Synopsis: You posted a twenty-second Tiktok vlog and accidentally made your boyfriend the Internet's DILF of the month. Now, he's Jack Abbot—40s, Senior Attending, Veteran, SWAT medic, and McDaddy.
Tags: Comedy, Fluff, Established Relationship, No use of Y/N
Most people find fame through talent or hard work, but you managed to achieve it by accidentally turning your boyfriend into the internet’s daddy boyfriend of the month.
The clip was an accident—one of those rare, unintended miracles of timing and light. It was meant to be a trivial vlog, a mere twenty seconds of digital static, yet the bedroom mirror had captured the scene with a sudden, startling clarity. A soft, jazz audio hummed in the background while the honeyed glow of the vanity caught your contour at just the right angle. It was the frantic, familiar ritual of a night out: lipstick sat uncapped on the marble, earrings remained half-fastened, and a graveyard of rejected outfits lay strewn on the duvet. Your phone, braced haphazardly against a tube of lotion, had immortalized a moment you never intended to overthink.
What you hadn't been thinking about at all was Jack—specifically, the fact that his three brief, incidental appearances were about to make a seismic impression on millions of strangers.
First, he moved through the background with that quiet, deliberate grace he reserved for the spaces he considered yours, attempting to shrink a presence that refused to be small. He was still shirtless, his skin holding the lingering heat of a shower, while his curls remained dark and damp. His PTMC badge caught the light where it was clipped haphazardly to the waistband of his pants, a sharp contrast to the unhurried ease of his bare shoulders.
Second, the lens proved to be more attentive than you were. For a fleeting second, the indigo fabric of his scrubs pulled taut across his shoulders as he reached past the doorframe for something unseen. For one heartbeat of a second, the mirror swallowed him whole, immortalizing the domestic intimacy you usually kept behind locked doors. Then came his voice, a low, unhurried rumble vibrating from somewhere down the hall: "You seen my boots, baby?"
Third, and perhaps most damagingly, the camera lingered just long enough to catch the final piece of the puzzle, finally putting a face to the body. Your iPad sat on the counter, its screen blinking awake to reveal a lock screen from last Thanksgiving. There was Jack, caught mid-laugh at a joke of Robby’s, looking insufferably handsome in the way only a man entirely unaware of his own gravity can be.
It was a portrait of a life lived in the quiet, and in twenty seconds, those three moments had accidentally invited the world to watch.
You had uploaded the clip without a second glance, vanished into the back of an Uber twenty minutes later, and promptly forgotten it existed. It wasn't until your phone began to vibrate with such frantic, rhythmic persistence during dinner that the reality of it started to sink in. Across the table, your friend paused, fork halfway to her mouth, and leveled a flat, unimpressed look at your purse.
"Either you’ve gone viral," she remarked, "or your apartment is currently a pile of ash."
Under normal circumstances, you might have laughed. But being the partner of a man who treated a SWAT assignment like a casual weekend hobby—on top of the grueling demands of his life as a physician—meant your anxiety followed a very specific, very jagged trajectory. You stared at the vibrating bag, paralyzed by the possibility that the notifications were the kind you couldn't ignore. In those frantic seconds, you found yourself silently hoping it was just the internet and not the hospital.
As it turned out, it was both. And your digital life was currently a three-alarm fire, and the smoke was already starting to fill the room.
You showed him the next morning.
It was the hour the two of you guarded like a secret—that strange, tender overlap where his night collided with your day. He always returned carrying the heavy, stillness of the Emergency Department, finding you mid-way through a second cup of coffee, still soft with sleep. He was currently dismantling a piece of toast, sitting across from you with his prosthetic leg stretched out comfortably under the table.
"Look at this," you murmured, sliding the phone across the scarred wood of the table.
Jack fished his reading glasses from his scrub pocket, settling them onto the bridge of his nose with a practiced flick of his fingers before picking up the phone. He watched the twenty-second loop once, his expression unreadable behind the lenses, then set the device back down with a quiet click.
"It’s good," he said, his voice gravelly from the long shift. "The lighting is nice. You look beautiful, baby."
