times.”
He blinked. “Wait. Did you just say… pregnancy? You think you're pregnant? But—we’ve been really careful.”
“I know.”
“Did you miss your period?”
“Three days.”
“Okay. Okay. That could be stress. We’ll figure it out.”
It wasn’t stress.
A month later, you moved in.
One night, as you were getting ready for bed, Jack leaned in the doorway, “Will you marry me?”
You sat on the edge of the bed, towel-wrapped and exhausted. “No, Jack. We haven’t even known each other a year.”
“I’d marry you tomorrow,” he said softly. “Any day. I want to make this work. I love you. I love him.” His hand settled on your belly like a promise.
“I know you do. But I don’t need grand declarations. I need the little things.”
And Jack... Jack has never been good at the little things.
Sure, he never missed a doctor’s appointment. But he also ran to the hospital on his days off, stress trailing behind him like smoke. He brought work home and snapped, even when he didn’t mean to.
He was on rotation when your water broke. Of course, he wasn’t answering his phone. You called an Uber to get to the hospital alone.
He saw your texts and rushed to L&D just in time. Everything turned out okay. Except it didn’t feel okay. It felt like the beginning of an ending.
Jack was a devoted father. An incredible one, even. But he was a distracted partner. And you couldn’t blame him, not entirely. Postpartum knocked you sideways. You didn’t feel like yourself anymore. And the truth was, you both were just going through the motions — two tired adults playing house around a beautiful, babbling baby.
Beau was just over a year when it truly cracked.
You were walking through the park, leaves crunching underfoot, Beau kicking his legs in the stroller.
“Jack,” you said carefully, “are you happy?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I’m good. I’m good.”
“I think you should talk to someone. Therapy’s helped me more than I expected—”
“I said I’m good,” he cut in. “I’m just tired. The baby. Work. It’ll get better.”
You stopped walking. “Jack. I don’t think this will work if we keep going like this. I think I need a break. I’m going to take Beau to my parents’ for a week.”
He blinked. “I can’t really take time off that short notice—”
“I wasn’t inviting you,” you said.
--
Back at the house, you packed. Enough for you and Beau for a week. Jack held him while pacing the room, in and out like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt.
Finally, you said, “Jack. Just say what you want to say.”
He stopped. Face flat, eyes hollow. Something at the edge of his lips — then he straightened.
“Yeah, um... just let me know what I can do to help.”
The next morning, you left.
Jack called off work for the first time in his career. Claimed he caught Beau’s flu. Robby knew better — especially when he showed up at Jack’s and saw your car gone, the house quiet, Jack hungover on the couch.
It didn’t take long for Robby to coax it out.
“This doesn’t have to be the end,” Robby said, flipping a beer cap off with ease. “She’s giving you space. That’s a gift. Don’t waste it.”
“She’s sick of the big declarations,” Jack mumbled. “Sick of me being all show and no change.”
“As she should be. You want her back, you rebuild the foundation. You follow her lead. Think about what she’s asked for. Start there.”
The next morning, Jack called.
He asked how you and Beau were doing. Asked if your parents hated him now.
“They could never hate you,” you said quietly. “I wouldn’t let them.”
“So, when you get back… maybe we talk? I need to have Beau in my life, and I’ll take whatever part of you I’m allowed. But you’re unhappy, and I can’t be the reason why. I’ll take your lead. If you want lawyers, I’ll pay for both of us to get them. Whatever you need.”
You were silent for a moment, heart cracking a little.
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 2k
notes: Part 2 of ex!reader and babydaddy!jack (part 1 here)
It’s a Thursday night, and the hospital is slammed. Jack moves with purpose, flipping through a chart as he tugs off his gloves.
“I shouldn’t have planned this on a work night,” he mutters under his breath.
“Ooooh,” Dana croons behind him. “What are you planning?”
“None of your damn business,” he replies, glancing at the clock. “But I’m running late.”
Robby rounds the corner, already grinning. “Jack, get the hell out of here. I’m not getting blamed for you being late.”
Dana’s eyes narrow. “Wait. Robby knows?”
“He’s got a hot date with his baby mama,” Robby sings.
