abbot calling the night shift “the nightcrawlers” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭his corny ass😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭LIKE WOW😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭GIVE ME THAT DICK OLD MAN FAWKKK😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭
summary: abbot’s hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs—because now you’re both trying to pretend it meant nothing, and neither of you is getting very far. [can be read as a standalone, but it's a loose pt 2 of this fic]
warnings: smut! car sex, panties being ripped, abbot yearns to the point of concern because he's down BAD for reader, reader cheats at beer pong & UNO because she can, a lil bit of angst but they fuck nasty so it's ok! thumb sucking, a lil bit of drooling, BITING, age gap implied, bad decisions being made, creampie (dont be like them), sexual tension, reader can't decide what she wants so abbot natrually fucks the decision into her ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 7.9k
Abbot was certain you were avoiding him. It was the only explanation that made any kind of sense. It’d be impressive if it weren’t so annoying, the way you kept managing to be somewhere else the second he came into view. Turning corners like you’d just remembered something urgent, suddenly very invested in literally any patient that wasn’t his.
He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to.
He doesn’t, though.
Which is its own kind of pathetic.
Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.
He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking.
His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs.
For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.
You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least.
Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.
The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.
And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention.
And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly.
Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once.
His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.
His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting that you touched yourself in there.
He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.
“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”
Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”
Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern?
“BP?” Abbot asks.
“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”
He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”
Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on.
Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful.
Not tonight though.
Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly.
And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you.
The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.
“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better.
His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.
He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you.
“You got a sec?” he calls out.
You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”
He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.
“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”
“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse.
A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you.
Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”
You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.
“Bathroom?”
You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”
He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.
You don’t.
That alone feels like a small victory.
He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock.
Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.
He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride.
“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”
“Please don’t lie to me.”
You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh.
“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze.
You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”
“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively.
“Are you going to answer my first question?”
He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.
“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”
“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”
“And you think this is the best solution?”
“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”
It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”
“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”
Clearly can’t happen again.
You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.
He knows that. Of course he knows that.
Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.
Can’t.
Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.
Your only regret is that you can’t do it again.
Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you.
“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks. “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”
Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.
“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”
“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”
“Clearly you missed it.”
There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it.
“Maybe.”
You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
“Why not?”
He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”
“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”
His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?”
“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”
He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.”
Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?
When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong.
Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.
In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up.
It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour.
He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.
Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there.
He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.
You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.
And he just…watches.
Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room.
Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately.
He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one.
“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.”
Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”
Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”
He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time.
“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”
“What, now you’re encouraging me?”
Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”
“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating.
“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”
Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you.
You’re wearing a sundress again.
And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.
This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.
“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”
“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”
“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”
Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”
There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.
“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”
Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”
“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”
He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.
“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”
Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.
Which should be what he’s focusing on.
It isn’t.
Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.
And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else.
Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball.
He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash.
“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.
“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”
Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.
He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”
“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”
“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted.
You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball.
“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”
“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side.
“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.
She freezes mid-aim. “What?”
“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”
“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.
The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.
“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”
“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.
“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”
“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”
Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me.
Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”
“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”
“I prefer to win fairly.”
“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”
“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”
“Like what?”
He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”
“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest.
“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.
You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about.
“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”
He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”
“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”
“Right. That definitely makes it better.”
“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.
He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.
“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”
Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off.
“There you go.”
He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”
“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”
“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”
It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.
He should get out.
But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave.
“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.
“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”
“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it.
A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row.
He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”
You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”
“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”
“I don’t quite know what you mean.”
He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”
“Bra?” you supply for him.
“Yes.”
“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”
“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.
Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.
“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”
“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel.
“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”
Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”
“You’re manipulative.”
“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”
“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”
Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”
“Then what did you say?”
“That it couldn’t happen again.”
“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”
You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”
And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.
There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance.
He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time.
“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.
He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction.
“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.
Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.
“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe.
“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”
“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.
He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you.
“You’re fucking joking.”
You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.
“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”
You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.
“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.
“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”
A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.
“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons.
“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”
You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.
Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.
“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”
He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you.
“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”
Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.”
You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.
“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.
Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.
But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.
And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead.
His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.
Because then his mouth is on you instead.
Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.
He finds what he’s looking for.
Hooks his fingers into it.
Then pulls.
It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space.
“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”
“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”
You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”
“I’ll get you new ones.”
“How am I meant to drive home?”
That—apparently—is the wrong question.
He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.
“Drive home?” he repeats.
There’s a beat.
“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”
Another kiss. Slower this time.
“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”
You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.
He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.
He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”
“M’not—”
“You are.”
You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”
You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.
“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.
Interesting.
There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.
“That feel good?”
You nod.
“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.
“Stop arguing with me.”
There’s a pause.
Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.
He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.
“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.
You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it.
“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”
You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state.
“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.
“Too much?”
“Mhm.”
“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”
His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.
“Yeah… there you go.”
You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.
“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift, then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”
His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.
“Tell me when,” you whisper.
That nearly undoes him more than anything else.
There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it.
He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.
It changes things.
Makes it heavier.
He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now.
You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you.
Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit.
Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.
It’s fucking euphoric.
You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.
“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.
His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.
“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.
Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.
“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased.
You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.
“Christ—”
“M’close, Jack—so close.”
His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”
“Yes—fuck, yes.”
Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.
You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you.
It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.
There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.
He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.
“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst.
He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you.
You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”
“Hey—it’s fine.”
You look unconvinced.
“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”
“I know. I was there.”
That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”
“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”
There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”
“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”
Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.
“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”
You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”
“I could,” you mutter.
He raises a brow.
“…I could try.”
He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”
Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.
Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.
summary: abbot offers up his house for a simple family bbq to help you out of a jam...unfortunately, neither of you are capable of keeping it simple.
warnings: smut! fingering, abbot jizzing in his pants, porn but with a lot of plot & build up, tension, inappropriate thoughts, masturbation implied & discussed, alcohol consumption, minor injury (small cut), petty abbot because he snatches r's phone, brat tamer abbot if you squint?? he likes to mock you okay???? slight angst at the end :)
wc: 9.5k
pt 2 can be found here!
Now that you’re actually standing in front of it, it’s…offensively small.
You tilt your head like that might miraculously improve the situation, like there’s some hidden angle where this becomes a perfectly reasonable barbecue and not what looks like a prop from a dollhouse garden party. As if, with enough optimism and a slight squint, the laws of physics will rearrange themselves out of sheer pity.
Because your freezer currently sits enough food to cater a mid-sized wedding.
And your patio?
A grill that could maybe handle…four sausages. Five if they’re prepared to be very close.
You exhale slowly, hands on your hips as you realise you’ve made a catastrophic, deeply public planning error. There has to be a system. A rotation. A schedule. Some kind of… grilled meat tetris.
You glance back at the freezer like it might offer solutions. It does not. It sits there, smug and overstocked.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine. This is workable. People love waiting for food…People expect to wait for food.”
Except your siblings are the least patient people you know.
And just to make matters worse, a knock sounds at the door. You know it’s Abbot because he generously offered to give you a hand with the grill after you mentioned hosting your family in passing, like he had absolutely nothing better to do on a Saturday night.
Now it’s feeling less like generosity on his behalf, and more like you accidentally inviting him to a very unfortunate comedy show.
