summary: keeping dean di laurentis a secret was easy. until one careless text turned your perfectly hidden romance into a disaster waiting to happen
warnings: mdni 18+ (kinda semi-public, dry humping, fingering), fluff, cursing, no use of y/n, english isn't my first language
word count: 8.6k
a/n: and I'm back with my very first dean di laurentis fic. he gives me such jj vibes that I physically couldn't stop myself from writing something for him. so, as usual, I'm waiting for your feedback <3
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5 seconds of summer - english love affair
THE BRIAR U HOCKEY HOUSE WAS BUSTLING WITH MUSIC AS USUAL. Hundreds of people were packed inside, dancing, drinking, celebrating the latest win. Every room was overcrowded with bodies and noise. The floor trembled beneath your feet from the bass, laughter echoed from somewhere upstairs, and every few minutes someone would erupt into drunken cheers that spread through the house like wildfire. It was chaos in the way only a hockey house could be.
And of course you couldn't skip it. Not when Dean Di Laurentis was going to be there.
Maybe that was the real reason you kept showing up to these parties. Certainly not for the beer, and definitely not for the endless stream of hockey stories you had already heard a hundred times before. No, you came because these parties gave you an excuse to be around him without raising suspicion. They gave you an excuse to sit in the same room, exchange secret looks, and pretend nothing was happening between you.
Which was funny considering there had been plenty happening between you for months now. Garrett would lose his mind if he ever found out. That thought almost made you smile.
The thing between you and Dean was going on for nearly a year now. Dean had somehow become your favourite secret. What had started as harmless teasing after practices and team dinners had gradually turned into something much more dangerous. Late-night texts became private conversations. Private conversations became stolen moments when nobody was paying attention. And stolen moments became sneaking away from parties together, lingering in empty hallways, wandering hands whenever Garrett wasn't near.
It wasn't exactly a relationship. At least neither of you had ever called it that. But it was impossible to pretend it meant nothing anymore.
Now you were sitting comfortably on one of the living room sofas surrounded by members of the Briar U hockey team. Logan was arguing animatedly with Tucker about some play move from tonight's game while your brother occupied a yellow plushy armchair nearby with Hannah curled up on his lap.
You watched them for a moment and immediately regretted it. They were being disgustingly sweet as always. The kind of sweet that made everyone around them want to throw something. Your attention drifted away before you could witness another round of heart eyes to something more interesting. Turned out the most interesting thing for you was Dean.
He sat across from you in another armchair, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just spent the last twenty minutes pretending you didn't exist. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, one arm draped casually over the backrest like he owned the place. That lazy look made you want to simultaneously slap him and climb into his lap. But the place was already occupied.
Some girl was perched on the arm of his chair.
She was tall and beautiful in that effortless, glossy way that was reminding you of those models from expensive magazines. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, long legs crossed and uncrossed with practiced elegance. She leaned in close to whisper something into his ear, her painted red lips brushing the shell of it, and she laughed – a soft, melodic sound that was clearly meant to charm.
Dean barely reacted.
His head tilted slightly, acknowledging her presence the way one might acknowledge a fly buzzing around a window. His lips didn't curve. His eyes didn't soften. He gave her nothing because he was looking at you.
His gaze met yours across the crowded room with such familiarity that your stomach immediately tightened into a knot of heat and irritation. It was infuriating how quickly your body was reacting to him now. One look and suddenly you were back in the shadows of his bedroom, his hands on your waist, his mouth trailing down your throat. One look and your skin was remembering the deep blue silky bedsheets against your back, his breath hot in your ear, the way he'd murmured your name like it was the sin and the blessing at the same time.
Your body remembered everything. Every secret touch beneath tables where nobody could see. Every stolen moment in hallways while parties were going on on the other side of the door. Every whispered promise that ended with both of you grinning like idiots, breathless and giddy and drunk lying on his bed, tangled in the deep blue sheets.
The girl beside him said something else. Her hand landed on his shoulder, fingers trailing lightly up to his neck, a possessive little gesture that made your jaw tighten. Dean nodded absentmindedly but he still was watching you. Tentative, full of something you both couldn’t acknowledge right now.
Your eyes narrowed. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, that familiar burning fire inside that you felt when Dean was with someone that wasn’t you. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe it was just pure, undiluted annoyance at his absolute nerve.
Dean caught you gazing at the girl and his mouth twitched.
“Asshole” you mouthed, pulling a red solo cup closer to your lips, taking a sip of your drink.
The amused satisfaction on his face only grew, spreading across his features like he was savoring every second of your discomfort. His eyes dragged over you slowly, deliberately, a lazy inventory that made your breath catch despite yourself. He knew exactly what he was doing. He always did.
And then, almost like he wanted to see how far he could push you, he let his hand settle casually on the girl's thigh. Just rested it there. Palm flat. Fingers loose. A casual, intimate gesture that made the blood boil in your veins.
You scoffed loud enough for him to hear, and the sound turned a few heads nearby. You didn't care. Your blood was simmering now, a hot, prickling awareness that made your fingers curl into the armrests of your own chair.
The bastard actually looked pleased with himself. As usual. His eyes glittered with dark amusement, and that infuriating little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he'd just won a game you didn't even know you were playing.
The girl shifted, clearly misreading his hand as encouragement. She leaned in again, pressing closer, her fingers sliding up into his hair. Dean let her. He didn't move, didn't react. His hand stayed on her thigh, motionless, while his eyes held yours across the room with an intensity that made the air between you feel thick and charged.
You could feel that invisible thread that connected you across the room, taut and humming. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered and then rose back to your eyes. And in that single, silent exchange, you understood exactly what he was doing.
He wasn't interested in her. He'd never been interested in her or any other girl lately. He was using them to see if you still wanted him, to see if you'd break first. To get a reaction and know if that fire in your eyes was just irritation, or something deeper, something that kept you up at night the same way he kept you up at night.
Your throat went dry.
His hand squeezed the girl's thigh once, lightly, a deliberate flex of his fingers that was meant for you. And your own thighs pressed together in response. You hated how your body always answered him before your brain could catch up. And you hated even more the desire to walk over there, pull his hand off her, and place it on your tigh instead.
You didn't. You stayed rooted in your chair, jaw tight, pulse pounding. But your eyes never left his. And his never left yours.
"God, why do you look so miserable?" an irritating ramble was heard before the sofa dipped sharply and Allie collapsed beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space.
Allie threw one arm around your shoulders and draped herself across the cushions. Her cheeks were flushed pink from alcohol, her lipstick smudged at the edges, and several strands of hair had escaped her perfectly arranged bun, curling loose around her face like she'd just rolled out of somewhere far more interesting than a hockey party.
You laughed despite yourself and let your head fall onto her shoulder, the warmth of her presence a welcome anchor in the noise.
"I don't look miserable"
"Sweetie," she tilted her head, examining your face with theatrical intensity. "I've known you for years. You absolutely look miserable. You've got that little crease between your eyebrows, the one that appears when you're either deeply annoyed or deeply horny. And since Garrett's not currently lecturing you about anything, I'm going to go with the second option"
You shoved her. She laughed.
"Briar just won," she continued, counting on her fingers with exaggerated precision. "There's free alcohol, free food, and Garrett is too busy making out with Hannah to bother you. By all logic, this should be your ideal night."
"Those are incredibly low standards,” you belly laughed, throwing your head back on the sofa. The ceiling was getting a little blurry.
"They're realistic standards. There's a difference," Allie rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, but there was a slight smile playing on her lips. You like this girl so much.
You chuckle and took another sip of your drink as the noise swelled around you. Someone was shouting in the kitchen. A group of freshmen near the keg had started chanting someone’s name loudly. The music pounded through the floorboards, bass vibrating up through your feet and settling somewhere deep in your chest. The whole house was caught in that giddy moment between victory and disaster.
Allie watched the chaos fondly. You watched Dean fondly. And unfortunately, Allie caught that immediately.
"Oh my God," she exclaimed, bumping your shoulder with hers.
You groaned before she could even finish the thought. "What?"
"There it is"
"There what is?"
"That look," she wiggled her fingers toward your face like she was casting a spell.
You straightened, schooling your features into careful neutrality. "What look?"
"The Dean look," she whispered his name like it was a dirty secret. Which, you supposed, it was. "I've had to watch this nonsense for almost a year, and I know that look intimately."
"There is no Dean look," you protested, trying to avert your gaze to something else but it still returned to Dean.
"Oh, please," she snorted. "I've watched you two orbit each other for months. There's absolutely a Dean look."
Heat flooded your cheeks, creeping up your neck. Across the room, Dean was pretending to listen to whatever Logan was saying. But the idiot had glanced in your direction at least seven times in the last five minutes. Not that you were counting. You absolutely weren't.
"Stop smiling," Allie ordered.
"I'm not smiling," you muttered hiding behind your cup.
"You are. It's that little one. The one that makes you look like you're remembering something very specific."
Your face burned hotter, "I hate you."
"No, you hate him," she nodded toward Dean. "Or at least, that's what you keep telling me. Usually while making that exact same face."
You covered your eyes with one hand, groaning into your palm.
Allie laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink on your dress, her shoulders shaking against yours. The unfortunate thing about confessing your secret during a wine night was that she never, ever let you forget it. From the moment you'd whispered Dean's name across her kitchen table, she'd made it her personal mission to torment you at every possible opportunity. Allie'd kept your secret faithfully, but she'd also weaponized it with surgical precision.
"You know," she continued, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur that was somehow still loud enough to be heard over the bass, "if I didn't know you two were hooking up, I'd still think something was going on"
Your eyes widened, "Allie!"
"What?" she looked at you and raised her eyebrows.
"Volume," you hushed, looking up, checking that no one was paying attention to you two.
"Oh please," she waved a dismissive hand. "Nobody can hear me over this shit of music. I could scream 'Dean Di Laurentis is fucking my best friend every night' at the top of my lungs and nobody would notice."
"Allie"
"Okay, okay," she held up her hands in mock surrender, but her grin didn't fade. "I'm just saying. The man looks at you like you're the last woman on Earth. And the way he was watching you walk across the room earlier? I felt like I needed a cold shower"
You shoved her again, but you couldn't quite suppress the laugh that escaped you.
"Seriously," Allie pressed, leaning in closer until her breath was warm against your ear. "Does he do that thing everyone's been talking about? The thing with his tongue?"
Your face went nuclear, heat flooding up from your chest to the tips of your ears. "I'm not answering that"
"That's a yes," Allie giggled, biting her lip like she'd just won the lottery.