Dana’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s a new development.”
Jack points a finger at her. “That judgy tone is exactly why I don’t tell you anything.”
He makes it home, showers, changes. Somehow gets to your place in record time.
You expected him to be late — habit. But something about how hard he’s clearly tried… reminds you. He wants to get it right this time.
You open the door.
He’s standing there in a dark button-down and jeans, a single tulip in hand. His hair’s still damp. He gives you the full once-over — slow, reverent — before trying to mask it with a crooked smile.
“Wow,” he murmurs. “You look… unfair.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You gonna stand there all night, or let me lock the door?”
He thrusts the tulip forward like he just remembered it. “For you. I, uh, have the rest at home… if you want them later.”
You smile, tuck the tulip into your bag, and follow him out.
The restaurant is all string lights and exposed brick — cozy, familiar. The waiter asks what kind of day you’ve had before recommending wine.
Jack orders after confirming your favorites — quiet, subtle. But he remembers.
“You nervous?” you ask, swirling your glass.
“A little,” he admits. “Feels like a first date. But also not. Feels like something we should’ve done a long time ago.”
“You mean back when we were living on boxed mac and cheese and resenting each other’s dishes in the sink?”
He chuckles. “Definitely not then.”
You watch him. Still Jack — dry, steady — but there’s something new softening him. Less guarded. More here.
Midway through dinner, you’re laughing about Beau’s vacuum obsession (“the Dyson phase,” Jack calls it), when he goes quiet.
“You know what I keep thinking about?” he says, thumb circling his glass.
“What?”
“That night before we split. You were packing for your parents’ place and I kept coming into the room for no reason. You finally said, ‘Jack, just say what you want to say.’”
You nod. You remember.
“I didn’t say it then. But I will now. I wanted you to stay. I just didn’t know how to ask without sounding selfish.”
Your heart tugs. You reach across the table, cover his hand. “You’ve gotten better at asking.”
He squeezes back. “Still learning.”
After dinner, you don’t go home right away. You wander the neighborhood, eventually winding up at the small park you take Beau to. The bench under the tree. The same bench where, once upon a time, everything started.
You pause. “Jack Abbot. We are not where I think we are, are we?”
He shrugs, smirk tugging at his lips. “Thought I’d ease you back in. Familiar territory.”
You lean in first this time. The kiss is slow, deep, and familiar — but not stuck in the past. There's something new now. Steady. Chosen.
He pulls back, breathless. “You still do that thing with your tongue. Drives me insane.”
You grin. “I know.”
Silence settles, warm and buzzing. Like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.
“So,” Jack says. “How do we feel about another date?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether I get to make out with you after the next one too.”
He leans in, barely an inch from your mouth. “Oh, I think we can arrange that.”
You laugh — real and bubbling. Something you haven’t heard from yourself in a long time.
He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I missed this.”
You nod. “Me too.”
But after a beat, something shifts. You glance down. “Why now?”
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Part of me still wonders why it took this long.”
Jack pauses. Not defensive. Just thoughtful.
“Because I didn’t trust myself. With you. With the whole thing. I didn’t think I could want something this badly and not wreck it. I had to be sure I could be better — for you, for Beau. For me.”
You exhale. “I didn’t need perfect.”
“I know that now,” he says softly. “But I had to unlearn a lot of things I didn’t even know I was carrying.”
You glance back up. “I’m still scared.”
Jack threads his fingers through yours. “Me too.”
“What if we hurt each other again?”
“We will,” he says. “But I’m not walking away this time just because something feels heavy. And I’m not letting you carry it alone.”
He walks you home, hands laced. At your door, he lingers.
“I’m not coming in,” he says, voice rough. “But I want to.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to do this right. Not fast. Not because I can’t stand being apart — though I can’t — but because I want it to last.”
You kiss him — soft, slow, steady.
When you pull back, you whisper, “Okay. Go home.”
He nods. “Second date?”
“Next week.”
He kisses your knuckles, walks away. Turns back at the end of the block to wave like it’s something he’s allowed to do again.
And for the first time in years, you lock the door feeling full — not with ache, not with hope. Just full.