You hover for a second, hoping if you wait long enough, he’ll go away.
He doesn’t. He just knocks again.
You smooth your hands down your shorts, the denim rough enough against your palms to remind you to breathe. It’ll be fine. Everyone can just mingle in your tiny garden while they wait approximately four hours for dinner. Great. This is exactly the way to show your family how firmly you have your life together.
You make your way to the front door and pull it open to find Abbot standing there, fingers hooked around a bag you assume has something useful in it—like tongs, or maybe the competence you seem to be lacking. You’d take two of those right now.
“Hey,” you greet in a tone that reeks of desperation.
“Hi.” There’s a slight raise in his brow, like he’s already caught on that something here is…off.
“Come in.” You move to the side, gesturing him in.
He nods and walks through. You close the door behind him, your back mounting to it as you watch him take the place in, realising this is the first time he’s ever been inside.
Momentarily, you feel like you’re under an imaginary microscope, like you’ve been set out in the sun, quietly examined and a little overexposed all at once. Except there’s no microscope, no audience.
Just Abbot.
And the glass of wine you indulged in earlier, which is currently doing a fantastic job of making you feel about three degrees warmer than necessary, and significantly more aware of your own existence than you’d like.
You’re not sure what he’s going to think of your home. It’s smaller than his, you know that much without asking. It’s cluttered but in a lived in kind of way, everything has a purpose or a memory attached to it. You’d love to tell him some of those stories, walk him through it properly, if you had the time…or if you were sure he wanted to hear them.
He probably doesn’t.
And you definitely don’t have time.
“Cute place.”
“Cute?” you repeat, a smile pulling at your lips. “Is that your way of dressing up the word small?”
“No.” His gaze drifts around once more, slower this time, like he’s actually taking it in rather than passing through. Then it settles back on you. “It’s cute. Very you.”
That annoyingly lands somewhere you weren’t prepared for.
You blow air from your nose, glancing away as if the console table requires your full attention. “Right. Well I’m glad my personality translates into…square footage.”
There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s what I heard.”
He watches you like could argue if he wanted to, but he doesn’t.
You clear your throat, deciding you need air. And to also rip the band-aid off already, because you’ve made Abbot clear his schedule to help you out, when in reality you won’t be needing his help at all.
Unless he’s particularly skilled at dialling for takeaway.
“Anyways,” you say briskly, turning to the back door. “Let me show you what we’re working with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You’re absolutely blaming the glass of wine for the effect those two words have on you, trying to desperately ignore the way your brain’s decided now’s a good time to develop new problems.
You step outside first, the warm air hitting your skin, and wait for him to come up beside you. When he does—close enough to be mildly distracting—you gesture flatly towards the root of all your issues. “There she is.”
He looks.
There’s a faint pause.
“She’s, um—”
“Cute?” you supply, nudging his arm with your elbow.
“I was going to say compact.”
“It’s second hand,” you reply, because that feels like important context. Of course you were going to buy a second hand grill. Why wouldn’t you? You’d much rather spend your money on something you’ll actually get use out of. This was supposed to be a practical, sensible, one-time summer purchase.
It is now very clearly the opposite of that.
“It looked bigger before I picked it up,” you add, because his silence is doing absolutely nothing for your need to stop explaining yourself. “Please say something before I finish the bottle of wine I started.”
“I’m thinking.”
“It’s not that big of a deal, right? I’ll just do, like, ten rounds of grilling and keep everything wrapped in foil to keep it warm. It’s hot as hell out so stuff would probably stay warm enough anyway?”
He finally meets your gaze.
“...No.”
You blink. “No?”
“No.”
You stare at him, cheek caught between your teeth. “Wow. Okay. That was…very immediate.”
“You’ll have people waiting too long between rounds,” he says calmly. “Half of it will go cold. The rest will be overcooked.”
“Great.” You throw your hands up. “Just kill me now, then. Put me out of my misery.”
There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“I will never hear the end of this,” you continue, reaching for your empty wine glass and topping it up from the bottle beside it. “They don’t take me seriously enough as it is—” you take a quick sip, like it might soften the blow of what you’re about to admit, “—and they’re constantly expecting me to mess things up before I’ve even started. Perks of being the youngest, apparently. Comes with its own very specific set of stereotypes”
You glance at the grill, then back at him. “And this will absolutely prove them right.”
“Have it at my house,” he offers breezily and you almost drop your glass.
“Sorry?”
“It’ll be easier,” he explains, like he’s just suggesting you move a chair. “More space. Proper grill.”
“That would mean my entire family going to your house.”
“Yes.”
“And you being there.”
“I live there.”
You narrow your eyes. “I don’t think you realise what you’re suggesting. It’s not just my parents coming. Well, it was at first and then my siblings decided to invite themselves and I’m fairly certain their partners also got swept in without my consent.”
“And you couldn’t say no?”
You let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, absolutely not. But you can. Please say no to this.”
He doesn’t even look slightly concerned. “I’m not saying no.”
“Why not?”
“Because it solves your problem.”
“We’re not at work.” You set the wine glass down, like it might help you regain better control of the conversation and his absolute ludicrous idea. “You don’t have to solve my problems.”
He tilts his head like he’s considering that, then steps closer to the grill to give it another once-over. His fingers drag lightly over the metal bars, testing them, like there’s still a chance this thing might redeem itself under a second opinion.
It does not.
“Well,” he says, almost absently, “if it makes you feel any better, you’re rarely creating problems for me at work, so just let me give you a hand with this one.”
You stare at him, then gesture vaguely between him and the grill. “But don’t you think it’d be weird? What am I meant to say to them?”
“That we work together. That I’ve got the space and offered to host. That’s it.”
“You’re making this sound so simple,” you scoff, shaking your head.
“Because it is simple. I’m offering a solution. Take it. We’ll load up my truck with what you need and go.”
“And you don’t think they’ll assume things?” You almost cringe as the words leave your mouth, it sounds so juvenile, like something you should’ve outgrown years ago.
“Assume what?” he presses, and you don’t know if he’s genuinely not following or if the last several months have just been you reading into things he hasn’t seen nor reciprocated.
“Nothing!” you blurt out quickly, downing the rest of your wine like it might undo the last ten seconds. “I’m being stupid and I’m out of options so I guess we can have it at your house—if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Great. Amazing. Perfect.” You set the glass down again, and walk past him, heading into the kitchen, because if you stay in this conversation for even a second longer, you’re not entirely convinced you'll make it through this BBQ—or your next shift with Abbot—without saying something you absolutely cannot take back.
You had texted the family group chat about the change of plans, keeping the message short, light, casual, even if your brain has refused to get on board with that narrative.
Because there are, conservatively, about a hundred reasons as to why this is a terrible idea. Reasons that all seem to be shouting over each other the longer you think about it. Starting with the fact that if there is anyone capable of turning a harmless situation into something more layered and deeply inconvenient, it’s your family.
Who are now going to be meeting Abbot.
Your boss.
Who you might be slightly crushing on.
And your earlier exchange?
Yeah. That did an excellent job of confirming that’s very much a one sided situation.
“You’re sure you don’t need me to drop by the store first?” he asks.
