synopsis: when tashi duncan sends a dinner invitation, nobody declines. that includes you, her former flame and best friend, and your husband, patrick. a very awkward reunion over dinner ensues when past feelings resurface.
tags: 18+ mdni, features artashi/patashi/artrick (& all of them x reader), brief breast/nipple play, f!receiving oral, foreplay & lots of making out, dom!tashi through most of it, bratty!reader, everybody wants to fuck each other, mostly tashi x reader bc i'm yuripilled
wordcount: 9.2k words
notes: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! was very glad to be able to revisit these evil bisexual idiots. dynamics are a lot harder to write when it's a foursome buttt this is what you get take it or leave it :P & i’d like to apologise for edging you with the last scene but i’m sure i’ll circle back to this eventually so they can all fuck nasty in peace <3 i have drafts for a few more flashbacks that didn’t make the final cut bc this has been in my drafts for months so if you want any of those maybe i’ll clean them up and post them at some point. all of this taking place at dinner and i dont mention food once... alright
VALENTINE’S DAY at a place like this is either very romantic or a very bad idea. There is no in-between.
The restaurant you find yourself at is polished within an inch of its life: floors gleaming, glasses so thin you’re already nervous to hold them wrong, and candles flickering in little gold halos in front of couples that make them look more in love than they probably are.
You wonder distantly if that’s the point.
You’re acutely aware of your husband’s hand resting on the small of your back as the hostess leads you through a maze of white tablecloths. He’s dressed up for once in a rented two piece suit. The tie you picked out for him rests in the passenger seat of his Honda CR-V, hastily torn off before you exited the car because “I’m not a fucking priss, babe. This makes me look stupid.”
Not a priss, he said, right before leading you into a restaurant that neither of you can afford to dine in with a couple that neither of you should be seeing.
“Breathe,” Patrick murmurs into your ear.
You don’t realise you haven’t been until you try. Your chest feels tight, like you’ve just spent twenty minutes running laps instead of sitting in your car to hype yourself up. It was your idea to say yes, so you refuse to let him know you’re panicking to avoid some petty jab about being a pussy over dinner.
You could have declined. You could have laughed and told Tashi you had plans. You could have pretended that spending Valentine’s Day with your husband’s ex-girlfriend—who is also your ex-girlfriend—and your own ex-boyfriend—who is now her husband—wasn’t some kind of elaborate emotional suicide mission.
Instead, you’re here, ready to face the guillotine. And isn’t this about to be a shitshow?
You see them immediately. They’re settled in a corner booth that somehow manages to feel both intimate and exposed to all the eyes in the room. Art Donaldson is not what you remember from college. He looks like he belongs here now, in a navy suit with a crisp collar and posture so straight you have to force yourself to stand taller to match it.
It hurts to look at him, akin to the way it’d feel to press on an old bruise to check if it still hurts.
It does, your brain adds helpfully.
Tashi sits next to him. You almost laugh, because of course she looks like that. You’ve seen her on magazines, TV screens, every social media platform you own, but the severe cut of her hair now makes your footsteps falter. She looks older. More mature than the young prodigy you used to giggle with in her dorm bed. Her dress is dark with an elegant cut, and you catch a glimpse of those long legs beneath the table, the strap of her heel glinting under the cloth.
For a second, you’re seventeen again, standing across the net from her and trying not to flinch when she smiles like she already knows exactly how the match is going to play out. You hate that your stomach still flips.
The most notable thing about them all—even if you have to squint to see it from this distance—is the matching wedding bands on their hands. You twist your own subconsciously. It’s a beautiful ring. Patrick managed to convince his father into giving it to him somehow. It still doesn’t feel like it’s enough to scream married couple when your husband is glancing around the room to eye the cleavage of the women you pass.
You force a smile on your face. It’s fine. He’s fine. You’re fine.
Art looks up at first, his smile faltering when his eyes find the pair of you. The crack in the polish lasts a microsecond before he rises to his feet to offer you a greeting. “Hey.”
Patrick’s hand tightens against your back as you stop in front of the table.
“Hey,” you echo, forcing something light into your voice. “Happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi’s mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Bold choice,” she says. “A double date.”
You laugh, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? “Your idea.”
“Yes,” she says smoothly. “It was.”
You sit. Patrick pulls your chair out for you, and you can’t remember the last time he’s done that without being prompted. You know he’s auditioning for Husband of the Year purely because of your company, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. Art waits until you’re both settled before taking his seat again.
Two married couples. Four people who have, at various points in their lives, slept in each other’s beds; whispered promises; thrown rackets and said things that can’t be unsaid.
The waiter appears and Tashi orders two bottles of wine. Something red—you don’t recognise the name, only that it sounds fancy enough that it has to be excessive (and way too expensive for your bank account.) But you have a feeling you’re going to need it.
The first ten minutes are polite. Too polite.
“How’s the tour?” Art asks Patrick.
“Fine,” he shrugs dismissively. “Nothing glamorous. Mostly challengers. You know.”
The word lingers between you all. Challengers. While Tashi has managed to make a household name out of Donaldson, your husband is still playing challengers. You almost snort.
Tashi’s gaze flicks to you, sharp but curious. “And you?”
“Coaching some juniors,” you say. “Playing some smaller events when I feel like it.”
You don’t mention it’s because you can’t afford it consistently. For the most part, rent falls on you when Patrick is halfway across the country. Coaching keeps you both afloat.
There’s the faintest twitch in her jaw. She doesn’t say it aloud, but you know why: you’re coaching of your own volition while it’s the path that the universe thrust unfairly upon her. Your stomach twists guiltily.
She tilts her head slightly. “Not playing seriously?” The words are mild, but the implication isn’t.
You force yourself to hold her gaze. “Depends what you mean by serious.”
“I heard you had a good run last spring,” Art says, stepping in the way he used to when things got too heated. You manage a grateful smile in his direction. “Charleston?”
He’s been paying attention. You don’t know how to feel about that.
“Semis,” you confirm. “I lost, though.”
Tashi’s fingers tighten around her glass and your stomach sinks. God, you hate that you still want her approval.