"That’s not—" You pressed your lips together, searching for the right words to bridge the gap between his world and the digital one. "Not the lighting."
He retrieved the phone, bracing his elbows on the table to watch the video again. He searched for the anomaly he’d missed. His brow furrowed, a faint crease appearing between his eyes. "The audio seems fine. What am I missing here?"
"The views," you said, gesturing emphatically at the bottom of the screen. "Look at the numbers, Jack."
There was a profound silence as he actually looked. You watched the moment the data clicked, his expression undergoing a slow, silent recalibration as he processed the scale of the reach.
"That," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "is a very large number of views."
"It went a little viral, Jack."
"Because it’s a good video," he replied, his voice ringing with a sincerity so pure it was almost offensive. "You did your makeup with impressive speed. Maybe people appreciate efficiency."
You loved him. You truly, deeply adored this man, yet in this moment, you felt yourself hovering on the precipice of a minor breakdown.
"It isn't about the makeup," you said, your words measured, as if you were navigating a steep, rocky incline. "It’s about what’s in the video. Or rather—who."
Jack looked back at the screen, his expression clouding with a genuine, heavy confusion. It was the look of a man trying to solve a puzzle where the pieces kept changing shape. He picked up the phone for the third time, his gaze narrowing on the mirror’s reflection as he tried to reconcile his mundane morning routine with the digital chaos it had apparently caused. He watched his own ghost-like transit through the background; he listened to the low, intimate rumble of his own voice asking about his boots, clearly searching for whatever it was that people found so fascinating.
"Ah," he murmured. The syllable was heavy, realization finally anchoring.
"I’m sorry." He set the phone down with a soft click against the table. "I didn't realize I was in the shot. I should’ve checked the frame before you—"
"No, Jack, you didn’t do anything wrong. Just...here. Look at the comments."
You nudged the phone back toward him. He leaned in, his hazel eyes scanning the screen as he began to read.
@namjoonsthickarms: who dat in the backkkkk
@freaky.mika: matter of fact where's EVERYBODY from???
@xoxo_titus: he's like if mcdreamy and mcsteamy came back alive and had a child
@stellasalle: is that ur boyfriend. is ur boyfriend single
@planetlea: i have something to say but you guys have to be very open minded.
@perpetualmoss: does he keep bees?
@tojisrealwifefr: can i order one mcdaddy to go
@theresakowalski99: SOMEONE SAID MCDADDY LMAOOO
@glasscanopygirl: computah i want four mcdaddys STAT
@sassagirllll: NOT MCDADDY 💀
The silence that followed was expansive and heavy with a very specific kind of weight. You watched his expression shift through a series of distinct, agonizing phases: initial confusion, a dawning, horrified comprehension, and finally, a look that wasn't quite mortification, but was certainly a close neighbor.
He set the phone back on the table with the ginger, measured precision of a man who wanted very badly to set it on fire instead.
"McDaddy," he said, the word sounding foreign and vaguely offensive in his low, gravelly timbre.
"McDaddy," you confirmed, offering the word up like a piece of evidence at a crime scene.
Another silence stretched between you, punctured only by the hum of the refrigerator.
"I need that to not spread," he said, his tone shifting back into the authoritative, problem-solving frequency he used in the ED.
You said nothing. You were a woman who valued honesty, and you had already silently committed to the fact that the video was staying exactly where it was.
Jack read the quiet for exactly what it was. He let out a long, weary breath through his nose—the sound of a man accepting a tactical defeat—and reached for his coffee with a hand that seemed suddenly much heavier than it had been a minute ago.
It spread with the frantic velocity of a thing that was both hilarious and undeniably true. It moved through the hospital with the grace of a shadow, traveling laterally and invisibly until it arrived everywhere at once, leaving no traceable origin. By the time Jack arrived for his shift that night, Mateo had already absorbed the data. Henderson had allegedly forwarded it to two people—strictly not Shen or Ellis, of course—while swearing each to a secrecy that was doomed from the start.