–
A few days later, the call from school comes mid-meeting.
Beau’s sick. Fever. Glassy-eyed. Curled up in the nurse’s office with his backpack clutched to his chest.
You’re already halfway to your car when you text Jack:
you: just got a call from school. beau’s sick. i’m going to get him now.
jack: shit. can i call you in 5?
you: kinda swamped but yeah.
He calls in three.
“Hey,” he says, already out of breath. You can hear the hum of the hospital behind him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just scrambling. I’ve got back-to-back meetings and now—”
“I’ll handle it,” he cuts in. “I can be at your place in an hour. I’ll rearrange some stuff.”
“You’re on days now—are you sure?”
“It’s fine,” he says, too quickly. “I got it.”
You pause. Something in his voice makes your stomach twist. But you let him go.
An hour and a half later, Beau’s napping on the couch under two blankets. You’re at the kitchen table, trying to focus on your laptop. He’s flushed, quiet, lightly snoring.
Jack knocks once, then pushes the door open. Still in scrubs. He sets a pharmacy bag on the counter.
“Tylenol, apple juice, saltines.”
“Thanks,” you say softly.
He nods, drops into the chair across from you, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He looks tense. Coiled. Like he hasn’t really stopped moving.
“I didn’t think they’d let you leave,” you say.
“I told them it was an emergency. Robby gets it. I owe him now.”
“Jack—”
“It was an emergency,” he snaps. “He’s my kid.”
“I know. But you didn’t have to blow up your whole day to prove that.”
He exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I’m trying to show up. That’s what you said you needed. That’s what I said I’d do.”
You pause. “I don’t need you to self-destruct to prove you care. That’s not showing up — that’s burning out.”
His jaw clenches. Then something in him falters. Just slightly.
“I panicked,” he admits. “I heard ‘sick’ and I thought—”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just shakes his head.
You reach across the table and take his hand. “I did too.”
A few hours later and things seem stable. Beau’s fever is stubborn but manageable, hovering near 101. You’re rotating fluids, letting him nap between cartoons. Jack’s perched at the edge of the couch, monitoring him like he’s waiting for a second shoe to drop.
“Mind hanging around?” you ask. “I’ve got one last call and then I can take over.”
“Don’t mind at all,” he murmurs. “We can combine forces. Date night with our sick kid — romance is alive and well.”
It’s just past 8 p.m. when things go sideways.
Beau stirs on the couch, body twitching, limbs stiffening in an unnatural rhythm.
“Shit—make sure he doesn’t fall.”
“Jack,” you say, panic rising, “what’s happening?”
“Febrile seizure,” he says, already shifting to the floor beside Beau, bracing his body as a barrier. “He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay.”
It lasts less than thirty seconds. It feels like a lifetime.
As soon as it passes, Jack scoops him up.
“We’re driving. Faster than an ambulance.”
You’re in the back seat, one hand on Beau’s knee, the other gripping the car door.
“Jack, I’m scared. Is he going to be okay?”
Beau’s voice is faint. “Mommy, I don’t feel good.”
“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper. “We’re going to see Daddy’s doctor friends.”
Jack’s on the phone with Shen.
“Headed in now. Just had a febrile seizure. He’s alert but out of it. Temp was 101.3 about 20 minutes ago. Not responding to acetaminophen. Gave 7.5 mL six hours ago, again an hour ago. Pulse ox was 97. Resps were 32 last time I checked. ETA four minutes.”
“Mommy, I’m tired.”
“Keep him awake.”
“I’m trying.” You cup his face. “Hey baby, should we sing your song?”
You’re halfway through the third round of You’ve Got a Friend in Me when the hospital comes into view.
Shen and a nurse are waiting at the curb. They get Beau on a gurney, Jack walking alongside, rattling off the last twelve hours like a script he’s memorized.
“Hey buddy,” Shen says gently. “Heard you’re not feeling too great. We’re gonna run some tests, get you patched up. Sound okay?”
“‘kay,” Beau croaks. “Am I gonna miss my baseball game?”
Jack smiles, brushing hair off his forehead. “Probably. But when you’re better, we’ll go to a Pirates game. Deal?”