“To who?” Patrick asks, though you know he knows the answer—he’d been there, after all. He just wants to hear you say it. You don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Tough draw,” you say instead. Tashi’s mouth curves slightly and you know she can see right through you. “Everyone played well.”
Art offers you a reassuring smile. It almost makes up for the scoff Tashi is biting back. The waiter arrives with the wine, sparing you from elaborating any further. You practically gulp down your first glass.
By the time you’ve all started on the second, the edges of restraint begin to blur, polished facades falling away. Art has loosened his tie, posture softened. Tashi’s shoulders have grown less rigid, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind her. Patrick’s hand rests loosely over your knee, thumb ghosting along the bone absently as he recounts some disastrous afterparty in Cincinnati. His version of events is so dramatic you wonder if he even remembers you were there to know otherwise.
You aren’t really listening, anyways. You’re focused on the way Art is looking at you. His expression is hard to read—not quite longing, nor regret. It’s something softer you can’t quite put your finger on.
Whatever it is makes you feel uncomfortable enough to remember the last time he was in your dorm all those years ago. You can picture it perfectly.
APRIL 8TH, 2007
Your room feels too crowded to have an argument in.
It barely feels big enough for the two of you when things are good. When Art would sit cross-legged on your bed with his back against the wall, trainers kicked off, explaining some minute adjustment to your backhand while you pretended to listen. When you’d steal his hoodie and argue it fit you better. When you’d both pretend you weren’t exhausted from practice just to stretch the night out a little longer.
“How is she?” You ask. You didn’t mean to open with that, but there it is.
He sighs, standing in front of your desk. The distance between you feels cavernous. “Rehab started yesterday.”
“I know.”
Of course you know. Everyone does. It was all around campus, and all over the tennis network. Commentators were using words like devastating and tragic and career-altering. You can still hear the sound it made before she tumbled to the floor when you close your eyes, that piercing scream ringing out over the court.
“She’s in pain,” he continues. “They’re saying at least nine months minimum before she can even think about competing.”
Nine months. That’s a lifetime in sports.
“And?” You prompt.
“And she’s not taking it well.”
You almost laugh at that. No shit. Tashi had been built on momentum. She was always moving, always doing something, and now she can’t even walk without crutches.
“I’ve been over there most nights.”
“I know,” you repeat.
“You know?”
“I’m not stupid, Art.”
He shifts his weight, defensive already. You hate that you can already see it coming. “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he deflects.
You lift your gaze to him. “You’ve been busy.”
“That’s not fair.”
You let out a slow breath through your nose. “What part?”
He frowns. “I can’t just disappear on her because you’re feeling insecure.”
There it was. “Insecure?” You repeat incredulously.
“Yes. Insecure!”
You stand up quickly. “That’s what you think this is?”
“I think you’re making this about you.” Your chest tightens at the accusation. “Her career just imploded,” he continues, voice raising slightly. “She might never come back the same. And you’re upset that I’m helping her?”
“I’m not upset that you’re helping her.”
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m upset that it’s like I’m not even there anymore!”
“What?”
“You act like it, Art.”
“That’s not true—“
“Yes it is!”
“You’re imagining things.”
You hate that phrase. You have to fight the urge to just storm out of your own dorm at those words alone. “I watched you at the hospital,” you continue quietly. His mouth presses into a thin line. “You didn’t even realise I’d left.”
He looks away. “I thought you went to call your coach.”
“Yeah, I did. After I left.”
Art exhales sharply. “She was coming out of anesthesia.”
“I know.”
“She was scared.”
“I know.”
“She asked for me.”
“And you went,” you finish.
“What did you want me to do?” He asks, frustrated. “Ignore her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know! Just… just remember that I’m there, maybe?” It sounds childish even to your own ears, words smaller than they felt. You want to tell him he’s been a bad boyfriend for months. That he’s not as committed to this as you are, and his priorities lie elsewhere. But in your anguish, all you can do is sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum about not getting enough attention.
Art runs a hand through his hair, agitation creeping into his voice. “You’re acting like this is some sort of love triangle.”
“Isn’t it?” You stare at him.
“No!” He denies instantly, eyes flashing.
“It always has been, I think—“
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” You challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been waiting for an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“To go back. Patrick’s out of the picture. Why the fuck not?”
His expression hardens. “I was never with her. And he has nothing to do with this.”
Never with her. Not officially, sure, but you’ve seen the way they move around each other since starting at Stanford. There has always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Tashi was with Patrick, and Art struck up a relationship with you shortly after. But you’d be blind not to recognise there’s unfinished business there following the Junior Open.
“I’m not in love with her,” he adds.
You hold his gaze. “Say it again.”
“I’m not in love with her.”
“You’re lying,” you laugh, an ugly and bitter sound, shaking your head. “No. No, I’m losing you both. Oh my god.” You drag your hands over your face in frustration. You refuse to let him see you cry, but you can feel it building up.
“What?”
“You think this is about jealousy? I’m not that shallow, Art,” you say. “She hasn’t spoken to me since the surgery. She looks at me like I broke her knee myself.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
You’d gone to see her once, bringing flowers after her surgery. You remember trying to sit at the edge of her hospital bed like you used to sit on the floor of her dorm, legs tangled, talking about rankings and dreams and futures together. She’d barely uttered a word to you the entire time. The resentment had been suffocating.
“I can’t compete with an ACL tear, Art,” you say bitterly.
“You’re not competing.”
“I am! I’m always competing with her.”
“You’re twisting this because you want me to choose!”
“Yes.” It’s embarrassing to admit, but you are. Denying it would be futile. You love Tashi, maybe even more than he does, but you can’t put yourself through this any longer.
“I’m not doing that,” Art says, shaking his head. Your heart sinks, even though you expected that answer. “I’m not abandoning her.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon her.”
“You are.”
“No. No, I’m just asking you to tell me I matter more!”
“You do.”
“Then prove it for once!”
He falls silent. You can practically see the walls forming behind his eyes. The compartmentalizing and logic, trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation with both of you.
“You don’t trust me,” he says finally, and you hesitate, because you don’t know anymore. You want to trust him, but wanting can only go so far when he’s proven time and time again that she comes first. “That’s it.”
