Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x nurse!girlfriend!reader
Warnings: angst, hurt, relationship angst, tension, emotional vulnerability, injury mention, medical-trauma environment setting.
Summary: After that morning, you swap to two weeks of day shifts to give yourselves space. Despite the opposite schedules, the hurt and the distance, subtle check-ins and high praise from a colleague spark a wave of jealousy and self-reflection in Jack, making him realize he needs to earn your trust back and show you he views you as an equal in your relationship
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
A/N this feels like a filler chapter but I needed to develop their love and hurt and distance during her day shifts
(Credits to @kamarimartell for the Robby's part idea)
— Hurtful words Fic .‧₊˚
1. Words you can’t unsay 2. It's temporary, right? 3. Fixing us
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The rest of the morning offered no real sleep, only tossing and turning. Your mind kept rewiring the same tape: the desperation in Jack’s eyes, the grip of his hand around your waist, and the sharp edge in his voice on the ER that made you feel so completely small.
By midday, you turned off your alarm for the upcoming night shift and sent a brief email requesting the schedule swap, citing personal reasons.
Within an hour, it was approved.
And you had two full days off before transitioning to your first day shift.
Two days of deafening silence. Because you have told him you would text him but the need of space was bigger than the love for him.
Neither of you called.
You respected the boundaries you had set.
Then, on the the second morning, Jack tried not to bother you, but he needed to know you were okay, because news spread fast and he knew you were going to spend two weeks on day shift; and your conversations would turn short.
Jack [06:35 AM]: Hi, beautiful.
Jack [06:50 AM]: I know you asked for space, but I just want to make sure the cut on your arm is healing properly and isn't showing signs of infection. Please make sure you're keeping it clean.
You stared at the screen for long minutes. It was so distinctly him; hiding his worry behind medical professionalism because he didn't know how to reach you.
You [07:15 AM]: Hi. It’s healing fine.
Jack [07:16 AM]: Good.
Jack [07:16 AM]: Have a good first day shift.
You didn't reply to the last text. You locked your phone, swallowed down the lump rising in your throat, and pulled on your scrubs.
Walking into the emergency department at 07:30 AM felt entirely foreign. The daytime atmosphere was louder and faster.
Patients flooded the waiting room, phones rang incessantly, and the familiar faces of the night crew were entirely absent, replaced by the bustling energy of the day staff.
You looked at the patient list on the main screen, and started memorizing the patient data at the central nursing station, trying to force your mind into work mode.
"Look who decided to join us!"
Dana appeared beside you with a cup of coffee in hand, balancing a stack of folders on her lap. "We rarely see you in the daylight. Did the night shift finally drain the life out of you, or has Dr. Abbot realized he can't concentrate with his favorite nurse around?"
She nudged your shoulder playfully, chuckling under her breath.
You held your breath for a second. The sudden mention of his name sent a cold ache straight through your chest before turning to face her.
Your posture was rigid, your expression guarded.
"Hi, Dana," you said, your voice was laced with a unyielding boundary. "I'm... I'm sorry, but I would really appreciate it if you didn't bring up Jack unless it's for professional reasons."
Dana’s smile instantly faded, replaced by shock. She blinked, taking in the shadowed tiredness under your eyes and the rigid line of your shoulders.
The teasing air in the room evaporated instantly.
"Oh," Dana said softly. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I didn't know."
"It's okay," you replied, giving her a smile. "Just... keeping things professional."
She nodded quickly, respecting the wall you had just put up.
But as you went back to the patients, the silence around the desk felt heavier than before, a stark reminder that while you were physically moving through the daylight, a part of you was still stuck in that cold, quiet hallway.
Day shift moved at a punishing pace. Around 11 AM, the red emergency phone at the desk blared to life.
A three car pileup on the highway was incoming; multiple critical traumas, two minutes out. The entire floor shifted into high gear.
"Trauma 1!" Robby called out, clapping his hands sharply as he rushed toward the bay. "Let's go!"
You didn't hesitate. Snapping on fresh nitrile gloves and snapping your face shield into place, you moved straight into Trauma 1.
When the gurney burst through the double doors, it was absolute chaos. The patient was a young male, hypotensive, thrashing violently, and bleeding heavily from a deep arterial laceration on his thigh. Monitors were screaming, paramedics were shouting over each other to give report, and blood was already pooling on the floor.
"He's crashing! BP is dropping!" Robby yelled, leaning over the chest to secure the airway. "We need line access now, and somebody control that bleed!"
"I've got the femoral line," you said, your voice cutting cleanly through the noise.
There was zero panic in your tone. Whatever emotional exhaustion you were carrying outside those glass doors vanished the second you stepped over the threshold.
Your hands were steady, precise, and completely unwavering.
As a resident applied firm pressure to the laceration with one hand, you smoothly preppared the central line kit. When the patient thrashed, trying to pull away, you held him firm with authoritative efficiency. "Robby, central line is prepped for you. Hanging two units of O-negative now." you called out, calling out vitals before anyone even had to ask.
You moved like clockwork, anticipating steps three moves ahead, passing instruments, and handing off medications with fluid precision.
Robby glanced over at you mid-procedure, his eyes widening slightly behind his protective visor. He was used to working with seasoned day-shift veterans, but your sheer composure, speed, and clinical focus under intense pressure was undeniable.
You weren't just following orders, you were helping run the bay.
Twenty minutes later, the patient was stabilized, intubated, and being prepped for emergency surgery. Outside Trauma 1, Robby pulled off his visor and leaned next to Dana, watching you through the window as you wiped down the equipment carts.
"Damn," Robby muttered under his breath, shaking his head in genuine impression. "Who trained her on night shift?"
Dana glanced over at him as she crossed her arms. "Jack did, mostly. But she's always been sharp."
"Sharp is an understatement," Robby said, his voice carrying professional respect. "Zero hesitation, zero panic, perfect technique under pressure. Half the young nurses would have lost their footing in a bay that messy, but she handled it like she's been doing this for fifteen years."
"Abbot's out of his mind if he thinks she's just some junior nurse," Robby added quietly, tapping his chart against his leg. "She’s built for this floor."
The shift was winding down around 6:30 p.m. The constant shouting of the shift had subsided into a quiet routine, leaving you sitting in a peaceful corner of the nurses' station, organizing the last few tests with their corresponding charts.
Your phone vibrated gently in your pocket.
Jack [06:30 PM]: How did the first day shift go?
You stared at the message, your thumb hovering over the screen.
It was cautious, polite-carefully maintaining the boundary you had set while still checking in.
You [06:35 PM]: Busy. We had a heavy trauma pileup, but I survived.
Jack [06:37 PM]: Good.
Jack [06:38 PM]: Robby texted me earlier... said you were incredible today.
A dull ache gripped your chest.
Knowing he knew, and that he was watching you from afar, made the emptiness between you feel even greater. But every time that ache returned, the way he had treated you days before resurfaced in your mind.
You [06:39 PM]: I was just doing my job.
Jack [06:40 PM]: I know. You always do. I just wanted you to know I'm proud of you. Like always.
You swallowed hard, resting your forehead in your hand for a moment before typing back.
You [06:45 PM]: Thanks. Are you prepping for tonight?
Jack [06:45 PM]: Yeah. Heading in at 8. Which reminds me, I can't pick you up or drive you home.
Before you could type back that you were planning on taking the bus, a notification popped up at the top of your screen: a transfer confirmation from your banking app.
Jack Abbot sent you $45.00.
Note: "For your Uber tonight and tomorrow. Don't take the bus when you're tired."
A small pang tugged in your heart. Even with the silence, even with the rift hanging between you, he was still looking out for you in his way.
You [06:50 PM]: You didn't have to send money. I could have managed.
Jack [06:53 PM]: I know you can. I'm just making sure you're getting straight into a car and going home safely.
The care in his words felt like a double-edged sword—tender, yet loaded with the heavy, lingering weight of everything that had happened. The tension was palpable right through the screen, two people holding on tightly to the affection they felt while standing on opposite sides of a canyon.
You [07:00 PM]: Okay. Thank you, Jack.
Jack [07:01 PM]: Get some rest tonight. I miss you.
Your breathing hitched, your thumb hovering over the keypad as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.
You [07:02 PM]: Will do.
Jack [07:10 PM]: I love you.
The words sat there on the screen, a quiet truth despite the pain.
You [07:20 PM]: Good luck on night shift.
Jack [07:21 PM]: Get home safe.
You stared at the final message for a long moment before closing the chat and gathering your things to head out into the evening light.
The next days passed in a strange suspended reality. Working opposite shifts meant your worlds barely touched. While you were waking up and starting your shift, Jack was coming off a twelve-hour night, collapsing into his bed.
You kept up a quiet rhythm of brief text messages throughout the day, checking in, asking if the other had eaten, sending small updates on patients; but the unspoken distance remained carefully preserved.
Once, you managed a brief videocall right as you were headed home and his shift begin.
Seeing his face on the screen sent a tingle through your stomach, while at the same time a pang of anxiety in your chest fought against that feeling. He was standing on the rooftop, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair slightly disheveled.
"You look tired," you whispered softly.
"I am," Jack had replied, his voice raspy. "Last shift was pretty rough and couldn't sleep well."
"I know, you told me," you said, offering a small sad smile. "I should let you start to your shift."
"Yeah," he murmured, his eyes lingering on yours with an intense, quiet longing before he sighed. "Message me when you get home. Call me if you need anything."
"I will. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, beautiful."
The screen went black, leaving you both holding onto the faint comfort of hearing each other's voices.
-
The evening after, Jack arrived at the hospital forty five minutes before his night shift officially started. As he walked past the central nurses' station, he spotted Robby standingthere flipping through a chart.
"Brother," Robby called out, looking up with a easy grin. "You're early. Night shift leaking into your personal life?"
"Just wanted to get a head start," Jack said, stopping by the edge of the counter and leaning against it. He tried to keep his tone casual, but his eyes automatically darted toward the day shift assignment board.
Robby caught where Jack was looking and let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he closed the chart.
"If you're looking for your girl, you missed her by a few minutes," Robby said smoothly. "She just headed out to catch her ride."
Jack’s jaw tightened slightly at the phrase your girl, but he forced a neutral nod. "How was her shift?"
"Flawless, as usual," Robby replied, leaning back against the desk with an appreciative nod. "Honestly, Jack, I don't know what you were talking about when you used to complain about her being young or green. She had a tough pediatrics case today; distraught parents, chaotic room, kid crashing; and she handled those parents with more maturity and grace than half our senior staff."
Jack stayed silent.
"She's sharp, grounded, and she's wise way beyond her years," Robby continued, entirely unaware of the raw nerve he was pressing. He smirked, tapping his pen against the counter. "I might go myself to negotiate her transfer. We could use someone with that kind of head during the day rush."
The joke, told so casually, struck a nerve with Jack.
A sudden possessiness and jealousy flared deep in his gut. Hearing Robby praise your maturity and strength forced Jack to face what he had been trying to avoid for days.
You weren't fragile. You weren't a careless kid who needed his stern protection or his patronizing fear.
You were a brilliant, capable, extraordinary woman who was thriving entirely on her own; and his own overbearing arrogance had driven you right off his shift and out of his bed.
"She belongs wherever she wants to be," Jack said, his voice serious and grave, which instantly cut off Robby's satisfied smile.
Robby blinked, sensing the sudden shift in the air, and raised his hands in mild defense. "Hey, just giving credit. She's great, Jack."
"I know she is," Jack whispered.
And she's mine, he thought.
He didn't wait for Robby to reply.
He turned and walked straight toward the breakroom, the door shutting behind him.
Standing alone there, Jack pressed his palms against the counter and let his head drop. His heart raced with a desperate desire to hear your voice, to feel your skin against his, to pull you into his arms and apologize until his lungs ran dry.
He pulled out his phone and stared at your chat. Before his brain could offer any of his logic, he hit your name and pressed the phone to his ear.
It rang once.
Twice.
"Jack? Hi."
Your voice was soft, slightly muffled by the background noise of the street as you walked out your Uber.
"Hi," Jack said, his voice coming out rushed. He walked tight circles in the breakroom, his hand gripping the back of his neck. "Did you leave already? Are you home?"
"I'm just getting out my Uber now," you said. The confused concern in your tone was palpable. "Jack, what's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I just- I talked to Robby," Jack blurted out. He didn't even try to filter himself. The filter was burned away by the thought of losing you to another schedule, another life that didn't include him. "He was talking about your shift today, about the pediatrics case."
You went quiet, stoppng at your building door. "Yeah, it was a rough case."
"He said you were incredible," Jack breathed. "He said... he said you handled it with so much maturity. He is always talking about how wise you are, how grounded you are under pressure."
On the other end of the line, you blinked. Genuine surprise washed over you. "Oh... Did he really say that?"
"Yes," Jack said, his breath catching sharply in his chest as he tried to articulate the sudden knot in his stomach. "He did. And then he joked... he joked about keeping you on the day shift permanently."
He stopped pacing, his forehead pressing hard against the wall of the breakroom. His breathing was heavy with desperate panic.
"You're not staying on days, are you?" Jack asked, the question spilling out of him like a confession. He sounded like a man drowning. "Please tell me this is still temporary. Please tell me you're coming back to nights. I can't walk through these doors every night and know you're that you're thriving away from me because I hurted you."
The vulnerability in his voice, gripped by panic, pierced your defenses. You heard his breathing, rapid and agitated, and for the first time in days, you heard the man who loved you so intensely that it frightened him.
"Jack," you said softly through his spiraling thoughts. "Take a breath and listen to me, okay?"
Jack closed his eyes tightly as he forced himself to stay silent and listen.
"I... I am not staying on day shift permanently," you said. "I requested two weeks. Just two weeks to let things cool down and to get our heads straight. I’m coming back to nights."
A long exhale shuddered out of Jack’s lips.
"Jack?" you added gently. "We are okay. I mean, not totally, I'm still hurt and trying to figure things out. But day shift is temporary."
Jack swallowed hard, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Okay… Okay." Hearing the dramatic weight leave his voice, you couldn't resist lightening the heavy air between you just a little.
"Don't panic, old man," you teased. "I know you miss me."
Jack let out a wet laugh, shaking his head. "You have no idea."
"Go to work," you added, "or I'll actually stay with Robby during the day; he seems proud of me."
"Shut up," Jack rasped out, though the sheer affection in his tone completely ruined any attempt at sounding stern. A soft smile finally broke through his panic. "I love you."
"I love you," you whispered, saying for the first time after days.
"I miss you, beautiful."
"I know."
Then, the middle of the night shift arrived and Jack sat at the central desk.
Jack [02:14 AM]: It’s quiet down here tonight. I keep looking over at the corner stool where you usually stand.
His thumb hovered over his phone, waiting.
You [02:15 AM]: Are you missing your favorite nurse, Dr. Abbot?
A smile touched the corner of Jack’s lips; the first real smile his face had worn in days.
Jack [02:16 AM]: Exceedingly so.
Jack [02:17 AM]: Why are you awake?
Jack [02:17 AM]: Go to sleep.
A shadow fell over him. Lena leaned against the counter with an amused knowing look in her eyes.
She had caught the soft look on his face before he could wipe it clean.
"Tell my baby I miss her," Lena instructed casually.
Jack instantly locked his phone, setting it face down on the desk with a clear effort to look unbothered. "I’m coordinating patient hand-offs, Lena."
"Right. Because patient hand-offs usually make you smile like a teenager," Lena replied dryly, raising an eyebrow. "Have you two actually sat down and talked yet? Or are you just playing telephone across different shifts?"
Jack sighed, running a hand over his face. "We talk. We text. She assured me the day shift transfer is temporary... but no, we haven't sat down in the same room since that morning."
Lena leaned and crossed her arms. "Jack... she needed space because you shattered her trust. You talked down to her like she was a child instead of treating her like your partner."
"I know," Jack said softly, his voice heavy with self-reproach. "I know I handled it terribly. But I’m respecting her boundaries. I’m giving her the time she asked for."
"Is she asking for space, or is she waiting for you?" Lena asked gently.
Jack looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Lena said, leaning in a fraction closer, "words are easy, Jack. You told her you were sorry, and she knows you love her. But right now, she’s wondering if you actually see her as an equal, or if you're just waiting for things to go back to normal so you can play protector again."
She tapped her knuckles lightly against the desk.
"She’s not going to make the first move, we know her," Lena added quietly. "She needs you to do something that shows her that you respect her as an adult and an equal in this relationship. If you just wait around for her two weeks to end and then you're not showing her that change in you, you're going to lose her for good."
Jack sat in silence as Lena's words settled, her advice echoing in his mind, sparking a resolute determination.
She’s waiting for you to do something to prove it.
He unlocked his phone, he didn't want to play it safe anymore.
He didn't want to hide behind cautious check-ins and clinical distance.
Jack [03:08 AM]: When is your next day off?
He sent it before he could second guess himself.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You groaned softly, reaching it, expecting a routine shift update or a quiet "goodnight" sent during a lull in Trauma.
Instead, those six words stared back at you.
You sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your heart suddenly doing a nervous flip.
No I love you, no medical check-in, no casual small talk; just a direct question.
You [03:10 AM]: Thursday. Before returning to nights. Why?
The three dots appeared almost instantly on his end, held for a long moment, and then disappeared.
A minute passed. Then two.
Just as you were about to type another message, his reply finally popped up:
Jack [03:14 AM]: Don't make plans. I'll pick you up at eight.
You stared at the screen, your mind spinning.
Pick me up at eight?
For what?
To talk?
To end things?
To fix things?
You [03:15 AM]: ???
You [03:15 AM]: What is this about?
Jack [03:16 AM]: Sleep, beautiful. See you on Thursday.
You stared at the final text, your breath hitching in your throat as your phone went dark. You fell back against the pillows, your heart pounding loudly in the dark room.
Summary: In which you finally snap out of your drunken state enough to sort things out.
Warnings: Blood!
Word count: 3.2k
Note: Reader is named Reid.
You heard the awful crunch of bone as it echoed throughout the bar and the you saw Robby’s head snap back as he stumbled a few steps backwards.
Your heart stopped dead in your chest as the world seemed to slow then speed up, the noises and colors playing in your mind like a broken carnival ride.
You saw the way Robby’s hand instinctively flew to his face, and the way Jack immediately jumped into action.
Before you could even blink, Jack was in front of the big guy who had hit Robby, in his face yelling something you couldn’t hear. You saw his mouth moving but couldn’t hear what he was saying.
“-need to back the fuck off!” You finally heard Jack yell as sounds became clearer in your jumbled mind.
The big guy didn’t move. He just stayed standing tall in the face of Jack Abbot’s fury. You didn’t know how he did it. Angry, protective Jack Abbot was terrifying.
“You have no idea what’s going on here! So just stay the hell out of it!” Jack yelled like you’d never seen him yell before.
He was so incredibly…protective over Robby. It did something to your chest.
“I know what I saw!” The stranger yelled.
“You don't know shit!” Jack yelled,
”Jack, calm down! I’m alright!” Robby yelled, but the sound muffled by the hand covering his nose.
“I’m not letting you assholes drag her out of here when she clearly doesn’t trust you!” The stranger snarled in Jack’s face.
“For fucks sake! We’re not going to do anything to her! We just want to get her home safely! Unlike you, we aren’t violent guys.” Jack snapped, losing his cool.
The stranger's eyes turned furious. “You expect me to believe that? A pretty thing like that? Taken home by two old guys like yourselves? You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe a word out of your mouths.”
You spared a moment to glance around the bar, feeling like your lips were glued together. People were staring. Like a lot of people. Some had their phones out, some filming, some no doubt calling the cops. You felt as if every pair of eyes in the room were on you and the rising situation.
Your heart beat loudly in your ears, pounding in your chest. The haze of all your had to drink tonight was still present, but things were becoming clearer, less foggy as you began to sober with the situation. Then you turned around to look at Robby.
Oh god.
Your stomach dropped.
There was so much blood.
The scarlet liquid covered Robby’s chin, his cupped hands, and dripped down his wrist and arm.
You felt sick.
You turned back around at the sound of a harsh hit to the chest.
The stranger now shoved at Jack's chest. No- no- not him too. You couldn't- you wouldn’t have the man hurt him too.
Jack stumbled back a step, but was quick to bounce back, shoving at the man’s chest.
“Do that again, I dare you.” The big guy snarled.
Jack got closer to the man’s face. “Why? What are you gonna do? Hit me too?”
“I will. If you keep acting like an asshole, asshole.”
“Oh, I’m the asshole? I’m not the one that-“ Jack started.
You couldn’t take it anymore. Your breathing sped up, your head pounded and you felt like you were about to throw up. Robby’s blood was dripping onto the bar floor and you couldn’t take this any longer. You inhaled a deep breath before finally unglueing your lips.
“STOP!” You screamed, loud enough that it even scared you.
Your scream was louder than the music playing in the bar and you saw a few people startle at your outburst.
Everyone froze and turned to face you. Your face flamed, but you tried your best to ignore them as you turned back around to face Robby.
His hand was still pressed to his nose, blood seeping between his fingers.
“Oh, god-“ your voice cracked.
The blood dripped onto the floor, making your stomach turn.
“Oh my god. Robby!” You stumbled towards him so quickly you nearly fell flat onto your drunk face.
“I-I-“ your hands came up to hover around his face, scared to hurt him worse.
“You’re- you’re bleeding-“ you stupidly stated the obvious, as more blood poured from his nose.
The sight gutted you, his sad brown eyes staring at you.
“Robby- I’m so so sorry-“ your voice broke. “I’m so sorry Robby, this is all my fault-“
Robby’s eyes took in your face, your wide terrified eyes, then the blood on his hands and arms. He only looked…sad.
Not angry. Just sad.
Then a teasing glint lit his dark eyes. “You couldn’t have yelled that earlier? Preferably before I got punched?” He groaned.
You let out a hiccup, shaking your head. “I-I-“
He sighed, then winced at the pain it caused him. “I suppose it’s better late than never.”
Tears blurred your vision as you swallowed down a sob. “Robby- this- this can’t be happening. I’m so sorry-“
You shook your head, tears springing free from your eyes.
“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay,” Robby soothed you, a bloody hand landing on your cheek.
“No- no! It’s not okay! This is all my fault!” You sobbed.
“Hey-“
“It is!” You insisted.
“Reid-“
“I I hadn’t-“ your breathing hitched.
Then he called you by your first name. The shock of it snapped you out of your spiral momentarily, enough for you to glance up at him through wet lashes.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this. I’m okay.” He murmured.
You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off.
“Not now anyway. There’s plenty of time for that later. For now, let’s just focus on getting out of here in one piece.”
Behind you, the gathered crowd remained silent.
“But-“ you sputtered.
“No buts.” Robby stated firmly, stroking a bloody finger over your cheek.
At this point you couldn’t tell where his blood and your tears began.
You felt yourself beginning to shake, and Robby seemed to notice that too, because he dropped his hand from your cheek, instead wrapping it around your waist to hold you up as he turned you around to face Jack and the man who’d thrown the punch.
Robby’s arm tightened around your waist when your eyes met Jack’s.
Jack was still standing between you and the big guy, chest heaving, jaw clenched, like he was readying for a fight.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Then Robby cleared his throat, the sound wet and clogged with his blood, and you winced.
Jack's head snapped towards him, his gaze like a physical touch. “You alright?”
“Never better.” Robby snarked, his hand tightening on your hip.
Jack’s keen eyes scanned the blood coating Robby’s hands, face, neck and arms.
You looked back at the guy who’d thrown the punch. “I- I’m okay. I…trust these guys. They’re not going to hurt me.” You admitted quietly.
The stranger looked between the three of you, his anger seeming to waver now that the fight was over. He looked at Robby’s bloody face. “Oh shit. I didn’t- I didn’t know. I’m really sorry.”
Jack held up a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t worry about it, man. You thought you were doing the right thing.”
The stranger looked at Robby, who just shrugged. “Don’t appreciate the punch, but I appreciate you lookin’ out for her.” Robby’s voice was muffled by the hand he still held to his face.
“I’m really sorry, man. I saw you trying to get her to-“ the man started.
Robby waved him off. “I know what it looked like.”
“It’s just she was saying no and-“
“I get it.” Robby cut him off.
You sniffled, still trembling slightly against Robby’s side. Jack's sharp eyes snapped to yours, his expression softening.
“Okay, that’s enough out of everyone. We need to get her home before she passes out.” Jack announced loudly, and you could have kissed him…again… for the ticket out of there.
“So, if you’ll just excuse us?” Jack’s voice had an undertone even your drunk ears sensed.
The stranger's eyes locked onto yours. You didn’t know what else to say. Your head was spinning, your face was wet with blood and tears and you were painfully aware of just how many people were watching you at this moment.
Robby’s hand squeezed your waist. “Reid?”
You forced your gaze to his, ignoring the blood.
“Do you want to come with us? Even if you do think we’re old?” At this, Robby glared at the stranger, who just shrugged.
Your eyes flickered between Jack and Robby, then you nodded. “Yeah. I want you guys to take me home.”
Jack exhaled a breath of relief. “Finally.” Then he turned back towards the stranger blocking the doorway. “You heard the lady.” Jack said.
The big guy looked at you for a second longer before finally stepping aside, letting you pass.
“Thank fuck.” Jack muttered under his breath. Jack opened the door and the cool night air greeted you. It had been unbelievably hot in the bar, so it was nice to have a breeze brush the damp stands of your hair.
Jack allowed you and Robby to pass first, keeping an eye on the big man. Robby tried to hide it, but he winced as he helped your stumbling ass out the door. Jack, of course, saw it.
“Guess we’re going back to the hospital.” Jack sighed.
Robby shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re absolutely not fine.” Jack snapped.
“You’re bleeding.” You added unhelpfully.
“I noticed.” Robby deadpanned.
“Robby.” Jack warned.
“Let’s just get her home first, okay?” Robby sighed.
“You need a head CT.” You mumbled.
“See? She gets it.” Jack pointed at you. “Back me up here, swee- Reid.” Jack stumbled over your name.
“You could have a-“ you hiccuped, “a concussion or a broken nose or a-“
“Alright, alright, alright. We’ll, go to the hospital. Who’s on tonight anyway?” Robby asked.
“It’s Shen’s night. He’ll be delighted to see us.” Jack sighed.
Robby held onto you tightly as he guided you towards a car, a dark sedan parked close to the bar. That must be his.
The streetlights cast a warm glow across the parking lot, providing some light to see by. Your head throbbed and your stomach churned as Robby fished his car keys out of his pocket with the hand not on your waist.
Robby unlocked the dark car, the headlights lighting up with a chirp.
”I’m fine to drive.” Robby said.
Jack sent Robby a look that said ‘don’t even try it’ before Robby sighed and tossed Jack the keys. Jack caught them with ease before opening the back door behind the drivers side, seemingly waiting for you. The adrenaline seemed to be wearing off and you felt yourself growing more tired and weak.
Your knees buckled slightly, and Robby held onto you tighter, holding you up, pressed to his side.
“I’ve got you.” He murmured quietly.
You blinked in confusion as your legs refused to cooperate and your head spun.
You couldn’t understand why any of this was happening. Robby had- he’d gotten punched because of you. You’d told him you hated him. And now he was helping you. Like he- you didn’t know how he felt about you.
All you knew was that you didn't deserve his gentle touch and attentive handling.
Robby carefully ushered you to the backseat of his car, helping you place your uncooperative legs in and placing your ass in the seat. “There we go.” He murmured, his hands smearing his blood onto your legs and waist. The both of you looked an absolute mess, but the bleeding seemed to be slowing.
Your head leaned back against the head rest and you closed your eyes, fighting the nausea roiling in your gut.
“I’m so sorry, Robby.” You whispered.
Robby just sighed as he grabbed your seatbelt and buckled you in. The movement sent butterflies off in your stomach, and then he went a step further and tested the belt against your stomach, making sure it was secure before finally drawing back and looking you in the eye.
“What for?” He asked.