You’re not sure if he’s looking at you because you angled your body away from him about ten minutes ago, in a very deliberate attempt to not be distracted.
It hasn’t been working.
If anything, it’s considerably worse, because you’re now hyperaware of everything you’re trying not to look at. The way his sun-warmed arms flex as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, the sleeve of his black shirt sitting snug around his bicep. The completely unbothered way he’s driving, like this is exactly what he had planned to do with his day off.
“No.” You risk a glance at him, only to find his eyes already on you before they flick back to the road. “I pretty much emptied my fridge into the back of your truck, so we should be sorted.”
He hums like that checks out. “Alright.”
“You still haven’t changed your mind?”
He glances at you again. “About?”
You stare at him.
You’re not sure if he’s doing this on purpose, but it feels like he is. Like he’s deliberately backing you into saying things out loud. Making you name them, lay them out clearly instead of hiding behind vague gestures and half-formed sentences.
It’s incredibly annoying.
Because it has your mind drifting to…other situations where he might take the same approach. You picture him for a brief second, between your legs, the way he’d look at you expectantly, waiting until you spelled it out for him.
Like he’d make you tell him exactly what you want.
Exactly how you want it.
And look at him while you do it.
“Oh my god,” you mutter out loud, the thought hitting you all at once. You shift in your seat, pressing your thighs together like that might physically cancel your brain.
“Everything okay?”
“No. No—” you shake your head quickly, turning to the window like the outside world has suddenly become fascinating. “I think we need to stop by the store.”
“You just said you had everything.”
“Why are you asking so many questions today?” You turn to face him, and you’re pretty sure you’re glaring now, because he is officially on your last damn nerve.
“That wasn’t a question.”
You inhale slowly and manifest restraint because he doesn’t deserve you snapping at him, but he’s also been the leading cause in your rapid mental decline today. “My mistake.” You tack on a smile that feels convincing for a second before it slips, the corners of your mouth dropping almost immediately. “I’m not sure I’ve got everything for the salad, so if you wouldn’t mind stopping by the store, that’d be great.”
He laughs under his breath, turning on the indicator. “I love the customer service voice.”
“I’m not doing a customer service voice.”
“You are. It’s very polite.”
You blink at him, lips parting like you’re about to argue it, then stopping when you realise there’s probably no winning this.
“Can you stop by the store or not?” you ask instead, folding your arms across your chest.
“Of course,” he answers easily. “You’re the boss today.”
You don’t dignify that with a response, mostly because you’re too busy being relieved when he finally pulls into the car park. You need to get out of his truck that smells exactly like him and into somewhere with actual air conditioning. Not that his truck doesn't have it—it does—but he seems to be absorbing all of its effects, leaving you to slowly overheat in his general vicinity.
You unclip and fling off your seatbelt, grab your purse but pause when you catch him doing the same out of the corner of your eye.
“What’re you doing?”
“Going to the store? What’s with all the questions?”
“No you’re not,” you reply, pointing at him. “You’re staying here.”
“Am I?
“Yes.”
“And why’s that?” he questions with a lazy smirk, and you can feel yourself inching closer to just smothering him with your bag for the sake of peace and quiet.
“Because I’m the boss today.” You give him a smug, entirely fake smile before climbing out of his vehicle and shutting the door with just a little more force than usual.
You power walk to the store and once inside, head straight for the freezer section. You pull open one of the large glass doors and just stand there for a minute, relishing in the cool air.
This is exactly what you get. A direct consequence of your own poor planning, which you don’t usually do. But today, of all days, everything seems to be going from bad to worse.
Starting with your brilliant idea to save money by buying a second hand grill without actually seeing it in person first. Then not having the heart to say no to the poor old woman selling it when it turned out to be…that. Then not saying no to the ever-expanding guest list. Then not saying no to hosting this entire disaster of a night at Abbot’s house.
And now, just to round things up nicely, you can’t even seem to keep a lid on your own feelings.
You can do this, you tell yourself. You handle crises everyday at work, actual ones, where people depend on you. This? This doesn’t even come close to being half as bad as your worst shift. This is just a barbecue. All you need to do is put on your big girl pants, get through the night, and never speak of it again.
With a deep breath in, you shut the freezer door, ignoring the judgemental look from one of the workers, and try to source the supposed salad ingredients you’re missing.
By the time you’re paying, you feel calmer, like your head has finally been screwed on right, and that there’s a small chance of you getting through this night without another existential breakdown.
You try to hang on to that same thought as you make your way back to Abbot’s car, digging out a pair of sunglasses to wear for the rest of the journey. Avoiding eye contact should be significantly easier with a barrier.
“Got everything?”
“Mhm.” You keep it short as you climb back into the passenger seat and place the bag between your feet like everything is perfectly normal.
When Abbot pulls into his driveway, you realise there are a lot of firsts happening today—you’ve never been to his house before either.
You take it in as the truck slows, your gaze dragging over the place in pieces, trying not to make it obvious. You'd been right in thinking it’ll be much bigger than yours, because from the outside it looks like your place could slot neatly into a corner of his and still leave plenty of room to spare.
The house is framed with tidy hedges and a curved driveway. It’s dipped in a warm golden wash from the late sun, the light catching on the windows and casting long shadows across the patio that actually looks used.
You can almost picture him out there in the evenings. On his own, or maybe with Robby. Something cold in his hand, leaning back like he’s got nowhere else to be.
You’re already a little too curious to see the garden. He lives far enough out that it feels quiet, tucked away from everything, and the front looks well kept that you’re almost certain the back will look even better.
That’s your dream one day. To have a big stretch of green out the back that you could look out over from your bedroom window in the mornings. You imagine stepping out barefoot, the grass still damp beneath you. You’d have a little table, with mismatched chairs you tell yourself you’d replace but never do. Maybe something growing, even if it’s just herbs you’d forget to use anyway.
You think about hosting without overthinking it. People just…spreading out, drinks in hand, no one hovering awkwardly because there isn’t enough room. The kind of evenings that go on a little longer because no one is in a rush to leave.
Or just to soak up the sun on days like this.
“Ready to go?”
Abbot's voice breaks you from your daydream, and you shift in your seat like you’ve ended up somewhere you weren’t supposed to go.
“Yeah,” you clear your throat, reaching up to remove your sunglasses. “Beautiful house.”
He glances at you briefly, then back at the front of the house like he’s seeing it through your eyes. “It does the job.”
“Does it very well.”
You step out into the warm air, a light breeze slipping past you, and your attention follows Abbot as he rounds the truck. And just like that, your mind does that thing again, wandering somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.
You picture it a little too easily for your liking, a day like today, minus the chaos. What it’d feel like coming back home from a grocery run, a truck filled with nothing in particular. The domestic bliss of unpacking, then sitting in the garden, something simple on the grill.
You can see yourself curled into him on the patio, the air dropping a few degrees, a glass of wine somewhere nearby, his hand resting absentmindedly on your waist. Maybe you’d end up in his lap, talking about nothing, or everything, it doesn’t really matter because you’d be doing it with him.
These thoughts leave your stomach sinking because that’s all they are, just the results of chemical activity moving across the brain that you’ve inconveniently grown attached to. There’s nothing real or solid behind them.