“That’s not it,” you say, trying desperately to salvage the results of an ultimatum you gave him.
“I can’t do this.”
“So- so, what? You’re breaking up with me, then?”
“I’m saying if you think so little of me—“
“This isn’t about thinking little of you,” you cut in. “But I know you, Art. And I know that if she was the one asking you to choose her right now, you would.” He doesn’t answer and you feel something inside you give way. “I can’t be second.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
“Then I will be. As soon as she asks.”
Silence swallows the room. Distantly, you hear someone laughing down the hallway, a door slamming, and life going on outside your room while you’re stuck going in circles with this conversation.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, like that could still fix it.
“I know.” That’s the worst part. You know he loves you. You also know he loves her, and the difference between those two loves is about to ruin everything.
“Maybe this is just bad timing,” he offers.
You stare at him in disbelief. As if timing is why Tashi got injured on the court. As if timing hadn’t just exposed every crack that had been forming in your relationship for months.
“Yeah,” you force out. “Maybe.”
Art turns towards the door. You see him pause, and for a second you think he might come back. Might close the distance and kiss you and promise something concrete, and finally just choose you for once in his life. But he doesn’t.
His hand rests on the doorway. “I never meant to hurt you,” he says meekly.
“I know.”
Art leaves anyway, the door clicking shut behind him. In the quiet of your too-small dorm room, you’re left to realise that Tashi’s injury hadn’t just torn her ACL. It had torn straight through the middle of you and Art, too.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
The memory dissolves like the sugar at the bottom of your wine glass. You down the rest of it. Art is still looking at you the same way he used to when he was trying to read your mind. You wonder what he sees now.
Regret? Guilt? Longing?
“God.” Patrick leans forward suddenly. “Remember when we were Fire and Ice?”
Art groans immediately, his gaze falling away from you. His cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Don’t.”
Tashi’s mouth curves upwards. “I liked it.”
“Of course you did,” Patrick says, ego stroked.
“It was juvenile,” Art says.
“Uh, no. It was cool,” Patrick corrects.
You watch them fall back into that old rhythm like muscle memory. For a moment, they don’t look like two grown men with mortgages and press obligations and complicated wives. They’re just like two boys in locker rooms, convincing themselves the world isn’t ready to see how they play.
“You guys were insufferable. The entire junior circuit hated you,” you chip in.
“The girls loved us!” Patrick protests.
“You loved the attention,” Tashi says.
“You ate it up, too,” you say, shaking your head at her. “The two of them orbiting you like idiots.”
Patrick grins. “We weren’t orbiting—“
“Yes, you were,” you and Tashi say at the same time. It earns a shared look between you, instinctive, the kind that used to happen across nets or over dorm beds. You swallow thickly. Art notices. His smile fades slightly.
“US juniors,” your husband continues obliviously. “That final was brutal.”
Tashi’s gaze shifts to you. “You almost had me.”
Almost. Like almost means shit in tennis. You remember the heat of it: screaming crowds, your legs trembling in the third set, the look of determination on her face opposite you.
“You broke me in the second. That was light work for you,” you say, injecting lightness into your voice.
“You let up,” she counters.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. You always got in your head playing me. You could beat anyone else, but every time I was across that net, you doubled under the pressure.”
Your chest tightens, and you force out a quiet laugh. “You’ve always thought that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Art clears his throat gently, sparing you. “I liked the afterparty.”
Patrick laughs loudly. “God, what a night.”
You remember it too vividly. Tashi’s blue dress on the dance floor, fingers brushing against yours, two sets of eyes following your every move.
“You two were practically chest-bumping over her,” you say, and you hate how bitter it comes out. You clear your throat, continuing lightly, “It was embarrassing to watch.”
“Competition,” Patrick smirks over the rim of his glass.
“It wasn’t like that,” Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.
His wife arches an amused brow. “No?”
He hesitates, and Patrick laughs again. “It was exactly like that.” There’s a beat of silence between you all, the memory hanging between you, before he braces his elbows on the table. “Remember what happened when we went back to the hotel?”
“Yeah. You knocked over an ice machine,” Art rolls his eyes.
Patrick waves a dismissive hand. “Irrelevant. I mean after.”
Your pulse ticks faster. “Wha happened after?”
Art closes his eyes briefly, because he knows where this is going. You’d made an excuse on the walk back from the beach. “I don’t want to be a part of your ego boost of a two-man, Tashi,” you’d laughed, shoving her up the path. “I’m too tired for that.”
“We kissed,” Patrick grins, lazy and unbothered. Art’s cheeks flush faintly red and Tashi catches your eye over the table.
“You what?” You say, feigning mild surprise.
Patric rolls his eyes. “Don’t act shocked. I bet she told you the morning after.”
“I’m not shocked,” you reply. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit it.”
Art exhales. “It wasn’t planned.”
Tashi’s lip twitches. “Nothing about that night was planned.”
“You didn’t seem mad about it,” Patrick says, looking at her.
“It was stupid,” Art adds.
“And then you all went to sleep?” You ask. Tashi stifles a snort into her wine glass.
“Yeah,” Patrick affirms.
You lean back into the booth. “That’s not what happened.”
Both men look at you, puzzled. Patrick’s hand squeezes your knee questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“I went to her room,” Tashi clarifies. She doesn’t look at either of them, gaze fixed on you.
Art blinks. “Her room?”
“What, to brag?” Patrick laughs uncertainly.
You shake your head. “She said she couldn’t sleep. Said the adrenaline wouldn’t come down.”
“What does that mean?” Art’s throat bobs. Patrick’s expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension.
“Art,” Tashi presses, sending him an amused look.
“What?”
SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2006
By the time the knock finally came, you’d half-convinced yourself she wasn’t going to show. Too busy with her new entertainment for the night while you were left to huff and puff over your loss alone, your second-place trophy glinting mockingly where it sat on the hotel dresser.
You recognise the two deliberate taps to your door immediately, shooting up out of bed like you haven’t been agonising over it for the last hour.
“Hi,” you say, trying not to sound breathless.
“Hi.” She leans against the doorway instead of walking in immediately. “Can I come in?” That part is new. Usually, she doesn’t ask. You step aside anyway.
