sunny🐒☀️

goldstein. give me a phat beat to beat my buddie’s ass to.

[clarkkentsuperior]

Bakugo x reader

A/N: I have like four fics pre written that I just need to read over and edit but more is to come so enjoy this one in the mean time 🧁

Bakugo loved subtle touches. Especially after being at the agency all day he was eager to hold you and pamper you,his own form of relaxation.

Since he’d shut out most affection in life before you he now just solely gave it all to you.

Dinners in bed with random movies playing,warm bubble baths with cups of tea if you felt under the weather,waking up 2 hours early just to watch the relaxed expression on your face while you slept before waking you up with soft kisses to your hairline.

He’d never admit it to his friends but ,for you, he was a total sap.

This evening was no different,you’d come home from your day at work,smelling like ink,news papers,tea and printing paper exhausted.

Slipping your shoes off you were greeted by the calm sight of katsuki cooking in the kitchen,freshly showered and already in his comfy pyjamas pants.

There was no way to resist the temptation of coming up behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. Nuzzling your face deeper into his back you’d finally spoke up “hi suki..” your voice muffled.

He greeted you by guiding you infront of him just so he could see you, “go shower dinners almost done” he spoke,still grumbly but softer just for you.

After showering katsuki had taken to his usual clingy behaviour post difficult day. He had you eating dinner while he stroked a thumb over every detail of your face that he loved. Every once in a while he’d mutter small compliments about you.

You’re so pretty

My gorgeous baby

You look so cute

I love your eyes when you’re all happy

He was nothing shorter than loving on evenings like this,they always ended the same with you both laid in bed and him with his head on your stomach.

He pressed soft kisses on your hip bone muttering small ‘I love you’s inbetween until his eyes grew heavy and he couldn’t resist sleep washing away the hardships of the day.

It was times like this when he knew one thing,you were all he needed.

[midnightgardentales]

Hi!! Can I req a soulmate au where Jack meets his soulmate as a sarcastic and witty patient? Perhaps an overworked postgrad student working on their dissertation ended up late into the night of his ER and realizing both of them are stubborn and workaholics

💞Tags/Warnings💞: age gap, instant attraction, instant tension, fluff, yearner!Jack Abbot, (Slightly)Bratty!Reader and Jack loving every minute of it..

💞Plot💞: Jack Abbot has been told all his life that one day, he’d meet someone that drives him as crazy as he drives everyone else. Well.. He’s tempted the universe for too long..

💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader

💞Title💞: A Taste of His Own Medicine

💞A/N💞: I really hope you like it🤭🤭

((Requests are ALWAYS open))

Masterlist

“You know…” Robby begins as he walks over to a busy Jack Abbot. “When I said ‘don’t clock in’ and.. ‘I’ll find a cover’, I meant that as head of ED..” He points out, letting it be known that it wasn’t some friendly suggestion.

Jack laughs lowly.

“Really, man. You… You’re injured.” Robby continues as Jack steps away from his computer.

“It’s a graze. Robby, I’m better at work. You know that.” He says simply as he places a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I know you don’t know when to walk away..” Robby corrects.

“And yet you’re still here.” He jokes back as he playfully shoves the 54-year old man ahead of him and towards the room where lockers were located.

Robby rolls his eyes and rubs his beard a bit as he eyes Jack with a playful glare. “I tell you, my man, if I had one wish..” He trails off softly as Jack only smiles back, humor clear in his eyes as his friend walks away.

He didn’t need to finish that sentence. Jack knew what Robby would wish for.

He’d wish for his friend to slow down. He’d wish for him to be normal. Jack wants to laugh at that though. Because Michael Robinavitch wasn’t the first person to declare that as their one and only wish. And the way Jack lived? He wouldn’t be the last.

Jack had heard it from his grandparents who raised him, from his army buddies who fought beside him, from his sweet late wife Kathy who’d made that her last wish for him. But Jack liked life fast. Because life was fast. And he didn’t mind racing with it. Maybe he’d have the last laugh..

With a heavy sigh, Jack makes himself useful. This was just the beginning of his shift, after all. He liked to think of 8pm to 12am as the ‘warmup’ while 12am to 7am was the closest he’d get to being back on base. What he didn’t like to admit was that most nights.. He willed the clock to strike midnight. To get that jolt of excitement through him.

Tonight was one of those nights…

*

*

*

It’s about 11:45pm when Lena Handzo hangs up the phone. “We’ve got a Code Green incoming. ETA is one minute out.” She announces out loud to whoever is close enough. That just so happens to be Jack.

“I can do it.” He nods, walking towards the ambulance bay when Ellis looks over.

“I can be a second set of hands..” She offers and Jack waves a hand dismissively.

“Nah. Code Green. No resuscitation team needed.” He reminds the senior resident physician gently. She nods and puts up her hands, clearly not one to push for a spot in the room if she’s not needed there.

Jack steps outside, whistling over how hot the August night air was. It was a still night. The ambulance pulls up and the paramedics jump out. “Little heads up on this one. She’ll hurt your feelings..” One of the paramedics jokes. Jack pauses at that, arms going across his chest as he braces himself.

“This is bullshit!”

The voice comes out of the back of the ambulance van before the stretcher is even moved. Jack stiffens an amused laugh. Then he sees her…

His once lighthearted smirk shifts slowly into a slack jaw. She’s… She’s a real beauty, that’s for sure.

Jack wasn’t a robot. He found women attractive at times, sure. Impressive too. But.. This was the first time his heart actually… Quickened at the sight of a woman. The only other time it had happened was with… Kathy.

Y/N huffs out a breath of anger. “This is fucking embarrassing. I can walk.” She says firmly as the paramedics begin rolling her inside. Jack blinks a bit and comes back to reality. He quickly moves with the paramedics.

“Name?” He asks.

“Jane Doe.” Y/N says shortly, looking forward. The female paramedic rolls her eyes.

“Y/N Y/L/N. That’s what her friends ID’ed her as, at least.” The paramedic explains.

“Ms. Y/L/N, I am Dr. Jack Abbot. Do you know where you are?” Jack asks formally.

Y/N slowly turns her head to look up at Jack. She smiles sarcastically. “Disneyland…” She says in a false sweet tone that makes Jack smirk.

Fuck, that was pretty…

“Let’s get her into Room 13.” Jack says back after a moment of eyeing her. The paramedics move fast to roll her into the awaiting examination room. Jack lowers the bars and tells Y/N to move on to the hospital bed instead. She crosses her arms and stays put. Jack finds it amusing, honestly.

“Ms. Y/L/N, the longer you take…” He trails off as if to show he has all night. She rolls her eyes with a sigh before moving over.

“What’s the story?” Jack asks.

“Call came in from Carnegie Mellon University..” The female paramedic begins. Jack looks over at Y/N.

Impressive.

“Postgrad student, fainted while working at the campus library..” She continues. Y/N rolls her eyes a bit at that minor detail.

“Friends say she was working one minute, and the next, her eyes were rolling back and she was falling out of her chair.” The male paramedic continues as they move the stretcher away from the hospital bed.

“Well, that’s just dramatically put..” Y/N mumbles simply as Jack side eyes her in amusement before turning back to the paramedics.

“Any vitals taken?” He asks as he gets to work. Both paramedics look at each other before shaking their heads. It’s clear Y/N had made that hard on them too. Jack chuckles a bit and shakes his head.

“That’ll be all. Thanks guys.” Jack says to the paramedics.

“Get better.” The guy paramedic says from over his shoulder as Y/N scrunches her nose in annoyance. Jack stares for only a moment before quickly stepping to the open door.

“Ay! Mateo!” He calls out. The young man quickly looks up from his charting when he hears his name. He gets up fast and runs over to the room when Jack gives him a nod to do so.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” Jack begins. “As I said already, my name is Dr. Jack Abbot. This is Nurse Mateo Diaz. We have to check core vitals on you now to figure out how this all happened.” Jack recites softly.

“None of this is needed..” Y/N states firmly as Jack takes over her simply.

“That’s blood pressure, that’s heart rate, that’s oxygen..” He informs simply as Mateo starts to pull out the supplies to hook Y/N up to a heart monitor.

“That’s,” Y/N slightly mocks his tone slightly. “A waste of my time.” She continues matter of factly as Mateo presses his lips together as to not laugh. Jack shakes his head.

“Postgrad at CMU. Real impressive.” Jack begins, making Y/N’s shoulders slowly slump before she hums, looking away.

“Yeah? Didn’t happen by sheer luck. And me being here instead of there? It’s only prolonging my work.” She states.

“Well, it’s better than the alternative. Could’ve hit your head real bad on your way down..” Mateo says.

“It’s a bump.” She defends. “Not my classiest moment, but I just…” She sighs deeply. “I guess I needed more food.” She shrugs.

“Low blood sugar?” Mateo suggests as Jack hums, tenderly touching her chin to make her look up at him so he can examine her eyes. Her… Soft.. Warm.. Eyes.

Jack pauses as he realizes how long he’s been looking at them. He clicks his flashlight off and then steps back.

“We’ll run tests.” He nods at Mateo.

“Tests?! As in… Multiple?!” Y/N argues instantly. “Hey! Do you know where I just came from?! It’s a Dissertation boot camp!” She states, getting overwhelmed instantly before she winces while holding her head in more annoyance than pain.

“Huh. Those can be… Intense.” Mateo notes. Y/N shrugs as Jack goes to take her blood pressure now..

“Tell me about it. My butt was in that wooden chair for almost five hours.” Y/N shrugs. Jack slows a bit as he eyes her numbers.

“Almost five hours sitting?” He asks to clarify.

“Yeah. This is important to me. I got this far. Can’t slow down now.” Y/N states as Jack hums, taking off the blood pressure cuff slowly.

“Ms. Y/L/N. Did you… Fall out of your chair?” He asks finally.

“No. Your paramedics got that wrong.” She snorts. “I went to get up and then I fainted.” She says before pausing as if realizing something.

“Crap.” She mumbles, already working on self diagnosing. “Orthostatic hypotension.” She states.

“We don’t know that for sure. I’d need to do a few more tests.” Jack tries.

“Please.” She mumbles with a slight eye roll. Jack finds that alone satisfying to watch.

“All signs point to that. I’ve been a bit…” Y/N pauses to find the right words. “Busy during this boot camp. Living off of vending machine snacks and a Stanley cup sized bottle of water. I.. clearly stood up too fast after being in a certain position for too long.” She explains as if she’s the doctor here.

Jack smirks a bit at that.

“It’s a theory..” He begins, nodding slightly as he gives her grace. Mateo raises a slight eyebrow at how they seem to be bouncing off each other as if they’re coworkers.

“It’s a diagnosis.” She corrects, voice leaving no room for disagreements. “How about,” She begins after a moment of Jack staring at her with eyes that make her heart rate pick up only slightly. She averts her eyes.

“How about..” She begins again. “You let me go home and I’ll keep track of my blood pressure from now on. Talk with my personal doctor about it.” She offers up with a false polite smile. Jack falsely smiles back.

“That’s a great idea..” He nods as Mateo stiffens a smirk as he watches these two..

“I’ll get right on that. Tomorrow morning.” He says.

“Oh, you’ve lost your ever loving mind if you think I’m staying here over night..” Y/N says back instantly, arms crossing. Jack hums lowly.

Something about her quick and sharp tone excited him.

“I never claimed to be sane, Ms. Y/L/N…” He whispers back before smiling and heading out the door with a softly chuckling Mateo…

*

*

*

At almost 2am, Jack Abbot looks up from his charting and to find Y/N slipping out of her room. He watches her as she steps carefully past the nurse’s station before stopping at a corner to look both ways. As if making sure the coast is clear.

Shaking his head, Jack walks over just as quietly. He leans in close. “Whatcha lookin for?” He taunts in a whisper. She jumps and spins around fast, giving him a glare.

“A saving grace!” She huffs as he steps back too, smiling. “I’m going home.” She says shortly.

“Without being discharged?” Jack asks, hands calmly going behind him as she stands right in front of him. Even with their height difference, she doesn’t seem put off in the slightest.

“Yes. I’ve done all your tests. If I leave now, I can squeeze in at least four hours of sleep before my morning workshop.” Y/N says back.

“You stay here, you can get more down time.” Jack points out.

“I stay here, I’ll go insane.” Y/N shoots back without hesitation.

“You’re a very difficult patient. You know that?” Jack smiles a bit. He’d normally keep that comment to himself, but there was something about the way she carried herself. About the way she so effortlessly attracted his eye even from across a busy ER room, that made those words freely seep out. Y/N hums happily.

“Oh yes.” She mocks with a sly smile. “Because I strive to make this night less mundane for you, Dr. Abbot..” She says sarcastically as she presses a slight finger against his chest. He happily lets her, eyes tender. She can’t fight off a blush as she realizes he’s toned under those scrubs.

“You’re succeeding.” He says finally, voice a bit softer.

Y/N blinks away the momentary bashfulness in order to cross her arms across her chest, looking around the ER instead of at him.

“You’re putting me in a terrible predicament..” She finally says, leaning her shoulder against the hallway wall as Jack sighs a bit, hands going into his pockets instead.

“How so?” He asks.

“Well, for one, my dissertation.” She says.

“You have any of your things with you?” He asks.

“No. I… Think my roommate took it, thank god.” She mutters, rubbing her forehead. “That’s why I use the 3-2-1 rule.” She continues. Jack pauses.

“3-2-1? You know. Always keep three total copies, on two different media types, with one stored offsite..” Y/N says as if trying to ring a bell. Jack tilts his head a bit, finding her more endearing.

“My apologies. I… Never heard of that rule. When I was postgrad-“ Y/N cuts Jack off.

“You wrote yours on stone?” She taunts and he smirks as if liking the quip. It makes the pit of her stomach heat…

“Most did.” He plays along as he steps a bit closer. “I relied on birch bark…” He whispers as if that’s a handy tip for her to keep in mind. She bites her lip, looking away.

“I… Have a copy on Google Drive.” She finally just explains flat out.

“Then use my laptop to work on it.” Jack offers. Y/N pauses a bit at the offer, looking back up at him.

“That’s still not enough to get me to stay.” She states after a moment of eyeing him to see if he was being serious or not. Jack nods for her to continue.

“Even if I do stay, I need a ride back to my place..” She points out.

“Uber.” Jack says instantly. Y/N laughs at that.

“I’m not paying for that..” She scoffs.

“I’ll pay for it…” He mutters softly as he looks down at her, attentive to every micro-expression on her face. Y/N averts her eyes again to keep from melting at his warm voice.

“What else?” He whispers as she watches hospital staff pass by around them, preoccupied in their own shift.

She mumbles quietly, trying to hold up this image of being difficult and stubborn even with him saying all the right things.

“At least stay till all your tests are back.” He says gently.

“How much longer?” She asks, looking back at him.

“Not that long.” He says gently. She slowly straightens up and hums, walking around him and towards the room.

“You get another half an hour..” She says simply from over her shoulder. Jack smiles at that before calling out a soft ‘thank you’ towards her. Lena watches from her spot behind the nurse’s station, eyebrow raised as he walks back to his computer.

“What was that?” She asks in amusement.

“Just being a good doctor..” Jack defends as he gets back to work…

*

*

*

When Jack Abbot first started attending therapy, he was told that his brain was constantly working. He was told that he needed activities that made him turn it off, or he’d live to regret its constant functioning. Golf, coloring, building legos. Hell, Jack even tried his hand at knitting for a little while.

That one wasn’t half bad. Made a nice enough scarf for Robby to wear throughout winter.

But no matter what, sooner or later, after Jack had learned the trade at hand, he’d grow bored with it. And on to the next thing he’d go. Realizing this, his therapist had suggested puzzling.

Jack liked puzzles.

But only up until he could somewhat makeout what the picture would be. Then he’d lose interest. It became too easy for him.

This lays heavy on his mind as he walks over to Y/N’s room for the umpteenth time.

She was becoming his favorite puzzle.

It’s funny, the things you say when you feel like you’re being listened to by someone else. The small things that don’t mean much in the grand scheme of things quickly become another major piece in your identity.

And for the past two hours, Y/N Y/L/N was slowly giving Jack Abbot all those pieces.

And even though he could see the picture beginning to form, the image of a hardworking, intelligent, funny, and sarcastically sweet gorgeous woman coming into frame, he didn’t feel the need to walk away from it.

Because each piece given felt like a reward.

Y/N looks up from the laptop as Jack makes himself known. “Orthostatic hypotension.” He says finally as he holds up the results to all her tests.. And the discharge paper. She pauses at that before happily grabbing for the form.

“Huh. Really?” She feigns surprise as he chuckles quietly, walking over to her bedside to hand it over. She makes a quick move to save all her work before shutting the laptop and then beginning to fill out the paperwork needed to go home.

“I’m sure you know the drill. Drink more water, increase dietary salt, wear compression garments..” He says as she nods along. “No overworking..” He adds slowly as he watches her.

“Says the senior attending physician..” She points out jokingly as she finishes signing her name before getting out of the bed.

The two walk out of the room and towards the front of the hospital together. That 4am, crisp, morning air hitting them both as Jack softly informs Y/N of the her he’d ordered for her. She takes a minute to look before spotting the car a little ways down the street. The two walk towards it…

“Y/N..” Jack says gently. He’d been told after their fourth or so meet up to just call her that instead of ‘Ms. Y/L/N’.

“This is serious. Take it serious. Stress is not a good thing to carry.” He states gently as they get to the car. The driver gives them a nod as a greeting. Y/N turns to fully face him..

She hums at his warning. “Says the SWAT Medic.” She says sarcastically.

“Hey, I know when to take a break.” He lies through his teeth. Y/N looks at him, eyes narrowing.

“You’re a dirty liar, Jack Abbot.” She accuses simply. He watches her in adoration. She read him like a book.

He kind of liked it..

“Okay.” He nods as she puts her hand on the car door handle. “But that’s because I haven’t had a reason to slow down.” He adds after a small beat of silence. Y/N can see he’s telling the truth on that aspect at least.

“I would if I had one.” He states after that confession. Y/N can feel her shoulders slouch a bit as she watched him. “Can you say the same?” He asks finally. She pauses.

“Oh?” She chuckles slightly. “I could definitely take a break if I had a good enough reason.” She states, mostly as to not give him the satisfaction of thinking he got one over on her. He nods a bit.

“Then take one.” He says simply. Y/N opens her mouth to argue, but he continues. “Saturday night. With me.” He says, voice getting gentle as he watches her. His heart was pounding. He hasn’t asked out a girl in almost… 20 years.

She looks at him for a moment and he wonders if he did it wrong. If he misread all the looks and the playful banter. But then she reaches out and gently grabs his hand, pulling it closer to her. She uses the pen in his shirt pocket to write her phone number on his wrist.

“You’re on.” She says after she’s done, putting the pen back in his shirt pocket and patting it gently before she gets into the uber. Jack stands back as he watches the car drive off. He smiles to himself.

Jack Abbot liked life, and he liked it fast.

Because life was fast.

And he didn’t mind racing with it, because maybe… Just maybe…

He’d have the last laugh..

!!The End!!

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ MAN-HATING CANINE !

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x GN!Reader.

SUMMARY: You have spent years warning people about your loud little dog before they come over for the first time. A lot of them leave, and you start to trust your dog’s instincts more than your own. Jack wins over the love of your dog despite your warnings and the barks. You hope that, finally, Jack won’t be the one to leave. Your dog seems to hope for the same…

NOTES: Reader has a mini schnauzer (Romeo), established relationship, references to previous toxic relationships, mild profanity, Jack is a bit cocky.

REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.

NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI

You almost don’t invite Jack over. That is the truth of it, however much you pretend otherwise later, however much you laugh it off when Jack’s mouth quirks and he says something low and pleased about winning over your dog.

There is a moment, hand still on the door, where your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with memory, where you consider stepping back out onto the pavement and suggesting a walk instead, a drink, anywhere but here.

Home has always been yours first and safe second. Romeo makes it that way. He is already barking before you even turn the key properly, claws clicking against the wooden floor as he launches himself at the door like he has something to prove. You wince, shoulder tensing, already bracing for the inevitable explanation, already preparing yourself for Jack to reassess, to smile politely and decide this is more effort than it is worth.

You glance over your shoulder. “I did warn you.”

Jack does not look concerned. He never looks concerned in the way other people do, not outwardly, not with that small level of panic that you are used to reading and accommodating. His calm runs deeper than that, something steadier and harder earned. He just watches the door, head slightly tilted, as if listening past the noise.

“Sounds like he’s got opinions,” he says.

“That’s putting it lightly.” You push the door open before you can hesitate again. “Romeo, shut up.”

The barking spikes at the sight of Jack. It is immediate and visceral. Romeo plants himself a few feet back, ears raised, teeth bared in a way that is far too dramatic for a miniature schnauzer with a brown bow-tie collar and yet somehow still intimidating. You feel the familiar curl of embarrassment twist low in your stomach, heat rising up your neck.

“Jesus Christ,” you say, forcing a laugh that does not quite land. “This is what I meant. He’s an asshole.”

There is a script for this, one you have learned the hard way. You apologise. You explain. You promise it will settle. You reassure them that he is all noise, that he has never actually bitten anyone, that he just needs time. Then you watch them withdraw anyway, slow and subtle, the beginning of distance already taking shape.

You brace for it now, but Jack just steps inside.

Not cautiously, not with exaggerated care, just normally, like there isn’t a tiny, fluffy maniac barking up at him. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click and stands there for a moment, letting Romeo bark himself hoarse without reacting to it. No sharp movements, no attempt to reach out, no irritation flickering across his face.

You frown, thrown off your usual script. “Huh. Most men don’t make it through the door,” you say.

“Most men don’t know how to be patient,” Jack replies with a scoff.

Romeo does not stop barking, but something in the rhythm changes. Less frantic. More evaluative. You can see it, the way his head tilts slightly, the way his eyes track Jack rather than just react to him.

You fold your arms, tension still coiled tight in your chest. “He hates men.”

“Does he?” It is not a question, despite what it sounds like. Jack glances down at him, expression unreadable in that quiet way of his. “Or does he hate something else?”

You open your mouth to answer and then close it again. It is easier to say Romeo hates men than it is to explain the rest of it.

The way he used to hide behind your legs when voices got too loud. The way he would bark himself into exhaustion whenever someone overstayed their welcome, as if he understood before you did that something was wrong. The way he never, not once, warmed to anyone you dated before, as if he could smell the parts of them you kept trying to ignore.

“He’s never liked anyone I’ve brought home,” you say instead, softer now.

Jack hums, crouching down slowly, wincing at the strain, but deliberate in every movement. He does not reach out. He just lowers himself to Romeo’s level and waits, forearms resting loosely on his thighs.

“Fair enough,” he says. “I’m not just anyone, luckily.”

There is something about the way he says it that settles under your ribs, warm and unsettling all at once.

Romeo’s barking falters. It does not stop completely, but it drops in volume, turning into something more uncertain, more questioning. He edges forward a fraction, nose twitching, still wary but no longer on the offensive. You stare.

“That’s new,” you murmur.

“Mm.” Jack does not look at you. His focus stays on Romeo, steady and unhurried. “He’s just figuring me out.”

“You’re being sized up. He might eat you.”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

A huff of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. It feels strange, this shift, this unexpected ease settling into a situation you had already written off as stressful.

Romeo takes another step forward. Then another.

You watch, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, as he closes the distance entirely and sniffs at Jack’s knee, quick and cautious. There is a pause, a beat of stillness where anything could happen.