"That's a no comment," you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.
"That's absolutely a yes," she looked positively delighted, her eyes dancing with unholy glee. "Okay, next question. Has he ever…"
"Allie!" The warning in your voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
She laughed, raising both hands in surrender, but the mischief in her eyes remained undimmed. "Fine, fine. Keep your secrets," she leaned back, taking a slow, theatrical sip of her drink. "For now"
You risked another glance toward Dean. Bad idea. Because he was already looking.
The second your eyes met, the corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, lazy smirk. The one that said he knew exactly what he did to you. It made your stomach flip and your thighs press together and your brain short-circuit all at once.
Asshole.
Your body immediately betrayed you. Heat pooled low in your belly, a familiar ache that had become embarrassingly predictable whenever he looked at you like he was already counting down the minutes until he could get you alone.
Allie noticed. Of course she did, "Oh, that's pathetic."
"Shut up"
"You're pathetic"
"I'm not," you mumbled under your nose.
"Oh, you so are. And mentally, you're already making out with him in a closet somewhere," she tilted her head, studying you with mock concern. "Or more than making out, based on that little shiver you just did"
You shoved her shoulder hard enough to make her wobble. She giggled, spilling her drink on the yellow couch. There will probably be a stain in the morning.
For a few moments, you let yourself relax on the couch. The alcohol hummed pleasantly beneath your skin, warm and loose. The music blurred into a pleasant thrum. Garrett was laughing at something Hannah said, his usual intensity softened by something that looked suspiciously like affection. Logan and Tucker were bickering about something pointless and completely stupid. Dean was still across the room, still looking entirely too pleased with himself, still watching you with that dark, knowing gaze that made your pulse stutter.
Then Allie sat bolt upright, her eyes lighting up with the kind of enthusiasm that had never, in the history of human civilization, led to anything good.
You narrowed your eyes immediately, "No"
"I haven't even said anything yet,” she pouted, looking offended.
"You have that look,” you pointed out, turning your head on the couch to look at her.
"What look?" her voice was innocent and full of mischief. Oh, that wasn't good.
"The one that always gets me into trouble"
Allie gasped in mock offense. "I am offended by that accusation"
"Good. Be offended. Keep being offended. Don't say whatever you're about to say."
"Drink or Dare!" she announced, practically bouncing as she said the words to the entire room.
A collective groan echoed around the group. Logan dropped his head back against the couch like a man who'd just received a death sentence. Tucker muttered something obscene and looked ready to flee the country. Even Garrett paused mid-laugh, shooting Allie a warning look that she completely ignored.
"Come on," she whined, drawing the word out. "We're celebrating. Briar won," she shot you a pointed look, "We should be having fun"
"We're sitting," Tucker said flatly, not bothering to hide his lack of enthusiasm.
"Exactly. It's depressing. I'm depressed. You're all depressing me!"
Before anyone could stop her, she snatched your cup from your hand and disappeared toward the drinks table, weaving through the crowd with the single-minded determination of a woman on a mission.
You watched her go, dread and affection curling in your chest. "That's never a good sign"
"Never," Tucker agreed solemnly.
A minute later, Allie returned carrying a suspicious, shimmering mixture that seemed to contain at least three different types of alcohol and a bottle of liquor in her other hand.
She placed the cup proudly into your hand and put the bottle on the table, "Suit yourself"
You stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the drink, "You want me dead"
"I want you entertaining," she leaned in, voice dropping to a playful whisper. "And maybe a little looser. You get very honest when you're drunk. I want to hear more about what Dean does with his tongue"
Heat flooded your cheeks again, "You're the worst friend in the world."
"I'm the best friend in the world. I kept your secret, I never told Garrett, and I've been emotionally supporting your situationship for months. The least you can do is get drunk and give me details"
A reluctant laugh escaped you, warm and helpless. That was the problem with Allie. She was absolutely impossible to refuse when she looked this delighted with herself, her eyes bright and her grin so wide it crinkled at the corners. She'd kept your secret faithfully, never once judging, never once slipping. She just... tormented you. Mercilessly. Beautifully.
With an exaggerated sigh, you accepted the cup and dipped your head in surrender, "Fine"
Allie's grin immediately turned victorious, sharp and wicked.
Across the room, Dean leaned forward in his chair, his lazy indifference replaced by sharp, focused interest. His eyes found yours across the crowd, dark and knowing, and the corner of his mouth curved into something that looked almost like anticipation.
The game started innocently enough.
At first, it was just an excuse for everyone to keep drinking. Allie had to chug half her cup because she refused to reveal her celebrity crush, emerging red-faced and sputtering while Tucker howled with laughter. Logan was dared to call one of the assistant coaches and profess his undying love, which ended with the entire room wheezing as Logan tried to explain, through tears of humiliation, that yes, he was drunk, and no, he wasn't dying, he just had feelings.
Even Garrett got dragged into the chaos at some point, forced to let Hannah answer a question on his behalf. She revealed a secret about his obsession with organizing his sock drawer by color and it has sent the hockey players into a spiral of mockery. Garrett's ears went red. Hannah looked utterly delighted. The rest of the room collectively lost their minds.
The atmosphere grew louder with every round, the initial awkwardness dissolving into something looser and more reckless. People shifted closer together on the couches, bodies pressing into one another as space grew smaller. Drinks were constantly refilled, the clink of bottles and the slosh of liquor becoming a familiar rhythm.
You found yourself laughing more than usual. Mostly because Dean wouldn't stop staring at you.
Every time you looked up, his gaze was already there – waiting, patient, dark with something that made your stomach flip. The worst part was that he wasn't even trying to hide it anymore. A few months ago, the two of you would have been careful, stolen glances disguised as coincidence, eyes darting away before anyone could notice. Now it almost felt like a game. A dangerous one, considering Garrett was sitting less than ten feet away, oblivious and laughing at something Tucker said.
Dean caught you looking again. The corner of his mouth lifted into that familiar, infuriating smirk. You immediately flipped him off.
His grin widened, slow and pleased, like you'd just given him exactly what he wanted. His eyes dropped to your lips. Lingered. Rose back to meet yours with deliberate slowness.
"Okay!" Allie clapped her hands loudly enough to silence several conversations at once, her grin sharp and wicked. "Your turn"
Your head snapped around. "Mine?"
"Yes, yours," she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, her eyes glittering with barely contained mischief. A chorus of agreement rose from around the room, scattered voices urging you on, Logan banging his fist against the coffee table in encouragement.
You groaned dramatically and sank deeper into the couch, the cushions swallowing you whole, "Fine"
"Dare or drink?" she singsonged, tilting her head and fixing you with a pointed look.
You glanced at the suspicious mixture sitting in your cup, that vaguely radioactive cocktail Allie had so lovingly prepared. Whatever was in there, it was going to taste terrible and hit hard.
You looked at Allie. At her knowing grin. At the way her eyes flicked briefly toward Dean before returning to you.
Your pulse quickened.
"Okay, dare," you said, sinking deeper into the couch cushions and stretching your legs out before you.
The alcohol had settled beneath your skin like honey, warm and slow, leaving you pleasantly loosened at the edges. For a blissful, ignorant moment, you forgot that agreeing to a dare at a Briar hockey party was historically a catastrophic decision. Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on Dean almost automatically, drawn by some gravitational pull you'd long since stopped fighting.
He was already looking at you. Of course he was.
"Read your last text message. Out loud." Logan's voice pulled you back to reality like a bucket of cold water.
The smug grin on his face immediately made your instincts flare. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking far too pleased with himself, like he already knew exactly what was waiting on your screen and was simply savoring the moment of revelation.
You narrowed your eyes at him, "You look way too happy about that dare"
"Just read the message"
A chorus of agreement rose around the room. Groaning dramatically, you unlocked your phone and thumbed open your messages. At first, you weren't worried. Your group chats were full of nonsense. Hannah sent you TikToks every day without fail. Allie texted you so often that half your conversations consisted entirely of voice notes and chaotic emoji strings.
Then your eyes landed on the latest message.
And your heart stopped.
For one horrifying second, you simply stared at the screen, convinced the alcohol was making you hallucinate. Maybe if you blinked hard enough, the words would rearrange themselves into something innocent. Something that wouldn't destroy your entire evening. Something that didn't make your stomach drop straight through the floor.
Nope. It was still there.
Because of the booze and the chaos of the party, you had completely forgotten who your latest conversation had been with.
Di Laurentis. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis.
And it wasn't innocent. Not even close. The message glowed up at you like a confession, the kind of words that could only be interpreted one way. Your thumb hovered over the screen as if you could somehow erase it through sheer force of will.
Slowly, very slowly, you lifted your eyes from the screen and scanned the room. Everyone was waiting. Logan was grinning like the cat who'd caught the canary. Allie was bouncing impatiently in her seat, practically vibrating with anticipation. Tucker looked deeply entertained. Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
The bastard.
You cleared your throat and glanced back down at the phone, praying the words had somehow changed while you weren't looking. They hadn't. You were absolutely, completely screwed.
"If G leaves you alone for five minutes, meet me in the kitchen ;)"
The words hung in the air for barely a second before the entire room fell silent.
It was the kind of silence that only happened when something had gone very, very wrong. You could hear your own heartbeat thudding in your ears. You slowly turned your head toward your brother.
A minute ago, Garrett had been completely uninterested in the game. He'd been too busy with Hannah curled up in his lap, his lips pressed to her cheek, whispering things that made her laugh. Now he was staring directly at you.
No. Not at you. Through you. Into your soul. His jaw was tight, his eyes flat and unreadable in that terrifying way that meant he was already cycling through various methods of murder and trying to decide which one was most appropriate for the occasion.
The thing about Garrett was that he had always been ridiculously overprotective. Growing up with him meant growing up with an unwanted bodyguard, a shadow that materialized whenever a boy so much as looked in your direction. If Garrett was around, potential suitors simply ceased to exist. During his first year at Briar, when you were still finishing high school, he somehow managed to intimidate every guy who had ever shown interest in you despite living hours away. To this day, you had no idea how he did it. His methods remained a mystery, but his results were undeniable. Your dating life had been a complete disaster because of him.
Things only got worse when you arrived at Briar.
You still remembered the first night he introduced you to the hockey team. Everyone had been friendly, warm, welcoming. Until Garrett casually placed a hand on your shoulder and announced in the coldest, most unyielding voice imaginable, "She's my sister. She's off limits."
The entire team had immediately nodded their agreement like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Well. Almost the entire team.
Your gaze flickered toward Dean for the briefest moment. Just a fraction of a second. Barely long enough to register.