Mateo, to his credit, maintained a professional veneer for nearly four hours before the cracks began to show. He cornered Jack at the north nurse's station around two in the morning, during that specific late-night lull when the department fell into its own rhythm—hushed enough to breathe, yet busy enough to keep everyone honest.
"So," Mateo began, his tone possessed of that casual, conversational lightness that suggested he had been rehearsing this exact moment for hours. "McDaddy."
Jack didn't even lift his gaze from the chart in his hands. "Mateo."
"You aren't saying anything," Jack countered, his voice a low, warning vibration. "You're implying something, and I’m asking you to stop before you start."
"I just think it’s a solid nickname. Impactful. Memorable."
"I think you should go check on Chairs."
Mateo retreated, wearing a grin so broad it bordered on the celestial. Jack turned the page of the chart, the paper yielding with a sharp, crisp snap that suggested a level of force that wasn't strictly necessary for a medical record.
Ellis remained silent. She didn’t have to utter a single syllable; the smile she wore for the remainder of the shift was a masterclass in economy. It was a neat, complete expression that spoke volumes on the subject, radiating a quiet brand of amusement that was utterly without mercy.
Shen, by contrast, had been uncharacteristically muted for most of the night. Jack noticed the silence and, in the private theater of his own mind, felt a surge of genuine appreciation. He allowed himself to believe the attending had either missed the digital wildfire entirely or possessed the professional grace to let it burn itself out.
He was mistaken on both counts.
The realization arrived near the tail end of the night, during that hollow, pre-dawn lull where the hospital air seems to thin and every movement feels choreographed in slow motion. Jack stood at the Hub, his eyes tracing the lines of a patient’s chart while his ears remained tuned to the distant, mechanical groan of the ambulance bay doors. Shen drifted past on his return from radiology, an iced coffee held loosely in one hand. Without breaking his stride, without a hint of preamble, and without even lifting his gaze from the tablet he held, he spoke.
He kept walking, his pace never wavering.
Jack stared at the empty space where Shen had been a second before, then slowly returned his focus to the monitor. He chose not to respond—partly because there was no defense against such a strike, and partly because a small, deeply buried fragment of his ego recognized the timing as impeccably executed.
He would, however, never be admitting that to Shen.
Victoria Javadi intercepted him during the shift overlap, just as the pale, early morning light began to bruise the ED doors. She was still armored in her jacket, a tablet tucked firmly under one arm, approaching with the rigid momentum of someone who had rehearsed her opening lines and was now legally bound to deliver them.
"Hey, Dr. Abbot," she said, her voice a bit too bright for the hospital's morning gloom. "I...did you know there’s a video of you on TikTok?"
Jack had been expecting this from exactly no one and, simultaneously, from every living soul in the building. He didn't look up from his chart. "I'm aware, Javadi."
"Oh." She blinked, her rehearsed speech about digital footprints clearly dying on her tongue. "I just wasn't sure if you knew it was...out there. It has, like, a lot of likes."
"It was my partner's video," Jack explained plainly, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing a patient's potassium levels.
"Right. Okay. That makes sense," Javadi said, nodding quickly. She looked a little relieved, though she still had the faintly traumatized expression of a student who had just discovered her father was internet-famous for being attractive. "I just thought—given the traction—"
"Javadi," Jack interrupted gently. "I appreciate the heads-up. I really do. I just—I’d rather not be known as—"
The rasping, sandpaper cackle cut through the air like a serrated knife.
Myrna, a permanent fixture of the ED and a professional bringer of havoc, was drifting past in her wheelchair. She was currently handcuffed to the armrest—a precautionary measure from the night shift after she’d tried to "reorganize" the suture kits—and she was navigating the hallway with the predatory grace of an old cat.
She stopped the wheels right next to them, peering up at Jack with a mischievous, toothless grin. "Can you bring me something sweet? Don't give me that sugar-free crap fruitcake tries to pass off."
Jack let out a slow breath, his face shifting into a look of exasperated amusement. It was the smile of a man who had long ago accepted that he had no authority over Myrna.
