if anyone knows anything about jack abbot, he’s a man of healthy communication. you know where you stand with him at all times. pissed him off? he’ll tell you outright. struggling on the job? he’ll give you some kind words and ask if you need anything. he’s the most emotionally available man at the pitt, and it’s taken years of therapy to get here.
after your first date with abbot, you’ve barely made it home before he sends you a text saying he had a great time and he’d love to see you again, possibly this week if you’re free. he lays his cards out on the table and it’s a massive turn on for you.
the next day, when your paths cross during shift handover, he pulls you to the side and gives you a suggestive smile, “that restaurant i was telling you about? they had a spot open up for saturday. what do you think?”
“i’d love to,” you respond, trying to hide your growing smile. “could grab a drink after?”
“you’re speaking my language.” he says, already texting the owner that he’ll take the table.
“i gotta check on this guy in twelve and then i’m getting out of here, but i filled in my charts in case you need any context.”
“cool,” he nods. “any plans tonight?”
“hot date with my yoga mat and my bed by nine.”
“sexy,” jack grins. “i’ll be thinking of you in many positions.”
“jack!” you laugh, your face growing warm.
“have a good night,” he tells you once his laughter has subsided. “text me when you get home, okay?”
“i will.” he squeezes your hand gently before leaving to see what shen needs him for.
and when saturday rolls around, those positions are no longer just in jack’s imagination.
What would you do if you were scrolling through recommended tumblr posts and one was from someone you don't know and it was just a picture of your dad captioned "fucking hate this guy" and it had hundreds of notes
or - dennis didn’t plan on falling for a coworker when he started at ptmc, but then he meets you, the cute new x-ray tech.
this is my submission for @elixirfromthestars writing challenge!! i played a game of chance using the generator for my prompt/scenario 🤍 dialogue prompt: “your eyes are really pretty up close” + scenario: one love interest is injured and the other cares of them
warnings/tags: x-ray tech!reader, fem reader, slight sunshine!reader vibes, fluff, reader gets a minor concussion, a patient gets combative resulting in injury but it isn’t described in detail, possible medical inaccuracies, dennis is smitten, dennis’ pov, short n sweet
˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗
“You’re going to scare her off.”
Santos’ voice, sudden and unwelcome, nearly makes Dennis jump out of his skin. He cuts his eyes to glare at her - she isn’t even looking at him, too focused on trying to catch up on her charting.
“No, I’m not,” Dennis mutters defensively, looking back to the room across the hall, where you’re carefully positioning his patient - an elderly woman with a neck injury - for an x-ray using the portable machine you brought down from radiology. “I’m not even looking at her. I’m just…worried about my patient.”
“Sure,” Santos agrees sarcastically. “You’re just worried about your patient. That’s why your eyes bulged out of your head and you started drooling like a rabid dog the second she walked in the room.”
“Oh, come on,” Dennis groans. “I did not—”
“Who’s drooling like a rabid dog?” Princess appears out of thin air, as she has a knack for doing at the most inopportune times.
Great. Two of them. Just what he needs right now. Santos alone, he can handle. He’s only known (and also lived with) her for one week and he’s already used to her teasing jabs, but her and Princess both at once?
Santos leans back in her chair, nodding in the direction that Dennis had been staring just moments ago. “Huckleberry has the hots for the x-ray tech.”
Dennis’ face burns hot with embarrassment. He may be new to PTMC, but he already knows that if there’s even somewhat interesting gossip, regardless of its validity, Princess will find out. And, within a matter of hours, so will the rest of the emergency department. Maybe even the entire hospital, with his luck.
“I don’t have the hots for her,” Dennis denies calmly, not wanting to feed into any wild conspiracies undoubtedly forming in Princess’ head right now. “I don’t know her. I literally just met her five minutes ago. I don’t even remember her name.”
Two truths and a lie. He knows your name - committed it to memory the second that you introduced yourself. Just like he committed the soft curve of your smile and the way your voice instantly put his patient at ease to memory.
He would rather get puked and pissed on in the same day again than admit that to Santos or Princess, though.
“It’s her first day,” Princess chirps. “She just transferred here from Presby. Graduated from La Roche. And she’s single.”
Dennis is not going to ask how the hell she knows all of that.
He waits, hoping he doesn’t look too eager, as you finish taking the necessary images for Ms. Crawford. As you back out of the room with the x-ray machine, Dennis straightens his posture, earning a snicker from Santos.
“Quit,” he hisses under his breath.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Dr. Whitaker?”
Your sweet, cheerful voice saying his name makes him forget whatever he is going to snap back at Santos. He walks towards you, leaving her and Princess undoubtedly staring after him with shit-eating smirks.
The entire three seconds that it takes Dennis to reach you is spent thinking that you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen inside these hospital halls since he first started.
“Dennis,” he corrects gently. He doesn’t really want to point out that he’s only a student doctor. Plus, he wouldn’t exactly mind hearing you say his name. “You can just call me Dennis.”
“Dennis,” you repeat, your smile an exact replica of the one you wear in the picture on your ID badge. “Well, Dennis, Ms. Crawford speaks very highly of you.”
He shrugs, going for casual. “Yeah, apparently she’s a frequent flyer. I’ve only been here a week and I’ve seen her twice already.”
Your brows shoot up, amusement on your face. “She told me that she asked for you by name, you know.”
“She did?”
“Mhm.” You nod. “Said that you’re the nicest doctor she’s had in years.”
Dennis doesn’t need a mirror to know that he’s bright pink, from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I’m…not technically a doctor yet,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
Your eyes shoot down to the ID badge pinned to his scrubs, gaze briefly settling on the words student doctor before you look back up. You shrug. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Then, before Dennis can attempt to stammer out a flustered response, you begin backing away with the portable x-ray machine in tow. “Nice meeting you, Dennis. I’ll get these images up to radiology and let you know as soon as we have the results.”
He watches you walk away for longer than he probably should - doesn’t look away until the sound of someone clearing their throat catches his attention.
Santos still sits feet away at her desk, looking at him with raised brows. “What is it you were saying about not staring at her?”
˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗
“Don’t ever date where you clock in, Dennis. Makes the mess twice as hard to clean up. You can ask your uncle all about that.”
The unsolicited advice that his mother had given him over the phone the night before his very first shift at PTMC has echoed in Dennis’ mind since the day he met you months ago.
With each passing day, the words ring a bit louder than the day before. Loud enough to stop him from crossing any professional boundaries, but never loud enough to deter him from going out of his way to see you every chance he gets.
Princess, Perlah, Vivi, Jesse - the Pitt has no shortage of nurses more than happy to wheel a patient to the radiology department when they’re capable of transport and in need of an x-ray, but Dennis likes to personally deliver his patients to radiology these days.
So he can see with his own eyes that they get there safely, of course. That’s what he tells himself on the days that he knows you’re working, anyway.
In addition to his mother’s voice, he also tends to hear Santos’ - although hers is much closer, more frequent, and far less loving.
“Jesus. You have her work schedule committed to memory?”
“You know you look like a golden retriever waiting for the mailwoman anytime she comes down here, right?”
“If you don’t ask her out, someone else eventually will. I see Mateo making heart eyes at her every time she’s around.”
He does have your work schedule committed to memory, but not in a creepy stalker kind of way like Santos likes to insinuate - he knows which days you work because you’ve personally told him. Because, believe it or not, he doesn’t just stare at you from across the room like a “golden retriever waiting for the mailwoman” every chance he gets. He actually talks to you and has gradually learned all about you over the last few months.
He has learned you originally wanted to be a pediatric nurse but ultimately decided against it because bodily fluids make you squeamish. He has learned that you enjoy working on Wednesdays because of the taco truck that comes to the park next to the hospital. He has learned that you always bring a cardigan to work because the radiology department is freezing. He has learned that you keep Jolly Ranchers in your scrub pockets to give to kids once they have completed their x-rays.
He has learned that you’re the closest thing to sunshine in human form that this place has.