“Where do you want everything?” you ask with a huff, grabbing the grocery bag from the front seat.
Abbot doesn’t answer straight away.
You feel it before you look up, the sense of being watched. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s somehow got your pathetic little fantasy down, and is rethinking every decision that’s led him here.
Your stomach continues to drop.
“Kitchen?” you add, because silence suddenly feels like the worst possible outcome here.
He looks at you a little longer before he nods, going back to unloading his truck. “Yeah. Through there.”
You return his nod and make way to the front door, shifting the grocery bag higher on your hip. Your hand finds the handle, the same moment you realise the door’s not even unlocked.
You turn to call for him only to end up bumping straight into his chest.
“Shit—” The word slips out as you stumble, your grip tightening on the shopping bag to keep everything from spilling.
“Got you,” he says, his hand settling at your waist, steadying you before you can lose your balance. It’s a simple gesture, except your mind has that deeply irritating habit of taking simple things and turning them into something they’re not.
“Sorry,” he adds as an afterthought. “Should’ve given you the keys.”
You nod even though the apology seems misplaced, your attention snagging somewhere else entirely. On the warmth of his hand. The way it hasn’t quite moved yet. How easily it could slip under your shirt so you could feel him on your skin. Properly.
“It’s fine.” Which is both true and very much not.
His hand drops then, his focus shifting to the door and getting it open. You move to the side to give him space trying to collect yourself all over again.
“Kitchen’s just straight ahead,” he tells you, gesturing you in once the door swings open.
Inside, the house is spacious, with dark wood floors and barn-like furniture. It’s less cluttered than yours, with only a few things slightly out of place. You step in slowly, taking everything in. You’re not sure when you’ll next ever get a chance to visit, so you selfishly take a little longer to wander through, noticing the few pictures and trinkets he has scattered around.
When you reach the kitchen you place the shopping bag and your purse on the marble counter, fully intending to head back out and give Abbot a hand with the other bags, but you stall once you get a view of the garden through the glass French doors leading out from the kitchen.
Well-kept grass stretches out for what looks like miles, the edges framed with low trees and shrubs. There’s even a small greenhouse tucked to one side. It looks too tidy to be in use, but you imagine how it might look filled anyway. Further back, there’s a perfectly sized outdoor kitchen, with a large grill and enough counter space to move around comfortably.
So this is where he disappears to when he’s not at work.
“Is it okay?”
You turn a little too quickly at the sound of Abbot’s voice, like he’s caught you doing something you shouldn’t. Your brows pull together, because you’re not entirely sure what he’s asking is okay.
“The house,” he clarifies, shifting the bags in his hands like he’s suddenly aware of how that sounded. “For tonight.”
“Oh.” You glance back at the garden, then around the kitchen. “Yeah. No, it’s—” you gesture vaguely, because there are too many ways to describe it and none of them feel casual enough, “—more than okay.”
He nods once, like that’s all he needed, and moves further into the kitchen to set the bags down beside yours before he’s going out again.
You’re almost finished with the salad when the knife decides your finger might be a better addition than the cherry tomatoes. It’s so quick it almost feels hypothetical, but then the sting registers and your finger flies straight to your mouth, like that’s the only medical training you’ve managed to retain.
There’s already a metallic taste spreading across your tongue, blood pooling faster than you’d like, making you wince.
“Oh, for the love of god,” you mutter, searching for the paper towels and your brain, which might be lounging on the kitchen counter somewhere, soaking up the sun streaming in through the windows, because clearly it’s not being put to any practical use.
And just so the universe could curse you some more, you hear Abbot walking back in.
Great.
You immediately turn your back to him because he doesn’t need any more reasons to think you’re incompetent.
“Everything okay?”
“Mhm,” you hum, because you still haven’t spotted the paper towels and are stuck sucking your finger like that’s a reasonable long-term solution.
“Grill’s coming along,” he continues and you can feel him moving behind you, followed by the rip of the said paper towels. “Got it up to temperature, just needs a few more minutes before I start putting anything else on. Should all be ready in time.”
“Mm, that’s good. Thank you.” You decide to face him, and immediately regret it because you hadn’t realised how close he was. “Could I have one of those?”
You reach for the roll but he doesn’t hand it over.
“You’ve cut yourself.”
“Yes. I’ve already added it to my list of incompetencies today. It’s fine. Very minor.”
“Give me your hand.”
You hesitate, because that feels like an escalation for something you’ve just described as very minor.
“It’s really no big—”
“Give me your hand,” he repeats, reaching for your wrist.
You exhale and let it happen, relaxing your hold as he draws your hand towards him, the crimson gathering along the cut in a way that suddenly looks far more dramatic under proper light.
He tosses his used paper towels on the counter and rips a few new sheets. “Here, hold that. I’ll get you a plaster,” he instructs, pressing them against your finger before turning and disappearing down the corridor.
You stand there, listening to the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing, something unzipping and then zipping until his footsteps make their way back to you again.
You watch the quick and efficient way he frees the plaster of its wrapper and you’re instinctively holding out your finger, letting him wrap it neatly around the cut. His thumb runs along the edges, making sure it’s properly stuck down.
“Thank you.”
He meets your eyes. “You have—” he lifts his thumb to your chin, the pad of it brushing gently along your skin “—a little blood there.”
Your mouth parts, breath catching somewhere on the way out. You feel him move closer, his touch tracing up to the corner of your mouth carefully, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go, but isn’t stopping himself from finding out.
It’s nothing. You were standing there with dried blood on your chin—he’s just being kind.
But your traitorous mind immediately offers up a list of alternatives for what he could be doing with that exact same touch, and you have to physically dig the heels of your feet into your sandals to stop yourself from leaning into it.
“There.” He retracts his hand, and once again you’re mourning the loss of contact.
You nod your thanks to him and turn back to the counter, picking up the knife again so you can finish your salad. “So, is the grill behaving?” you manage, which is frankly lousy small talk considering you couldn’t care less about the grill right now.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. Heat’s holding. I’ll start with the sausages, get a good sear on them, then move them over so they don’t dry out.”
“Love a man with a plan,” you mutter out loud, which was definitely supposed to be retained as an internal thought.
Silence fills the space and you freeze, knife hovering uselessly over the cutting board. You hear some shuffling behind you, maybe him binning the paper towels and the plaster wrapper, or maybe he’s just giving you a second to realise what you’ve said.
“Good to know.”
Your phone vibrates in your back pocket, followed by a ping, and you’ve never been more grateful for technology in your life. You wipe your hand on your shorts before pulling it out, unlocking it a little too quickly.
Dad: We’re running late, honey. Hotel’s messed up our rooms…long story. Still trying to sort it with reception. Will message you when we’re on our way…
“They’re running late,” you mumble, a welcome exhale slipping out.
“I’ll hold off on the sausages. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just some mix up with the rooms at the hotel.” You tuck your phone away and dump the rest of the tomatoes in the bowl giving it a halfhearted stir.
“You’re putting them up in a hotel?”
“Well, yes. Should I let them pick a corner to sleep in at my house instead?”
He smiles at you and you feel some of the tension ease out of your shoulders, as though you've been waiting for permission to relax this entire time.
“I’m all done with the prep on my side, and since they’ll probably be a little while…would it be absurd if I used your shower?”