She walks in slowly, eyes flicking curiously over the space. It feels like she’s already been here before. She has, sort of—different hotels, different rooms, the same agonisingly familiar pattern. By the end of the tournament, she’d always ended up in your bed at least once.
“You played well,” she says, like she hadn’t told you the same thing hours ago. She runs a lazy finger over your finalist trophy and you groan, slumping onto your bed petulantly. You’ve tried not to look at it since you got back.
“You played better,” you shoot back.
“I know.”
The lack of smugness almost makes it worse. She slips off her shoes and picks up your trophy to inspect, probably with the intention of getting a rise out of you, before perching on the edge of the dresser.
“How was your fan club?” You cross your arms.
Her mouth twitches. “Exhausting.”
“Poor you,” you say, lip jutting out in faux-pity. “It must be so hard having every boy in a ten mile radius in love with you.”
Tashi laughs. “They were arguing by the end of it.”
“Over you?” You huff a laugh despite yourself. Her amusement is infectious, regardless of how petty you’re feeling.
“Obviously.”
“And?” You study her face carefully.
“And what?”
“Did you have a good time?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She pushes off the dresser to sit on the edge of the bed instead, trophy abandoned, her palms smoothing over her thighs absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the movement before you can stop them, fingers itching to reach out and touch that smooth skin yourself.
“We went back to their room,” she says. There it is—the thing she’d really come here to rile you up with.
“I assumed.” A beat of silence passes before you finally give in, pressing for more. “And?”
“You want details?” She tilts her head playfully.
“No.”
A small smile graces her lips. “They kissed me.” You nod once. “Both of them,” she adds. Your jaw tightens in a way that might be imperceptible to anyone else, but she knows you too well not to notice. “That bothers you,” she observes.
“No, it doesn’t,” you deny instantly. It does. A little. But not in the way it might have months ago.
“Oh, it so does.”
“Does not,” you insist. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”
That’s always been the unspoken rule between you. Whatever happens in public—the flirting, the rivalries on court, the boys trying to get into either of your pants—it doesn’t follow you through the door unless she wants it to.
“Did you have fun?”
“A little.”
“Only a little?”
“You know how much fun I have with you.” Her fingers find your jaw, thumb smoothing out the slight jut of your lip. “Don’t pout.”
“I’m not—“ You start to argue, then give a reluctant huff. “You made me wait.”
“I was busy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She laughs at the petulance in your tone. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. It was worth the wait, wasn’t it?”
“It will be if you kiss me already.”
She catches that hopeful lilt in your voice like a hook, and her smirk softens into something more tender. A second later, she crawls to straddle you, one leg on either side of your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath, fingers finally curling into the soft flesh of her thighs. And finally, finally, her mouth slots against yours.
You melt instantly. You always do. The whimper into her unbearably soft lips is undignified, her tongue sliding over your bottom lip before your brain can even catch up. It’s still maddeningly slow, and you make a quiet sound of protest when she pulls back to murmur:
“You really are jealous. I can feel it.”
The tease in her voice makes heat pool low in your belly. “Tashi,” you groan into the space between kisses, half-exasperated and half-desperate. You try to draw her back in for more, and she relents enough to bite playfully at your lip.
“That wasn’t a denial.”
Any witty protest is undermined by the gasp that her palming at your tits over your pyjama top draws out. Your hands slide up from her thighs to grip the back of the jacket she still hasn’t taken off.
“Why do you taste like tobacco?”
“Patrick smokes. They both do, actually.”
“Ugh. Gross.”
“Jealous,” she taunts again.
“M’not jealous,” you manage as she kisses her way along your jaw.
“You’re kissing me like you want to eat me.”
“I do.”
She pauses, breath hot by your ear as she debates whether to take that literally or not. Then she leans back, unzipping her jacket to reveal no shirt underneath, just a skimpy little bralette that does nothing to conceal the way her nipples are hard with arousal. Your brows knit together.
“Why are you— no shirt?” You say eloquently, too starstruck by the sight of her breasts in your face to speak properly for a moment. “Was that—“
“For them?” She interjects, smirking down at you. You nod. “God, no. For you.”
Your stomach twists in a way that shouldn’t feel so appealing. She shrugs the jacket off, guiding your hands up to cup her breasts.
“You want to eat me, huh?” She teases. Another shaky nod is all you can muster. “Words. You were so good with them earlier.”
You don’t have it in you to glare at her right now. “Yeah. I do. Can I?” The way her breath hitches when you pinch her nipple over the thin fabric is more satisfying than it has any right to be.
“How bad do you want it?”
You bite back a groan of frustration. Your brain is already fogged over, but you manage to make an attempt to sound less wanton than you actually feel. “Please, Tashi.”
She tsks softly, right on the playful side of condescending. “You can do better than that.”
A huff of impatience, and you fight the urge to pinch her nipple harder just to be a brat. Disobedience never gets you anywhere when she’s in a mood like this. The deal is whoever wins is in charge, and Tashi wins more often than not.
Not that you mind.
“Please, I need it,” you say, eyes shining pitifully up at her. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. You looked so hot on court. And at the afterparty, in that dress… fuck.”
“Were you thinking about it when I was with them?” She presses.
“Yes. God, yes.” Your head thumps against her chest, mouthing at the stiff peak of her nipple over her bralette. “The last two hours have been torture. I thought you’d stay with them all night.”
She arches into you with a sharp inhale, fingers finding the back of your neck as you suck harder. By the time you pull back, the fabric is stained dark with saliva.
“Thought about it,” she says, just to see the look of offence on your pretty face. “I’m joking. Take it off for me.”
You obey without hesitation, fingers slipping beneath the underband of her bra to drag it up and over her head. It’s barely hit the floor by the time your face is pressed against her again, a sigh of longing slipping past your lips as they drag up over her breasts.
“You’re so beautiful.”
She seems pleased by the compliment—not in a smug way, either. A girlish sort of bashfulness that’s quickly quashed as her hand guides your head down to kiss her abdomen. “How about you show me how beautiful you think I am?”
You smile against her, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. “Yeah? Can I?”