He’ll give it to Santos. She’s right about one thing - if he doesn’t ask you out, someone else will. Maybe it’ll be Mateo, or maybe that tall, conventionally attractive x-ray tech that you work with in the radiology department, or perhaps it’ll be someone that doesn’t work anywhere in this hospital. But someone, somewhere will ask you out, and Dennis will have no choice but to come to terms with the fact that someone else had the nerve to do what he’s too scared to do.
And when that day inevitably comes - when someone a little braver than him gets to be the one to make you smile - it’ll be on him. Because he’ll know he had a thousand opportunities to try, and didn’t take a single one of them.
˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗
“….and my primary care doctor looked at my asshole and said woah. Have you ever had a doctor look at your asshole and say woah? These aren’t normal hemorrhoids, doc. I’m talking golf ball sized—”
Normally, Dennis would love to spend the last thirty minutes of a long shift listening to a patient describe their hemorrhoids in excruciating detail, but ever since he overheard Cassie and Samira muttering something about a combative patient in radiology as they walked past moments ago, he is having an increasingly difficult time paying attention to Mr. Jackson and his record-breaking hemorrhoids that brought him to the ED this evening.
Combative patient. Radiology. X-ray tech. Fall.
That’s all he caught, but it’s more than enough to have his thoughts spiraling more by the second.
Because you’re working today. He saw you no more than a few hours ago, when you came down to take x-rays for one of Mel’s patients. You had said hey to him in passing, making butterflies erupt in his stomach with a singular word and a soft smile.
“—nothing is helping right now. I’ve used all the creams, witch hazel pads, ice packs, fiber supplements, sitz baths. You name it, I’ve tried—”
Dennis glances in the direction of the nurse’s station and his stomach flips and then sinks entirely.
You’re there - in a wheelchair, with an ice pack pressed to the side of your head, surrounded by Dana, Robby, Cassie and what looks like every other available doctor and nurse in entire fucking ED.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jackson,” Dennis interrupts the man. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back with Toradol and some lidocaine gel for you and we will go from there.”
He doesn’t wait for Mr. Jackson to respond before he’s power-walking out of Central 12 and pushing his way through the small crowd of doctors and nurses to get to you.
“What the hell happened?” Dennis asks, trying and failing to hide his concern.
You look like you could die of embarrassment. “It’s nothing, really. I’m fine. I’m sure it’s just a bruise—”
“An elderly patient with dementia became combative while she was trying to do his x-rays,” Robby explains with a sigh. “He forgot where he was and pushed her while trying to run away, causing her to hit her head on the machine.”
“Jesus,” Dennis grimaces, his brain already jumping to all of the worst possible diagnoses. Skull fracture. Amnesia. Intracranial hemorrhaging. “You need to be—”
“Examined?” Robby interjects dryly. “I agree. Whitaker, why don’t you take care of her?”
Dennis nods without hesitation, eagerly taking over the wheelchair. He’s vaguely aware of you continuing to protest that you’re okay, that your head is barely even hurting, that you’re totally fine to walk and finish out the remainder of your shift, but he agrees with Robby. You need to be examined, and he’s going to be the one to do it.
“Mateo,” Dennis calls as he begins to wheel you towards the first empty exam room that he can find, “Mr. Jackson in Central 12 is waiting on lidocaine gel for his hemorrhoids. Would you mind helping me with that?”
If anyone were to ask, he would say that he chose Mateo for the task because he was the closest nurse at that moment, but deep down, Dennis can’t lie even to himself - there’s a small but undeniably petty part of him that picked Mateo because of the heart eyes, as Santos refers to it, that he likes to make at you.
Dennis wheels you into the empty exam room and parks the wheelchair right next to the bed. He crouches slightly in front of you, palms hovering awkwardly like he wants to reach out and touch you but can’t decide whether he’s actually allowed to.
“Okay,” he says hesitantly, “I need to check you over.”
You open your mouth to protest yet again, but Dennis is already pulling out a penlight from his pocket. “Please,” he murmurs, cutting you off. “For me. I just…need to know that you’re okay. It won’t take long. I promise.”
You give a reluctant sigh, motioning for him to continue.
“Look straight at me,” he instructs gently, then flashes the penlight. First, he checks your pupils. Then, ever so gently, as if he’s touching fine, breakable china, tilts your chin upward with two fingers.
He’s performed exams exactly like this more times than he can recall, but he doesn’t think his hands have ever trembled like this during one. He can only hope that you don’t notice.
“Pupils are slightly dilated,” he notes quietly.
You blink slowly, flinching a bit at the light. “That’s really bright.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” He clicks the pen off. “Any nausea? Dizziness? Blurry vision?”
You shake your head, then wince at the motion. “No, I don’t think so. My head just hurts a little.”
Dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, and a headache. All signs that point to a concussion. At least a mild one. He tries to stay focused - tries not to imagine you falling and hitting the machine. He clears his throat. “Okay. Can you tell me your name and where you’re at right now?”
You roll your eyes. “Dennis.”
He huffs out something between a laugh and groan, taking a small amount of comfort in knowing that you remember his name. “Your name.”
You answer him correctly.
“Good,” he breathes. He takes the ice pack that you still hold to the side of your head. “I’m just going to feel around a bit, yeah?” He reaches a careful hand to where you had been holding the ice pack, wincing even harder than you do when he quickly finds the raised, angry knot.
“Does it hurt when I press here?” He watches your face - only a foot or so away from his own - for any signs of discomfort.
“It isn’t too bad,” you grimace. “It doesn’t feel great, but it isn’t unbearable. It’s like a dull…”
You trail off mid-sentence, squinting at him.
He freezes. “What? What is it? Are you okay?”
You blink a few times, your gaze never leaving his. “Your eyes,” you mumble. Then, more clearly, “Your eyes are really pretty up close. They look like oceans.”
Dennis would think that he’s the one with the concussion and that he’s imagining things if it weren’t for the fact that he saw your lips move, plain as day.
It seems to dawn on you that you said the words out loud. Your mouth opens in shock and you shake your head, dropping your gaze to your lap. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I mean, it’s true, but I don’t know why I said it.”
He can’t help the grin that grows on his face. He has no doubt that his face is as red as a beet. “No, no,” he laughs. “Don’t be sorry. I just…I think you might only be saying that because you have a mild concussion.”
“Yeah, maybe,” you agree with a small laugh. You look back up with a bashful smirk. “But it’ll still be true, even after I’m no longer concussed.”
At this moment, there’s one thing on his mind. The same thing that has been on his mind since the first day that he met you, and truthfully, the very last thing that should be on his mind right now because technically you’re a patient and possibly concussed but he knows that if he doesn’t step through this door that you’ve nudged open, he might regret it for a very, very long time.
He knows damn well that Santos will never let him forget the fact that it took you getting attacked by a patient to finally make a move, but he doesn’t care. Right now, he isn’t hearing her voice, or his mother’s, or anyone other than yours.
Your voice, telling him that he has pretty eyes.
“After you’re no longer concussed,” Dennis starts, voice a little shaky but absolutely certain, “I’m finally going to ask you out.”
˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗
did anyone catch the random superstore reference i sprinkled in??
thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you forever mwah mwah
|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things ||
a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you
wc: 1.7k
"please—"
it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.
robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.
"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.
you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.
"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.
both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.
you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.
"wanna see you kisssss—"
jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.
"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.
"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.
robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"
jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.
"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."
you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.
you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.
"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"
"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."
you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.
"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.
nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.
robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.
"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"
"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.
"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.
"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.
it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.
"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.
"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.
"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."
"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."
his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.
"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."
you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.
"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"
"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.
"fuck it—" robby growled.
he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.
they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.
robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.
"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."
"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."
robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"
but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.
a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.
"oh my god," you whispered.
when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.
"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.
"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"
"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."
robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.
it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.
then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.
you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.
the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.
"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."
jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.
"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."
"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.
you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.
"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"
"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"
"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.
jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.
your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.
as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.
but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.
wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped
summary: For the pretty L and D nurse in the Pitt, everyday is a great day. But for Frank Langdon, it's only a great day if she looks at him. And he's trying to prove he's not just a pretty face with a bad past.
notes: just a short one this week. I've had a rough time with my job the past couple weeks (thank you understaffed department!) and so I've had a bit of a hard time trying to find the energy to write.