“Yes. It would be absolutely absurd.”
He’s mocking you. Funny.
“Right. I’ll just stand in your garden and hose myself down instead, shall I?”
“No complaints on my side.”
Now he’s…flirting?
“Sure. Let me just get out of these clothes—” You bring a hand down to your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband because apparently two can play this game.
“Bathroom’s just down the hall,” he cuts in quickly.
You grin at him. “Thank you.”
“Spare towels are in the cabinet.” His hand comes up to drag across his mouth, thumb catching briefly against his stubble as he watches you bend and grab one of the tote bags on the floor with your clothes inside.
“Thanks,” you add again, more out of habit than anything else, before turning towards the hallway.
“Mm.”
The sound follows you as you walk away, and once again you’re stuck dissecting every interaction you’ve had with him today. It’s enough to give you whiplash. One minute he’s distant, the next he’s standing far too close to be friendly, touching your face like it’s nothing. You don’t know where you stand with him, and moments like this don’t exactly help.
You make your way down the hallway, your grip tightening on the tote bag as your thoughts spiral, circling the same questions with absolutely no answers.
What was that?
Does he even realise he’s doing it?
You push the bathroom door open, and step inside. For a second you just stand there, because that’s easier than thinking but that doesn’t seem to last long.
Dumping your tote bag on the counter, you turn to the shower. It’s walk-in, with enough space to move around freely, and a built-in seat tucked into one corner with handlebars nearby. There’s an overhead shower as well as a handheld one clipped to the side, which you’re immediately grateful for because you definitely don’t have time to deal with washing your hair.
After locating the towels, you strip out of your clothes and once you’re under the water, you realise you’re stuck using his shower products because you’d only planned for an outfit change, not a full reset.
Now you get to smell like him even when you’re not near him.
You’re hoping the shower washed away all your inappropriate Abbot-related thoughts along with the sweat and stress of the day. You don’t entirely trust that it has, but you dry off and get dressed regardless.
On cue, your phone pings with a message from your father to say everyone’s on their way. Just one more push and this whole shit show of an evening will be over. Easy. Completely manageable. Light work.
Before you even reach the kitchen, you can smell the grill, and when you do, you notice the dining table has already been set. Something in your chest dips a little at the sight. How he’s gone to all this effort for you and your family without questioning it twice.
You shake it off, physically, like that might dislodge the feeling before it can settle anywhere inconvenient, heading for the fridge instead. You grab two beers, popping them open against each other and follow the smell outside.
The humidity hasn’t let up. It's still the clinging type and you can already feel a new sheet of sweat forming on your skin the closer you get to the grill. Abbot has his back turned to you, one hand resting on his hip, while the other works the tongs with an ease that suggests he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He looks unfairly attractive just by doing the most mundane task—just by existing.
You slow your step without meaning to. Which is embarrassing.
You stop a few steps short, watching him, like your body’s decided this is worth savouring, and you hate that there’s something about him that manages to calm your nerves and make you feel like they’re running laps all at the same time.
There’s probably a scientific explanation for it. Some chemical imbalance, some misfiring signal in your brain that’s confused admiration with something far less convenient.
He turns to you, and you force your feet to move before you risk looking like a complete creep.
“Thought you could do with something cold,” you say, holding out the beer to him.
“Perfect timing,” he replies, reaching for it, his fingers brushing against yours. “How was the shower?”
“Necessary,” you quip, setting your beer and phone down on the counter so you can hoist yourself up onto it. It’s probably not the smartest place to settle, perched this close to the grill, but you do it anyway.
He watches as you shift into place, not even trying to be subtle about it either. His gaze dips, catching onto the strip of skin revealed by the slit of your sundress, then drags back up again like it’s something he has to consciously pull away from.
“You look nice,” is all he manages before shifting his focus back to the grill.
“Thank you. And thanks again for doing all of this. You’ve gone through so much trouble and I don’t even know where to begin in repaying you.”
He huffs at that, turning one of the sausages over with the tongs. “You don’t need to repay me.”
“Mm,” you hum, letting your foot swing idly against the cabinet, making no effort to cover up the exposed skin he was looking at earlier. “I’d like to.”
“Yeah?”
You tilt your head, watching him the way he’s been watching you, then reach for your beer and take a slow sip before answering. “Yeah.”
“You always like having the last word?”
You lower the bottle, meeting his eyes. “You asked a question, didn’t you?”
“Thought you had a problem with those today.”
You grin at him. “Think I’m over it now.”
“Is that so?”
You nod, taking another sip.
“Okay,” he drags out, setting his tongs down before ripping off a paper towel to wipe his hands with. “You want to tell me why you were acting weird in the car?”
“I can tell you exactly why I was acting weird in the car, but you’d have to tell me something first.” You’re not sure where all this bravery is coming from, certainly not the lukewarm beer acting as liquid courage.
He raises his brows with a small smile as he walks past you where you’re perched on the counter, and reaches into a cabinet beside you for a plate. “Go on. I did say you’re the boss today.”
“Why go through all this trouble?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but you stop him by lifting a finger just as he turns back towards you, a plate in hand. Your finger hovers somewhere between his chest and the idea of touching him, and his eyes drop again, predictably, to the stretch of bare skin where your thigh is exposed, right between where he’s standing.
“I don’t want the same answer as earlier,” you add, lowering your hand, your knees parting just a little wider without making it obvious. “Because it’s bullshit.”
For a moment he doesn’t respond, but you’re not panicking. It's probably because you can tell you’ve nudged something, pressed a spot he’d probably rather you didn’t find.
He takes a step closer.
You feel the plate before you register what he’s doing. The cold edge of it presses lightly against your thigh, a contrast that makes your breath catch before you can smooth it out. Your skin warms it up almost instantly, but that’s not what holds your attention.
It’s his hand. Still there. Still keeping the plate pressed to you.
“Bullshit?”
You swallow, which is annoying, because you hadn’t planned on that being noticeable. You gather what’s left of your composure and try again, aiming for even. Landing somewhere just adjacent. “Yeah.”
“Then ask properly.”
Your hands stay braced on the edge of the counter, your knees now parted enough to fit him in between them perfectly, the plate still pressed to your thigh.
You let out a slow breath, trying to unknot your fuzzy thoughts, but it’s harder than it should be with him this close.
“Ask properly,” he says again, softer this time, like he's not in a rush for you to answer.
You glance down at where the plate meets your thigh, and catch the way his other free hand comes to rest on your knee. You feel your whole body light up at his touch, something fluttering low in your stomach and spreading out from there before you can do anything about it.
“Why,” you start, your voice wavering, “are you doing all of this…for me?”
He removes the plate, setting it beside you, both of his hands coming to rest on your knees.
“You think I do things I don’t want to do?”
You swallow again, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. “No.”
“Then that’s your answer.”
“That’s not an answer,” you push, a little breathless now. “You can’t answer my question with a question.”
“You want me to answer it properly?”
You nod, because words have completely abandoned you at this point.
“I did it because I wanted you here.”
You don’t quite know where to file that information.
There’s no neat place for it to sit, no category your brain can quickly shove it into so you can move on and pretend this is all normal, because want is a dangerous word.