Jack does not move. Not even when Romeo’s nose brushes against the seam of his jeans, not even when the dog huffs softly, considering.

“Go on,” you whisper, more to yourself than to either of them.

Romeo sneezes. Then, in a move so abrupt it almost makes you laugh, he sits down. Just… sits.

The barking stops. The silence that follows feels louder than anything that came before it.

Jack glances up at you then, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. There is something dangerously close to amusement in his eyes, something that tugs at the corner of his mouth in a way that feels unfairly smug.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I might be.”

Romeo leans forward and licks Jack’s hand. You feel it in your chest, sharp and sudden, like something cracking open.

“That is—” You break off, shaking your head. “He doesn’t do that.”

“Apparently he does,” Jack says.

There is no gloating in his voice, not exactly. It is quieter than that, more contained, but you know him well enough now to hear it anyway, that thread of satisfaction woven carefully through his tone.

“You’re insufferable,” you tell him.

“Give it a minute,” he replies. “I can get worse.”

Romeo shifts closer, pressing himself against Jack’s leg as if he has known him for years rather than seconds. His tail starts wagging, tentative at first and then with growing confidence, the earlier hostility completely forgotten.

You feel something twist in your chest again, but it is not tension this time. It is something softer. Something more dangerous.

“He’s never done that,” you say, quieter now.

Jack’s gaze flicks back to you, the smugness fading just enough to make room for something gentler. “Maybe he’s got good instincts.”

You let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall as the reality of it settles in.

Romeo, your fiercely loyal, man-hating little guard dog, is currently leaning into Jack like he belongs there. Like he has always belonged there. The thought lands heavier than you expect.

You look at Jack, really look at him, at the quiet steadiness of him, the way he has not tried to force anything, has not taken more than what was given. There is something achingly familiar in it, something that mirrors the way he has been with you from the start. Patient. Careful. Unassuming in a way that somehow matters more than anything louder ever could.

Your throat tightens. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you manage.

“Too late, baby,” he says, and this time the smile is unmistakable.

You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real bite. Because the truth of it is sitting right there in front of you, tail wagging and utterly content. Romeo likes him. And that feels like far more than it should.

There is a strange sort of quiet that follows.

Not the absence of noise, because Romeo is still there, still making small pleased whines as he noses insistently at Jack’s hand, still shifting his weight like he cannot quite get close enough, but the absence of what you had prepared yourself for. No tension. No careful monitoring of distance. No apology forming on your tongue every time the dog moves. You do not quite know what to do with it.

Jack scratches lightly behind Romeo’s ear, measured and unhurried, like he is aware of how easily this could have gone the other way and is not interested in pushing his luck. The dog melts into it, leaning harder, eyes softening in a way you have only ever seen when it is just the two of you at the end of a long day.

It does something unsettling to your chest. “He’s a traitor,” you say, though there is no heat in it.

Jack glances up at you, hand still moving in slow, absent strokes. “Or he’s got standards.”

You snort despite yourself. “That’s not helping your case.”

“I’m not making a case.” His gaze drops back to Romeo, expression easing into something softer than you are used to seeing at work, where everything about him is sharpened by urgency and held together by control. “He’s already decided.”

The words land heavier than they should. You push yourself off the wall, needing to move, to ground yourself in something physical before your thoughts start running ahead of you. “Don’t read too much into it. He also once tried to befriend a man who dropped a hot dog on the pavement.”

“Did it work?”

“The man or the hot dog?”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “Either.”

“The hot dog,” you admit. “The man got barked at for breathing too loud.”

“Reassuring.”

You hover for a second, watching them, the ease of it, the way Romeo has completely abandoned his usual suspicion. It feels like witnessing something quietly significant, something you cannot quite put into words without making it sound bigger than it is allowed to be.

Your home has seen versions of this before.

Different faces. Different voices. The same eventual outcome. Romeo barking. You apologising. Someone leaving a little sooner than planned, a little less certain than when they arrived.

You have learned not to expect anything else.

“Come on,” you say, turning towards the kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”

“Sounds good.”

You take a few steps before realising he is not following. You look back. Jack is still sat on the floor, and Romeo is still pressed against him, entirely unwilling to let him go. There is something almost ridiculous about it, the way your fiercely independent dog has decided, within minutes, that this man is his person.

“Romeo,” you call. “Leave him.”

He does not move.

Jack huffs out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. “I think I’m being held hostage.”

“You can extract yourself,” you say. “He’s not that strong.”

“I’m aware.” There is a pause, a brief flicker of something thoughtful crossing his face. “I just don’t want to move, really.”

Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply inconvenient. You turn back to the kitchen before he can see it, focusing on the familiar routine of filling the kettle, setting it on the hob, anything to give your hands something to do. The normality of it should be grounding. It is not.

You can hear them from where you stand, the soft shuffle of movement, the quiet murmur of Jack’s voice as he says something low you cannot quite make out. Romeo responds with a pleased little huff, the sound carrying easily down the short hallway.

It feels intimate in a way you had not prepared for.

Not just him being here, not just the shift in your space, but this, the way something you have always kept separate is folding in on itself without resistance.

You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter than necessary. It should not matter this much. It is just a dog. It is just a man your dog happens to like.

Except it is not just that, and you know it.

You have spent years trusting Romeo’s instincts more than your own when it comes to people, letting his reactions confirm what you already suspect but do not want to admit. He has been right more often than not.

Right about the ones who pushed too hard. Right about the ones who stayed too long. Right about the ones who made you feel small in ways you could not quite articulate at the time. He has never been wrong.

The kettle whistles sharply, dragging you back. You turn off the hob, exhaling slowly as you reach for the mugs. Your hands feel steadier now, the simple familiarity of the task easing some of the tightness in your chest.

By the time you step back into the living room, you have almost convinced yourself it is nothing. Then you see them again. Jack has shifted, sitting properly now with his back against the sofa, one leg stretched out, the other bent. Romeo is in his lap, head resting against his thigh, completely at ease. Completely at home.

You stop in the doorway. Something in your chest pulls, sharp and aching and warm all at once.

Jack looks up at the sound of your movement, eyes finding yours immediately. There is a question there, quiet and unspoken, like he is checking in without making a point of it.

You swallow. “Tea,” you say, holding up the mugs slightly as if that explains anything.

“My sweet little lifesaver.”

You cross the room, setting one down carefully on the coffee table before lowering yourself onto the sofa, leaving a small, instinctive gap between you. It feels necessary, even now, even with everything that has already shifted.

Jack notices. He always notices. He does not comment on it, does not close the distance, does not do anything except take the mug and murmur a quiet thanks. The restraint of it settles something restless in your chest, even as it makes something else ache.

Romeo lifts his head, glancing between you both, as if assessing the situation.

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

He ignores you. Of course he does. With zero hesitation, Romeo climbs up, wedging himself between you and Jack with all the determination of a dog who has decided he knows best. He circles once, twice, and then settles, pressing into both of you at once like he is bridging a gap you are not quite ready to close yourself.

You stare at him. Jack exhales softly, something almost like a laugh catching in his throat.

“Subtle,” he says.

“He’s never subtle,” you reply, though your voice has gone quieter, something in it unsteady.

You are very aware of the way your arm is now brushing against Jack’s, of the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleeve, of how easy it would be to just lean.

You do not. You sit there, very still, as Romeo sighs contentedly between you, utterly convinced he has solved a problem that only exists because of you.

Jack takes a slow sip of his tea. “He didn’t like the others,” he says after a moment, not looking at you.

It is not a question. You shake your head anyway. “No.”

“Any of them?”

“No.”

A pause. “Right.”

There is no judgement in it, no probing curiosity, just a quiet acknowledgement. It should make it easier to breathe. It does not.

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, eyes fixed on the movement of your fingers. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little bit,” he admits.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“You said that already.”

“I mean it this time.”

That earns you a proper smile, brief but real, softening the harder edges of his expression in a way that still catches you off guard, even now.

“He’s got good taste,” Jack says.

You huff. “That’s debatable.”

“Feels pretty solid to me.”

You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real force. Because underneath it, beneath the teasing and the deflection and the careful distance you are still trying to maintain, there is something else taking root.

It settles slowly, almost reluctantly, threading its way through the familiar caution you carry, easing into spaces that have been closed off for longer than you care to admit.

You look at Romeo, at the way he is so completely at ease, and then at Jack, at the steady presence of him, the way he has not tried to claim anything that has not been offered. Your chest tightens. This feels different. That is the problem. You are not entirely sure what to do with the difference.

It shifts again later, in a way that feels smaller on the surface and far more dangerous underneath.

You are halfway through telling him something inconsequential, some story from work that does not really go anywhere, when you realise you have stopped watching Romeo. That, more than anything, is what unsettles you.

There is always a part of your attention reserved for the dog when someone new is in your space, always a low-level awareness of where he is, what he is doing, whether you need to intervene, apologise, manage. It has become instinct, something ingrained so deeply you no longer notice it most of the time.

Except now it is gone. You notice the absence of it like a missing step on the stairs. Your words falter, trailing off mid-sentence as the realisation catches up with you. Jack’s gaze lifts from where it had been resting loosely on your hands, attentive even when you are rambling, quiet in a way that makes it easy to keep talking.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod automatically, even as your eyes flick down. Romeo is asleep. Properly asleep, not the light doze he usually slips into when there is someone unfamiliar nearby, not the half-alert rest where his ears twitch at every small sound. He is out, completely and utterly, curled against Jack’s side like this is the most natural place in the world to be.

You stare at him. Something in your chest pulls tight, then tighter still.

“This is so weird,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Jack follows your gaze, taking in the sight with a quiet sort of understanding that makes your throat feel dry.

“Feels like a good sign,” he says.

It should be. It is. That is what makes it so difficult to sit with. You drag your eyes away, focusing instead on the faint pattern of wear on your coffee table, the small scratches and marks that have built up over time. It is easier than looking at what is right in front of you, easier than letting yourself fully register what it means.

“Or he’s exhausted himself by being so dramatic,” you offer, grasping for something lighter.

“Could be that.” His tone suggests he does not believe it.

You pick at the same loose thread on your sleeve, pulling it a little too hard this time until it snaps. The sudden give of it feels louder than it should, the small sound cutting through the quiet of the room.

Jack’s eyes flick back to you. “You’re miles away,” he says.

You huff out a breath, something caught between a laugh and something more strained. “Just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Shut up.” There is no bite to it. There rarely is with him.

Silence settles again, softer this time, less uncertain than before. It wraps around you both, around the steady rhythm of Romeo’s breathing, around the faint clink of ceramic as you set your mug down on the table.

You feel it building, the weight of something you have been carefully not saying, pressing against the inside of your ribs.

It comes out anyway. “He has never liked anyone before,” you say quietly.

Jack does not interrupt.

You swallow, forcing yourself to keep going even as your instinct tells you to pull back, to make a joke, to deflect.

“Not just in a ‘he barked a bit’ way. Properly didn’t like them. Wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t settle if they were here. It was always… tense.”

You risk a glance at him. Jack is watching you, not with that clinical attentiveness he has at work, not with the careful neutrality he uses when things get difficult, but with something softer, something that feels like it is just for you. It makes it harder to look away.

“I used to think he was just difficult,” you admit. “Or jealous, maybe. It was easier than considering he might be right.”

Jack’s expression shifts, something subtle but significant. “About them,” he says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

The word sits heavy between you. There is a lot you are not saying, a lot you do not need to. The shape of it is there anyway, in the spaces between your words, in the way your shoulders have drawn in slightly, in the careful neutrality you are trying and failing to maintain.

Jack exhales slowly. “He’s not wrong about me, you know,” he says.

It catches you off guard enough that you actually look at him properly, a small frown pulling at your brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not exactly low maintenance,” he replies, tone even, almost too even. “I come with my own set of complications.”

There it is. The quiet honesty of it, offered without fanfare, without expectation. You recognise it for what it is, the same kind of careful truth he gives you in pieces, never more than you can hold at once.

You shake your head, a small, instinctive movement. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His gaze does not waver. “Yeah.”

Something in your chest aches. You shift slightly, the movement bringing you a fraction closer without fully closing the space. It feels deliberate and not at all at the same time.

“I’m not saying you’re perfect,” you say, voice softer now. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

You almost smile.

“I’m saying he’s never been this… calm with anyone. Not like this. Not straight away. It’s usually a whole thing. Takes weeks, sometimes.”

Jack glances down at Romeo, who remains blissfully unaware of the conversation happening over his head. “Maybe I got lucky,” he says.

You shake your head again, more certain this time. “He doesn’t do luck.”

“Then what does he do?”

You hesitate. The answer feels too big, too revealing, like it will shift something if you say it out loud.

“He reads people,” you say finally. “Better than I do, most of the time.”

Jack is quiet for a moment. Then, very gently, “You give him a lot of credit.”

“He’s earned it.”

“And you haven’t?”

The question lands softly and still manages to knock the breath from your lungs.

You look at him, really look at him, at the steadiness of him, the quiet persistence, the way he has stayed without pushing, has listened without trying to fix things you are not ready to have fixed. Your throat tightens.

“That’s not the point,” you say, though it comes out weaker than you intend.

“Feels like it might be.”

You exhale slowly, your gaze dropping back to Romeo, to the rise and fall of his small body, the complete trust in the way he has settled.

“I trust him,” you say.

It is not a complete answer. Jack does not push for one. “Alright,” he says simply.

The acceptance of it settles something restless in your chest, even as it leaves other things exposed, things you are not entirely ready to examine too closely. You sit with it for a moment, the quiet stretching out, comfortable and not at the same time.

Then, almost without thinking, you let your hand drift down, fingers brushing lightly against Romeo’s back. He stirs, just slightly, but does not wake. Your hand stills there, resting against him.

Jack’s arm shifts a fraction as well, the movement small but enough that your fingers brush against his for the briefest second. It is nothing. It is everything.

You do not pull away immediately. Neither does he.

The contact is light, barely there, but it sends something warm and unsettling curling through your chest, something that feels suspiciously like the beginning of a decision you have been avoiding.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “This doesn’t mean he gets to be smug about it,” you say, voice quieter now.

Jack huffs out a soft laugh. “Too late for that.”

You glance at him, catching the faint trace of it, the restrained satisfaction he is trying and failing to hide. “You’re unbearable.”

“Only a bit.”

“More than a bit.”

He tilts his head, considering. “Worth it?”

The question is light. The answer is not. You look at him, at the man sitting in your space like he has always been meant to be there, at the dog who has decided the same thing without hesitation, and you feel it settle, slow and certain, beneath the fear and the caution and the habits you have built to keep yourself safe. Different. Still different. But maybe not in a way that needs to be resisted.

Your chest tightens, then eases, like something finally giving way. “Yeah,” you say, softer than anything you have said all evening. “Hopefully.”

Jack does not smile properly at that, not in a way that draws attention to itself. It is smaller. Quieter. But it is there. And this time, when Romeo shifts in his sleep and presses further into both of you, you do not move away at all.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

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[of-apollo]

₊⊹ BUDDY KNOWS BEST !

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x GN!Resident!Reader.

SUMMARY: When an angry patient attacks you at work, you do everything in your power to hide how bad it is from Jack. Unfortunately for you, his dog, Buddy, knows best, and is quick to alert him to how bad things are as soon as he gets home.

NOTES: Aggressive patient, physical injury, Jack has a retired military dog, the dog is very protective of reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship.

NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI

a/n — technically a part two to dog’s best friend, but can absolutely be read as a standalone !

“I just need you to stay seated for a second, alright?” you say, voice soft, even, the same tone you use with every difficult situation, steady and careful without ever sounding condescending.

The patient doesn’t like it. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the sharp turn of her head, the flicker of something reactive and unpredictable behind her eyes.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m not,” you reassure gently, hands visible, posture open. “I’m just trying to help you, ma’am.”

The metal tray is already in her hand before you fully register it.

“Hey!”. It’s Samira’s voice, a sharp warning from somewhere behind you, but it comes a second too late.

The patient swings. Not hard enough to seriously injure on its own. But combined with the shove that comes with it, it’s enough. The impact glances off your shoulder, but the force of the push sends you stumbling backwards, your foot catching awkwardly on the edge of the trolley behind you.

There’s a split second where you try to correct it. Your balance almost rights itself. Then, your heel slips.

You go down hard.

Your hip hits first, the shock of it jolting up your side before your shoulder follows, and then your head clips the edge of the cabinet behind you with a dull, sickening crack that makes your vision flare white.

The world tilts. Sound distorts.

You suck in a breath too fast and it catches halfway, your ribs protesting sharply as pain blooms deep along your side, spreading outwards in a way that feels heavy and wrong.

“Shit!”

“Hold her back!”

“Move!”

Hands are on you immediately. Too many. Too fast.

“Don’t move,” Dana says firmly, already crouched at your side, one hand braced against your shoulder to keep you grounded.

“I’m fine,” you manage automatically, even as your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. “I just slipped—”

“You didn’t slip,” Samira cuts in, sharper than usual, already scanning you quickly. “She shoved you.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.

Your body protests instantly. A sharp, deep pain lances through your ribs and your breath hitches before you can stop it.

Dana presses you back down without hesitation.

“No, you’re not getting up yet.”

“I’m okay,” you insist, though your hand has already moved instinctively to your side, fingers pressing there like you can contain the ache if you just hold it still.

“Yeah,” Langdon mutters, crouching on your other side, one brow raised. “You look fantastic.”

You glare weakly. “I am—”

“You’re wincing,” Mel says gently from behind them. “Just stay down a second.”

Across the bay, Robby steps in, taking in the scene quickly, his expression tightening slightly as he looks between you and the now-restrained patient.

“What happened?”

“They got knocked,” Dana says, not taking her eyes off you. “Hit their head on the way down.”

“I’m fine,” you say again, the words automatic now, like muscle memory.

Robby’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than you’d like. Assessing. Weighing.

Then, “Get them checked,” he says. “No arguments.”

You open your mouth to argue anyway. Close it again.

The check is quick. Too quick.

Vitals steady. Pupils reactive. A few questions you answer without thinking, even as your head still feels slightly off and your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply.

“Probably just bruised,” Langdon says, though there’s hesitation there. “Keep an eye on it.”

“I will,” you say.

You go back to work. Of course you do. It’s slower now. More careful. Every movement measured so you don’t aggravate the pain blooming along your side, every breath kept shallow enough to avoid the sharpest edge of it.

You don’t let anyone make a fuss. You don’t give them the chance.

By the time shift change creeps in, you’re running on stubbornness more than anything else.

Your body feels heavy. Your head dull. Your ribs worse. But you’re still standing. That counts for something.

You see Jack the second he walks in.

It’s instinct, the way something in you softens at the sight of him, even through the ache, even through the exhaustion.

He sees you just as quickly, and immediately, his expression changes. “What happened?”

No hello. No lead-in. Just that.

You blink. Too slow. “…nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”

You huff a small breath, trying for normal. “I’m not lying. I just got knocked a bit. It’s fine.”

“Knocked how?”

“Patient,” you say quickly. “It happens.”

His jaw tightens. “You hit your head.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

Jack steps closer, his hand coming up instinctively, hovering for a second before brushing lightly near your temple, careful.

You flinch. Just slightly. Jack notices anyway.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”

“I am,” you insist, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing, Jack. Just a bruise.”

“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s not what this is.”

You don’t let him push further. You can’t, because if you stop holding it together now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to start again.

“I promise I’m okay,” you say, gentler now, stepping into his space, your hand brushing his arm. “I’m just going to go home, sleep it off.”

Jack searches your face. Longer than you’re comfortable with. “…yeah?”

You nod. “I promise.”

You kiss him before he can argue again. Soft. Quick. A distraction more than anything.

“I’ll text you,” you add.

He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go.

You don’t realise how much you’ve been holding in until you get home.

The door shuts behind you. Your bag slips from your shoulder. Everything collapses.

The pain hits first. Sharp. Deep. Your ribs screaming the second you stop forcing yourself to breathe carefully around it. Your head throbbing dully where it connected earlier. Your whole body suddenly too aware of itself.

Then the tears. They come fast. Uncontrolled. Your hands come up to your face as your shoulders shake, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it.

“It hurts,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Soft paws hit the floor behind you. Buddy is there instantly.

No hesitation. No distance. Just straight to you, pressing in close, whining low as his nose nudges at your hands, your face, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Hey, Buddy…” Your voice wobbles as you drop one hand to him, fingers tangling in his fur. “I’m okay,” you murmur, even as you cry. “I’m okay—”

He doesn’t believe you. He licks at your cheek, catching tears, pressing closer until you sink down with him, your body folding as he crowds in, solid and warm and there.

Buddy doesn’t leave your side once. Not when you get up slowly. Not when you change. Not when you ease yourself into bed with a quiet, pained breath.

He jumps up beside you without hesitation. Circles once. Then presses himself along your back, heavy and grounding, his head resting near your shoulder like he’s keeping watch.

You fall asleep like that. Hurting. Exhausted. But not alone.

Jack knows something is wrong before he even gets the door fully open.

It isn’t logical at first. There’s no noise, no obvious sign of anything being off, but the second the latch clicks and the door gives, the silence hits him wrong, too heavy, too still, like something’s settled where it shouldn’t.

Then, there’s movement. Fast. Low.

A sharp bark that cuts straight through the quiet.

Buddy is there instantly, planted between Jack and the hallway like a barrier, body rigid, ears forward, a low, warning growl vibrating through his chest in a way Jack has never heard directed at him before.

“Hey, Buddy…” Jack stills, hands lifting slightly in reflex, not defensive, just careful. “Buddy.”

The dog doesn’t move.

If anything, he braces harder, stance widening, blocking the path to the bedroom completely like he’s guarding something.

Another bark. Sharper this time. Urgent.

Jack’s chest tightens. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice dropping instinctively, steady, controlled. “Talk to me, what’s going on?”

Buddy huffs, pacing a tight step forward, then back, torn between holding his ground and needing Jack to follow.

It clicks immediately. Not aggression. Protection.

Jack’s stomach drops. “…where is she?”

Buddy barks again. Turns. Looks back. Then looks at him.

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’m coming.”

Buddy doesn’t fully relax, but he shifts just enough to allow it, moving ahead of him down the hall, glancing back every few steps like he’s making sure Jack is still there. Still following. Still paying attention.

The bedroom door is half open. The light is off.

Jack pushes it gently. “Sweetheart?”

No answer.

His chest tightens further as he steps inside.

You’re there. Curled on your side, exactly where he expects you to be, and somehow still wrong. Too still. Too tense even in sleep, your body drawn in slightly like you’re protecting something.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer.

Buddy is already at the side of the bed, whining low, tail flicking anxiously, nose nudging lightly at your arm.

You don’t wake straight away.

Jack reaches you in two steps, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering for just a second before resting lightly on your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You stir at that. Just slightly. A small sound leaving you, somewhere between a breath and a soft groan as you shift without meaning to.

The movement pulls a reaction out of you immediately. A sharp inhale. A wince. Your hand tightening instinctively at your side.

Jack stills. “There it is,” he murmurs quietly.

Your eyes open slowly, heavy with sleep, disoriented for a second before they land on him.

“…Jack?” Your voice is rough. Small.

“Hey,” Jack exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for just a second before it’s replaced with something more focused. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Buddy immediately pushes closer the second you’re awake, nose nudging your cheek, then your shoulder, then settling half across you like he’s making sure you stay put.

“What…” you start, blinking. “What time is it?”

“Too early for you to pretend you’re fine,” he replies gently.