His mouth twitched.
You hated him.
"WHAT?" Garrett practically roared, returning your gaze back to him.
Hannah nearly slid off his lap when he shot upright, his body going rigid in an instant. His arm immediately wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against him, but his eyes never left your face – dark, furious, the kind of look that had made grown men back away slowly. One hand gestured sharply through the air as though he couldn't decide whether to point at you or simply strangle whoever was responsible.
"Repeat it," he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
You nearly choked on your drink. Every muscle in your body tensed at once, a reflexive flinch that you barely managed to suppress. Under normal circumstances, you probably would have folded immediately. You would apologise, make excuses, deflect until he forgot. But the alcohol buzzing through your veins had loosened something in your chest, giving you a reckless, dangerous amount of confidence.
"It's just a text, G," you said, trying for casualness and failing miserably. "Don't overreact"
The room erupted.
Logan laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the couch, his face going red as he wheezed into his cup. Tucker buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Even Hannah pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile she couldn't quite suppress. Across from you, Dean suddenly became fascinated by the beer bottle in his hand, turning it over like it held the secrets of the universe. The devilish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth completely ruined the act.
"Who sent that?" Garrett asked.
His voice was quieter now. Which was somehow much worse. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as he leveled that cold, sharp gaze at you. It was the voice he used before a game, before a fight, before he did something that would end up on someone else's permanent record.
"No one," you said with a shrug, taking another sip of your drink.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Or maybe you wanted to kill Dean Di Laurentis. Honestly, either option sounded appealing at this point. Your fingers tightened around your cup as you prayed for a distraction. Something like a fire alarm, a power outage, a sudden natural disaster that would rescue you from this nightmare would perfectly suit you.
"Someone sent it," Garrett pressed, his jaw tight.
"No one important"
"Someone" he stepped forward, and you felt the weight of his suspicion pressing down on you like a physical thing.
You pressed your lips together and said nothing.
Garrett stared. You stared back. The room watched the silent battle unfold with open amusement, nobody daring to break the tension. You could feel your resolve crumbling, could feel the confession building in your throat like a physical weight. You were already seconds away from breaking when Hannah finally decided to intervene.
With the patience of a woman who had clearly dealt with this nonsense before, she slipped out of Garrett's lap and took his hand firmly in hers. "Come on," she said, her voice soft.
"I'm not done," Garrett's eyes didn't leave your face.
"Yes, you are," she tugged his arm gently.
"Hannah…"
"Garrett"
Something in her tone made him stop. The sharp edge of his anger seemed to falter, replaced by something softer that he tried very hard to hide.
The entire room watched in fascination as the captain of the hockey team allowed himself to be dragged away like a misbehaving child. He followed her reluctantly, his feet dragging, but not before sending one last warning look in your direction.
The message was clear. This conversation was far from over.
A few seconds later, they disappeared into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind them, and the room exhaled collectively.
The silence lasted exactly three seconds. Then every single pair of eyes in the room turned toward you. And somehow, that felt even worse than your brother's fury.
“Gosh, you're all so noisy,” you complained, pushing yourself off the couch before the inevitable avalanche of questions could come crashing down on your head. There was no chance you were surviving another minute in that circle. Not with Logan looking so pleased with himself, Allie practically vibrating with energy, and half the hockey team staring at you like they had just uncovered the greatest mystery in Briar history.
You grabbed the last sip of your drink and finished it in one swallow. Everyone was smiling. Every single one of them.
“For God's sake,” you muttered, shaking your head. “A girl can't even have fun anymore”
The laughter that followed only made you roll your eyes harder. Honestly, you hated Dean. You hated him so much.
With as much dignity as someone fleeing a crime scene could manage, you slipped away from the lounge area and disappeared into the crowd. The music grew louder as you moved through the packed house. Bodies brushed against your shoulders, conversations blended together, and somewhere in the kitchen someone nearly dropped an entire tray of drinks.
Your heart was still beating too fast. Partly because of Garrett. Partly because of the entire room hearing that text. Mostly because of the infuriating smirk Dean had been wearing the whole time. The image refused to leave your head.
He hadn't looked nervous. He hadn't looked guilty. If anything, the idiot had looked entertained. And the worst part was that it had affected you far more than it should have. A year later and Dean Di Laurentis still had the ability to completely derail your thoughts. Sometimes you wondered if it had all been doomed from the start.
Maybe from that very first party during your freshman year, when you had shown up determined to prove to Garrett that you could survive college without his supervision. You had drunk too much, laughed too loudly, and somehow ended up alone in a hallway with Dean. One minute he had been making fun of you for trying to outdrink hockey players. The next he had been standing too close, looking at you in a way no one ever had before.
Everything after that had happened so quickly. And yet not quickly enough.
One stolen kiss had turned into another. Then into secret meetings. Late-night texts. Hidden smiles across crowded rooms. Months of pretending nothing was happening whenever Garrett was around. The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist.
You escaped through the front door before you could think about it too much. Cold November air immediately wrapped around you. The contrast almost made you gasp. After the heat and noise inside the house, the porch felt strangely peaceful. The music became muffled behind the walls, reduced to a distant thump beneath the sound of the wind. For once there was nobody outside. No smokers. No drunk freshmen. No couples looking for privacy. Just you and the freezing wind that seemed determined to go straight through your clothes.
You rubbed your arms and exhaled slowly. A small cloud formed in front of your face before disappearing into the darkness.
A second later something heavy landed across your shoulders. Warm. Familiar. Your eyes dropped to the jacket immediately.
The scent reached you before anything else. Salty cologne that always reminds you of the sea , clean laundry, and something that always seemed uniquely Dean. You smiled despite yourself and you didn't need to turn around to know the person standing behind you.
Dean had a way of making his presence known before he even spoke. Maybe it was confidence. Maybe it was habit. Maybe after a year of sneaking around together your body simply recognized him before your brain did. Whatever it was, you always knew when he was near. It was irritating. And comforting. Which pretty much summed up your entire relationship with Dean Di Laurentis.
“I think I said meet me in the kitchen,” his voice came from directly behind you, low and rough from laughing and drinking all night. The warmth of his breath brushed your ear and a shiver ran down your spine.
“I think,” you replied, unable to stop the smile pulling at your lips, “you were too busy entertaining your latest addition”
Dean laughed softly. The sound was warm and familiar.
A moment later he stepped closer and slid an arm around your waist, pulling you back against him with an ease that spoke of long practice. The movement felt natural now. Familiar enough that you leaned into him without thinking.
“Jealous much?” he asked. The smugness in his voice was unbearable.
You rolled your eyes and finally turned in his arms.
“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpanned, circling your arms around his neck. “I've never been more threatened in my entire life”
“Good”
The yellow glow of the porch light softened his features, casting warm shadows across his face. His blonde hair was more disheveled than usual, probably because of that girl running her finger through them all night. His eyes never left yours, moving slowly over your face as though checking that you were really there.
“I hate you. God, I hate you so much, Di Laurentis,” you groaned, pushing at his chest.
The gesture carried far more frustration than actual force and Dean knew it. Judging by the way his grin only widened, he was enjoying every second of your suffering. The humiliating text, Garrett's near heart attack, the entire hockey team staring at you like you had just revealed state secrets – somehow all of it had become entertainment for him.
“You keep saying that,” he observed lazily, catching your wrist when you tried to shove him again. His fingers wrapped around it for only a second before loosening, but the touch lingered anyway, warm even in the freezing November air. “And yet I can't help noticing that your actions never really match your words”
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, “Please don't start acting like you're some kind of relationship expert. You sent me a text that nearly got us both killed”
“Nearly,” Dean repeated, emphasizing the word as though it somehow worked in his favor. He leaned back against the porch railing, looking entirely too relaxed for a man whose life had just flashed before his eyes courtesy of Garrett Graham. “See? That's the important part. If your brother was actually going to murder me, I'd already be dead.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped you. “The only reason you're still alive is because Hannah dragged him away before he could finish processing what he heard and understand that you were screwing his sister”
The memory alone was enough to make your stomach twist. Garrett's expression had gone from confused to suspicious to outright homicidal in less than ten seconds. You had spent your entire life dealing with his overprotective tendencies, but seeing that look while knowing that you were fucking his best friend was really terrifying.
Dean must have noticed the change in your expression because some of the amusement faded from his face. Not completely, nothing ever removed that infuriating smugness from Dean Di Laurentis, but enough that his gaze softened as it moved over your features.
“You're overthinking again”
“No, I'm being realistic”
“You're definitely overthinking”
“Dean, my brother practically declared war in there”
“Your brother declares war every time a man breathes in your direction”
“That's not the point”
“It kind of is”
You opened your mouth, fully prepared to argue, but the words disappeared the moment he stepped closer. The distance between you had never been particularly safe. It didn't matter how many months had passed or how accustomed you had become to his touch, there was still something unfair about Dean when he looked at you like that. The porch light cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the familiar curve of his mouth. For a ridiculous moment, all you could think about was how many times you had kissed that mouth and how little you regretted any of them. Which was incredibly inconvenient considering you were trying to be angry.
“See?” he said quietly, clearly reading your thoughts far more easily than he should have been able to. “That doesn't look like hate to me”
“Oh, shut up”
His laughter immediately filled the space between you, low and warm and entirely too familiar. It was the kind of sound that had become dangerous over the past year because your body reacted to it before your brain could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he could make you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. You hated how comfortable it felt standing here with him while the party continued inside without either of you. Most of all, you hated how natural this had become.
A year ago, Dean had just been your brother's best friend. Now his jacket was draped over your shoulders, his hands were resting on your waist, and your first instinct after embarrassing yourself in front of an entire room had been to kiss him senseless.
“That's exactly the problem,” you muttered under your breath.
Dean frowned slightly,“What is?”
You shook your head and let it fall against his shoulder with a dramatic groan. “The fact that I should hate you after tonight and somehow you're still making me smile”
For a second neither of you spoke. You could hear the muffled music coming from inside the house and feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. Then Dean's arm tightened around your waist, pulling you a little closer against him.
“Good,” he said simply.
You lifted your head enough to glare at him. “Good?”
“Yeah” The corner of his mouth curved upward as he looked down at you. “Because I'd be pretty offended if one stupid text was all it took to take you away from me”
“You're impossible,” you muttered instead, though there wasn't nearly as much conviction in your voice as there should have been.
Dean only hummed softly, as if he found your answer perfectly acceptable. As if being impossible was something he had accepted about himself a long time ago. The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement, but there was something else in his expression too, something quieter beneath the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. For a moment he simply looked at you, his gaze moving slowly over your face as though he was memorizing it. Then his hand lifted and his thumb brushed lightly along your jaw.