It’s not polite or distant or easily explained away. It doesn’t leave much room for interpretation, and that’s the problem. You’ve been working with interpretation all day, picking at glances and half-answers and things that could mean something or nothing depending on how brave you felt.
Your fingers press harder into the edge of the counter, and you look at him to check if he actually said it, because maybe you imagined it the same way you’ve been imagining everything else.
He’s still there, looking at you like there’s absolutely nothing for him to regret or take back.
“Not the answer you were hoping for?”
“No.” You shake your head, hands slipping from the counter to rest over his where they sit on your knees. Your fingers find his without much thought as you drag his hands up to your waist. “It’s exactly the answer I was hoping for.”
Abbot’s grip tightens, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, but he doesn’t pull away. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, not arguing it. “But I haven’t even told you what I was thinking of in the car.”
“Jesus,” he hisses under his breath. “You should go back inside. Your family could be turning up any minute.”
“You want me to leave? I thought you wanted me here?” you press smugly.
“I need you to go inside,” he replies, more firmly now. His hands don’t leave you right away, instead they slide leisurely from your waist, down along your hips, over your thighs, until his fingers briefly press into the skin just above your knees.
Then he lets go, taking a step back like that’s going to fix anything.
Before you can come up with something smart, your phone starts vibrating against the counter.
You grab it, clearing your throat before answering. “Hi, Dad.”
“We’re outside, honey.”
“Okay,” you say lightly, sliding off the counter, taking one last look at Abbot—more specifically at his very evident hard on—before you’re tuning away. “Now coming.”
“That went well, don’t you think?” Abbot’s voice sounds behind you as you finish rinsing the glasses.
He’s right. It did go well. Suspiciously well. And you’re not entirely sure whether you’re glad or irritated with how easily he seemed to slot into your family. Objectively, it’s a good thing. In practice, it’s…inconveniant. Especially considering the way you two left things before they came over.
You’re tempted to ask what he spent so long discussing with your father outside at one point. It had gone on long enough to make you nervous. You could’ve gone out there, hovered and earwigged—you’d even considered it for a full ten seconds before deciding to pour yourself another glass of wine.
Surprisingly, no one had thrown any inconvenient questions or accusations your way. They all left thinking that Abbot is just some cool guy you work with. A totally laid-back, easy going boss…that you’ve spent the entire night thinking about screwing.
You nod, switching the tap off. “Sorry for the mess.”
“Didn’t notice one.”
“That’s because I just spent the last half hour cleaning it up.”
You turn to reach for a towel at the exact same time he steps in to place something in the sink, and just like that, you’re back in that position you seem to keep finding yourselves in, like there’s some invisible thread pulling you into the same orbit whether you mean to or not.
You hesitate for a moment, then abandon the towel altogether and wipe your hands on your dress instead, gathering the fabric as you do, letting it ride up slightly before pulling it back down, just enough to expose your cleavage more so than before.
Whatever Abbot had dumped in the sink is forgotten instantly, his attention narrowing straight down to you.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, well,” you shrug casually, “it’s the least I can do. You’ll finally be able to have your place to yourself.” You turn to reach for your phone. “I’ll call myself an Uber and be out of your hair.”
There’s a pause, giving you enough time for you to open up the app.
“Out of my hair?”
His tone makes you pause and you glance back over your shoulder.
He seems…tense.
“Well, yes Abbot. I’m not planning to crash at your place, you’ve done enough for me today.”
“Right.” He nods, but there’s an edge to the word and it has you raising your brow.
“You told me to go inside, remember? Or is that not what you want anymore?” You tilt your head. “You know, for someone who was so adamant about me asking things properly, you seem to be struggling to do the same.”
He stays silent.
“What do you want?”
Nothing.
“Huh?”
Still nothing.
You shake your head, focusing back on your phone and booking that damn Uber, because you’ve just about had it with the events of today, and dealing with a manchild is not something you’re adding to the list.
You’re halfway through entering your details when the phone is suddenly snatched right out of your grip.
“What the hell?” You look up just as Abbot slides it straight into his back pocket.
“I can’t tell you what I want, because then I won’t be able to take it back.”
“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” you shoot back, stepping towards him, reaching for your phone.
He takes a step back.
“Give it back.”
“No.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re absolutely insane.”
“And you’re not listening to me.”
“Oh, I’m listening. Loud and clear. You don’t know what you want, you won’t say what you want, and apparently now I’m being held hostage because of it.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Okay,” you scoff. “Well, enjoy whatever this is.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “I’ll just walk home.”
His expression shifts, like he doesn’t believe you, like you’ve just told him something mildly ridiculous…which you have…because there’s no chance in hell you’re actually walking back.
“You’re not walking.”
“Watch me.”
You turn away from him, but you don’t even make it half a step before his hand closes around your wrist. You barely get a second to react before he’s pulling you to him, your spine lining up flush against his front.
“Quit being such a brat,” he scolds, breath hot against your ear, his hands settling at your hips to keep you there, his groin pressed firmly against your ass.
You buck into him out of instinct. “I am not—”
One of his hands reaches for the slit of your dress, his bare fingers tracing up your thigh, slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.
You don’t. Obviously.
“You are,” he repeats, voice threading through you. “Threatening to walk out just to see if I’ll stop you.”
You let out a quiet breath, something halfway between a scoff and something far less convincing. “I don’t need you to stop me.”
His hand stills, high on your thigh now, thumb pressing in like he’s testing the truth of that. “No?”
“No.”
His grip tightens on your hip, enough to pull you back into him again, closer, if that’s even possible. “Then go.” His words don’t match what he’s doing.
You don’t move.
Not even an inch.
His thumb traces inward along your thigh absentmindedly, while your heart knocks behind your ribs.
“Funny. Could’ve sworn you were in a rush.”
You swallow, your fingers curling useless at your sides, like they’re waiting for instructions you’re not giving. “I was.”
“Yeah?” His nose brushes along your jaw. “What happened?”
“Y-you’re in the way.”
“Am I?” His hand drifts higher, the tops of his knuckles brushing along the damp spot of your panties.
Your head tips back before you can stop it.
“That doesn’t look like I’m in your way,” he murmurs, something faintly mocking tucked into it.
You exhale, shaky, annoyed at him, at yourself, at your entire nervous system. “You’re very confident for someone who didn’t even know what he wanted five minutes ago.”
“I know what I want,” he assures you. “I just don’t think we’d be able to go back from it.”
“So let’s not,” you argue weakly. You can hear it yourself, how desperate it sounds, how little conviction there is behind it. “This is just a one-off. We can pretend this never happened tomorrow.”
“Is that something you can do? Because I don’t think I can.”
“Yes, you can,” you breathe, pressing your ass into him. “I can,” you add quickly, which is actually just a bold-faced lie. You don’t think you can ever come back from this, not really—but you’d try, you would, if it meant his hand would keep inching higher instead of stopping where it is.
“Yeah?” he murmurs into your neck.
“Yes—please. I’ll even move to the day shift,” you say, half-delirious, as though that’s a completely normal bargaining chip to throw on the table. “We’ll never speak of this again.”
“Don’t do that,” he mutters, a hint of a smile in his voice now. “I need you on the night shift.” His hand finally shifts, thumb pressing against your clit through the fabric.