She slides off your lap to stand, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for her. Instead, your fingers curl back into the sheets, waiting as her fingers hook into her shorts. She eases them down slowly, enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench together in anticipation. When she steps out of them, her panties follow, an even more agonisingly slow drag down her legs until they hit the floor.
You lick your lips.
“Lay back.”
“Huh?” You reply, dazed.
“Lay back,” she repeats, amusement lacing her voice.
You scramble back to do as asked, hastily adjusting a pillow for your head as you settle against the mattress. You feel it dip before you see her above you, swinging a leg over your torso as she comes to straddle your chest. You’re granted with the sight of her sweet cunt, already shining with arousal. You feel like a dog inhaling the scent so eagerly, lashes fluttering, but she only grins down at you.
“This is supposed to be my reward for winning, but something tells me you enjoy it just as much.”
“Uh huh,” you hum in affirmation.
And she’s absolutely right—you have no issue with losing every match if this is what you get. She shifts up higher, her knees braced on either side of your head, sinking down onto your face. Your eyes flutter shut, a muffled moan pressed against her when your mouth latches onto her. She’s always tasted divine. Good hygiene and diet, you imagine, or maybe you’re just so tragically in love with her that every part of her is like nectar.
“Fuck. There we go,” she sighs softly as you lap up into her.
It should be a little humiliating just laying there, nose nudging at her swollen clit as she rolls her hips against your tongue. Once upon a time she was concerned about her supple thighs suffocating you when she took her perch above you, but Tashi quickly learned you were right where you wanted to be.
Your hands come up instinctively to hold onto her, but she smacks them away like one would discipline a dog. “No. You gave up today.”
“I didn’t—” You try to argue, though it’s hard with your face smothered in arousal and the folds of her cunt pressing against your lips every time you open your mouth.
“Yes, you did. Any time you lose your footing against me, you give up.”
Her hips shift again and you latch onto her clit, alternating between flicking your tongue and sucking as if that might make her disappointment in you fade away. It lasts about all of two minutes before another thought occurs to her.
“It’s your forehand holding you back. You roll it in when you should be driving through it. You’re not losing because you’re worse,” she says. You’re actually a little offended that she’s coherent enough to speak through her pleasure when you’re currently worshipping her pussy to the best of your ability. “You’re losing because you’re passive.”
Somehow, that jab digs its heels into your chest, and you have a feeling she’s talking about more than just the final today. Your head falls back against the pillow to breathe again, panting up at her.
“... Are we still talking about tennis?” You ask, breathless.
She blinks down at you, caught off guard by the question. “We’re always talking about tennis,” she dismisses, right before her cunt hits your face again.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
“—She used to call it sitting on her throne after she won,” you recall, laughing as you lean back into the booth. The memory warms your chest in a way the wine hasn’t quite managed to yet.
For a second, it’s just you and Tashi again. Not this table, not the wedding rings, not the years in between and the unanswered texts. Just her rolling her eyes at you while you both know she’s pleased to be talking about your time together again.
Next to you, Patrick is looking between you both with his brows drawn together, confusion sitting awkwardly on his face. Art’s expression is almost identical as he shifts uncomfortably.
“Wait, what are you talking about?” He says.
Patrick gives a short laugh beside you, though it sounds a little forced. “Is this an inside joke? You’ve lost me. Her throne?”
You glance between them, then back at Tashi. There’s a split second where you debate downplaying it to keep things neat and digestible… but the wine is doing its job. And so is the way she’s looking at you—dark eyes amused, a little daring, and it’s enough to push you over the edge.
“What? You guys didn’t know?”
Patrick’s confusion deepens. “Know what?”
Tashi leans back, completely at ease as her arm drapes back behind her husband again. “That I went to her room,” she says mildly.
Art frowns. “Yeah, you said that part.”
“And stayed,” she adds.
There’s a stretch of confused silence before you see the moment it clicks for them both. “Stayed,” Patrick repeats.
Art blinks. “You mean—“
“Use your words, Art,” Tashi says, lifting a brow.
“You… didn’t just talk,” he says stupidly, his throat bobbing.
You snort into your glass. “God, no. She might have left you both high and dry, but I got laid.”
Patrick barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. The thought of you, his wife, having a sexual history with his ex-girlfriend is both as baffling as it is thrilling. “No fucking way.”
“What? Is that surprising?” You glance over at him.
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yes, absolutely it is.”
Art is still processing, trying to figure out the timeline of it all. If you were sleeping with Tashi, and then Tashi dated Patrick, and you dated Art… the entire thing is confusing. “You guys—“ he gestures vaguely between you both, “—that was… a thing?”
“On and off,” Tashi shrugs, lips curving up.
“More on than off,” you add, unable to help yourself.
She shoots you a look. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not!”
Patrick leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. “That’s crazy.”
“You never said anything,” Art says.
You shrug lightly. “You never asked.”
“That’s not—“ He stops himself, shaking his head. “I feel like that’s something you mention.”
“Why?” You counter. “You guys were busy with your own thing.”
There’s a flicker of something between him and Patrick, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, but you are. You share a look with Tashi over the table.
“We didn’t have a thing,” Patrick denies, though his mouth is twitching.
“Sure,” Tashi hums.
“We didn’t,” Art says, shooting her a look.
“Okay,” she says, clearly not believing him in the slightest.
“You shared hotel rooms for years,” you laugh.
“Because we were touring together,” Patrick says. “It was cheaper.”
“And?” You press, brow raised.
“And nothing.”
Tashi lets out a soft, knowing laugh. “Right.”
“Nothing happened,” Art denies again, jaw tightening just slightly. You almost feel bad, but the way he can’t meet anybody’s gaze—Patrick’s least of all—is just too endearing for your tipsy mind.
“Didn’t say it did,” Tashi replies smoothly.
Neither of you push it further. You don’t need to. The implication hangs there the same way the rest of your history together does: unresolved. Instead, you take another sip of wine, letting the tension settle into something playful again.
“Anyway,” you say lightly, “the point is—“
“That you ditched us,” Patrick cuts in, pointing a finger at Tashi good-naturedly.
Tashi just smirks. “I upgraded,” she replies haughtily, lifting her chin.