The touch was gentle. Dangerously gentle.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you love it”
Your breath caught somewhere in your throat. “Dean…”
You never got the chance to finish.
His lips met yours before the rest of the sentence could leave your mouth, stealing the argument before it had fully formed. The kiss wasn't rushed or demanding. It wasn't the desperate kind born from impatience. It felt almost unfairly confident, like he already knew exactly what effect he had on you. Like he knew every protest was doomed the moment he touched you.
The worst part was that he was right.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him back, all the irritation and embarrassment from earlier slowly melting away beneath the warmth of his mouth. The memory of Garrett's interrogation, the laughter from the hockey team, the humiliation of reading that text aloud – none of it seemed nearly as important when Dean was standing this close.
When he finally pulled back, he barely moved away. His forehead remained close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.
“Still hate me?” he asked quietly.
You narrowed your eyes in an attempt to glare at him, but the effort fell apart almost immediately.
“A little less,” you admitted. A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself as you rose slightly onto your toes and brushed your nose against his. “You can try again, though. Maybe you'll have better luck this time”
The laugh that escaped him was warm and satisfied.
"Careful," he warned, voice low and rough against your ear. "You're giving me encouragement"
"Maybe you need it"
"Sweetheart," he murmured, and the word curled like smoke between you, "I definitely don't"
You barely had time to scoff before his mouth was on yours again and this time, there was nothing careful about it.
Dean laughed into the kiss, low and breathless, and pressed harder, as if he wanted to fold you into him entirely. You breathed into his mouth, a soft, yielding sound, and when your lips parted just slightly, he took the invitation without hesitation. His tongue swept in, slow at first, then deeper, more certain, and your hands found their way beneath his shirt without thought. Your nails dragged across the hard planes of his stomach, over the ridges of muscle, and he smiled against your lips.
His palm slid down your spine, over the curve of your waist, and settled firmly on the plush of your ass, squeezing with a possessiveness that sent a shiver straight through you. You moaned into his mouth, breath catching, and your fingers curled against his skin.
"Up," Dean muttered, and before you could register the shift, he had turned, lifted you with an ease that made your head spin, and set you down on the railing.
The wood was cool beneath your thighs. You squeaked in surprise, but the sound dissolved into something needier as you hooked your legs around his hips and pulled him closer until there was no space left between you.
His lips found your neck, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth caught the thin strap of your dress, tugging it down your shoulder with agonizing slowness. You laughed feeling ticklish under his touch but it died the instant his mouth found the tender spot just behind your ear.
You moaned, your head falling back, giving him better access to you neck, your breath coming faster now. The tension inside you coiled tighter with every brush of his lips, every graze of his teeth, every shift of his body against yours. It was building, relentless, a pressure that bordered on unbearable.
Dean shifted between your thighs, rolling his hips against yours in a slow, deliberate motion, and you felt him hard and wanting, straining against the denim of his jeans. The heat of him seeped through the thin fabric of your dress, and your mind went hazy, thoughts scattering like smoke.
"I think…" you breathed, the words tumbling out between shaky inhales. "Fuck… Dean… I think we need to find a better place"
But he hadn't stopped. His lips were already tracing their way back up your jaw, brushing against the corner of your mouth, teasing. His hips kept rolling against your heat, making you feel dizzy but this time not from the alcohol but from Dean himself.
"One more minute, baby," he mumbled against your skin, and then he kissed you again, deep and consuming, and your brain went completely dark.
His lips were like a drug, something you couldn't leave and get enough of at the same time. Your hips bucked instinctively toward him, and he pressed forward in response, a low sound rumbling in his chest. You felt the damp heat of your own want soaking through, a mess you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now… right now, you couldn't bring yourself to care.
The only thing that existed was him. The weight of his hands. The warmth of his mouth. The way he said your name without saying it at all.
And you wanted him. That was all that mattered right now.
Dean's hand slid up your body, palm flattening against your chest, squeezing through the thin fabric of your dress. His fingers found your nipple through the layers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until you gasped into his mouth. He smiled against your lips. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. His free hand gripped your thigh, squeezing hard enough to bruise, and he hitched your leg higher around his hip. The movement opened you up, pressing your core against the ridge of his jeans, and you both groaned at the contact.
"Fuck," Dean breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and glistening. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me?"
You nodded, breathless, because you could. You could feel every inch of him straining against the denim, hard and wanting and so deliciously close.
His hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate, and your head fell back with a moan. The railing dug into your thighs, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the heat of his body pressed against you. Dean took advantage of your exposed throat, latching onto the pulse point that fluttered wildly beneath your skin. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you whimpered, nails raking down his back.
"Dean," you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
"Say it again," he growled against your neck, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers found the damp heat between your thighs, tracing you through the soaked fabric of your panties. "Say my name like that again"
"Dean," your hips rocked into his hand, desperate for more friction. "Please."
"Please what?" his voice was a dark murmur, his fingers pressing harder, circling your clit through the thin fabric. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart"
"You," your voice a broken whisper. "I want you, I want…"
His mouth cut you off with another kiss, swallowing your words as his fingers finally slipped beneath the fabric. He found you slick and ready, and the sound he made was almost reverent.
"So wet for me," he breathed against your lips. "This all for me?"
"Who else would it be for, you idiot?" you broke the kiss and looked at him irritatingly.
He laughed again, but it was strained, barely there, because his fingers were sliding through your folds, circling your clit with devastating precision. Your hips bucked into his hand, chasing the sensation, and he obliged, pressing harder, faster, until you were a trembling mess in his arms.
"That's it," he murmured, his forehead pressed to yours. "That's it, let go for me. I've got you"
The heat in your belly was growing, unbearable and intoxicating, spreading through you like wildfire. Dean's mouth captured your moans, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that mirrored the movement of his hand. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips rocking desperately against his fingers as the pressure built and built and built and….
"What the fuck?!" Garrett's voice cut through the haze like a bucket of ice water, and you jerked back so fast you nearly lost your balance on the railing.
Your heart slammed against your ribs as your eyes found him, standing in the threshold with Logan and Tucker. Garrett's face was a thundercloud, jaw tight, nostrils flared, the vein in his forehead doing that thing it only did when he was about three seconds from committing a felony.
Behind him, Logan had his hand clamped over his mouth, shoulders shaking, but he wasn’t impressed at all. Tucker wasn't even trying to hide it, he was laughing, full-bodied, tears-in-his-eyes laughing, the traitor.
“Fuck,” Dean’s hand quickly left your core, circling your body and pulling you closer. His head fell on your shoulder and you felt Dean's breath hot against your ear, low and steady despite the disaster behind his back. "On the count of three, we run"
You nodded, barely, your pulse hammering so loud you could barely hear yourself think.
One.
Dean's hands found your waist, lifting you down from the railing with a slowness that felt almost mocking given the circumstances. Your feet hit the floor. Garrett took a step forward, and you felt every muscle in your body tense. His face was stone. The kind of face that said I'm going to bury my best friend in the backyard and no one will ever find the body.
Logan wheezed behind him. Tucker whisper-shouted, "Oh my God, he's going to kill him"
Two.
Dean's fingers laced through yours, squeezing once – tight, reassuring, maybe a little apologetic. His palm was warm and solid, and you clung to it like a lifeline. Garrett was coming closer now, slow and deliberate, the way predators did before they pounced. His jaw worked like he was chewing glass.
"Dean," he said, and his voice was eerily calm. That was worse. That was so much worse. "I'm going to give you five seconds to explain why your hands were under my sister’s dress"
"Five seconds?" Dean called back, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "That's generous"
"Dean," you hissed.
Tucker lost it completely, doubling over and slapping the doorframe. Logan was crying now. Actual tears.
Three.
"Bye, G!" Dean shouted, and then he was running, dragging you with him, your feet barely finding purchase as you launched off the porch and into the night.
Garrett's roar echoed behind you. You didn't look back. The cold wind whipped your face, biting at your cheeks and tearing through your hair, but you couldn't stop laughing. Breathless, hysterical, giddy laughter that mixed with the pounding of your feet and the thunder of your heart. The party lights blurred behind you, growing smaller and smaller as you rounded the corner, the music fading into a distant thrum.
Dean didn't slow down. He pulled you into the shadows of someone's house, pressing you back against the rough brick wall, his body caging you in before you could even catch your breath. His mouth found yours and he kissed you like you hadn't just committed a crime against his friendship with your brother.
"Now he's actually going to kill you," you breathed against his lips, but your hands were already fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, because apparently you had zero survival instincts.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him almost undid you – hair wild, lips swollen, that stupid, goofy grin spreading across his face like he hadn't just made an enemy of his best friend for life. His nose brushed against your cheek, soft and tender in a way that felt almost ridiculous after the chaos.
"Worth it," he whispered, and his voice was so warm, so certain, that your chest ached with it.
Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, and you forgot entirely about Garrett, about the run, about the cold. Because God, it was worth it. Every single, reckless, disastrous second of it.
thankx for reading <3
I've been rereading and editing this work for two days now, so I really hope it's alright and doesn't contain too many spelling or grammar mistakes. also, I haven't actually read the book, so my perspective on every character is mostly based on the vibe I got from the tv show. and if anything feels off, that's probably why. I hope you enjoy it anyway!
alright, I'm off to sleep and take a little break. I'll be happy to wake up to any dean requests in my inbox! as usual, comments and messages are always welcome. your words keep me going, even when I really should be sleeping. so please, let me know what you think of this one. it means the world to me :3
Simon had a habit of manhandling you, to put it simply.
You'd be practicing your shooting when suddenly you'd feel large hands on your hips, shifting you into a better position. A low "Even out your weight." murmured into your ear.
Sometimes you'd go to Price's office only to be stopped just before you open the door, an arm around your waist pulling you back. "He's busy with Johnny, Love."
Countless occasions like this had your mind almost ditzy. The low tone in your ear sending shivers down your spine. The touching making your breath hitch. And you knew the large bastard got off on it.
Eventually it came to a head when Simon pulled you to his barracks one night. The two of you tugging at each other's clothing.
It shouldn't have surprised you when Simon grabbed your hips and pushed you to lie on your stomach, tugging your ass up so you were presenting yourself to him.
"Fuck" Simon drawls out as he takes in the sight of you. A deep chuckle rumbling in his chest as you wiggle your hips impatiently.