God, you had so much to apologize for.
“Getting you punched.” You sighed, thinking it was safest to start with that.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not the first time, and I’m sure it won't be the last.” He shrugged.
“And…for…this.” You hesitated, pointing to yourself.
“For what?” A puzzled expression crossed his face.
“Being…like this. Difficult. Too much.” You bit your lip, not meeting his gaze.
He just scoffed. “Seriously? You think you're difficult? Have you met Jack Abbot?”
You smiled at his attempt at a joke. “Unfortunately.”
“Hey!” Jack yelled from just outside the car. “I’m just here ya’know.”
“Whoops.” You giggled, noticing Robby smiled when you smiled.
Robby’s eyes danced with amusement. “Don’t worry. No one’s forgotten you're here.” Robby rolled his eyes, but you still had something to apologize for. And you still felt sick to your stomach at the thought of what you'd said to him. Jack quickly hopped into the drivers side, clicking on the engine.
Robby had just ducked his head out of the car and closed your door when you stopped him. “Robby.”
He turned back to you and you lowered your window. “I-I-“ you cut yourself off, looking at your hands. “I don’t-“ you couldn’t seem to get the words out.
I don’t hate you.
God, how hard was that to say?
But no matter how much you tried to get your mouth to form the words, you just couldn’t.
“I don’t-“ you started again, but Robby cut you off.
“It’s okay. I know.” He murmured.
You looked up, meeting his dark gaze. “You do?”
He just nodded sadly. “I do.”
Robby lingered a moment longer before slipping into the passenger side and buckling himself in. “Oh, and Reid?” He said after a moment.
“Hm?” You hummed, eyes opening from where they’d slipped shut.
“Please don't throw up in my car.”
You gave him an uncoordinated mock salute. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” You sighed.
“This car is barely a year old.”
”I’m not going to throw up,” you groaned, your stomach churning and roiling despite your words.
Jack chuckled. “Robby, she looks green. And she’s had at least four whiskeys.”
“Make sure you roll the window down.” Robby grumbled.
You heard the automated window next to you roll down all the way, the wind blowing your hair every which way.
You felt the car beneath you pull out of the parking lot, and you fought off the exhaustion clawing at you, opening your eyes.
You met Jack’s gaze in the rear vision mirror, finding it already on you. You then looked at Robby, who was currently trying to clean his face up with old napkins from the glove compartment. He only succeeded in smearing the blood further across his cheek and down his neck.
The concern must have been evident on your face because Jack spoke.
“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be okay.”
”But-“ you started.
“I’m okay, Reid.” Robby assured you. But he didn't look okay. Not when he was this covered in blood, and not when he needed a hospital.
You just sighed, giving up. “Jack, do you need directions to my apartment?” He’d only been there earlier that day… but a lot had happened since then.
Jack shook his head. “We’re not going to your apartment.”
Your eyes widened. “Aren’t you taking me home?”
“We will eventually, but we have to make a quick Pitt stop at the hospital first. Ha- get it? Pitt stop?” Jack grinned at his own joke and Robby just sighed.
Your stomach clenched.
“No- no, I don’t need to come- I’ve caused enough trouble tonight-“ you started.
Jack’s eyes met yours in the mirror. “Luckily for you, we love trouble.”
“No- no. Just drop me home. Or just drop me off here-“
”On the side of the highway? At midnight?” Robby sputtered, looking out his window.
You cringed. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t your best idea. “I just mean-“
“Stop. You're coming with us. It’s not up for debate.” Jack said firmly.
“But-“
”You’re in no condition to be alone right now. You damn near gave yourself alcohol poisoning.” Robby muttered.
Well, he did have a point there.
“You could pass out in the shower, or choke on your own vomit, or-“ Jack supplied unhelpfully.
“Okay, okay. I get it. I’ll come with you, just please stop talking about vomit.” You groaned, feeling sick. Both men just chuckled.
Then, you looked between them, remembering how just earlier in the day Jack had broken your heart. How Robby had threatened to suspend you.
God, your life was such a mess. How had you gotten yourself into this absolute dumpster fire of a situation? Why did they care so much about you? With the way you'd acted, they should just leave you on the side of the highway at midnight.
“Besides, Shen loves you, Reid. I’m sure he’d love to see you and hear all about how you got Robby a broken nose.” Jack teased, but that only made the sinking feeling in your gut worse.
Oh, god.
You’d- what if his nose really was broken? What had you done? It was all your fault.
”Thanks, Jack.” Robby snapped at the other man, clearly seeing how upset the comment had made you.
Jack just shrugged.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the guilt that threatened to drown you. But the second you closed your eyes, all you could see was Robby’s head as it snapped backwards. The blood that covered his hands. The sound his nose had made as that man’s fist connected with it.
You leaned your head out the open window, watching the streetlights pass by. Your hair whipped around your face as the breeze dried your sticky cheeks.
Jack turned the radio on and a vaguely familiar old rock song started to drift out of the speakers.
You closed your eyes again as you let the feelings wash over you. The guilt. The confusion. The heartbreak.
“I love this song.” Robby murmured, turning the radio up.
The lyrics made their way to you and you couldn’t help but feel them.
And, baby, you're all that I want,
When you’re lyin’ here in my arms,
I’m findin’ it hard to believe, we’re in heaven,
And love is all that I need,
And I found it there in your heart,
You let the music soothe you, finally leaning your head back against the headrest again.
After the song finished and another song started to play, someone turned the radio down and Jack spoke.
“She out?”
“Looks like it.” Robby answered.
You didn't have the energy to correct them, instead staying quiet.
“Do you think she's going to remember any of this?” Jack asked.
”I think she’s going to have one hell of a hangover.” Robby answered.
“I can’t believe what happened tonight.” Jack remarked.
“She sure does keep us on our toes.” Robby murmured.
“Keeps things interesting.” Jack murmured.
“She sure does.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Jack said after a moment.
The both of them were silent for a while after that before Robby spoke again. “Neither would I.”
Something about their words settled something in your chest long enough for you to finally drift off to sleep.
————————————
A/N: Sorry it’s been so long since I posted part three!! Also the song I used here is heaven by Bryan Adams. It was on repeat when I wrote this!!
Also this fic has evolved from a jack abbot fic to a Jack AND Robby one. Let me know if that’s something you guys want me to explore more!!
And leave a comment if you would like to be tagged in any future parts!!
Here are some fics i've read recently! i loveeee all of these accounts and theres so many more works on each that i def recommend but i couldn't link them all ♡
♡ Jack Abbot ♡
❁ Behind Closed Doors - med school!jack x roommate!reader @andrewmiinyard
❁ Paper-Thin Walls - neighbor!jack x reader @agnireed
❁ Kindred Spirits - serial killer!jack x reader @opulentpeony
❁ Leave it on - Jack comes home in his tactical gear @afterdarkbydel
❁ The art of mutual benefit - med school!jack x med student!reader @softundermoonlight
❁ doll's corner - jack x camgirl!reader @80sfilmclub
❁ Never enough + Keep trying - jack forgets to mention you during an acceptance speech @obsessivefanfictionauthor
❁ accidentally sent jack a photo - In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo. @keytomylockhart
❁ due to weather - Snowed in after a conference, you and Jack Abbott are forced to share a hotel room, where one bed, a power outage, and months of unspoken tension make “professional courtesy” harder to believe. @fanficwritinggirl
❁ ring me up - jack abbot fucking loves his wedding ring, and hasn't parted with it since the day the two of you wed. after damaging it while helping robby fix his bike, it is back at the jeweler to get re-plated, and he has to endure a shift without both you and his beloved band of metal. @mourningstareyes
❁ from the start - you're running the flower gram booth fundraiser. this poses a bit of an obstacle for jack. @somethingeh
❁ jack abbot telling you to shut your fucking mouth @bambiiette
❁ riding jack's thigh @dirtygir1
❁ Sleepy girl @carbonfiction
❁ jealous jack @lostalioth
❁ crybaby @angelabbot
❁ the menu @fangirl-dot-com @oxalaia-quilombensis
❁ coming home to jack after a night off @robbyscoffee
❁ supercut of us @se7entyrell
❁ crash course @fxckingjo
♡ Andrew Pope Cody ♡
❁ Touch - pope x Deran's friend!reader @yournamesnob
❁ Home This Time - The day pope gets released from prison @fanficwritinggirl
❁ pope taking care of you after work @groovyangelkisses
❁ pope and you go lingerie shopping @romantic-insomniac
❁ your scent in my lungs @fangirl-dot-com
❁ baby daddy pope series @r4bidabbott
❁ faking it @in-ky
❁ bound to happen @moodyabbott
❁ homecoming @goldiefishwrites
❁ can we just be quick? @romantic-insomniac
❁ pope x prison doctor!reader @oxalaia-quilombensis
♡ Titus Danforth ♡
❁ His Lovely Obsession - titus x reader @opulentpeony
❁ In Sickness and In Health - titus x sick!reader @opulentpeony
♡ Sammy Bryant ♡
❁ Resisting Temptation - sammy x nanny!reader @agnireed
❁ a good man - sammy x tammi's sister!reader @agnireed
❁ sweethearts - childhood friend!sammy x first love!reader @opulentpeony
❁ baby daddy sammy @r4bidabbott
❁ his perfect girl @abbotverse
❁ after a fight @moodyabbott
❁ sweet provider @goldiefishwrites
❁ night patrol @lovaeir
❁ sammy getting flustered while you’re hanging all over him after a night out @lovaeir
♡ Stan Rosado ♡
❁Princess Protection - stan x reader @agnireed
♡ Multi ♡
❁ a simple arrangement + a little secret - fwb!jack x roommate!reader x pope @opulentpeony
❁ and they were roommates - roommate!robby x reader x jack @yournamesnob
p.s. i'm currently working on my own med school!jack series that i'm super excited about! it'll be posted on my main @missdaisywolf ♡
summary: jack had made it clear from the start—he was only available for casual, no strings attached stress relief. the way he acts after finding out you went on a date says something else entirely. (9.5k wc)
warnings: 18+ MDNI, porn with some plot, angst, coworkers with benefits, jealous!jack, yearning!jack, unspecified age gap, attending/resident power dynamics, jack is an ass (he gets slapped so it's chill), pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart), detailed explicit smut, mean!jack (reader likes it), dom!jack, brat/brat tamer vibes, dirty talk, dacryphilia, unprotected pnv, car sex, cowgirl, doggy, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, face sitting, chokehold, spanking (all my jack ass man believers stand up), breast & nipple play, pussy slapping, squirting, little blue pill mention, apologies & confessions, happy ending, fem!reader, reader is dana's niece, no physical description/mention of being blood related, dana haunts the narrative, no use of y/n, dual pov (i think), ending kinda rushed but fuck it we ball, briefly proofread so no doubt incorrect grammar lols
authors note: woof woof, bark bark. this is 70% filth, 20% angst, 10% fluff. i have no excuses honestly. no seriously this was only meant to be 5k. majority written at 3am in sleep deprived insanity. some of the smut warnings are just mentions, not explicit details. this is kinda toxic, if that's not your thing keep scrolling :-)
song inspo: read your mind - sabrina carpenter
masterlist
You say that you need to be alone
But night and day, want me at your beck and call
You say you know that you might be crossin' a line
Wastin' all our time
To think that we could be casual
You're not my friend and, baby, you never were
Why the fuss if you say you just wanna be mine?
6:55am
Abbot: Meet me at my truck in 15.
No hi, hello, how are you. If you were to scroll through your text thread with Dr. Jack Abbot, you would see that the faux pleasantries stopped three months ago. The two of you started sleeping together four months ago; it took four weeks for Jack to discern that he didn't need to use basic human greetings to get you in his truck, in his bed. That's not to say you were easy—god, no—it was just that you two had a mutual understanding for what this was.
Sex. That was all it was. Pure primal, fuck like you're going to die otherwise, sex.
It started after the night of the PittFest mass casualty. You had come in early along with your fellow night shifters to work through what was one of your most gruelling shifts to date. The Pitt only lost six patients, but the weight of that day was going to stay etched into your bones for the rest of your life.
Dr. Abbot came back to the ED around two am, checking in on how Shen was handling things—at least, that's what he used as a guise. The truth was that he had struggled to close his eyes once he got home, tossing and turning with the police scanner on, endless memories of dust and gunshots plaguing his mind.
He stayed until shift change, the act of caring for others quietening the buried memories that were crawling to the surface. He stayed to keep an eye on his staff—noticing how people were a little more quiet, how they were exchanging soft, hesitant smiles with one another instead of their usual jokes. At least, that's what he noticed about you.
You couldn't remember what exactly was said to transition from you two walking towards your cars to you sinking onto his cock in the backseat of his truck. In your memory overridden by lust, you could vaguely hear him saying something vulnerable; a response you weren't expecting after your exhausted tongue let slip how you were struggling with the events of the day.
Mutual words about feeling on edge, needing some kind of release, were whispered into the hazy dawn glow—the fusing saffron skies and coral clouds painting you both in a different light.
Mosaics of amber and olive flaked with gold stared up at you, catching every morsel of pleasure that scrunched your eyebrows and relaxed your mouth. Strong, sure hands moulded the flesh on your hips, keeping you completely at his mercy as he pounded up into you. One of your hands met the condensation slicked window, the wet glass providing no support as his every thrust bruised your cervix.
Your nails dug crescents into his sun-speckled canvas, a crescendo of moans and gasps drowning out the wet mess gushing from your core. Hands you admired while wrist deep in chest cavities clutched your ass, one rearing back to land harsh slaps to the heated and aching skin—setting the fire coursing through your veins ablaze.
Your head flung back with a guttural cry of his name, the warmth of his release coating your walls plunging you into a sea of ecstasy. A groan of your name pushed through the ringing in your ears, the thick chest pressed against yours rapidly rising and falling with pants.
The sex thick air in the truck turned suffocating in the tense aftermath—both your minds spiralling about how bad of a mistake this was. Jack's stomach curdled from his blatant abuse of power, your hands trembled in fear of fucking for special treatment accusations—terrified of tarnishing your reputation.
Jack was the first to break the silence. "This was a one time thing."
You nodded, avoiding his eyes as you straightened your scrub top, pulling your pants up while his seed continued to leak out of you. "Agreed."
Despite his unforgiving mind reminding him how badly he screwed up, Jack fell into a dreamless sleep—the ghosts that permanently resided in the back of his mind staying locked in their rooms, letting him rest alone for once.
He struggled to make eye contact with Dana when he arrived for his next shift—the feeling of betraying one of his dearest friends gripping his chest. The logical side of him reasoned that you weren't her daughter—you were an adult capable of making her own questionable decisions, and letting him manhandle you in the back of his truck was just one of them. Unfortunately, that logical side couldn't silence the guilt that invaded him when he saw her wrap an arm around your shoulder and kiss your temple.
However, that guilt vanished hours later—replaced with a sick sort of admiration, one wrapped in barbed wires of lust. He always knew you were competent—hell, out of all his residents, he would trust you the most with his life in your hands. He always knew you were beautiful—it was a fact he accepted with ease the second you set foot in the Pitt.
But now, he knew how your pussy felt squeezing his cock—knew how your hips moved the closer you got to your release, how you crumbled into a whimpering mess as you reached your precipice. Your competency mixed with this new knowledge created a dangerous concoction, one that infiltrated his bloodstream and made him drunk on the thought of you.
You tried to not let it affect your work—willed your nerves to steady with a scalpel in hand, trying to ignore the empty ache you felt since you left his truck. The ache you tried to soothe on your own but failed every time. Because Jack Abbot had fucked you better than all of your exes combined, and it pissed you off. You refused to be a cliché—the young resident who followed the older, handsome, charming attending around, basking in whatever affection and praise he discarded without a care.
You were better than that. Stronger. Evans women didn't risk their careers for silver foxes who hid behind wry quips and flirty smiles.
Apparently, you weren't as strong as you thought.
One week later, you found yourself back in his truck—your knees pressed into the worn carpet, drool dripping down your chin and neck, the air filled with the sounds of his grunts and your gagging.
He instructed you to slip a hand into your pants, to swipe your fingers through your folds and show him how wet you were from sucking an old man's cock.
"Fucking soaked," he groaned out, the slick on your hand shimmering like liquid gold as the sunrise filtered through the tinted windows. "Knew you'd like being on your knees," a calloused finger tapped your cheek, urging your glistening eyes to meet his, "always so eager to please."
The finger slid down to your jaw, tracing a line until his hand cupped the back of your neck. His grip was tight and strong, keeping your head exactly where he wanted it. His other hand encircled your wrist, yanking your hand coated in your arousal to his mouth. Eyes black with hunger penetrated yours, daring you to look away and disobey his silent command. His tongue slipped out, licking a strip up your fingers. Your responding whine was muffled by his cock thrusting down your throat, resulting in a sinful vibration that had his spine tingling.
In this moment, he wasn't your attending and you weren't his resident, weren't one of his closest friends' nieces. You were two willing adults—a man and woman troubled by their own demons, seeking release and relief.
His hand gripping your neck kept you still as he started to fuck your mouth in earnest, each hit of his tip to the back of your throat earning him a gag. Jack watched as tears breached your waterline, slipping down your cheeks to mix in with the slobbery mess glazing your neck. His eyes drifted down, taking in the sight of your wrinkled black scrubs—committing it to memory, to fuck his fist to later. The shift of your hips didn't go unnoticed, the way you were trying to grind against nothing drawing a mocking laugh from his chest.
"You that desperate, huh? Drooling all over my cock got you so worked up you're tryna fuck nothing."
You nodded your head with another muffled whine, lust overpowering your innate urge to bite back. He eased your head back, leaving his leaking tip resting on your tongue, letting you fill your lungs with oxygen before he continued his efforts to ruin you.
"Touch yourself, pretty girl."
You happily obliged, trying to pull your hand from his grasp.
"Uh-uh," he tutted, tightening his grip—just shy of leaving bruises. "This one's mine. You got another one, don't you?"
Your hand clutching his thigh for support let go in an instant, eager to please Jack and in turn please yourself.
You were so sensitive, your panties already soaked, your clit puffy from arousal and neglect. The first touch had you mewling around him, your hips humping your hand with fervour. Jack chuckled above you, gleaming eyes enraptured by your desperation.
"Fuck your fingers like you wanna fuck my cock." He ordered, heat gathering at the base of his spine when you obeyed immediately. He brought your hand back to his mouth, eagerly licking and sucking your slick off it, all while keeping his eyes locked on your hooded, hazy ones. "Taste so fucking good," he moaned, his hips picking up speed.
He came down your throat minutes later, watching your eyes roll back as you swallowed all of him down. Your own orgasm rushed up behind you, tightening every muscle in your body as you clamped down on your fingers with a moan.
Jack manoeuvred you onto the seat next to him, brows furrowed as his post orgasm clarity soured his gut again.
He kept his eyes locked on where he was twisting his ring around his finger. "That wasn't—I didn't mean to," he cleared his throat. "I didn't intend on being so harsh—mean."
You could feel the stress radiating from him, his words softly spoken and genuine.
"It's okay," you murmured, biting your lip. "I…I liked it." And because you wanted to ease his worries and silently give him permission—"I've begged for worse."
He lifted his head, shocked eyes meeting yours with a disbelieving chuckle and shake of his head.
"This is gonna keep happening, isn't it?"
You answered by pulling your scrubs and panties down your legs, pouting at him with a twinkle in your eyes.
"Need you to help me clean up my mess, Doctor Abbot."
You collapsed into the drivers seat of your car with two orgasms and a mutual agreement under your belt.
Strictly physical, no strings attached. No kissing, no cuddling, definitely no staying the night. Nothing untoward within the Pitt's walls—these two hookups in the parking lot staying as the only ones.
Never speak a word of this to anyone else.
Three nights—technically mornings—a week you found yourself pulling into Jack's driveway, parking your barely road-legal car behind his truck. His black, navy, and white minimalist interior didn't surprise you one bit, neither did the barren walls. The first few times, he led you into the kitchen with the offer of a drink, exchanging idle chatter about the weird cases that came through the Pitt's doors hours before.
The first time your skin touched his soft sheets, he had you on your back with large, calloused hands pushing your legs towards your chest as he devoured your pussy like a man starved. He made your vision dance with stars, made your ears ring from two earth shattering orgasms before he removed his face—his mouth and chin soaked with your release, a cocky smirk deepening the lines carved around his eyes. Your skin was still tender from his stubble when he sunk in deep, reaching spots you didn't even know existed—pulling sounds from your chest you didn't know you could make.
As you floated from his front door to your car, you knew that Jack Abbot had ruined you for any other man. No one had read your body that quickly before, no one else had found the switch to turn off your brain and give in to primal desire.
And you didn't even know what the simple touch of his lips against yours felt like.
By the sixth night you had learnt absolutely nothing new about him. Well, nothing that was outside of bodies and pleasure.
You learnt he was an ass man, needing to land slaps to your cheeks no matter what position you were in. You learnt he liked to talk—liked to mock every pathetic sound he wrung out of you. You learnt that he had a bottle of blue pills in his bedside drawer, learnt that he was unashamed to swallow one down in front of you and fuck you with his tongue and fingers until it took effect.
You knew exactly what Jack liked in bed. Outside of that? Absolutely nothing.
His favourite colour? Fuck knows.
How he cared for his leg after a long shift and long night of screwing you senseless? That was between him and his physiotherapist, you guessed.
And he knew nothing about you. Or, at least, he didn't try to get to know you.
You stopped thinking of this arrangement as friends with benefits—friends felt too generous of a word. Coworkers with benefits sounded the closest to the truth. You worked together, spent at least twelve hours a day in the same building, exchanged the occasional witty remark under fluorescent lights. There were no lingering looks, no secret touches, no dropped voices and subtle smirks. And you were fine with it being that way.
Until you weren't.
By month two it had become impossible to ignore the pang that ricocheted behind your ribcage every time you drove away. The pang that grew to an ache every time you went to Dana and Benji's for dinner.
You adored their relationship, admired it. Your parents' messy divorce had left you skeptical of love, had you doubting if it was worth pursuing if it only ended in misery and spite. But your aunt and uncle softened that cynical side of you, reminding you that yes, love could be messy, but it could also be beautiful and fun. It could be coming home to your best friend everyday, hugging each other even after an argument because going to sleep angry never solved anything.
You tried to find what they had in your exes, putting more effort into relationships that drained you by the end. You heard too many times to count that your lives weren't compatible, that they couldn't give their all to someone who was happy to run out the door when the hospital called.
They didn't understand you—didn't understand what it meant to make a difference, to hold someone's life in the palm of your hands and safely return them to their loved ones. They only focused on the days when you couldn't save someone, when the grief held you captive and motionless. They didn't want to continue holding your hand on those hard days.
And so somewhere along the way you stopped trying—convincing yourself that you were fine with casual, that it was the most suitable relationship for your lifestyle. But every time you saw Dana and Benji, you knew that wasn't true.
They reminded you that you wanted, and deserved, more.
Jack had never slept better. Even with that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he had crossed a line—that he was risking not only your career but his friendship with Dana. He managed to silence that voice three times a week; the sounds of the pleasure he was unleashing on you drowning out everything else.
He truly believed he could keep things separate—that the beautiful woman he had in his bed wasn't the same beautiful woman he trusted and found himself proud of every shift. He could totally keep them separate.
So what if his eyes followed your ass when you walked away from the Hub, admiring how the black scrubs clung like a second skin, knowing how they looked discarded on his bedroom floor. Knowing how the globes of your ass felt clutched in his hands, the sound of his palms slapping them reverberating off his walls.
So what if he found himself craving your taste a minimum of three times every shift, the mere thought of your sweet nectar drenching his face leading to inopportune boners.
No one had to know that whenever he saw you biting back at arrogant surgeons that his eyes were glued to your lips, remembering how good they looked—how good they felt—wrapped around his cock. The no kissing clause had been his suggestion—a subconscious part of him knowing that if he felt your lips against his, he wouldn't be able to let go.
The simple act of kissing felt infinitely more intimate than everything else you did. It was a tender act, saved for the person who walked out his door in the morning only to return in the evening. Saved for the person that had left one cold, winter morning and never returned in the frigid evening.
Jack ignored the warmth that spread throughout him in your company, convincing himself it was just lust, just sexual desire. He convinced himself he didn't need to know anything new about you—he already knew what type of student you were, the doctor he had watched you flourish into from the sidelines.
He knew where to touch you, that mouthing at the spot below your ear made you putty in his hands. He knew what positions had you trembling, had your eyes rolling back as you squirted on his dick, on his face. He knew his favourite view was a tie between you above him, suffocating him as you ground your pussy on his mouth, nose, chin, and him behind you, holding you up with a bicep wrapped around your neck in a chokehold, ordering you to keep your eyes on the mirror across from his bed as he stretched your tight pussy with his thick cock over and over again.
He knew that your car was a piece of shit, knew he was worried every time he heard it sputtering out of his driveway—worried enough to demand you stop driving it, to let him drive you to and from work until you could get it fixed, or better yet, buy a new one from this century. (You compromised by getting the bus instead, saying that you two arriving and leaving together would look suspicious.)
And unfortunately, due to his close friendship with Dana, he knew other things about you. What your childhood nickname was, that you once found an abandoned kitten and tried to hide it from your parents—the kitten that was now an old cat, spending it's days curled up on the couch in Dana's sunroom. He knew your parents had an ugly divorce, one they threw you in the middle of—forcing you to choose a side, which subsequently left you in the care of Dana and Benji for a few years.
He knew more about you than he ever wanted to.
"Strip."
Oh, you fucked up.
The drive to Jack's had been dead silent, his anger rolling off of him in waves—sitting in between you two like a physical being. It had your muscles tensing, and more shamefully, had a fire brewing in your core. Because you liked when he got mad—when he barely spoke a word to you, choosing to get his frustrations out by relentlessly drilling you into his mattress. You liked when he got mean—because at least then you knew he was feeling something towards you other than indifference.
You did as you were told, stripping out of your black scrubs, leaving you in your mismatched bra and panties. From his spot leaning against the wall, Jack could already see the damp patch spreading on your underwear. He let out a humourless chuckle, a thrill running through him seeing how desperate you were already.
"Take your bra off. Lie on the bed."
Again, you followed his instructions with no complaint, no backtalk. Which was the complete opposite to how you had been three hours before—questioning his treatment plan in front of everyone in Trauma One, implying that his orders would cause the patient unnecessary problems later on.
You had a good argument, but he was not going to let your attitude go unchecked. He was not going to let you think the way you spoke to him was something you could do again.
He pushed off the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg—he would deal with it later, once you were in an uber on your way home. He sat down next to you on the bed, trailing light fingers from your ankle up your leg, avoiding the area you wanted him the most. He revelled in the sight of your breasts heaving up and down—you were so responsive, nothing more than his teasing touches starting to unravel you. His fingers continued their journey up your body, skimming over your trembling stomach and resting in the valley between your breasts.
The light touches distracted you enough that you weren't expecting his other hand coming up, slapping your tit before pinching the pebbled nipple. Hard.
"Ah—Jack!" You shrieked, your back arching away—or towards, you weren't sure—from the pain. Whimpers slipped from you as his touch eased up, his head dropping to place soft kisses around the tender skin. The fingers between your breasts trailed to the neglected nipple, tweaking it gently.
He pulled back, smirking when you whined at the loss of his touch. "Anything you want to say before we get started?" He drawled, raising his eyebrows pointedly.
You pouted, pretending to think. "Your curls looked really good today."
A rough hand dropped to your thigh, spreading them apart and pinching the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. "Flattery will get you nowhere, not in this room."
"So there are other rooms where it will get me somewhere?"
"You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut." He didn't give you time to talk back, raising his hand and landing a harsh slap to your clothed pussy. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, chasing the friction—needy for it. He openly laughed at you, his free hand pushing your thigh down as he delivered another slap.
He moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh with a warning look. He watched with sick pleasure as you crawled towards him on all fours, grabbing your upper arm once you were close enough and pulling you over his lap with force. You let out a yelp, muffled by the sheets as you failed to catch yourself on your arms.
His hands gripped your ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them. "Love this ass, sweetheart. Distracts me a bit too much at work, though. Somethin' else you need to be punished for."
You huffed, pushing up on your arms. "How is that my fau—" you cut off with a gasp, a hard slap to your left cheek stealing your breath and jolting you forward. The heat travelled the short distance to your core, adding fuel to the flames already blazing. Your panties were embarrassingly soaked from his rough treatment, sticking to your skin and his scrub pants.
"What did I say about keeping your mouth shut, huh?" His hand rubbed over the tender spot, tsking.
"Technically," you started, voice light and breathy, "you didn't tell me to shut my mouth."
You were rewarded with three slaps in quick succession, pulling a loud moan from you. You ground your hips the best you could, trying to get the right angle for your aching clit to rub against the growing bulge under you.
"Fucking brat," Jack spat, faux malice lacing his tone. "Running your mouth in my ED, and now you're trying to get off without my permission?" He pulled the ruined cloth between your legs to the side, a light finger ghosting along the slick covering your folds. He groaned, pulling his finger back to suck it clean. "You're dripping—not much of a punishment if you're enjoying yourself, is it?"
Any response you had is stolen from your mouth, whines falling out instead as he plunged two thick fingers into you. He didn't start slow—he never did when he was like this—pistoning them in and out at a force that was bordering on inhuman, making sinful wet sounds fill his room. His other hand forced your head into the sheets, muffling your whimpers—the sheets growing damp underneath you from your drool.
He hit your sweet spot with every thrust, your clit rubbing against his leg from the force. You could feel your high rapidly approaching, the spankings leaving your nerve ends feeling raw and exposed. Jack could feel it—how your walls were fluttering and clenching around his fingers, your muffled whines and moans turning high-pitched. He inserted a third finger, stopping the thrusting and leaving them still—the pads of them rubbing oh so slowly against the textured spot.
He knew it felt like torture to you, how slow he was going—keeping you right on the edge, suspended in the air, looking down at the waves of pleasure he was denying you. Your hips moved back and forth, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers. His hand left your head, delivering another harsh slap to your aching ass—making you sob from the unbearable mix of pain and pleasure swirling in your core. "Who said you're allowed to do that, sweetheart?" He asked, mockingly sweet.
"Please," you whimpered, turning your head to look at him with glazed eyes. "Please, Jack."
"Begging isn't gonna do you any favours tonight, pretty girl."
He pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. "Up you get," he said, helping you move until you were straddling him—your naked thighs bracketing his clothed ones. One large hand was clutching your ass, keeping your hips from meeting his—prolonging your search for sweet relief. His other hand came up to your mouth, a wet finger tapping your bottom lip. "Clean up your mess," he muttered, hooded eyes focused on your lips parting for him.
You licked the tip of his finger teasingly, moaning at the taste of yourself on his skin. Something low rumbled in his chest, and he pushed all three fingers into your mouth—watching intently as you licked and sucked your slick off of them. Your dazed eyes met his and it struck him—not for the first time—how beautiful you were, how you allowed him to see you like this. It made that annoying thing in his chest happen—the thing that felt like his heart was aching in longing, yearning.
He thrust his fingers in deeper, making you gag around them—watching in sick delight as tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hips started to rock in his hold, seeking friction that you weren't going to find. His cock was painfully hard and tenting his scrubs, making it impossible to ignore—especially not when you looked so fucking ruined.
He removed his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva keeping them connected to your lips. He felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you—again, not for the first time—and knew that the only way to stop himself from doing so was to fuck you from behind—a position he had been favouring lately, for this very reason.
He unceremoniously shifted you onto the bed next to him—a small, surprised squeak escaping you. His lips twitched at the cute sound, and he briefly forgot what he was doing, what he was mad about. Your hand sneaking onto his lap to squeeze his cock reminded him.
Jack abruptly stood up, placing himself between your open thighs. He gripped your chin, tilting it up so you couldn't look anywhere except his eyes—his desire painting them black, amber flames surrounding the dilated pupils. "You're just making this harder for yourself, sweetheart. You sure there's nothing you wanna say?"
Your eyes dropped down to the tent inches from your face, your fingers twitching with the need to start palming him. "You sure you're not the one making it harder for yourself?" You met his eyes again, watching them narrow menacingly as your innocent smile morphed into a cheeky smirk.
His hand moved from your chin, gripping your cheeks hard and squishing them 'til your lips puckered. "Still haven't learnt your lesson." He pushed your head back, encouraging you to lie back.
He grabbed the sides of your soiled underwear and yanked them down your legs, leaving you completely bare while he was still fully dressed. His hands found your waist, flipping you onto your stomach with ease and pulling you back so your legs were hanging off the bed with your ass in the air.
Your cheeks received one more slap each—Jack really was obsessed with your ass—before you felt his tip prodding at your entrance, slipping down to nudge your clit. You whined at the teasing, pushing your ass back against him. A large hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the mattress with force.
"Stay. Still." He ordered through gritted teeth.
Then he plunged in, sinking to the hilt in one thrust. A choked moan lodged in your throat, his size still a shock no matter how many times he stretched you open. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a harsh rhythm, making your hands scramble around on the sheets looking for support.
"So big," you gasped out.
A deep laugh rumbled from him. "So big," he mocked you. "You say that every time."
Skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with his grunts and your mewling. You could feel the fabric of his scrubs on the back of your thighs—the fact he was fucking you while fully clothed sending a shiver down your spine.
Jack picked up on the signs of your impending orgasm straight away, feeling his own tightening his balls. "Hold it," he demanded, slipping a hand under your hips and easily finding your clit. You sobbed into the sheets as he rubbed tight circles, your body locking up in effort to keep your release at bay.
"S'not fair," you whined, high and wrecked. The fire in your core was raging, threatening to set you aflame—Jack's orders be damned.
"Y'know what's not fair?" Jack grunted. "When pretty residents walk around like they own the place." His hand moved from your back, his palm resting on the sheets next to your head. He dropped forward, dragging his lips up your spine, biting down on the curve where your shoulder met your neck. Your eyes rolled back, the pain adding to the dizzying pleasure that was making your whole body ache from holding back. "S'not fair," he mocked you again, "when you make me walk around hard. All. Fucking. Shift." He punctuated the last words with hard thrusts, the force knocking breaths out of you.
"Come in me, Jack, please." You whined, delirious and in need of whatever he'll give you. "Need it s'bad, I'll be good f'you—promise!"
He groaned at your begging, pulling out at the last second to deny you what you were so prettily asking for. Even if he wanted nothing more than to fill you to the brim, this was part of your punishment. He spilled over your ass and lower back, painting your skin in white streaks.
You sobbed at the loss of him, at his hand leaving your burning clit and giving you no relief. He leaned back over you, his mouth hovering right next to your ear. "Aw, you wanna come, sweetheart?" You nodded fervently, tears soaking the sheets below you. He gripped your chin tight, turning your face until your lips were inches from his—your breaths mingling together. "Be a good girl and apologise."
"But I didn't do anything wrong." You whimpered out.
He tutted. "Try again."
His hand returned to your clit, fingers rubbing agonisingly slow figure eights—the fire blooming at full force beneath his touch. He watched the sweat beading at your hairline, the tremors running through your body making his bed shake; you were so determined to not give in, and it only made him inevitably breaking you that much sweeter.
He moved his head, nuzzling into the side of your neck—breathing in your intoxicating scent before he started nipping and sucking at the spot below your ear. And just as he predicted, that was your breaking point. Your body shook harder underneath him, a debauched moan slipping from you lips.
"M'sorry, Jack! I'm so sorry—won't do it again." You whimpered, hips rolling back and forth, trying to hump his hand. "Please—it hurts so bad!"
Satisfied that you finally said you were sorry, he moved off of you—flopping onto his back next to you and not wasting a second to grasp your waist and pull you on top of him. He positioned you so you were hovering over his face, giving you a moment to get your bearings before yanking you down and absolutely devouring you.
Your hands were quick to thread into his curls, tugging hard as you rode his face. Three fingers thrust into you again, this time curling and hitting your g-spot perfectly. The most sinful sounds he'd ever heard fell from your mouth, a sharp cry jolting out of you when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked hard. You were so close already, the teasing and edging for what felt like hours leaving a painful knot that was ready to unravel violently.
"Jack—oh, fuck!" You shook above him, your body glistening with sweat as you climbed higher. He groaned, marvelling at the sight of you—yeah, he was never going to forget this. It sent vibrations through your pussy and your vision started to blur at the edges. "I'm gonna come—please let me come!"
He doubled his efforts, silently telling you to let go. You threw your head back with a scream, an all-consuming orgasm tearing through your core—ripping every single one of your nerves apart, a new galaxy bursting behind your eyes. You squirted all over Jack's face, his eyes never once leaving your heaving body as he eagerly drank every drop you offered him. He continued fucking his fingers into you, mouthing at your clit as you came down. You tried to lift your hips off his face but he refused, not letting up until overstimulated sobs left you and you begged him to stop.
He sat you on his chest, rubbing his hands along your thighs and hips. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"
You returned home feeling both light and heavy—your head light from the brief sub space Jack put you in, your heart heavy because you couldn't do this anymore.
You couldn't do casual, you deserved more. And you knew Jack could never offer you what you truly needed, not when he was so adamant on being alone—which, honestly, was bullshit. He was never alone—choosing to either strap his SWAT vest on or pick up an extra shift in the ED, calling you up when he wanted company sex, refusing to sit in the silence by himself.
You didn't re-download the dating apps right away, content with accepting the fact that you were ready to start looking again. You continued your routine with Jack, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than usual. If he picked up on it, he didn't say anything—it wasn't like you two talked much anyways.
A few weeks later, you were at the Northside Farmers Market with your mom, browsing the stalls before you had to leave for your night shift. It was something the two of you tried to do every other week when your schedules lined up—an old tradition you had as a kid, every Friday going to the market to buy fresh, local ingredients for your family dinner the following Sunday. It stopped when your parents' tumultuous arguments in front of the vendors, the public, tainted something you once held so dear. Now that you were an adult, you were determined to replace those memories with good ones again.
You were at the baker's stall, exchanging idle chit-chat with Billie—the vendor—when a tall man approached the stall. Billie's face lit up at the sight of him, the older woman rounding the counter to pull him into a hug.
"Ollie," she said, pulling back and swatting his arm lightly. "I should be mad at you, y'know. You work how many blocks away, and you're only visiting your Ma now?"
You turned to the man in surprise, watching his cheeks flush red. He was older than you—most likely in his forties, if you were to guess from the few grey hairs streaking his dark beard. He was ruggedly handsome but tamed—his clothes looking like he would fit in on a farm, but the stitching on his jacket told you he would've paid at least a couple hundred for it.
Before he could respond, Billie looked between the both of you—the smile of a cunning mother overtaking her face. She placed a hand on his bicep, turning to you. "This is my son Oliver, he works at Westbridge as an anesthesiologist. If I remember correctly, you work at a hospital, don't you?" Oliver turned to you fully then, kind green eyes looking you up and down in pleasant surprise.
You smiled bashfully. "Yes, you remember correctly. I'm a third year resident at PTMC, specialising in Emergency Medicine." Oliver held out a hand and you shook it, offering him your name.
Billie returned to the other side of her stall, helping out with another customer. You and Oliver stepped to the side, falling into easy conversation about your jobs. Time passed quickly, and before you knew it your warning alarm to leave for your shift was going off. Oliver politely asked if he could get your number—saying that it's been really nice talking to you, and that he would love to get to know you more over a coffee or dinner sometime. You happily gave it to him with the smallest flutter in your chest—something in the shape of hope.
You found your mom at the books & records stall, gushing to her about the handsome man you just met.
"People hardly meet organically anymore!" She exclaimed, looping her arm through yours, the two of you practically squealing as you left the market.
Not even an hour later, you were standing at the Hub, talking to Lena about the parents in North Three with a degree in medicine from Google University, when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a text from an unknown number.
7:15pm
(412) 858-5725: It was really great meeting you today, I would love to take you out for dinner one night soon if you're interested
(412) 858-5725: I completely understand if our schedules don't match up, no pressure at all :)
(412) 858-5725: This is Oliver, by the way. If that wasn't obvious already haha
"I know that look," Lena singsonged, pointing an accusatory finger at your face. You looked up from your phone to see a sly smirk on her face. "Who's the guy?"
You looked away, biting your lip to suppress the smile you didn't realise had bloomed across your face. "It's no one, really. We only met, like, an hour ago."
"Ah, young love," the older nurse swooned. "Let me know how it goes, hon." Then she was throwing you a wink and calling after Vivi who was rushing past.
Luckily, you and Oliver figured out you both had the following Friday off and made plans to go to a family-owned Italian restaurant—not too intimate, not too casual. You kept the date to yourself—not even telling your mom—in fear of jinxing it. The two of you exchanged a handful of texts before your date, each one making you feel more giddy about your upcoming date.
You went to Jack's once in the week before your date with Oliver—cutting your usual three nights a week down to one, claiming that you were feeling too unwell the other nights. Which technically wasn't a lie, the guilt was starting to make you feel uneasy. You reminded yourself that you had no reason to feel guilty—you and Jack weren't dating, weren't exclusive, and you hadn't even been on a date with Oliver yet. But even with your reasoning, there was something clenching your chest and curdling your gut. You reminded yourself that you and Jack were just coworkers who used each other for stress relief; you didn't tell Shen about your date, so why would you tell Abbot?
The guilt stayed with you as you got ready for the date—feeling like you were trying to cover a cold secret with someone else's warmth. Your thoughts were briefly distracted when your phone pinged with a text.
7:03pm
Abbot: Come over to mine tonight. 9pm.
You: Sorry, can't tonight. I have plans.
Abbot: 👍
You scoffed at his response, your previous guilt evaporating in an instant. This was what you needed—the reminder that you deserved more than what Jack could give you.
You walked into the restaurant just before seven thirty, feeling like you had something to prove—to yourself or to someone else, you weren't sure.
The date went well—great, even. Oliver was charming, but also humble—mentioning his less than glamorous upbringing, how he got into med school on a scholarship, that the first thing he did with his first big paycheck was pay off part of his parent's mortgage.
You bonded over the struggle that was med school, the failing healthcare system, the weirdest cases you've worked on. Dinner continued into dessert, then another bottle of wine, but there was still a tension in the back of your head. It had you turning your head when he leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing your cheek instead of your lips. It had you comparing the hand on your bare shoulder to another hand, one that wore a dark ring and knew exactly how to touch you.
You parted ways with tentative plans for a second date; the next time your nights off aligned wasn't for another two weeks, and you both didn't want to put too much pressure on a set date just yet.
You visited your mom the next day for lunch, filling her in on all the details about your date. She was ecstatic for you, claiming that she always knew the market was going to pay you back somehow.
Monday rolled around quickly, and you walked into your shift ten minutes early like you always did—allowing yourself a few minutes to catch up with your aunt before she went home. Dana was at the Hub as usual, complaining to Robby about the nurse shortage and the pressure it was putting on her people.
She looked over as you approached the counter, her face morphing into a smirk that you knew meant she had been talking to your mom.
"Hey, doll. How was your weekend?" She emphasised the question with a small wink. "Your mom told me you had a handsome date on Friday."
You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "I should've known she'd tell you as soon as I left on Saturday."
Dana rounded the counter and slung an arm around your shoulder. "It wasn't straight away, she waited until we had dinner that night." You laughed with a small shake of your head. "Don't leave me hanging, how was it?"
Robby was still stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, partially paying attention to you and your aunt. His face was pulled into a puzzled expression as he observed Jack standing not far behind you—clearly eavesdropping on your conversation with Dana, a small frown furrowing his brows and setting his mouth in a straight line. It wasn't really eavesdropping since you were both talking at a normal volume, any of your colleagues passing by would've heard your conversation.
What Robby found odd was that Jack had stopped walking on his way to the lockers to listen, one hand frozen on his bag strap and the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His cheek twitched in the way that meant something was bothering him, and Robby came to the chilling realisation that Jack was jealous. Over you—Dana's niece.
You started recounting the date to Dana, a giddy smile stretching your lips. It felt good to be openly wanted by someone, to not be a secret kept in the dark—to be something other than a stress relief booty call.
Robby watched in unease as Jack continued to stand as still as a statue, the vein in his forehead starting to bulge as a dark red crept up his neck.
Robby grabbed a tablet and casually rounded the Hub's counter, trying not to draw your attention. He started towards the North rooms, grabbing Jack's bicep in an iron grip and forcing him through the North Bay doors.
Once safely out of your earshot, he turned to his friend with a scolding glare.
"What the fuck did you do?"
Jack was pretty damn proud of himself. He managed to get to the end of his shift without blowing up at you once. It was due to Robby's threat ringing in his ears for the most part—having your best friend threaten to castrate you with a dead serious face tends to lower your anger to a simmer.
Jack hadn't uttered a word to Robby, the guilt and jealously written all over his face told him enough. Robby kindly reminded him that he was the least of Jack's worries—if Dana found out he so much as touched a hair on your head, losing his dick would be sweet relief compared to what she'd do.
So, Jack treated you as normal—ignoring the stabbing in his chest, the beast in his gut demanding to be let out.
There were less than ten minutes left of his shift when he caught sight of you talking to Lena at the north nurse's station.
Keep walking, he told himself. His feet didn't seem to get the memo.
"I meant to ask," Lena said, leaning her arms on the counter. "Any update on Market Guy?"
Robby had dragged Jack away before he heard the full recount of your date to Dana, which he had been both grateful for and disappointed by. He needed to know like he needed air to breathe—which was a terrifying realisation to him.
"We went out for dinner on Friday," you replied, biting your lip to hold back yet another smile. "It was really nice. He was a total gentleman, very charming, pretty down to earth." Lena nodded along, hanging off of every word. "We're planning a second date for when our schedules next align."
That was it for Jack. His vision clouded with a red fog, the beast in his gut rearing its head and breaking out. He stormed over to the two of you, gripping your upper arm.
"We need to talk," he bit out, ignoring the shocked look Lena gave him.
He didn't wait for your response, pulling you towards the only empty Central room. Once the door was closed, you struggled in his hold, trying to rip your arm free.
"Let go of me, Dr. Abbot." You demanded as calmly as you could, your heart beat quickening at the storm rolling over his face. He let go but stepped closer, crowding your personal space.
"That's why you couldn't see me on Friday? Because you had a date?" He seethed through clenched teeth.
You stepped back, anger starting to grip your chest. "I'm sorry—what?"
He followed you, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Did you sleep with him?"
"How the fuck is that any of your business?"
Unbeknownst to the both of you, the day shift had started filtering in—Robby and Dana finding their command posts at the Hub. Dana was the first to notice the two of you in Central Seven, her eyebrows drawing together at the furious look on your face.
"Hey," she said to Robby, getting his attention. She nodded towards where you and Jack looked like you were having a heated discussion. "You know what's going on with them?"
Robby followed her eyeline, tensing as he saw what he prayed wouldn't happen within the walls of his ED. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. "Uh, no, not a clue."
Dana eyed him suspiciously. "Well, do you mind telling them we have patients who could use that room?"
"I'd rather not go in there."
Dana slowly turned to him, levelling him with a glare. "Michael Robinavitch, what aren't you telling me?"
Back in the room, your hands were starting to shake from anger, and Jack's head was throbbing from holding back the full wrath of his jealousy.
"I have the right to know if you're screwing other people."
You let out a humourless laugh. "Are you kidding me right now? You don't have the right to know shit!"
Jack's cheek twitched. "Yes I do. You said no to me to see some other guy."
"Oh, what—so I'm meant to come running at your beck and call?"
His jaw flexed and he opened his mouth, but your anger and disbelief at the situation had taken over.
"This has just been one big waste of time! I don't want casual anymore—not with you, not with anyone."
Jack opened his mouth before he could think better of it. "I didn't hear you complaining when you opened your legs for me."
A crack echoed throughout the room, the sound of your palm slapping Jack's cheek filling the tension riddled air. "You're a fucking asshole, Jack Abbot."
You shoulder checked him as you rushed out the door, refusing to let him see the tears streaming down your cheeks. You hurried past the Hub, not noticing Dana and Robby watching you with shock painting their faces. Your hand was tingling from the impact, your vision blurring as you made your way out the ambulance bay doors.
Dana didn't stop to think, storming into Central Seven where Jack was staring at the ground—his hand rubbing his tender cheek.
"What the fuck did you do to my baby?" She demanded, her voice dangerously low.
Shit.
The cold morning air made the tears staining your cheeks sting slightly, the sensation grounding and stopping you from completely falling apart. You never cried over a man—it was a rule you made for yourself when you were young, after seeing how your dad would make your mom fall apart at least once a week. They weren't worth your tears.
You wanted to charge back into the ED and slap Jack again for making you cry.
You stayed sitting on the ground with your back against the brick wall until your tears dried, until your breaths evened out and didn't hurt on their way out your lungs. You tensed when you heard uneven steps approach you—there was only one person whose steps sounded like that.
Your head shot up as he sat down opposite you, glaring daggers at him. He raised his hands placatingly.
"Please don't hit me, I'm here to apologise." When you didn't make a move to leave or attack him, he slowly lowered his hands. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean what I said—to imply that you were easy."
"Then why did you say it?" Fuck, you hated how small your voice sounded.
He let out a long breath, looking up at the sky. "Because I was mad—upset." He looked back at you, his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "I didn't know that's how you felt…you never said anything to me."
"How could I when you barely speak to me? You just fuck me and then push me into an uber. Really makes a girl feel special," you shook your head, wrapping your arms around your chest—starting to feel exposed. "I can't read your mind, Jack. You can't tell me you want casual one day and the next get mad because I went on a date."
He had the decency to look ashamed, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut. "That's fair. I don't really have any excuses, no good ones at least."
You sighed, your head feeling heavy and starting to throb. "I don't need excuses; I just want to know why. Why you act like you don't know me, why you won't—" your voice dropped, wobbling slightly. "Why you won't kiss or hug me. I mean," you let out a bitter chuckle, "do you even know what aftercare is?"
He started to twist his ring around his finger, his mouth moving side to side as he struggled to find the right words to say. "Kissing and hugging felt too intimate—felt like things I couldn't take back." He looked up at you again, his eyes glassy. "I didn't want to admit to myself that I had—have—feelings for you, and the thought of kissing you…I mean I've thought about it a lot—to the point it's been driving me insane." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, a huffed laugh leaving him. "I was worried that by kissing you I wouldn't be able to let go, and that terrified me. It meant you could become another photo I keep in my nightstand."
You knew what he was talking about—you had opened it while looking for tissues, finding a collection of photographs in the drawer. You tried not to snoop, but you were fairly certain one of them was his wife and a couple others were his old army buddies.
"I get that, I do. The universe has handed you more than enough grief and hardship for one lifetime." You stood up, closing the distance between you and sitting next to him. "But that isn't solely your decision to make, Jack. You've been hurting us both by keeping your feelings to yourself." You brought your knees up, hugging them to your chest and resting your cheek on them. "And, honestly? A girl needs kisses and cuddles after coming four times in one night; a sub drop can be pretty brutal."
Jack's guilt multiplied tenfold. "Shit. Fuck, I'm sorry—I didn't even think about that." He shifted slightly, turning to look at you fully. "I would like to try again, if you'll let me. No casual bullshit, no pretending like I don't think about you all the time. Lots of kissing and cuddling—and orgasms, so many orgasms."
It was then that you noticed the ice pack in Jack's hands, resting over his groin. You couldn't stop the snort that slipped out. "I see you had a chat with Dana."
"Don't know if I would call it a chat. She's got a harder kick than I was expecting."
You hummed. "Just be glad you didn't get to experience her right hook—she gave my dad a black eye when she found out he was cheating on my mom. And she won't hesitate to give you one if you hurt me again."
His eyes were shining, hope swirling around the honey gold and sunlit green. "Does that mean you'll give me another chance?"
"Yes," you replied, letting the small smile break through. "But no sex until I think you deserve it."
Jack nodded, his own megawatt smile putting the sun to shame. "You're in charge here, sweetheart." He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "Can I kiss you, at least?"
You barely managed a nod before his mouth descended on yours, his lips achingly tender. He moved slowly, basking in the warmth he had been denying himself of for so long. A cold hand came up to cup your cheek and you jerked away in surprise, making him laugh and apologise before diving back in, settling the hand on your back to pull you in closer.
"I was right," he mumbled against your lips. "There's no way I'm letting go now."
so what if you did a little porn here and there to help pay through med school? it's not like you were making millions; it helped put ten extra bucks in the bank that paid for dinner for the week. you never showed your face, never put your real name on anything, never showed more of your room outside of one angle. it was anonymous as anonymous could be…until your attending pieces together that you're the amateur creator he keeps going back to. 11.5k
⟢ pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
⟢ tags: MDNI/18+; f!reader; starts out in jack's pov sorry, i promise it's important for the plot; jack feels guilty about porn; brief m!masturbation; reader used to make amateur porn; reader is jack's coworker; insinuated age gap (reader's age not specified, insinuated to be late twenties); shen and ellis are here; shen's a little shit (affectionate); jack's kind of an asshole; little confrontation for the drama; bc reader does not put up with shit!; texting that leads to sexting; a lot of build up lol sorry; phone sex; pillow humping; open ending
⟢ A/N: WOOF it's finally done. i hope yall like it or i will be very sad. the idea/scenario popped into my brain one day and i needed to write this. i kinda lost steam towards the end and i feel like that's obivious sorryyyyy but i'm already considering a part two idk !!! have fun freaks <3
read on ao3
♡ support me here !
Jack Abbot never considered himself a righteous man. With a laundry list of regrets and an even longer list of mistakes, he was always the last one to argue in favor of his virtue. But one thing Jack Abbot was not…was a pervert.
At least, that's what he was currently trying to convince himself.
And truth be told, he wasn't exactly doing a very good job at. Lying in bed half-hard and trying to will his blood to flow literally anywhere else, the corners of his mind kept floating back to fantasies that relieved him of the loneliness that life seemed determined to keep him under. It wasn't the desire itself that he fought his brain trying to repress. He'd lived too long to even attempt wrestling his body's urges or feign embarrassment from an overactive imagination. The only thing he'd been fighting was the urge to indulge using…the internet.
Jack liked to believe he could pride himself on his willpower. That whatever he set himself towards, he could do. Including the simple act of getting off to his own fantasies instead of relying on strangers on the internet to feed it to him with fake smiles and even faker moans. It wasn't like he was against the idea of porn—his track record of stolen Playboys and single college nights would prove that hypocrisy quick—it was just something about the internet aspect of it that made him feel…perverted.
Maybe it was the knowledge that he could be watching anyone post their body or their sex with the intention of other strangers getting off to it. Maybe it was the realization that most people who did the posting were half his age. It was there for a reason; it shouldn't have mattered, but he still felt like he needed to make excuses to justify why he turned to it.
Luckily, that pestering voice in the back of his mind always had an excuse to justify what he was doing. When he relented long enough to grab his phone, it was "to check the work email". When his thumb gravitated towards the internet safari, it was "to look up the Pirates' score" (when he knew full well baseball season was practically over). But the excuses started to fade when his free hand drifted over the front of his pants and palmed the bulge that was only growing larger with each second he tried to ignore it. Damn blood flow and its resolute persistence.
So, without any self-pitying justification to soften the blow, Jack Abbot succumbs to a weakness he'd never admit he has and pulls up the first website that pops up when he keywords amateur.
That was the one thing he wouldn't budge on when all the other willpower faltered. When cold showers and "imagination" couldn't solve the problem and he reluctantly turned to the wide scope of the internet, the one necessity was the lack of production value. He didn't want stage lights and camera crews and actors with more plastic than flesh. He didn't want a movie with advertisement. He wanted something as real as filmed sex could offer. Something he could envision actually happening that was actually desired by the performer.