"Dr. Javadi will bring you your sandwich instead, Myrna," Jack said, his voice laced with a dry, knowing warmth.
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He pivoted on his heel and made a tactical retreat down the hall, leaving a stunned med student in his wake.
"You're no fun at all, McGrumpy!" Myrna hollered after his retreating back. She then turned her sharp, catlike gaze toward Javadi. "Don’t listen to him, Goldilocks. I’d love a pudding."
She offered Myrna a polite, slightly tight-lipped smile—the kind used by people who are technically in charge but know better than to argue with a seasoned anarchist.
"I'll see what I can do, Myrna," Javadi said, her tone a blend of professional courtesy and a desperate need to be elsewhere.
She turned and headed toward the reception desk, her stride purposeful. It was barely 6 AM, and she was already mentally calculating how to navigate the rest of the shift without accidentally referencing Jack’s "metrics" to his face again.
To her credit, Javadi had not gone in search of Cassie McKay. It was simply that McKay had a way of materializing out of the hospital’s grey geometry exactly when a secret was most vulnerable. As Javadi rounded the corner of the nurses' station, she practically walked into her. Javadi possessed a face that was usually a decent vault, but she was currently reeling from too much coffee and the surrealism of the morning, and McKay was a human lie detector who had been hunting for a specific scent since clocking in.
"You okay?" McKay asked, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinized Javadi, who looked as though she had just witnessed a small, localized miracle—or a car crash.
"Yeah, yeah, of course," Javadi said. It was the wrong answer, delivered in entirely the wrong register, a pitch that practically invited cross-examination.
Then, inevitably, she folded.
By the time Robby arrived, McKay had already performed a full autopsy on the situation. She fed him every detail: the comments, the specific username responsible for the nickname, and the skyrocketing view count as of six-fifteen that morning. Robby listened to the report with his coffee held in both hands, wearing the solemn, focused expression of a man receiving intelligence of national importance.
Jack was still anchored at the Hub, finishing his notes, when Robby emerged from the north bay. He was winding his earbuds into a neat coil, looking unreasonably composed for a man who had been awake for less than an hour.
He stopped the moment his eyes found Jack.
Jack watched him pause, his own lips quirking into thin line as he braced for the impact of Robby’s scrutiny.
"Word travels fast, brother," Robby said, his voice smooth and dangerously entertained.
"Morning..." Robby hesitated, the silence stretching as he debated whether to grant his friend a stay of execution or lean into the chaos. Finally, he offered a small, knowing tilt of his head. "Dr. Abbot."
Robby accepted the tablet, his gaze dropping to the screen with the intense, focused expression of a man doing a very convincing impression of someone actually working. A beat passed. Then another. Jack almost bought the act, until the silence stretched just a second too long.
"McKay told me," Robby said, addressing the digital chart rather than his friend.
Jack remained stoic, the silence at the hub growing heavy with the weight of things left unsaid.
A pause. Then, still speaking to the glass screen with the dry, unhurried delivery of a man who had been waiting for the perfect moment to spend his social capital: "McDaddy, huh? Think we can boost the patient satisfaction scores with that?"
Jack leveled a flat, weary look at him.
Robby finally looked back. The expression on his face was one he wore only when he’d landed a blow and knew it—not smug, exactly, but quietly and genuinely delighted with himself. He looked like a man who rarely allowed himself a luxury and was currently savoring this one like a fine vintage.
Jack didn't give him the satisfaction of a verbal retort. He simply picked up his coffee and slid the final tablet toward Robby’s side of the desk with a sharp, clinical click.
"Shen will do the handoff, brother," he said, his tone final. And then he was moving.
He didn't make it five steps before he hit the next roadblock. Dana Evans was already anchored at the charge desk, the overnight census flickering on her monitor. Her reading glasses were pushed to the crown of her head—a clear sign she’d been there far earlier than her shift technically required.
"Leavin' so early, McDaddy?"
She tossed the words out with such casual, booming volume that Jack actually considered stopping in his tracks to glare at her over his shoulder. The sound echoed through the morning crowd of the ED, a public christening he hadn't asked for.