I just think the concept of ER Barbie and Ken is so cute! I know this has been done before but I wanted to give my own spin on the concept.
enjoy reading :)
Frank Langdon was no stranger to bad days. In fact, they'd become his closest and most reliable friend. A consistency that rivaled the ache in his back and the stress of his work.
His growing file of unfinished charts stared back at him on the screen in front of him, an unfinished granola bar held forgotten in his hand. It had been a rough shift- a car collision that sent twelve to their hospital, a pediatrics case that ended tragically, a couple with a diagnosis that left them in tears.
Frank had given up pretending to smile hours ago, a semi permanent pout etched onto his face.
"Aw why the long face Langdon?"
"Come on, cheer up kid. Don't let the hard stuff get you down."
He types a few more words into his chart, fingers moving half heartedly as he pretends to not notice the eyes on him. Whitaker glances at him from the other side of the nurses station, Cassie and Victoria trying to look interested in the lab work they were reviewing and not like they were whispering about him.
You would think after six months he would be used to it now. The stares. The whispers.
The constant lingering edge that surrounded his work, his practice. Like everyone was waiting for him to snap. To fall back into a bad habit he'd vowed to give up forever.
Frank knew.
He knew the way Trinity ignored him like the plague, rolling her eyes at his mere presence. The way Dr. Al Hashimi watched him like he was some problem child, a bad apple waiting to fall back out of the tree. The way Parker and Mateo sometimes watched him during handoffs, curious.
Like they were all waiting for him to screw up. To make a mistake.
To relapse-
“Hi Dr. Langdon!”
Frank looks up, his face softening as he watches you pass by. You give him a pretty smile, accompanied by a small wave and your signature pink scrubs. A very welcome sight amidst the grey and gore of the ED.
“Hey,” he raises a hand in a gentle reply, his heart flipping in that strange, stuttering pattern it always adopted when you came down from the L and D ward to provide a consult. He smiles when you pause, redirecting your path towards the nurses station. Frank sits up straighter, ignoring the twinge in his back as you lean over the station’s counter, eyeing him.
Don't stare like an idiot. Don't stare like an idiot.
But Frank is sure he's got that stupid smile on his face. In fact, he knows he does because Dana passes by and gives him a look.
He knows he does because Princess and Perlah are suddenly both hovering together over a computer, definitely not looking over a patient's labs by the way their shoulders press together and their low whispers become less coherent.
Frank clears his throat, elbows leaning on the charting desk.
“What brings you down here?”
You smile at his question, long lashes blinking slowly.
“Oh the usual. Al Hashimi wants me to show a couple of the med students how to detect gestational age by feel and not the monitor.” Franks nods, like that wasn’t the least interesting reason you could be down here in the Pitt.
“What, her Ai can't just tell us?” You giggle, glancing back to make sure the attending wasn't around to listen.
“I think the last hospital blackout finally got through to her about our over reliance on technology.”
“So she's overcompensating and teaching medieval practices now?”
“It's not medieval, Langdon,” you laugh. “I’m pretty sure they still teach it in medical school.”
“I must have skipped that lesson then. Right along with bloodletting and mercury poisoning.”
You give him a look, the one you'd give a puppy when it's done something stupid- like gnaw on its tail or trip on its own paw. A look that said “that’s cute” as well as “poor guy.”
But it wasn't pitying. Never pitying. You didn't treat him like he was glass or an infection you didn't want to catch.
You never did.
In the six months he's been back, the six months of knowing you, you had never once brought it up. Never made a jab or given him a side eye. You had come down to the Pitt that first week he'd returned, passing him by as he'd finished his urine collection with one of the nurses.
He remembers that first smile you'd given him, tired after a long day, but still oh so bright. Frank thinks he fell a little in love with that smile. Not that he believed in love at first sight. But this was pretty close to it.
Frank just swallows thickly, trying not to stare up into your pretty face and think about how that shade of lipgloss glittered beneath the ED’s lights.
Unfortunately for him he wasn’t given the chance to.
“Hey,” Trinity’s voice carries casually, her eyes darting quickly between you and Frank as she walks up.
She wore the same calculating look she always wore around him, like she was just waiting for him to taint you somehow. To ruin your bubbly persona and bright smile. The caution and hurt drawn between furrowed brows and a thinly pressed smile that matched the guilt and apology written in his clenched fist and deep lined frown.
Not that you notice. Or at the very least, you pretended not to.
“Hi Trin,” you smile, turning as the glowering R2 takes you by the arm, already pulling you away from Frank.
“Al Hashimi sent me to get you. Says she doesn’t want to keep the mom here any longer than she has to.”
“Oh okay-”
Frank watches as you glance back at him, barely getting out a rushed goodbye and an apologetic look before Trinity was pushing you over to a triage room where Victoria, Joy and Ogilvie were already gathered and waiting.
Frank sighs, not quite ready to get back to his charting, his blue eyes still tracking your pink scrubs from across the ED, watching as you move about the room with a calm patience and grace.
Frank knew you knew about his past. Knew why he'd had to redo his senior year. You had to... being friends with Trinity. And the fact you'd seen him with the drug test that first day.
But you never said anything about it.
You treated him like you treated every doctor down in the Pitt. With a radiant smile and kind heart. And a bit of admiration because you'd once told him, "you ER cowboys never fail to impress me."
That had been after he'd helped you deliver a pair of breech twins. He'd left work grinning ear to ear that day.
It was that smile.
That darn smile.
The one Frank could see you giving Joy now as you helped guide her hands over the patient’s belly. He lived to see it now, a tiny prayer said before every shift that he’d get a case needing your input.
That at some point in the miserable spread of his twelve hour shift he’d get to see your pink scrubs and pretty smile. Get to hear your bright laugh- maybe he’d even get to make you laugh. Or help you with a laboring patient when you needed an extra pair of hands-
“You ask her out yet?”
Dana’s voice startles Frank. He jumps in the chair, turning around like a caught child as he tries to remember he wasn’t currently elbow deep in amniotic fluid and helping you deliver a baby.
“What?” He asks dumbly. Dana snorts, eyeing Frank over her clipboard.
"Barbie doll over there. You just gonna sit there and daydream about her or are you finally gonna ask her out?"
"I wasn't daydreaming about her."
"Oh sure," Dana gives him an incredulous look. "And I'm gonna quit smoking."
Frank shakes his head, waving Dana away. She laughs to herself, pulling out her clipboard.
"What? I'm just curious."
"Yeah, well, it's none of your business." Frank huffs, and turns back to his chart, staring at the computer that had gone back to the main desktop. He stared, not signing in yet, his eyes drifting back up to you.
"I'm just saying kid," Dana continues. "You've been pouting all day, down in the dumps. And then she comes along, gives you a smile and suddenly you're grinning to yourself while charting? Hell of a coincidence if you ask me."
Frank shrugs. "I don't know what you're talking about." He shakes his head, biting the inside of his cheek. Dana raises a brow. Frank continues, "And even if I did, it's not like I can just ask her out. She's friends with the girl who made me public enemy number one. There's got to be some kind of girl code about saying yes to a guy like me."
"So you think she would say yes. Given the right circumstances." Frank flushes.
"Well... I mean, she seems to like me. Enough at least."
Dana shakes her head. "Oh you kids. You always make this stuff more complicated than it has to be."
"Well it's not that simple Dana-"
Frank is cut off as Dana turns around and calls out a name.
Your name.
He looks up with wide eyes as you slow your steps out of the patient room, pausing your conversation with Al Hashimi. Dana waves you over and you approach the nurses desk curiously, looking between the charge nurse and Frank who is quietly telling Dana to stop.
"Hi Dana." Dana gives you a kind smile.
"Hey yourself. I've got a question for you."
"Oh sure. Shoot."
"You doing anything Saturday?" You stuff your hands in your scrub pockets, rocking on the balls of your feet. Frank gives Dana a look, horrified and wondering what she was playing at.
"Um, not really. I've got to walk my dog and pick up a dress from the dry cleaners, but that's about it really."
"What do you think about joining Frank at the movies? He's got an extra ticket and needed someone to go with. Figured you'd be the perfect person."