“Deal.”
You’re standing in the corner of the exam room, arms wrapped tight around yourself, blinking hard against the overhead lights.
Jack joins you. Wraps an arm around your shoulder. Pulls you in. And that’s when you finally break.
“Shhh,” he whispers, stroking your back. “He’s okay. We’re okay.”
“Thank you,” you murmur. “I couldn’t have done this alone. I froze. I failed.”
“You didn’t fail. You leaned on me.” His voice is low, steady. “We’re a team.”
The tests come back clean. No complications. The fever finally breaks.
By the time you’re discharged, Beau’s asleep in your arms.
Jack stops at the central desk to grab papers. Shen pats him on the shoulder.
“Sorry if I overreacted,” Jack says, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t know how different it’d feel when it’s your own kid. He’s just so little.”
“You did the right thing,” Shen says. “Go get your family home. Get some rest.”
–
Jack parks in your driveway. The engine clicks off. You’re still half-listening to Beau’s sleepy breathing in the back seat when Jack says, quiet:
“Can I stay over?” You glance at him. “Just to make sure he’s okay tonight.”
You nod. “Of course.”
Back inside, you toe off your shoes, lay Beau gently in the center of your bed. He curls instinctively toward your pillow.
You’re brushing your teeth when Jack appears in the doorway holding two glasses of water.
“Here,” he says. “Uh… where would I find extra bedding? I’ll set up the couch.”
You look at him. Tired. Beautiful. Still trying.
“Don’t be weird,” you say softly. “Bed’s always been big enough for the three of us.”
He smiles. Follows you into the room without another word and for the second time this week, you fall asleep feeling full. But this time, you feel a little less afraid.
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 2k and i have so many other ideas, lmk if you want more parts!
notes: this one goes out to the nonny in my inbox when i asked for ideas! i kinda blended both your ex!reader and babydaddy!jack ideas! hope you enjoy!
You ended things amicably — as amicably as two people can when love’s still there but the capacity to hold it isn’t. Jack didn’t have space for you, your kid, his job, and his trauma. Something had to give.
But you co-parent well enough. There are bumps, but the rhythm is there.
Usually, handoffs are easy. He comes over, eats dinner with you both like old times, then wrangles Beau back to his place. But today’s different — off-cycle. You’re headed to the airport for a work trip, and Jack’s just wrapping up a shift, so you agree to meet at the hospital.
It feels strange walking in. You haven’t been back since the two of you ended things. There are plenty of familiar faces… and a few new ones.
The second Beau sees Jack, he’s wriggling out of your hand.
“Beau—no running in the ER—” you start, but he’s already barreling toward his dad.
“Oof, kiddo, remember we said soft hugs?” Jack laughs, catching him easily, hoisting him up into his arms.
Dana and Robby round the corner just then.
“Hey, look who it is!” Dana says, but Beau clams up, burying his face in Jack’s neck.
“Sorry, you know kids. He’s shy this early,” you say, brushing a hand down Beau’s back. “Be nice to Dana and Uncle Robby, baby.”
“It’s been so long since we’ve seen either of you around,” Dana says, pulling you into a quick hug. “I only get my Baby Beau fix from Instagram stories now.”
“Oh, I figured Jack would still be throwing his infamous backyard parties,” you say, trying to keep it light.
“Nope, those petered out. What’s it been—three years?” Robby glances at his watch, then at Jack with a pointed look.
It doesn’t take a genius to realize what he’s referencing.
Samira passes by next, lighting up at the sight of Beau. “Hi, Beau! Didn’t know I’d get to see you today!”
“Hi, ‘mira,” Beau murmurs, a soft smile still pressed into his dad’s shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt, Jack—could I get your opinion on something before you head out?”
Jack looks around. You jump in before he has to juggle.
“I’ve got a few minutes. I can set him up in the lounge?”
Jack nods, grateful. “That would be amazing. It’ll just be a minute.”
As you head down the hallway, you catch a whisper from a pair of interns behind you.
“Damn, didn’t know Abbot married a hottie.”