And Jack couldn't decide if that made him more or less of a pervert. On one hand, it was a surefire way to feel like the world's biggest voyeur. On the other, he figured being so picky made him less of a target for the internet's average depiction of a pervert.
So picky, in fact, that he'd scrolled to the fifth page of this website and still struggled to find something that caught his attention. This was exactly why he didn't watch porn; the hand still lazily palming the outline of his dick was probably the only reason any blood kept flowing there. But he'd gotten past the hardest part of justifying it to his own brain—he just needed to pick something to jerk off to and deal with the post-nut clarity and regret when he got to the other side of it.
It was the sixth page that held the video he finally settled on. Nothing extravagant—as that was one of the qualifiers—with barely any views. Based on the thumbnail and title, it was a solo video. Just a woman, sat on her bed, getting herself off. Simple and easy and exactly what he wanted to see.
As soon as the video starts, he's met with less-than-ideal lighting that makes the camera fuzzy. Not enough to turn him off of it, just enough to give that homemade feel he preferred for this type of thing. The woman in question could be seen just fine; the angle cut off at the neck and highlighted everything from her chest and downward. She's sporting a thin little slip, body softened by the camera's grain, her skin highlighted by the soft glow of what Jack assumes is late afternoon sun filtering through beige curtains. The quality doesn't obscure the curves of her body or the soft pink of her cunt. Hell, he swears he can see her drip when she rubs circles against her perky little clit.
The video itself isn't unlike others he's seen. His dick seems to understand that as well as his brain, thickening behind his briefs to the sight on his phone. The fight's bled out of him by now; no need to justify himself when he fishes his cock out and strokes himself lazily. Especially not when the woman on-screen is spreading her own slick on her fingers and mewling sweet little sounds that make him twitch against his hand.
And that's exactly what he's focusing on by the time he spits into his palm to slick up his strokes. The little sounds that escape her—soft moans, choked breaths, and split-second whines—land straight in his gut. He can almost tell she's trying to stay quiet. Like if that camera inched up just a bit, he'd see her with a lip caught between her teeth. But she lets a little moan escape as those nimble fingers sink inside her cunt and Jack can't help but respond in vain with his own guttural sound. He tries to match the pace of her hand with his own, pumping his cock in time with her fingers disappearing into her slick hole, in some sort of pathetic mockery of actual sex. It's wet and sloppy and every kind of desperate. And it satisfied that itch just as quickly as he feared it would.
As the video comes to its (literal) climax, he can't help but imagine how her brow might furrow when she cums, how swollen her lips might look from biting back moans. Trying to picture a face as cute as the body on screen. That was another weakness he'd never admit to—always too curious about things he had no business wondering. He'd gotten off to a stranger's body and, before he'd even wiped his stomach clean of his own spend, he was wondering if she was always this quiet. Somewhere in the back of his mind was the question of why she was so quiet. Where was she? And why did she record in the middle of the day? Before the video cut off and turned the screen black, he wondered if the band poster on the wall behind her naked body was her favorite.
Jesus, he was getting old. Embarrassingly sentimental over a stranger in a porn video.
He tosses his phone onto the mattress beside him with a dejected sigh. The voice in his head that had initially come up with excuses to justify it had swiftly turned sour with guilt. There were enough things in life that lingered with regret (and this surely wouldn't be the last), but on the list of offenses, it sat pretty low. It was just a lapse in judgement he'd surely forget by tomorrow when he's wrist-deep in someone's chest.
But Jack most certainly did not forget about that video.
To be fair, it never popped into his mind while he was working. The never-ending onslaught of the hurt, sick, and broken didn't allow much time for his mind to wander where it didn't belong. This was when he had the right to be proud of his willpower. When, after three back-to-back traumas in the middle of the night, he was still focused on directing a team and getting the job done.
The weakness only came when loneliness settled too heavily on his shoulders. When he came back to an empty home after nearly 13 hours managing lives and had to pretend like taking care of himself was something easy. He liked to tell himself that being alone didn't bother him. Or that the quiet got easier to exist in. But the argument quickly died when he pulled up that same video only two days after the first time. The same video, borne from the same lapse in judgement—only this time it carried more guilt. Because it was bad enough to turn to the internet and take whatever it offered, it was another thing entirely to seek out something specific because he had an affinity for a goddamn stranger.
It wasn't every day, thank God. Some days, after working himself to the bone in hopes of clearing his mind, the only urge Jack came home with was the desperate need to sleep. That was how he operated; no opportunities for weakness to seep into his synapses and make another bad decision if he was overworked and dead on his feet, right? But the curiosity eventually became worse than the loneliness. And it was that same curiosity that led him back to that explicit sight to seek out that same woman, scroll through her profile, and see what else she'd shared with the world.
And that might've been the worst possible thing he could've done. Because seeing that small collection of videos only gave him more to latch onto. Gave him a reason to be disappointed when he saw every single video was dated eight years ago. Gave him a choice in favorites that he'd prefer over the others. (Right now, it was a short video of her grinding against a pillow—he could see the slick left behind on the fabric when she circled her hips like that.)
No matter how many times he fought his own brain, it always ended with that same woman on his screen and a hand choking his dick while he fantasized about being the one to draw that pleasure out of her. It was unlike him to get so attached—Christ, he hated even using that word—but something in him was addicted. She was just so…sweet. Her body, of course, but it was also the mannerisms that snuck their way into her videos and those cute little sounds she made when she felt good. She felt so real.
Jack Abbot was definitely a pervert.
"Jesus, this is the longest shift of my life."
You groaned into your hands as they ran over your face. Barely halfway through your scheduled twelve hours, your feet already ache, you're starving, and it seems like the universe has cursed you with some of the most insufferable patients. People freaking out over gas pain, MVA injuries that could've been avoided had anyone decided to wear a seatbelt or call a designated driver. Nothing that made you feel like the "savior" this job sometimes afforded you.
"So, not up for a double, then?" Shen circles you at the nurse's station, slotting one of the staff tablets into its charging slot. "Bummer," he sighs, "I thought you loved it here."
You laugh, bracing your hands against the countertop. "Don't start." Your head aches when you look up at the patient board and see the assortment waiting for you. The list of complaints sits like a taunt to your exhaustion. "I'm this close to walking out and leaving you fools."
"Oh, quit that." Lena doesn't even have to look up the papers in her hand for you to know she's talking to you. Forever observant, the nurses were. "Don't give Abbot more reason to be grumpy." That's when she looks up at you, peering over the rim of her glasses. If you didn't already agree, her glare would've convinced you to.
"Yeah," you roll your eyes and they land on Shen, "he doesn't need that."
You don't miss the little smile on Shen's face when he rounds the curve of the counter. "C'mon, you won't leave." He carries himself to one of the computers, scanning his badge with an accepting beep. "What've you got going on that's better than this?"
"Okay, ouch."
"No, I mean—"
"I do have a life, John."
"I…bet you do." He concedes with a shrug of his shoulders. "You just…" he takes a breath, searching for the right word, and you're already bracing for something too blunt. "Y'know, you work a lot."
You roll your eyes even as the back of your mind acknowledges his words to be true. "Which is why I need the break. You guys are driving me crazy."
"Big happy family." Shen gestures to the space around him as if to highlight the constant rush of people.
That almost earns another eye roll. You snatch a tablet off of the rack and tap through the screen prompts, checking for test results that should've been back ten minutes ago. "If you have to know, I'm meeting up with an old friend. Met her back in med school—"
"She teach you not to kill people?"
"Ha ha. I haven't seen her in a while since she moved out of town for her residency." Bingo, test results back. "Unlike you freaks, she's actually nice."
Shen responds with a laugh that comes out as a snort. "Don't leave us for too long. One taste of freedom and you really will ditch this place, I'm sure." Lena echoes the sentiment with a short 'don't tempt her' as she scurries past.
"Are we working or are we talking?" Abbot's voice seems to barrel over the emergency department's constant, hectic buzz. He braces two large hands against the countertop's edge, occupying the space between you and Shen. He looks between the two of you with that arch of his eyebrow that never seemed to soften.
Shen relents first, taking your silence as an opportunity. "She's leaving us, man," he gestures towards you with an accusatory glance.
Jack's eyes land on you, brow furrowed. "Leaving us?"
"No—Don't say it like that." You'd smack Shen if you could reach him. Especially after seeing him smile as he types away at a chart he surely had no interest in.
Jack straightens, sliding his hands off of the counter. He looked at you with that same assessing stare he gave everything he couldn't quite figure out. "You better not be. You're not allowed to leave."
You sigh, silently damning yourself for opening your mouth. "I took tomorrow off. You won't even miss me."
Before you even registered he'd moved in your direction, Jack stops just behind you. Stood with his hands behind his back—the same way he always did—he peers over your shoulder to look at the scans on the screen in your hands. A low sound rumbles from his throat. "I'll miss the extra hands." You look back over your shoulder to find his eyes on you instead of the screen. "At least go do your job before you leave us, yeah?" He holds that look, something indecipherable and intense, as he steps away.
You have to take a breath to level yourself. Jack could be such a difficult book to read sometimes; it was hard to tell what went on in that head when he wasn't working through an active trauma. You could tell he'd lived too long of a life to put up with nonsense and waste time on whatever he deemed unnecessary, small talk included. Slipping in and out of conversation to occupy himself with the responsibility of his job as an attending wasn't uncommon. Still, you liked to believe that unique brand of sarcasm was how he chose to show affection.
The smile Shen flashes in your direction, complete with a raised brow that seemed more intrigued than accusatory, only confirms that belief. "Wow. He might actually miss you while you're gone."
"Shut it." You sigh, sore feet carrying your body back to one of the patients waiting for your care. You just hope Jack doesn't realize you're cherry-picking the easier cases for the sake of your sanity. If he knew you were cherry-picking, he might've kept you charting well into day shift. At least then you could argue he wanted to keep you around.
Clocking in on Sunday reminded you exactly why you never took days off for social events. The rhythm of the night shift had been interrupted and you were left to live in the consequences. It was a fun day, but the change in sleep definitely had you dragging your feet. Shen made it a point to tease you with a pointed 'this is why you can't leave us!' And as hard as you rolled your eyes, the chaos did comfort you in some strange way. Still, the chaos would've been a little easier had you not been exhausted.
Ellis, never one to mince words, was the one to urge you towards the coffee in the break room when she saw the hunch in your shoulders. "You need to wake the hell up," she'd told you, "go get some of that coffee and figure it out."
So, figure it out you did. Even though the break room coffee had run cold and thick, sitting bitter in the pot, it was better than trying to brute force another eight hours. You yawn as you pour the lukewarm brew into a mug found in the depths of the break room cabinet. It was a wonder there were still clean dishes left to choose from.
Footsteps sound out at the doorway. You peer up with tired eyes to see Shen beelining for the fridge. He nods toward you, a sweet little "hey" dropping from his lips. The fridge creaks open under his hand. "Haven't had a chance to ask about your day of freedom," you hear from behind the door as he reaches inside.
"It was good," you nod, "I'm…exhausted now, though. Didn't get much chance to catch up on sleep."
Shen hums a sound of acknowledgement. He straightens up, now holding a half-empty cup of fast-food cold brew. "Hope your friend was worth it."
Your nose wrinkles at the bitter taste that hits your tongue when you take another sip of your own coffee. Man, something sugary and sweet and overly caffeinated sounded heavenly right now. "Yes, she was worth it. I missed her. She lives over in Philly, so we never really get to meet up anymore."
"Philly?" He whistles with a shake of his head. "Man, all for you?"
"No, for her family. I just met up with her for lunch." Another sip of bitter, thick coffee has you setting the mug on the countertop before continuing, "You don't think my company's worth the four-hour drive?" You look up at him with a cocked brow, but when his lips press into a thin line, you raise a hand to cut off whatever snarky response he could come up with. "Don't answer that." Shen holds his hands up in mock surrender—the same way he always did when his sarcasm was stopped before it could manifest. "We took some pictures while she was here…"
You pat the pockets of your scrubs, searching for your phone in the fabric, and pull it out with another yawn. Half a cup of lukewarm coffee didn't seem to do much in terms of waking you up, it seemed. You inch closer to Shen as you thumb through your phone and pull up the few photos from the day before. One of you and your friend smiling at the table of a cafe, another taken outside, a few silly photos that Shen doesn't find as hilarious as you do. But he humors you with a quiet aww that almost sounds like the reaction to a cute animal rather than a photo of his coworker.
"Well, look at you wearing something other than scrubs!"
You nudge him with your elbow, "Yeah, I told you I have a life."
Another set of footsteps crosses the threshold of the break room door, but it's the sharp whistle that follows that catches the attention of both you and Shen. It's Abbot, hovering like always, eyebrows raised at the sight of you two hunched of your phone. "Scatter, kids," he urges, thumbing back towards the bustling hall, "C'mon, no gossiping."
"M'not gossiping! I'm bragging about my day off." You turn your phone around, screen facing outwards to show off one of the photos from yesterday.
Jack doesn't seem to pay it much attention as he moves to pour his own cup of coffee. "Yeah?" He humors you long enough to look at the screen for a moment. He nods, as if granting his approval. "How was that?"
"Uh, great." The emphasis you put on the word is dramatic enough to prove your point. "I met her back in med school, but she moved to Philly for her residency. Haven't seen her in a while. But we were both happy to just…be out of the hospital for a day." Turning your phone in your hand, you scroll up through your entire collection of photos in search of a particular photo from years ago. "I'm sure I have a picture of us from back then. That was…God, eight years ago?"
"Eight years?" That seems to pique Jack's attention. You think he's poking fun, but the look on his face is one of disbelief. "You were in med school only eight years ago? Christ, way to make me feel old."
"Feel old?" Shen pipes up. You shoot him a look that he reciprocates before hiding his smile behind a sip of his cold brew.
"Oh, here we go. Wow, I look like a baby…"
An old photo from nearly eight years ago pulls up full-screen on your phone. It's of you with the same friend, both eight years younger, in the apartment you resided in during med school. You didn't look much different aside from a fuller face devoid of the stress lines your job had come to give you. But showing the photo off made the image feel like it was from a lifetime ago. Shen makes a cheeky comment about the unique style you sported back then. It's when you show Jack that something seems to land awkwardly.
You don't notice it, but the photo lands like a punch to the gut. Not only was it a shock to his system to see a young, twenty-something you fresh into med school, but he knew that room. He knew those sheets, the band poster hung over the bed, the curtains framing the window at the foot of the mattress. He'd seen it countless times on his own phone screen until the layout was burned into the recesses of his brain. Jack takes a deep breath to will away the sudden thrum of his heart.
"That's…" He clears his throat when the word comes out broken, "that's your apartment?"
"Yeah. Well, was. Don't judge it!" You laugh, turning the photo back towards yourself. "I know it looks shitty, but I was broke in med school. Cut me some slack."
Shen mutters something about it being 'not that bad' as Jack practically chugs the rest of his coffee. He sets the mug down in the sink harsher than any of you expect and straightens with a huff; the sharp clink of ceramic catches your attention, but the hard set of his jaw keeps it.
"Get off your phone," he grumbles without turning to look at you. He carries himself hurriedly, like he's trying to get out of the room as fast as he physically can. "Get back to work. People need you out there."
Your eyes follow the broad set of his back as Jack slips out of the break room. His absence leaves his tone to settle over you and Shen—who shares a look of disbelief your way—and something unwelcome shifts in the air. You slip your phone back into your pocket, embarrassment and uncertainty tightening in your chest. It was his job to keep you in line and on task; a simple reminder shouldn't have weighed on you the way it did.
"Yeah, told you he wouldn't miss me."
It was childish, sure. Unprofessional, definitely. But you cared too much about what he thought. You liked to tell yourself it was strictly about the job and that staying in the good graces of your attending would make life easier. And that was true, to an extent. But you didn't often let yourself acknowledge the curiosity in the back of your mind that constantly questioned what went on in his head. It would only serve as a distraction to concern yourself with whatever he stressed over. The easiest thing to do was just catch him when the night offered a break and he wasn't pulled in ten different directions. He was fine when he wanted to talk. The hard part was just finding the right moment.
And, unfortunately, that moment never seems to come. The night had its lulls, which were nothing more than minute-long breaks that allowed you to catch up on a paragraph of charting at a time. And, to your surprise, Abbot wasn't hovering or breaking heavy tension with dry humor that only he ever found funny. Well, he was…just not with you.
What you thought was just another sour mood slowly turned into the realization that your attending was treating you differently. Rather, he wasn't acknowledging you at all. He didn't turn the other direction to avoid you—he just looked past like you weren't even there. He didn't check in with a little tap on your arm and a thumbs-up that silently asked, 'Are you still with us'. It took a few hours to realize, but once it hit you, it settled heavy on your shoulders.
It really came to a head when you had to present a case. You slunk up beside him when he'd finished a conversation with one of the nurses, deliberately trying to catch him before he could busy himself with another task. The entire time you relayed the patient's status—test results, symptoms, possible diagnoses and why they didn't fit criteria—you looked up at Jack and waited for him to meet your gaze. But it never came. Instead, he signed off on another scan, handed the tablet back to you, and scurried off like the interaction had wasted his time.
You didn't consider yourself a favorite, but it was really unlike him to be so short with you. And when he brushed you off so easily over something work-related, the last thing you wanted to do was confront his attitude. You settled for the next best thing: interrogating your coworkers.
Ellis was the first one you landed eyes on. She was clearly on a mission, carrying herself from one room to the next, but you still sidled yourself up next to her. "Hey, uhm..." You matched her pace, hugging the tablet in your hands close to your body. "Have you noticed anything…off with Abbot?"
She tears her eyes away from the destination in front of her to look over at you. "Off?" She echoes in a plea for more information.
"Yeah, just…" you trail off, trying to find the right words, "I don't know. I'm getting a weird vibe."
"He seems fine to me."
"Really? You haven't noticed him being all…avoidant or whatever?"
"I mean," Ellis shrugs, trying to find the answer you're looking for, "I guess he's been in his head a bit more. Nothin' crazy, you know how he is."
You nod, all-too-aware of what she means. But you aren't satisfied with that answer. With what essentially served as confirmation that the sudden change in demeanor was only directed towards you, now came the urge to understand why. And while you didn't expect Parker—or any of your colleagues for that matter—to have the explanation you needed, it didn't stop you from questioning.
"Nothing happened while I was gone, did it?" You stop in your tracks, hoping she'll humor you long enough to give an actual response. "No…veterans came in yesterday? Was he with SWAT this morning?"
Ellis does stop, but she huffs a sigh as she turns in your direction. "Not that I know of. Look, if you think somethin's up, just ask him. We got shit to do, yeah?"
"Right." You concede reluctantly. "Yeah, of course."
Ellis cocks her head towards the North rooms as she takes her leave, a silent urge to distract yourself with productivity. She was right—your job was more important than gossiping about your attending. Patients didn't care whether or not you felt ignored. You take a breath and steel yourself for the remaining hours of chaos.
An ache in your hands reminds you of the tablet you're still hugging against your chest. You weren't even aware you were white-knuckling the device. You shake your head as if it'll clear the stress and suffocating stream of questions and carry yourself over to the nurse's station on tired feet. The board overhead never fell below a certain threshold of patients; the rotation of color made your head spin. As you slot the tablet into its charging dock, Lena rounds the corner. The first amusement you've felt in hours comes when she scolds a small group of NA's over their tendency to talk instead of work.
A voice in the back of your head tells you to get back to your charting. Instead, you lean against the countertop and hope Lena's the only one listening to you when you call out.
"Hey, Lena, how's my favorite charge nurse?"
The look she gives you is exactly what you expect. Skeptical. "Favorite?"
"Yeah, of course," you shrug. "Don't tell Dana. Hey, listen, have you noticed anything different with Abbot today?"
Lena doesn't answer you immediately. While you fill the silence with every possible response that would send you into a panic, she just grabs a clipboard and looks at you from over the rim of her glasses. She has the courtesy to step closer, keeping her voice as low as the bustle around the two of you would allow. "Now, why are you asking me that?"
Hearing it from her mouth gives you pause. She was great at making the trivial things feel as silly as they were. "I dunno, I just…" Your eyes scan the halls and, though you don't say it, you both know you're looking for him. "He's acting a little bit off, I think."
"Yeah. 'Cause he is 'a little bit off'. Aren't we all."
"Right." Concession was starting to come easy. "Just…keep an eye on him, please? You're always watching, you'll notice better than anyone."
That manages to earn a laugh from her. "Flattery will get you nowhere, sweetheart."
You flash a smile and drag yourself back into the fray. Her sentiment is already settled in the back of your mind. Yeah, you think, clearly not.
Seven A.M. couldn't have come any slower.
The night was one of the longest drags you'd ever lived through. Least of all because of the actual work you were expected to do; everything clinical moved like clockwork. Patients, paperwork, even charting was enough of a distraction to make time tick a little faster. The real problem was Abbot and whatever had him convinced that avoiding you was the best course of action. Time moved slower when every minute was a reminder that he wasn't acknowledging you.
If it were anyone else, you'd chalk it up to a bad day and try again tomorrow. But Jack didn't do this—the unprofessional silent treatment that bled into every aspect of the job. He was an adult. He was the one rallying teamwork and perseverance and how not to let baggage seep into the job. If there was a problem, he talked it out.
Until now, apparently.
When handoff finally came and the day shift slowly flooded in, you didn't find the relief you typically did with their presence. Yes, you could finally get off your feet, maybe catch up on the sleep you'd missed, and eat a real meal for the first time in hours. But it didn't feel right going home with uncertainty hanging over your head.
Lucky for no one but yourself, Jack's role as an attending kept him busier than others. Meaning you had time to do rounds and catch the day shift up to speed with the patients without worrying about him slipping away. It doesn't stop you from keeping an eye on him whenever you're able, though. He could ignore you in favor of work, but once the two of you were clocked out, there was no choice but to listen to you. At least, that's what you told yourself as you cornered him in the stairwell.
He barely gets through the heavy doors, bag slung on his shoulder, when you call out to him. The same quiet little "hey" you always greeted him with. It isn't lost on you the way he pauses before turning to face you.
"Hey." He tosses back. You think this is the first time he's looked at you in eight hours. It quickly diverts when he fidgets with the watch on his wrist instead. "How'd tonight treat you?"
You recognize it for what it is: a formality. He's not genuinely asking because he wants to know. If he were, he'd take care to close the nearly two feet of space between you.
"Fine. It was fine." Jesus, this was awkward. It would've been easier to just go home and sleep the shift off. But that wouldn't have given you answers. You sigh, clasping your hands together only to part them seconds later when you gesture to yourself. "Did I…do something?"
That makes Jack pause. His eyes dart up, looking at you, then past your form to the heavy doors leading back to the ED, then back at you. "Not that I'm aware of…Did you do something?"
"I…I don't know." Your shrug is one of exasperation. "It feels like you've been deliberately avoiding me all night. I felt like you didn't even want me to present cases or ask for your input." Your throat feels tight halfway through the explanation, your chest heavy with all the frustration and confusion that's built throughout the night. You take a break to steady yourself and shove your hands in your pockets. "You're my attending," you know he didn't need the reminder, "if I can't come to you, there's clearly a problem."
Jack doesn't offer a response, but at least he looks at you while the muscles in his jaw tick under white stubble. He didn't like it when people felt the need to state the obvious and tell him what he already knew. But reality and how it settled on your shoulders was far more important than his feelings about it. When you think he's going to leave you with nothing, he shifts his bag on his shoulder and shakes his head.
"There's no problem."
It's your turn to be silent and stare.
Your lips press thin in a tight line as you try to swallow some of your frustration. No problem? Right, because he'd been ignoring you just for the hell of it. Because the same man who always asked how you were doing and questioned how you spent your days suddenly decided your existence had no relevance. You take a deep breath and straighten your spine. If anything, it's to ground yourself and remember that cursing him out and risking your job wasn't worth it.
"Look," you start with a huff, voice as level as you can possibly manage, "if I did something to upset you, I'd like to know so I can fix it. If I did something wrong professionally, you need to tell me so I can better it."
Jack was always a particular case study—one you liked to think you were starting to understand—but the way he looks at you now is indecipherable. Part of you is just happy to have his eyes on you, but it doesn't feel as reassuring as you thought it would. Just when the silence stretches a moment too long, his eyes tear away from you and dart around the stairwell as if surveying the area around you.
"I'm not having this conversation here," he mutters, crossing those thick arms over his chest. It's meant to be a finality, but there's no way you're letting the conversation end unfinished.
"Uhm, yes we are? If this is something interfering with work, then the conversation can happen here."
"I promise this is not a conversation you wanna have in the hospital. You'll be better off if you wait." You scoff at that, annoyed, and he doesn't miss it. He's already starting to turn away, ready to leave it at that, before he adds, "You should have my number. Text me when you're home. We'll talk about it then."
You step after him when he moves away. What started as confusion had fully bled into frustration. "So, just to be clear, there is a problem. And you're not telling me how to fix it."
Jack huffs your name in an annoyed breath that's sharp enough to make you pause. "You didn't do anything. There's no problem." When he looks back at you from over his shoulder, you swear a shiver runs down your spine. "I promise." He shifts his bag on his shoulder one final time—something you're starting to assume is a nervous tick—and you watch the muscles in his back play under his scrubs. He starts down the corridor before tossing back, "We'll talk when you're home."
That was the finality. Not that he gave you much choice in the matter, but you make it a point to stay rooted in the stairwell. You aren't sure how long you stand there, replaying the conversation in your head. It felt less like a conversation and more like the prelude to something that made your chest feel tight the longer you thought about it. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that he couldn't even look at your face. Great. Now you were dreading the return home.
The walk to the lockers feels like a display of shame, even though you're the only one who knows what just happened. It's hard to tell if your sluggish movements are from exhaustion or the subconscious desire to get home as slow as possible. But the inevitable was exactly that, and curiosity still reluctantly pulled at the back of your mind. If he really was willing to talk, you wanted to hear it. Even a harsh truth would be better than being lost in the dark.
You didn't know what to do with yourself when you got home. The smartest thing to do would be to whip up something proper to eat and change out of your scrubs. A text conversation shouldn't have taken much attention, let alone a ton of effort.
What actually ended up happening was you, thumbing away at your phone as soon as you got through the door, desperately searching for Jack's contact information to send a haphazard 'I'm home now' text. And as soon as it sent, you paced through your kitchen just waiting for him to see it and respond. The minutes feel torturously long. Part of you starts to fear he'll ghost you and refuse to have the conversation. But he promised there was no problem. It felt childish to latch onto something as feeble as that, but it was all you had. Even more embarrassing was how much it ate away at you to be so blatantly ignored by him. The longer you thought about it, the more pathetic you thought yourself for craving his approval.
Maybe the only thing more pathetic was how you perked up hearing the chime of your phone. Three long minutes after your initial message came Jack's response. And he got right to the point.
Abbot: Is there anywhere someone might be able to recognize you from?
The question left you even more confused. One, what the hell did this have to do with work? Two, why would anyone recognize you? As the questions flooded your mind, you wanted to reply with an annoyed wall of question marks. Instead, you settle for more clarification:
You: i'm sorry?
Abbot: Answer the question.
You scoff at your phone, wondering how the hell you were meant to answer.
You: i mean i don't think any of my patients would recognize me
Abbot: Not what I meant.
Okay, dick. You weren't surprised to find him as blunt over the phone as he was in person. A beat passes before he sends another message.
Abbot: Have you ever posted anything online that people might recognize you from?
Somehow, this was clearing up nothing and only leaving you with more questions.
You: what?? you mean on like instagram or smth??
You: i doubt my 20 followers would recognize me
Twenty followers that were mostly friends and family that already knew you. But you kept the sarcasm minimal in hopes it'd make his point approach quicker.