"Oh," your eyes widen with surprise. Frank's do too because he's almost hundred percent positive he does not have movie tickets. "What movie?"
Frank swallows, realizing you were pointing to question to him.
"Uh-" He looks at Dana like a fish out of water, silently begging her to not leave him stranded.
"It's the one with the scientist. He goes to space and meets a little alien friend. He's blonde, good looking-"
"Oh! I know which one you're talking about. That new one everyone's been talking about, right?" You say the title. Frank gives Dana a look and she nods.
"Uh, yeah. That's the one." You smile and Frank's heart flutters.
"Sure. That sounds fun. I could use a fun outing. What time is the movie?"
"Um... I have to double check my tickets-"
"3:00," Dana interjects. "I think Frank can give you a ride too. Right Frank?"
"Yeah, uh, yes?" He says unsure. You giggle.
"That's alright Frank. I can meet you there. Oh, hey maybe we could get dinner or something after. Movie theater snacks are ridiculously expensive and I'm always famished after a movie."
"Yeah, that sounds great," Frank nods, brain half functioning because WAS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?
"Perfect," You smile. "I'm looking forward to it."
You look down as your pager beeps, Frank blinking at you as he was still trying to compute what just happened.
"Oh shoot, I have to go... but I'm totally down for Saturday. Do you have my number?"
"Number?" Frank asks dumbly.
"No probably not. Here," You say quickly, grabbing the pen Dana holds out to you.
You reach over the nurses station, grabbing Frank's hand. The ballpoint pentip digs into the back of his hand as you quickly scribble down your digits. Frank is almost sure his brain has been fried.
"There. Sorry, I've got to run. Got an active labor upstairs who needs me. I'll see you Saturday though! Bye Frank!"
Your words trail off as you begin running down the hall, pink scrubs disappearing around the corner. Frank blinks, his hand still raised, skin prickling from where you'd written on it.
Dana smirks, taking back her pen from where you'd dropped it and putting the cap back. "I'm sure you're wondering about the movie tickets."
Frank hums questioningly, still just staring at the space you'd been standing.
"My husband and I were supposed to go this weekend, but he got called out on a work trip and I'm gonna cover for Lena so she can go visit her niece. Figured I couldn't let them go to waste.
"Uh huh," Frank nods. "Did that really just happen?"
Dana laughs.
"Sure did kid. I told you it was simple." Frank chuckles. A quiet huff that quickly devolves into a belly shaking laugh.
"I can't believe it. She said yes."
"Think you'll be okay with Barbie gone back to the penthouse for the day?"
"She said yes Dana. You could stab me with a scalpel or shave my head and I'll still say this was the best day ever."
From across the nurses station, Perlah and Princess giggle with each other, slipping a twenty between their hands as they watch Frank smile starstruck.
Oh yeah. ER Ken was absolutely smitten.
thank you for reading! if you're interested in reading more of my works for the pitt, here is a link to my masterlist :)
dry humping that gets so intense he can’t help that he comes in his pants but it’s okay he makes it up to you by eating you out until you’ve finished at least 3 times
Summary : What if Jack Abbott ends up with a rich wife instead of being the provider?
Character: Jack Abbot x rich wife!reader
Words Count: 7,560
Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3
A/N: This is supposed to be a headcanon idea, but it ended up turning into a long paragraph.
More Jack Abbot stories :2nd Masterlist
The night shift at the Pitt was in its usual state of surreal chaos. Mateo was busy de-escalating a patient who believed he was a sentient radio, while Shen worked on a local mime who refused to break character, even while getting stitches. It was the kind of unpredictable atmosphere where the staff expected the weird—but they didn't expect the arrogant.
The double doors hissed open as a man swept in, draped in an expensive charcoal suit that was just wrinkled enough to suggest a long lunch that had devolved into several rounds of scotch. The scent of high-end whiskey trailed behind him like a physical wake, clashing sharply with the sterile, antiseptic air. He didn’t wait to be called; he marched straight to the triage desk, his lip curling at the sight of the linoleum floors.
“I’ve been waiting ten minutes,” he snapped, his voice booming across the quiet area. He adjusted his silk tie with a sneer. “Do you know who I am?”
Ellis didn’t look up from her monitor. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency as she reached for a blood pressure cuff. “I don’t,” she said, her voice flat. “But I do know your blood alcohol content is likely higher than your IQ right now. Arm, please.”
He scoffed, yanking his arm back. “I don’t sit in waiting rooms with... these people. Move me to the front of the line. One call from me, and I can personally ensure the massive donation my company is about to make to this hospital disappears. I am from Ardentis Holdings.”
Ellis paused. Just for a second. She finally looked up, her eyebrows migrating toward her hairline. “Ardentis Holdings? Really?”
“Does that name sound familiar now?” he sneered. “I suggest you start acting faster.”
Ellis didn't look intimidated. If anything, she looked like she’d just found a very interesting bug on the sidewalk. She turned toward the doorway and called out, “Jack, could you come here for a second? We have a... VIP.”
Jack stepped into the room, his expression the picture of clinical boredom. He scanned the chart briefly before his eyes settled on the drunk man in the expensive suit. “Problem?”
“This gentleman is asking for priority treatment,” Ellis said, a small, dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “He says he’s from Ardentis Holdings.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but it wasn't the groveling respect the patient was looking for. It was more like mild amusement.
“Oh,” Jack said, tilting his head. “My wife works there.”
The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. He looked Jack up and down—from his sensible shoes to his stethoscope—with pure disdain. “Your wife? What does she do, handle the filing? Clean the breakroom?”
Jack didn't flinch. “Y/N,” he said simply. “Do you know her?”
The man snorted, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Know her? She’s the CEO of Ardentis Holdings. She’s the most powerful woman in the sector. And you’re telling me you’re married to her?” He laughed again, a wet, arrogant sound. “Please. In what universe?”
Without a word, Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen once and set it on the counter, angling it toward the man. The call connected almost instantly.
“Yeah?” Your voice came through the speaker—crisp, authoritative, and clearly focused on a dozen other things.
Jack leaned against the counter, looking completely relaxed. “Hey. Quick question. Do you happen to know a manager who is currently in my ER?”
There was a brief, sharp silence on the other end. “I know which one isn't at the board meeting he's supposed to be at,” you said, your voice dropping an octave. “He told my assistant he had a family emergency. Why?”
Jack turned the phone slightly, the camera capturing the man’s face.
The man went from flushed red to a ghostly, sickly white in three seconds flat. The smugness evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. He was looking straight at his boss—and she was looking back.
“Oh,” you said quietly. It wasn't a shout. It was worse. It was the sound of a closing door. “Did you forget this meeting only happened because of your mistakes?”
“Ma’am,” he stammered, his voice cracking as he tried to straighten his wrinkled suit. “Ma’am, there’s been a massive misunderstanding—”
“He also mentioned,” Ellis piped up from the corner, “that he could cancel the company’s donation if we didn't give him special treatment.”
“Did he?” you asked. The air in the room seemed to turn to ice. “Be in HR at nine a.m. tomorrow. Don't bother bringing your briefcase.”
The man sat paralyzed, his world crumbling into the glowing screen. Before Jack could pull the phone away, your voice drifted through the speaker one last time.
“Oh, and Jack?”
Jack brought the phone back to his face, his expression softening instantly. “Yup.”
“Since I’ve already found someone to take the blame,” you said, your tone losing its icy edge for something warm and intimate, “I’m coming home as soon as I can.”
A rare, genuine smile broke across Jack’s face. “Can’t wait,” he murmured, ending the call.
The man stared, breathless. He had seen you dismantle boardrooms with a single glance, but he had never heard the "shark" speak with such gentleness—let alone to an E.R. doctor.
The call ended with a definitive click.
Jack slipped the phone into his pocket, his face returning to clinical boredom as he clicked his pen. “Let’s finish your vitals.”
“Well,” Ellis said, breaking the quiet with a satisfied sigh. “That solved triage. You’re back to being a ‘Level 4’ priority. Sit tight.”
The man didn’t argue. He sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on the floor, while Jack checked his vitals with methodical precision.