You choke on a laugh while Art shakes his head like he doesn’t know whether to chuckle or be annoyed. “That’s unbelievable,” he says.
“You survived.”
“Barely,” Patrick mutters. This time, you catch the faint edge of something beneath the humour. You don’t think it’s anger. More like curiosity. He’s always been more open-minded towards that sort of thing, and you have no doubt he would have gotten off to that knowledge if he’d been told sooner. Then he just laughs, shaking his head. “Jesus. My wife and my ex—“
“Your wife and your ex that’s also your friend’s wife,” you correct sweetly.
“Ex-friend,” Tashi chips in.
“You’re making this worse,” he bemoans.
Finally, Art joins in on the laughter. “This is a lot.”
“Welcome to the table,” you jest.
The laughter doesn’t die down right away. Patrick’s raucous as always, and a nearby couple glances over in mild irritation, but none of you care enough to quiet down. For all your anxieties about tonight, you’re glad it got to this point where the past isn’t a sharp, fragile thing to be danced around. Now you can joke about it without feeling hollow inside.
Some time later, another round of drinks appears—this time something stronger, in four little glasses. You don’t remember anyone explicitly ordering it, but Tashi thanks the waiter like she did.
“Shots?” Patrick says, already reaching.
“Absolutely not,” Art replies immediately.
“Yes,” Tashi counters at the same time, and he looks surprised. You have a feeling it’s unlike her new polished self, the Tashi on all the billboards and sports magazines, but he doesn’t comment on it.
“Oh, come on. Just one,” you say.
“You too?” He says, sending you a betrayed look.
“Don’t be a bore.” You nudge the glass towards him, and he relents with a sigh.
“Patrick’s a bad influence on you.”
Tashi watches the exchange in amusement, then lifts her own glass. “To terrible decisions.”
“To terrible decisions,” you echo.
Patrick’s glass clinks against yours before he downs it. The burn hits fast, and you wince, sputtering out a laugh as you set the glass down. Patrick coughs dramatically at your side.
“Jesus—what the hell is that?”
“Expensive,” Tashi says lightly.
“Of course.”
She leans back, stretching slightly, then glances around like she’s just remembered where she is. “This place is boring.”
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you laugh.
“Exactly.”
Patrick nods immediately in drunken agreement. “Too polite in here. Everybody looks like they have sticks up their asses.”
“It’s a restaurant,” Art points out.
“And we’re done with it,” Tashi decides, rising to her feet before anyone can argue.
“We are?” You blink up at her.
“With the restaurant? Yes. With the night? No.”
“What does that mean?” Patrick says.
She picks up her wine glass, tipping her head back to gulp down the rest of it. “Let’s go somewhere more interesting.”
“Like where?” Art replies warily.
Mischief sparks in her brown eyes. “Where do you think?”
The journey to her hotel room doesn’t take long. Across the street, up the elevator, all of you cramped together and giggling. You cling to Art’s arm as you stumble down the hall on their floor, and you don’t even realise it’s not your husband until Tashi laughs at you. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Just loops her arm through yours and tells Patrick to hurry up as he lags behind.
When you get into the room, you make a beeline for the arm chair, slumping down with a sigh. “Take my shoes off for me.”
“Take them off yourself,” Patrick groans, collapsing onto the bed.
Art and Tashi are a little more dignified, not that you’re surprised. Art shrugs off his jacket to hang up while she takes off her heels next to him.
“There’s wine in the fridge if you want any,” she offers.
“I think I’d die,” you lament, leaning forward to clumsily unbuckle your heels. It takes a moment to get them off before you stretch out your legs, wiggling your toes. Patrick’s face down in a pillow now, a silence falling over the room. Then you sit up suddenly. “Do it for me.”
“Do what?” Art says, peeling his tie off.
“Recreate it.”
“Be a bit more specific, babe,” Tashi indulges with a laugh. The pet name makes your heart stutter.
“The… the hotel thing. The three of you.”
Patrick lifts his head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”
“Like, when I wasn’t there. Pretend I’m not here and it’s the night of the Junior Open.”
“Well, we just drank shitty beer and sat around the floor,” Art says, a little uncertain, though he’s smiling over at you with flushed cheeks.
“No. No, not that part,” you say, waving a hand. “The kissing part. You said you all made out.”
“What? No,” he laughs.
“You don’t have to,” you shrug, though your tone suggests otherwise. “Just thought it’d be funny.”
Tashi watches you. She knows you well enough to hear what you’re not saying—that it’s not just curiosity, not just a joke. “Funny,” she echoes, amused.
Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up fully now. “C’mon, man. For old time’s sake.” Nobody seems surprised that he’s up for it without question.
“This is a terrible idea,” Tashi snorts.
“Everything tonight has been a terrible idea,” you point out, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Are you going to give me a show or not?”
She seems amused by your drunken confidence. Art looks to her questioningly—a lap dog, even now—before she nods. “You heard the woman. Give her a show.”
She moves to sit on the bed, patting either side of her. Art hesitates, but just like in 2006, as soon as Patrick moves he’s right there with him. Both of them bracket her sides, hands in their laps, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breaths. Tashi glances between them both, before her gaze settles back on you.
Suddenly, it feels a lot more real when they’re all in front of you. You exhale heavily, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “It was like this?”
“Mmm. They were both so desperate.”
“Who’d you kiss first?” You can’t help but ask.
Tashi smiles, turning her head. Patrick leans in slightly, breath ghosting over hers, but she turns before their lips can meet. Her mouth finds Art’s instead. He kisses the same way you remember—a little tentative at first, before his confidence builds and his hand finds her thigh, his kisses growing more fervent.
When she finally breaks apart and turns to Patrick, you find yourself unsettingly okay with it. A part of you thought you would have been jealous. You’ve been married to Patrick for four years, dating for even longer, and yet now your stomach is twisting with arousal at the thought of him kissing her.
He doesn’t ask for permission. As soon as her head turns, his mouth is on hers. He’s hungrier than Art, not just because they haven’t kissed in years. It’s how he always kisses. Sex with Patrick always feels like some all-consuming kind of lust, and your brain feels foggy watching Tashi shudder when his tongue shamelessly slides against hers.