Finally Simon grabbed your hips and practically speared you onto his cock. Causing you to moan uncontrollably. Grabbing the sheets as he thrust into you.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck Simon!" You whine loudly. Simon groaning as you clamp around him. Cunt fluttering over and over.
You gasp as Simon grabs your waist, letting him flip you onto your back and push your legs up until your thighs were almost against your chest. Eyes rolling back as he presses even deeper into you.
"So fucking tight f'me." Simon huffs, nearly hammering into you now; reaching down to your clit and rubbing tight circles.
Your body attempts to squirm, but you were locked under Simons weight. It strangely aroused you, not being able to move because of how large Simon was.
Your breath then hitches as you suddenly reach your orgasm. The pleasure sparking up your spine as Simons hands squeeze the flesh of your ass, a sound you didn't know you were capable of ripping free from your vocal chords.
"That's it. Fuck fuck!" Simon moans, thrusting again and again before filling you with his cum. His hips moving slowly as he rides out his own orgasm. His head burying into your neck. His hot breaths fanning against your skin as he calmed down.
The first time you stepped into the vehicle with Simon, he crashed right into an empty vendor stall. Of course, that was in the middle of an operation, so you can’t really blame the guy.
The second time Simon stepped into the driver’s seat, he went from zero to sixty in five seconds, skidding the passenger side door along a brick wall and made a sharp left that turned the car over.
That was the last time you stepped into a car with him.
You could say it got so bad that you started talking to your therapist about it. “PTSD,” she calls it. You call it: “I refuse to get into the car with my lieutenant who doesn’t know the difference between first and fifth gear.”
You’re not sure if he even knew how to drive stick.
Operations are nerve wrecking and you understand that. Hey— It’s not an easy job. What you didn’t sign up for, was arguing with Simon mid-training about who would be the driver.
In the quiet ruins of Credenhill, you stood next to Simon; a training session that was suppose to take twenty minutes turned into forty-five.
“Lieutenant, I swear to God— I refuse to get into this car with you,” you angrily told your superior, gripping onto the door like your weight could stop the two-hundred-something pound man from overpowering you.
Simon’s radio crackled in his vest, John’s voice breaking through the awkward silence. “Ghost, what’s the status?”
Slowly, he grabs his radio while maintaining eye contact with you, “currently stalled,” he stated flatly into the walkie.
The radio crackled once more, “the reasoning?” John asks. You’re positive you heard Kyle in the background go “christ sake; don’t pair those two up again, capt.”
Simon doesn’t answer the captain. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on you; you’re not sure if he’s irritated, smug or angry. You’d think it would be easy to read his eyes since that’s all you see but he’s quite good at concealing his expression. With a deep breath, his hands fall to his side as he puts his weight on one leg, “‘m not doing this with you,” he says dryly.
“I’m not letting you drive,” you replied bluntly.
“And why not?”
If this were Johnny or Kyle, you’d probably admit your reasoning. You’d probably even cuss them out for their previous driving history. But Simon? The one that once put you in a bare arm choke during sparring and didn’t give out until John stopped it?
Yeah, no.
“Because I want to drive,” you justified, hand still gripping the door handle.
Simon glances down at your knuckles, noting the grip on the handle. “Don’ trust me?” he asks, looking back at you.
Silence.
If it was one thing you’ve learned since you joined the team, it was to never argue with him.
“I have a license. Y’know that right,” Simon adds, placing one hand on his hip.
Fuckin’ sassy little thing.
A small scoff escaped your lips (unintentionally, of course) as you glance off to the side, “don’t seem like it,” you thought.
Thought was an understatement. You said that shit out loud and thought you thought it.
And now—? Now, Simon was staring down at you through the sockets of his skull balaclava so hard; you’re not sure if it was the heat from the sun that made you sweat or his glare. “Get in the car, sergeant,” Simon said, grabbing you by the shoulder and (surprisingly gentle) dragging you to the passenger side.
You don’t even fight it; just letting him drag you to the other side of the car. He opens the door, practically throws you in before making his way over to the drive side while shaking his head. He definitely said some curse words outside of the car.
Once Simon steps inside, he takes a second to settle in. Hands holding onto the steering wheel, readjusting his mirrors like this was a driving test and not a training session, and puts on his seatbelt.
Finally, Simon starts the vehicle, puts it in drive and presses on the gas pedal.
And not even five seconds into the drive—
THUNK.
Your ass goes up then back down and instinctively, your hand reaches up to grab the assist handle.
Silence was here again.
Slowly, you turn to look at Simon, who stared ahead of him in the open road. “…Hit a pothole,” he mumbles.
That much was obvious. You saw it on the way to the passenger side when he was dragging you earlier. You didn’t expect him to hit it of all things… Who were you kidding, you expected it. “Tires still good?” you manage to ask, concealing your eye twitch.
Simon rolls down the window and glances down at the tire. Still intact. “Still round,” he replies flatly before turning the steering wheel to the right. He slowly inches out of the deep pothole and pressed on the brake, sending you to lurch forward.
“Fucking hell, lieutenant—!” you gasp out. Whoever invented seatbelts, thank them. “Why’d you press the brakes so hard?! You know you don’t have to—“
“I don’t have a license, alright?!” Simon blurted out; the first real sign of frustration and embarrassment laced in his voice.
All you could hear was the engine running, a quiet “vrum vrum vrum” from the front and Simon’s glove gripping the steering wheel.
“… What,” you flatly replied, staring at him with your jaw dropped.
Simon slowly turns to look at you, the coolness and emotionless expression in his eyes was now round and puppy-like. If that was even possible. “I have a motorcycle… license,” he says quietly.
A loud, surprise scoff escape your lips once more as you shook your head, “you said you had a license!”
“You didn’t specify or ask for what kind,” Simon cuts you off, putting his index finger up as if to tell you ‘Ah ah, I got you there’.
The radio crackled once more, John’s voice cutting through. “Ghost, what’s the ETA?”
You grabbed the walkie from Simon’s vest and he didn’t stop you. Probably too embarrassed to even try to use his rank as a weapon. “It’s me. Only one of us might make it back,” you replied coldly before tossing his walkie in the back.
Simon watched the quick scene and couldn’t even process what was happening until you lunged towards him, seatbelt still on and looped around you as you began to shake him by the shoulders.
“Are you intentionally trying to kill us?! Who gave you permission to drive while on missions?! Fuck ranks; you absolute skull-faced big-headed moron!” Random words spew from your mouth as you continue to shake Simon.
And honestly? He let you. Listen, he never claimed he could drive. He just wanted to be a man in this situation!
The walkie crackled with John’s voice somewhere in the backseat while Simon continued to be shaken by someone who definitely shouldn’t be shaking him. All he could think about was how much he really embarrassed himself in front of someone he wanted to impress.
Warnings/content: Jacob being obsessive, smut, Charlie pop up, Jacob being Jacob
(Twilight AU in which Jacob isn't in love with Bella and actually imprinted on Bella's younger sister aka y/n.)
Being Bella’s younger sister came with its own quiet rhythm of pros and cons. The pros were simple, almost sacred in their familiarity..Bella understood you. She never pushed you to be louder, never made you feel strange for preferring the soft hum of rain on the roof to a crowded party.
She got the whole quiet, kept-to-yourself thing because, for most of your lives, that’s exactly how she was too. You shared a language of comfortable silences, of knowing glances across the dinner table, of twin souls content in the shadowy, evergreen gloom of Forks.
Then came the con. His name was Edward Cullen.
You hadn’t trusted him from the first moment you saw him at school with Bella, something in his too perfect stillness, the way his golden eyes seemed to look through people rather than at them. Now, you knew why. He was a vampire. And his very existence had, like a stone thrown into a still pond, sent ripples of danger crashing into your once-peaceful lives. Other vampires, ancient, hungry, and vengeful, now saw you and Bella as targets. All because of him. Yeahhh… thanks, Edward. the sarcasms a thin shield against the genuine fear that now lived in your gut.
The front door slammed, jolting you from your thoughts. You looked up from the couch to see Bella frantically shoving her arms into her coat, her movements jerky with anxious energy.
“Hey, uh..I’ll be back tomorrow! Tell Charlie I left a note on the counter!” she called out, not even meeting your eyes.
“Good talk,” you murmured to the empty space she left behind, the words swallowed by the sound of her truck engine roaring to life. She was a ghost in her own home these days. You couldn’t decide if she was trying to run from Forks or if she was forever chasing a certain brooding, pale figure deeper into the Olympic forest.
A quiet sigh escaped you as you turned back to the television, the remote clicking monotonously as you flipped through a blur of infomercials and static. The living room felt too big, too empty. That’s when you felt it, a subtle shift in the worn quilt draped over your legs. You glanced down.
A familiar head of dark, tousled hair emerged from beneath the blanket, followed by a pair of warm, mahogany eyes and a smile so cheeky it could only belong to one person.
Jacob Black had made himself at home, his head now a comfortable, undeniable weight on your thighs. His large, warm hands found your sides, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of your sweater. “What’s the matter, princess?” he rumbled, his voice a low vibration you felt more than heard. “You look bored. And you’re thinking too loud. Smells like… frustration and Cullen-induced anxiety in here.”
“You know,” you said, trying to keep your voice even, “if my dad walks through that door and finds his daughter on the couch with a guy lying all over her, hidden under a blanket, he’s going to go straight for the gun safe. Just a heads-up.” You tilted your head, your eyes darting toward the front door as if expecting Chief Swan to materialize on cue.
Jacob’s smile didn’t falter. “Ah. Excuse me,” he huffed, feigning offense. “I’m not just a ‘guy.’ I’m your boyfriend. A little hurt there, y/n.” He squinted up at you, the playful glint in his eyes belying his wounded tone.
“When,” you groaned, letting your head fall back against the couch cushion, “did we ever have the ‘you are my boyfriend’ talk?” You reached down, not unkindly, and tangled your fingers in the thick silk of his hair, giving a gentle tug of annoyance.
He went very still. The easy humor drained from his face, replaced by a look of such genuine, wounded disbelief it made your stomach clench. “Don’t come at me with that bullshit,” he said, his voice losing its playful rumble for something sharper. “What’s that supposed to mean?” In one fluid, surprisingly graceful motion, he sat up, turning to face you fully. The blanket pooled around his waist, and the sheer size of him, the focused intensity of his gaze, made the spacious room feel suddenly very small.
“We never said anything about dating,” you shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant, leaning further back as if you could escape the gravity of his presence. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“We never said anything about *not* dating,” he shot back, frustration simmering beneath the words. His jaw was tight.