You try to smile. It doesn’t quite work.

“I am fine.”

Jack doesn’t even entertain that.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes already scanning you properly now, taking in the way you’re holding yourself, the tightness in your posture, the faint shadow of bruising starting to show along your side where your shirt has shifted. “What actually happened?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically. Too quickly.

His gaze flicks up to yours. Flat. Unimpressed.

“Try again.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. It’s enough.

“A patient knocked me,” you admit finally, quieter now. “It’s not a big deal.”

Jack’s jaw tightens immediately. “Knocked you how? You can’t just leave it at that, baby.”

“I fell,” you say. “It’s just a bruise.”

Buddy lets out a soft, unhappy whine. Jack glances at him briefly, then back at you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t seem to think so either.”

You huff a weak breath. “He’s dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Jack repeats. “Funny. So are you.”

You try to push yourself up. Bad idea. The movement pulls a sharp, involuntary sound out of you before you can stop it, your hand flying back to your ribs as pain flares hot and immediate.

Jack’s hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can even properly lose balance.

“Hey, easy, easy.”

“I’m fine,” you insist again, breath uneven now.

“No, you’re not,” Jack says, still calm but firmer now, his other hand coming up to gently guide you back down against the pillows. “Lie back.”

You don’t argue this time. You don’t have the energy.

Buddy shifts with you immediately, repositioning so he’s still pressed against your side, careful, oddly careful for his size, like he knows exactly where not to put weight.

Jack notices. Files it away.

“Where?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering just above your ribs. “Show me.”

You hesitate. Then, slowly, you move your hand just enough to indicate the worst of it. His touch is light when it comes, fingers pressing gently along the area, assessing. You flinch. Harder this time.

“Shit, okay,” Jack murmurs, more to himself than you. “Yeah, that’s not nothing.”

“It’s just bruised,” you say weakly.

“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not.”

You look at him. A flicker of worry finally breaking through everything else.

“It’s not broken. I got checked out. Ask Robby.” He doesn’t answer straight away. Which is answer enough. “Jack, please.”

“Hey,” he says softly, immediately, his hand coming up to your face instead, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears are starting to gather again. “Don’t get upset about it. Not your fault.”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” you admit, voice cracking slightly. “It wasn’t that bad at work, I just—”

“You came home and cried,” he says quietly.

You freeze. “How did you—”

He glances at Buddy. Buddy, who is currently pressed against you like a guard dog with a personal vendetta.

“Right,” you mutter weakly.

Jack’s expression softens. A lot. “You should’ve told me,” he says, not accusing, just honest.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.

He huffs a quiet breath. Too late for that. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he says gently.

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Soft. Then, “Alright,” he says, shifting slightly. “We’re going to fix you up, okay?”

You blink. “We?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me and him. You know we can’t leave him out of anything.”

Buddy lifts his head slightly at that, like he’s been formally acknowledged.

Despite everything, you almost laugh.

Jack doesn’t rush you. That’s the first thing you notice. Even with the tension sitting tight in his shoulders, even with the way his eyes keep flicking back to your ribs like he’s already running through worst-case scenarios in his head, he keeps everything slow. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt or break or both.

“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting off the bed briefly. “Stay there.”

You don’t have the energy to do anything else. Buddy does. The second Jack steps away, Buddy’s head lifts, ears pricking forward, a low, suspicious rumble building in his chest again like he’s not entirely convinced this is still safe.

“Hey,” Jack says without looking at him, already grabbing what he needs. “Pack it in.”

Buddy huffs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax. You reach down weakly, fingers brushing through his fur.

“It’s okay, Buddy,” you murmur softly. “He’s helping.”

Buddy’s attention flicks to you immediately. That’s all that matters.

Jack comes back with a small kit, nothing dramatic, just basics, but it’s the way he carries it that tells you everything. Familiar. Practised. Focused.

He sits beside you again, closer this time. Close enough that your knees brush when he shifts.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering near the hem of your shirt.

You nod.

He moves carefully. Slowly lifting the fabric just enough to expose your side. The bruise is worse than either of you expected. Dark already. Spreading. Angry under the skin, the kind of deep, blooming discolouration that makes your stomach twist just looking at it.

“Fuck,” Jack exhales quietly. Not surprised. Not pleased either.

“It looks worse than it feels,” you say automatically.

It’s a lie. A weak one.

Jack glances at you. Doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t need to.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” he asks instead.

“A bit.”

“How much is a bit?”

You hesitate. “More than a bit.”

He nods slightly, like he expected that. “Any sharp pain when you move?”

“Yes.”

“Dizziness? Nausea?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“A little.”

He takes that in, nodding with a frown. Then his hand comes back to your side, touch light, deliberate, pressing just enough to assess without making it worse. You tense immediately. A sharp inhale slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sorry, honey,” he murmurs, instantly easing off.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, even as your eyes sting again.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”

That lands. Heavier than anything else has. Your lip wobbles slightly before you can stop it. You look away.

“I really thought it was fine,” you admit, voice small now. “At work it didn’t feel this bad.”

“Adrenaline,” he says simply.

You huff a weak breath. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Hey.”

You look back at Jack. His hand comes up to your face again, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears have started slipping free again without you realising.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “It looks bad, but you’re okay.”

“I feel stupid,” you whisper.

His expression tightens. Not at you. At the word.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“I should’ve just stopped. Let them check it properly. Told you—”

“You got through your shift,” he cuts in gently. “That’s what you were focused on.”

“That doesn’t make it smart.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “But it makes it understandable. I know what you’re like.”

You swallow. Your chest tightens.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” you say, barely above a whisper now.

“You don’t get to decide that it’s not a big deal,” he replies, not harsh, just steady. “Not when it’s you.”

You don’t argue. You can’t.

Buddy shifts slightly, pushing his head more firmly into your lap like he’s trying to insert himself into the conversation. You let your hand fall to him automatically, fingers threading through his fur.

Jack watches it for a second. Then, “Alright,” he says, softer now. “We’re going to assume bad bruising, maybe a cracked rib. No heroics for a few days.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Okay. I can live with that.”

“I’ll grab some ice,” he adds.

Buddy immediately lifts his head again. Watching. Tracking. Jack pauses. Looks at him.

“I’m coming back,” he says dryly.

Buddy blinks. Considers it. Then settles again, barely. You laugh softly despite yourself. It hurts. You do it anyway.

By the time Jack comes back, you’re more settled. Not better, but calmer.

He helps you adjust carefully, guiding you so you’re propped slightly, a pillow tucked behind your back to keep pressure off your ribs. Every movement is slow. Considered. His hands never far from you.

“Gonna be cold, sorry,” he warns quietly, pressing the ice pack gently against your side.

You flinch. Then relax. “That’s actually nice,” you admit after a second.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Usually is.”

The quiet settles again. Different now. Softer.

You’re watching Jack without meaning to.

The focus in his expression. The care in every movement. The way he keeps checking in without making it obvious.

“You’re not mad?” you ask after a while.

He looks up. Brows drawing together slightly. “Mad?”

“That I didn’t tell you.”

There’s a pause. Then, “No,” he says.

You blink. “Really?”

“I mean, I’m not thrilled,” he adds honestly. “But I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”

That eases something in your chest. You didn’t even realise it was there.

“I just didn’t want to worry you,” you repeat softly.

“You don’t get to make that call,” he says again, gentler this time. “You tell me, I worry. That’s the deal.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “That’s not a very fair deal.”

“No,” he agrees. “Works for me, though.”

You laugh quietly. It pulls at your ribs. You wince.

His hand is there instantly. “Easy.”

“I’m okay,” you murmur. “Stop being funny.”

“I know. I’ll try,” he says.

Buddy shifts again, this time climbing more deliberately across the bed until he wedges himself firmly between you and Jack, his body pressed along your side, his head settling heavily across your lap like he’s decided his position is now permanent.

Jack stares at him. “Really?”

Buddy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. You smile softly, your hand resting automatically on Buddy’s head.

“He’s just making sure I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “I can see that.”

There’s a pause. Then, carefully, deliberately, Jack shifts closer anyway. Working around the dog rather than moving him. His arm slides gently behind your back, pulling you just slightly closer so you’re supported without putting pressure on your ribs.

Buddy allows it. Barely.

You melt into it. Exhaustion catching up all over again now that everything else has settled. Your head tips lightly against Jack’s shoulder. Your hand still resting on Buddy.

“I’m really tired,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” Jack murmurs softly. “I know.”

Your eyes slip closed. Between them, you’re completely boxed in, warmth at your back, solid weight at your front, hands anchoring you in place like nothing is going to let you fall apart again.

“Stay,” you whisper, barely conscious now.

Jack’s arm tightens slightly around you. “I’ve got you.”

Buddy huffs softly. Settling deeper. And for the first time since it happened, you actually relax. Sleep comes easy after that.

All three of you tangled together in the quiet.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL PITT: @shawnhatosysrightbicep @goldfishenthusiast67 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @aureliacalista @sheridamn

ALL PITT MEN: @malindacath

JACK ABBOT: @moonlitblossomsofthesun @nebuleuseeeeee @nyxmoretti @oliviarw3

[tofics]

(So I'm trying to comment on this in a sensible way and my brain keeps short-circuiting so forgive my less-than-eloquent words pls) B E A U T I F U L!

You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline. “Don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Do what?” “Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”

Raaaaah! Not only does this read 100% as Abbott, but also made my heart hurt.

I loved the entire premise, and you executed it so beautifully. Wonderful work. So so soft and vulnerable. Oof.

(Also, I noticed a little "error" - Jack refers to reader as "she" when he asks Buddy for their whereabouts. I hope it's okay that I'm pointing this out. Your story was beautiful regardless! 🫶🏼)

[highdramas]

to be alone with you | jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!night shift resident!reader warnings: language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), very tender and intimate, steamy but not explicit word count: 3.5k summary: pittsburgh is bracing for the worst winter storm in 40 years. you and jack are accepting the truth of your relationship. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. long time no write <3 i pulled the title for this one from to be alone by hozier. i hope you missed these two as much as i have <3 this is a part of the ring of fire interconnected series, but it’s not necessary to read the prior parts to understand this fic. if you would like to, though, you can find the masterlist here <3 not proofread so apologies for any errors!

the strap of your duffel bag digs into your shoulder, slowing you down as you hobble from the bus stop towards the hospital. the worst of the storm hasn’t hit yet– not even close. honestly, when you look at your surroundings, you find it hard to believe that all of pittsburgh is bracing for the worst snow storm in forty years. everything feels so… peaceful. calm before the storm, and all that, blah blah blah.

  you hate when you have to stay at the hospital, hate sleeping in the beds for longer than a couple hour nap in between a double. but you understand the importance, understand why you can’t be going back and forth. but, still. it doesn’t mean you’re going to go down happy about it. your phone starts buzzing in your pocket. you struggle to fish it out, with all of your various layers of coats, scarves, and mittens. you rip a glove off with your teeth so you can answer. “hey.”

  “you close?”

  “i’m moving at glacial speed, but, yeah, i’m theoretically close.”

  “alright, be out in a sec.”

  it’s futile arguing, because by the time you glance up, you can see a speck out in the distance that is abbot shaped. you can tell, just by the gait. hurrying towards you, head down, hands tucked in the pocket of his coat. you stop for a moment just to watch him, and he holds his hands out incredulously. “you makin’ this harder for me?” the words are laced with levity, making you tip your head back and laugh.

  abbot is always making you laugh. big, full belly laughs– before you became friends with him, you had envied hearing the laughter that emitted from shen and ellis and abbot on the night shift. it felt so easy, like a warm hug and a cup of tea all in one. and it does feel like that. closeness with abbot really is that comforting.

  “well i’m definitely not making this easy!” he trots up towards you and you tilt your head to the side. “this bag is heavy. can you handle it?”

  “you poor thing,” he says under his breath as his hand slides under the strap, brushing your shoulder. he meets your gaze. “i can handle it.”

  the smile on your face is equal parts delighted and sheepish, and you burrow slightly into your scarf, leaving only your eyes visible to him. but, his eyes still flick down to where your mouth would be, anyway.

  things had changed between you. in subtle ways– but you could feel the difference. everything felt charged with a high level of energy, like at any moment, either one of you may just make the decision to throw yourself at the other. there’s a part of you, a prideful part that may be slightly avoidant, that has held yourself back from leaning into your whims in the way that you would truly want to. you don’t know why that is. if anyone would take proper care of your heart and your feelings, it would be abbot. he is particular about most things in his life– you don’t imagine he’d be reckless with your emotions.

  but, still. dead wife, missing leg, adrenaline junkie who has worked through his shit, yes, but… there’s still work to be done. there’s always work to be done. you rationalize that that’s true for you, too. it’s why you and jack got along in the first place.

  night crawlers. that’s what he always called you and your motley crew. the weirdest and the wildest. and it was true. it was true about you, ellis, shen, vivi, crus, mateo… you were all a little odd. during turnover, day shift usually looked at you a bit like a caged zoo animal– half fascination and half disbelief. you didn’t take it personally any more.

  “ready for this shit show?” abbot asks as you begin your trek towards the hospital.

  “yeah, i have miriam house sitting my place. told her i didn’t know how long yet.” a friend of yours– jack has heard all of the stories. even met her, once. not that anyone else at PTMC needs to know how interwoven jack has become into your life. not their business. “i slept for, like, five extra hours before coming. i hate sleeping here.”

  “well,” jack looks over at you. he has a beanie tugged onto his head, little grey curls poking out at the sides around his ears. his scarf is a deep brown, and it looks expensive, like maybe his sister got it for him for a nice christmas or birthday gift. he looks good enough to eat. “i got dana to pull me a favor.” you raise an eyebrow at him. “she put us on our own floor.”

  you can’t help it– you laugh. “you’re shitting me.” he shakes his head. “aren’t people going to be suspicious? like, where did we run off to?”

  jack raises an eyebrow at you. “what do you think they’re gonna say?”

  “what they’ve been saying.” you both stop in the ambulance bay. “that there’s something going on with us.”

  abbot hums. “let ‘em talk.” he shrugs his shoulders. like it’s all just so easy. “and… are they so wrong, anyway?” he smirks, but there’s something else hidden in it. a genuine question. a seeking of confirmation. your jaw drops at him and you hit his arm, convincing yourself that he’s just messing with you. jack messes with you often. he catches your wrist, and his thumb slips under your mitten, rubbing at the soft skin of your wrist, where your veins are. “are they?” he asks, and his words are soft, earnest.

  your mouth opens to say of course they are but you’re interrupted by the squeal of ambulance sirens and the flood of day shifters coming out to get started on a trauma. you and jack shuffle out of the way and into the ED, but you can still feel him glancing over at you.

  once you’re inside, there’s very little time to stop him and say yes, i feel it too. i felt it in the shower with you a few weeks ago and i feel it every time that we smoke together and i feel it when we lay on your couch and i feel it when we’re on opposite sides of a person that we couldn’t save and i feel it when someone takes a gulping breath because we did save them.

  once you break through into the stairwell, there’s a familiar quiet. and on the third floor landing, when jack is panting, just a bit, with the weight of your duffel bag on his shoulder, you stop him with your hand on his arm. “they’re not wrong.” you take the duffel bag back and take your turn shouldering the weight of it.

  if jack was a hastier man, he might’ve kissed you in that moment. but he’s patient, and although he looks down again at your mouth, his eyes find their way back to yours. “gonna be a long couple of days,” he says. he swings open the door and pokes his head down the hall.

  –

  you take your time wiping down the room that you’re staying in. you know what goes down in these rooms– and, to be fair, you’d wipe down a room at the ritz-carlton. that’s just how you are. out the window, you see fat flurries falling from the sky, faster and faster. the news had projected that things would start amping up around this time. you wonder how long until the hospital is relying on the emergency generator– the rumor was the floors that were housing staff would be cut off from power, to conserve it for everywhere else. on one hand, you understand. on the other, you can’t help but feel it is a perfect reflection of how these hospitals treat their staff.

  clad in your most comfortable and soft clothes, you peek out of your door and look down the hall. one room over, a faint glow emits from below the crack in the door, and you hear green day playing. you knock once on the door and it opens for you like he was just waiting for you. he puts a hand on his hip and smirks at you. “took you long enough. ready for our walk?” he reaches behind him and tosses a tube at you. you glance at it and grin.

  jack puts his coat on and follows you back to your room where you grab your puffer. you’ve already put those ridiculous pink mittens on– and he takes it upon himself to zip you up into your jacket, to put a beanie on your head. his touches are careful and gentle, and it makes your heart turn over itself. “it’s like you’re wrapped in bubble wrap,” he says with a laugh under his breath.

  “it’s cold!” you exclaim back.

  jack leads you out to the smoking area. it’s not the best look for two physicians to be there, you know this– but you think you’re incognito enough that maybe it doesn’t matter. you huddle together on the stone bench, hip to hip. you shiver still and jack looks over at you with concern. “c’mere, get closer.”

  “i don’t think i can get any closer without sitting in your lap.”

  the implication weighs heavy in the air. jack’s mouth opens and for a moment you think he’s going to tug you into his lap– but he doesn’t. he just looks at you and leans in closer. “how do you expect to smoke with those monstrosities on?” he asks with a glint in his eye.

  “what, you’re not going to help me?”

  “i can help you.” jack takes the tube back from you and pops it open, putting the joint between his lips. he fishes out his zippo from his pocket and lights it, blowing out the first puff. once it’s got a good, burning cherry, he looks to you. you part your lips slightly and he places it for you. the ring of fire reflects in his eyes, that do nothing but stare at you with purposeful intent. you blow the smoke out over your shoulder. everything feels hazy and slow.

  and then, everything goes dark.

  the streetlights. the inside of the hospital– all of it. only for about ten seconds before the emergency generator powers up and resuscitates the most important parts of PTMC. when you drag your eyes to the third floor, where you and jack share a wall and will rest your heads tonight, you see that it has, as promised, remained dark.

  “shit,” jack sighs. “that didn’t take very long, did it?”

  “nope.” you lean a little closer into him, your head resting on his shoulder. “what was already going to be a shitty nights sleep just got worse.”

  jack is quiet, and you look up to see him with the joint between his lips. he says around the smoke, “stay in my room with me.” he exhales fully.

  you’re hazy from the weed and tired and ready to lay down and, yes, you’re ready to lay down beside him. it wouldn’t be the first time. “okay.”

  he tips your chin up so that he can give you another hit off the joint. it’s all slow and easy, and you feel the anxiety that you’ve been having over staying at PTMC slowly dissipate. because, regardless, jack is here. the same jack that lets you sleep on his couch and pays for your breakfast when you go to the little diner you like. familiar jack.

  the crunching of steps in the snow hit your ears. you lift your head, barely, and see princess and perlah with their arms laced. princess gives you a little wave and winks.

  jack chuckles. “that didn’t take long.”

  –

  it feels like you’re getting ready for prom. that giddiness– the unknown of what’s to come, but the wanting for something grand to happen to you. jack has always made you feel a little bit like a girl with a crush. he has that effect on everyone. princess always loved to joke that a crush on dr. abbot was a rite of passage, and that everyone had to just ride the wave. you rode the wave, certainly. you’re not sure if you ever got off the wave, and that’s the problem.

  there’s already a chill on your floor. when you come to his door, you’re holding a pillow and an extra blanket you had stuffed in your duffel from home. you have slippers on. he answers the door and looks you up and down. “you look cute.”

  “shut up,” you grumble with warm cheeks, brushing past him. “the hospital air makes me feel gross. i swear i get ugly when i stay here too long.”

  jack scoffs. “no, but it makes you crazy, apparently.” he shuts the door. someone had come by to drop off candles, and they’re burning all over the room. an almost certain safety hazard, but that’s the least of your worries now. “i’ve never seen you look ugly.”

  “i wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

  “you don’t have to fish. i’ll give them up freely.”

  he watches you sit, tuck your legs underneath you on the bed and shiver. “it’s only going to get colder,” you remark, looking out the window. the snow is coming down and coming down and coming down. you suspect it’ll get bad, and soon. it’s only a matter of time before your pager goes off, a desperate cry for backup needed. you yawn and glance at the clock. 9:07pm. you don’t usually go to bed so early– of course not, being night shift. but it was your day off tonight, technically. and abbot’s.

  “can i…” jack clears his throat. “we can lay down. might help stay warm.”

  “yeah. yeah, good idea.” you pull the covers back and slide beneath them, and abbot comes to the other side of the bed and does the same. the candlelight flickers across his face and you swear that he’s not even breathing, not until he lays down beside you. he’s stiff, arms at his sides– but they’re warm. he’s warm, burning like a furnace, and it’s instant relief to the bonedeep chill that you feel.

  “how are you so warm?” you ask. your hand runs down his arm and you fight the urge to pull him closer.

  “i run hot,” he says simply. it’s so quiet in this room– you’re not used to such quiet. the pitt is a cacophony of sound, and it runs over into your dreams. but this floor is so hushed, and peaceful, that it feels almost like a dream. hell, maybe it is. jack lays his arm out. “come here.”

  it’s a command, but it isn’t, at the same time– jack only does it because he understands that it’s what you want, but what you won’t ask for. you oblige immediately. your arms wrap around him, and he shivers when your hand skims his skin. “you are cold,” he murmurs, holding you tighter. one hand goes to the back of your neck and your eyes shutter closed. “c’mere.”

  your legs tangle together, three flesh and one metal. you’ve slept in a bed together, but you’ve never intertwined yourselves in this way. the hand that doesn’t cradle your neck rubs circles into your back. you shiver again, but not because you’re cold. not this time. his hand dips beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely. “is this okay?” his lips are against your ear. “just want to warm you up.”

  you nod, fervently. “yes.” there’s a desperation that you feel. his hand presses against your skin, sliding up your back. it lands in the center. your eyes can hardly stay open because it feels so good, but it feels like it would be a robbery of your pleasure to fall asleep with his hands all over you like this. you want to savor every last moment.

  his hand travels to your hip, and he squeezes. you gasp and run your foot up his calf, the one that’s there in full. he freezes and pulls back, almost instantly. your pupils are blown and you put a hand to your hammering heart. “did i– did i do something–”

  “no,” he swings his legs over the bed, and leans forward. you scramble up behind him, your hand to his back. “no, i just–” he sighs, and you can feel the frustration, and maybe, just maybe, insecurity. “a prosthetic isn’t exactly warm. i didn’t even think to take it off.”