“Okay—okay, sorry—I’m sorry—” The words tumble out, rushed and barely coherent.
He presses a wet kiss just under your jaw, and a small, involuntary sound slips out of you in response.
“One off?” he asks in between the kisses, his voice humming against your skin.
“One off.”
His hand slips beneath the fabric, middle finger dragging through your folds, slow enough that you feel every inch of it. You can hear how wet you are—actually hear it—and feel it too, with how easily his thumb finds rhythm.
“Jesus, baby,” he breathes, the words half a laugh. “Have you been this worked up the whole day?”
You bite your lip down, unable to concentrate on anything other than the hot feeling pulling tighter in your stomach.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes,” you hiss as he picks up the pace, making your knees buck, properly this time, your balance tipping forward before his other hand tightens at your hip, holding you in place like he anticipated it. The hard line of his cock presses into your ass, completely unignorable and more than enough to get drunk on.
“Whole day,” he repeats, like he’s piecing it all together. “Walking around like that…talking to me like nothing’s wrong. Is that why you needed that shower?”
You nod—once, then again, and again—your body answering for you, a little too eager to cooperate where your brain has checked out.
It gets worse the second he slips a finger in.
You’re that soaked that there's no resistance when he pumps it in and out of you, and you don’t manage to stop the strangled noise that slips out when he curls that same finger. Your breath doesn’t quite keep up. It stutters, trips over itself, your chest rising too fast, too shallow, like you’ve forgotten how to regulate something as basic as breathing.
Your back arches into him, your hand gripping his wrist out of desperation, and you feel it then—how saturated his wrist has gotten, slick with you, the mess of it not contained to just there but spread further down your thighs, probably all over your dress.
It's humiliating.
“Did you touch yourself in the shower?”
“N—” you start, which is ambitious of you, really, considering the circumstances.
“Liars don’t get to come,” he warns. “Did you touch yourself in there?”
“Yes.”
He tuts. “Dirty girl. I was out here trying to make sure everything was perfect for your family and you were getting yourself off in my shower.”
You want to argue with him. You really do. Something witty, something that would land clean and put you back on even ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing except your uneven breathing and pathetic whimpers you’re trying to swallow down.
“Did it feel as good as this?”
“No—fuck,” you bite out when he slips a second finger in, the stretch pulling the word straight from you. Your thighs press together out of the sheer intensity of him, but he doesn’t let that happen for long.
His foot comes in between yours, nudging them apart. “Don’t go shy on me now, baby. You still haven’t told me what you were thinking about in the car.”
Your walls clench around his fingers, pulling him in deeper, each curl pressing against that spongy spot that has you gasping for air. He thinks the fantasy in the car is the worst of it—or the shower—but he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him like this. And feeling him get off on it too, the way his cock keeps chasing friction against you, is almost enough to tip you over on its own.
“Jack, please—” you beg, for what, you’re not sure.
“Say that again,” he breathes into your hair, voice catching slightly as he grinds into you again, pulling his fingers from inside you just to shift his attention to your swollen clit.
“Jack,” you mewl, and you hear the way he curses behind you, “I’m so c-close.”
“Yeah,” he pants, fingers picking up the pace. “Yeah, I can feel that.”
Your legs tremble, your whole body tightening, the pressure building too fast now, too much, your breath breaking completely as you clutch at him like that might hold you together. You feel his chest rise and fall against your back as he keeps bucking into you, steady in theory, less so in practise, his fingers falling into a messy pattern, too fucking slick with you to manage anything more coherent.
“M’gonna—fuck—Jack—”
“There you go. Just like that.”
He bites down on your neck and everything blurs, sound dropping out, thought following quickly behind it, your body trying to fold in on itself, like it doesn’t know where to put this feeling or how to contain it. Your thighs try to close again, tightening as your orgasm reaches its peak, your cunt pulsing through it, Abbot’s heavy breathing in your ear.
“Shit–” he exhales, his hand slowing against you, “—fuck.”
For a second, neither of you move.
Your body is still catching up, small aftershocks running through you, your grip on him loosening but not quite letting go, like you don’t trust your legs to do their job just yet.
“Shit.”
“Yes, you’ve already said that,” you whisper, leaning your head back against him as he caresses your thigh.
There’s a huff against your shoulder, an attempt at a laugh that clearly requires less energy than he actually has.
Neither of you really get the chance to come down though, because there’s a knock at the door.
You both still, unsure if either of you heard it right, until it sounds again.
“Who is that?” you ask, pulling yourself away from Abbot, your hands immediately going to your dress, smoothing it down.
“I don’t know—can you—” He pauses, shifting awkwardly behind you. “Can you get that?”
You turn to look at him, brows lifting. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not answering the door like this.”
“Like what?”
He just looks at you while you look down, lips pressing together like you’re trying very hard not to smile.
“…Right,” you concede, softer this time.
“Thank you,” he says, the sarcasm sitting heavy in it, as you tug your dress back into place and make your way towards the door.
You wipe at your forehead, still a little flushed, and swing the door open.
“Hey man—” the guy on the other side starts, stopping short when he realises who’s opened it. “Abbot around? My car won’t start and I’m late for my night shift—” he leans slightly past you, like he expects to see him.
“Uh yeah, he’s…”
You don’t even need to turn to know he’s there now.
“Yeah,” Abbot calls, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “What’s up?”
“Oh man—I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” the guy says, glancing between the two of you, something faintly amused flickering across his face.
And only when Abbot steps up beside you, do you realise what the guy means.
He’s now shirtless, using the black skimpy t-shirt as a cover across his groin, like that somehow makes things less obvious.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Think the battery’s dead,” the guy explains, scratching the back of his neck. “It just won’t turn over.”
“Alright,” Abbot nods, dragging a hand through his hair before glancing down at himself, very briefly, like he’s just remembered. “Give me a second.”
“Yeah, yeah, no problem at all, dude. I’ll wait outside.”
You close the door, not fully, but enough to block your conversation from prying ears.
“...I’ll book that Uber now… if I can have my phone?” You hold your hand out expectantly.
There’s a pause.
“...Right.”
You raise your brows, just as he pulls your phone out from his back pocket, placing it in your palm slowly.
“You could stay,” he suggests hesitantly, because he knows better.
Your fingers close around the device. “That’s not what we agreed on, remember?” you reply, trying to keep your tone light. “It’s a one off.”
Something shifts in his expression, and you feel the slight drop in your stomach, like something’s been pulled out from under you just as quickly as it appeared.
“Yeah…One off.”
You nod like that’s the end of it, pretending you’re not feeling a little hollow. “Take your time,” you add, stepping back. “I’ll let myself out.”
He stays where he is for a moment, just watching you, before he finally reaches for the door, leaving you standing in his home, probably for the last time.
And you already hate this arrangement, this promise you both talked yourselves into, because it doesn’t feel like a ‘one off.’ Not when your body still feels like his hands are on it, not when you can still smell him on your skin, not when you’re still standing here in his space—thinking about how easily he asked you to stay.
summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.
Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.
“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”
The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.
But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.
The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway.
The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.
“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”
You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.
Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.
“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”
“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.
Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”
You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.
“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta— buy him some time till we get him a room.”
“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”
Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.