“I’m just saying,” you pressed on, your own frustration rising to meet his. “You can’t just… claim me. Not because of this whole… weird wolf thing you have on me-”
“I imprinted on you,” he corrected, the words heavy and final.
“Yeah, yeah, let me speak,” you sighed, tiredly shaking your head. “You can’t immediately decide what we are just because you have this.. this supernatural pull or whatever. It’s unorthodox. It doesn’t feel like a choice.”
He scoffed, a harsh, unhappy sound. “Ah. Yeah. Okay. Thanks for clearing that up for me. No big deal, then.” Sarcasm dripped from every word. “I’m only around you 24/7. I only spend every waking moment making sure you’re safe, that you’re fed, that you’re smiling, all because I think of you as a friend. Seriously?” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “Listen, I can’t help that I’m literally, biologically, soul-deep obsessed with you. The imprint… it’s not a choice for me either. But what I feel for you? That’s real. That’s all me.”
Before you could respond, he laid back down, his head returning to your thigh with a defeated thump. His arms wrapped around your waist, his grip possessive and tight, as if he was afraid you’d vanish. The heat from his body seeped through your clothes.
“Oh,” he added, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur against your thigh. His earlier smirk found its way back, but it was softer now, tinged with a vulnerability that disarmed you. “And let’s not forget about the amazing nights I give you… or is sex meaningless to you, too, baby doll?” He tilted his head to look up at you, his eyes dark and knowing. “Ah… I’m hurt.”
Your face, which had been a mask of tired resolve, instantly flooded with heat. A traitorous flush crept from your neck to your cheeks, memories of those “amazing nights” appearing in your head. You looked away, but it was too late. He’d seen it.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, chasing away the last of his frustration. He nuzzled his cheek against your leg, his earlier tension melting into contented affection. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, his voice a satisfied hum. “You can call it whatever you want, princess. Imprint. Fate. Werewolf aphrodisiac. But you feel this, too. And I’m not going anywhere.” He closed his eyes, his breathing evening out, as if the entire argument had simply been a temporary storm, and he was already home, anchored securely in your harbor.
You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, the heat of his body pressing into you like a living furnace. Jacob's words hung in the air, that smug certainty wrapping around you tighter than his arms. He wasn't wrong..you did feel it, that pull, that undeniable spark that ignited every time he touched you. But admitting it out loud? That was a bridge you weren't ready to cross, not with the imprint hanging over everything like some cosmic decree.
Before you could muster a retort, Jacob's hands slid up your sides, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants with deliberate intent. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unyielding, a predatory glint flashing through them. "You wanna play games with labels, princess? Fine. But I'm gonna remind you exactly why you don't need 'em." His voice was a low growl, laced with that cocky edge that always sent a shiver racing down your spine.
"Jake-!" you started, but he cut you off with a firm shake of his head, his grip tightening as he tugged your pants down in one swift motion, exposing your bare skin to the cool air of the living room. No underwear, lazy evening habit that now left you vulnerable under his stare. He tossed the fabric aside, his large hands immediately parting your thighs, settling his broad shoulders between them like he owned the space.
"Shh," he murmured, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he nuzzled closer, inhaling deeply. "You smell like you need this. Wet already, aren't you? Thinking about all those times I've made you scream my name." His lips brushed the sensitive skin there, teasing, not quite touching where you ached most. That possessive rumble vibrated through him, his fingers digging into your hips to hold you still.
Your breath hitched, a protest dying on your lips as his mouth finally descended. His tongue flicked out, flat and broad, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, tasting you from entrance to clit. The sensation hit like lightning, hot, insistent, pulling a gasp from your throat. Jacob hummed in approval, the sound sending vibrations straight to your core. "Fuck, yeah," he muttered against you, his words muffled as he dove in deeper, his tongue circling your clit with expert pressure.
He wasn't gentle about it. Jacob ate you out like a man starved, his lips sucking hard on your swollen nub while his tongue thrust inside you, mimicking what he'd do with his cock later. One hand slid up to pinch and roll your nipple through your sweater, the dual assault making your back arch off the couch. You tangled your fingers in his hair again, not pulling him away this time, but urging him on despite yourself.
"That's it, baby," he growled between licks, his free hand spreading you wider, two thick fingers pushing into your pussy without warning. He curled them just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "Feel how you're clenching around me? This pussy knows who it belongs to. Not some bullshit imprint..it's you wanting my mouth, my fingers, my everything."
The pressure built fast, his cocky words fueling the fire as much as his actions. He sucked your clit harder, fingers pumping in and out with wet, obscene sounds that filled the room. Your thighs trembled, squeezing his head, but he didn't let up, his grip bruising as he held you open for his assault. "Come on, princess. Come for me. Show me how much you need this."
You quickly came with a loud cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Jacob didn't stop, his tongue lapped at you through it, drawing out every spasm, fingers still thrusting deep until you were a quivering mess. He pulled back just enough to watch your face, lips glistening with your arousal, that triumphant smirk firmly in place. "One down. But we're not done. Not even close."
Before you could catch your breath, he was back at it, his mouth relentless. This time, he focused on your entrance, tongue fucking into you while his thumb rubbed firm circles over your oversensitive clit. The overstimulation bordered on too much, your hips bucking involuntarily, but Jacob pinned you down with his weight, his free hand splaying across your stomach. "Stay still," he ordered, voice rough with desire. "I'm gonna make you soak this couch before I let you up. Prove to you that you can't run from this. From us. From me."
His fingers joined his tongue again, three this time, stretching you as he scissored them inside, hitting every nerve. He alternated sucking your clit with long, dragging licks, building you up again with that unyielding rhythm. Sweat beaded on your skin, the room spinning as the second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first. You moaned his name, loud, broken..your walls fluttering around his fingers as you gushed against his mouth.
Jacob groaned, lapping it all up like it was his reward, his cock straining against his jeans but ignored for now. He was focused, possessive, determined to wring every drop of doubt from you. "Look at you, coming undone for me again. That's my girl. Mine." He kissed your thigh, nipping the skin lightly before returning to your core, slower this time, teasing your clit with feather-light flicks until you were begging.
"Jake, please... I can't-" But you could, and he knew it. His tongue delved deep once more, fingers thrusting in tandem, his other hand slipping under your sweater to knead your breast, pinching the nipple until it ached. The third build was torturous, drawn out, his eyes flicking up to watch you writhe. "Yes, you can. One more, princess. Give me one more, and I'll fuck you senseless after. Show me you're as hooked as I am."
It hit like a tidal wave, your body seizing as you screamed, pleasure bordering on pain in its intensity. Jacob finally eased off, kissing your trembling thighs as you came down, his arms wrapping around you once more. He pulled you into his lap, your head against his chest, his erection pressing hot and hard against your ass. "Told you," he whispered, cocky satisfaction dripping from every word. "No labels needed when your body's screaming the truth. But if you want me to stop pretending... just say the word. I'm yours, y/n. All in." His hands stroked your back, warm and grounding, the storm of tension between you shifting into something deeper, more undeniable.
His words lingered, heavy with that cocky promise, as his hands roamed your body, slipping under your sweater to shove it up and over your head. The cool air hit your bare skin, but Jacob's heat chased it away immediately, his mouth latching onto your breast. He sucked hard on your nipple, teeth grazing the peak while his tongue swirled around it, drawing a fresh moan from your lips. You were still sensitive from before, every touch amplified, but you didn't push him away, instead, your fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him closer.
"See?" he murmured against your skin, switching to the other nipple, biting down just enough to make you gasp. "Your body's begging for more. No more bullshit about what we are." He pulled back, eyes dark with hunger, and yanked his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest and abs, skin flushed and warm. His hands fumbled with his jeans next, shoving them down along with his boxers, his thick cock springing free, hard, veined, the tip already leaking pre-cum.
You couldn't help staring, heat pooling low in your belly again despite the exhaustion tugging at your limbs. Jacob noticed, of course, that smug grin spreading as he gripped your hips and lifted you effortlessly, positioning you over his lap. "Gonna fuck this doubt right out of you, princess," he growled, rubbing the head of his cock along your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. He didn't wait for permission..thrusting up hard, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
The stretch burned so good, your pussy clenching around his length as you cried out, nails raking down his back. He groaned, head falling back against the couch, but his grip on your ass was ironclad, guiding you down to meet every inch. "Fuck, you're tight. Always so fucking perfect for me." He started moving then, hips snapping up in a relentless rhythm, his cock pounding into you deep and fast. The couch creaked under the force, your breasts bouncing with each thrust as you rode him, chasing the friction.
One hand slid between you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles, syncing with his thrusts. The dual sensation had you spiraling quickly, walls fluttering around him as the pressure built. "That's it, come on my cock," he demanded, voice rough, free hand squeezing your breast, pinching the nipple. You shattered again, orgasm ripping through you, pussy milking him as you soaked his lap. Jacob didn't stop..he just fucked you through it, grunting with the effort to hold back his own release.
He flipped you suddenly, laying you back on the couch with him looming over you, never pulling out. His weight pinned you down, cock driving deeper in this new angle, hitting that spot inside that made your vision blur.
"Round two," he panted, lips crashing against yours in a messy kiss, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. He broke away to suck on your neck, marking the skin with bites and bruises, possessive as ever. "Gonna fill you up soon, but not yet. Want you screaming again."
You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him on, the earlier conflict drowned out by the raw need. His pace quickened, balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks, the room filled with the sounds of skin on skin and your shared moans. He reached down, fingers digging into your thigh to spread you wider, allowing him to grind against your clit with every plunge.
The build was slower this time, but no less intense, your body trembled, oversensitive, until you came again, harder, your pussy spasming so tight it nearly pushed him out.
Jacob cursed, pulling out just in time to stroke himself, hot ropes of cum painting your stomach and breasts. He collapsed half on top of you, breathing ragged, but his hand stayed between your legs, fingers sliding back inside your dripping pussy to keep you full. "Not done," he whispered, kissing your shoulder as he caught his breath. Minutes later, he was hard again, imprint perks, you guessed..and he rolled you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up.
"Ass up, princess," he ordered, slapping your cheek lightly before spreading you open. His cock nudged your entrance, then pushed in slow, savoring the way you arched and whimpered. He fucked you from behind now, one hand fisting your hair to pull your head back, the other rubbing your clit. The angle let him go deeper, stretching you around his girth, each thrust jolting you forward. "Feel that? Every inch is mine. You're mine."