  “jack…” your hand travels up and to his shoulder. you settle, just behind him, positioned so as he turns his face to you, you’re right there. “i don’t mind. i don’t mind anything. i just– i just want you to be comfortable. that’s all.”

  there’s something raw in his eyes. raw, wanting, and so real. he doesn’t say anything. he goes back to focusing on freeing his leg from the prosthetic, groaning once it’s off. he rubs for just a moment at it, before he turns back to you. warm cheeks, a hand on his back, face open and gentle and it breaks him down a bit.

  he pushes you back down into the mattress. not forcefully. he’s careful as he does it.

  he’s careful when he leans forward and he kisses you.

  it’s slow. it’s methodical. it’s the kiss someone gives when they’ve thought about it for a very, very long time. your hand goes to the back of his head and you wish, more than anything else in this world, that you could freeze this moment in time and live in it for the rest of forever.

  when he pulls back, he clears his throat. he’s hovering above you and you’re staring up at him like he’s just changed your life, which, it would turn out, he did. your hand goes to his face and your thumb skims the crows feet you love so much. he turns his face into your palm and breathes it in, kisses the skin there. “thank you,” he says, his voice a bit unsteady.

  you breathe in deep. “come here,” you echo his previous sentiment. he goes back to the position you’d been in previously, and you feel a little bolder now– like the writing that was on the wall is now common knowledge. like a bubble has burst and neither of you have to pretend anymore. you don’t even have to speak the words, not really– you’ve always known and understand each other a little too well, when it didn’t quite make sense to. when you were just passing figures, before you got on night shift.

  even then, you remember you would be pouring out your coffee cup in the break room while jack was filling up his. there were these little pockets of conversation that you two would get stuck in. whether you were talking about music or a case or whatever else it was– the ease of familiarity had been with you both for a long time.

  that’s why there’s no grand confession on your lips. not right now, anyway– it’s just the quiet of you both together, the four walls of this recovery room, and jack’s hand back on your hip. your lips skim across his collarbone and you feel the sharp inhale. you laugh a little bit and press a kiss there, just to see what he’ll do. you feel the heat radiating off of his body, and you see the flush that is blossoming all over him, keeping him honest.

  it’s exploratory. all of it is– you dance your finger along his side just to see what he does. he tugs a bit on your hair and smiles when you gasp a little bit. his lips kiss yours but they also trace down your jaw and to your throat, and when your hand claps against the back of his head, he takes satisfaction in knowing that he’s found one of the most sensitive parts of you.

  “you feel so good,” jack says and it melts you into a puddle until you’re just a nodding head.

  a pager goes off. you’re unsure if it’s yours, or his.

  jack groans, deep from inside of himself, and you press your thighs together. he pushes his hair back and looks down at you, as though he’s been walking the desert for hours and finally found an oasis. “i don’t know if i can leave knowing you’re here, like this.”

  “you’re sort of obligated to, doctor.” you pull him down, finding this new found familiarity of touch so easy to replicate over and over again.

  he hovers above you and kisses you once more. it’s hot– it’s not as delicate as the first. he parts your lips with his tongue and he kisses you in way that’s not sloppy but not so demure– it’s just right.

  if his pager went off first, yours goes off next.

  jack rises from the bed and settles back into his prosthetic. the pair of you change into scrubs and are brushing your teeth at the same mirror, jack just behind you. you stare at each other in the mirror and he puts your stethoscope on your neck. you clip his badge to his pants, and his hands flex at his sides.

  when you leave the small hospital room, you can’t fight the feeling that you’ve just walked into the rest of your life.

[lostalioth]

Okay I can’t stop thinking about this

Jack Abbot x Reader ( who has kinda anger issues) The Pitt knows when to not talk , bother, or look at her at times . Today was different after a long shift Reader it’s into a big argument with ( kinda who whoever you want it to be like other coworker or law enforcement) but after goes up to the roof where she talks with Jack 🥹 I hope you get the vision

— ᴛʜᴇɪʀ sᴘᴏᴛ 𑣲 ᵎᵎ

→ warnings: jack abbot x fem reader, fluff, 900 wc, reader has angry issues, ice mentioned & jacks bullet wound [this takes place S2], lots of diff nicknames used by diff chars.

→ a/n: I do see the vision or i hope i did and im very sorry this is kinda short!

If people came with warning signs, about half the PTMC is convinced you would come with a ‘she bites’ sign taped to your chest. Don’t get them wrong you are a very good doctor but you had a couple of anger issues, which were very evidently coming out as you yelled several profanities at the ICE agents pulling Jesse away. 

“This is absolute bullshit! Not only did you detain a woman who did nothing wrong and let her get injured under your incompetent care!” you continue screaming at them as they walk Jesse out of the ER, “But now you are detaining one of our nurses? Are you fucking kidding me?” you huff, your anger building and building. “Easy tiger, claws down i’ll be alright” Jesse chuckled, shrugging as if this was an everyday thing. You run ahead of them once they’ve made it out the door, standing in front of them now with your chest puffed out. “Where the hell are you taking him anyway?” you question, staring the one holding Jesse straight in the eye — “First is processing then a detention center, don’t know when he’ll get out now miss if you don’t move i’ll have to take you as well” the agent explains in a condescending tone that has you ready to fight back before Dana steps out, steadily pulling you away before you get yourself detained as well. 

“Alright spitfire, i need all the doctors i can get, lets go inside” Dana is looping an arm around your back, pushing at you lightly to guide back inside. With a huff you comply, rapidly trying to take some deep breaths in to calm yourself down, “This is so stupid, they can just do that? Just take him away? He was trying to help that woman” you grunt out, your voice starting to raise in octave the angrier you become. “I know hun, it’ll be alright javadis already posting for help or information we’ll get him out” she pats your back lightly before you stomp off to continue to do charting. 

You were trying to transfer the paper charts to digital once everything was back up and running but when you get frustrated and the shredder jams. You kick it, offly hard that is and it makes a pathetic grinding noise trying to shred the paper again but getting stuck, “If this stupid fucking thing doesn’t-” “UGH!” you exclaim and kick it again before Robby is now headed your way, he knows to leave you be but when needed because he is just about as stubborn as you he can talk sense into you. “Hey kid, go take five alright” he gives you a pointed look and flicks his eyes down to the poor shredder taking the brunt of your aggravation. With a huff and possibly a few cruse works mumbled under your breath, you push off the counter and stand up, putting your hands up in faux surrender. “Fine, fine. I’ll be on the roof” you bite out before heading towards the stairs. With heavy footsteps to climb the stairs to the roof, not aware that not even 5 minutes after you get up there, Abbot walks in for his shift looking around for you. 

“Hey Dana, where’s our firecracker? Didn't see her around anywhere” he questions trying to not show his disappointment at the possibility that you left early. “Robby sent her to cool off, she’s a little heated after Jesse getting taken away, was taking it out on the shredder" she explains with a slight chuckle and instantly Jack knows where you are, not the breakroom where usual staff go to take a pause, no. He gives Dana a nod of acknowledgment and is headed for the stairs.

When you hear the rooftops door open you huff out, “It hasn’t even been 10 minutes Robby, do you fucking seriously need me already?” you snap, turning around to tear your attending a new one, only to find a very different attending with a small smirk on his face. “Not Robby kid” he chuckles out before nodding his head at where you stand, “Anyway, you’re in my spot”  

You can’t stop the small smile that breaks through your face, some anger finally leaving your body. “Yeah? I thought the other side of the barrier was your spot?” you tease lightly, making Jack raise his eyebrows at the slightly morbid  joke, though he did start it. “Haven’t spent much time on that side in a while, sort of have this girl i’ve grown fond of. Don’t think she’d appreciate me standing there” his words finally pull a chuckle out of you, finally deeming it safe to approach Jack steps closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Need a hug sweetheart?” he is hardly done asking the question before you are rushing him and wrapping your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Hmpf, guess you really needed it huh?” he teases softly causing you to lightly smack his back, albeit accidentally hitting his bullet wound from helping out swat earlier. He winces a bit before he tightens his hold around you anyway, pressing the side of his head to yours and rubbing small circles on your back. “Just- hold me a little longer and I'll be ready to head back down” “Okay?” you ask, taking a few steady breathes in and out, your nose filling with the scent of Jack’s body wash and cologne, the scent calming you further. “Can do it sweetheart, and maybe leave the poor shredder alone alright?” 

That earns him another small smack to his back. “And leave my injured back alone kid” he groans and shakes his head, stopping with a small hitch of breath when you kiss his wounded shoulder.

→ a/n: not proofread sorry for mistakes its 4 am im trying to get requests done lol

[lvmimis]

“so someone threw their panties at me today.”

shoto’s abrupt and blunt manner of speaking still catches you off guard once in a while, and you practically spit out the drink he’d ordered for you before picking you up all over the dashboard of his nice (and most importantly, spotless) car. keeping it in, you then turn to him to catch his eyes not even off the road, and you get the sense he’s neither angry nor confessing, but there’s something else he’d like to discuss.

“um… were they used?”

“no idea. i dodged.”

you chuckle, taking another draw of your iced beverage.

“insane reflexes from our very best hero, of course.”

this does crack a smile and a glance from him.

“it did get me thinking though…” he adds, gripping the wheel gently.

“about what?”

he looks at you again, eyes pensive for a moment then quickly turning back to the road, his voice softening low.

“i want to buy you lingerie.”

your eyes flutter quickly, then your face warms.

“that’s the first thing you thought of after that happens?!”

“yeah, because if i’m going to get panties thrown at me, i’d rather they be yours.”

[thislilmindofmine]

Make It Quiet Down - Jack Abbot x Reader

Description: Jack shares a quiet moment with his girl when she can't sleep.

Warnings: Fluff/comfort. Use of y/n and she/her. Jack will hold his girl for as long as she needs. One sexual reference that is interpreted wrong.

Notes: This one is quite short. Sorry about that, but I'm working on requests right now. So I'm hoping it'll suffice until I'm finished with that :)

__________

The sound of the kettle boiling together with the familiarity of the cool marble counter was soothing. It gave her hands something to do, at least. She gave up on trying to sleep a couple of hours ago. It didn't come easy to her, especially when her brain was so busy and refused to shut off. She didn't want to disturb Jack, though. It was his first night off for weeks, the first full eight hours of sleep he was getting. The book she was reading had been abandoned. It didn't distract her as much as she would've liked. Instead, she opted to make some tea, which often helped to settle herself down.

It wasn't anxiety keeping her up. Not really. She wasn't spiralling with worries or anything. It had been an issue since she was a kid and followed her into adulthood. Though, with Jack beside her, she found it easier to fall asleep. But occasionally, she still had nights like this. Nights where she had to try all sorts of things to trick her body into allowing her to rest, and it was a struggle just to settle down. Even if her body was tired, her brain didn't want her to.

She felt the presence of him without turning around. Jack stood in the doorway of the kitchen behind her, watching her with a soft, worried gaze.

"Hey." He walked up beside her, placing one hand on the counter and the other on her hip.

"What are you doing up?".

"Couldn't sleep." She sighed quietly, turning away from the boiling kettle to look at him.

"How long?".

"What?".

"How long have you been awake?".

"A few hours."

He frowned. "Honey, why didn't you wake me up?".

"I didn't want to bother you on your night off."

He gently pulled her closer to him by the hips, then kissed her on the cheek. "You will never be a bother to me. I don't care. If you need me, for anything, you wake me up. So we can handle it together, okay?".

She nodded, mumbling a quiet, "Okay."

"Now, what's keeping you up?".

Lifting a hand, she tapped the side of her head without a word, telling him everything he needed to know. His expression instantly softened. "Something on your mind?".

"Yeah. Everything and nothing at the same time."

"Wanna talk about it?".

She shrugged.

"C'mon, you've got a free, in-house doctor right here. Talk to me."

She sighed quietly, blinking harshly as her eyes involuntarily filled with tears. "I don't want to talk, Jack. It's too loud."

"What do you need me to do, sweetheart?". He cooed.

"Can you make it quiet down?".

He paused, bringing his hand up to her jaw to gently make her look at him. "That I can do."

Moving away from the counter, away from the tea, he brought her with him and pulled her into his arms. One wrapped securely around her waist, keeping her close to him but not tight enough to trap her. With the other, he took her hand and brought it up to his chest to rest over his heart. Then he pressed a soft, brief kiss to her temple.

She sniffled, burying her face into his chest. His skin was warm against her. She could feel it through the soft white t-shirt he was wearing.

"It's so loud, Jack."

"Shh, it's okay." He muttered. "I'm here, baby. I've got you."

Closing her eyes, she melted into his embrace. She believed him. The tension in her shoulders dissipated a little bit.

Tears ran down her cheeks, dampening the material of his shirt, but he didn't care about that. His hand slowly ran up and down her back, soothing her. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, promising he was right there, and he wasn't going anywhere over and over as many times as she needed to hear it.

When she stopped crying, neither of them said anything for a while. He didn't let go of her, the quiet settling between them comfortably. In that moment, everything seemed to slow down around them. It was just the two of them with nowhere to be and no one to worry about other than themselves.

Jack held her tighter eventually, making her feel safe.

Dipping his head, he pressed another kiss to the side of hers, exactly the same place she had pointed out to him before. He let it linger for a few minutes.

Then he started to move, slowly swaying the two of them side to side. Like they were dancing, but not really. The gentle lull helped to soothe her now aching head.

"That kinda night, hm?". He hummed, voice barely above a whisper in her ear. He didn't want to talk too loud.

She nodded against him.

"You wanna come back to bed?".

This time, she shook her head. "No."

"Why not? What's the matter, honey?".

"Can't sleep in there."

He frowned, resting his cheek on her head. "I'll help you."

"I don't want to."

"Then why don't we sit down?".

She paused, and she nodded slowly. "Okay."

Jack brought her to the couch in the living room, but he didn't make her sit immediately. For a moment, he let her just stand there and hold on to him.

Then he gently nudged her, getting her to sit down before sitting beside her.

She looked at him.

"Want me closer?". He asked, not wanting to assume and overwhelm her.

She nodded, allowing him to move into her space and pull her into his arms. The two of them settled down, her head on his chest, and his hand in her hair, running his fingers through the stands soothingly. With her ear pressed against his chest, she could hear his heart beating steadily. It helped to ground her. It became the only thing she could focus on.

She felt him find a spot on the side of her neck to leave a soft kiss. Then, on her collarbone and shoulder over the material of her pyjama top. Just as he was about to continue his way down her arm, she flinched and pulled away from him a little.

"Jack, no."

His head tilted, eyes softening in confusion. "What?".

"I... I don't want sex. That wouldn't help."

He paused for a moment. "Oh... honey, did you think I was-".

"Hey, look at me."

She slowly did as told and saw the way his face fell when he realised she thought his kisses were sexual and not comforting.

"Y/n, I need you to listen to me. I am not trying to have sex with you right now."

He was speaking so plainly and matter of factly, the way he knew he had to in order for her to understand in her emotional and vulnerable state.

She frowned. "You're not?".

"No, of course not. Why on earth would you think that?".

She shrugged.

"Baby, all I'm trying to do is comfort you. Okay? I promise, that's all this is. I would never take advantage of you like that. You know that."

"I know." She mumbled, feeling bad for thinking that. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

He sighed quietly. "Come here, sweet girl."

Sitting up, he pulled her to sit in his lap and wrapped his arms around her waist, and kept her back pressed against his torso. Turning slightly, she buried her face into his collarbone, swallowing thickly. "Feel any better?".

"A little."

He kissed her head, sensing her exhaustion taking over. He let her lean further into him, disregarding how uncomfortable it would be for him later. "This helps."

"Yeah?".

She nodded as he stroked her hair. "You wanna sleep now?".

"Hm... yeah."

"Okay. Close your eyes, sweetheart."

With a sigh, she did as told and nuzzled into his chest.

"I'm tired, Jack."

"Shh. I know, honey. Let me take care of you."

His other hand slowly rubbed up and down her back in a calming rhythm that had her feeling more sleepy. With the combination of his gentle touch, the heat of his body against hers, and his sweet words, before she knew it, she was falling asleep on his shoulder. The noise in her head finally quieted, the silence of the room enveloping her like a blanket and the comfort of him close to her soothing her to sleep.

Eventually, he felt her breathing evening out, softly exhaling against his neck. Relaxing back into the couch, he held her closer to him and kissed her head again.

When she briefly stirred, he was quick to soothe her again.

"Shh, shh. You're okay, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

"Will you be here when I wake up?".

There was no hesitation in his voice. "I'm not going anywhere."

Even though, after hours had passed, and his leg was starting to ache from the slightly uncomfortable position he was in, he stayed exactly where he was because that was what he promised.

His lips pressed against her forehead, stroking her cheek with a gentle thumb. "It's alright. I've got you."

_________

[mariasont]

LITTLE MISS PRIM-AND-PROPER ⋆˚࿔

when the crew discovers your secret tramp stamp, jack accidentally reveals he knows far more about it than he should

𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ interested in how the pitt crew got approved for a week in greece? the original invitation is still posted

PAIRING: jack abbot x shy!reader WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader wearing a bikini, shy!reader, secret relationship, tramp stamp, nosy coworkers, suggestive banter, implied intimacy PROMPT: here! WC: 1.2k

It’s too bright out today. Blindingly so. Like the sun crawled out of bed nursing a petty grudge specifically against your corneas and decided today was the day it would exact revenge.

Your palms form an ineffective visor above your eyes, everything still burns despite this.

The sand throws light back at you in sharp, splintering flashes, like someone crushed up a chandelier and scattered it along the shore, sea spread out before you in that lurid, too-perfect blue that does not look real anywhere outside of vacation brochures and edited Instagram posts.

You squint toward the shoreline, blinking against the glare until Emma and Joy emerge in pieces.

A moving arm. Emma springing up and down at the edge of the surf. Joy beside her, louder, both hands around her mouth with the grave urgency of someone trying to rescue you from land.

Which is ironic because you are on land. And land is safe.

Land is reasonable. Land is not going to seize your ankles with freezing water and stop your heart out of spite.

Whitaker’s speaker thuds behind you, the bass breaking open in the breeze as Joy yells, “Stop being such a wuss!” and Emma adds, a little gentler, “Come on, it’s really not that cold!” 

“They're just gonna keep bugging you, you know,” Jack butts in, flipping another page of his book with a flick of his wrist. “Might as well rip the band-aid off.” 

You glance sideways at him, stretched beneath the umbrella like some indolent deity, skin still glistening from the generous layer of sunscreen you smeared into his chest earlier, fingertips skittering shyly over muscles and bones as he tolerated it with begrudging patience.

His shoulders, however, still blush pink at the edges, a physical monument to yesterday’s disregard for your very detailed and considerate planning.

Jack Abbot would rather burn a little than admit you might know best. The eternal martyr, sacrificing comfort at the altar of pride.

You didn’t give him the chance today.

“But the sand,” you protest, words coming out a little more whiny than intended, each syllable a tiny balloon of anxiety popping mid-air. “It gets wet, Jack, and then it sticks in between my toes, and dries in weird little crusty patches, and then I’m stuck thinking about that all afternoon instead of, I don’t know, enjoying myself, which is the entire point of a vacation — at least as far as I understand vacations, and —”

Jack’s book snaps shut decisively, interrupting your spiraling train of thought.

He stares at you, expression caught somewhere between amused tolerance and weary affection, as though he’s watched you spin yourself dizzy like this too many times before. And he has.

“Hey.” His voice is level, gently pulling you back to earth by the scruff of your neck. “We’re at a beach. Sand is inevitable. Rinse it off, dry your feet, move on. You’re preemptively ruining your own day, you realize that, right?” 

A helpless little pout blooms across your mouth, the tired-and-true expression you reserve for only the direst emergencies. Which, admittedly, occurs more often than you’d like to acknowledge.

It’s practically foolproof.

And the way Jack’s gaze softens in increments demonstrates that.

He sighs in response, an unconvincing performance of irritation, eyes half-lidded in exaggerated exasperation.

“Look,” he mutters, resignation thickening his voice, “if it gets that bad, just come back up here and I’ll...I don’t know, help rinse the sand off myself, if that’s what it takes.” 

“Kay,” you mumble, the concession melting off your tongue in the most petulant way possible, fingers fussing at the edges of your cover-up, dragging it upwards.

“There we are,” he drawls, squinting to look at you. “Atta girl.” 

You resist the urge to stick out your tongue at him as you pull it fully off.

And when you do, a sudden, piercing wolf-whistle splits emerges from somewhere in the sea of your peers.

You reel backwards until the backs of your legs nearly knock into Jack’s chair.

You freeze when you get your bearings, cover-up still bunched in your fists, shoulders crawling toward your ears as Dana’s voice sails across the beach.

You think it might be loud enough to alert passing boats.

“Well, damn. Didn’t have you pegged as the type.” 

For a second you think she means the bikini, which is revealing, yes, but nothing crazy.

And that would be bad on it’s own, honestly, because it’s weird enough to have your coworkers perceive you in swimwear, but then Santos gasps from your left.

“Little Miss Prim-and-Proper has a tramp stamp?”

You can feel your eyes double in size.

You release a strangled little laugh. At least, you meant for it to be laughter. You think it sounds more like a sparrow smacking headfirst into a glass window.

“Oh, it’s — it’s nothing,” you insist, swatting a hand. You hope no one notices that the pitch of your voice has risen several octaves. “I honestly forgot it was there.” 

A lie. A terrible one at that. Because yes, obviously, people forget about permanent body art all the time. Perfectly normal. Perfectly believable.

You turn so your back is toward the ocean, blocking the majority of everyone’s view of the damning evidence as your palm flutters helplessly near your hip.

Whitaker rolls slowly onto one elbow from his spot on a towel, eyes narrowing. “Is it, like, supposed to be symbolic?”

“Is — what?” 

“The tattoo,” he elaborates, waving a hand in your general vicinity, like he’s reluctant to approach it directly, wary of frightening you off. Valid concern. You do feel like a flight risk at this exact given moment. “Does it represent something meaningful?” 

Dana snorts into her drink. “Yeah, kid. It means she had a wild semester and access to eighty dollars.”

You part your lips, words half-formed. Explanations or possibly just meaningless static. More likely the latter.

Because with everyone’s eyes suddenly looking at you waiting for you to say something, the attention feels a little too overwhelming.

“It’s a pomegranate,” Jack announces suddenly, rescuing you from yourself. You could kiss him right then and there. “For Persephone. Rebirth, renewal, growth, all of that. She got it sophomore year of college.”

“Yeah,” you agree faintly. You glance helplessly from face to face, feeling every glance bounce painfully between you and Jack, dissecting the air between you into tiny, fragile pieces. “It’s, um — exactly that.” 

Samira’s the first one to offer a reassuring smile. “Oh, that’s actually really beautiful.”

You release another round of nervous laughter, shoulders inching down cautiously. A little uncertain whether you’re in the clear just yet.

Apparently not. 

Langdon jerks his head toward Jack in one jerky movement, sunglasses nearly tumbling from the bridge of his nose. “Hang on. Why the hell does he know that?” 

Your stomach does a violent drop. Like someone yanked a trapdoor beneath you and forgot to cushion you fall.

Shit.

Of course. Why wouldn’t this happen?

Because clearly, the tattoo itself was only a minor humiliation, the polite opening number before the headline act of Jack publicly revealing his encyclopedic awareness of the ink approximately one inch above your ass.

But this is salvageable, right? It’s plausible that you would’ve told him this on a night shift after too much adrenaline and too little sleep.

Your gaze swings toward Jack, wordlessly pleading, imploring him to explain this all away, practically mentally gripping him by the collar and begging for mercy, but he only shrugs. Lazy and indifferent with the tilt of his burnt shoulders.

“Kind of hard to miss from certain angles.”

You watch everyone’s faces go slack jawed.

You don’t wait around the witness the dawning realization behind you.

There’s no need; you can feel it spreading through the air like spilled ink soaking silently into paper.

A terrible little chain of silence, then gasps, then hissed laughter like matches flicking alight one by one. You’ll never live it down, you think.

Someone’s voice calls after you, but you’re already moving towards the ocean.

Suddenly, wet sand seems acceptable. Inviting. Wonderful, even.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

MARIA'S SUMMER IN SANTORINI MASTERLIST

[deerfawnn]

sweet as vanilla

pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: in which jack abbot gives you your first kiss. content warnings: age gap ( reader is a resident ) kissing, use of petnames, shy!reader, reader is sort of a high achiever a/n: hai guys. i miss jack abbot a lot, which i guess is obvious considering this fic is wayyyyy too long. i hope you like it regardless!! gif credits to the lovely @wesandresons !! <3 wc : 6.5k

The date was nice. Of course it was. It was always nice with him, and you were beginning to suspect that had less to do with the activity itself and more to do with Jack.