When it takes another minute for him to respond, you decide to finally retreat to your bedroom and rid yourself of the scrubs you'd been stewing in for hours. Getting off your feet and into a warm bed and fresh clothes was the closest thing to Heaven right now. You hear your phone chime as you settle in and close out the Pittsburgh dawn with thick curtains. When you slip into bed to check the messages, there's two waiting for you.
The first is just your name, plain and simple. It makes you think of the way he spoke it in the stairwell—stern and final—and something about that makes your throat run dry. The next message makes your heart skip a beat:
Abbot: Okay, I'm not asking you this as your boss. We're off the clock.
Then, possibly the last message you ever could've expected from him:
Abbot: Have you ever shared anything pornographic?
If you weren't already in bed, you swear you could've fallen over. Your heart sinks so low it reaches the floor. Maybe, just maybe, you actually already died and this was Hell.
There was no way this was real.
And the worst about it? You couldn't even laugh it off or feign disgust. You couldn't send back an angry 'what the fuck are you talking about?' and why he'd ask such a thing. Well, you could've, but it would've felt pretty disingenuous. The absurdly formal way he posed the question aside, the only thing you wanted to ask was how the hell he found out. It was years ago, a stupid endeavor to make a little pocket money during med school. You'd barely even made content before deciding the effort wasn't worth the pay. You hadn't done it in so long—hadn't even thought about it in years.
With shaky thumbs and an erratic heartbeat, you managed to type back:
You: what the fuck jack
You could lie. You could say no and make him feel terrible for bringing it up. But there's no way he would ever bring it up if he didn't have a reason to.
You: ok yes but it was years ago. i told you i was broke in med school
Jack still hasn't responded. You felt sick wondering what he was doing with that confirmation. Maybe he was already typing up an email to HR. Maybe he was wondering how to bring up to the team that you'd no longer be working with them. Fuck. Panic sits in your gut and crawls up your throat until it's nearly impossible to breathe.
You: wajt how the fuck did you find out??? did soneone tell you????
Every possible scenario ranging from bad to awful to worse ran through your mind. What if someone told him and now he had to bring it up to someone higher. What if the whole emergency department knew, or someone in particular knew and was slowly sharing it. Oh, God, what if you walked in there tomorrow and everyone started asking you about those stupid videos and—
Abbot: No, no one told me.
Thank God. At least you could push away that particular worry for now. But it didn't answer the first question you posited.
You: so you just found it?? on accident??
Abbot: I didn't know it was you until today.
Abbot: I recognized the apartment when you showed me that picture of you in school.
Ah. So that's what was going on.
In hindsight, that made the entire night way less stressful than it felt in the moment. It almost made you laugh to think about; your attending had been avoiding you because he realized you made the porn he watched. Yeah, you weren't too sure you could've looked him in the eye after that, either.
But as the realization sinks into your brain, the reality of it hits you. To recognize the walls of your apartment, he had to have watched a video. More likely, several videos. The guy who ran your department had seen a 20-something-year-old you spread your legs on a shitty phone camera. He'd seen you touch yourself and put on a show for approval of strangers on the internet. Christ, you couldn't even remember half of what those videos contained—who knew what he'd witnessed you do in the desperation for a paycheck.
And for some perverted, selfish reason, it didn't repulse you in the slightest. It should've. You should've been typing out an apology and promising that content was from the past. You should've asked that he never watch it again because of the breach of privacy. Instead, you sat in your bed and wondered if he had a favorite. You wondered if he got off to any of it, and if the knowledge that it was you made it better or worse for him.
The chime of your phone snaps you back to reality. It's then you realize you've left Jack on read for nearly eight minutes.
Abbot: I'm sorry. I should've acted more professional at work. This isn't coming into work with me tomorrow.
Abbot: It's cleared up and done. Thank you for being honest.
Honest? He all but admitted he'd watched a porno of you, and he was thanking you for the honesty of clarifying it was you? The guy you reported to had seen you naked and trembling and desperate and then had the audacity to say he'd forget all about it by tomorrow?
Yeah, right.
You: did you at least enjoy the videos?
There's a stretch of silence with no response. You regret the words for a moment, wondering if the overstep was breaching further than a tease. Then he sends another message containing nothing more than your name. It's exactly the same as last time, but you can feel the difference in tone. Shakier. Warning you. Or maybe it was all in your head.
Abbot: I said this is done.
You: i thought we were being honest :/
Yeah, you were being annoying. But Jack left you unnecessarily stressed out for most of your shift. Surely he could put up with a little bit of pestering. He had a sense of humor about everything. But you watched the text bubble pop up and disappear five different times before he finally sent a response.
Abbot: I don't think that's appropriate.
You: jack. do you really think i'm gonna judge you for watching porn when i used to make it??
You don't get a response to that message. In the minutes that follow, as you're waiting for something to pop up, you wish you could jump through your phone screen and figure out what he was doing. Was he ignoring you on purpose? Did you finally annoy him enough? A far-too hopeful voice in the back of your mind hoped he was going through the list and figuring out which video was his favorite. Aside from being unrealistic, you cringe at the thought of him going back to old videos instead of reaching out for something new. The thought creeps in—not entirely unwelcome—wondering if he'd ask for that. Debating whether you'd fulfill it while knowing damn well you probably would.
Five long minutes pass and you huff a sigh. You knew he was right; this wasn't appropriate. And Jack was a man who lived so strictly to his regiment and rules.
You: sorry
You: just curious
You set your phone down with a finality you aren't too keen on accepting. That wasn't exactly the message you'd hoped to leave off on.
The darkness of the room creeps in without the light of your phone to light up your face. You slip under your sheets and try your hardest to prepare for a longer stretch of sleep than you had the previous day. Exhaustion hit you hard and sudden, pulling at your aching muscles, but your brain couldn't stay quiet. All it did was replay the night, every little conversation, what you could've done differently. Conjuring up scenarios where you confronted Jack earlier and saved yourself the stress, or what would've happened if you never showed him that photo of you and your friend. It was a whirlwind of what-ifs, more than enough to give you a headache.
The buzz of your phone, when it comes, is far too loud. And you, despite your exhaustion, are far too eager to see what it's from. The light of the screen nearly blinds you, but as you squint to look at the notification, your heart skips a beat.
It's Jack, with a simple message that responds to a specific one of your own. Replying to your earlier question about enjoying your videos, all he says in response:
Abbot: Yes.
Heat blooms throughout your body embarrassingly quick. Yes, he liked your videos. One, several, it didn't matter. Jack had seen you naked and whining, and he liked it.
You: wait which video
Abbot: Several.
Oh. So he really liked it. Must've been a hit in his browser history.
You: oh wow. okay
You: glad i could be of service then ;)
You plan to leave it at that and quit while you're ahead. Coaxing the confession out of him was precarious enough. Even though you were dying to know every detail and figure out exactly what he'd seen and what he liked best, you were content with just knowing he liked something about it. Teasing him was fun, but anything more would've been an HR disaster. It'd be interesting to see how Jack would explain that one.
But just as you're about to set your phone down, another message comes through:
Abbot: Yeah, you're really helpful.
Curiosity killed the cat and all that.
You: ?
You: with what?
You knew, in the back of your mind. Or, at least, you really fucking hoped. Every second drags out far too long for your eager nerves, itching to know how he'll respond. Thankfully, it's along the lines of something you were hoping for.
Abbot: Can I show you?
Always so formal.
You: yes please
Your heart was already thumping out of your chest. Working yourself up over whatever he was sending next, heat pumps thick in your veins and lands in your gut. You nearly chewed your lip raw lying in wait. You knew you were being impatient, but when the next message pops up on your screen, you decide every second was worth the wait.
It's an image (exactly what you wanted to see) taken awkwardly in the dark of a bedroom. In it is Jack's hand, which you recognize by the fine lines and freckles on his skin, wrapped loosely around the base of his cock. You assume the only light comes from the camera's flash when he'd taken the picture, but it highlights the pearls of precum welling at the red and ruddy skin of the fat tip. You realize he's still in his scrubs when your eyes trail down to see the waistband pushed down just underneath his heavy balls and the top bunched up to expose the soft pudge of his lower stomach.
It's no expert nude, but it's got a charm that undeniably fits him. And made you so absurdly wet in what you feel confident claiming is record time. You're throbbing at the sight of his cock on your screen. You were glad to see he also thought it fair that he show off in return after he'd seen you bare and desperate multiple times.
Your thighs press together to quell the incessant pulse between your legs as you hurriedly type out a response.
You: are you watching one right now??
Abbot: yeag
Abbot: *Yeah.
You: oh youre unbelievable
You laugh behind your phone screen. You aren't scolding him, just shocked at his audacity. Rolling over to reach your bedside, you flick on the closest light. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make the camera's job a little easier and make the final product a little more flattering.
You rid yourself of a majority of your clothes and kick the sheets off of your body. When you're stripped down to nothing more than a pair of unassuming panties, you lift your phone above your reclined figure, angle it just right, and snap a photo. The golden light from your lamp makes your skin look warm. Of course, the angle cuts off everything above the neck—old habits.
You send the photo with a message attached:
You: why are you watching an old video when you literally have access to me right now??
His response comes back in seconds:
Abbot: Jesus Christ
Abbot: Yeah good point
Abbot: Take the rest off. Let me see how wet you are
The command alone is enough to make you throb. You could snap a photo of the outside of your panties, focusing in on the fabric where it clings to your wet skin as slick seeps through the cotton. But you're both, decidedly, too worked up for any more teasing. So you slip the fabric off, kicking it somewhere on your bed, and bring your phone down between your parted legs.
Trying to find a flattering angle reminds you exactly how difficult it was to film the same thing years ago. It takes an awkward grip on your phone, but the camera catches the sheen of your cunt where your slick sits. Your puffy clit, all swollen with arousal, peeks out when you run your fingers through your slit.
You send two photos this time—one with your fingers teasing the bud of your clit, the other with you spread open and dripping. You send both out, typing out a message one-handed.
You: been wet since you said you liked my porno
You: wish you could feel it
Abbot: Yeah?
The gap of time between messages tells you he's probably typing one-handed as well.
Abbot: You like knowing I was getting off to you?
Abbot: Love watching that pretty pussy cum baby. Wish I could feel it too
You throb against your own hand, cunt fluttering at the filthy words on screen. You could almost picture that rumble in his voice he'd get when he was annoyed. Your fingers swirl against your clit, still slicked up, and picture how Jack's hands would feel instead. You scroll up through the messages, seeking out the picture he'd sent earlier. His fingers are thicker than yours, so confident and sure when they work, you know they'd stretch your cunt perfectly. He'd have to if he wanted to fit that fat cock inside—
Abbot: Can you do something for me?
The message pops up, bringing you back to the present conversation. You're already shivering trying to figure out what else he could want. Far too eager—bordering on desperate—you fumble through more messages.
You: yes
You: what do u want
Abbot: Do you have a pillow you can use?
You: u want me to ride it
Abbot: Fuck yes
You smile to yourself at his zealous reply. You knew that was something you'd recorded once upon a time—multiple times, if you recalled correctly. Must've been one of his favorites of yours to request an updated version.
You drag yourself up until you're sitting in the center of your mattress. Once you settle on a pillow to sacrifice, you fold it over and wedge it between your legs. The first brush against your clit makes you shiver, hips jerking into the friction. Already you can feel your arousal seeping into the pillowcase, slicking your movements when you give an experimental roll of your hips. Holding the pillow between your thighs, you fish around for your phone to prepare a picture. You take one, angling it below the neck, but that's not enough.
Finding something to prop your phone against was a nightmare, but once the camera sits steady with your body in frame, you tap the big, red 'record' button. It's an oddly nostalgic feeling; worrying about what's in frame, trying to get the best angle, wondering if the lighting will ruin it. But Jack's waiting, and your cunt's throbbing with the need to get off.
You rock your hips into the pillow with a slow grind that sends zaps up your spine. It's not enough to get off, but it's enough to keep you worked up. Your hands fist in the pillow, grabbing it from different angles, holding it in place while you grind. Your thighs hide most of the action from this angle, but you have a feeling it's the motion of your body that he cares about most. The way your hips swirl and your ass ripples with the motion, the way your chest moves and your tits bounce when you rock down, the way your thighs tense when the fabric drags just right against your clit.
Along the line of curses and swears, you pant Jack's name in that same pathetic whine. Who knew if he'd watch it with the sound on or if the camera could even pick it up from this distance. But you wanted him to know you were thinking about him. All of this was for him, no one else.
Another minute ticks by and you capture the hurried, desperate movement of your hips against your pillow. You know you aren't getting off from this alone, but it's left you hot and dripping. You cut the video and end the recording, not bothering to check the quality before sending it his way. Quality clearly wasn't an issue he was too picky about.
In the minutes that follow—waiting for him to respond—you keep rocking into the soft plush of the pillow. Your head spins trying to imagine the look on his face. You wanted to see what he did when he heard his name drop from your lips. Maybe you'd get another photo—or a video of your own.
Instead, your phone began to buzz incessantly, rhythmically. Jack was calling you. The screen changed, his name in bold letters up top with the taunting 'Accept' and 'Decline' buttons below. You stared at it for a moment, unsure how to respond once the barrier of text was removed and you got to hear his voice in real time. Your thumb moves before your brain.
You bring your phone to your ear, panting heavier than you realize. You mutter a shaky "Hello?" that sounds more timid than you feel.
Jack's voice comes through on the other end, preceded by a heavy breath you feel in your bones. "Are you still on that pillow?"
"Mm-hmm," you whine, nodding along as if he can see you
"Good." His voice is raspy, thick with a kind of desperation you didn't know he was capable of. "Good, I want you to cum like that."
"Yeah? Fuck—you gonna make me cum, Jack?" You swirl your hips and drag your clit along the soft swell of the pillow. The wetness you've left behind makes the glide easy, slicking your sensitive flesh.
"Fuck," he groans, breath catching in his throat. "Yeah, been waiting...been waiting to make that pretty pussy feel good." You swear you hear the wet schlick of his hand moving in the background. If you closed your eyes, you could almost picture one of those broad hands pumping the length of his cock. "You got awfully wet for me, huh?"
Another mm-hmm sounds out from your throat. Your fingers tighten around the length of your phone, the other in the fabric of the pillow. "M'so fucking wet…bet you'd fuck me so good."
"Fuck, yeah, I would. Ah, shit—I'd give you whatever you want, sweetheart."
Sweetheart. The name settles somewhere deep in your gut, stirring alongside the heat pulling at your core. "Yeah, you know what this pussy likes, don't you?"
All Jack offers in response is another low, rumbling groan. The wet schlick, schlick, schlick of his hand sounds out rhythmically in the background of his audio. Somewhere in the mess of sounds is your name, breathless and heavy, on his lips. Your thighs clench tight against the pillow as you rut, chasing the friction of the soaked fabric.
"Bet you'd look so good full of me. God…" He huffs. You can tell his jaw's set tight, cursing spilling out from behind grit teeth. "Can't wait to feel you around me…" You moan at his words, too afraid to speak lest you interrupt his filthy train of thought. "You'd take it, wouldn't you? You'd take it so fucking good, huh?"
Your hips stutter in their rhythm, twitching in an effort to chase the mounting pressure building in your core. "Fuuuck, Jack…" You whine, barely able to catch your breath.
"You gonna cum for me?"
"Mm-hmm…"
"Say it, baby, tell me you're gonna cum for me."
"M'gonna cum for you, Jack."
You're rutting like an animal, grinding against your pillow with energy you didn't know you had. The desperation gnawed at you, frenzied and greedy, pushing you towards a high you needed more than anything else. Between the soft, wet plush between your thighs and the hot, needy sounds he made in your ear, you were barreling towards the edge alarmingly quickly.
Jack curses, the sound heavy and strained, "Cum for me, baby. Let me hear you." He urges you with a desperation that rivals your own.
Pleasure shoots white-hot down your spine, seizing every muscle in your body. Your thighs clamp tight around the pillow, keeping it close and in place for the frantic rock of your hips. You nearly double over as you shake and whimper. The last thing on your mind is your phone, but when Jack's breath grows heavier, your awareness focuses in on the noises coming from your speaker. The groan that tears from him is unlike anything you've heard from him before. You know he's coming down from the same high when he's left panting into the phone wherever it sits on his end.
You aren't sure how long the two of you stay like that. Eventually your spine straightens, a small whimper escaping your throat when your sensitive flesh grazes the pillow. With the adrenaline and ecstasy wearing off, an ache begins to creep into the small of your back.
Jack's the first to break the silence. "You alright?" He asks, still winded himself.
"Mm. Yeah. You?"
"I am now. You were…a pretty great help."
You laugh a soft sound, feeling a flush creep up to your cheeks. It felt ridiculous to blush over a compliment when you'd both cum from the sound of each other's voices. He sounded so…pleased. With you or himself, you weren't completely sure.
"Told you, I'm glad to be of service." Now he laughs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "Can I ask…how many of those videos you watched?"
"Uh…four?"
"Really? Only four? Thought it'd be more than that."
"Yeah, well…" He interrupts himself with a groan that makes you wonder if he's aching the same way you are. "Didn't have the time. I'm a busy man."
"And here I thought you were my biggest fan."
"Oh, no doubt about that." He sighs, and a beat of silence passes between the two of you. "Sorry about…how I acted today."
You move off of the pillow, wincing at the ache in your hips, as you move to gather your discarded clothes. "Oh, Jack, it's fine."
"No, I…It was unprofessional. I'm sorry." You slip your clothes on while he speaks, just letting him speak the apology. He needed it more than you did. "I'll…make it up to you. How about that?"
"More than this?"
"Oh, absolutely."
You find yourself easing in the lulls of silence, not too pressured to fill it with mindless chatter. As you turn the lights down and crawl back into your sheets, you aren't pressured to keep up with mindless chatter. What else was there to say, really? The rhythmic sound of his breathing, the airy feel of the lingering high, made you sink into your mattress.
You both needed sleep. Desperately.
"Okay, old man, I'm…I need sleep."
"Old man?"
"You should sleep, too."
"Hold on, 'old man'?"
"Jack."
"Fine." Another groan sounds out from his end. "After I clean up."
"Actually, could you…" You trail off before the request can form, heat creeping back up to your cheeks. You can picture his face, that cocked brow he always sported, waiting for you to use your words. "Could you take a picture before you clean up?"
"A picture? Of what, the mess you caused?"
Your mess. If you were less tired, that might've reignited something inside you. "Yeah. Just…I wanna see."
"You wanna see…" Jack echoes your words with a sarcastic tinge, but you can hear the smile in his voice. "Alright, fine. But you better sleep right after."
"I will. Promise."
"Good." Another beat passes where both of you take a deep, settling breath. "I'll see you tonight?"
Tonight. Right. You had to face him tonight for your next shift. That was a level of embarrassment and awkwardness you weren't ready to acknowledge quite yet. "Yeah," you concede, "see you then."
The call ends with a beep sounding out from your speaker. The lingering high has nearly worn off, only coaxed along this far by the sound of his voice. You hoped the ache in your back and the meat of your thighs would right themselves by the time you woke up. It was hard to know what, exactly, you were meant to feel. Truth be told, you were too tired to process anything outside of your exhaustion. Maybe you'd regret it when you realized it wasn't a dream. Maybe you'd still be riding a high. You quickly decided it was a problem for a future you who was more rested and level-headed.
One last chime rings out from your phone. Yet again, the screen blinds you in the darkness when you bring the device close. But seeing Jack's name with the notification of an attachment made your heart skip a beat. He'd followed through—always a man of his word. A similar photo taken from the same angle, his ruddy cock dribbling white onto his skin. The mess of liquid is larger than you'd anticipated, pooled over the soft pudge of his stomach and dripping down to the wiry, pale hair that trailed downward.
Yeah, even exhausted, that was enough to make something stir.
You: thank you <3
You: wish i was there to clean u up
Abbot: You said you'd go to sleep.
You: yes, sir
Abbot: Don't start with that or we won't get any sleep.
He was right, but would it really be that big of a shame? You'd worked doubles on less sleep before. The more you thought about it, though, the less you wanted to face the possibility of explaining yourself to Shen. And as selfish as you were, you knew Jack needed the rest more than anyone else could've. For the sake of his job, of course. But as you drifted off and let your mind wander to every possibility of what your next shift could hold, you quickly realized you needed him well-rested.
You had a real goal now. A goal that involved him and proving you weren't the same amateur from eight years ago.
part 2 because ive been doing a lot of lurking and liking lately. these are some of the best fics ive had the pleasure of reading since I last posted one of these
this is 100% smut
Jack Abbot
I wanna make you scream by @fangirl-dot-com
med school had gotten boring to jack abbot and michael "robby" robinavitch. in an attempt to liven things up, they settle on two things: serial killings and making you theirs no matter what. (jack x reader x robby)
bfs dad!Jack by @tokkiwrites
You love your boyfriend. Unfortunately, his father exists. What starts as harmless teasing slowly turns into lingering glances, inappropriate comments, and a growing attraction neither of you should be entertaining. Jack Abbott is older, shameless, far too handsome for his own good, and completely aware of the effect he has on you.
Oh I Wanna Let Them Unwrap Me by @diirty--chaii
You all head back to Robby's cabin to celebrate the holiday season - Merry Christmas ya filthy animals (Michael Robinavitch x Reader, Jack Abbot x Samira Mohan)
you shaved your bush by @keytomylockhart
In an attempt to seduce a past hookup, you accidentally send your attending, Jack Abbot, a lewd photo.
not here by @afterdarkbydel
Jack Abbot is too old for clubs, too tired for Santos’s birthday plans, and absolutely old enough to know better than to stare at the woman in the red top across the room. Unfortunately, knowing better does not help him at all.
always go older by @bluetimeombre
a patient tells you older is always better, Jack wants to know if you can confirm that.
golden girl by @robbyscoffee
When your grumpy skate coach has a bone to pick with your every move, it’s only natural he helps his golden girl get back on track. . .right?
jack's babygirl by @nowimconvinced
Contains: dbf! Jack, p in v, creampie, not pulling out, f and m orgasm, fauxcest, written in a subspace perspective about two consenting adults, pregnancy mention, breeding kink, size kink, possessive! Jack, jealous of mom's new husband, or new 'step-dad'
abbot cabin by @iris-enchantress
Professor Abbot and you have had an inappropriate relationship for a few months now. After his wife divorced him, he seemed to take an unhealthy interest in you. You stay after hours to discuss your work. Sometimes he walks you to your apartment with a hand on your back. Sometimes he says things that make you shiver, things you know he'd get in trouble for. He's rough around the edges but somehow you pull out a different side of him. A side he only shows you, a side even his ex wife never got to see. When fall break rolls around Professor Abbot - Jack, invites you to spend it with him at his cabin in the woods. You accept.
you just want to kiss him by @cutiedrpepper
Andrew "Pope" Cody
pope loves your ass by @archermind
Warning: anal fingering, p in v, he talks you through it
just the tip by @romantic-insomniac
manipulative pope cody + ‘just the tip?’ + breeding kink drabble
your scent in my lungs by @fangirl-dot-com
tags: andrew "pope" cody x reader, a/b/o universe, smut, female&male masterbation, scenting, heavy breathing
directors cut by @opulentpeony
andrew cody, better known as his stage name “pope”, is a rising star in the porn world. people love his gritty, dark, aggressive demeanor. so when you, an amateur porn producer, pitches an idea to him that aligns a little too well with his kinks, he finds himself wanting to only work with you. to the point where he won't fuck anyone on camera that isn't you…
got me seeing red by @cherryambition
After a Cody family dinner, you find yourself desperate to make your mark on Pope.
cockwarming as a punishment by @ruth-belcher
Titus Danforth
FREAK4FREAK by @in-ky
OR: four times you and titus match each other’s freak to a dangerous level (titus danforth x f!wife!reader)
if I can't have love, I want power by @cherryambition
You were the bride. The one being chased. You would do anything to stop running. Stop being hunted. Titus accepted your marriage proposal. Now it's time to take your place.
Jack + Pope
a simple arrangement by @opulentpeony
You have a simple arrangement with Dr. Jack Abbot. You live in his house. You work from home. You are available to him whenever he is home. In exchange, you live rent-free and have great sex. You like that there's no strings attached. The two of you are simply roommates who fuck every now and then.
But your arrangement is about to get complicated…because his identical twin brother has just been released from prison early. You know very little about Andrew Cody, other than the fact that Jack calls him Pope for some reason.
So, when Pope ends up having to live with you two at Jack's house for an undetermined amount of time, it shakes up your whole world. Because he wants you for himself. And he's not going to let his brother get in the way this time…
unusual behavior by @opulentpeony
Usually when a heist goes wrong, Andrew “Pope” Cody will do everything he can to escape without risking getting caught. But when he nearly kills you, an innocent bystander, he wonders why he can't seem to drive away. Usually, he would. But he can't because for some reason, his instincts are screaming at him not to let you die.
So, he breaks the one rule he has had all his life, never ask for help from his identical twin, and takes you to see Dr. Jack Abbot, in hopes of saving you. Jack hasn't seen Pope in years and now he is trying to save some random person bleeding out in the middle of his house for his estranged brother. He doesn't know why he agrees. Maybe because he's as drawn to you as Pope is.
Though, neither of them can figure out why…because you're just a beta, right?
Together | Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!ex-girlfriend!reader
Summary: Andrew broke up with you right before he was sent to Folsom State Prison. Over the past three years, you’ve found comfort in calling his number and talking to yourself. Unbeknownst to you, he has been released so when you call his phone one night while you’re having a mental breakdown, he runs to you.
Warnings/tags: 18+, brief smut, minors do not interact, unprotected piv, premature ejaculation, crying, mental health issues, brief angst, OCD behaviour/compulsion, mental breakdown, protective Andrew, Season 1 Pope, mention of prison, established past relationship, mention of breakup, comfort, fluff, and no use of y/n
Word Count: 2,278
Author’s note: NOT PROOFREAD. I typed this out in one sitting. This is an incredibly self indulgent fic and I don’t think it’s good (i lowkey feel like this is ass) but fuck it we ball. To be honest, I’ve been really struggling mentally and I thought of how Andrew would comfort someone who has mental health issues. Sorry there isn’t really a proper ending for this fic. This was inspired by Season 2 Episode 10 of Girls. Also, I’ve been working on Chapter 2 of my series Devotion but I thought of this so I quickly wrote it out. Thanks for reading and I hope you guys enjoy it!
Andrew stood in the backyard, shirtless with only his dark blue jeans and work gloves on as he swung his sledgehammer down onto the old brick fireplace. The brick fireplace was an eyesore in the backyard; Baz was supposed to get rid of it while Andrew was in prison. It was half past midnight, everyone else in the Cody house was sleeping but like most nights, sleep had evaded him.
Sweat beaded down his forehead and he grunted as he swung the sledgehammer again. The sound of sharp, heavy cracks and debris falling onto the grass with a thud were the only sound he could hear, aside from the occasional wailing sirens, which he turned around to look out for out of habit. Just as the sirens were passing and he was about to turn his attention back to the fireplace, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. At first he was annoyed at someone interrupting his work until he read the caller id.
It was you.
A few days before Andrew was sentenced to six years at Folsom State Prison, he broke up with you when you were visiting him at the county jail. It broke his heart and hurt him more than he thought he was capable of hurting when he saw the look on your face. The utter heartbreak and shock as you processed his words.
“I don’t want to see you again,” Andrew said, barely able to look you in the eye.
Tears were already streaming down your face. Your first instinct was to blame yourself. You racked your brain trying to figure out what you had done wrong, analyzing the past few days you had spent with him. “I don’t- I just don’t understand what I did wrong,” you gasped, choking on your tears.
He closed his eyes and turned away from you, blinking his own tears away. Every instinct he had was telling him to hold you, wipe your tears away and comfort you but he couldn’t. He needed it to hurt so you wouldn’t wait for him. “I don’t want to be with you. You need to forget me and move on. Even when I get out of prison, I don’t want to see you.”
“Andrew, please, just tell me what I did wrong and I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it just please don’t leave me. Please, Andrew,” you sobbed, frantically reaching for his hands from across the round table.