“…How did you even meet her?” he muttered after several minutes, his voice small and defeated. “She’s a shark. She’s always working. No one gets close to her.”
Jack paused for a fraction of a second, his pen hovering over the paper. “She’s stubborn,” Jack said quietly. “A workaholic.”
He clicked his pen.
“So am I.”
********
Flashback
The first time Jack met you.
The ER was unusually quiet. Jack was at the station, flipping through charts, when a nurse waved him over. "Got a walk-in. Abdominal pain," she noted. Jack nodded and stepped into the exam room.
You were sitting on the bed, one hand pressed lightly against your stomach. Your posture remained rigid, as if you were refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. Jack glanced from your face to the clipboard. "What do we have here?"
"Stomachache," you replied, exhaling slowly. "Probably gastric. I don’t have medicine at home."
"Probably?" he echoed, snapping on his gloves. He stepped into your personal space, calm and focused. "When did it start?"
"A few days ago."
"Pain level?"
"Manageable."
He raised a brow. "That’s not a number."
You gave him a dry look. "Fine. Five."
Jack didn’t push, but his hands were already moving. "Any nausea? Vomiting?"
"A little nausea. No vomiting."
He pressed lightly on your abdomen. "Tell me if it hurts."
It did. Your fingers tightened against the bedsheet, but you didn't make a sound. Jack’s eyes flicked to your hands—he noticed. He always noticed. "You work?" he asked, continuing the exam.
"Yeah. Office work."
"Hours?"
"Flexible."
He glanced up, meeting your eyes. "That usually means long."
A small, weary smile touched your lips. "I work better at night."
Jack let out a quiet breath, a faint smile mirroring yours. "Same. Night shift."
The ease of the gesture caught you off guard. "...So you get it," you murmured.
"I do." He stepped back, pulling off his gloves. "And you rest during the day?"
"Yes," you answered, perhaps a second too fast.
Jack didn’t call you out. He just looked at you for a moment longer than necessary—not judging, just noting the truth you were hiding. "Alright. Sounds like gastritis, maybe an early ulcer. It can be serious if you keep ignoring it."
He began writing on a prescription pad. "I’ll give you something to reduce the acid. But you need to eat regularly. And actually rest."
"I'll try," you said, though the words felt hollow.
"You don't sound convincing," Jack remarked, handing you the paper.
You looked at him properly then, curious. "Are you always like this with your patients?"
"Only when I think they’ll come back," he replied.
A beat of silence passed between you. You slid off the bed slowly, smoothing your clothes. "I won't."
"Hope you're right."
You reached for the prescription, your fingers brushing his for a brief, unintentional second. The air in the small room suddenly felt heavy.
"Thanks, doctor," you said, stepping toward the door.
"Abbott," he corrected quietly. "Jack Abbott."
After you left. He never thought this first meeting could lead to another.
The second time Jack met you
Same week. Different day.
Jack stepped into the exam room and stopped for half a second, the chart already in his hand. “You again.”
You were already sitting on the bed, one hand pressed to your stomach, your posture still stubbornly straight. “Don’t sound too excited, doctor.”
“I told you to follow the plan,” he said, his voice dropping into that calm, authoritative register.
“I did.”
Jack gave you a long, skeptical look as he pulled on fresh gloves. “No, you didn’t.”
You exhaled, shifting slightly to get comfortable. The movement cost you—a sharp flicker of discomfort that made your breath hitch—and he caught it. He always did.
“When did the pain get worse?” he asked, moving into your personal space.
“Last night.”
“Pain level.”
You hesitated, looking at the sterile white tiles of the floor. “…Seven.”
He didn’t comment, but his jaw tightened. “Lie back.”
You did as you were told. He pressed gently along your abdomen, his touch clinical yet oddly grounding. You flinched this time—not a subtle movement—and his hands paused for a fraction of a second before continuing.
“Still eating irregularly?” he asked, his focus entirely on the exam.
“Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
“A little.”
He exhaled through his nose, a sound of quiet frustration. He straightened up, snapping his gloves off. The movement pulled the fabric of his scrubs tight across his chest and forearms, revealing the quiet strength in his veins. It was annoyingly noticeable. You found yourself looking away first, clearing your throat.
“You need labs and imaging,” Jack said. “Blood work, and I want a CT scan. Now.”
You frowned. “That sounds excessive for a stomachache.”
“It’s not,” he replied calmly. “Your symptoms are progressing, and I’m not interested in guessing.”
“I just need stronger meds.”
He crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. The posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp. “Is your boss the problem? We see a lot of patients who are scared to take time off because of a demanding superior.”
Shen, passing by the open door, leaned in with a helpful nod. “We can advocate for you if that’s the case. No job is worth a perforated gut.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the genuine concern. “Oh—no. It’s not like that. It’s… complicated.”
Jack didn’t move. “Complicated how?”
You exhaled, the weight of the company and the board meetings suddenly feeling very heavy. “…Family business.”
Something shifted in Jack’s expression. It wasn’t sympathy—he didn't seem like the type to offer pity—but it was a cold, hard understanding that this wasn't just about a paycheck.
Time passed in a blur of needles and the sterile hum of the CT machine. When Jack finally returned with the results, he didn't sit down. He didn't soften the blow.
“You have a peptic ulcer,” he said. “And it’s worsening. If this continues, it will bleed or perforate.”
A beat of heavy silence followed.
“You need surgery.”
You shook your head immediately, the instinct to protect your position at the firm overriding the pain. “Not now.”
Jack’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened. “It’s not optional.”
“I can’t,” you said, your voice firmer, your eyes locking onto his. “I can’t risk my position. Not this week.”
Jack studied you, his gaze tracing the lines of exhaustion and defiance on your face. “If you delay this, it gets worse. The recovery gets longer. The risk gets higher.”
The irritation rose in your chest because he was right, and you hated being managed. “I’ll hold it,” you said, your voice tight. “Dr. Jack Abbott.”
That made him pause. Not because of the refusal, but because of the way his name sounded coming from you—a mix of a challenge and an acknowledgement.
Jack nodded once. “Then you’ll be back,” he said.
You didn't rebuke him. You couldn't, because deep down, you felt the truth in his words.
As you walked out of the Pitt, clutching your side, Shen watched your retreating figure. He turned to Jack, scratching his head. “Where does she even work? I wonder what kind of evil boss she has to be that terrified of taking a sick day.”
Jack didn’t answer. He just watched the doors close behind you, his thumb tracing the edge of your chart. “The worst kind,” he murmured to himself. “The kind that doesn't know when to stop.”
The third time Jack met you
A sharp screech of tires shredded the night. Inside the pit, Mateo and Shen sprinted toward the sound while Jack stayed focused, his hands moving with surgical precision over a teenager’s arm.
Outside, a sleek black sedan was skewed across the ambulance bay. Your assistant, Greg, scrambled out and threw open the rear door. "Please, help her!"
You were slumped against the leather, knuckles white as you clutched your abdomen. When Shen reached for you, your eyes flickered open, hazy with pain. "Just... an injection," you whispered, the words strained. "I need to get back."
"You again?" Shen muttered, recognizing you. Mateo shook his head, already pulling out a wheelchair. "We can’t treat you in a car. Let's move."
Inside, the ER hummed to life. Vitals were taken, IVs started. Shen palpated your stomach, his expression darkening. "Pain level, one to ten?"
"Ten," you choked out, your usual composure shattered.
"We need a CT scan immediately," Shen said.
You looked up, eyes wide with genuine fear. "How long? I... I have a meeting. I just need to stop the hurting." You weren't barking orders anymore; you were desperate. "Please, just tell me if I can leave."
Greg hovered at the curtain, his voice trembling. "Boss, the paracetamol didn't work. You can't just keep going like this."
You didn’t look at either of them. Your gaze was fixed on the ceiling, your voice low and dangerously clear. “If I don’t get the results fast,” you said, “I will drive that car out of here myself.” A heavy pause hung in the air. Then, your eyes flicked to Greg. “And I’ll fire you before I hit the exit.”
There was an awkward moment. Shen didn’t waste time and went outside. “Abbott, I need you.”