It wasn't the usual normal date. Not that you had a vast catalogue of dating experience to draw from, but you'd consumed enough media and heard enough stories from your fellow residents to know what dating typically looked like.

Dinner and a movie. Drinks at a bar. Maybe coffee if you were keeping it casual.

You'd had exactly three official dates with Jack so far, stacked on top of years of friendship and working alongside each other and none of them had been particularly typical. The fourth date, the one you were currently on, was a tad silly for both of you.

He wanted to make pizzas with you.

It was fun and very unusual for a resident and her boss.

You always expected Jack Abbot to be the mundane normal guy. He had all the external markers of it. Military man, doctor, older white man. You'd assumed, when you first started entertaining the idea of him as something more than your attending, that he would be typical in his dating approach too. Restaurant dates. Wine tastings if he was feeling adventurous. That was what old men usually did, wasn't it?

And he did that at first.

The first date was a restaurant. It was lovely and exactly what you'd expected. You'd gone home that night with a warm feeling in your chest and the taste of pasta, thinking that this was nice and exactly what dating Jack Abbot would be like.

The second date, he took you to the fair, like you were teenagers. He took you on the Ferris wheel and everything. You'd looked out over the lights spread and felt like you were fifteen again.

You'd accidentally let it slip during that first restaurant date that the restaurant date had been your first date ever. You'd spent your entire adolescence and young adulthood with your nose buried in books, skipping parties to study, missing social milestones because there was always another exam.

He hadn't reacted much at the time, while you'd been mortified, certain you'd just revealed yourself to be hopelessly inexperienced and naive, but he'd simply talked about his first very awkward date and the moment had passed.

But the fair came next and you wondered, watching him win you a stuffed animal, if he was deliberately giving you the experiences you'd missed.

On your third date he took you to play Mini golf. You were approximately ninety percent sure he only chose it so he could get close to you. He'd asked you a couple days beforehand if you'd ever golfed before, and you'd shaken your head no, and he'd seemed delighted.

And he did teach you. Oh, he taught you thoroughly. He got all close to you, standing behind you to adjust your grip on the club, his chest pressing against your back, his hands warm over yours as he guided your swing. You were approximately ninety percent sure he knew exactly what he was doing. The other ten percent was just you being generous.

After the golf, he'd gotten you ice cream from a little stand near the park, and you'd walked together. Your shoulder kept bumping against his arm as you walked, and neither of you made any effort to create more space between you. It made you feel giddy to see him.

Giddy. A word you hadn't used to describe your emotional state since you were a child.

And you couldn't help but appreciate him and his thoughtfulness so much.

You'd been in a lull for so long. Years and years of studying, studying, studying, all your life really, missing out on everything and now you were finally a resident.

And you still had nothing.

Well, not nothing. You had your job and your career, but in terms of relationships and romance there was nothing until Jack.

You'd flirted with him, then and there, but you hadn't thought much of it at first. You didn't think much of the instances where he'd complimented your hairstyles or your glittery pens. Really anything that made you you, he seemed to notice and appreciate.

And now here you were in his apartment standing in his kitchen with flour dusted across your forearms and dough in front of you.

"I can't get the dough flat," you complained, looking down at your sad lump of flour and water. He grinned, but made absolutely no move to help you. You looked at his perfect dough and you sighed. "Why are you good at everything?"

His grin widened, a comment ready on the tip of his tongue and you got flustered immediately. "Oh, shut up," you mumbled, turning your attention very deliberately back to your dough so you wouldn't have to look at his smug face anymore.

"Didn't say anything," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice even without seeing it.

Before you knew it, he'd left his pizza abandoned, coming around to help you with yours. You moved aside and he took your place in front of your sad little lump of dough.

"You have to add lots of flour so it won't stick to the counter," he explained, sounding like the teacher he usually was in the ER.

You were absolutely not listening to a single word he said.

You were straight up staring at his face watching him with so much fondness that would have been embarrassing if you'd had any self awareness left to be embarrassed. His silver hair flopped a bit as he pressed the dough back onto the counter and it looked so endlessly soft. You really, really wanted to touch it and find out if it was as soft as it looked or if it was coarser than you expected.

It was so curly too. You liked curly hair or maybe you just liked his curly hair. You weren't entirely sure anymore where the general preference ended and the Jack specific obsession began.

And his stubble. You wondered how scratchy it was. If you ran your fingers across it, would it hurt you? Would it be rough and abrasive against your skin? And if it was, if it left your fingertips tingling and sensitive, would he kiss it better?

You were officially going insane. You needed to be studied. You needed to be written up in a medical journal as a case study in acute romantic fixation.

There were light freckles across his face too. They had probably been darker when he was younger and had faded over the years.

You wanted to lean in and count every single freckle. You wondered where else he had freckles. If his shoulders were dusted with them. If his back was full of them. You wondered if any of them were traceable, if you could drag your fingertip from one to the next connecting them like stars in the sky. Orion on his shoulder blade. The Big Dipper across his collarbone. Cassiopeia scattered down his spine.

Would he like that? If you traced his freckles like constellations? Would he lie still for you? Would he hum gently if you did it and lean into your hands?

You wondered a lot of things, frankly an alarming number of things for someone who was supposed to be learning how to flatten pizza dough from their date ( slash boss ).

And you didn't hear anything. Your auditory processing had apparently been completely hijacked by your visual processing, which was currently fully occupied with memorizing every single detail of Jack's face.

His head tilted gently as he looked at you. "Sweetheart?"

He looked concerned and you figured you hadn't given him lots of opportunities to see what you looked like lovesick.

You weren't like Shen, who had a date every other weekend and always came back to the hospital on Monday morning bragging about how amazing his girlfriend was. Everyone knew lovesick Shen. It was practically his default setting at this point. The other residents teased him about it relentlessly, and he took it with good humor because he was too happy to be embarrassed.

But you'd never ever been in love. The only thing you dreamed about on a regular basis was your bed and tiramisu sometimes.

It felt like you were falling, just as long as Alice did in Alice in Wonderland when she went down the rabbit hole. And People did say you had an Alice in Wonderland quality about you, a different way of thinking when it came to approaching patients. It was sweet when they said it and it made you feel special.

"Yeah?" you asked, as if you hadn't just taken an extended mental vacation to a fantasy land where you were tracing constellations on his bare skin.

"Kinda just spaced out there," he said softly. His eyes swept over your face, checking to see if you were okay. "Everything good?" he asked, and you watched him resist the urge to touch you because his hands were covered in dough and flour.

"Yeah," your voice coming out a bit shaky despite your best efforts. "Sorry. I think I kinda just suck at this."

You attributed your mental absence to disappointment in yourself rather than the actual cause. It was believable. Jack knew you were the type of person who sometimes fell apart whenever she was disappointed in herself. He'd seen you pick apart everything you'd done wrong while ignoring everything you'd done right at work.

"You don't suck at this," he said gently. He moved away then, stepping back to give you space to work again. "I've done this a hundred times and it's your first time," he said, wiping his flour covered hands on a kitchen towel. "It's okay to not be good on your first try," he added softly, and there was something in the way he said it that made you think he wasn't just talking about pizza dough anymore.

"And," he continued, and his voice took on a lighter tone, " it gives us a chance to do this many, many times."

Your lips lifted into a smile. "Guess so," you said softly, and you couldn't quite keep the pleased little lilt out of your voice.

Jack smiled back at you, seemingly relieved that you were excited about spending time together as much as he was.

The date continued with lots of giggles and chattering. You got so caught up in talking that you completely forgot about the pizzas. They were just laying out on the counter, instead of being in the oven where they belonged.

You were leaning on one side of the counter, your elbows propped on the surface in a way that would have made your mother tell you to stand up straight, and he was on the other side. You sipped on your drink, the glass cool against your fingers. Both of you had chosen not to drink any alcoholic beverages.

You'd never had this before and you wanted to feel every single nerve wracking and heart pounding feeling about being in the same kitchen as the guy you liked. You wanted to remember every single detail.

And so did he. He wanted to remember everything about you and your sweet and shy demeanor.

You giggled as he recounted what had happened in his math class once, your hand came up to cover your mouth and he wanted to hear that sound for the rest of his life.

After a while, you glanced at the pizzas. "I think we were supposed to put those in the oven," you smiled as you set your soda aside on the counter. The condensation from the glass left a wet ring on the surface, and you wiped it away with your sleeve.

Jack glanced at the pizzas, following your gaze to the forgotten food, and smiled. He'd hoped it would take you longer to notice that you hadn't put them in the oven. The longer you didn't notice, the longer he got to spend time with you.

He grabbed them and slid them into the oven. He set the timer because you'd both probably forget about them again if he didn't.

Once he did, he led you to his couch. You settled down shyly at the edge. Your posture was stiff, your hands folded in your lap, your feet planted firmly on the floor.

"So," Jack murmured, settling down next to you on the couch but keeping his distance. "D'you have any embarrassing high school memories?" he angled his body slightly toward you, one arm draped across the back of the couch.

"All of it?" you smiled at him. Your socked feet moved restlessly on his carpet.

"Anything specific?" he pressed gently. He wanted to know everything and anything about you.

He could never get enough of you. Every day he looked forward to seeing you, excited to discover something new about you. It was one of the great pleasures of his life now. Whether it was a small detail about how you'd treat an injured child or how you'd hold your pen. Everything about you was interesting to him.

You thought about his question, sifting through your memories of high school, trying to find something worth sharing. You'd been so focused on your studies that moments that seemed to define other people's teenage years had mostly passed you by or maybe they'd happened and you just hadn't noticed, too buried in textbooks to realize you were supposed to be mortified.

"Don't think so," you said, embarrassment flickering across your face before you looked down at your hands in your lap. You felt guilty for not being interesting enough for him.

But he shook his head. "Lucky you."

And just like that, he made you comfortable immediately again. It was a gift he had, this ability to smooth over your awkwardness without making you feel self conscious about having been awkward in the first place.

You knew this sucked. You knew, on some level, that you were being quiet and not at all the kind of fun date that someone like Jack deserved. You were young, but wasn't this supposed to be the time to have a bunch of things to tell? Weren't you supposed to have stories? Weren't you supposed to rave about the things you planned on doing and the crazy things you'd experienced?

It felt weird to tell Jack how boring you'd been all your life. How you'd spent your weekends in libraries. How your biggest adventure in college had been pulling an all nighter to finish a research paper. It made you feel inadequate, like you were letting him down by being exactly who you were.

And it was hard to make up for it in the moment. You couldn't suddenly become interesting just because you wanted to be.

You wanted to apologize for it, but then again, you thought you might just make it worse if you pointed out how shy you were being. Maybe it was better to pretend you were totally relaxed and not at all spiraling about whether you were interesting enough for him.

You couldn't possibly know how much he was adoring your shy demeanor. You couldn't see inside his head, couldn't witness the way his heart swelled every time you ducked your head or stumbled over your words or smiled that embarrassed little smile. You had no idea that he was sitting there thanking the universe that he was able to provoke a reaction from you, that your shyness wasn't indifference but the exact opposite, proof that you cared enough to be nervous.

But then he got something. He asked you about your favorite class and your eyes lit up. You started talking about your English teacher and you went on and on.

You wouldn't stop raving about her. It was so endearing and he didn't see that happen often. At the ER, you were careful. Every word that came out of your mouth always seemed so thoughtfully considered.

He enjoyed it so much that he took the chance to scoot closer on the couch until his knee was almost touching yours.

And you barely noticed. Instead, you turned more toward him, your knees lifting onto the couch cushion and then your knee was pressing against his thigh. His eyelashes fluttered slightly at that, delighted to finally receive your sweet touch.

He admired you with a smile, asking a couple questions here and there that kept you talking without interrupting your flow. He was so gentle about it so careful to not interrupt you.

After a while, you stopped rambling and smiled at him and it seemed like you'd finally relaxed.

Every day it always took him a bit to open you up again. It was like an eggshell that you built around yourself every week and he always had to break it again. You'd arrive at work slightly distant, and he'd spend the first part of the shift chipping away at your shell with small talk and gentle teasing. To his luck, the shell got thinner every week. What used to take an entire shift now took an hour. What used to take an hour now took minutes.

And now, tonight, it seemed he had it all open. Shell pieces scattered across the floor of his living room.

You smiled at him, and he smiled back, and for a moment neither of you said anything at all.

He saw your eyes flicker down to his lips and he saw the way you seemed almost embarrassed for doing it in the first place and he knew that you knew that he'd noticed.

He figured he'd help out. He'd kiss you and spare you the agonizing decision of whether or not to kiss him. His eyes flickered down to your lips. Your lips were still glossy despite having drunk your soda. He'd noticed your lip gloss earlier and had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about it during work. It made your lips look soft. It made him wonder what they'd feel like against his.

His eyes flickered back up, meeting yours, and he held your gaze for a long moment and then he leaned in. One arm braced against the side of the couch as he closed the space between you inch by inch. You could probably feel his breath on your face now.

It was a testament to your shyness truly that it took you ages to do anything.

Jack had his nose touch yours before you pulled back, your eyes going wide with something that looked an awful lot like panic. He pulled back as well. His hands came up and he created as much distance as he could without actually leaving the couch.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said softly, letting you know he wasn't upset, because he knew it would be your first thought. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

He felt a sensation in his chest he hadn't felt in decades, not since he was oh so young and still learning that love sometimes meant getting hurt.

God, he'd been so certain that you wanted this too, but maybe he'd misread everything. Maybe he was just an old man making a fool of himself over a girl who was too polite to tell him she wasn't interested.

"No, you're fine," you said quietly.

"I'm sorry," he said again, because he didn't know what else to say. "You don't have to stay if I made you uncomfortable." He tried to catch your gaze as you looked away, tried to find some sign in your expression that would tell him what you were feeling.

But you shook your head, biting your lip, your teeth pressing into the soft flesh until it hurt. "No, it's fine," you whispered.

Jack stared at you and the way you avoided his eyes. He watched the way your gaze skittered around the room. You were pulling back into yourself, the shell reconstructing itself around you.

"Sweetheart," he said softly, his voice carrying all the tenderness he felt and all the regret he couldn't quite express, "it really would be fine if you left. I won't be upset."

He was worried your shyness was preventing you from telling him the truth, that you were too polite to admit that he'd made you uncomfortable in his home.

You met his eyes finally and it just came out of you. "Please don't judge me."

"I'm not judging you for anything, sweetheart," Jack said softly. "If you want, we'll just ignore everything that happened in the last five minutes."

As he spoke, he reached out very carefully. His fingers found your hand, where you had been biting your nails and guided it away from your mouth. You dropped your hand into your lap, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment and then you blurted it out.

"I've never kissed anyone before."

And Jack didn't say "it's fine" as if your inexperience was some mistake that needed forgiving. Instead he just smiled softly.

"Makes me crowding you like this a bit worse," he grinned, gesturing vaguely at the space between you.

You stared at him for a second, startled by his casual reaction, but then you smiled . "No, you're fine," you said absolutely delighted.

You traced a finger across your thigh for a second, back and forth, back and forth and then you looked up again. You couldn't imagine the last time he'd been told by his date that she had no experience dating whatsoever, but his reaction was perfect. He was watching you with a careful expression, clearly still concerned for you.

You finally made the decision to speak and he smiled gently as if saying go ahead.

"I'm fine with you kissing me," you said quietly. "I just wanted to let you know in case—" you stuttered for a second. "In case I'm not as good. But I don't mind if you want to kiss me," you added softly, and even as the words left your mouth you felt regret creeping into your voice.

You were terrified that this would erase his entire urge to ever want to press his lips against your pretty ones.

You were dead wrong.

He still wanted you like before. He didn't think anything of your confession besides maybe that he should be gentler with you when approaching everything touching.

"I want to kiss you," he said softly. "But I won't do that until you're ready."

And then he reached out, fingers brushing against your temple, and he pushed your hair behind your ear which made you smile. He let his thumb rest on your cheekbone for a second, then he dropped his hand, letting it fall back to his lap.

"I am ready. I want it to be you." And then, because you knew him you added, "I've thought about it before." You knew he'd want to make absolutely certain that this wasn't a spur of the moment decision and that you weren't just saying what you thought he wanted to hear, because you felt bad.

"You've thought about it?" he asked and a grin spread across his face.

"Very funny," you mumbled, looking down at your lap, but you couldn't keep the smile off your face.

"No, no, I'm flattered," he grinned, clearly happy to finally be teasing you gently again.

You shot him a look. "Don't act like you haven't either."

His eyebrows shot up, surprised at your bold reply, but it made him laugh. "No, you're right. I have."

Once you both stopped smiling like two lovesick idiots you asked the question. "So? Will you?"

He stared at you for a while, his head tilted slightly to one side. And you let him, in fact, you appreciated it a lot. It was nice to know that he wasn't just rushing to it and that your first kiss was just as important to him as it was to you.

"You're sure?" he asked once again, eyes scanning your face for any sign of hesitation.

You shot him a look, that said you'd made your decision and you needed him to trust that you knew your own mind.

"Okay, okay," he smiled, a lopsided smile that tugged up one corner of his mouth more than the other.

You saw his eyes flicker away for a second and it was a sweet realization to recognize what it meant. He was nervous about kissing you.

"You'll have to guide me through it." you said softly.

"I can do that," he said. He had guided you through so many procedures and so many difficult conversations with patients. You knew his teaching would be the best and you knew he would take care of you through this too.

"Can I sit in your lap? I think that's most ideal for me."

Your eyebrows were furrowed slightly as you spoke as if this was a medical procedure you were planning out. He assumed that's why you weren't as shy about asking. To you this was like the ER, something that needed to happen in the most perfect way possible.

Jack stared at you. He wanted to say something about how you were supposed to relax and how you shouldn't approach it the way you were right now, but he figured that if this way of thinking relaxed you, who was he to stop it?

"Make yourself comfortable," he said instead, and he laid back against the couch back, his shoulders settling against the cushions, his arms resting loosely at his sides.

You swung one leg over his body and then the other, settling down with your thighs on either side of his hips, your knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of him.

"Okay?" you asked quietly.

"More than okay," he said, and the absolute happiness in his voice made you laugh.

He sat up a bit, careful not to have you fall off. His hands hovered near your hips and he looked at you for a second, and you could see the effort it took for him to focus on your face and not on the fact that you were in his lap.

"First," he said softly, and his voice took on that teacher tone you knew so well. "If you feel uncomfortable at any point, you just get off my lap and stop everything." His eyes were serious now. "No matter what's happening, you're allowed to push me off." He paused, making sure you understood. "Got it?"

You nodded, but he didn't accept it.

"I prefer words, sweetheart," he said softly.

You shot him a look, a little flash of exasperation mixed with affection, but he was serious. He knew you were a shy person and he wasn't going to just take your expression for an answer. He needed to know that you could use your voice and that your shyness wouldn't prevent you from speaking up if something felt wrong.

"Got it," you added, once you realized why he wanted words.

"Okay, good," he said gently. "Second," he continued, and his voice lightened, took on a gentler quality that made your shoulders drop slightly from where they'd been tensed up near your ears, "this is supposed to be fun."

He allowed himself to touch you now, finally. He reached up and brushed hair out of your face. His fingers were warm against your temple and you tilted your head further down, silently asking for more. And he happily complied, both hands coming up to your face now, his fingers threading through your hair, brushing it back completely from your face.

You got closer to him on his lap as he worked. You smelled nice. Vanilla perfume and it made him want to lean in closer and breathe deeper. He wondered if your lip gloss was vanilla too. Guess he was about to find out.

"Is it fun?" you whispered quietly. Your heart was pounding and your palms were sweating and fun felt like a very distant concept. "I'm scared."

"That's okay. I was too." he said gently.

But you shook your head as you glanced down at his lap, and your fingers found his button up shirt. You started picking at one of the buttons, flicking it open and closed open and closed.

"You were a kid then, probably," your eyes still fixed on the button. "I'm an adult. I'm not supposed to be this nervous. I'm not even supposed to be in this position." There they were. Your insecurities all out in the open.

He shook his head, his hands wandering up to your waist, and he brushed up and down your sides. "You're allowed to be nervous and so what?" He shrugged. "So you've never kissed anyone before. No big deal."

He said it with such a convincing tone that you couldn't help but smile. He made it sound so simple and you really really liked that.

"No big deal," you repeated and he squeezed your waist in agreement.

"Now what?" you asked softly, and despite the nerves still fluttering in your stomach, there was eagerness in your voice now too.

"The big moment," he said, sitting up more properly, straightening his spine against the couch back. He emphasized the words in such a silly tone that it made you giggle. Exactly his goal.

He lifted his hand and tilted your head lightly, his palm warm against your jaw as his thumb came to rest on your cheekbone. "So we don't bump noses," he mumbled. You smiled nervously, your lips curving up despite the butterflies doing acrobatics in your stomach.

He stared at you gently, his hazel eyes searching your face one last time, giving you one final chance to change your mind. "You're sure?" he whispered. You nodded, and this time he accepted it because he'd already established that you could use your words if you needed to.

"Very," you said softly, and your eyes glanced down at his lips.

"You want me to lean in, or d'you wanna take the first step?" he asked softly, his thumb still resting gently against your cheekbone.

He'd never had to guide anyone through a kiss before. He wasn't sure how much exactly to guide, how much instruction was helpful versus overwhelming or how much space to give you versus how much to lead.

"Can you?" you whispered.

"Yeah, of course," his voice coming out a little rougher. "You can put your hands on my neck," he said quietly. He reached forward gently, his fingers encircling your wrists with the lightest touch, and guided your hands up to the sides of his neck. He placed them there himself, positioning your palms against the warm skin just above his collar. His heart was racing and you felt it.

"You're warm," you blurted out. It was such a random thing to say, of course he was warm, he was a living breathing human being with blood circulating through his body.

He laughed and it made his shoulders shake slightly beneath your hands. "Not warm, just blushing, honey," he mumbled and the butterflies in your stomach multiplied.

You let out a sound between a scoff and a laugh, because the idea of Jack Abbot blushing because of you was both ridiculous and wonderful.

"I've got the prettiest girl in my lap and she wants to kiss me," he said, aware you didn't believe he was flustered. "I've got more than enough reasons to be blushing."

The words made you smile again. It was like your body was incapable of not being full of joy when you were near him.

You brushed gently under his jaw and his eyelashes fluttered at the touch and then your hand wandered to the back of his head, your fingers threading into his hair. His hair was just as soft as you thought it would be.

"Soft," you whispered.

He gave you a shy smile. "Reminds me of someone," he mumbled, and the comparison was so random that it made you smile again.

"I'm going to kiss you now, yeah?" he whispered, and it wasn't really a question anymore.

You nodded, your hands still tangled in his hair, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. His breath hit your lips first and he waited, pausing with his lips just a breath away from yours, looking at you with those hazel eyes. Do you still want this?

He saw you nod softly and then he pressed his lips against yours. It was softer than you'd imagined. His mouth was really warm and gentle. You immediately tightened your hands in his locks, because the feeling of his mouth on yours was making your head spin and your thoughts scatter. He squeezed your waist gently in response.

You weren't sure what to do. The mechanics of kissing had always seemed straightforward in theory, but now that you were actually doing it, you found yourself second guessing everything. Were you supposed to move your lips? How much pressure was too much? You decided to just press back a bit, because you were supposed to do that, right?