His jaw muscle clenched and it took every ounce of strength he had to push your hands away from him. It killed him to see you crying and breaking down like this, even more so because he was the reason for your pain.
Right from the start of your relationship, Andrew knew that he wasn’t good enough for you but he had tried so hard to prove himself otherwise, not just to you and everyone else, but also to himself. He stopped doing risky jobs where there were high chances of getting caught, all the jewelry he bought you was with clean money, and he distanced himself from Smurf to protect you. But all of his efforts turned out to be in vain when he got caught robbing a bank.
“Just stay away from me,” Andrew said, his voice was hoarse and gruff as he stood up. Without looking back out of fear that he would crumble under your tearful gaze and run to you, he walked out of the county jail visiting area.
It was the hardest decision he had ever made, letting you- the person he loved more than anyone or anything else in the world go, but it was because he loved you so much that he made the decision. He didn’t want you wasting the rest of your precious vibrant life waiting for him. You were too smart, ambitious, and capable to tie yourself to some convict.
Without giving it a second thought, Andrew answered your call. “Hello?”
“Andrew? What- wh- when did you get out of prison?” you stuttered. Your eyes were wide with surprise and shock as you stared at him on the screen. You blinked a few times, making sure it was really him.
“Yesterday,” he answered quickly, more concerned about you. His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the screen, taking in your tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes. “Why are you crying?”
It took you a few seconds to answer. You were still in shock that he was out of prison and captivated by his shirtless image on your screen. His hair was shorter, trimmed into a neat buzzcut that showed off his cute ears. “I’m not crying-”
“Why are you calling me?” To anyone else, his tone would’ve sounded impatient, but it was actually out of concern. He wanted to understand what was wrong so he could fix it for you. “I had two hundred and eighteen missed calls from you.”
“Oh well at first, I called you out of habit- even after the breakup, whenever something happened, I wanted to tell you. But you never answered- obviously because you were in prison. Even though you couldn’t answer, I just started calling you whenever I needed to talk-” halfway through your barely coherent rambling, you scratched the outer corner of your eye three times, then another three, and a final set of three.
Andrew caught it immediately. During your relationship, he had grown accustomed to identifying your habits and compulsions. “What was that?”
“What was what?” your voice went high pitched, an obvious tell that you were lying.
“You scratched your eye three times.”
“What eye?” you shrugged as you sunk down into your bed.
Andrew said your name in a low voice, the exact tone that had you doing whatever he told you to do.
“No I didn’t,” you shook your head.
“Yes, you did. I can see you, kid. I thought you were done with that.”
You blinked back tears as you stared into the screen, trying to be strong. “So did I,” you whimpered, your voice breaking.
“What happened?” Andrew asked, his voice and expression softening.
“I’m really scared, Andy-”
His heart skipped a beat when he heard you call him by his nickname, something only you could call him.
“It’s like everything is falling apart. I can’t afford my rent, my boss is driving me crazy, and I just…I feel like I can’t do anything right.” You couldn’t fight the tears anymore, they began streaming down your face. You felt so overwhelmed, not just from the mental breakdown you were having but also from the fact Andrew was speaking to you. Everyone else in your life hadn’t noticed how you were unravelling but with Andrew, he caught it within seconds. That was the beauty of your relationship with him, he saw you, truly saw you in a way you had never been seen before and not in spite of it, but because of it, he had loved you.
“Are you at home?”
“Yes,” you nodded.
“Stay there. I’m coming to you,” he said. He threw the sledgehammer across the grass and started running.
Shirtless and without shoes, Andrew ran through the pitch black streets of Oceanside with his phone held out in front of him so you could see him.
“You really don’t have to do this,” you sniffled, clutching your blanket up towards your chin.
“Just keep looking at me. I’m almost there,” he said, breathing heavily. The sweat on his body glistened under the pale moonlight as he reached your building and ran up the stairs towards your door.
“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you shook your head.
“Open the door,” he said, his tone firm but gentle because he could never be rough with you.
“No, I’m scared!” You pulled the covers over your head and hid in the safety of the darkness.
The next thing you heard was a loud crash and the sound of your door swinging open. Then the sound of heavy footsteps and breathing approaching your bedroom. You could already smell him, his sweat and natural musk that matched his t-shirt that you were wearing.
Andrew gently pulled down the covers, revealing your shivering body covered only in his old t-shirt. You looked up at him with wide eyes, unafraid to blink out of fear that you were dreaming and if it was a dream, it was one you never wanted to wake up from. After all this time, Andrew was here. You called and he came.
“You’re here,” you whispered softly, your voice hoarse from all the crying you had done.
A part of you felt embarrassed. This was the first time Andrew was seeing you in three years. You wished that you had undergone a post breakup glow-up or at least washed your hair but the second you looked up at him, all those thoughts went away. This was the real you, the you Andrew had fallen in love with, mental crises and all. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes for anything but pure love and adoration.
“I was always here,” he replied as if it was the most obvious thing. To him, it was obvious, he had always been there and always would be there for you.
Andrew reached down and effortlessly lifted you up, carrying you in his big strong arms in a bridal carry. He fought back tears as he held you in his arms. He leaned his head on your shoulder so he was facing towards you, not away from you, which was something he only ever did with you. Your arms wrapped around his tightly, you never wanted to let go of him. He melted into your touch, closing his eyes as he breathed in your scent and felt your soft skin. It had been so long since someone held him and longer still since he wanted it.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he said, pressing his face against your hair.
“I missed you so much,” you sighed, pulling away from him slightly so you could look at his face. Your fingertips gently traced the freckles on his face before moving down to his broad chest.
Andrew leaned in and kissed you. A low groan escaped his lips as he savoured your soft lips and sweetness. “I love you” he said breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss to look into your eyes. One kiss and he was hard already, pre-cum leaking through his jeans, leaving a dark spot at his crotch.
“I love you too, Andy.”
He gently placed you down onto the bed and climbed on top of you. “I’m gonna take care of you and everything’s gonna be okay.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he started kissing you. His hands were moving across your body, gripping at every inch of skin he could find, desperate to feel you everywhere. You felt his coarse hands across your soft skin, squeezing your tits, your hips, and your ass. His cock was straining in his jeans and you could feel his hard length grinding against your aching pussy.
“I need you inside me,” you whined. You arched your back, pushing your hips into him.
Andrew quickly pulled his jeans down and took out his big cock. Tears formed in his hazel eyes as soon as he pushed his cock into you. It had been so long since he had you like this. He couldn’t believe you were really here and that you still loved him. “I love you so much,” he groaned, his voice breaking as tears fell down his face.
“I love you, Andy.” Your back arched as you felt the full length of his cock stretching you out. Your nails dug into his chiseled chest, leaving your mark on him as you kissed his neck.
He closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to cum right then and there as your nails scratched him. You felt so good, your warm and wet pussy squeezing around his cock. All those pretty sounds you were making just for him. His hands were resting on the bed against either side of your head, his big arms caging you in as he thrust into your wet pussy. He was mesmerized at the sight of you below him. Fully naked, tits bouncing up and down with each thrust, and your pretty eyes staring up at him. The soft squelch of every thrust, your loud moans, and his soft whimpers filled your dark bedroom.
“Fuck, I’m not gonna last. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Feels too good,” he whimpered, dropping his head down onto your chest as his thrusts became erratic, pathetically trying to fuck into you as hard as he could.
“Cum for me, Andy. I want you to fill me up,” you moaned, encouraging him by squeezing your pussy around him.
That was all he needed to go over the edge. His cock twitched inside of you before spilled his load into you. “Yeah yeah yeah. Fuck,” he moaned as he collapsed on top of you. You felt his warm cum fill you up and leak out, dripping down your thighs and onto the bedsheets.
“I missed you so much. Missed being your girl,” you sighed as you kissed him softly on the cheek. His cock was now soft but still inside you. He didn’t feel ready to pull out and you didn’t want him to.
“You’ve always been my girl,” Andrew said, pulling you closer to him. He kissed you on the forehead, cradling your head in his big hands and whispering sweet words to you, lulling you into peaceful sleep.
My main masterlist
Dividers by @strangergraphics and gif by @ozarkthedog
part one. part two. part three. (can be read as a standalone smut)
Summary: Jack has let you stay in his guest room while your apartment gets fixed. But the close proximity combined with a rough SWAT shift for Jack, leads to you making him feel better, despite the boundary both of you set for yourselves.
Words: 3,6k mainly filth
Warnings: SMUTT (MDNI), sub!jack, fingers in his mouth, cock riding, he’s so desperate and yearning omg, wet filthy stuff, power dynamics
————————————————————————
His place is neat, a clean homey scent meets you as you step inside. It’s odd, being here alone and still a little intoxicated. Theres group photos in the entre, from his military days, from SWAT, even one of him and Robby. You claw your heeled boots off desperately before patting into the open kitchen space. Big, airy but not too showy for what he probably could’ve gotten. There’s a stained coffee mug in the sink but otherwise the counters are clean slabs, your fingers running along the sanded down wood. Big windows, you note. Your hands itch when you see the open door to his bedroom, peering in with glassy eyes before you retract quickly, oddly fearful he might be able to see you.
In a week effort to gather yourself you straighten up and take off your jacket, as you find the room meant for you. There’s a desk to one side and a simple bed to the other, clearly unused. Falling asleep was easy in the quiet of the room, after the day you’d had but the prospect of facing him again tomorrow followed you to your dreams.
Waking up was a drag. Luckily you had the day off, surely to be spent on practicalities and little relaxation. You forgot where you were, looking around where sun creeps through blinds that aren’t yours. Right. There’s a clean scent of wood and wool, bare feet on the floor. Your heart thuds violently when you hear movement, dulled by the walls between you. In a futile attempt to look put together, you smooth back your hair into a bun, wiping the pads of your fingers a few desperate times over the thin skin under your eyes. A proper mess, that is. You open the door quietly.
He’s there in the kitchen, his backpack slung on the counter. His head snaps to look back at you, though you’d hoped you could sneak to the bathroom before he saw, but military training didn’t let him miss a thing, though; especially not you. He always seemed to have some sense of where you were in the building, could feel you entering a room without looking. He pushed the thought down and behind protecting bones.
“Morning” he says, putting a singular cup of coffee on the island counter closest to you. There’s an easy smile on his face, making your shoulders slump with relief.
“Just got home?” Your fingers wrap around the mug as you take a seat, trying to quell down the domesticity of it all. He hummed and nodded, leaning against the counter. You could see the tousle of his hair and darkness of his eyes. He looked away, almost shyly to the window and you realised you’d been starring.
“I’m gonna get some sleep. There’s a spare key in the bowl there. Take it.” He says and puts his own cup down.
You nod, “Thank you again, Jack. If you need me to find some place else at one point please tell me.” He shakes his head with a soft furrow of his brows, grabbing his bag.
“Uh-uh no way. This place could use some of your sunshine” he says and walks off, leaving you to stare a hole into his back.
—
You spend the better part of your day talking to your landlord and contractors, moving necessities to your temporary room while trying to disturb jacks needed sleep as little as possible.
And then he’s gone for most of the afternoon, out with his SWAT team. When the front door opens you’re huddled up on your bed with a book, door open. He peers in and you swallow thickly at the way his chest heaves slowly, the uniform still on, curls sticking to his temple.
“You can hangout on the couch, you know” he says with a wink before disappearing down the small hall. So per his request you sink into the couch instead, legs folded. After his shower the couch dips besides you. He smells clean and warm and he sighs heavily. With a palm on the page you turn towards him.
“Rough day?”
He hums and runs a hand over his face, nodding slowly. Your fingers pinch the end of one of his curls to catch a drop of water before it lands on his T-shirt. He stills under your touch, watching you mindfully, unable to help the tug of his lips as you seem to realise your own efforts with a flushed demeanour.
“Sometimes I wonder why I do this” he finally responds, voice raspy from barking out orders. You close the book, hands playing with a thread in the couch to busy themselves.
“Adrenaline? Danger?” You suggest and he smiles, leaning his head back to look at the ceiling for a moment.
“Yeah, that’s part of it. It’s hard to resist. A lot of things are,” without moving his head he casts you a side glance. Your lips purse, the thread between your fingers awfully close to his thigh, your knuckles brushing the grey sweatpants every once in a while.
“You seem stressed” you mumble, purposely looking up at him through your lashes, catching his attention. He looks at you too, your eyes following the creases of his tan neck, the damp skin. His throat bobs.
“I am.” His voice is breathy, shifting on the couch, an arm behind your head and his knees pointing towards you. God he smells good. He looks good. And his eyes are saying so much that won’t come from his mouth, and there’s nothing or no one else here to save either of you. He tips his head forwards. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Can’t help it” you mutter, blinking at him. His fingers press into the cushion behind you in effort to stay still. “But I can help if you’re.. stressed” you say purposefully. It surprises you, that the words manage to escape your tight chest, the thumping almost visible there. And you wouldn’t say such things if his knee wasn’t pressing against yours and his brows down in a way that looked like he wanted to eat you alive.
“You don’t have to” he says, strained.
“There’s lots of things I don’t have to” you argue, testing the waters. He’s crumbling, biting down on his bottom lip. He seems to lean in before he starts, shaking his head.
“Terrible idea. I don’t want to ruin things” he says and leans back to give his nervous system some grace from the effect you were having on him, how easy it was for him to come to you.
“Doesn’t have to be more than this, right? Just… helping each other out. No one has to know.” You know you sound a bit desperate in your words, but your demeanour is calm and certain, somehow. Like you know his will is weaker than your knees right now. You’re betraying something in yourself by offering this, you’re aware. But you’d rather be casual than keep tip toeing around him like this. This over nothing.
His teeth are still worrying his bottom lip. Your hand is resting lightly on his thigh now, and his sweatpants are doing little to hide how that’s making him feel.
“You don’t have to beg.” He says with a soft arch to his brows, a pleading one; not like when he’s frustrated. He looks like a lost puppy, you think, as your hands smooth over his shoulders, lifting your leg to straddle him. His hands support you by the waist, bunching your shirt. He looks at them, looks at where he’s holding you and takes his time feeling his way down your hips, thumbs at the apex of your thighs, flexing there. Decision rests in his eyes, and you feel it when he tips his head back and looks down his nose at you, in the way you recognise from the hospital. The confident gaze, the collected one. It subtly makes your hands fist in his shirt, squirming in his lap. A small hitch escapes you when you feel just how hard he is under you, how… sizeable. His lips tug upwards more prominently now, one hand sliding along your jaw, the pads of his fingers pressing on the back of your head, guiding you forwards.
“I’m not being a very good man” he says, but it’s futile because it’s too late now and he knows it. Your lips part softly, thighs clenching around his hips briefly.
“Just helpin’ you out” you repeat in a whisper and the way you squirm on top of him goes straight through his sternum and down.
“Yeah. Helpin me out. That’s all. No one has to know. A.. a mutual exchange. Good co-workers.” He rambles lowly into the room, into your mouth that’s hovering right over his, the back of his curls tickling the couch. He’s right where he wants to be as he drags your head closer, slotting his lips over yours. A breath escapes him, a noise of relief with it that’s been building behind his ribs for too long. The sound goes straight between your thighs, both hands in his hair. The tug, the scratch of your nails makes him shiver as he presses himself closer, hips twitching upwards as his tongue pressed insistently to your lips, that part without second thought. It’s wet, it’s filthy but so slow it’s torturous. His fingers are under your jaw, controlling the pace, licking into your mouth with his other hand on your lower back, flexing to keep still.
After what feels like hours you pull back, lips swollen and slick with his and your spit. “Jack” you say in such a needy tone he aches for it, aches for you to repeat it but he bites his tongue. He cocks his head to the side, his chin glistening, jaw slack “yes?” He baits and it makes your jaw tick.
Wordlessly your hand runs over the waistband of his sweatpants, feeling the warm skin there and he grunts, looking down at it. He licks his lips, quick before he meets your gaze again, the playfulness gone from them.
“Use me” he says. Asks. Begs. He’s not ashamed to admit it, he’d let you do anything to him right now as long as you kept touching him right here while the sun turned golden on your skin, pooling through the big windows. He had another shift tonight, but that was the furthest thing from his mind right now.
Use me. No one had asked you that before, asked liked that, like he needed it bad. Clarity seized you as you lifted yourself and dragged your pants down. His eyes were glued to the white panties you kept on, all while lifting his hips under your hands gentle command, letting his sweatpants and briefs pool at his ankles.
You kept looking at his face because you could barely process you had him under you like this, let alone let your eyes look at the whole of him. It felt too real to do so. His eyes snapped to yours finally as your crawled back over him on the couch, pushing his shoulders to lean back. “Relax,” you muttered.
He huffed out a weak smile “Don’t feel very relaxed having you half naked on top of me. I feel everything but relaxed,” he said as his thumb went under the line of your panties and followed the skin there, making you shiver.
“You’re so pretty. So pretty like this for me,” he said, eyes glued to his own action, his breath hitching as your hips slowly started moving back and forth, letting his cock run along your panties once, twice before you lifted yourself slightly and pulled them to the side. His fingers dug into your thighs, shamelessly looking down.
“She’s so wet for me” he mused and you flushed, leaning forwards. You nipped at his earlobe before sliding his cock between your warm folds in one long drag.
“She often is” he tensed underneath you, watching as his throat strained with a clipped moan, his chest swelling. You pressed your hips down more firmly, letting him feel you, getting him wet with you, the sound dirty as his cock jumped eagerly beneath your moves. He tipped his head back, your hands cupping his jaw as his eyes fluttered, barely open.
“Kiss me” he said, voice hoarse and your lips pursed in thought.
“Thought you told me to use you. You don’t get to make commands” you said, feeling brave at the way his pupils were completely blown, his hands possessing the slightest tremble. He grunted at that, a moan shielded behind it as he gave you one of his sassy, unsatisfied expression. It made you smile, getting to see it in this context, his eyes narrowing.
Instead of giving him your lips, you pressed two fingers softly to his bottom lip. When he understood, his eyes seemed to darken even further, parting them for you. In an attempt to gain control, he slowly sucked your fingers into his mouth, his tongue curling around them as he hummed.
It worked because your hips stuttered. His hands went to your hips, moving you by himself as you stared at his lips instead. You went to pull your fingers out and replace them with your lips but his teeth bit down gently over your knuckle. The fight for control was making you wetter by the second, your hips moving faster. It made him moan, your fingers freed by the motion, as you pressed your lips over his instead, swallowing the noise of him. One of his hands grabbed your ass, urging you up so he could just get inside you, get closer.
“You want me to sit on it?” You asked against his lips, so genuine and soft his eyes nearly rolled back.
“Fuck yes I want you to sit on it. Make yourself feel good, sweetheart.” He said, he yearned with a strained voice, nodding rapidly. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip as you took him in hand, running his tip through your folds, bumping your clit with a whine. His jaw was slackened, but it snapped shut when you pressed his head against your hole, slowly pressing your hips down. The stretch burned in the most delicious way, all the way down your legs. You were so warm and wet but it was still a tight squeeze, and he pinched his eyes shut, hands pawing at any part of you they could with a hoarse grunt.
“God, Jack” you stutter, legs trembling as you sit all the way down, let him fill you all the way up until it’s like he’s in your stomach, clenching around him rapidly.
“No god, just you and me baby” he groans, running his hands up your sides under your shirt. “Take this off for me? Wanna see your pretty tits” he asks, knowing his position; no commands.
His crude words make you blush. Your arms feel like jelly as you pull the tshirt off. His hands are on you immediately, cupping your tits, leaning forwards. His mouth is warm and eager as they wrap around your nipple, sucking and biting and loaning while the other hand wraps around your lower back and grinds you forwards on him, making the head of him press against something inside you making your back arch sharply and toes curl. He smiles while he licks the slope of your breast, so prideful that he’s making you feel like this. He wants to be the only one who knows what you look like when you feel so good, but the selfish thought got pushed below this new boundary you’re setting.
Helping each other out.
Mutually beneficial.
Secret.
You pull him back by his curls and he looks up at you, pupils blown, lips eager. You lift your hips until only his head gets swallowed by your wet cunt, and sit back down, making his eyes struggle to stay open. His hands help grind you forwards in the way he now knows you like, the way he hits something at every pull that makes your eyes nearly cross. He’s heavy inside you, throbbing and for the first time in long, he struggles not to cum too soon. You look at every pull of his face, using your thighs to move faster, a wet sound of your hips meeting his echoing in the room. His groans become urgent, your whines warm his neck, nearly drooling against him.
“So eager for it, aren’t you?” He pants, lifting his hips to meet your thrusts halfway with a smack that makes you blush and lift your head. You want to say something smart, but only choked out pleads fall from your lips and his brows furrow with pleasure at the sight of you, all dumb on his cock; You competent, smart, complex woman fucking yourself on him and feeling so so good because of it.
“Can’t say anything?” He asks; not mean but teasing still, and you’re about to remind him of his place when his thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing tight circles. Your words evade you as your hips stutter pathetically on him, sitting down as deep as you can, making him choke on a moan himself, looking at the mess you’re making on him.
“Look at what I’m doing to you” he says and you obey quickly, looking down between your thighs. It’s swollen and wet and your cheeks flush deeply as you watch his thumb move. “Feels good? Am I making you feel good pretty girl?” He asks, his eyes reluctantly moving from the sight to watch you fumble for words, lips parted in a string of moans and babbled as you nod.
“S’good jack- feels- yeah-“ he nods along with you sympathetically, his own mouth open as he tilts his head back, observing you. You start tightening around him, stomach tensing and thighs trembling on either side of his and it makes his heart flutter with excitement, hungry for the sight of you. “Can I watch you cum on me? Cum on my cock, sweetheart- let me- let me be what makes you-“ he’s a talker, apparently, rambling on and every desperate word makes your pussy clench until his voice drowns out and melts over you.
Your head almost tilts back but he grabs your chin and makes you look at him as you cum, hard, eyes lidded, his face a blur as your toes curl and you griiiind down on him, when he thinks he can’t go deeper. His hand splays on your lower stomach. He feels himself there and it makes his own feet press harder into the floor and rut up into you.
“That’s it pretty girl, taking it sooo well” he murmurs, pussy drunk, talking you through it until your hips slow down a little as you gather yourself, blinking slowly. His hands flex on your waist, a drop of sweat on his temple.
You quickly regain your speed, smacking down onto his thighs with renewed vigor that makes him whimper. You grab his hands and tighten them around your own waist.
“Take what you want, Jack. You deserve it.” You say sweetly and he lifts you up before pulling you back down on him, his biceps moving with desperation as he pulls you down on him until his vision nearly blackens, tipping his head forwards to moan against the salty skin of your breasts, biting down gently in your nipple. He cums, pressing into the crook of your neck and whimpering without restraint, your nails down his back. He’s never cummed so hard in his life, he thinks, as he drags you back with him to lean against the couch, panting heavily, hips still stuttering weakly. His hands are burning hot as they cup your face; “Are you good? Are you okay?” He asks, eyes heavy as they search you, only to find your shoulders relaxed and your eyes crinkling happily. It makes his heart soften, so he guides you to the crook of his neck, so he doesn’t read too much into it.
There’s comfortable silence, his hands smoothing up and down your back and thighs, feeling his heart slowly steady under you while playing with his curls.
“Do you think we could do this again some time?” You ask, the question nervous on your tongue. He stiffens a little, and you sit up to look at him.
“We shouldn’t.” He says but it’s weak and unwilling.
“You’re not answering my question”
“I don’t think I can keep my hands off of you. Especially not with you.. in my apartment like this. Do you think we can behave?” He says, stroking your hair before he gets scared it’s too domestic and lets his hand fall.
You nod, not because you’re sure of his question but because you want to be, hope to manifest it with eagerness
“Of course we can. Stress relief- lord knows we need it. No one has to know, and it won’t complicate things at work,” you say and sound as sure as you can. He nods slowly. He doesn’t want to think more about it, about the consequences that could possibly follow because he knew he was a losing man. After this there was no way he’d be able to call it an accident. A spur of the moment. He wanted every sour shift to end with you on his cock. Didn’t have to be more, he repeated in his head.
Safe.
Morally grey, but not morally wrong?
He kissed you to quiet the thoughts.
“Let’s get cleaned up, hm? I have to leave soon.” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth before pulling back, tilting his head. You still look at him with question. “That was a yes, doll. As long as we… keep it to what it is. There’s a lot of other things i want to do to you.” He says as you pull off of him. You gulp thickly at the look in his eyes. Your smile is lustful, but you both ignore the lingering something resting in both of your mouths as you nod.
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he can’t deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Completed!
Alternatively, you can read on Wattpad or Ao3!
─── ⋆ CHAPTERS ⋆
PART ONE 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO 𖤓♡ — A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebe’s wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE 𖤓 — A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR 𖤓♡ — Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]
⤷ PART 4.5 𖤓 — You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]
PART FIVE 𖤓★ — When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]
PART SIX 𖤓★ — Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. [8.2k]
PART SEVEN 𖤓★ — When the double date from Hell roles around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang. [12.2k]
PART EIGHT 𖤓★ — Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest. [7.1k]
PART NINE 𖤓♡ — When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart. [10.1k]
PART TEN (FINALE) 𖤓♡ — Jack Abbot was a creature of habit. Structure and routine were infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough. But that was before he met you and Phoebe. Before he fell hopelessly and irrevocably in love with the chaotic girls in apartment seventeen. [13.4k]
─── ⋆ BONUS CONTENT ⋆
TBA
─── ⋆ MISC ⋆
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
summary: now with a baby on the way, you and jack have reconciled and are learning to fall back in love again; when you show up at the ptmc with suddenly severe symptoms that threaten to take you away from him, he proves to you and himself that he'll do anything to keep you here. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!wife!reader, michael robinavitch, the night shift attendings aka the night crawlers™
content: part two to this fic, established relationship, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, cw for medical inaccuracies (everything is for plot convenience atp lol), medical procedures, heavy mentions of pregnancy and pregnancy complications, kinda really sad but it gets happy in the end i promise, smut 18+ (MDNI): pregnant sex, shower sex, in jack's shower chair bc yeah :P
FIC #1 / 20 FOR 20
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Jack Abbot had changed for you in many ways since the day you nearly left him. He seemed to grow alongside your round stomach, surpassing his own emotional milestones while your baby passed its physical ones. (The fetus was roughly the size of a strawberry when Jack finally decided to stop getting shot at for fun as a SWAT physician.)
He was, admittedly, a man carved out of sharp edges. You knew this long before you ever married him. He was fashioned from constant urgency, snap decisions, and a heartbeat that never quite slowed down. He didn’t let quiet exist — not inside his own head, and certainly not inside his own house. The faint crackle of his police scanner always bled gently down the hall, as low voices report chaos from somewhere else; which always meant that he was somewhere else.
If there was ever silence in your shared home, it only meant that something was horribly wrong — that Jack was gone or that you were; that something terrible needed fixing at the PTMC, or that your own world had slipped slightly off its axis. But then you found out that you were pregnant, while divorce papers still idled on the coffee table back home, and Jack learned quickly how to stay.
He removed the scanner from his nightstand. He ended his days as a TEMS provider and learned what it meant to take a real day off. He realized that he didn’t have to spend his mornings memorizing you before running into a burning building, because you’d still be there when the fire died out; he just needed to learn to stop running all the goddamn time.
Now, the silence in your home feels softer than it used to. Changed, almost. Filled not by a strangling tension of what once felt like an inevitable end, but rather by the steady hiss of running water and panted breaths as heavy as the steam swirling between you.
Jack slouches in his shower chair to accommodate your round stomach as you straddle his lap, bracing your hands on his freckled shoulders. His heavy eyes are clouded with a mixture of desire and worry as they dart between your face and the half-hard cock he holds in his fist.
“You sure about this?” he wonders through panted breaths, which make his flushed chest rise and fall at an uneven pace beneath you.