You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”
“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”
Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him.
So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.
Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.
“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”
You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.
“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.
“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”
You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”
Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”
You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”
“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”
“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”
“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”
“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”
Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.
“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”
“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”
“On?”
“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”
“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.
“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”
“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”
“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”
“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”
You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”
“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.
“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”
His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”
“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.
“And what happens if I pass?”
You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.
A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”
The glass door across the room swings open without warning.
Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.
His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.
“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”
“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.
Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.
Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”
The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.
The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.
You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.
“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender.
His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant.
“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”
The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room.
Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.
“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”
Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”
“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”
“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.
You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.
“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”
“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”
“Then let me do something about it—”
Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.
“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”
“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”
The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.
A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”
“I said— tell her— to stop!”
His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click.
“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”
“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”
Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”
The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.
“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”
“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”
He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief.
“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”
The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood.
Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.
“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”
Another step forward.
“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”
Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.
The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop.
“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”
The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.
Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.
“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?”
Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.
Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.
Two shots ring out.
You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.
The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.
Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.
It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.
And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.
The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!”
None of it feels all the way real.
It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.
Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.
“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.
Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”
Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room.
You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.
You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.
The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.
“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.
“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.
“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”
“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.
“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”
The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.
He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.
Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.
“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”
He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.
He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”
You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”
“That I’d make a good case…”
Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”
“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps.
His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”
You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder.
You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you.
The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness.
“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”
“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”
“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”
Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”
Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.
“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”
“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”
“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”
You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”
“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”
Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.
The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment.
“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.
Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.
“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”
The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.
Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”
Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.
The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.
Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.
You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling.
You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.
The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.
You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.
“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.
Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.
You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.
Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR.
His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.
“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”
You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time.
“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”
You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist.
Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.
“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”
“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.
“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”
You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.
“You sure?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”
He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him.
“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”
You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors.
You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.
Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.
Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”
“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”
“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”
You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”
“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”
You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.
Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”
You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”
“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”
“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.”
Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.
“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”
“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…”
Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.
His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.
Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.
“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”
“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”
“Want me to go grab her for you?”
He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”
“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”
The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip.
The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.
The door creaks softly open.
Something tightens in his chest.
You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief.
The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.
Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.
“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.
“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”
You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.
“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.
You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”
“Fair point…” he nods.
“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”
Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”
That almost gets a real laugh out of you.
“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”
You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them.
Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.
He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.
“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.
“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”
His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.
“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”
Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.
“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”
“No.”
His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.
“I guess I was just thinking about you…”
The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall.
Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.
“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”
Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”
“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”
Your breath hitches.
Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.
“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”
His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”
“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”
Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”
That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.
You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.
“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”
Your features screw, hardly convinced.
“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”
You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.
“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”
“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.
“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."
It was one of those days, paisible, calm, nothing to worry about… a day off the Pitt. Luckily, both you and Jack were off, so that meant cuddling in bed too late, eating real meals and not some pre heated ones, and lazily staying on the couch, watching TV and making out.
Jack was watching some show about… you don’t even know to be honest, focusing on the task at hands. It was hard to find a hobby when working at the ER and saving life, but when you had the time and the energy, you always try to relax by doing something handy.
So yeah, while your hot boyfriend was watching TV, half-way lay on the couch, an old shirt clinging to him, his prosthetic off, you were knitting.
Said like this, it sounds like a grandma activity, sure, but in reality, it was way more hard and tedious than it looked. You learnt from a very young age and kept that a secret weapon, always giving free knitted stuff in the ER’s Secret Santa (everyone think it’s Lupe’s work, but no, it’s you) and you still do some.
When Jack found out, he was surprised. What do you mean a 30 year’s old woman who’s a literal genius in some topics, knit for fun ? And don’t worry about it, he teased you about it… a lot of time… and he stopped when you threatened to spike a knitting needle in his leg (you never specified which one but still…).
“You doing okay here sweatheart ?” He asks after hearing you blow from frustration for the fifth time in four minutes.
“Yeah… just that yarn that is keeping me on the brinks… But I'm just fi- FUCK !” You throw down your work, closing your eyes from anger.
“I get that my scarf isn’t going to be finish soon right ?” he asks, already moving over to your side of the couch to hug you.
“You’ll have it for next winter… don’t worry.” You say, cuddling on his side and leaving the project for the day.
“Which one ? 2026 or 2027 ?”
“Very funny.”
“I think grandmas are faster than you.”
“Oh, you mean people your age ? Yeah they must have more experience… and time with retirement and everything.”
“I hope for you, you just didn’t imply that I'm old.” he whispers in your ear, almost bitting it.
“Oh no no… I didn’t imply… I literally said it… maybe you need hearing aids grandpa-”
He tackles you down the couch and starts tickling you, leaving you laughing and catching for breath.
“Be careful of that hip !”
“Oh you’re trouble !”
It's bedtimeeee
Tonight was Jack’s first sleepover at your apartment… and to say you were nervous was a euphemism. Sure it’s not the first time that you sleep in the same bed or anything, but every time it occurred, it was at his place, in his enormous bed, with the expensive sheets and a memory foam mattress that hugs your back perfectly in all kinds of positions…
But tonight, he was going here, in your little sanctuary. The place where you feel safe, where you have a routine… and it’s going to be over with Jack there.
He came in early, brought wine and take out. You ate by the couch, watching a boring movie just to have the excuse of making out during most of it… or that was the plan, because by nine, you were already yawning your jaw off, eyes almost closing.
“You’re tired ?” He asks in a small voice, trying not to wake you too much.
“Yeah… normally I'm already in bed by now.”
“What ? It’s not even half past nine babe ?”
“I know… but by now I would be in bed, reading a few chapters while drinking my herbal tea, already showered and ready for the night.”
“… So you’re asleep by ten ?”
“Most of the time yeah.”
“You should’ve said so, my little grandma… let’s go to bed then.”
“But you didn’t want to spend the night just to go to sleep by nine Jack, I can go sleep later, I promise I’m fine.”
“Yeah, and you said that sentence yawning five times, let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, you were in bed, cuddle to his side, already off.
“We’ll have sex tomorrow morning don’t worry… I'm an early riser.”
“I plan on that babe.”
It's just for the fine print ! I swear !
Jack has glasses. Nobody at work knows because they are already on his back for his grey hairs and back pain. So he keeps them at home, just to read stuff, most of the time he just forgot he needs them anyway. They were the kind for the ‘old’ person with big progressive lenses.
So to see you wearing them at home in the morning while he was asleep wasn’t on his bingo card (yeah, you taught him that expression). You were wearing just one of his shirt, reading the papers by the kitchen island, his glasses on top of your nose.
“Need help seeing something ?” he startles you, finally speaking after observing you squint at the words and putting the newspaper away from you.
“Shit !” you throw the papers away, putting a hand over your heart. “Are you trying to kill me ? Almost had a heart attack.”
“Sorry.” he comes closer and hug you, pushing some of your hair away from your face. “What’s up with my glasses ?”
“Don’t laugh ! They write with tiny letters !”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You so are ! You have that smirk here !”
“Yeah ? See it better with the glasses on ?”
“Oh fuck you ! Yeah, I see all your wrinkles too.”
“It’s going to happen to you quickly then… hope you put on some anti-aging cream on !”