And based on his hum, it seemed you were right.

His hands traveled up from your waist, sliding slowly up your back until they reached your neck. His fingers pressed against the back of it, pulling you closer.

It didn't last long and then he pulled back, just far enough to look at you, his nose still almost brushing yours.

His hand came up to brush the hair that had fallen down back in your face away from your face. His fingers were gentle as they swept across your forehead, tucking strands behind your ear.

"How was that?" he asked softly, and his voice was a little rougher around the edges. He seemed nervous and worried. He was hoping he'd made it good for you.

Your eyes, which had been staring at his lips the entire time he was talking, finally lifted to meet his. It took effort to drag your gaze away from his mouth that had just been pressed against yours.

"Nice," you whispered, and the word felt inadequate for what you were actually feeling. "Really nice." You paused, and then a disbelieving sound escaped your lips. "I just had my first kiss."

You pressed your fingers to your own lips and a smile spread across your face.

He smiled back, and the relief that flooded his veins was visible. He'd given you your first kiss and he hadn't somehow ruined it or made it weird or disappointed you.

"Yeah, you did," he said and he watched you press your fingers to your lips with an expression of pure adoration. "Did you like it?"

You nodded, your fingers still resting against your mouth. "Yeah."

And then you looked at him, hesitating for just a moment. "Did you?" you asked nervously.

"Very much so, sweetheart," he mumbled, and the words came out slightly slurred with affection. He was already staring back at your lips. He couldn't help it. One kiss had not been nearly enough for him.

You were already thinking the same thing.

"Can we kiss more?" you asked, and your fingers were brushing through the curls at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft silver strands, making his eyelids droop with pleasure.

"Please," he mumbled, and he didn't bother to hide his desperation whatsoever.

He kissed you again, but this time when his mouth met yours, his lips captured your bottom one, drawing it gently between his own in a way that was decidedly more than the soft press of lips you'd experienced the first time. It was a proper kiss.

You pulled back, your eyes going wide. You stared at him, and he stared back at you with heavy lidded eyes, his lips still slightly parted from where they'd just been pressed against yours.

"You can do the same," he mumbled quietly, almost too lovesick to explain it further in detail.

You leaned back in, pressing your mouth to his, and this time you were the one who captured his bottom lip. It was a little clumsy, your inexperience showing in the way you fumbled slightly with the angle. But it was easy once you started doing it and nice. His lip was soft between yours and the way he responded to your effort made your stomach flip.

He hummed again. It was sweet to know that Jack Abbot hummed during kisses.

That went on for ages or maybe it just felt like ages. What you knew for certain was that you spent a long time in his lap, exchanging kisses that ranged from soft and sweet to something a little deeper. He tried to stop you for a second, pulling back just far enough to check in, but you shook your head.

You were having fun. He was right. He'd told you this was supposed to be fun, and he'd been right all along. Kissing Jack Abbot was the most fun you'd ever had in your entire life.

You pulled back after a while, absolutely shining. Your eyes were bright and your lips slightly swollen. You were undeniably happy and that made Jack's heart squeeze with happiness.

Jack was more dazed as he stared at you. His breathing was uneven and his hair was chaotic from where your fingers had been tangling in it, but he looked just as happy as you.

"You taste like vanilla," he mumbled as he licked his lips.

"My lip gloss is vanilla," you smiled, confirming the suspicion he'd had earlier when he'd first caught the scent of your perfume. Vanilla perfume and vanilla lip gloss. You were vanilla all the way through, sweet and warm and comforting, and he couldn't get enough of it.

"Tasty," he mumbled and that made you laugh. He looked pleased with himself at the sound.

Your hands let the soft strands of his hair slip through your fingers one more time, before moving around to the front. Your fingertips traced along his jawline, feeling his stubble. You brushed across his cheeks softly that was as soothing for you as it was for him.

Jack simply adored you with his big hazel eyes. His eyes tracked your face with love. Being adored by you was the best feeling he'd experienced in longer than he could remember.

You kept going for ages, but eventually he wrapped his fingers around yours and pulled them away from his face. "Careful," he mumbled. "You're about to get beard burn."

He glanced down at your fingertips, and sure enough, they were slightly red from all the attention you'd been giving his stubble. He shot you a disappointed look, as if it was your fault his beard was razor sharp.

But then he pressed a kiss to your fingers anyway. The gesture was so romantic, that it made you want to cry. He kissed each fingertip and you smiled the entire time.

It didn't stop you, though. The moment he dropped your fingers, you reached up again. You found his light freckles and started connecting them like constellations.

He let his eyes fall shut as your fingertips connected the dots on his skin, the vanilla from your kiss still lingering on his lips and he never wanted this moment to end.

[cryptic-doe]

jack never argues with his girl. on the rare occasion that he does, he never ever raises his voice at her. on the other hand, she'll yell and scream while fighting. from the beginning, he's known about the small temper that she can get when something really sets her off. a bad trait passed down to her from her father. so he lets her get as loud as she needs/wants to. once she finally takes a deep breath and stops, he'll just give her that look that says, "you done?" and maybe he'll let her get her frustrations out even more in bed.

[vampyrsm]

i think being the partner of bakugou is learning to accept you’re in a relationship essentially with two people.

you’re in a relationship with pro hero dynamight, the guy who still snarls at camera crews for being too close. the guy who’s hands sometimes cause more destruction than intended. the guy who jumps up and down the hero charts like he’s on a trampoline because the public can’t decide if they love him or hate him for how crass he is

but you’re also in a relationship with bakugou katsuki. the man who is quiet in his own home, who watches you closely and learns your patterns, your routines. who leaves you a glass of your favourite drink on hot summer days. the man who smiles freely and speaks in a soft tone no one thought possible. who will always, no matter what, leave you with a kiss on the lips and forehead before he has to become a public spectacle.

[scarl3tkiss]

Kiss It Better-Jack Abbot (1)

summary ! Your boyfriend comes home from a stressful SWAT shift, angry, vulnerable and hurt. You comfort him and help clean him up.

warnings ! MDNI Fluff, kissing, cursing, pet names like: “baby.” “sweetheart” mentions of small wounds. No use of Y/n. Mentions of blood, cuts, guns, gunpoint, suicide and homicide.

pairing: Jack abbot x fem!reader

alanas-masterlist

Jack has been your boyfriend for two years already, it wasn’t a surprise when he would come home late, or in the morning when he worked nights. It was your version of a normal life with him. You had moved in with him a couple months into your relationship, it was like there was a structured routine set in place without the attention to it. So on nights like these when he would pick up a SWAT shift, you didn’t wait up for him. You ate dinner, and showered alone, now you were sitting on the couch in shorts and one of his old shirts.

The living room smelled of vanilla and cinnamon from a candle you had lit hours ago. The dim lighting and soft sounds of rain set the comfort for you. Now you were basking away in a warm blanket with the tv playing a random channel on the guide.

That’s when the sound of the locks broke the silence in the air. You stayed quiet figuring he would come and give you your nightly hug and kiss before heading for the shower. But he didn’t. Instead he walked straight from the front door to the bedroom without even looking at you. Immediately you noticed that something was wrong.

You stood up from your warm spot of the couch, trekking down the hallway and into the bedroom. When you entered the room you found him sitting at the edge of the bed. His SWAT gear still on, his face in his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. His head had dried blood all over, you couldn’t tell if it was his or not. He didn’t even bother to look up at you when you entered the room.

It was silent as you approached him, standing in font of him you placed a hand on his shoulder gently, not trying to push or probe-but simply letting him know you’re there for him.

“Hey..” you whispered to him trying to get any sign that he was okay. He stayed quiet not budging.

“Look at me..” you pleaded. He removed his hands from his face scrubbing a hand over his jaw as his gaze remained on the floor. “What happened? Whose blood is that..” You asked as your eyes searched for any sign of an explanation.

“I need you to leave this room. Now.” He muttered. His muscles were tight under your touch as your hand slowly went back to rest at your side. Not only did his tone shake you, but his words. Were you enough for him in this moment?

“No.” You said sharply leaving no room for argument-or so you thought.

“Im not kidding.” He said his tone dropping as he said your name. You took a step back crossing your arms over your chest.

“Im not either, talk to me. Don’t shut me out, I don’t believe you’re angry at me.” You said, it was easy for you to read his emotions. It wasn’t hard, he didn’t have a hard time expressing them to you. But in moments like these it was hard to believe that was true because he ever acted like this around you.

“I can’t talk to you. Not-“ He paused, his fists balling in his lap. “Not like this. Just give me a moment alone, I’ll come to you when I’m ready.” He said. You didn’t push. You exited the room quietly shutting the door behind you.

You made your way back to the couch sitting down with your legs under you. You couldn’t help but overthink. What had gone so badly for him to push you away. It wasn’t like he was trying to be rude. He was communicating his emotions, you know how hard that is for him, that’s why therapy is set in place. So he could communicate any time he felt uncomfortable, angry, sad or anxious.

Jack never yelled at you. Not even raised his voice in the slightest, because he knew that’s no way to ever talk to you. Even when he was upset with you or the world, he would push it down. Maybe that’s why it was scary to finally see this side of him. You can't help the frustration and sadness that fires up in response to his rejection, your stomach twisting itself into knots. The logical part of your brain knows he's well within his rights to ask for space.

He stepped out of the bedroom making his way over to you on the couch in silence. You looked over at him as he sat down next to you.

“Im sorry sweetheart.” He whispered placing his hand on your thigh. “It’s been a pretty fucked up day. I-i just needed a second to process.” He said, his voice was soft, and vulnerable enough to make your heart silently ache. You put your hand on the back of his neck softly playing with the small curls at the base.

“I understand baby..we don’t have to talk about it. Can you at least let me clean you up?” You asked.

He simply nodded, you got up searching for the med bag in the closet near the kitchen as he seated himself at the dining table slowly taking off his SWAT gear. When you made your way back over to him with his bag, he was shirtless. Left in only his camo pants, any normal day you would’ve jumped his bones. But he was covered in bruises and had cuts all over his abdomen and chest. Not only did it make you want to cry, it made you sick to your stomach that he does this to himself over and over again.

You placed yourself i between his legs as the bag rested on the table. His hands instinctively rested on the back of your thighs holding you like you were his anchor. You pulled out antibacterial wipes slowly cleaning the blood. He didn’t wince, just looked up at you in silence while you cleaned his wounds. When you started to apply antibiotic cream to his cuts you began to finally ask questions.

“How did the cuts happen?” You asked, your eyes never leaving the wounds on him.

“Got pushed down into glass.” He muttered his eyes never leaving you. You stayed silent while applying gauze patches to the worst cuts.

“I was with the team, it was just supposed to be a simple intervention to help save this woman at gunpoint. The guy holding her, veteran, served in Vietnam.” He said taking a long exhale as his eyes drifted away from yours. You had already finished cleaning him up, now you were just listening.

“It went south quick, he was threatened by us. We thought he was about to put down his weapon-“ He choked out his voice shaking. “He pulled the trigger on her head and-and then shot himself. It was his wife.” He said removing one of his hands from your thigh scrubbing it over his jaw. His eyes were glossy, his chest was rising and falling faster than normal.

“It scared me-not because of how gruesome it was…but because-“ He was now crying. Not loud or dramatic, just quiet as the tears slowly slipped down his cheeks. You instantly moved settling yourself on his lap your hand resting on his bicep.

“Because I thought of you-of us, and how I could never imagine my trauma getting the best of me to the point where I hurt you..” He said as your thumbs gently brushed away his tears.

You stayed silent, almost as if you where trying to search for the right answer. You gently took his hand placing it on top of your chest where he could feel your heartbeat on his palm.

“It’s okay..it’s sad, that-that happened, and you couldn’t do anything to save her. But I promise you, as long as I’m with you-I’m safe.” Your hand rested on top of his that was on your chest. “I’m sorry you went through that.” You whispered bringing his hand up to kiss it softly.

“I love you. So goddamn much.” He said bringing his hand to the back of your head as your foreheads rested against one another.

“I love you too. Now why don’t you get in the shower..take off your prosthetic and I’ll make you something to eat, yeah?” You asked with a small smile, your hands resting on his cheeks.

“Sounds like a plan sweetheart.” He whispered his lips hovering near yours.

You kiss him first, gentle and sweet, not rushed. When he pulled away he stood up giving you a small peck on the cheek before trekking to the bedroom. You were left standing there wondering how you got so lucky to have this man. Because he always looked different around you like this. Soft, vulnerable, and disgustingly domestic.

idk if this warrants a part two, where like something traumatic happens to Jack AGAIN on SWAT shift and reader can’t handle seeing him crumble anymore so she ultimatum’s him either her or SWAT. LMK if so ;)

all dividers by- @cursed-carmine 💗

[nervous-turtle]

Being bold with Jack Abbot | MDNI

3am and you're exhausted. You go to the break room in search of coffee only to find your favourite attending stood over the ancient machine making it's last protested gurgle.

"You look awful." You joked as you walked into the small room. He was slightly slumped over the counter, eyes shadowed by his dark circles.

"Thanks." He laughed, straightening his back. His eyes drifted over you for a second too long. "You on the other hand..." His smile deepened. "You look unfairly put together for three in the morning."

You poked your tongue out to lick your lips as you fell into a small giggle.

It's been like this for months. You and him being flirtatious, hovering over eachother for longer than needed, catching his eyes from accross the ER.

You stepped closer, brushing his shoulder to reach for a mug. You felt bold.

"You see these two fingers here?" You raise your left hand wiggling your ring and middle finger.

"Yes. Your digitus annularis and your digitus medius." Always the doctor you thought.

You leaned closer to him, resting your right hand just above his hip as you whispered in his ear,

"These are the fingers I pumped into my pussy..." your lips hovered above the shell of his ear, "...just before shift. Thinking of you."

His fingers circled your elbow before he'd even seemed to decide to move. Not rough but careful. As though he couldn't trust himself with anything firmer pulling back so he could see your face. "Sweatheart. Careful now. I'm your senior."

His expression never wavered, but the breath he drew in wasn't steady. It caught somewhere in his chest before escaping in a measured exhale, the only crack in an otherwise practiced composure.

"That's the thing Dr. Abbot, that kinda does something for me." You bit your lower lip never breaking eye contact.

This was wrong. You are his staff, he has a duty of care over you. His breathing laboured and his eyes drifted to your lips, if only for a second, before snapping back to your eyes. He hoped you'd missed it. You didn't.

"This is highly inappropriate." His voice was low enough that only you could hear it. "I'm your attending." He repeated it as if reminding himself rather than you.

You drop your digits onto his lips, slowly moving them down onto his chin.

"Would you like me to stop Dr. Abbot?" You smirked at him.

He went still but found his lower jaw dropping ever so slighlty. Daring you. Inviting you in. You couldn't help the big grin pulling at your mouth and you brought your fingers to the tip of his tongue, the ones you please yourself with.

His tongue felt rigid but your fingers glided over it with ease, pushing in until his lips wrapped around your knuckles. You didn't notice when he had shut his eyes but he was fully under your control just waiting for you to try something else.

You slowly pulled your wrist back feeling his warm lips falter around your fingers, his tongue now placid around your fingertip. Slowly, you dipped them back in, pushing past his tongue until he reached your knuckles again and you heard the faintest moan catch in his throat. You pulled them out entirely now and watched his eyes open heavily.

He stared at you for a long moment, saying nothing. The silence stretched until it became its own answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough around the edges. "When this shift is over..." He swallowed once. "May I take you to breakfast?"

"Dr. Abbot, I would love to." You smile. "Oh but you might wanna take care of this before heading back out there."

Your fingertips brushed the front of his scrub trousers for the briefest moment before you stepped away, taking his coffee.

"You should probably compose yourself, Doctor." His gaze followed you to the door. "Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea."

[geminiwritten]

── miss independent ; jack abbot

summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changing—until you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.

notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfectly, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.

word count: 15620

“Hey—oh, thank God.” You kick the door shut behind you. “Can you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.”

Ellis sighs. “Really? I was just about to leave.”

“Five minutes,” you say again, already moving toward your room.

You don’t bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.

“Aren’t you gonna shower?” Ellis calls from the living room.

“We showered before I left,” you say, “but I didn’t have a clean pair of scrubs.”

Ellis gags. “Gross. Why’d you have to say ‘we’?”

You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.

“Because we had some really great shower sex too.”

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”

You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”

“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”

He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”

You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.

Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out. Ellis: Need anything from the store?

Your stomach drops.

“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.

“Uh—yeah. Fine.”

You tuck your phone back into your pocket.

“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”

“Mhm.”

“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Langdon snorts. “Got it.”

You nod. “Great. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. “Great sign-out.”

“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.

You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.

You: You’re dead to me. You: And toothpaste.

When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.

Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.

“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”

You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.

You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.

Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?

“You ready?”

You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”

You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.

“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.

You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.

“Nope,” you reply, too fast.

Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.

“Where are you going?”

“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.

He follows you. Because of course he does.

“You’re going to catch a bus?”

“Yep.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.

“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”

That makes you stop.

You turn around. “No strings attached?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?”

“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”

You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Just drop me off?”

He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.

“And then what?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Then you just leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”

He frowns. “Saying what?”

“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”

He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”

“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”

His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”

You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.

“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”

“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”

“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”

You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.

“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.

“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.

“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”

He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.

“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”

His gaze holds yours.

“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”

His expression softens again.

“Do you understand?”

You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.

“Now listen to me.”

He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”

His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.

His lips quirk. “You alright?”

“No,” you breathe.

And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.

He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.

You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.

And for a second, neither of you seems to care.

The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.

Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.

“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.

Then he pulls back completely.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.

“Still catching the bus?”

You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”

He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.

“My car’s the other way,” he calls.

You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.

Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” you say again.

His smile only widens.

You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.

You just know.

And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.

Which is annoying for several reasons.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[superbassbuck]

down at the bayou | bucky barnes (18+)

⤷ tfatws!bucky barnes x f!reader

⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, light angst, enemies to lovers, bantering, lowk grumpy and man-hater reader, sam playing matchmaker, arguments, bucky has nightmares, semi-public sex, spanking, brat-taming, degradation and praise.

⭐︎ wordcount: 14.9k

⭐︎ a/n: i've never been to louisiana, so i tried my best to do research to keep it as accurate as possible. i apologize for any mistakes.

synopsis: Sam has been trying to get you and Bucky to get along—or at least tolerate each other—for the longest time. And what better way to do that than by inviting you both back home for a weekend in Louisiana?

← previous fic | main masterlist | next fic ➜

It was always hard to decline the Wilsons every time they invited you over to visit them in Delacroix.

They always made sure to show you a fun time, whether it was something as simple as a boat ride on Paul & Darlene’s — God bless them — shooting water guns with the kids, going fishing, or just grabbing some folding chairs to watch the sun set past the lake line with cold Heinekens in hand.

It was AJ’s—Sarah’s son—birthday this weekend, and Sam had invited you to stay over for a full weekend of nonstop partying and celebration.

How could you possibly resist when you have your very best friends waiting for you across the states with good music and food ready at their doorstep?

You showed up at the top of the steps with a heavy weekender bag slung over your shoulder. When you pushed through the front door, which had been left unlocked, the last person you expected to see was standing right in the middle of the room.

Bucky.

He looked like he had just arrived, too. A simple dark backpack sat squared and centered on the couch—as if he were already claiming his spot.

Bucky slowly turned toward you, his eyes widening as if he hadn’t expected you to arrive either.

“What are you doing—”

“What are you doing—”

You both spoke and stopped at the same time, eyes glaring at one another. Bucky’s shoulders were tense, his discomfort obvious, while your own brows were furrowed and lips scrunched in disdain.

Your first impression of Bucky hadn’t been great—and it still wasn’t.

When you first met him, you walked in on him talking to Sam about his flirting with Sarah. Sam had warned Bucky to back off—that typical overprotective brother routine—but Bucky insisted he was “merely joking around” and “wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

The two of them might have found it funny, but Sarah was your best friend, and you were extremely protective over the people you cared about.

While Sam was busy in New York, you had stuck by her side like glue. You were there for her through the divorce, you were there to watch the kids when Sam wasn’t around, and you were there for every single one of her and the boys’ milestones.

Sarah was a woman who deserved to be taken care of, just as she took care of everyone else.

To Bucky, pursuing her and tossing out flirtatious comments was just a joke.

You knew Sarah was strong, and that maybe she wouldn’t let things get too far with Bucky, but the way she’d chuckle and giggle at his words filled you with doubt.

Bucky wasn’t a man who would take care of her or her kids. He was just like Sam—he’d always be away, too occupied with other things across the country to actually show up for her and her needs. You didn’t want her to get hurt and left in the dust again.

Bucky let out a patient exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Sam invited me to stay the weekend for AJ’s birthday.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s funny. Sam invited me over to stay, too.” You glanced at the couch. “They don’t have a spare bedroom—so that couch is going to have to be mine.”

He huffed an incredulous laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching into a disbelieving smile.

The gentleman in him told him to give up the couch and let you have it, even if he had arrived first. But the petty part of him didn’t want to give in that easily—not with how cold you have been towards him.

“What?” Bucky motioned to the sofa. “You don’t think the couch is big enough for the both of us?”

You didn’t laugh, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Look, I—”

“Mom! Uncle Bucky and Auntie are here!” Cass’s voice rang from around the corner. His happy brown eyes, so much like Sarah’s, peered between the two of you. “AJ, come here!”

Bucky’s shoulders eased slightly, his expression softening at the sight of Sam’s nephew.

Cass ran to Bucky first since he was closer, throwing his arms around his waist as he knelt to meet the kid halfway.

“Good to see you again, kid,” Bucky murmured.

Then Cass lunged at you for a hug next, nearly sending you stumbling backward from the impact. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing tight. “Hey there, Cass!”

AJ rounded the corner next, his footsteps thudding against the floorboards before he collided head first into Bucky, catching him in a bear hug.

Jealousy started to boil in your blood. It was infuriating how much Bucky had these two kids wrapped around his stupid vibranium finger after knowing them for such a short time. Meanwhile, you have been around forever. You might as well have been their biological aunt, for fuck’s sake.

“Uncle Bucky!” AJ beamed.

Bucky laughed, giving his head a playful ruffle. “Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy. Hey, I got you something—”

“Aren’t you going to say hi to your aunt, AJ?” you cut in, catching the boy’s attention.

AJ’s excitement for whatever gift Bucky had for him faded slightly as he turned his attention to you. He smiled, walking—not running—to greet you with a hug. The polite gesture did nothing to soothe your jealousy or your emotional attachment to these kids.

“It’s nice to see you, Auntie,” AJ said politely.

You forced a smile anyway. “Happy early birthday, AJ. Are you excited for the weekend?”

AJ grinned and nodded, but before he could answer, the sound of Sam’s footsteps approached from down the hall.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said, a hand on his hip and a smirk on his face. “If it isn’t my two favorite people in the world—standing in the same room.”

The little boys glanced at each other, already starting their own silent game of tag before they pushed through the front door and disappeared into the yard.

“Sam,” you greeted, finally dropping your heavy duffel bag on the floor. “There isn’t enough space for Bucky and me to stay.”

Bucky was already reaching for his backpack. “I’ll just let her take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“What?” Sam huffed, shaking his head. “No, no, no. None of that. I bought an air mattress that we can set up right here.” He motioned to the floor in front of the sofa. “We’ll just move the coffee table. It’s big enough to fit the both of you. No one is sleeping on the floor.”