You exhale hard through your nose, annoyed in a flicker. “Are you gonna ask me that the entire time, or…?”
“I just don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Jack hums, lip quirking into a distant half-smile, ‘cause he loves how easily grumpy you get. “That’s all…”
You flash him a glower, and only slightly melt under his touch when his calloused hands trail up your waist and over your back, skin slick from the warm water rushing from the mounted faucet behind you.
“I’ve been hurting all day— This is the only way to not hurt.”
Jack melts for you instantly. ‘Cause he’s been worried about you all day, in truth, unable to find the root of your sudden headaches and stomach pain. He’s been checking your blood pressure every hour since he woke up, and giving you pain meds every two — though nothing seems to help you quite as much as sex, which you’ve been craving more and more in the latter half of your pregnancy (not that Jack is complaining, of course.)
“Sure you can handle it, honey?” the older man hums, teasing now, as the tip of his weeping cock nudges your achingly sensitive clit.
“Don’t I always, baby?” you deadpan, and don’t give him time to breathe before sinking down over him.
A groan rumbles deep in his throat as your pussy swallows him, inch by inch. Your relieved sigh entwines with the humming faucet as you ease yourself onto him. The warmth of him inside of you cuts through the ache that’s been lingering in your body for days now — a dull, persistent pain that only he can cure.
You melt into his slick chest as the aching leaves your body, replaced now by the fuller feeling of him nestled deep inside of you. You bury your head into his corded neck, inhaling the scent of musky soap clinging to his skin there. Jack noses into your damp hair.
“This okay?” he pants against your temple.
You nod lazily against him and murmur something that sounds like “fuck, you feel so good…” into his skin, though the words come out mostly muffled.
You thread your fingers into the damp silver curls at the nape of his neck, and Jack fights back a shiver. He molds you back together when you go lax on his lap, clutching your hip in one hand and cradling the base of your neck with the other, helping you move back and forth over his scruffy thighs.
“Take it then…” Jack mumbles in half-drunken slurs. “Take it for me, honey. C’mon…”
He leans slightly over, straining one arm to reach for the shower head hanging off the nozzle at his feet, left splashing against the tiled wall beside you. He keeps you pressed against his chest with one hand while his other angles the spout between your thighs. The water sprays against your already sensitive clit; you twitch instinctively at the warm pressure there.
“Jack—” you whimper through a gasped breath.
The man moans through gritted teeth when you clench around him. His free hand tightens around the back of your neck. “I know, honey. I know,” he hums in uneven breaths. “It’s okay. Just use me, baby. There you go. Just use me.”
His words cling to you the same way the rolling steam does, softening all the hardened edges of you. And just for a little while, as Jack keeps you together as you fall apart for him on his lap, the pain finally quiets.
The smell hits him about halfway down the hall.
The lingering steam from the bathroom, smelling like a mixture of your sweet-musky shampoos, gives way to something far more bitter as he nears the kitchen — which has become nothing short of your own personal laboratory since your pregnancy cravings hit. You’ve made otherwise unfathomable concoctions within these walls in the meantime. Jack’s just glad you’ve moved past the sardines and lemon juice phase.
“Wow…” the man croons sarcastically from the threshold, stuffing his keys into the pocket of his scrub pants. “It smells absolutely delicious in here, honey. What’s on the menu for today?”
You don’t look up from the counter before you, as you drench a plate in hot sauce. “Pickles and tabasco,” you answer in monotone. “AKA the only thing I can eat without puking.”
“Hm,” Jack hums, closer now, as his wide hands splay along your shoulders. He spots the container of Rocky Road sitting just to the side, slowly weeping until it gets to the consistency you like. “And the ice cream?”
You tilt your head, glancing up at him like it’s obvious. “To help with the burn. Duh.”
His stomach turns at the thought of such a mixture. His nose scrunches as you reach for a pickle slice, which seems to serve purely as a vehicle for the hot sauce that drips onto the side of your thumb and forefinger when you shove the thing into your mouth.
You hum with a slow nod, eyes fluttering shut as you lick the excess from your fingertips — you didn’t even look this gratified when he was fucking you a half-hour ago.
A laugh sputters from his mouth at the thought.
“That’s what makes you less nauseous?”
“Well, you made me eat real food last night, and I spent all morning puking, so…”
“You don’t feel nauseous anymore, though, right?” he asks, more solemn now, as his chest reignites with a red-hot worry.
“Mm-mm,” you hum wordlessly through another bite.
“And the medicine helped your headache?”
You sigh hard through your nose, turning once more to face him. “Yes, Jack— What’s with the third degree?”
His scruffy jaw tightens a fraction as concern flickers behind his eyes. The hands on your shoulders grip you harder, absentmindedly massaging the ache in your back with his thumb. “You just worry me, honey. That’s all…”
You roll your eyes, though there’s no real bite to your annoyance now. “It’s your fault for getting me pregnant…”
“Hey. You were there, too,” he scoffs, watching with a big dumb grin on his face as you shovel a bite of Rocky Road into your mouth to wash down the pickle-tabasco mixture. “You played a pretty big part in the whole getting pregnant thing, if I recall. Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it, either.”
He reaches past you for the plate and steals a sauceless pickle from the pile there, pinching it into his mouth with his thumb and forefinger.
“Hm,” you shrug and swallow down the mouthful. “Jury’s still out on that, I think…”
That earns you a look. Jack’s eyes widen with something sharper and visibly amused, scruffy cheek softly jutted until he downs the bite. “Oh, you are just asking for it, aren’t you?” he hums, leaning forward with clear intent.
You pull back from him at the last second, scrunching your nose in disgust.
“My breath smells.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Jack scoffs, and leans down again to press his mouth to yours anyway — a chaste and smacking kiss, filled with a sort of domesticity that makes your stomach do a back flip. It’s hard to imagine, now, that there was ever a time you didn’t want this; that you didn’t want him.
“I’ll be back in the morning,” he tells you with a huff, parting from you to head to the front door. “Get some sleep while I’m gone— I need you to be well-rested for what I have planned tomorrow.”
Your eyes narrow in his direction, because you thought you’d made it pretty clear that you had zero plans of doing anything until the baby got here. “And what is that exactly?”
“Well, it’s my professional opinion that intercourse is the best way to induce labor,” Jack tells you as he swings open the door, letting in streams of golden hour sunlight and wisps of cool evening air. He picks up his military bag from the entrance and swings it over his shoulder. A slow grin spreads across his face as he says, “And I plan on intercourse-ing the shit out of you when I get home.”
Your chest burns with a giddy feeling. One you haven’t felt in quite some time, a flame burning anew.
“Yay…” you deadpan anyway, rolling your eyes for dramatic effect. “So exciting…”
“Yeah. Keep it up,” Jack squints with a smile as he swings the door shut behind him. “Let’s just hope you can back up that mouth when I get back.”
It starts first with a headache. It always did, even before you were pregnant. That sharp, splitting pressure behind your eyes is all too familiar to you now. You languish in the ache for a while and wait for it to pass with a cold press over your forehead like you always do. It doesn’t start to really scare you until it feels like the room has tilted slightly on its axis; an unwavering dizziness that doesn’t seem to shake off with a few blinks like it normally would.
The panic that gives you makes it suddenly very hard to breathe. Each exhale comes out shorter and tighter, as if your lungs have forgotten how to stretch properly. A cold, leaden weight settles in your chest accordingly, overpowering the pain that curls warm and low in your stomach where the baby kicks and writhes — an alien sort of feeling, like being stretched from the inside.
When it doesn’t pass after five minutes, you fumble for your phone and call the number for the PTMC like Jack had told you to — the best way to reach him while at work. It rings three times and clicks once when it’s answered. Static hums briefly on the other line before a familiar voice comes in, stammering slightly, as if they’d been told to answer.
“Uh— Um, PTMC— This is Mel. I mean, uh, Dr. King.”
“Hey, Mel…” You squeeze your eyes shut when your voice wavers, despite your attempt to steady it. You exhale slowly through your mouth and rub at the right side of your stomach, just below your ribs, where the baby kicks mercilessly at your side. “Is, uh… Is Jack around? He told me to call if I—”
“Honey?” Mel blurts, then turns slightly away from the receiver to call somewhere distantly. “Hey, Robby? Dr. Robby— It’s Honey.”
There’s a beat of silence, filled by distant shuffling as the line shifts again.
“Honey?” Robby calls, immediate and alert. “What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t think you’d still be around…” you hum into the receiver, voice taut as you blink away the blur creeping into your vision. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the road by now, Motorcycle Mike?”
He huffs a tired laugh. “Yeah, I-I’m headed that way, actually— Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I— I’m fine,” you lie weakly. “Is Jack there?”
“Uh…” Robby trails off, voice distant as he glances over his shoulder. “He’s in the OR right now, I believe. Do you need something?”
Your clammy grip tightens on the phone. Asking for help feels like choking.
“Do you remember my last check-up? With Dr. Myers?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, she told me that if I had another one of those headaches that feels like I’m being stabbed through the eyeball, that I need to come in, right?” you ramble on bated breath. “But do you think she meant it, like, I need to come in, or was she just, you know, saying that as a… formality?”
Robby’s silence is less than comforting. The static that precedes his response is heavy and ominous.
“Do I need to come get you?” he asks, suddenly very, very serious in a way that makes your aching chest that much tighter.
“Yeah,” you scoff anyway. “Because driving a motorcycle with a pregnant woman on the back is so safe.”
“No, I—” he huffs a breath, a mixture of a laugh and a frustrated sigh. “I meant, do you need someone to come get you?”
The thought of someone picking you up to take you to the ED is just as nerve-wracking as having to call someone for help. So you spend another two minutes convincing Robby that you’re fit enough to drive, and the eight minutes it takes to get to the hospital praying your migraine doesn’t blind you before you can pull into the parking lot.
Robby meets you in the waiting room to escort you the rest of the way inside. The white-blue fluorescent lights overhead feel like daggers in your temples. The sounds of a moderately controlled chaos blur around you — of beeping monitors, rushing footsteps, and distant voices.
He ushers you into the nearest room and dims the lights before he goes, leaving you alone just long enough for you to put on a hospital gown.
You wait for him on the edge of the made bed, with your heart in your throat and your legs swinging off the side. Robby knocks before he enters, flashing you a small smile as he rubs sanitizer between his palms.
“Jack’s finishing up. He’s on his way down now,” he tells you, then tilts his bearded chin in a more concerned look. “How’s your head?”
“Eh,” you shrug. “Haven’t had any complaints.”
“Okay, I’m not even— gonna comment on the sarcasm,” Robby huffs as he descends onto the squeaking stool beside the monitor. He slips his glasses out of his scrub pocket and slides them onto the bridge of his nose. “You being a smart ass is a pretty good sign, actually…”
He slips a blood pressure cuff over your elbow with practiced hands. You try not to focus on the strangling feeling as it tightens around your arm, where you can feel your heart beating as your fingers start to tingle. Robby watches the numbers closely, with a strange sort of attentiveness typically only reserved for less-than-desirable results.
“What?” you blurt when his expression shifts. “What is it?”
He blinks hard for a second, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Sorry. Your— Your blood pressure just a little higher than I’d like…”
The cuff loosens with a mechanical whir. Robby slips it off and slides it back into place on the monitor beside you. You tilt your chin to watch him as he looms suddenly over you.
“Is that bad?”
Robby doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slips his stethoscope over his ears and presses the cold chest piece against your back.
“Take a deep breath for me,” he murmurs in a distant, gritty voice. You abide and pray silently that he doesn’t notice how the inhale catches somewhere deep in your chest. He listens for a few beats longer than you expect him to, with his brows lowered in a look of concentration.
“Any chest pain?” he wonders suddenly.
“I had some earlier. You know, before I called.” You inhale once more. “But I feel better now.”
“What about any nausea or vomiting in the past week?”
“I had some morning sickness when I woke up, but… Google said it was normal, so…”
“Well,” Robby scoffs a laugh, sliding his stethoscope back over his neck. He keeps his hands wrapped around either end as he walks backward for the door. “If it was Dr. Google, then I guess it’s alright.”
His smile slips off his face the second he’s back outside. His pace hurries as he rushes for the work station down the hall. He makes a beeline for Dana by the overhead monitor, keeping his voice low, though it trembles around the edges with urgency.
“Get a crash cart and a fetal monitor to North 2,” Robby whispers to the woman, who tenses at his direction, because she knows you’re the one in North 2. “Call the NICU, call the OB, and wherever Jack is— tell him to hurry the hell up. Now.”
Robby disappears for no longer than a minute or two. He brings a strange air in with him when he returns, an undeniable tension that makes it suddenly very hard to breathe. He plucks on a pair of blue gloves this time before he steps in — and you’ve known him long enough to tell that the smile he gives you is faker than the one he had before.
“Is everything okay?” you ask, heart pounding against your ribcage. It’s like anxiety times a thousand — the racing pulse you get right before a panic attack, except no amount of breathing can seem to slow it down again.
“Yeah,” Robby says gently, and steps out of the doorway when a team of doctors and grey-scrubbed nurses rush in — machines rolling, wires tangling, voices overlapping with directions.
Robby looms at your side and ducks his head to keep your wandering attention. “Everything’s great, honey— You’re just about to meet a lot of people right now.”
The inhale you take feels shorter than usual as you blink up at him with eyes swimming with worry. “But… I’m okay, right?”
“You’re gonna be,” he tells you, steady and only slightly reassuring, as he reaches for the oxygen tube propped on the monitor at your side. “You and Jack are gonna meet your baby before the night’s over— That’s exciting, right?”
You feel strangled. Like worry’s wrapped a cold hand around your throat and your heart, too — and when you go dizzy again, you can’t tell if it’s from the news or if the migraine is flaring again. You take in a stuttering breath when Robby slips the oxygen tube over your ears, cool air rushing up into your nostrils.
“Where’s Jack?” is the only thing you can think to say.
“He’s on his way,” Robby promises firmly.
Shen lays a cotton blanket over your lap as Crus stands on the other side of the bed, rolling an ultrasound machine with him. “Some jelly on the belly, Ms. Honey,” the R4 tells you with a smile, too soft for all the chaos filling the room. “We’re gonna do a quick ultrasound, okay? Check on little Abbot in there.”
You can’t find the words to speak. You feel like your throat’s too tight for that now. So you just lift the bottom of your hospital gown and drag it over your round stomach, leaving the rest of you concealed beneath the blanket. He squirts gel onto your skin, and a shiver trails up your spine.
Only then do the words on the tip of your tongue seem to gain the courage to spill out.
“What the hell is going on—?”
The door swings open then. You just barely catch sight of Jack over the bustling bodies surrounding you, but his voice is unmistakable. “What the hell is going on?” he announces the same way you had, though his sharper tone cuts through the room like a blade.
Robby leaves your side to intercept the man, pulling him to the corner and debriefing him in a hushed voice. “Her BP’s 170/110. Her symptoms have only gotten worse since she’s been here— I’m worried if she doesn’t deliver this baby right now, she’ll go into cardiac arrest.”
Jack’s face drains of color.
He crosses his strong arms over his chest in a feeble attempt to soothe the sudden tightness there, as his head whips suddenly in your direction. He watches his residents tend to you with a controlled sort of chaos, moving around each other in swift motions usually reserved for when someone’s really in trouble.
He shakes his silver head to himself. “No… No, she was— She was fine this morning, man. I’ve been— I’ve been checking on her all day. She was 130/80 when I left—”
“Well, it’s not anymore,” Robby interjects, firm but not entirely unkind. His dark eyes swim with a similar sternness when he catches Jack’s eye. “If we don’t do something now, something will happen to this, baby— Or to her. So you don’t have to stay and watch, brother, but you cannot get in the way, understand?”
Jack struggles to catch his breath. He feels a little like the room is spinning around him. He blinks hard once, regains his bearings, and rushes immediately to your side. He plucks a handful of tissues from the dispenser on the wall to wipe the gel from your stomach as Crus finishes the ultrasound.
Your pinched look of worry ebbs at the sight of him. Your heavy head lolls on the pillow behind you as your bleary eyes follow his face, though you struggle to blink the haze from them now.
“Jack…” you sigh.
“Hey, honey…” he says, voice soft but still tighter than usual.
“What’s going on?” you tell him, in half-breathless slurs. “I just came in for a headache— I don’t… I don’t understand what’s wrong?”
“Everything’s fine—”
You shake your head, then close your eyes when it makes the room spin harder. “You’re lying…”
“You have severe preeclampsia. It’s a blood pressure disorder. The only cure for it now is to deliver the baby,” Jack explains in a strangely even voice as he leans over the side of your bed, keeping your gaze on him and not the chaos surrounding you. “But your heart’s working a little too hard right now, so we’re gonna have to put you to sleep so we can get you upstairs to the OB—”
“We’re inducing here,” Robby says, as a nurse helps him tie the back of his PPE gown.
Jack’s head snaps over his shoulder. “Here?”
“It’s better than her arresting in the elevator.”
Your breath stutters, and this time, it feels impossible to catch again.
“Am I gonna die?” you hear yourself ask.
“No,” Jack answers immediately. “You’re fine, honey. Between all of us, we’ve seen this procedure done a hundred times, okay? You’re in good hands— The best hands.”
McKay enters your tunnel vision then. The PPE covering her from head to toe feels sort of daunting, but her eyes are still kind behind her safety glasses.
“I’m gonna give you an IV, okay? The medicine’s gonna sedate you— It’ll feel just like falling asleep,” the woman coos to you, as she smooths an alcohol wipe over the inside of your elbow. “A little pinch and some burning…”
You wince when the needle pierces your skin. An icy burning sensation follows quickly, spanning the length of your forearm. You’re grounded only by Jack’s hands on your cheeks, warm and softly calloused, velvet personified.
“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he tells you, holding your weary gaze with a sterner one. “For you, it’ll feel just like blinking, okay? It’ll be over in a second. You won’t even know it happened—”
His words do little to comfort you. You can hardly hear him now over the heartbeat whoosh, whoosh, whooshing rapidly in your ears.
“Please don’t let me die…” you whimper as burning tears cloud your vision.
It’s not the death part that’s so scary to you exactly, but rather the fact that the nursery isn’t even finished; and that the crib is only halfway done; and that you haven’t even decided on a baby name yet. There’s too much you haven’t done yet — a whole life inside of you that you haven’t gotten to hold between your hands.
“Please, don’t let me die, Jack. Please, don’t…”
You trail off. Your eyes grow glassy and distant, like you’re looking right past him. Your head grows heavy in his hands a second later.
“…Honey?”
“Is it the medicine?” Nazely asks from where she observes in the corner.
“No. It wouldn’t work that fast—”
Your neck jerks back, and your eyes flutter shut, never quite closing as they dance back and forth. The monitor starts beeping first — “She’s seizing!”Shen announces to the room. You begin trembling in his hold a half second later.
“Get her on her side!” Robby calls through the surgical mask being tied around his scruffy jaw.
Jack works with quick, practiced hands despite his racing mind. He cradles the back of your head in one palm, and your jerking shoulder with the other.
“Push another 10 of IV diazepam!” he commands. “Have another on standby!”
“Put the AP pads on in case of cardiac arrest,” Robby says as the crowd parts for him to make his way to your side. He flashes Jack a stern look from the opposite side of the bed. “I love you, brother, but right now, you either need to gown up or get the hell out of the way.”
Jack’s worried eyes snap to his. He inhales sharply through his nose, though the breath tries to hitch in his chest. He nods once to clear his head, then twice more in confirmation.
“Alright. C’mon. Matteo— Help me scrub in,” he commands and stands to full height again, shifting to doctor mode in a blink. He never quite takes his eyes off you as the nurse dresses him in sterile gear.
Please, god, don’t take her, he finds himself praying to a god he’s not entirely sure he believes in. I only just got her back. You can’t take her from me now.
Recusitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds. The whole ED is talking about it.
You were V-Fib for two minutes. Your baby wouldn’t cry for five. It took a roomful of doctors to bring you both to life again. But all that havoc is gone now — your baby is in the NICU for more intensive monitoring, and all the doctors have moved on to all their other patients that need saving.
Somehow, the stillness feels more nerve-racking than the chaos.
Maybe because Jack never was the best at waiting. It’s a truth that lives deep in his bones, etched there from decades of sirens and split-second decisions, that hesitation can cost lives. To him, waiting has always felt a little like negligence — like standing still and watching everything else happen around him. But that’s all he can do for you now. Wait. And it feels a little like dying.
He sits at your bedside in a hard plastic chair with his elbows braced on the thin mattress and his trembling hands holding your limp one. He can’t bring himself to take his eyes off of you, scared to miss you for even a faint fraction of a second. The dim lighting of the recovery room casts soft shadows over the edges of your sleeping face. Machines whisper just next to you, in slow and rhythmic beeps that remind him that you’re still here — that your heart’s still beating.
He knows this. He knows sedation, and post-op recovery, and how to read every machine in this room. But none of it matters now. Because he can’t stop thinking about all the cynical what ifs — what if your heart stops beating when no one’s looking; what if your brain was starved for a second too long; what if the last thing you ever said to him was ‘please don’t let me die?’
Jack doesn’t think he could live with himself if that were the case.
When he hears the door swing open and shut behind him — when he hears the noise of the hallway swell and muffle again — he knows it’s Robby entering the room without having to look over his shoulder. Maybe because he knows no one else is brave enough to come talk to him in a state like this.
Jack’s eyes flicker to the monitor.
“BP’s 102/64,” he announces to the silent room. “Hemoglobin’s up to 9.”
“Good,” Robby nods slowly. “Baby Abbot’s stable down the hall— three pounds, seven ounces. Fifteen inches…”
Jack doesn’t say a word.
“You can go hold her if you want,” the older man presses.
Again, Jack stays silent. He doesn’t know how to say that he’s too scared to leave you, too scared to face that he’s a father without having you beside him, too scared to ruin a little life before it’s even begun.
Robby sighs hard through his broad nose and walks to stand at the man’s side.
“You can’t stay in here like this, brother—”
“The hell I can’t,” Jack snaps with a hardened glare.
“You’re not her primary caregiver,” the man reminds him. “So, technically, you shouldn’t even be in the room— Gloria would have a fit if she found out you were treating your wife.”
“Well, good thing she’s not gonna find out, right?” Jack deadpans. “And I couldn’t care less if she did. I’m not leaving my wife.”
“It’s an ethical conflict, and you know it. We have doctors here that are more than capable of tending to her—”
“Robby, I—” Jack inhales sharply through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as a red-hot frustration swells within him. Through gritted teeth, he murmurs. “I love you, man. And I— I owe both my girls’ lives to you, but… Please don’t make me beat your ass on my daughter’s birthday. I really don’t think that’d be a great first start to fatherhood.”
Jack turns slowly to face the man beside him, his eyes glassy with the unshed tears he can’t seem to blink away. There’s less of a bite to his glare now, but it’s no less serious.
Robby knows this, so he nods in response and claps him on the shoulder. “Yeah. Fair enough…”
You wake forty-five minutes after Robby has left for the E.D. Jack knows this because he’s been taking your blood pressure every thirty minutes, and was nearing his hourly check of your IV line. He feels your fingers twitch in his hand first, right before you grumble an unceremonious “ow...” in the back of your gravelly throat.
Jack’s chair scrapes hard against the tile as he rises abruptly, reaching for you before you’ve even managed to open your eyes. He keeps your cold hand clutched in his left one, while his right hand cradles the top of your head — his thumb smooths over your temple without thinking, ‘cause he’s so used to massaging you there during your migraine spells.
“Easy, honey…” he coos, voice rough and frayed around the edges, when you shift on the thin mattress below — as if you’re momentarily confused as to why the bed you’re on now feels unlike your own.
Your lashes flutter when your eyes open. Even the dim lighting feels a little too bright. Your throat feels dry when you try to swallow, and your tongue feels a little heavy in your mouth. There’s a dull ache, too, that spans from your forehead to your ankles — and a burning sensation from your collarbones to your bellybutton.
You remember the headache that sent you in, and the chaos that followed, but nothing after Jack burst into the room.
“Hurts…” you manage weakly.
“I know, honey. I know,” Jack hums sympathetically, and clears his throat when his voice breaks.
“My chest…” you choke out, features twisting in a quiet agony.
“Yeah, you’ve got some burn marks from the defib pads, baby— They should go away in a few days. I’ll put some more medicine on your bandages, okay?”
You don’t say anything in return, and Jack doesn’t totally expect you to. There’s a long beat where neither of you says a word. You just breathe, in slow and even inhale-exhales, and Jack just watches you. He almost thinks you’ve fallen asleep again until you shift once more on the mattress.
A hollow feeling has started to settle in your stomach. It feels empty, wrong, and creeps gradually up on you until it starts to feel like something has been carved out of you entirely. Your brows knit slowly together.
“Where…?” you start, though the whispered question trails before you can finish it.
“She’s in the NICU getting checked out,” Jack tells you, voice trembling as he blinks back burning tears.
It doesn’t truly hit him until then — that he’s a dad now, that he’s got a family with you, the only girl he ever dreamed of having one with. He couldn’t let the thought truly settle until he was sure that you were okay.
“She’s perfect,” he adds, because he knows you need to hear that most of all. “She’s doing real well—”
“She?” you echo, voice small and disbelieving.
You find the strength to open your eyes then. They’re a little swollen from hours of induced sleep, but sparkling with newfound life all the same. Jack feels the look right in his chest, a sparkling red-hot feeling that makes him feel like crying.
“Yeah…” he says on an exhaled breath that’s supposed to be a laugh, though it comes out a little unsteady. “She. Three pounds, seven ounces, fifteen inches… Robby’s been trying to convince me that Robin is a perfectly good girl name ever since she got here.”
Your lip twitches faintly upward. A ghost of a smile breaks through the haze as your thumb smooths over the rough edges of Jack’s knuckles.
“Can I hold her now?” you ask in a fragile voice.
Jack’s expression softens. Something warm and aching floods into his eyes.
“Yeah,” he nods. “Soon. You just… You gotta get your strength back first, alright? She’s a little early, so… They wanna keep an eye on her for a bit.”
You nod against the pillow, head heavy and tired. You blink slowly as you try to piece together what happened to you through the fog still clouding your mind.
“Was it bad?” is the first thing you think to ask.
Jack’s jaw stiffens slightly. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
“It wasn’t good…” he answers honestly, greying brows bouncing. He nods to himself and blinks away the unshed tears that burn the backs of his eyes. “But you’re okay now— Both of you. That’s what matters…”
You stare at him for a long moment, blinking slowly, as the words settle heavily upon you.
“Holy shit…” you whisper on barely a breath.
Jack’s chest stings. He exhales through his nose and bends at the waist to press a soft, careful kiss to your temple. “I know, honey—” he murmurs there, mistaking your tone, and preparing to soothe you through whatever wave of panic comes next.
But then you shake your head, just barely, as your brows furrow in an incredulous look.
“We’re parents now…” you murmur to yourself, voice still coated with leftover sleep. “We’re responsible for a whole human…”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh as he stands to full height again. He swipes an eyelash from the apple of your warm cheek and nods. “Yeah. That’s… That’s pretty terrifying, huh?”
“A lot terrifying,” you correct.
“Well…” he starts. “I’ve kept you alive this long, haven’t I?”
You flash him a look, weighed down with fatigue but still obviously playful. “Jury’s still out,” you quip drily.
Jack scoffs a laugh. “So she’s got a fighting chance, at least.”
Your chapped lips curl slowly into a tired, barely-there grin. Your heavy eyes flutter shut as something short of sleep threatens to drag you back under. “You’re gonna be such a good dad…”
“Based on what?” the older man quips. “My stellar bedside manner?”
Your head shakes weakly against the pillow as your fingers just barely tighten around his hand. “Based on the fact that the first thing you ever did for her was fight to keep her here…”
Jack feels his heart swell up into his throat. It makes him feel like crying. He shrugs a lazy shoulder in response, if only to deflect. “That’s kinda the job, honey,” he jokes with a sad sort of laugh.