You pushed back against him, meeting his rhythm, the third round blurring into a haze of pleasure. He leaned over you, chest to your back, biting your earlobe as he pounded harder. Fingers pinched your clit, rolling it until you were sobbing his name, orgasm crashing over you once more, your pussy gushing around him, drenching his thighs. Jacob followed this time, thrusting deep and holding, flooding your insides with his cum, hot and thick.
He stayed buried inside you, both of you panting, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him as he softened. The living room smelled of sex, the couch a mess beneath you, but Jacob just nuzzled your neck, content. "Told you I'd go all night," he murmured, cocky even in exhaustion.
But then, headlights pierced the windows, the rumble of Charlie's cruiser pulling into the driveway. Jacob froze. "Shit," he whispered, pulling out carefully, cum leaking down your thighs. He grabbed the blanket, tossing it over you both as he scrambled for his clothes, shoving them on haphazardly.
The front door creaked open moments later. "Y/N? You still up?" Charlie's voice echoed from the hall, keys jingling.
"Yeah, Dad! Just... watching TV," you called back, voice shaky, pulling the blanket tighter around your naked form. Jacob smirked, mouthing 'close call' as he ducked behind the couch, silent and still. Your heart raced, the afterglow shattered, but the heat in his eyes promised this wasn't over, not by a long shot.
Y'all is the twilight fandom still alive for me to post this 💔 i gotta let everyone know this was my day one fine shyt.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like thatand your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mum would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windscreen.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
The first time Simon sees you, you’re halfway up a mechanic’s chest and tearing him to pieces.
“You had one job,” you snap, voice cutting through the hangar like a blade. “One. And you still managed to screw it up so badly I’m wondering if you did it on purpose.”
The man—built, older, clearly outranking you in everything but nerve—doesn’t even try to argue.
Because you don’t let him.
You step closer, boots loud against the concrete, chin tipped up like you’re staring down a giant instead of barely reaching his shoulder.
“I don’t care what rank you think protects you,” you continue, quieter now—worse, somehow. “If that bird fails out of the air because of your laziness, I will personally make sure your career ends in a broom closet.”
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
A few heads turn. No one interferes.
From across the hangar, Ghost watches.
Still.
Silent.
Hooked.
There’s something wrong with him, he knows that. Always has been. What he endured growing up and years of war don’t leave a man right. But this—this sharp-tongued, five-foot menace dressing down grown men like they’re nothing—
Christ.
His fingers twitch at his sides.
You don’t even raise your voice again. You just look at the mechanic, unimpressed, like he’s already beneath you.
“Fix it,” you say flatly. “Or get replaced.”
Then you turn on your heel and walk off like the entire world should part for you.
Ghost exhales slowly behind his mask.
“Who’s that?” Soap mutters beside him, equal parts impressed and terrified.
Ghost doesn’t answer right away.
Because he’s still watching you.
Every step. Every sharp movement. The way you don’t hesitate, don’t soften, don’t care.
“…mine.” he says finally, voice low enough that Soap almost misses it.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You don’t notice him at first.
Why would you?
He’s just another soldier in a mask, another shadow in a place full of them.
And you don’t waste your time on shadows.
The first time he speaks to you, it’s because you’re arguing again.
“—if you send me that report one more time with missing data, I will assume you’re illiterate and act accordingly.”
“I am your superior—”
“And I do not care,” you cut in instantly. “Fix it.”
There’s a pause.
Then, from behind you—
“Bit harsh, aren’t you?”
You turn.
Slow.
Measured.
Your eyes land on him—tall, broad, skull mask staring back at you like something out of a horror flick.
You don’t flinch.
You don’t hesitate.
You don’t even blink.
“…and you are?” you ask, flat and unimpressed.
Ghost—Simon—feels something snap pleasantly in his chest.
God.
You don’t know him.
You don’t even care.
You’re looking at him like he’s just another problem waiting to be dismissed.
“Ghost.” he says.
You hum, like that means absolutely nothing to you.
“Great,” you reply. “Then you can mind your business, Ghost.”
And you turn your back on him.
Just like that.
He’s done for.
Completely.
Utterly.
Gone.
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It starts small.
He notices things.
The way you take your coffee—black, no sugar, always too hot.
The way you pinch the bridge of your nose when you’re irritated (which is often).
The fact that no one touches you—no casual brushes, no friendly pats on the back—because you’d probably bite their hand off.
Good.
That suits him just fine.
He doesn’t touch you either.
Not yet.
But he stands closer than necessary.
Speaks to you more than he needs to.
Finds excuses.
“You missed a detail in your report.” he tells you once.
You snatch it from his hand, scanning it.
“…no I didn’t.”
“You did.” he replies calmly.
A beat.
You squint at it.
“…oh.”
Silence.
Then you look back at him, narrowing your eyes.
“…don’t get used to being right.”
Ghost feels something dangerously close to a smile pull at his mouth under the mask.
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The others notice.
Of course they do.
“L.T.’s gone soft.” Soap whispers one day.
“Not soft..” Gaz mutters back, watching as Ghost silently sets a fresh cup of coffee down beside you before you even ask. “Worse.”
“Obsessed.”
You still don’t give him much.
A glance here. A clipped response there.
Sometimes you let him stand near you without telling him to piss off.
Sometimes.
And for Ghost?
It’s everything.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The shift happens on a bad day.
Everything’s gone wrong.
Reports missing. Equipment delayed. Someone incompetent breathing too close to your oxygen supply.
By the time Ghost finds you, you’re alone—finally—but you’re pacing, jaw tight, hands clenched.
“Problem?” he asks quietly.
“Several,” you snap, not even looking at him. “All fixable if people weren’t useless.”
He hums.
Steps closer.
You don’t tell him to stop.
That’s new.
“They bothering you?” he asks.
You scoff. “They bother me by existing.”
A pause.
Then, softer—sharper in a different way—
“…I don’t need help.”
“I know.” he says.
You finally look at him.
There’s something in your expression—not soft, never that—but tired. Frayed at the edges.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it.”
You stare at him like you’re trying to figure him out.
Like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for.
“…you’re weird.” you decide.
“Been called worse.”
Another pause.
Then you sigh—short, annoyed—and scrub a hand over your face.
“…fine,” you mutter. “You can stay. Just don’t talk.”
Ghost nods his head.
Steps into your space.
Stays.
From then on It’s over for everyone else.
Because Simon Riley—silent, deadly, untouchable Ghost—
is yours.
He brings you coffee without asking.
Stands behind you like a wall when you’re tearing someone apart.
Fixes problems before they reach you.
And if anyone dares to speak to you out of line?
They don’t make that mistake twice.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
One day, you finally ask him.
“Why are you always around?”
He looks at you.
Really looks.
And for a second, something raw slips through the cracks.
“Because I want to be.”
You narrow your eyes.
Suspicious.
“…that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A long pause.
Then—
“…weird..” you repeat.
But you don’t tell him to leave.
And Ghost?
He’s never been so completely, irrevocably owned in his life.
summary: on the worst fourth of july of your career, you suddenly hear that Jack has been hurt
word count: 3k
cw: a little bit angsty and a lot of fluff/flirt, thinking about death, mentioning THAT character's death
a/n: took me three days to write this, had a little mental breakdown and an imposter syndrome but hey! i'm fine now (thanks again to my wife for proofreading)
❤︎ Thank you so much for reading! (and please comment if you want to be tagged for the next parts)
You hated fourth of July shifts.
They were filled with fireworks injuries, drunk men staring at the space where their fingers used to be, children flushed and trembling, forgotten in the heat by their distracted parents and other heatstroke victims collapsing on sidewalks. It was always the same bunch of disasters.
But this one…
This one was the worst fourth of July since you became a nurse. Louie had died. The word still felt wrong in your mouth, dead, dead, dead. The bed where he should have been had been stripped, disinfected, remade and a new patient had been rolled in within half an hour. The sound of his laugh had been replaced by someone else’s breathing, someone else’s pain. Someone who wasn’t Louie.
The world hadn’t paused to let you grief.
And Langdon came back. You had rehearsed apologies in your head since the beginning of the shift (long before that if you were honest to yourself). I’m sorry Lang. Sorry that you think that our friendship existed until your situation became serious. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls. That I didn’t call back. We were friends. We still are, if you accept. I’m the one who failed you. But when he stood there in front of you, the words refused to surface. There was always a patient waiting, something more urgent than your own guilt.
And as if all of that was not enough, the department had been gifted Oglivie. You were fairly certain that this guy was the incarnation of Satan on earth, sent to test the limits of everyone’s patience and to destroy all of you, Dennis first.
So yes, you fucking hated fourth of July shifts.
And it was only just noon.
──────────
You were halfway through inserting an IV into someone’s arm in the hallway (because of course, there were no beds left) when Robby appeared beside you, waiting for you to finish and standing there, hands in his jacket’s pockets. That never meant anything good. It reminded you too much of the day he told you about the pills in Langdon’s locker. Of the day he told you he was going to leave for three months away on his motorcycle like it was casual and not something that made you and Jack consider slashing the tires.
“What?” you asked, tone clipped, still focused on the vein.
“You’re going to hear this from someone, kid,” he said quietly. “So I’d rather it be me.”
Your stomach dropped before your brain could catch up, a sickening sensation spreading through your body, like his words had pulled all the warmth out of your blood at once. Robby must have seen you pale, because he immediately added:
“Jack’s fine, but…”
Your pulse felt like detonation in your ears. “But what?”
“There was a call from his SWAT team,” Robby said, choosing his words carefully as you finished securing the IV. “Some shots were fired in a house and he brought one of them in. Pretty bad shape but he’s gonna make it.”
“Is he hurt?” you asked, trying to stay controlled, professional.
“Minor. Something near his shoulder, but…he wouldn’t let anyone look at it until his guy was stabilized.”
Of course he didn’t.
Of course Jack Abbot fucking didn’t.
Your hands dropped from the patient’s arm, finally turning fully toward your attending.
I want to see him Robby. I need to. I have to make sure he’s okay.
“Where is he?” you questioned instead.
“Trauma five.”
You nodded once, with a muttered “Thanks Robby,” before walking toward there, stripping off the gloves you were still wearing and tossing them into the nearest bin.
You didn’t run. No, worse: you couldn’t run. Running was for codes, meaning that someone was dying. Jack is not coding, Jack is okay, he is fine, that’s what Robby says. That it’s minor. Minor. Fuck, how I hate that word. Minor compared to what? To a body bag?
Your throat tightened as you continued to walk, each step feeling too heavy, like the floor was trying to swallow your legs. You forced your breathing to steady. Inhale. Exhale.
If he were critical, Dana would have made sure the code could be heard by everyone in the hospital. If he were unstable, Princess would have ran up to me. If he were dying…No.