Jack peeled off his gloves, his expression neutral. “What’s up?”
“Your gastritis patient is back,” Shen said, already mid-stride toward the trauma bay. “Same one. Still stubborn, still refusing surgery.”
Jack exhaled, a shadow of frustration crossing his face. Of course it was you. He followed, but Shen glanced back, a strange look in his eye. “I think you’ll be surprised by who she actually is.”
They reached the door where Mateo stood waiting, tapping a video on his phone. He held it up—a TikTok clip of fast cuts and aggressive headlines featuring your face. “The one percent,” Mateo said. “Executive Director of Ardentis Holdings.”
“Now I get the stress,” Shen muttered.
“It’s not just the job,” Mateo added, lowering his voice. “Succession rumors. Apparently, her father wants to hand the empire to his mistress.”
“It’s not a rumor,” a voice cut in. Greg stepped forward, looking frayed. “It’s happening. That’s why she won't stop.”
Jack remained silent, absorbing the information. He wasn't looking at the headlines; he was looking at the clinical reality. “Does she eat?”
Greg let out a dry, hollow breath. “Crackers and coffee. Maybe once a day if I’m lucky.”
“Sleep?”
“Barely.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. The damage finally made sense—it wasn't just an illness; it was a slow-motion collapse.
“Please talk to her, Doctor,” Greg pleaded. “I practically had to kidnap her to get her here.”
“Didn’t she just threaten to fire you?” Shen asked, raising a brow.
“She says that every Tuesday,” Greg waved it off. “I’m the only one who can deal with her.”
Ellis approached then, the CT results gripped in her hand. She handed the films to Jack. He scanned them once, then again, his focus narrowing until the rest of the room faded away.
“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice dropping into a grave, final register. “She needs surgery. Right now.”
A heavy silence fell over the group.
“Who’s telling her?” Shen asked, looking around.
No one spoke. They all just looked at Jack. He handed the chart back to Ellis, his expression hardening into the one he used when a patient’s life was on the line.
“Of course,” he said.
He reached out and pushed the door open.
*******
Jack stepped into the trauma bay. You were lying back now, looking smaller than you had in the car. You were paler than before, a light sheen of sweat across your temples. One hand was still clamped over your abdomen, your knuckles white with tension.
You looked at him immediately, your gaze sharp even through the haze of agony. “What’s the result, doc?”
Jack didn't tower over you. He pulled a chair closer and sat down—not rushed, not distant. Just steady. “You need surgery,” he said. “Appendectomy. Today.”
“I’ll accept the surgery,” you said, your breath coming in tight hitches. “But can it be postponed until next week? There’s a project I need to finish. A board meeting I can't miss.”
Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “Look,” he said calmly, “I know about the internal conflict in your company.”
Your eyes narrowed. “My noisy assistant.”
“You need this surgery now,” Jack continued, ignoring the deflection. “If you delay it, it will rupture. Then recovery won’t be one week of light work.”
You held his gaze, trying to find a loophole. “How long?”
“Up to three months,” he said. “Especially considering you haven’t been eating properly or sleeping. Your body is running on fumes.”
You let out a quiet scoff, though the movement clearly cost you. “Eight hours of sleep is for weaklings,” you rasped. “I can’t lose everything to that mistress. If I’m not there, she wins.”
On the monitor, your heart rate spiked. The beeping picked up pace, a frantic rhythm echoing your internal panic. Your grip on your abdomen tightened as another wave of pain hit, sharper and more demanding than the last.
Jack moved immediately. “Alright,” he said, his voice dropping into a soothing, authoritative register. “Easy.”
He reached for the IV line, his hands moving with practiced grace. He adjusted the flow and added a medication to the line—controlled, precise. “A small dose of morphine,” he said. “This will take the edge off.”
As the drug entered your system, the world seemed to soften at the edges. You exhaled slowly, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. Silence settled between you for a long second.
Then, Jack spoke again.
“He’s an idiot.”
You blinked, the morphine making the words feel like they were coming from far away. “…Who?”
“Your dad,” Jack said, as matter-of-factly as if he were reading a lab report. “You’re clearly the better choice for the company. Safer than whoever he’s trying to put in. Any doctor can see you’ve put your life into that place.”
“Huh…”The comment caught you completely off guard. No hesitation. No platitudes. Just the truth, delivered by a man who didn't even know who your father was. Ruthless and heartless even to his own daughter.
For the first time, the corporate mask cracked. It wasn't weakness that showed through, but a raw, startled realization. You almost laughed, but the movement pulled at your side, so you stopped, your breath catching in your throat.
“…Thanks,” you whispered instead, a small, genuine smile forming despite the circumstances.
Jack’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Yeah. Does she have the same mind for it that you do?” Jack asked, his tone casual, though his eyes remained sharp. “The mistress. Is she as smart as you?”
You let out a sharp, derisive scoff, “Yeah, right. The only way she made it into the executive suite was because she slept her way through the board. Strategy isn't exactly her forte.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You have the brain. She doesn't.” he assured you that weirdly work on you “You could win the battle with your eyes closed.”
“I suppose you’re right,” you murmured, your voice losing its defensive edge.
He straightened up, returning to his professional posture. “So, for the surgery—I need your consent. Do you want to proceed?”
You looked at him. Really looked this time. Not at the white coat or the stethoscope, but at the steady man sitting in the plastic chair.
“Fix me up, doctor.” you kinda dragging the doctor because you want to know his name. “I trust you.”
That words was enough. Jack stood up, checked the monitors one last time, and stepped out of the room.
Greg was waiting right outside the door, pacing a hole into the floor. He stopped the moment Jack appeared. “Did she... did she agree? Did she want the surgery?”
Jack didn't stop walking toward the scrub sinks, but he gave a single, definitive nod. “Yup.”
Greg let out a breath so long it sounded like a deflating balloon. “Thank goodness.”
The fourth time Jack met you
By the time Jack made his way upstairs, the chaos of the ER had faded into the quieter rhythm of recovery floors. He hadn’t planned to come, or at least that’s what he told himself, but he still stopped outside your room.
The door wasn’t fully closed, and your voice slipped through, steady but impatient. “Greg, give me the laptop.”
“No,” Greg said, unusually firm. “Post-op orders. You just had surgery. You’re not working.”
A brief silence followed, the kind that meant you were deciding whether to argue or override him. Jack pushed the door open before you could.
You were propped up against the pillows, pale but composed, IV line taped to your arm. Even after surgery, you looked like you were still in control. Your eyes shifted to him, and for a second, you said nothing.
“You should be resting,” Jack said, glancing at the monitor, then back at you. “Eat, sleep, repeat. That’s how you recover faster.”
You went quiet.
Greg blinked. “See? I told you.”
Jack ignored him. His focus stayed on you. “You pushed too far,” he said, calm but firm. “Ulcers don’t get that bad overnight. Next time, you stop earlier.”
“There won’t be a next time,” you replied.
“Good.”
A pause settled between you.
“And don’t lose,” he added.
Your brows knit slightly. “Lose to what?”
“The pressure. Your father. The mistress.” His gaze stayed steady. “I put my bet on you.”
That caught you off guard.
“A bet?”
“Are you going to win or not?”
You leaned back, studying him. “Is this a challenge?”
He didn’t answer. Just checked his watch.
“My shift’s over. Focus on recovering.”
Then, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t like losing bets.”
He walked out like it was nothing.
The room felt quieter after he left. Greg lingered nearby, watching you like he was waiting for you to snap back and ask for the laptop again.
You didn’t.
You stayed where you were, one hand resting lightly over the bandage, your eyes still on the door he had just walked through.
A bet.
You let out a slow breath, then finally glanced at Greg. “Did he just challenge me?”
Greg gave a small shrug. “I guess?”
A faint smile pulled at your lips, almost against your will. “Oh, I’m going to show him.”
You adjusted your blanket to go back to sleep. "Send gifts to the doctors who handled my case in the ER," you commanded, your professional tone back in place.
Greg nodded, tapping into his tablet. "Yes, boss. Of course. All of them?"
You didn't look at him. "All of them."