Dana’s voice cuts in, dry: “Not married. She’s smart enough to not sign a contract with a guy who’s half in love with his job.”
You finish laying out Beau’s coloring book when Jack slips into the lounge, pouring himself a coffee, rubbing at one eye. That tired, end-of-shift look still gets you.
“You know, you could’ve told me you were d-a-t-i-n-g,” you say.
“Huh?” he blinks. “Want a cup?”
“I’m running late,” you wave him off. “And I don’t mind — I just think maybe we should tell each other when new stuff like that comes up. For his sake.”
Jack straightens, confused. “I have no idea what you're talking about. And you didn’t give me a heads up about Carl or Craig or whatever his name was.”
“Chris. And yeah, I should’ve told you. I did tell you, eventually. I’m working on being better about communication, and I’d hope you’d want the same.”
He sighs, then pulls you just outside the lounge, out of earshot.
“Okay, I don’t want to make you even later, but if we’re going to talk, then talk. Don’t allude to stuff — just say it.”
You exhale. “I thought maybe you and Samira were… seeing each other. From the way she spoke to Beau. And the looks from Dana and Robby—”
Jack actually laughs. “She’s 29. I’m her attending. We grab coffee, I mentor her. Sometimes when I have Beau, yeah. If that bothers you, I’ll keep it in mind. But I’m trying to be a good doctor. A good mentor. A good… whatever to you. And it still feels like I’m messing it all up. So just—don’t assume. Talk to me.”
You flush. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just stressed.”
He twists a strand of your hair between his fingers, gently. “Y’know… would take a lot of stress off both of us if you moved back in. We could split the chores. Carpool. Coordinate pickups. Plus, I can think of a few stress relievers we used to be real good at…”
You swat his hand. “Okay, sure. Ha. Ha. I’m going to say bye to Beau. See you Saturday.”
On your way out, you pass Dana outside on her cigarette break.
“You know, a couple doctors I know say those things kill you.”
She exhales a laugh. “Not if this job kills me first. Life’s too short already to deprive yourself of the things — or people — you love.”
“Sure, Dana.”
“Any time, missy. And just so you know… he’s different. He’s been going through it, but he’s doing the work. Seeing that therapist. Doesn’t come in as much on his days off. There’s some… balance there now.”
“Sure, Dana. Bye, Dana.”
But the thought lingers.
Two days into your trip, you’re feeling a bit lonely. It always hits harder when Jack has him. You don’t usually FaceTime when they’re together — boundaries. But this feels like an exception.
you: how’s my boy?
jack: i’m doing great. how’s my girl?
you: 🙄
you: how’s Beaujack: see, you gotta be more direct. a man could get confused
jack: he’s great. hit a double. got a popsicle. we’re watching transformers for the 80th time. classic boys night.
you: bad time to try to facetime?
Incoming Call: Jack Abbot (ICE)
You swipe to answer, suddenly aware of the dark circles under your eyes, still in the hotel bed after a full day of networking.
“Mooooommyyyy!” Beau’s voice shrieks through the phone. “I did so good at baseball and then got a treat and Daddy made pasta and we’re gonna watch a movie!”
“That sounds amazing, baby! Are you having a good time?”
“The best! When do you come back?”
“Three sleeps.”
“And then we have Mommy and Daddy time?”
“Of course. You think about what you want to eat, okay? I’ll pick it up on the way.”
“Okay. And then we all sleep here?”
You pause. “No, baby. Remember? I sleep at my house, Daddy sleeps at his. You sleep at either.”
He gets quiet. Your chest aches.
“Alright, time for jammies and teeth. Go get ready, kiddo.” you hear shouted from the other room.
“Okay, bye Mom!” he says, dropping the phone.
Jack’s face replaces the ceiling. “I like hearing your voice in the living room again. Makes the house feel full.”
“Jack. You gotta stop.”
“Just saying. Beau’s not the only one who likes the sound of you here. My offer’s still on the table.”
You roll your eyes. “Sure, Jack. Hey… would it be okay if I called again Friday? I know we don’t usually, but… I miss him.”
“You’re never a bother. I could strap the iPad to my chest, have you join us for the whole day.”