Your hand brushed the wall as you turned the corner towards the room, your fingertips against the cold surface to ground yourself, to confirm that the building was still solid beneath your fingers.
You had to get in there and confirm with your own eyes that he was still breathing and alive, because you couldn’t survive being the one standing in a room and hear Robby say, ‘We did everything we could,’ knowing that Jack’s bed would soon get stripped, disinfected and remade.
You pulled the curtain open and for one brief suspended second, your heart stopped. Not because of what was there, but what could have been there.
It was him. Just him, sitting on the edge of the bed, still entirely dressed up and his hands braced on his knees like he had been waiting, waiting for me? He looked up the second the curtain moved, his hazel eyes locking onto yours.
He is here. Alive. Breathing. He is not being open on a table, not flatlining. I am not gonna see him being zipped into a body bag today.
You stepped inside, closing the curtain behind you, sealing the two of you away from the loud noises of the ER even just for a few minutes.
“Take it off,” you ordered, refusing to let any weakness slip into your voice.
“Hey, sunshine.”
“The vest, the shirt. Don’t make me repeat myself, Jack.”
A faint corner of his mouth twitched despite the circumstances. “Yes, ma’am.”
He reached for the straps first, his movements slowed by the adrenaline leaving his system, the vest ending up on the chair with a heavy thud. Then, he caught the hem of his black shirt and pulled it over his head.
Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare.
His chest was broad, muscles still defined from his years as a soldier and maintained by the whole SWAT ordeal and…fucking tanned, is that what happens when you do the night shift? You get to know what it’s like to feel the sun on your face?
You stepped behind him, checking the aspect of the wound among the lighter scratches. “Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t planning to, specially if you have scalpels nearby. Wouldn’t want to scrape this body.”
You pulled on fresh gloves, rolling your eyes. Up close, you realized that it was shallow: a long red abrasion near the shoulder blade and no blood pouring out of it. That meant no need for stitches, just cleaning, disinfecting, patching and giving a few instructions that Jack would absolutely ignore.
“You’re lucky,” you muttered, pouring saline slowly over the wound, running down his back in thin rivulets and washing away the dried blood.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Funny.”
You focused on the scrape, on dragging the gauze carefully over the torn skin and pressing it down firmly, that’s what I know by heart, to care and to heal, I could do this in my sleep: pressure, clean, protect. if only everything were that simple.
“How’s the officer?” you asked after a moment, forcing your voice to settle into a normal conversation rather than speaking about the abyss of desperation you had spiraled into all the way up to this room.
“Stable,” he replied. “The bullet entered through the neck but I intubated him on scene and I don’t think there’ll be major damage.”
Your fingers paused briefly before resuming. “That’s…that’s good.”
“It is. Officer Hiro is a good man.”
You taped the dressing down carefully, smoothing the edges with your fingertips longer than would be necessary.
“There,” you breathed, stepping back in front of him. “You’ll live.”
That was when the feeling hit you again. The fear. The images of what could have been: the version of this room where he wasn’t sitting on the edge of the bed, the version where you were outside the curtain, listening - or worse, inside it, handing the instruments to Robby, checking the vitals, bringing the defibrillator closer, hearing yourself ask ‘time of death?’ like it wasn’t also yours. The version where you promised everything you had if they would just let him stay, the one where you followed the casket down into Earth because if his body went still, you were certain that something in yours would stop answering too.
He saw it. You didn’t know how, maybe something in your face had shifted or maybe he noticed that you weren’t entirely there, your focus still somewhere past him and the present.
“Hey,” he said softly, but you couldn’t reply.
You were still in that other version of the room, I need another blood bag, clear, we’re losing him, time of death?
His hand came up slowly, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. “Sunshine.”
That pulled you back enough, your throat trying to swallow a thick ache that wouldn’t quite pass. Without a word, he guided your hand until your palm pressed flat against his chest. Right over his heart, where you felt it immediately: the steady rhythm, the most perfect, fucking stubborn cycle of thuds you ever heard.
He covered your hand with his, keeping them both there, where each beat was dragging you further and further away from the other room, he’s not flatlining, he’s okay, I won’t have to hear silence where his heart should be.
“Still here, okay?” he murmured carefully.
“Don’t…Jack,” you sniffled.
He rose slowly from the edge of the bed, not letting your hand slip from his chest as he stood, leaning forward to rest his forehead gently against yours while his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a repetitive motion. “I’m here,” he said again.
“I know,” you whispered, trying to calm your uneven breaths, to focus on the brush of his breath against your skin and the unmistakable sounds beneath your palms, alive, alive, alive, the word pulsing with each heartbeat.
After a few moments of quiet, he smiled. “I liked this morning.”
You let out a disbelieving breath. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“I’m very serious,” he replied, pulling back just enough to properly look at you before continuing, softer, “I was in the ambulance and all I could think about was how nice it had been to wake up next to you.”
You blinked at him. “While you were holding pressure on someone’s neck?”
“I can multitask,” he shrugged with the smallest smug smile at the corner of his lips before brushing a loose strand of hair away with the back of his fingers. “And I also thought about last night.”
Heat crept up your cheeks. “Jack.”
“And about…” he murmured, his fingers trailing from your hair to the nape of your neck, his thumb lingering just under your ear, “how I had to keep my shirt on until it was you checking me. Wouldn’t want to explain to Robby how I got those little marks and how his very professional and very sweet nurse is absolutely not that sweet in the sheets.”
Your eyes widened.
He tilted his head slightly, studying the way the redness spread along your neck, his gaze dragging slowing over your face. “But more like…” he continued, voice dropping lower, “a feral cat with very sharp claws.”
You swatted his arm, mortified and glancing toward the curtain. “You’re insufferable!”
“What?” he asked innocently, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“You cannot say things like that in here!” you grumbled.
“Well…you’re the one who started, telling me to take my clothes off the second you walked in.”
“That was on a purely profe-”
Before you could finish your sentence, he leaned in, closing the small space between you, his lips finding yours as his hand moved from your neck to cradle the side of your face, thumb slowly caressing your cheek and silencing the whole ER. You felt the exhale he released into the kiss, almost a sigh as your hand moved from his heartbeat to cling on his shoulder.
When he finally pulled back, he kept his forehead close to yours.
“You were saying?”
You blinked at him, words gone entirely from your tingling lips, like he had just wiped your mind clean.
“That it was…purely professional?” he supplied, his smugness slipping back into his tone now that he seemed to understand that the sadness in your eyes had eased.
“Yes,” you replied, clearing your throat. “Exactly. And…anyone could walk in here.”
You stepped back a little, smoothing down the front of your scrub top while he looked at you, one eyebrow slightly lifted.
“Sunshine.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted, lowering your voice. “We’re not…official to the service. And we,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, “are not a public spectacle for our colleagues. Between HR who will become a nightmare, Zidan who will start betting pools about how long this lasts and Princess and Perlah sharing it to the whole department before…”
He sat back on the bed, arms folding across his bare chest, looking way too amused as he watched you unravel, which would definitely be easier if he could just put. a shirt. on. seriously, is that too much to ask? there really is no god above or at least none who has mercy on you.
“You can’t just…” you waved your hand, frustrated, “do this in the middle of a trauma bay.”
“Do what?” he asked mildly.
“This!” You gestured again, to his torso.
He glanced down at himself, then back up at you. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Put a shirt on!”
“I thought you liked the view,” he smirked. “Isn’t it what you begged for last night?”
You closed your eyes, sighing. “Where is your shirt?”
“Took a spare in my locker. It’s on the chair.”
You turned towards the corner where the vest had been dropped, the spare shirt folded neatly with it.
“You could have put this on when I finished the bandage,” you muttered, grabbing it.
“I was enjoying the lecture.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, before handing it to him, earning a “Thanks ma’am” as he, careful of the fresh dressing, pulled it over his head.
You gave him a once over, folding your arms, am I…starting to act like him? is that what’s happening? is this how it works? the more time you spend with someone the more you become insufferable like them?
“Better.”
“Disappointed?” he asked lightly.
“Oh immensely, Doctor Abbot,” you replied sarcastically, rolling your eyes okay, no, I’m definitely starting to sound like him, no wonder Dana and Robby are looking at me like I’ve been body-snatched. “How will I survive without the view?”
“I’ll file a complaint to the HR,” he smirked. “What an unacceptable loss of morale from a nurse to an attending.”
“You…” you sighed, stepping closer to adjust the collar of his shirt. “You are a nightmare, you know that?”
“And yet you keep me.”
You inhaled through your nose, trying very hard not to smile. “That is still under review.”
His grin widened as you continued: “Now, stay sit on the bed. Ten minutes. I want to make sure that you don’t get dizzy.”
“Noted.”
“And no more comments about last night in here.”
“Also noted.”
“And keep down the…smirking,” you finished, pointing at his face.
“That one might be more difficult to control.”
“Try.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You folded your arms, giving him a stern look that most definitely betrayed your fondness, hey you know what? let’s have sex Jack. like…right now, on this gurney, in a room where I thought I’d find you dead. no, I’m not insane, just very grateful that you are alive.
“Good. Now if you don’t mind Doctor Abbot, I have other patients to check on.”
He gave you a slow, exaggerated nod. “Of course. Wouldn’t dream of monopolizing such…invaluable hands.”
You stared at him. “I should be the one complaining to HR.”
He pressed his lips together, though the amusement was still written all over his face.
You turned toward the curtain but paused with your hand on the edge of it, staring at the thin strip of hallway visible through the gap.
“Jack?”
He looked up immediately, all smugness and teasing gone from his voice at the tone of yours. “Yes?”
You didn’t turn fully back around, cause if you did, you were fairly certain that the words would spill out of your mouth without your permission.
“I…” you stopped and tried again. “I wanted you to know that I…”
“Hey.”
The softness in his voice made you finally look at him: he had stood up again and stepped closer, his fingers wrapping delicately around your wrist before lifting it up and pressing a soft kiss to the inside of it. “You don’t need to,” he whispered gently. “We have time, you and I. And you don’t have to tell me today, not if it’s because you were scared, okay?”
You nodded, a quiet, “Okay,” slipping out.
“Now go,” he added, brushing his thumb over your pulse once last time. “Before someone wonders why you’ve been gone this long for a graze on the back of an attending doctor.”
You huffed a breath, pulling the curtain open. “As long as you stay exactly where I left you. Which is on the bed. For still…” you glanced at an imaginary watch on your wrist, “…six more minutes. Five, if you promise to behave.”