"Yup!" Jack called back, not breaking his stride as he headed for the sliding doors. "Bed’s calling me."
It was a weak defense, but it was the only one he had left.
He recounted the ordeal that morning, back in the familiar sanctuary of the kitchen. You sat in the same chairs, the table between you supporting two mugs and that comfortable, worn-in quiet. His voice was dry, narrating the exchanges with the flat economy of a man who was still—quite justifiably—aggrieved. He went through the list: Mateo opening the gate, the strike from Shen, the merciless curve of Ellis’s smile, the earnest debrief from Javadi, and the inevitable McKay-to-Dana pipeline.
You made him tell you the Robby part twice.
"Patient satisfaction scores," you repeated, and the laugh that escaped you was full, unguarded, and entirely without apology.
"He thought he was being very clever," Jack said.
"He was being very clever."
"I’m not trying to help," you countered, leaning forward over your coffee. "I’m trying to savor this."
He looked at you across the table, wearing the expression he used when he was pretending to be more annoyed than he actually was. Over time, you had learned to read his face like a second language; the tell was always in the slight softness at the corners of his eyes, and the way his mouth held the ghost of something that wasn't quite a smile, but lived in the same neighborhood.
"Not you too," he murmured.
"McDaddy," you said, your face a mask of absolute, unwavering seriousness.
"I’m heading to bed," he announced.
He refilled your coffee instead. You watched him from the table as he moved through the kitchen. The morning light was generous now, catching the silver threading through his curls. There was something grounding in the particular set of his shoulders—broad, familiar, and possessed of a stillness that seemed to anchor the entire room.
When he turned back around, he caught you watching him. He didn’t comment on the lingering gaze; he simply placed the mug in front of you with a soft click, reclaimed his seat, and wrapped his hands around his own cup.
A silence settled over the kitchen—a good, heavy quiet that required nothing from either of you. It was the kind of peace that felt earned.
Then, you reached for your phone.
"Stay still," you murmured.
He looked up, his brows knitting together in a look of weary suspicion. "Why?"
"The morning light is hitting you just right."
"Are you planning to use me for your video again, sweetheart?"
You only smiled, a small, secret thing, and carefully neglected to mention that you were already recording.
“It’s for the memories, baby,” you said, offering the kind of soft, appeasing smile you knew he had no defense against. “I just want to remember how charming my boyfriend looks before the world gets a hold of him.”
It worked. He gave you a long, measured look over the rim of his coffee cup—a silent interrogation. Then, with the weary resignation of a man who had finally made his peace with the things he could not control, he settled back into his chair. He returned to his coffee and simply let you be, a willing participant in your small, digital theft.
You filmed him for perhaps eight seconds. You captured the lazy curl of steam rising from his mug and the way his eyes went soft and unfocused with exhaustion, tracking nothing in particular as he drifted. The camera caught the glint of the black ring when he wrapped both hands around the ceramic, and the small, quiet ghost of a smile that lived at the corner of his mouth—the one he only wore when he thought no one was paying enough attention to catch it.
Then you tilted the lens to catch yourself in the frame, tucked into the chair across from him. He glanced up at the movement, and that half-smile transitioned into something more tangible, something slightly less guarded. You let the moment breathe in the frame for a heartbeat before you ended the recording.
Jack raised an eyebrow, the silent question hanging in the air.
“By popular demand,” you said simply, hitting ‘post’ before he could muster a formal objection.
He exhaled—a long, slow sound—and looked at the ceiling as if negotiating privately with the universe about his current lot in life. When he finally brought his gaze back down to you, the exasperation had already begun its familiar migration into something warmer and far less defended. He reached across the table in a gesture that was brief and unannounced, his hand covering yours for just a second before retreating back to the safety of his cup.
"McDaddy," he muttered into his coffee, his voice a low vibration. He said it with the tone of a man committing a word to a vault he intended to bury and never reopen.
You smiled into your mug, the porcelain hiding your triumph.
"Should we try that in bed?"
Note: edited the comments. I accidentally tagged real accounts :D