You laugh. “God, Jack. You really know how to make a girl’s night better.”
“Oh baby, don’t I always.”
“Bye, Jack.” you roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling when you hang up.
--
The weather turned halfway through your drive from the airport, and between the stop for food and the hike from the only available parking spot, it feels like you swam the last block.
Jack opens the door barefoot, in joggers and a hoodie, towel slung over his shoulder.
“Hey,” you breathe.
“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking down to your drenched clothes. “Jesus.” He reaches instinctively for your bag, handing you the towel, hand brushing yours. “C’mon. Let’s get you warm.”
You step inside. Beau’s already wrapped around your legs before you can shrug off your coat. Jack disappears into the kitchen, already dishing out dinner.
“You don’t have to—”
“Just eat,” he says, setting a bowl in front of you. “You’re freezing.”
You sit. The food’s still warm, garlicky, comforting. You glance up at him. “You’ve gotten better at this.”
“Ordering takeout?” he teases, leaning against the counter.
You laugh, shaking your head. “No… this.” You wave a hand vaguely at the house — the toys in the living room, the quiet rhythm of it all. “The parenting. The life stuff. You don’t seem rattled anymore.”
He gives a half-shrug. “Had to be better.”
You eat in companionable silence while Beau chatters from his spot at the table, recapping his week in half-sentences and excited tangents.
“Mom, can I watch a show while you finish?”
“Dad’s house, dad’s rules,” you say, looking to Jack.
“Sure thing, kiddo. But grab your gifts for Mom first — then one episode.”
Beau vanishes.
“Gifts?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
Jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “Just some stuff he made. He’s proud of it.”
The silence that follows stretches, not quite awkward, but thick with something unspoken.
Then Jack says, low and clear, “I miss you.”
You look up, startled. Heart catching in your chest.
“I know I don’t say it often. Or the right way. But I do. I miss you. Not just the idea of you being around — you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about how it felt, before things got hard. And… how lately, it’s been feeling like that again. When you’re here.”
You put your fork down, gently. “Jack…”
“I’m not asking to go back. Or to pretend the last few years didn’t happen. I’m just wondering if maybe we could try something new. Something more intentional.” He gestures faintly in the direction of Beau’s room. “We’ve already rebuilt the foundation, haven’t we?”
You study him. The steadiness in his eyes. The quiet way he’s offering — not demanding.
Finally, you exhale. “I didn’t think I’d get another version of you.”
“I didn’t think I had another version to give,” he says softly.
“So… what are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying I want you back,” he murmurs. “In the way that counts. I want to build this life with you — not just pass each other in it.”
You reach up, cup his cheek. “That’s a really nice speech.”
“I practiced,” he grins.
“You’re still kind of an idiot.”
His smile widens. He brushes a damp strand of hair off your forehead. “I said I’ve grown, not become a completely new person.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “Okay. So how do we do this?”
“What?”
“I’m not just moving back in and jumping into bed with you, Jack. You still have a lot to prove.”
“Of course,” he says, straightening a bit. “I was thinking… maybe a family movie night tomorrow? Something easy.”
“Okay,” you nod. “I like the sound of that.”
“And if that goes well, maybe a grown-up movie night? I’ll wine and dine you. And we can make out in the back row like teenagers.”
You laugh, big and genuine. “I think I like the sound of that too.”
“God, I missed your laugh.”
The silence that settles then feels different. Full, not tense.
Then Jack says, almost too casually, “Oh — I’m switching to days.”
You blink. “Wait, what?”
“Robby and I talked. Figured I’d use this week off to reset my sleep schedule. I start the day shift officially tomorrow.”
Your jaw drops slightly. “Jack…”
“This isn’t about you. Well — a little. But it’s mostly about Beau. Nights just aren’t sustainable anymore, and I want a more stable schedule for him. It’s time.”
You reach up, fingers brushing the side of his hair. “Okay. But only if it’s right for you. I never wanted you to give up what you love.”
“I’m not giving up what I love,” he says, voice quiet but sure. “I did that three years ago. I’m just rearranging things now — so I don’t lose it again.”