Big enough to fit the both of you?

“We are not sharing a bed,” you interjected sternly, trying to hide the embarassment on your face.

Bucky glanced at Sam casually. “I’ll just take the couch, then. She’ll take the bed.”

The tension in the room was thicker than the Louisiana humidity. Sam and Bucky traded a knowing look—one that typically meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Where’s Sarah?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. There was too much testosterone in this room.

Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s out back.”

You nodded and walked past the two men, heading for the backyard. Sam and Bucky watched you retreat, waiting until the sound of the screen door clicked shut before Bucky finally let out the breath he had been holding.

“She doesn’t like me much, Sam,” Bucky muttered.

“You think?” Sam mused sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest. “Look, man, it’s my nephew’s birthday. Sarah and I want both of you here this weekend, and I’m going to make sure it stays a good weekend.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his right hand coming up to tug at the stubble on his chin as if he were trying to calculate a solution.

“Alright, well...” He shrugged. “Guess I’ll just make sure to stay on the opposite side of the room—”

“No,” Sam interrupted, stepping closer. “That’s not how we’re doing things. It’s a celebration, man. I’m not having you two avoid each other like the plague the entire time. My nephews and everyone else around us will catch on.”

Bucky made a face. He knew Sam well enough to know he was already plotting something. “What do you propose we do, then?”

“There are plenty of things to do down at the bayou,” Sam explained. “Not even just the bayou—all over the damn state. Activities you two can do together.”

Bucky was terrible at hiding his expressions. He grimaced immediately at the thought—enduring constant nagging, side-eyes, and petty one liners from you while he just had to sit there and take it for Sam’s sake.

This wasn’t a fun vacation at all.

“I don’t know about this, Sam—”

“We’re supposed to be a family, Buck,” Sam cut him off, raising a hand to silence the protest. “You’re going to spend time with her, and you’re going to enjoy every second of it.”

You were down at the docks, the sun beaming down as sweat began to trickle from your temples. The humidity in Louisiana was suffocating, but the occasional lake breeze, the cold beers, and the company were enough to keep the heat at bay.

Paul & Darlene’s was swaying gently against the waves, looking as rusty as ever.

“Is she ready for a ride?” you asked Sarah, who was currently engrossed in a clipboard. “Are you seriously still working on your son’s birthday weekend?”

Sarah didn’t reply, mumbling to herself as her eyes traced the words on the paper. You sighed, your fingers gently nudging the clipboard down.

“Sarah, enough,” you said gently. You glanced over at AJ and Cass, who were sitting on the benches playing with action figures. “Take the weekend off like the rest of us and spend time with the kids. Take them out on the boat.”

Sarah looked at the boys, her brown eyes filling with guilt. “You know I would, but the boat’s still broken—”

“Stop with the sulking,” Sam’s voice shouted from the end of the dock.

He squinted against the sun as he approached, carrying two boat paddles, while Bucky trailed behind him with a third.

“We still have three perfectly good rowboats we can take the kids on,” Sam grinned, handing you one of the paddles. “Ever rowed a boat before?”

“Of course I have,” you said, taking it. “That sounds like fun.” You smiled, turning toward the boys. “Which one of you lucky boys wants to ride with your super cool aunt?”

Bucky lifted his paddle up to Sarah with a small, stupidly charming smile. “Want to ride with me, Sarah?”

You felt your eyebrow twitch.

“AJ, you’re with me,” Sam called out, cutting Bucky off. “Cass, you’re with your mom.”

“What? No fair!” Cass made a face, throwing his hands up. “I want to ride with someone cool!”

“You better watch your mouth, boy,” Sarah warned, completely ignoring Bucky as she snatched a paddle from Sam’s hand, already heading toward the end of the dock where the boats were tied.

Sam didn’t bother hiding his grin. It was wide, unabashed, and entirely too fucking satisfied as he ushered the boys toward the edge of the dock.

“Alright, move it or lose it! First one to the sandbar gets the first slice of cake on Saturday!” Sam shouted. AJ and Cass scrambled past you, their sneakers slapping loudly against the wooden planks as they raced toward the smaller rowboats, leaving giggles in their wake.

You and Bucky stood frozen, paddles in hand like two statues, blinking as the Wilsons walked off without you.

“Wait, what?” you finally managed to choke out, your head whipping between Sam’s retreating back and the boats. “Sam, hold on. There are only three boats.” You stumbled after them, desperately trying to create space between you and Bucky.

“Yep!” Sam called over his shoulder, not slowing down at all. “One for Sarah and Cass, one for me and the birthday boy…”

He paused to hop into a boat, the wood creaking under him. He looked back at you and Bucky, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

“And one for the two of you. Try not to tip it.”

You turned slowly to look at Bucky. He looked just as dumbfounded as you felt, his vibranium hand gripped tight around the handle of his paddle.

“He’s kidding,” you muttered. “He’s definitely kidding.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, mostly because he knew Sam wasn’t kidding at all. He looked at the third rowboat—a small, weathered piece of wood that bobbed innocently at the end of the line.

It looked incredibly small.

It looked too intimate.

It looked like a disaster waiting to happen.

“Sam!” you yelled, taking a step forward. “This is ridiculous! I can just stay back and help Sarah with the—the decorations! Or the food!”

“Decorations are done! Food isn’t being prepped ‘til tomorrow!” Sarah shouted from her own boat, already pushing off from the dock with Cass sitting across from her.

You couldn’t believe it. You were stranded.

You were stranded with Bucky fucking Barnes.

Bucky let out a long, slow breath through his nose. He glanced at you, taking the way your jaw had hung open as you watched Sam and Sarah float away. A fly could’ve flown in at any moment.

Without a word, Bucky started walking toward the last boat, his heavy boots thumping against the dock. He stepped one foot into the boat to steady it and extended a hand toward you.

“Come on,” he muttered. “I’ll help you down.”

You blinked, snapped out of your disbelief as you looked down at Bucky—propped up like a knight in shining armor helping a fair maiden onto his trusty steed.

“I can help myself just fine, thanks,” you scoffed.

You stepped down into the boat, and it tipped slightly under your weight. The both of you quickly got settled, undid the rope, and assembled the paddles at the sides. Without a single word being exchanged, you both reached for the handles at the same time.

Except Bucky’s hands landed first—and your hands landed right on top of his. You both stared at each other, gazes hard and unwavering.

“Let go,” you said.

Bucky didn’t budge at all. “I grabbed them first.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know how to row a boat, do you?” you immediately countered.

He paused. The only sounds were the cicadas buzzing in your ears and the gentle thrashing of water as the rowboat swayed.

“I do know how to row a boat,” Bucky argued back pridefully.

He didn’t.

He probably had during his Winter Soldier days—and maybe the muscle memory would have come back—but definitely not for a teeny, tiny little rowboat like this.

You grinned, a little taunting chuckle escaping your lips as you silently called his bluff. “Oh, yeah?”

You knew that stung his pride. He mumbled incoherent, grumpy words under his breath as he started to paddle away from the docks and toward the center of the lake, trying to follow Sam and Sarah’s lead.

The two of you sat in an awkward, tense silence as he worked the paddles. The sun was beaming in your face, and you lifted your hand to provide shade—but it was also a discreet method to help shield the way you were staring intently at Bucky’s muscles as he pushed the paddles.

Bucky would grunt occasionally as the blades lapped through the water, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his muscles bulged and flexed through a shirt that looked ridiculously tight on a big guy like him.

His henley was pulled up to his forearms, the vibranium shimmering against the reflections of the lake and the veins in his right arm catching your eyes with every pushing motion of the paddle.

“You, uh… you come to Louisiana often?” Bucky tried for a conversation.

You huffed a laugh that didn’t sound humorous at all. “Way more than you have, that’s for sure.”

Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something smart. He had to suck it up for Sam’s sake.

“The weather’s nice, isn’t it?”

You couldn’t believe Bucky was trying to talk to you about the weather.

“It’s always hot and swampy in Delacroix,” you said flatly.

You looked around, noticing how the boat was drifting further away from Sam and Sarah. You watched as Cass and AJ shouted to each other from across their boats—how Sarah and Sam were tossing their heads back in laughter.

A frown settled on your lips as you began to feel left out.

“We’re drifting, Bucky,” you said, pointing toward them. “Steer in that direction.”

Bucky adjusted his grip on the paddles and huffed. “Fine.”

He started to dig the right paddle deep into the water while the left one barely grazed the surface. But instead of cutting toward Sam and Sarah, the boat’s nose jerked sharply to the right.

“What are you doing?” you snapped, your patience thinning as the distance between you and the Wilsons grew wider. “We’re not going toward them, Bucky. We’re going…” You frowned. “…nowhere.”

“I’m adjusting,” Bucky said shortly, his vibranium fingers tightening on the paddle. He tried to over-correct, pulling back hard with his left arm, but the only result was the boat beginning to pivot on its axis.

You weren’t moving anywhere. You were spinning.

The same cluster of cypress trees passed by for the third time. Sam and Sarah were becoming distant specks on the horizon, their laughter echoing faintly across the water.

An impatient sigh escaped you as you leaned forward, motioning to the paddles. “Here, move over. Let me take over—”

“I got it,” Bucky insisted, his jaw clenched and shoulders tense in that way that made him look particularly stubborn. “Just give me a second, alright?”

“Bucky, we’ve barely moved from the dock and now you’ve got us—” you motioned to the boat, “—spinning in circles. I’m getting dizzy. Just hand me the damn paddles.”

Your hands found an open space on the handles and you jerked them toward your side of the boat, causing the wood to thrash against the water. Bucky—taken aback by your unexpected strength—was pulled forward. He let out a hiss, immediately yanking the oars back toward him and making you jerk forward instead.

You both glared at each other stubbornly, muttering curses as you continued this back and forth struggle for the paddles.

But unfortunately for you, Bucky was significantly stronger, and every jerk he made sent you nearly flying out of your seat and in his direction.

“Goddammit, Bucky! Just let go!” you hissed, trying to find your balance as the boat thrashed around, water splashing everywhere.

Bucky had told himself he would try to suck up your attitude for Sam—but fuck, you were treading on his nerves every second.

“Christ, woman!” Bucky barked, his fingers tightening on the handles. “Just let me take care of it—alright? I know what I’m doing!”

“Well, clearly you don’t! Because we’re still just spinning in circles!”

The boat rocked violently, tipping precariously every time the two of you fought for the oars. The wood creaked and groaned under the movement, and water began slopping over the gunwales, soaking your sandals.

“Will you stop being such a prideful man and let a woman take over the damn oars already?” you shouted over the splashing water, throwing your entire weight into a massive yank.

The paddles lurched toward you.

“I can’t believe you offered to take Sarah for a ride when you can’t even steer the damn thing!”

Bucky’s brow twitched. He hated feeling incompetent, and every word you hurled was a direct jab to his pride. He had tried so hard to be on his best behavior for you, but his patience had finally worn thin.

“I would’ve done just fine if you hadn’t gotten in the way,” Bucky snapped back in a low growl.

His fingers clamped down so hard on the wood it was a wonder it didn’t snap. Out of sheer, petty spite, he jerked the oars back toward himself.

“Now give me these damn paddles—”

But the force of his movement caught you completely off guard. You let out a sharp yelp as you were catapulted forward, your hands losing their grip on the wood. You had zero time to brace yourself before you collided hard with his chest—it felt like hitting a brick wall wrapped in damp cotton.

With all the weight suddenly slammed onto one side, the boat lurched backward, the stern dipping dangerously low.

Pressed against his chest, you scrambled to get up in a panic. “Jesus, Bucky! Look at what you—”

“Stop squirming! Just… just stay still!”

Bucky’s grip on the oars was long forgotten as his hands found your waist in a desperate attempt to steady you, but it was too late.

With a loud, undignified splash that caught the attention of everyone on the docks, the rowboat flipped.

One moment, the sun was burning your skin, and the next, you were greeted by cold water enveloping you. Everything from above was muffled as you were completely submerged. Keeping your eyes squeezed shut against the murky water, you tried to swim upward, but panic started to flare as your head kept bumping into the underside of the wooden boat.

Suddenly, a strong, vibranium arm wrapped roughly around your waist. He pulled your body tight against his, dragging you toward the surface and back to the shore.

You gasped for air the moment you broke the surface, your skin warming as the sunlight hit your soaked face. People on the docks were smiling and laughing at your predicament, but Bucky paid them no mind. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the water.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.

Sam’s laughter, joined by the kids’ giggles, filled your ears as their boats drew closer.

“Oh no, what happened to you two?” Sam grinned, spinning his boat around to get a better look at you. “Let me guess—was it the wind?” He motioned to the upside down boat.

Rolling your eyes, you pushed through the water until you reached the edge of the docks, with Bucky swimming close behind. You tried to paddle faster to create some distance, but there was no point—he caught up to you in no time.

When you reached the dock, you tried to hoist yourself up, but Bucky’s hands found your waist again, easily hauling you up and over the wooden floorboards.

You sneered at him the second your feet were steady. “I didn’t need your help.”

Bucky ignored you as he hauled himself up onto the dock, his muscles rippling beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. Water clung to his skin, dripping from the tips of his short, shaggy hair and trailing down the tanned column of his throat.

You were furious—absolutely livid—but as you watched the way his broad shoulders tensed just underneath the thin fabric, you found yourself swallowing hard.

You hated that, even in the middle of a fucking swamp, he still managed to look like that.

Bucky didn’t notice you staring at him. He stood up, shaking his head like a dog to get the water out of his ears.

“I was doing a fine job,” he bit out roughly, “until you had to butt your head in and try to take over. If you had just sat still, we wouldn’t be soaked right now—”

As Bucky finally lifted his head to glare at you, the breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, his gaze dropping from your drenched head to your chest—and then freezing there.

You were wearing a sheer white blouse—light and airy for the Louisiana heat, of course—but now that it was drenched through, it had turned completely translucent. It clung tight to your skin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination and revealing the lace of your bra underneath.

Bucky’s jaw went tight, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He knew he should look away, but he couldn’t—not even as you continued to yell and point a finger at him.

“What? Are you insinuating that it’s my fault?” you scoffed in disbelief.

Bucky couldn’t concentrate. It felt like his brain had short circuited as he stared shamelessly at the damp lace and the soft curve of your skin.

“And another thing!” you shouted, stepping closer and poking a finger square into the center of his chest. “If you hadn’t been so stubborn about the oars, we would’ve caught up to Sam and Sarah and been having a good time with them!”

Bucky winced, not because of the poke, but because you moving closer only made the view more prominent. He glanced toward the docks, noticing a few of the guys from the neighborhood whistling and laughing at the both of you.

Without thinking, Bucky stepped closer, his large frame shielding you from the view of the men. He reached out, his hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders as he tried to pull you against him to hide your vulnerable state.

“Hey—? What the hell are you doing?” you snapped, trying to shove him back. “Why are you hugging me? Get off!”

“I’m not hugging you,” Bucky mumbled grumpily as he forced you to stay put, caging you between his big arms.

“It feels a lot like hugging, Barnes! Let go!” You squirmed, but his grip on you was tight. His face flushed as he felt your chest rub up against his.

“Stop moving,” he hissed, his face turning a deep, frustrated red as he looked anywhere but at your chest. He leaned down, his mouth inches away from your ear so only you could hear. “Your damn shirt.”

“My shirt?” You blinked up at him in confusion. “What about my—?”

You looked down, and the realization hit you. Your face got hot with embarrassment once you noticed how the white fabric of your shirt was basically invisible, clinging to every inch of your bra and skin.

Sam and Sarah pulled their boat alongside the dock, the hull bumping gently against the wood. Sam hopped out first, looping the rope around the cleat. He looked up, taking in the sight of the two of you standing so close together.

“Well, would you look at that,” Sam said, a massive grin spreading across his face. “One little dip in the lake and you two finally made up?”

Bucky felt your body tense. Sensing how uncomfortable this was for you, he was just about to step back—until you crossed your arms over your chest and huddled deeper into his shadow.

“You okay?” Bucky murmured quietly, tilting his head down toward you.

After Sarah helped Cass off the boat, she stepped onto the dock and walked straight to you, moving between you and the men. She wrapped an arm around your shoulders and gently pried you away from Bucky, taking over his job of hiding you.

“Come on,” Sarah said softly, her voice full of understanding as she began to lead you away. “Let’s get you fixed up and into some dry clothes.”

You didn’t dare look back at Bucky as you let her lead you away, though you could feel his gaze on your back until you and Sarah rounded the corner, leaving the men out of sight.

Back on the dock, the laughter died down. Bucky stood there dripping wet, looking uncharacteristically flustered.

“I take it the boat ride didn’t go well?” Sam taunted, his eyes still fixed on the corner where you and his sister had disappeared.

Bucky stayed quiet, glaring at Sam as water droplets fell from his hair onto the floorboards of the dock.

“This isn’t going to work, Sam,” Bucky muttered, wringing the hem of his shirt. “She hates me.”

“Don’t be like that, Buck.” Sam patted him on the shoulder. “She doesn’t hate anyone. Besides, we’ve got the whole weekend ahead of us, alright?”

Sam likely said that in hopes of lifting Bucky’s spirits—but it only did the exact opposite.

The sky was dark as you sat on the air mattress, applying lotion to your skin. The thought of sharing a space with Bucky felt daunting.

The rest of the day had been awkward and tense after the disaster on the lake. It didn’t help that Bucky did exactly what Sam told him not to do—which was hovering at the far end of the room, making sure to stand wherever you weren’t.

Bucky was taking his sweet time in the bathroom. As you finished with the lotion, you quickly snuggled into the air mattress, trying to fall asleep before he came back out.

Only a few minutes passed before the light from the bathroom hit your eyes as he pulled the door open. You winced at the sudden brightness but kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

A small sigh—almost a breath of relief—escaped his lips when he noticed you were out, or at least appeared to be.

You heard his heavy footsteps thud toward the couch. He crouched with his back to you, digging through his backpack for something.

Curiosity got the best of you. You peeked one eye open, and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.

Bucky was shirtless.

You watched as he balanced on the balls of his feet, rummaging through the bag. The moonlight piercing through the window shadowed the deep lines and muscles of his back. His vibranium arm looked just as beautiful under the moon as it had in the sun.

His hair, no longer damp and scruffy like it was at the docks, was still slightly wet and brushed back neatly.

You could smell him all the way from the air mattress. He smelled soft and clean, with the underlying masculine scent of his deodorant. You knew you should have been asleep by now, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing.

Was he really going to sleep shirtless even though you were here?

Despite your heart thumping loudly in your chest, you kept your back turned to him and tried your best to fall asleep.

Hours later, you eventually drifted off, only to be jolted awake by the sound of shuffling, groaning, and mumbled curses coming from across the room.

Lifting your head, you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you glanced in Bucky’s direction.

“Bucky… can you keep it down?”

But as you focused, you realized that whatever he was doing wasn’t intentional.

Bucky’s eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched into a grimace as he panted heavily. A thin sheen of sweat covered the column of his neck and chest, and his fingers were digging deep into the cushions of the couch. He kept mumbling incoherent, unfinished sentences that made your heart sink with worry.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped.

“Bucky? Are you okay?” you asked, your voice rising.

“Don’t do this, please—don’t… mph… don't do this...”

“Bucky, listen to me!”

“Stop, stop!” he choked out, his body jerking against the couch.

You scrambled off the air mattress, tossing the blanket aside as you rushed to Bucky’s side at the couch.

“Bucky!” you whispered urgently, reaching out to grab his shoulders. You shook him, your palms warming from the heat radiating off his damp skin. “Bucky, wake up. You’re having a nightmare!”

When he didn’t wake, you shook him harder until he gasped awake so violently he nearly knocked you backward. His eyes snapped open—wide, unfocused, and… terrified.

He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he struggled to fill his lungs with air. His vibranium hand clamped onto the edge of the couch so hard the wood underneath groaned.

“I’m—I…” he stammered, his voice heavy with panic.

“Hey... hey, look at me,” you said softly, your hands finding his wet cheeks and forcing his focus onto you. “I’m here. You’re in Louisiana. You’re at Sarah’s.”

You started saying the first things that came to mind. Surely, reminding someone where they were would help in a situation like this, right?

Bucky’s head whipped toward you, his gaze darting around the dark room until it finally landed on your face again. He was still shaking, the tremors racking his broad shoulders as he tried to calm himself in your touch.

You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t really know what to say in a situation like this. But being there, holding him and simply staying in his space, seemed to be enough for now.

Slowly and quietly, he began to catch his breath, and that’s when you noticed he was trying to match his breathing to yours.

In and out. In and out, slowly, until he finally started to calm down.

“Did…” He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your lap—noticing how your oversized shirt hung loosely over your legs. “Did I wake you?”

You nodded gently, deciding to be truthful. “You did.”

Guilt immediately clouded his features. “I’m sorry.”

A solemn frown tugged at your lips as you leaned in closer to get a better look at him. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he muttered, pulling away from your touch so suddenly it made your hands feel cold.

He tried to get comfortable on the couch again, but the tension in his shoulders and the stiff way he moved made it clear that settling back into sleep would be impossible.

Your heart ached for him. You felt terrible.

“You can take the air mattress, Bucky,” you said, already rising to your feet. “Here, I’ll move my things—”

As you stepped away, Bucky’s hand immediately clamped around your wrist. “No, stop. Just—just keep the mattress, okay? I’ll be fine,” he insisted, though the wobble in his voice betrayed how he really felt.

Your frown deepened. Even in this vulnerable state, he held onto that same stubborn pride that had clashed with yours earlier at the docks. Except this time, his attitude didn’t piss you off. Standing before him while he looked so broken and tired only made you feel completely useless.

“Is there anything I can do?” you asked quietly, searching his face. “Anything to help?”

Bucky managed a small smile—a forced, tired expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He let go of your wrist, his hand falling back to the couch.

“Let’s just get some rest. We’ve got a big birthday party tomorrow. I’m sorry for waking you.”

You stood there for a second, looking at the cramped, uncomfortable couch and then back at the oversized air mattress that looked far too big for just one person.

“You’re really pulling at my heartstrings here, old man.” You reached out, grabbing the hem of his blanket. “Come on. There’s plenty of room. Let’s just share the mattress.”

Bucky froze, his eyes widening as he looked from you to the bed. “S-share…?”

You were already getting settled on your side, your back facing him, hoping the distance would help his flustered state.

“You need sleep, and I’m not going to be able to close my eyes knowing you’re over there miserable on a cramped couch,” you huffed. “Now get over here.”

Bucky knew there was no point in arguing with you further. If he had learned anything from the disaster at the docks, it was that once you set your mind on something, he was better off just letting you have your way.

With a reluctant, heavy sigh, he finally stood up and moved toward the air mattress. The mattress dipped significantly under his body as he shuffled around to get comfortable on his side. He kept a respectable amount of space between the both of you, lying stiffly on the very edge.

You both remained back to back, with only the sound of crickets outside filling the silence.

“Do you get nightmares often?” you suddenly asked.

Bucky hesitated. “Not as much as I used to,” he answered in a gravelly rasp. “But they still come and go.”

There was another pause.

This time, Bucky broke it.

“Do you care if I sleep without a shirt on?”

You couldn’t help the snort that escaped your lips. “Don’t worry,” you chuckled. “I’m not looking.”

The sound of your laughter in this awkward, tense space made his shoulders ease slightly and his heart beat a little slower. You two continued to lay quietly like that for a long moment—side by side, back to back.