You find your gaze flicking curiously towards Art for his reaction. He doesn’t seem as off balance as you would have thought, though that might be the alcohol talking. He’s just as enraptured by the sight of the pair of them devouring each other, his hand still squeezing Tashi’s thigh.
A string of saliva connects them when they break apart, and you wet your own lips. “So this is it? You just made both of them take turns kissing you?”
Art turns pink before she can reply. “Do you really think I’m that boring?” She laughs. She leans back, head tilted ever so slightly to expose her neck. And while she makes eye contact with you, Art and Patrick lean in, kissing along opposite sides of her neck.
It’s not shocking—nothing about tonight has been shocking, really—but it makes the wetness building up between your legs worse. The part that really undoes you is Tashi’s eyes staying on you. It feels like this isn’t just a reenactment for your benefit. It’s like you’re part of it, even from across the room. Always part of it, even back then.
A quiet exhale escapes her when Art’s grip tightens on her thigh, thumb pressing in unconsciously under the slit of her dress, while Patrick’s hand slides higher along her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. They don’t look at each other, but they’re aware of each other. You can see it in the way they move: careful not to collide, but not exactly avoiding it either.
“Shit,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
Tashi’s mouth curves faintly at the sound. “You’re looking between them like it’s a match,” she says.
“Feels like one,” you swallow thickly.
She huffs a quiet laugh, breath hitching slightly as Patrick’s mouth presses just under her jaw, teeth grazing boldly. “And who’s winning?”
Your gaze flicks between the three of them, slower now to take it all in properly. “You.”
“Always,” she replies.
Her hands lift to find their jaws, guiding them back upwards. Your breath catches, fingers curling into the plush arm of your chair when their mouths meet together. All three of them. It’s a strange sight, all of them alternating between lips and tongues, but it makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest nonetheless.
You aren’t sure how long it goes on for before she leans back again.
“You know what to do,” she prompts both men.
Art blushes furiously, ready to protest. “Tashi—“
“Art.”
His complaint dies on his tongue. Patrick is smirking, though you aren’t sure why until it becomes clear what you know what to do means. He leans across her, where Art hesitates for a moment before he does the same. Your jaw almost drops when they kiss, and Tashi grins at the delight in your eyes.
You’ve never been blind about Patrick’s attraction towards men. He’s ogled them shamelessly for years, and you’ve always had your suspicions about how close he was with Art. Tashi made more than enough jokes at Stanford about teenage boys sharing beds during their formative years turning out a certain way.
It’s a different thing entirely to see him making out with a man. Especially when that man is Art, who’s still a furious shade of red but melting into the kiss. It’s drunk and sloppy, but it might be the single greatest thing you’ve ever seen.
You don’t realise Tashi’s talking to you until she says your name. Dazed, you manage a, “Huh?”
“I said don’t you feel left out?” She repeats.
“Well—” You swallow, shifting a little so your thighs press together. “I’m having fun watching.”
“You’d have a lot more fun kissing me.”
It takes you aback, but you’re nodding your head eagerly before you can really process it. You almost trip on your discarded heels in your haste to get up. Tashi slides back from between the two men, ignoring their questioning look.
“You look nice tonight,” you offer clumsily when you sit next to her, tongue feeling thick in your mouth.
“Nice?” She laughs, hand settling on your knee to give it a comforting squeeze. “You used to call me beautiful.”
“Well, you were. I mean— you are,” you correct yourself.
“Don’t get shy on me now. You were so confident ordering us around,” she teases.
“She’s always like that,” Patrick chips in. Art’s panting against his jaw, pressing kisses every now and then while trying to keep his gaze on the pair of you. “So bossy but as soon as she gets a little attention, she doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that,” Tashi snorts. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Art’s mouth again.
“You’re beautiful,” you repeat, softer now, as she cups your jaw with her other hand. Her expression shifts slightly into that bashfulness you’ve missed so much. It boosts your confidence enough for you to lean in first, closing the distance like you’ve done a hundred times before.
It’s soft at first, slipping back into something that feels like it never really went away. You hear Patrick make a low, amused down somewhere behind you, but it’s distant. Everything is, except the way Tashi’s hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you.
“You see? Wasn’t that hard,” she murmurs against your lips.
You huff out a quiet laugh, breath catching. “Shut up.”
She smiles into the next kiss, a little sharper this time, more like the version of her that thrived on pushing you. It pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat before you can stop it. The hand on your jaw tips it gently to the side so she can kiss her way along your cheek and to your ear. When your eyes open, you’re met with the sight of Art in the same position, your husband’s mouth sliding down his neck while one hand works at the top few buttons of his shirt.
“Do you miss him?” She breathes, low in your ear.
“Mmm?”
“Art. Do you miss him? Miss kissing him?” she continues, biting the lobe of your ear playfully. “Miss fucking him?”
“Yeah,” you sigh, shivering when she licks a stripe down your neck.
“Invite him over, then. I’m sure he misses kissing you, too. I know I did.”
You call his name, but it comes out more of a moan than anything when Tashi sucks against your neck. She stifles a laugh. “Art,” you repeat, a little louder. He looks towards you, pupils blown wide. Whether it’s from arousal or the alcohol, you can’t tell. “Come here. I want to kiss you.”
Art obeys, despite Patrick’s groan of protest, though your husband follows him across the bed. Tashi continues to lavish your neck with attention while Art leans in with that same hesitance before melting into you. Your drunken mind deduces that he tastes better than Patrick. Not that Patrick tastes bad, but you’re used to kissing someone who tastes of tobacco, not just wine and traces of mint.
“Man, this is like a wet dream,” Patrick sighs.
“We should probably stop while we’re ahead,” Art adds half-heartedly, though he doesn’t stop kissing you.
“Yeah? You want to stop?” Tashi reaches across, fingers sliding between his legs to palm his bulge. His breath hitches against your mouth.
“No. No, I’m just saying…”
“Stop talking. Don’t ruin this for me,” Patrick says.
So Art doesn’t. Clothes start to come off in pieces, entirely uncoordinated. You’re half-laughing and half-serious in a way that only happens when there’s too much history and too much alcohol in the room. Patrick tugs at the hem of your dress like he’s done a hundred times before, a bit distracted, his attention splitting between the three of you.