You don’t answer with words.
You just kiss him. Soft. Certain.
And when Beau comes racing back in with a construction-paper-wrapped something clutched in his hands, he skids to a stop and grins.
“Are you guys kissing?”
Jack smirks against your forehead. “Yeah, bud. I think we might be.”
pairing: jack abbot x f!reader
word count: 1k whoops!!
notes: i wrote it thinking of the couple from all my other jack x reader blurbs but they can all be read standalone! Also I stole some of this from ER S2 E10 bc Shep gave me Abbot vibes in that scene lol
You’ve been planning this barbecue for weeks. It finally feels like summer in the city, and you and Jack agreed it was time to start integrating your friend groups — a real "see how the worlds blend" kind of thing.
He’s already met your friends. They’re obsessed with him, obviously. And you’ve stopped by the bar a few times for post-shift drinks with his people. But this? This was something a little more planned. A little more intentional. And you have a sneaking suspicion he’s hoping to set up your friend Olivia with Shen, but that’s a whole other story.
You’re a bit stressed.
Sure, it was your idea together, but with Jack’s schedule (and his, let’s say, casual approach to logistics for all things outside of patient care) most of the planning has fallen on you. And you’ve only been dating officially for three-ish months.
He did go with you to the grocery store on his most recent day off, which only reminded you why you never grocery shop with him. Jack handles produce the same way he handles incoming traumas: focused, grim, and entirely too intense. You watch him inspect an avocado like it might code on the cart if he squeezes it wrong. He lets out a low huff every time you toss something in the cart that wasn’t on your shared list. You roll your eyes. He side-eyes your impulse-buy lemonade. It's a whole thing.
Still, the day-of, he’s been great. His townhouse is bigger than your apartment and has a small backyard that he’s clearly invested in — fire pit, outdoor furniture, and even those outdoor string lights you once offhandedly said would be cute. He’s prepped all the food and is fully committed to manning the grill all night.
That doesn’t stop you from snapping a little when, two hours before guests arrive, he decides now is the perfect time to repaint the baseboards.
“Seriously?” you say, exasperated. “That’s what you think people are going to notice?”
He blinks, caught mid-brush stroke. “They’re chipping. I already had the paint out.”
You throw your hands up, immediately regretting your tone. “Sorry. I’m just stressed. I’m worried your friends aren’t going to like mine.”
He sets the paint down, walks over, and settles his hands gently on your hips.
“Baby,” he murmurs, eyes soft. “You’ve never seen my crew at a real party. I’m worried they’re gonna make me look like a fool.”
The party’s in full swing by the time you finally get a breath. Laughter drifts from the yard. Drinks clink. Someone’s put on a playlist that’s very heavy on 2000s throwbacks. You duck into the kitchen to refill the chips when you hear footsteps behind you.
Jack leans in the doorway, smiling, “Not very good hosts if we’re both inside.”
There’s a beat — just a little too long — before he says it, casual as anything: “I love you.”
You blink. Freeze. He grins, that cocky, endearing little smirk. “I do. I said it. I do. I think i even want you to have my babies.”
“Jack,” you say, half-laughing, “you’re drunk. And probably have heatstroke.”
“I’ve had one beer. And I’ve been wearing a hat. I mean it. Every word. I think we’d have really good ones. I think they’d look nice. I think we should spend every day together and throw parties all the time and do this.”
He’s inched closer, now practically nose to nose with you.
“Jack…” you whisper, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and giddiness, arms resting on his shoulders, fingers curling into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.
He doesn’t back off. If anything, he steps even closer.
“I know it’s sudden. I know it’s out of the blue,” he says, voice low but steady. “But I said it. And I don’t take it back. You don’t have to say it back. I’m just… happy. So happy. And I wanted you to know. Okay?”
The back door creaks open. “Found any more—oop. Okay, I’ll, um. Bye.” Samira spins on her heel and disappears before the door even fully closes again.
You stare at Jack, totally unaware of the interruption, still stunned. There’s this moment suspended between you, like time is trying to decide whether to speed up or stop completely.
“Say the first part again,” you whisper.
He softens instantly. “What, the ‘I love you’?”