A beat of silence followed. "And make sure it’s appropriate," you added. "Nothing over the top, but let them know the quality of care was... noted."
"Understood." Greg hesitated, his stylus hovering over the screen. "...Do you want to include Dr. Abbott separately? Maybe something personal?"
"No," you said, your voice steady. "Make it the same as the others."
Few days later, the discharge papers were signed. The hospital room, once a sanctuary of quiet, now felt too small, too restrictive. You stood by the window, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit that felt like armor. You straightened your sleeves, the familiar weight of your old life settling back onto your shoulders.
"Can I leave tonight instead?" you asked, checking your watch. "The evening air is better for travel."
Greg checked the itinerary. "If we want to land in Sweden and get ahead of her before the morning session, we really need to be on the afternoon flight."
You hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, your fingers brushed the edge of the hospital bed—the place where you’d actually found a moment of peace.
"...Fine," you conceded.
Greg glanced at you, then added with a mischievous tilt of his head, "You know, if you want... I could probably get his number. For follow-up questions. Medical ones."
You turned your head sharply, your eyes narrowing. "Shut up, Greg."
"Yes, boss." But there was a hint of a smile he couldn't quite hide as he grabbed your bags.
As you stepped out of the room and headed toward the elevator, you didn't look back at the trauma bay or the quiet halls. But as you walked, your pace slowed—just a fraction. You weren't rushing. You weren't vibrating with the need to be somewhere else.
For the first time in a very long while, you weren't thinking about the company. Not entirely. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a steady, low voice lingered, grounding you.
Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
Back in the ER, the frantic energy of the night shift had smoothed out into the steady, mechanical rhythm of a Tuesday morning. The monitors hummed, footsteps squeaked against the polished linoleum, and the air smelled of fresh floor wax and stale coffee.
Shen looked up from a clipboard as Jack walked in, shrugging off his heavy jacket to reveal his scrub top.
“Your patient got discharged this morning,” Shen said, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.
Jack paused, one arm still caught in his sleeve. He hesitated for only half a second before continuing. “Hmm?”
“The princess of Ardentis Holdings,” Shen smirked, leaning back against the nurse's station. “Left in a motorcade about two hours ago.”
Jack let out a quiet breath, finally draping his jacket over the back of a chair and reaching for the chart rack. “She’s not a princess,” he muttered, his voice low and distracted.
Shen didn’t bother to argue the technicality; the smirk remained firmly in place.
“We got really good food the whole time she was here,” Ellis chimed in, leaning her elbows on the counter. There was a faint, satisfied look on her face. “Catering from places I can’t even afford to look at. The day shift was absolutely jealous of us.”
Mateo nodded in fervent agreement. “I had a lobster roll for a ‘snack’ at 3:00 a.m. I don’t think I can go back to vending machine granola bars, Jack.”
Jack flipped through a chart, his expression entirely unimpressed. “So that’s what you took from this case. A refined palate for seafood?”
Ellis shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying. High-standard patient, high-standard perks.”
“Don’t tell me you guys are hoping she comes back,” Jack said, glancing up briefly from his paperwork, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Ellis and Mateo exchanged a quick, knowing look before both letting out a chuckle.
“Not like that, doc,” Mateo said, holding up his hands in mock surrender as he began to back away toward a trauma bay.
“Relax, Doctor Abbott,” Ellis added with a wink, heading off to check on a fresh admission. “The drama was just a nice break from the usual drunks.”
Shen, however, stayed. He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice so it didn't carry across the pit.
“…Don’t you?” Shen asked.
Jack looked at him, one brow slowly crawling toward his hairline. “Don’t I what?”
Before Jack could press him, Mateo suddenly reappeared, his phone already out and glowing. “There’s an update,” he said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Next week will be the decision. Swedish investors. Board control. It’s all going down right now.”
Jack frowned slightly, his pen pausing over a prescription pad. “How do you even know all of this, Mateo? Don't you have patients?”
Mateo rolled his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. “I follow an account. ‘The 0.1%.’ They track people like her—the moves, the scandals, the power shifts. It’s better than any soap opera.”
Jack didn’t comment. He just picked up his pen again, tapping it rhythmically once, twice against the edge of the metal clipboard. He looked back down at his work, his face a mask of clinical indifference.
“…So?” Jack asked quietly.
Mateo looked up, surprised by the prompt. Jack met his eyes, his expression as calm and steady as the day they’d met.
“Tell me when it’s decided,” Jack said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the ER.
A small, stunned pause followed. Mateo blinked once, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Tell me who wins,” Jack added.
Mateo’s grin widened into a triumphant beam. “Yes, sir.”
The fifth time Jack met you
A few months later, the room was bathed in the glow of a hundred crystal chandeliers.
Soft gold lighting bounced off champagne flutes and silk gowns. It was a sea of people dressed in the kind of tailored luxury that signaled true power. Conversations were layered, voices kept to a practiced, elegant hum over the quiet swell of a string quartet. This wasn’t just a victory party; it was a statement.
The war was over. The board was yours, and the mistress had been removed—cleanly, efficiently, and without a single drop of blood spilled on the corporate carpet.
You stood at the center of the room, a glass of vintage sparkling water in your hand. You were calm, composed, and entirely untouchable.
Lilly, your closest friend and director of marketing, looped her arm through yours, a triumphant grin on her face. “You really did it. You actually pulled it off.”
You took a slow, deliberate sip. “Of course I did.”
Lilly laughed, ready to make a toast, but suddenly her posture stiffened. Her hand dropped to her stomach, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric of her dress.
“…Okay,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “That’s not good.”
You turned immediately, your focus shifting from the room to her in a heartbeat. “What’s wrong?”
She forced a tight smile, though her grip on your arm was becoming a vice. “Probably just the new diet. It’s brutal.”
You weren’t convinced. You had seen this look before—the pale sweat, the shallow breathing. You were already shaking your head. “We’re going to the ER.”
“What? No—this is your night,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “The things we do for beauty, right?”
“Greg,” you called out, your voice low but carrying that unmistakable edge of command. “Prepare the car.”
“I have medicine in my bag—” Lilly started.
“No,” you cut her off, already guiding her toward the side exit. “We’re going. Now.”
Greg, who had been hovering nearby with a watchful eye, squinted at Lilly. He looked from her to you, a slow, knowing expression crossing his face. “…Suspicious,” he muttered under his breath.
“Shut up, Greg,” Lilly groaned, leaning heavily into you as the pain spiked.
“Yeah,” you added, pushing through the heavy oak doors. “Shut up, Greg.”
The ER doors hissed open with that familiar, pneumatic sound.
The smell was the same—antiseptic and floor wax. The lighting was the same—stark and uncompromising. But this time, the reason was different.
Shen looked up from the nurse's station and immediately a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh. The queen is back.”
You frowned, not missing the irony. “What?”
“I’m dying here,” Lilly groaned beside you, her head lolling against your shoulder.
You pointed at her without a moment’s hesitation. “Stomach pain. High stress. New diet. Fix her.”
Shen was already moving, grabbing a wheelchair. “Of course it is. It’s always the diet.”
The machinery of the hospital picked up speed around you. Vitals were taken, questions were barked out, and Lilly was whisked toward a trauma bay. Then, the curtains parted, and Jack stepped in.
He looked exactly as he had months ago—sleeves rolled up, stethoscope around his neck, an expression of unshakable, quiet focus. He didn't react to your designer gown or the fact that you looked like you’d just stepped off a magazine cover. To him, you were just a person in a room.
“Ellis, IV line. Matteo, get me labs. Let’s not assume it’s the diet until we see the blood work,” Jack said, his hands already moving to assess Lilly’s condition.
“Yes, doctor,” Ellis replied.
Within seconds, the team had Lilly stabilized and moving toward imaging. The chaos receded, the curtains were pulled, and suddenly, the room felt much larger.
It was just you and him.
Jack pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin with a flick of his wrist. He turned to you properly, leaning back against the metal counter. A brief, quiet pause stretched between you.
“You look great,” he said. It wasn't a line. It was a clinical observation, delivered with a hint of genuine warmth.