“That was you…” you argue in sleepy slurs. “She’s lucky… Both of us are…”
Jack’s teary gaze falls to your entwined hands. He nods slowly with his lips pursed to the side of his mouth, until he’s sure he can speak again without his voice shaking. His words come out a little taut, even still.
“No, I’m the lucky one here, honey,” he tells you in a strangled, gravelly voice. “I promise.”
Jack and Robby don't go out much and when they do it's certainly not to the trendy new bar that opened a short walk away from the hospital. But when a patient promises Jack free drinks for him and a friend well...
They weren't expecting much, then they saw you. When drinks end in the best sex of your life, you weren't complaining. And when they want to see you again how could you ever say no?
Each Chapter will be inspired by/named after a Steven Rodriguez song.
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' think—"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
——
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"
"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles.
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating app….
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.
So… he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross.
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.
"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"
"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like that…"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
——
Four miles away, a phone lights up…
——
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
——
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? 😇
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.
——
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is.
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.
He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.
Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me then…
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
——
You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
“John?”
“Evenin’.”
Fuck.
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
“So you actually do ring,” you manage.
“Said so on the profile, I think.”
“I half thought it was a bit.”
“I don’t really do bits.”
“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.
“That meant to be me?”
“It’s uncanny, I know.”
The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”
“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”
“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”
“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”
“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
“No?” you tease.
“I had imagined I’d see your face.”
“Been imagining, have you?”
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”
“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”
“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
“Is that what it’s come to?”
“Unfortunately.”
There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.
“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”
“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“I could do a weeknight? After work?”
There’s a pause on his end.
“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”
“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”
“It is,” he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”
“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”
“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”
“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”
“Lie-in, according to my profile.”
“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.
“Night, John.”
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
——
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.
The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
——
Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it.
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
“Fine.”
“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”
“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”
John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or…?"
"The same."
“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
——
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
———
You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
“It’s just a pub,” you tell her.
She doesn’t seem convinced.
———
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.
You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling.
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You don’t have to wait much longer for him.
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.
“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.
“So are you.”
“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
“What’ll you have?”
“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.
“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”
“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.
“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”
“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”
“The lads — your guys from work?”
“Yeah.”
“They what, talked you into it?”
“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”
“And what made them do that?”
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.
“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”
“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.
“Their exact words were a bit different.”
“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”
“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”
“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”
“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”
“Away?”
“Away.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Doing…?”
“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”
“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”
“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”
“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”
“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it.
“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”
You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.
“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”
“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
“No—I know. I just—”
“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”
“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”
“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
It’s going well.
It’s going suspiciously well.
And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—
“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”
He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”
“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it.
“Say it out loud anyway.”
“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”
“Ten.”
“Mm.”
“A whole decade.”
“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”
“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”
“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”
“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”
“Mm.”
“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug.
“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.
“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”
“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue.
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.
“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”
“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”
“Yeah? And what was the answer?”
“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”
Something in your chest slides sideways.
“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.
“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”
You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—
“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mhm,” you grin.
“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”
“I suppose I could be patient.”
“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.
“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.
And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.
“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.
“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
“Walk me home?” you ask.
“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”
“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.
——
The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he—
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"So…”
You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.
"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.
“Can I look at you now?” he tries.
“Yeah.”
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”
“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”
“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”
“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”
“When you put it like that…”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”
And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.
“Would you like to come up?”
——
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering.
He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean.
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.
Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
“You’re nervous,” he says.
“Not at all.”
“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”
“Mm?”
“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”
“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.
“Definitely not.”
The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”
“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
“Can I?”
“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
“Oh my god— okay— okay—”
“Mm.”
“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"
"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”
"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"
John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.
"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"
"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”
"—okay maybe move a little—"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.
“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek.
“Don’t think, then.”
It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You don’t think.
He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—
“Harder?” he asks against your ear.
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.
"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob.
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves — it takes you under, and you pull him with you.
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—
How good—
How gorgeous—
You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—
It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
“No?” you ask.
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.
“Alright," you agree.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.
"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
——
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.
“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”
↳ reader feels as if she is running out of time, and asks jack to be a sperm donor so she can fulfill her lifelong dream of being a mother. surprisingly, he agrees.
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ pairing. widower!jack abbot x charge nurse!reader
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ about.
a terrible date, on your evening off, ends you up at the emergency service in a bad state. the very same emergency service you work at. (wc: 5.560)
ㅤㅤ ㅤ.ᐟ warnings.
soft angst. age difference (eleven years). flirting. blood. medical inaccuracies. canon medical procedures. car accident. quick reflexion about deceased wife. chubby reader.
ㅤㅤ ㅤᯓ duo masterlist. main masterlist.
All through dinner, he had been dismissing your job as a charge nurse. Like so many others before him, he thought you were too young and making it up just to impress him—his exact words. You truly didn't know why you didn't leave after he had said that.
He did believe you were a nurse, sure, just too young for the responsibilities you were talking about. At thirty three, who was running an entire service? He has asked with disdain and mockery.
Truth be told, you were used to that kind of judgment. When you had been transferred to the emergency department, the nurses had given you sideways looks before they saw what you were capable of. Lena had trained you, explained how things worked, and made sure you understood exactly what you were getting yourself into. It had been a hell of a ride this past year, but you'd say you were doing well and so did your nurses and the doctors.
It was a hard, demanding, and stressful job, yet one you were thriving in.
Gulping down the last of the wine in your glass, you zoned out, no longer really registering what Jordan was even saying. He talked about his job endlessly, unbothered by whether you were listening at all. You took comfort in the fact that you had finished your dessert and were simply waiting for him to finish his.
The moment you'd get home, you'd call your best friend and tell her you never wanted to be set up with anyone ever again. You already knew what she would say: that you needed to get over the massive crush you had on your sort of boss.
The night shift attending. Doctor Jack Abbot.
In your defence, he had been the one to start the flirting. And he had gone in hard. He had been all over your work during your training, and on your first night as charge nurse, he hadn't restrained himself on the praising.
Usually, you weren't the type to be thrown off by a man's words, but Jack was different. It was hard to explain what had shifted between the two of you, since you had known him from your very first day at the hospital—back when you were a surgery nurse. He would occasionally come up to the floor to check on a few patients, always warm and polite, a refreshing change compared to some of the surgeons.
When a charge nurse position opened up in the ER, you had applied and after a few interviews, you had gotten it. The step up was more than welcome, even if the role was more draining.
Once you had finally found your footing, built trust with your nurses, the doctors, the interns, and the students—you had felt confident enough to flirt back.
And from that point, there had been no coming back. He was older, but you didn't care. What were eleven years, really, at your age? Nothing drastic, nothing that would stop either of you anyways.
Also, you couldn't help but think he looked far better now than when he was younger. You had once seen a photo from when he was first hired, and while he had been genuinely cute back then, the silver in his hair and the quiet confidence and dominance that came with age had made him something else entirely.
It had started with small compliments, scattered here and there. How good your new hair colour looked. How fresh your makeup was. How well you worked. How the place wouldn't survive without you. All of them unapologetic, said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. You were no different. Every haircut earned a comment from you. You would bring him food when you could tell the night was going to be a long one. You praised what a good doctor he was, just as he praised what a good nurse you were.
It was a little much and at first the rest of the crew had felt awkward around it—as though they were always walking in on something. Eventually they learned to move around the charged atmosphere you two put out and stopped hesitating to interrupt when needed.
After a year on the night shift, neither of you had ever acted on any of it, both seeming to feel that doing so might ruin what you had. As if it was something sacred. That hadn't stopped you from developing serious feelings for the man, and you were almost certain they were returned.
But for one reason, you were afraid. You had noticed that Jack had stopped wearing his wedding ring somewhere between your promotion and now, and that had unsettled you deeply. You didn't want to replace her—his late wife—you couldn't even if it was your greatest wish. It wasn't, you had too much respect for the deceased woman, it wasn't even a thought that had crossed your mind. However, you were terrified that was exactly what he was looking for in you.
It would be impossible to fill her shoes—to fill the hole she had left behind in Jack's heart. Even with all the love you could possibly have for him in a near future, you would never be her. And that was a terrifying thought: maybe he was simply looking for a replacement. Someone to fill the hole. A hole no one would ever be fit to fill.
That had been why you had accepted this awful date.
After splitting the bill, at his demand, you were now out on the street ready to part ways. He had driven you both here, but honestly, you couldn't stand the thought of spending another minute with this man. It wasn't that late and you lived close enough, you could and would walk.
As you pushed through the restaurant door, you felt a quiet frustration settled—you had wasted a perfectly good dress on someone who hadn't even bothered to notice it. It clung to your curves beautifully, with a low neckline that deserved at least a glance at your breasts. It hugged your stomach too, but you had never made any effort to hide the fact that you were on the curvier side, and you weren't about to start now.
After exchanging a few polite words, both of you promising to text—either of you knowing full well the both of you were lying—you set off toward your place, mildly annoyed that he hadn't even offered to drive you home. What a complete waste of an evening off.
Not three seconds later, you heard a loud crash behind you, unmistakably the sound of a car accident. You turned to find your date on the ground several feet from a stopped car, a large shard of windshield glass lodged in his shoulder.
"Oh, fuck," you breathed, and then you were running.
He was conscious, sitting up on his own, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once you were satisfied he was alert, you rushed to the car. The driver was conscious too, yelling about how Jordan had come out of nowhere, his hands shoving uselessly at a jammed seatbelt.
People nearby had already called 911. All there was left to do was wait. As a nurse, walking away felt almost criminal, so you stayed. While bystanders gathered around the driver and worked to get him out of the car, you went back to Jordan.
You crouched in front of him, and for just a moment your eyes left his—long enough for something warm and wet to splash across you, followed by a sharp groan.
"I don't think I was supposed to do that," Jordan said, the glass shard now in his hand a look of shock splattered across his face.
Blood had poured from the wound straight into your cleavage before slowing to a trickle running down his chest. You pressed both hands hard against the wound without hesitation.
"No, you weren't." You kept your voice flat, falling on your knees on the concrete scratching them. He was about to pass out—you could see it in the way he was staring at the glass in his hand. "Can someone get me a towel? Anything?" you called out to the crowd.
The response was immediate, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Seconds later you were pressing down on the wound with a clean towel while Jordan lay unconscious on the ground. It wasn't blood loss that had taken him under the wound was small, even if it had bled dramatically after he took of the piece of glass. It was the sight of his own blood.
You exhaled slowly and looked up just as ambulance lights swept down the street.
The paramedics assessed Jordan, applied pressure to the wound, and were now loading him into the ambulance. You stood there weighing whether to follow. You recognised the crew, and given where the restaurant was, you already knew they were heading to PTMC.
You looked down at your hands, still trying to decide and that was when you noticed it. Something was wrong. At some point between the accident and now, you had sliced your palm open. It wasn't serious, nothing you couldn't handle yourself, but your hands were covered in blood.
Blood that wasn't yours. Blood that could be infected.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," you muttered, then raised your voice to flag down the paramedics before they pulled away.
Walking into the ER was one of the most humiliating experiences of your life. Rationally, it wasn't that bad, you were staff, you walked in here almost everyday. But you were also covered in someone else's blood, and those two facts did not sit well with each other.
Your date had been taken straight through when they arrived, while you had deliberately hung back for a few minutes. It had seemed like the considerate thing to do at the time.
It was, after reflexion, possibly the worst decision you had made all evening. Because rather than looking like someone who had helped an injured man, you looked like a woman who had been assaulted.
The first person to spot you was Shen, who had been laughing with Ellis at the nurses' station. His laugh cut off the instant his eyes landed on you, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Within seconds he was crossing the floor toward you at speed, already calling out for a wheelchair.
"No, no, I'm okay," you tried explaining as the entire ER seemed to converge on you at once. "It's not my blood, I'm fine."
But it was too late. You were gently lowered into a wheelchair while Lena rushed you into a free room, and everything you said was brushed aside—they had likely decided you were in shock and weren't taking any chances.
Lena was already calling for Abbot while hands came at you from every direction. Someone was listening to your heart and lungs, someone else was pressing along your ribs asking if it hurt here or there, nurses were checking your vitals from both sides.
It was the arrival of Abbot that finally pushed you over the edge. He came through the door looking as though someone had told him you were dead. The room felt like it was closing in: the nurses crowding around you, Lena directing everyone with sharp precision, all those hands on your body. It was too much.
You stood up quickly and backed yourself toward the far wall, away from all of it. You'd give them that much, you must have looked unhinged in that moment with palms raised in front of you like a barrier, your breathing starting to climb.
"Enough," you said, chest heaving. "I'm not hurt. This isn't my blood. I was with the man from the car accident who just came in, Jordan."
Every doctor and nurse in the room looked to the charge nurse on duty. Lena gave a short nod, confirming that a Jordan had indeed just been brought in.
"The idiot pulled a piece of glass out of his own shoulder and the blood went everywhere, all over me." You kept going, your breathing steadying now that nobody was staring at you like you were about to collapse. "I would have gone straight home if it weren't for the fact that I cut my hand and his blood is all over the wound." You looked around the room. "I just need a blood test."
That was when your eyes found Abbot's. He hadn't said a word yet—still standing at the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He looked almost composed, except for his eyes, which were moving over you carefully, methodically, searching for anything anyone might have missed.
"Okay, everyone back to work," he said at last, apparently satisfied you weren't in need of urgent care. When no one moved, you rolled your eyes before his voice boomed again. "Come on, Nightcrawlers. You're needed elsewhere."
That did it. The room cleared, leaving only you, Abbot, and Lena. Almost at the same time, as though they had rehearsed it, both of them tilted their heads toward the bed.
You let out a small laugh and shook your head, but you moved toward it all the same. Once you were sitting, Lena slipped the pulse oximeter back onto your finger and studied your face with quiet intensity.
"I'll be right back for the blood test," she said, her voice soft in a way that told you she was still being careful with you.
Technically, blood tests weren't part of a charge nurse's duties, but you weren't going to say a word. If she wanted to do it herself, you would let her.
It must have been genuinely frightening, seeing a colleague walk through those doors covered in blood. It was only now beginning to register that you could have gone home first to cleaned up and change before coming in.
"Well, that was something," you said lightly, glancing over at Jack, who still hadn't moved from the doorway.
The look on his face told you he did not find the situation even remotely amusing. His expression was hard enough that you felt your gaze drop, your fingers starting to fidget in your lap, until a sharp bolt of pain shot through your hand and up to your elbow.
Abbot was in front of you within seconds. He reached for your hand, then caught himself—almost as if he had reached out for your on instinct— and turned to pull a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall before taking your hand carefully in both of his and lowering himself onto the rolling stool.
"This is pretty deep," he said, eyes on the wound.
"No, it isn't," you scoffed.
You were a nurse. You knew how to assess an injury, and this was a cut you could have handled at home with what you had in your bathroom cabinet.
You laid back against the bed as he glanced up at you with that look again, and made yourself comfortable while Abbot reached for the saline. He opened his mouth, something sarcastic clearly on its way, but Lena reappeared in the doorway before he got the chance.
It took only a few minutes for Lena to run through her checks and let you know they had drawn blood from Jordan as well and were still waiting on his results. You gave her a thumb up and thanked her warmly while Jack continued rinsing your hand with saline.
He swivelled on his stool and rolled toward the supply drawers. "Have a look for yourself, genius. Not deep, my ass."
You pushed yourself up slightly and looked down at your now clean palm and, well, fuck. It was deeper than you had thought. Considerably so. How had you even managed that? You had felt the concrete scrape your knees, but how had you not noticed your entire palm getting sliced open?
"Shit," you said, and let your head fall back against the bed. "I need stitches."
"Yep," was all he offered in return.
What was supposed to be a quick stop at the ER had turned into you becoming a patient. You were on the other side of things entirely but apparently you were getting the full VIP treatment, because Abbot had already turned back around with a suture kit in hand.
"You can call one of the nurses. I know you have more important things to do," you said, watching him lay everything out.
Without even looking up at you, still focused on getting everything the way it was supposed to, Abbot shocked his head.
"Nuh uh," he let out, followed by an almost whispered, "I can take care of you."
The words, the cadence, the casual dominance, the way his voice dropped lower than usual—it sent a shiver straight down your spine and ran straight between your legs. It took everything you had not to press your thighs together.
You knew he would notice, as Jack noticed everything.
You opened your mouth to argue. His eyes met yours with a look that left not room for complains. That happened so often with Jack, the way he could hold a room without even trying. That effortless, unassuming authority he carried without ever seeming to reach for it.
"Shen has the floor covered," he said simply, leaving no room for further debate.
Once he had numbed your hand, he got to work. The silence that followed was uncomfortable in a way that surprised you, the two of you weren't used to quiet moment. There was always something easy and warm between you, something a little flirty and a little playful. The absence of it was starting to press on you.
"That's one pretty dress," Jack said, breaking it, almost as though he had sensed the shift.
"It's completely ruined," you said, glancing down at the dried blood stiffening the fabric. "And it didn't even get me a single compliment all night." The words were out before you had quite decided to say them.
"Really?" It wasn't quite a question, you could hear it in his tone while his eyes stayed on his sutures.
"Really," you confirmed, thinking back to the vaguely disgusted look Jordan had given it. "He split the bill too." You kept going, unable to stop yourself now that you had started. "And didn't offer to drive me home."
That made him look up.
"He let you walk home alone at night?" he asked, making sure he had understood correctly.
"Well, I would have said no anyways, I really didn't want to spend another minute with him… but the fact that he didn't even offer. That's a red flag if I've ever seen one." You laughed, and then the laugh faded the moment you caught his expression.
His jaw was set, his eyes hard and anger lingering behind them. Not at you but at the man who had let a woman walk home alone in the dark. You could practically watch the what-ifs moving behind his eyes.
"Karma got him in the end, though. I mean, he got hit by a car," you tried joking, reaching for even just a small twist of his lips.
The joke didn't land. He went back to suturing in silence, brow furrowed in concentration. Then, a few minutes later, without looking up.
"For what it's worth, you make the dress even prettier." His voice was barely above a whisper.
You laughed awkwardly, the way you always did when you didn't know how to receive a compliment, especially one about your body. "Well, enjoy it while you can. It's going straight in the bin when I get home."
"A shame," Jack said simply, and you knew he meant it.
You could feel the warmth spreading up your neck and into your cheeks, and you couldn't quite make yourself look away from him.
The ease of it, the way he could flirt so quietly and so naturally while stitching your hand, as if the two things required the same level of calm made him more attractive than you knew what to do with. You had a feeling this was a point of no return.
The thought dissolved when Lena reappeared in the doorway, a wide smile already on her face and a sheets of papers in her hand. You knew she had pulled a few strings to get the results flagged as a priority, and you were grateful for it—you needed the peace of mind.
"He's clean," she said, her smile widening. "You'll still need a round of antibiotics, but there's nothing to worry about."
You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. It would have been a devastating thing, picking up an infection from a man you hadn't even wanted to have dinner with. When you opened your eyes, Jack was already gesturing for Lena to bring the results over. You watched some of the tension leave his face as he read through them.
Did he realise how expressive he was? At least with you.
"Thank you, Lena," you said warmly as she gave you a quiet wink and slipped back out of the room.
Soon enough, the sutures were done. Strangely, despite being someone who lived nocturnally even on your days off—deliberately, so as not to lose your rhythm—you were starting to feel the pull of exhaustion.
When Jack rolled away to dispose of everything, you wiggled your fingers experimentally, trying to gauge how much anaesthesia was left. Sensation was slowly creeping back, and the absence of feeling in your palm was really weird in that particular way that made you want to keep testing it.
"Stop that," Jack said, his back still to you, before turning around with bandages, antiseptic, and compresses.
"I can't feel anything," you said, not entirely sure whether he was telling you off to protect his work or protect your hand.
"I don't care. Don't ruin my good work." He looked at you as he said it, a faint edge of amusement in his expression.
"Oh, right, of course. My sincerest apologies, Doctor Abbot." You rolled your eyes and dropped your good forearm over your face.
All you wanted now was to go home and sleep. With an injury like this—even though you would have argued you were perfectly capable of working—you already knew Abbot would sign you off for at least a week, or until the stitches came out. There was no getting around it.
Once the bandage was secured, you moved to sit up, and a warm, heavy hand pressed gently but firmly on your shoulder and guided you back down. You frowned and tried again. The hand pressed once more.
"Don't move," Abbot said, clicking his tongue, his expression leaving no room for negotiation.
He shifted down the side of the bed and lifted the hem of your dress slightly without saying a word before reaching for the antiseptic. Of course, he had noticed your had scratched your knees. Abbot noticed everything.
"You don't have to do that," you said, keeping your voice gentle.
It was something you could easily take care of at home. You didn't need to take up any more of his time, knowing how wild the night shift could get. When you made another attempt to sit up, the same hand came to rest on your knee unhurried, measured and still so freaking warm. His eyes found yours, one eyebrow raised in a question that needed no words.
You tilted your head and felt a flicker of genuine irritation. "I'm a nurse. I can manage a few scraped knees myself."
He said nothing at first. He simply reached for a sealed compress and tore it open then paused, and looked up at you with a slow, knowing smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing. You hated wasting supplies and he was well aware of it.
"Oops," he said simply, and picked up the antiseptic.
It took everything you had not to say something about how annoying he was. You swallowed it and let him work in silence, watching. His movements were gentle and precise, carefully cleaning a wound that could have been sorted out under a shower at home.
His fingers were light against your skin, one hand cradling your knee while the other pressed the compress softly against the bruising. It was such an unexpectedly tender thing that it was making you feel warm and strange and a little undone. The way he was hunched over you, his posture terrible, as though his back wasn't going to punish him for it the moment he stood up straight.
"Your back, Abbot," you said, in a tone that came out far more like a scolding wife than you had intended.
The only answer you got was a knowing smirk as he moved on to the second knee. His fingers were warm, and you noticed—not for the first time, honestly—that they were the right size. Not large exactly, just... proportioned perfectly. It was a strange thing to be fixated on, but you had been quietly obsessed with his hands for months, and feeling them on your skin for the first time was doing something to your brain. Rewiring it, almost.
"All done," he said, pulling you back. "You can get up, now."
Feeling inexplicably guilty, as though you had been caught thinking something you shouldn't, you sat up too fast and felt the blood rush immediately. You lost your balance and missed the edge of the bed on your way down but Jack's military reflexes were faster. Both hands closed around your forearms and set you upright before you had any real chance of hitting the floor.
"Easy, tiger," he said, still watching your face with eyes that were a touch more worried than the joke suggested.
You laughed it off and stood again, slower this time, giving him a thumb up before grabbing your bag from the bed and following Abbot toward the nurses' station. After reassuring your colleagues that you were absolutely fine, despite knowing you looked anything but, you turned to Lena.
"What are the chances Abbot doesn't put me on medical leave?" you asked, watching him chart you from across the room. It wasn't a complicated entry given the nature of the injury, but it also meant he was prescribing medication, and very likely signing the paperwork you were dreading.
"Absolutely none," Lena replied without looking up from her own screen.
"I could work," you started, but the look Lena levelled at you over her monitor stopped the sentence dead. "How will you manage?" you asked instead, guilt settling in your chest.
"Don't worry about me," the older woman said, her smile warm enough to be annoying about it. She stood and pulled you into a hug. "I know you have a habit of worrying about the elderly," she murmured, "but I'm not quite there yet."
"Lena," you gasped, pulling back with mock horror.
You glanced around quickly to check whether anyone had caught that. Satisfied that the rest of the night shift seemed to be occupied occupied, you shook your head slowly. Ready to scold her, you were stopped by a masculine presence.
"Here." Jack's voice cut through as he appeared beside you, pressing a folded set of papers into your good hand.
"You know, I could—" you started, glancing down at the medical leave form.
"No." He cut you off immediately, steering you toward the ambulance bay with one hand settled at the small of your back.
He didn't even give you time to properly say goodbye to Lena. You threw her an apologetic look over your shoulder. Her smile only widened and she was soon joined by Shen and Mateo, wearing the exact same knowing smirk.
Jack's hand sat across the small of your back as though it had always belonged there—and again, it was just so warm. He wasn't pushing, exactly. It was more like being gently herded, a steady and certain pressure guiding you precisely where he had decided you were going: home.
Once outside, you drew breath to say goodnight and finally make your escape taking a small stop away from him. Looking at Jack, you were met with something unfamiliar. It was rare for this man to check on his phone and yet here he was.
His phone was in his hand—the hand with no wedding ring anymore—he appeared to be thinking. He frowned faintly, then looked up at you, his expression easing just slightly.
"What's your address again? I looked it up in your chart but I forgot," he said, almost to himself, his thumb already moving across the screen.
You caught a glimpse of the Uber app open in front of him. Widening your eyes, you shook your head, this wasn't happening.
"No. Nope. Absolutely not." You shook your head. "Goodnight, Abbot."
You should have known better. Of course Jack Abbot wasn't going to stand there and watch you walk away at nearly midnight. For what felt like the tenth time that night, he reached for you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, always gentle, always warm—holding you back. He had been deliberate about it too, catching your uninjured arm.
"If you think," he began, his eyes steady on yours, "that I'm going to do what that terrible date of yours did and let you walk home alone, think again. You're either getting in that Uber or you're sitting here until my shift ends."
In his eyes, you could see it was pointless to argue. You clicked your tongue, closed your eyes, and let out a long breath. When you opened them, you gave a single nod, eyebrows raised.
"Put that I'm paying in cash," you said. Not a request.
He didn't even glance up. He simply scoffed, as though you had said something mildly entertaining.
"I'm not joking," you replied, a little sharper than you had intended but the exhaustion was beginning to win.
"She's three minutes away, out front," Jack said, unbothered, already looking back at his phone. "Text me when you're home. Come back in a week for the stitches."
And then he was gone, back through the doors without a goodbye, without giving you a chance to get another word in.
You stood there for a moment, weighing your options. With him inside and unable to see you, you could absolutely just walk home and let him deal with a one-star rating from you skipping the ride home. Your ego was genuinely putting up a fight.
But something about the way he had looked at you before disappearing inside made it difficult to do anything other than what he had asked. Almost as if he had anticipated the internal debate, your phone buzzed: a screenshot from Jack, the car model and licence plate from the Uber app.
Less than fifteen minutes later, you were home. When you had tried to pay the driver, the woman smiled and told you it had already been taken care of through the app. You exhaled slowly, thanked her, and got out of the car. At least she was honest enough.
Right after locking your front door behind you, you went straight to the bathroom, desperate to get out of the bloody dress you've been in for hours now. It was almost starting to itch from how uncomfortable you felt in it. Before stepping into the shower, you fired off two quick texts to Jack.
how much do i owe you fucker?
im home btw
It was late, you were tired, and you were annoyed with him, the insult had slipped out on its own. Besides, technically you were equals hierarchically speaking. He simply had an extra qualification to his name. And you knew he wasn't the sort of person to get offended over such a trivial thing—even more when he had been the one pushing your patience.
You took your time in the shower, washing slowly and thoroughly. You had already washed your hair before the date, but it felt necessary to do it again—like washing the entire evening off. You were careful around the stitched hand, working methodically around it.
Hair dried, skincare done, body moisturised, new bandage on—you were finally ready for bed. It was half past one in the morning, and if there was one good thing about the medical leave, it was that you could sleep in without feeling any sort of guilt.
You didn't check your phone. You simply plugged it in on the nightstand, turned off the light, and settled into bed. Despite everything, despite the irritation still slithering quietly under the surface, all your mind kept returning to as your eyes closed was the feeling of his hands on you.
How warm they were. How careful. How certain. How capable.
You were seconds from sleep when your phone buzzed. Once. Short and deliberate. You reached for it blindly, hand patting across the nightstand until your fingers closed around it. You tilted the screen toward you. Two words.
Two words that sent warmth pooling straight to places it had no business going at one-thirty in the morning.