You nod.
“I love you,” he says.
You lean in and kiss him. And he kisses you back like it’s something he’s been meaning to do his whole life. Like now that he’s started, he doesn’t plan to stop. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he murmurs between kisses, each one soft and sure and just a little breathless.
You laugh, smiling against his mouth. “I think… maybe… we should head back out.”
He rests his forehead against yours, still catching his breath. “See? That’s why I love you. I need someone responsible in my life. Need me to bring anything out?”
“Yeah,” you grin. “The chips.”
“Got it. Love you,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads for the back door, all ease and satisfaction.
You hesitate, just a second, then call after him.
“Hey… Jack.”
He turns, one hand already on the doorknob.
“I love you too.”
His grin spreads slow and wide — full, unfiltered, proud — and he winks like he just won something.
“Yeah you do.”
The party winds down in a blur of campfire light and half-finished drinks.
Olivia and Shen are tucked in the corner, deep in conversation, completely oblivious to the fact that half the party is placing silent bets on when they’ll kiss. You’re tucked against Jack’s side on the patio couch, his arm around your shoulders, your knees pulled up and your head resting lightly against him. Your friends are chatting around you, the last embers of the fire pit glowing low.
Jack’s talking to Robby, low-voiced and relaxed, when you hear it. “Thought we were gonna have to wrap this thing up without you,” Robby teases. “Heard you were getting climbed like a tree in the kitchen.”
You tense, heat rising in your face. But Jack just squeezes your hip — gentle, grounding — and replies, cool as ever:
i can't stop thinking about this so heres a blurb from jack's POV
Jack’s not nervous.
He’s hosted people before. He’s been to plenty of hospital parties, summer cookouts, more than a few chaotic post-shift beer-and-bonfire nights with his team. This isn’t new.
You’ve been stressed all day — snapping a little at the floorboard painting, pacing over the chip bowls, triple-checking that the grill’s actually hot (it is, he’s been out there all damn afternoon). He gets it. This whole merging-friend-groups thing felt casual when you planned it, but now that everyone’s here and mixing? It’s a lot.
And it’s your first real “us” thing. Not a plus-one, not a nightcap. A thing.
He finally steps inside and finds you at the counter, refilling chips like it’s a test.
“Not very good hosts if we’re both inside,” he says, leaning in the doorway.
You turn, surprised, like you’d forgotten anyone else existed for a second. Your face softens the second you see him, and it hits him again — he loves you.
It’s not a realization, exactly. It’s not new. It’s just loud right now. Like someone’s turned up the volume and he can’t not hear it anymore.
So he says it. “I love you.”
You blink.
He smirks, heart thudding hard in his chest, and keeps going before he can psych himself out. “I do. I said it. I do. I think I even want you to have my babies.”
You laugh — startled, a little breathless — and accuse him of being drunk or heatstruck.
“I’ve had one beer,” he insists. “And I’ve been wearing a hat. I mean it. Every word. I think we’d have really good ones. I think they’d look nice. I think we should spend every day together and throw parties all the time and do this.”
He’s closer now. Too close. Practically nose to nose.
“Jack…” you whisper, and he’s not sure if you’re about to kiss him or run.
“I know it's sudden. I know it's out of the blue, but I said it, and I don’t take it back. You don’t have to say it back. I’m just… so happy. And I wanted you to know. Okay?”
He means every damn word.
Then the door creaks behind him.
“Found any more—oop. Okay, I’ll, um. Bye.”
Samira.
God help him.
He stares at you.
You stare right back.
Then you ask him, so softly:
“Say the first part again.”
“What, the ‘I love you’?”
You nod.
He says it again. “I love you.”
And then you kiss him, and something deep in his chest unclenches. Like he’s finally exhaled after holding his breath for weeks.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he mumbles between kisses, grinning against your mouth like a teenager.
You pull back slightly, murmuring that you should head back outside. He nods, forehead pressed to yours. “See, that’s why I love you. You’re the responsible one. Need me to bring anything out?”
You tell him to grab the chips.
He heads toward the back door, chips in hand, heart still thudding like hell, and then—