You held his gaze, feeling the tension of the last few months finally start to ebb away. “Thank you.”
Another beat passed.
“Oh,” Jack added, as if it had just occurred to him. “And congrats. You won the battle.”
You tilted your head slightly, a flicker of amusement in your eyes as you remembered. “Right. So that means you won the bet too?”
“Yup.”
A real smile almost formed. “Glad I didn’t make you lose.” You paused, then added, “How did you even know?”
Jack shrugged lightly, leaning one shoulder against the counter, completely at ease. “Hard to miss,” he said, his voice dropping into that steady tone you remembered.
“After all… you were my patient.”
With a small nod, he pushed himself off the counter and walked toward the trauma bay, already shifting his focus to the next case.
You stayed where you were, silk gown catching the harsh fluorescent light, watching him leave. His movements were calm, unhurried, like none of the chaos around him mattered. Like your world didn’t touch his at all.
Without thinking, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, your gaze lingering on the doorway long after he disappeared.
Across the room, Lilly, still half-sprawled on the bed but far more awake now, exchanged a slow, knowing look with Greg.
They nodded at the same time.
“Yeah,” Lilly muttered, voice weak but satisfied. “I knew it.”
Greg adjusted his glasses, completely in agreement. “Exactly.”
The sixth time Jack met you
A few weeks later, the ER felt different.
It was cooler. Literally. Even the patients were shocked and unprepared with the coldness.
Mateo walked through the double doors, froze directly under a ceiling vent, and closed his eyes. He looked like a man who had just found religion.
“Is that... actual air conditioning?” he breathed, the faint hum of a powerful, brand-new HVAC system purring above him.
Ellis didn’t even bother to look up from her paperwork, though the lack of sweat on her brow spoke volumes. “Don’t question a miracle, Mateo. Just enjoy the fact that we aren't melting into our scrubs anymore.”
Shen leaned back in his chair, a rare, relaxed posture for a Tuesday afternoon. “The waiting room, too. Finally, No more broken chairs or flickering lights.”
Robby walked in, hands shoved deep into his pockets, glancing around at the subtle but expensive upgrades. The walls were freshly painted, the floors gleamed with a high-grade finish, and the equipment at the triage station was top-of-the-line.
“Donations came through,” Robby said casually, though his eyes were dancing with a certain knowing light.
Mateo smirked, finally stepping away from the vent. “Yeah. We know who.”
No one said your name. They didn’t need to. The precision of the renovation, the efficiency of the delivery, and the sheer quality of the materials had your signature written all over it.
Robby’s gaze shifted across the room, landing on Jack. As usual, Jack was leaning against the counter, focused on a chart as if the world hadn't just been upgraded around him.
Robby walked over and leaned against the opposite side of the desk. “We should thank her.”
Jack didn’t look up. “You’re the Head of E.R, Robby. You can.”
Robby shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “No. It’s you who should thank her.”
That made Jack pause. Just for a second. The pen in his hand stilled over the paper. He slowly raised his head, his expression as unreadable as ever. “…Why me?”
Robby gave him a long, pointed look. “Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jack.”
Jack closed the chart. Slowly. Methodically. “I don’t.”
Robby let out a quiet breath, a sound somewhere between amusement and exhaustion. “Yeah,” he said, tapping the counter before walking away. “You do.”
Later that night, a rare, quiet moment descended upon the pit. The rush of the evening had bled out into a midnight lull.
Jack stepped out into the crisp night air to clear his head, but his gaze was immediately pulled to the parking lot. The black luxury sedan was back, and Greg was leaning against the hood. Greg caught Jack’s eye and gave a small, meaningful nod toward the hospital lobby.
He headed back inside, his boots echoing on the newly polished floors. He found you standing in the center of the lobby, head tilted back as you oversaw the progress of the renovation you had funded.
He approached, his steps unhurried and steady. “You’re doing inspections now?”
You turned toward him, showing no surprise at his sudden appearance. “Just making sure it works.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the new vents above—the ones currently pumping perfectly chilled, sterile air into the wing—then settled back on you. “It does.”
A beat of silence followed, the kind that usually felt awkward in a hospital but felt different between the two of you. “You didn’t have to do this,” he added, his voice a low rumble.
You held his gaze, your expression as calm and unreadable as ever. “It’s called gratitude, Dr. Abbott.”
Gosh. Every time his name slipped from your lips, it sent a sharp, electric tingle racing down his spine. He cleared his throat. “For the hospital?”
“For the people in it,” you corrected him. You took a half-step closer, the professional distance beginning to blur. “You helped me. And you helped my friend. Consider this a closing of the account.”
Jack studied you for a long second, his head tilted slightly as if he were deciding whether to accept that answer or look for the one you weren't saying. The silence that settled between you wasn't empty; it was close, heavy with the shared history of that frantic night in the ER.
“You’ve been eating properly?” he asked suddenly, falling back into the role of the doctor, though his eyes suggested he was looking for more than just a medical update.
You exhaled a light, weary breath. Of course he would bring it back to that. “Yes. Greg is a professional micromanager.”
“And sleeping?”
The question caused a pause. You shifted your weight slightly, your gaze drifting toward the darkened windows for a fraction of a second before returning to his steady, unblinking eyes. The air between you tightened, the hum of the new AC the only sound in the quiet lobby.
“I have trouble sleeping,” you said.
That got his attention. Jack’s eyes lifted from the chart, settling on you with quiet, undivided focus. “Since when?”
“Since a long time ago.” You tilted your head slightly, watching him. “Probably because my bed is too cold. Maybe you could fix that.”
Something in his expression shifted. He wasn't surprised or even particularly amused; he was just suddenly, intensely aware. “Cold bed,” he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. His gaze didn’t leave yours. “You're saying that’s the problem?”
“It’s one of them.” Your chin lifted a fraction, meeting his scrutiny.
He studied you for a long second, then gave a small nod, accepting the answer without pushing. “You don’t look like someone who waits around for problems to fix themselves,” he noted.
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Instead, it seemed to tighten the space between you, pulling the air taut. You crossed your arms slowly, the movement deliberate this time. “Then what would you suggest, doctor?”
Jack didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, steady and measuring, as if calculating a dose. “Warm shower,” he said finally. “Magnesium. No phone thirty minutes before bed.”
Your brow lifted. “That’s it?”
“That’s what works.”
You tilted your head, still watching him, refusing to let him off the hook. “And if I’m still not tired?”
There was a brief, heavy pause. His gaze dropped for a second, tracing the line of your throat before returning to your face. “You should have someone who makes you stop,” he said, his voice calm and certain. “Someone who drags you to bed.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. You felt it in the sudden hitch of your pulse. “Do you give that advice to all your patients?” you asked, your voice dropping to a whisper.
He shook his head once. “No.” He let the word hang there for a beat. “Just you.”
He turned slightly, acting as if he were done, as if the line had already been crossed and he wasn’t going to linger on the edge. “If it’s still a problem,” he added almost casually, “you know who to call.”
You watched him, the sharp edges of your corporate persona shifting into something softer, more intrigued. “I didn’t know you had this in you.”
That made him glance back, looking just over his shoulder. “You don’t know much about me yet.” He paused, his eyes dark. “But you could.”
Now he turned fully, stepping closer. He wasn't near enough to touch, but he was close enough to change the atmosphere between you. “There’s a bar down the street,” he said. “If you want to fix the sleep issue properly.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face. “You’re skipping your shift?”
His mouth curved, just a little. “I’m stepping out.” He took another step, his voice dropping into a low, private register. “I’m not letting the biggest donor of this hospital go home alone and pretend she’s fine.”
It wasn’t a tease. It was a statement of pure intention. You held his gaze for a second longer, the weight of the night and the hospital falling away, before letting a small smile slip through.
“Lead the way, Dr. Abbott.”
Since that night, it didn’t stay just one night.
What started as something simple turned into a pattern neither of you questioned. You showed up after his shifts. He started expecting you there. Some nights you waited in the car, some nights you walked straight into the ER like you belonged there.
People noticed. The quiet way you stood near him. The way he always looked up when you entered, even in the middle of work.
You stopped going home alone. He stopped leaving without you.