Tashi doesn’t hesitate, though. She moves between all of you the way she always has, slipping her hands under fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and guiding more than asking.
You catch yourself laughing at something—nothing, really—as Patrick loses his balance trying to step out of his shoes, collapsing half on top of you and mouthing at your shoulder instead of getting up again.
“God, we’re a mess,” you say, breathless. “I really want to fuck you, though.”
“You fuck him all the time,” Tashi says with an eye roll, her fingers currently making quick work of Art’s belt.
“No. No, I mean all of you.”
And she’s about to take you up on that offer when her phone buzzes where it was discarded near the head of the bed. Tashi freezes, brows furrowing slightly. “Hold on—“ She says, already reaching for it.
“Don’t tell me you’re taking a call right now,” Patrick groans against your shoulder.
“It’s probably important,” Art adds, though you can tell by his frown and the bulge in his pants he’s just as disappointed as Patrick.
Tashi looks at the screen, her expression shifting. “Oh my god.”
“What?” You ask, sitting up a little straighter and shoving Patrick off. He collapses into Art instead.
She turns the phone around without a word. It’s a photo, bright and blurry, taken by someone with too much enthusiasm. A card smeared in glitter and doodled hearts, with a grinning little brunette holding it up to the camera. Scribbled across the front, it reads:
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY MOM!
For a second, everyone is quiet. Then you laugh, not because it’s funny—though you suppose it is, in a way—but because the contrast is so absurd it knocks the air right out of you. Patrick follows a second later, loud and incredulous.
“Are you serious? Right now? This is why we haven’t had kids,” he laments. You smack his arm, but you’re still laughing.
“That’s—shit. That’s timing,” Art exhales his own laugh.
“I told her I’d call her before bed,” Tashi huffs, but she’s smiling down at the screen when she turns it back to her.
“Well, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Art says, glancing around at the half-undressed state of all of you.
“Speak for yourself,” Patrick mutters, adjusting himself shamelessly.
“No, I think that’s pretty definitive,” you laugh, tugging the straps of your dress back up. Your heart is still hammering in your chest.
“Probably for the best.” Tashi meets your eyes, something warm flickering there again. There’s a quiet agreement in the room, unspoken but shared. The tension doesn’t disappear entirely, but at least none of you are groping each other anymore.
“I need water,” Patrick declares.
“Same,” Art says, and the pair of them shove at each other on their way to the fridge, sporting matching tents in their slacks.
You watch them, lips curving up faintly while Tashi texts her mom back. Some things change, some things don’t.
“Hey,” you say lightly, looking back at her. “Tell her I said happy Valentine’s.”
Tashi glances up at you, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m not sure how to explain who you are, but I will.”
The night ends less explosively than it might have had things continued. But when Tashi settles back next to you, phone extended to show you the picture again while Art and Patrick bicker behind you, you don’t think you’d change a thing.
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 that and 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 mom 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 windshield.
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.
dadbod!patrick... he’s so fucking hairy. like… everywhere. chest hair thick and dark, curling over his pecs, spilling down the soft slope of his stomach. it’s not neat and not even close to “tidy.” it’s wild, messy, and absolutely unapologetic. a man’s chest turned into a fucking pelt, and you want to drown in it. you want to press your face right against him, nose buried in that thick mat, mouth open, tongue dragging over the salty sweat caught in the curls. you want to breathe him in until your lungs ache, until your whole body smells like him. you want to scratch your nails through it, tug at it, feel it rub your skin raw when he drags his hairy chest down against you.
and the happy trail. god. it’s not a trail, it’s a fucking highway, thick and bold, dark hair arrowing down from his navel like nature’s way of pointing a sign to a pot of gold. it’s obscene how much it turns you on. you want to lick it like it’s sacred, nose brushing through the wiry hair while your tongue leaves wet streaks down his stomach. spit clings, mats the curls, shines on his skin. you get drunk on the taste, the scratch of it on your tongue, the way it leads you lower and lower until you’re hovering at the edge of his sweats, starving for what’s hidden underneath.
and then his sweats drop and it only gets filthier. the bush. an absolute mess. a dense, dark nest of hair wrapped around the thick base of his cock. it's so manly, the minimal trimming that he is certainly unapologetic about. you can’t get over how much there is, how it scratches your cheeks when you go down on him, how it burns your chin red, how it leaves your face marked up. and you love it. nothing makes you crazier than being nose-deep in that mess, smothered by hair, choking yourself on his fat cock while the bush scrapes your face raw. you want the smell clinging to you, musk and sweat and just patrick, stuck on your skin like you’ll never wash it off.
and he’s fat too, which just makes it better. the belly, soft and heavy, covered in that thick spread of hair. the way it presses down into your ribs when he’s on top of you, dragging over your stomach, smothering you in weight and in warmth. every thrust slaps his hairy gut against you, and it’s loud, obscene, and wet with sweat, making your head spin. you can feel the bush grind against your clit when he pushes in deep, stomach hair catching on your skin until you’re squirming underneath him, overstimulated and desperate. his chest hair scratches your tits, his belly hair rubs you raw, his whole body overwhelming yours until there’s no escaping him—not that you’d want to.
he’s smug about it too, the bastard. lounging back like a king, hairy belly soft and heavy, arms behind his head while you crawl down his body like you’re starving. his grin is lazy and cruel when you nose through that thick happy trail, tongue working lower until you’re choking yourself on him, face buried in the bush. his stomach shakes when he laughs, jiggling against your cheek, chest hair damp with sweat as he groans. he doesn’t even have to move—he just lets you have him, lets you claw at his fat stomach for leverage, lets you rub your face raw against all that hair until you decide you've had enough.
but, seriously... you can't ever get enough. you crave him. you want his chest hair threaded with your spit, scratching your tits while he pins you down. you want his hairy gut smacking into you, grinding against your clit until you’re begging. you want his bush burning your thighs every time he bottoms out, leaving you sore and marked up. you want the trail on your tongue, the sweat in your mouth, the whole hairy, fat mess of him pressed so tight against you that you can’t breathe without tasting him.
god, the dad bod was the best thing that ever happened to him.
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