There were a million thoughts running through Bucky’s head, and he felt particularly restless.

Finally, he decided to ask the very thing that had been occupying his mind since you two first met.

“Why do you dislike me so much?”

Bucky braced himself for the answer, but it didn’t come.

He waited, wondering if you were pretending not to hear him. He called your name softly and turned over his shoulder to look at you, but he stopped short.

You had already fallen asleep.

The morning light pierced through the front windows, hitting you right in the face. The quiet peace of the night before had been replaced by the chaotic, joyful energy of a house in full celebration mode.

From the kitchen, the clattering of pots and pans and the high pitched laughter of AJ and Cass bounced off the walls, forcing you awake.

You blinked, rubbing the grogginess from your eyes as you realized the air mattress felt much, much lighter. Bucky was already gone. His side of the bed was nearly smoothed over, and his blanket was folded neatly back on the couch—as if he hadn’t slept next to you at all.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Sarah called out from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry for all this ruckus. We were tryin’ our best to stay quiet, but everyone is just so excited since it’s AJ’s big day today.”

A sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at your lips at the sight of Sarah and the kids gathered in the living room.

“It’s okay,” you said groggily, pulling yourself off the air mattress. “Happy Birthday, AJ.”

You started walking toward Sarah, meeting her in the kitchen. You took note of the trays and various types of produce lying around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Sarah didn’t glance up from the onions she was laying out on the cutting board.

“Oh no, no,” she clicked her tongue. “It’s a warzone in here that only I can handle. You’d only get in my way, and I don’t need two people trippin’ over each other in this kitchen—I can leave that to my kids.”

You frowned, leaning against the wall. “Are you sure? I feel bad just sitting around while you’re doing all this—”

“I’m positive,” Sarah cut you off, pointing her knife at you and then toward the clock on the wall. “The party doesn’t start ‘til five. So you can get outta here and enjoy New Orleans or somethin’ until everything’s ready.”

“But Sarah, that’s an hour drive—”

“Out!” she laughed, shooing you toward the front door with a wave of her knife. “Go breathe some fresh air. Enjoy yourself and the town. I know you miss it.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, just as the sound of Bucky approaching from the backyard—already dressed for the day—met you and Sarah in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he nodded to you curtly, as if last night hadn’t happened at all.

Then he glanced at Sarah with a smile—that stupidly charming smile. He nodded toward the counter. “Let me help—”

Before he could take a step closer, Sarah pointed the knife at him, too. She looked back at you. “And take hunky robot here with you while you’re at it.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing at the way she brushed Bucky aside.

Bucky blinked, confused. “Take me where?”

“Sarah, if I’m going out to enjoy the town, I’m doing it by myself—”

You were cut off by the sound of the screen door hitting the wall as Sam hauled a heavy box of supplies into the room. He dropped it onto the floor with a loud thud and wiped the sweat from his forehead, grinning when he saw the three of you standing there.

“Oh, perfect,” Sam panted. “You goin’ to town? Take Bucky with you. Show him around. He’s been following me around like some fly buzzin’ in my ear.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he crossed his arms defensively. “A fly?”

Sam ignored him as he began to unbox. “Seriously, take him. He needs the fresh air, and I need the floor space. Go on, get out of here.”

You were about to protest—to insist on staying and offer your assistance—but Sam and Sarah were already bickering in the kitchen, talking about how Sam had to pick up AJ’s friends and run to the store for last minute groceries.

When you told them that you could be an extra set of hands, they both looked at you and, at the same time, shouted, “Get out!”

Now, you found yourself behind the wheel of Sarah’s run-down but reliable Chevy with Bucky sitting in the passenger seat.

He had offered to drive, but you didn’t allow him to—which, after the incident with the boat, was a smart move on his part.

The radio didn’t work, so you two sat in awkward silence with the windows rolled down, letting the humid breeze pass through as you drove toward New Orleans. Bucky had one arm out the window, his eyes focused on the trees passing by.

“So, where are you taking me?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

“New Orleans,” you answered flatly.

The short burst of warmth that the two of you had shared in the middle of the night seemed to have disappeared completely. Bucky had his body turned slightly away from you, and maybe that was how he wanted it. Perhaps the vulnerability he had shared last night was something he wanted to keep under wraps.

“I know that,” he scoffed. “But what are we going to do there?”

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” you said, keeping your eyes on the road. “Monty’s.”

Bucky hummed. “That like a breakfast joint or something?”

“It’s a classic diner. They have the best crawfish and cheesesteaks you’ll ever put in your mouth,” you said, your stomach growling just thinking about it. “But the best part are the beignets. They have the best stuffed beignets I’ve ever had.”

Bucky finally glanced at you, a small grin tugging at his lips. “I’ve never had a beignet.”

Your eyes went wide, and you looked at him in disbelief. “What? You stay with the Wilsons and you’ve never had a beignet?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

He shook his head again. “I’ve only ever stayed in Delacroix with Sam.”

The idea of introducing the city of New Orleans—a place you adored—to someone who had never been filled you with a sudden burst of excitement, even if it was for Bucky.

“Well, we’ve got a lot of time to spare. So we’ll park somewhere and walk to Monty’s, and since the restaurant is near Jackson Square, I’ll show you around.”

While you kept your eyes on the road, Bucky could only stare at you as you went on and on about the beauty of New Orleans.

You explained breathlessly how gorgeous the square was—about how the greenery around the cathedral was breathtaking. You mentioned the French Market a couple of blocks away and went on about the street musicians and talented jazz players on every corner. You told him about the vendors posted all around and how you could even take a trolley around the area.

For the first time since he met you, he had never heard you speak this much in one breath.

For once, you weren’t throwing petty remarks at him. You talked and talked about the things you loved about the city, and Bucky felt like his heart was swelling too large for his chest.

Before long, the two of you made it into the vibrant heart of New Orleans.

The restaurant was already loud—the clinking of silverware, loud laughter, and a jazz band playing down the street hummed in your ears.

Despite the heat, Bucky had kept his jacket on for as long as possible, but eventually, the Louisiana humidity won.

Now, with his sleeves rolled up, the vibranium of his arm caught the light poking through the window with every movement. You saw the way the couple at the table next to you whispered to each other, and how a group of tourists leaned in, pointing in his direction.

Bucky felt it, too. His jaw was clenched, and he kept his left hand tucked partially under the table. He looked like he wanted to disappear. It was no wonder he preferred staying at Sam’s.

Then, the server arrived with a tray that smelled like heaven.

“Here you go,” you said, pushing the plate of powdered goodness toward him. “The legendary stuffed beignets,” you added with a bright smile, hoping to ease his mood.

The pastries were massive, perfectly golden brown and buried under a mountain of powdered sugar. Bucky lifted one and took a careful bite, the crunch of the dough giving way to a rich and creamy center. His eyes widened, and he let out a small, muffled “mm” as he chewed.

“It’s good, right?” you grinned, already halfway through your own beignet.

Bucky nodded, taking an even bigger bite. “Good,” he confirmed mid-chew. “Very fucking good.”

As he pulled the beignet away from his mouth, he was oblivious to the thick coat of white powder smeared across his upper lip like a mustache, with a stray patch sitting right on the tip of his nose. Bucky still had that natural, broody look on his face as he chewed. He reached for his water, and as much as you tried to keep a straight face, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped.

“Bucky,” you snickered, shielding your mouth with your hand.

He stopped, glass halfway to his mouth, frowning in confusion. “What?”

“You’ve got…” You pointed to your own face, doubling over as another giggle escaped. “Powder all over your face, old man.”

Bucky reached up with his right hand, wiping his lip only to smear the powder further across his cheek. He realized then how ridiculous he must have looked.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes down as his face flushed with embarrassment. But with the way you were giggling across the table, he couldn’t help but smile, too.

“Here, let me help you.”

To save him from further embarrassment, you reached across the small, wobbly table.

Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth, sweeping away the stubborn white powder. Any petty remark Bucky had been about to throw at you died in his throat the second your thumb made contact with his skin.

With the sunlight peering through the window and casting a soft glow on you, you looked… soft.

You looked exactly as you had last night, with the moonlight over your face while you comforted him after his nightmare.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I—”

Suddenly, a waiter rushing by with a loaded tray clipped the corner of your table. The wood jolted, the water glasses sloshing dangerously.

“Sorry, folks! Pardon me,” the man mumbled, already halfway to the next table.

You pulled your hand back quickly, clearing your throat. Bucky sat back, his hand dropping to his lap as he looked toward the door.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Let’s go.”

The two of you left the restaurant. Stepping out into the warm air, Jackson Square was already vibrant and bustling with a good mix of tourists and locals.

Couples drifted past, fingers intertwined or arms slung over shoulders, soaking in the romance of the city. You and Bucky, however, kept a careful, “friendly” distance, though every time your shoulders brushed in the crowd, you both tensed up.

As you rounded the corner toward the cathedral, the soulful, brass of a trumpet pulled you toward a crowd gathered on the sidewalk.

A jazz quartet was set up near the iron gates. The music was loud and swinging. People were swaying, and some older couples were even dancing in the middle of the pavement, lost in the beat as an elderly man sang, his smooth, gravelly voice beaming through the microphone.

You stopped at the edge of the circle, smiling as you watched a young couple spin each other around.

The music was infectious, and you found yourself tapping your foot against the cobblestones. Bucky stood beside you, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but his eyes weren’t on the musicians. He was watching the people dancing with a look of quiet, distant longing that made your heart ache just a little.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, grabbing his attention.

Bucky—as if snapped out of his own thoughts—jumped slightly at your question. He looked down at you, a sheepish smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

You motioned to the other dancers. “Do you want to dance?”

He blinked as your question processed in his mind. You were inviting him to dance?

Were you trying to pull his leg?

Bucky sucked in a deep breath, his face flushing and his eyes going wide. “… Dance?”

Before Bucky could deny your offer, the saxophone player stepped forward and got lost in a wild, trilling solo that made the crowd cheer even louder. The man on the microphone let out a joyful laugh, clapping his hands in time with the beat.

“That’s it! That’s it!” he called out. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty, now! Everyone grab a partner and start dancin’ if you haven’t already—life’s way too short to be standin’ still.”

More people spilled into the center of the circle, bumping into you and Bucky. Total strangers were spinning each other around, and it was as if the old cobblestones started to shake with everyone’s footsteps dancing over them.

You looked up at Bucky—his body was tense with the clear desire to bolt in the opposite direction.

“Do you want to leave—”

“C’mon now, you two!” the singer bellowed over the music, drawing the eyes of everyone in the circle as he pointed directly at the two of you with a big grin on his face. “I see you shy young lovebirds over there. Don’t be shy, big man—take the lady’s hand and show us what you got!”

Bucky looked like he wanted to die.

His face was as red as a tomato, and his body was as stiff as a rock. You wanted to laugh at him being called a ‘young lovebird big man,’ but you knew that would only wound his pride even more.

You grabbed his hand, and his body jolted, not expecting the sudden contact.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Come on,” you said, nodding your head toward the middle of the circle. “We’re going to dance.”

“What? Hey—wait—!”

Bucky let himself be dragged to the center of the circle, his feet dragging against the cobblestones.

He couldn’t believe this was happening.

Just twelve hours ago, he had been waking up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, and now he was standing in the middle of Jackson Square with a hundred sets of eyes on him.

This was worse than any nightmare he ever had, probably.

“I can’t,” he hissed, his voice cracking slightly as he looked at the couples spinning around them. “I haven’t danced since... since…”

The Forties.

“Just don’t think about it,” you said, stepping closer into his arms so he was forced to look at you instead of the crowd.

You took his right hand in yours and placed your other hand on his shoulder. His hand found your waist—respectfully. “Just follow my lead.”

You started moving your body to the swing of the rhythm, pulling him into a simple two step move.

At first, Bucky was like a statue—immovable and completely terrified—but then you caught the beat and spun yourself out. Your hand remained intertwined with his before you stepped back into his arms with a little chuckle.

Everyone around you beamed with glee. As the saxophone solo reached its peak, the notes spiraling higher and higher into the humid Louisiana air, Bucky finally started to follow along. His long legs found the rhythm, and he began moving with you.

The man on the microphone threw his head back, laughing in pure delight as Bucky finally found his feet. He pointed at Bucky with a wink before pulling the mic back to his lips.

“There he is! White boy’s got rhythm!” he cheered—and the crowd joined in—before he sung back into a smooth, jazzy verse.

As Bucky spun you around to the music, everything else became a complete blur.

In this moment, it was just you, Bucky, and the beautiful music of New Orleans.

He would occasionally step on your feet, and you would occasionally step on his. You bumped into other dancing couples now and then, but it didn’t matter. You were both laughing, getting lost in the moment and in each other.

It was the first time either of you had seen the other smile like that—completely genuine and unburdened.

After everything that had happened today, it felt like things between you would be different from here on out. There was a soft, gentle side to Bucky that you were slowly starting to notice—a side that made you realize it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if he were to… pursue Sarah.

As the song came to an end, Bucky dipped you, holding you up with the strength of his arms alone. The two of you looked at each other breathlessly, his face just inches from yours. For a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you—just like the other couples were doing, exchanging sweet, quick pecks as the music faded.

But he swallowed hard, hauling you back up and abruptly pulling his hands away from the closeness of your body.

“We should go… so we can make it back in time for the party,” he said, his voice a little strained.

For some reason, the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch hurt you more than you’d like to admit.

“I… sure,” you nodded, straightening your clothes and avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. It’s a long drive. We should go.”

This time, Bucky insisted on driving back to Sarah’s, his excuse being, “You showed me New Orleans, the least I can do is drive us home.”

With how great the day had been and the good mood you were in because of it, you had no problem letting him take the wheel.

“New Orleans is beautiful,” Bucky said, glancing at you with a small smile. “It’s busy and the crowds are loud, but I had a lot of fun—surprisingly so.”

You chuckled, letting the breeze sweep over your face as you looked out the window. “There’s so much more I have to show you. Like the steamboats—oh! And if we’d gone further downtown French Quarter, I could’ve introduced you to my favorite spot for Cajun gumbo—”

Bucky snickered. Here you were again—rambling on about your favorite things. But to Bucky, listening to you talk was, oddly enough, music to his ears.

“That all sounds great,” he said. “Just no swamp boat tours, please. I’ve had enough of those.”

You threw your head back with a hearty laugh. “Fair enough.”

The truck slowly began to lose its momentum, the engine sputtering and making strange sounds—sounds that indicated it wouldn’t survive the over hour long drive back home.

“Uh… Bucky?” you asked, sitting up straighter as you watched the speedometer needle start to dip. “What’s going on?”

Bucky’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I… I don’t know.”

“Well, stop slowing down! We’re in the middle of the road!” Panic started to flare as you glanced at the rearview mirror.

“I’m not slowing down,” Bucky snapped back, his voice rising in panic equal to yours. He pressed his foot harder against the gas pedal, but Sarah’s Chevy only groaned in response. “The truck is doing it on its own.”

“Well, fix it!” you shrieked. “Like… shift gears or something!”

“Fix it?” Bucky scoffed at your expectations.

He groaned, steering the truck toward the grassy shoulder. He peered through the windshield, his expression grim as the truck gave one final lurch before going completely dead. He sighed, reaching for the keys.

“Cut the engine and try again,” you urged.

He gave you a snappy look—mostly because that was exactly what he was about to do.

“No shit,” he mumbled, twisting the key to try the ignition again. He grunted, muttering curses as he tried over and over, but the truck wouldn’t budge.

“Great,” Bucky muttered, leaning his head back against the headrest with a thud. “Just great.”

“Oh my god,” you breathed in disbelief.

You had over an hour’s drive ahead of you, and with it already being four o’clock, you were definitely going to be late for AJ’s birthday party.

“You broke Sarah’s truck.”

Bucky’s eyes flew wide as he turned to you, appalled by your audacity. “I broke Sarah’s truck?”

You crossed your arms and stubbornly glared out the window, refusing to look at him. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t Bucky’s fault—the thing was a relic—but with the panic of missing the party bubbling up, you couldn’t help yourself.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, just stay in the truck, alright? I’ll fix this.”

He pushed the door open and hopped out, but despite his instructions, you were right on his heels.

Bucky popped open the hood, and a fresh cloud of gray smoke billowed out, forcing him to cough and wave his hand to clear the air. He leaned over the engine bay, his vibranium hand resting on the frame as he squinted at the mess of hoses and wires.

“See anything?” you pestered over his shoulder.

“I see a lot of things that shouldn’t be smoking,” he mumbled grumpily.

He reached in, his fingers grazing a radiator hose that looked suspiciously frayed. He tried to tighten a loose bolt, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, but as soon as he touched a connector near the battery, a stray spark flew up.

“It’s the alternator,” he suggested, pulling his hand back and wiping grease onto his jeans. “Or the fuel pump. Or maybe it’s just tired of living.”

“Can you fix it?” you asked, your brows furrowed.

He looked at the smoking engine, then back at the empty road, and finally at you. He let out a long, defeated breath and shook his head.

“There are no tools for me to work with.” He explained, shutting the hood.

“Oh my god,” you repeated, your heart racing. “Oh my god—wait, so what do we do? Do we call someone?”

Bucky already had his phone out—a damned flip phone—and was already dialing Sam’s number.

“What are you doing?” you pestered him, buzzing around him like a fly.

“I’m calling Sam to pick us up,” he answered shortly.

“Oh—okay… good… that’s… good.”

You crossed your arms, your thumb nail caught between your teeth as you started to pace back and forth.

You felt terrible about Sam having to go out of his way to bail you out of this mess on his nephew’s birthday—and you felt even worse about adding a broken truck to the long list of things Sarah already had to take care of.

“Sam, can you hear me? Hello?” Bucky started, raising his voice to be heard over the static. “We’re stranded on—” He looked at you. “Where are we?”

“300 East,” you answered quickly.

“300 East. Sarah’s truck broke down and we need a—hello? Sam, can you hear me?”

Bucky tried again, but the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, snapping it shut.

“Wait, what happened? Did he pick up?”

“Line went dead,” Bucky said, staring at the useless piece of plastic in his hand.

“But is he coming?” you pressed, stepping closer. “Does he know where we are? Did he hear you?”

“I don’t know.”

Your patience, already worn thin from the humidity and the stress of the entire situation, finally snapped.

“What do you mean you don’t know?!” You threw your hands up in the air, your frustration taking over. “God, maybe if I had driven, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess—”

Bucky’s head snapped toward you, a scoff leaving his lips as he glared at you. “Excuse me? Why do you always blame things on me?”

“Because you insisted on driving! And you weren’t just driving—you were speeding! You were pushing the truck to its limits and now look at us!” Your voice rose as you stepped closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Look at the mess you got us into!”

Bucky’s face twisted into a sneer so ugly, it nearly made you flinch. He stepped even closer, letting your finger dig into his chest as he loomed over you, as if reminding you of your place.

“You know, I’m starting to get sick and tired of the way you’re treating me,” he growled. “We had a great day—we were finally getting along—and you went and ruined it.”

Your eyes went wide. “I ruined it?”

“Oh, you ruined it the second you opened your mouth!” Bucky barked.

He didn’t even give you a chance to argue back, stepping forward until you were backed up against the hood of the truck.

“I’ve tried my best to be patient with you—goddamnit!” he continued angrily. “I’ve tried to suck up every petty thing you’ve said about me, the way you look at me like I’m nothing but trouble, the way you’ve treated me like a burden on Sarah’s and Sam’s doorstep.”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, a smile touching his lips—though it wasn’t a smile that held any happiness at all.

“Hell, I thought today I finally got through to that stubborn little head of yours. I thought maybe we actually enjoyed each other’s company for five minutes. But I guess not, because the second something goes wrong, you go right back to the same old script.”

You felt your bottom lip wobble. You kept your eyes down, refusing to look him in the eye.

You knew he was right—he had no idea how he was actually perceived by you, and your treatment of him was starting to feel completely one-sided and unfair.

Unable to take his yelling any longer, you shoved Bucky out of your way. He stumbled back, surprised by the force of your hand. You started walking away from him toward the truck doors without a word, but his voice followed you, sounding exhausted and completely defeated.

“Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”

The sound of his boots scraping against the gravel caught up to you. Before you could pull away, he put a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm as he urged you to turn around.

“Look at me—”

You wrenched your shoulder out of his grasp, spinning around to face him.

“You want to know why?” you hissed. “It’s because of what you said the first day I met you. I overheard you talking to Sam—laughing about how you were ‘merely joking around’ with Sarah, and how you weren’t looking for anything serious.”

Bucky flinched, his hands dropping to his sides as the anger that clouded his eyes was replaced by a look of sheer confusion.

“Sarah is my best friend. I was the one who sat with her through the divorce. I’m the one who stays when Sam has to leave for months at a time. I’ve seen her work herself to the bone for those boys and this family, and she deserves someone who actually values her. She deserves a real man who means what he says—not someone who uses her as a punchline for a joke with his buddy.”

You stepped even closer, and Bucky looked more and more blindsided.

“You’re ‘just having fun,’ but people like you don’t realize that when you play around with someone like Sarah, you leave a mess behind for people like me to clean up. So yeah, I’ve been hard on you. Because I’m not going to let you come into her life, charm her every time you’re over, and then leave her wondering what she did wrong when men like you get bored.”

Bucky just stood there, taking in every word as they echoed in his mind.

Was this what you had thought of him all this time?

That he was some playboy with nothing but bad intentions for Sam’s—his best friend’s—sister?

“I don’t know what to say,” Bucky finally breathed out.

You crossed your arms, tilting your chin with that same stubborn scrunch of your face you did every time you were sure you were right.

“Of course you don’t,” you bit out.

Bucky huffed a dry laugh, running his tongue over his front teeth as he looked down at you. Despite everything, there it was again—that familiar, infuriating spark of yours.

Here you were, being a brat again, and as much as you got under his skin, he couldn’t ever look away.

“I’m sorry,” he admitted, his voice sincere and gentle. “I didn’t... I didn’t think it would affect her like that. Or you, especially. If I had known it was getting under your skin, I wouldn’t have kept it up.”

“If you knew you weren’t looking for a relationship, Bucky, then you should’ve known to stop. It’s that simple,” you snapped back, refusing to let the sudden softness in his voice throw you off.

“I get it. I’m sorry, alright?” Bucky said, his voice straining between genuine regret and a growing irritation.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You dismissively rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. Right now, you just needed to get away from him, so you reached for the truck door, intending to climb back into the cab and wait in silence until Sam eventually found you.

But before your hand could even wrap around the handle, Bucky’s vibranium arm shot out, slamming the door shut hard enough to make the Chevy shake.

He didn’t move his hand, pinning you between his body and the truck.

“Jesus Christ,” he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from your ear. “I’m apologizing, and you’re still being a stubborn brat.”

“And you’re being annoying!” you shot back, refusing to shrink away even though you were trapped. Your back pressed against his chest with every shallow breath you took.

“Oh? So not only am I a player, but I’m also annoying?” His eyes darkened as they searched yours, catching your gaze as you tilted your head back to look at him. “I can never win with you, can I?”

Your heart raced as you looked him dead in the eye, trying to ignore the way he loomed over you. “And what exactly are you trying to win out of me, Barnes?” you challenged.

Bucky’s gaze dropped to your mouth, tracing the curve of it before snapping back up. He shifted his stance, his thigh brushing firmly against yours and closing the last bit of air between you.

“Your approval,” he murmured. His voice vibrated so low in his chest that you could feel it against your own body. “I just want you to like me.”

“I… do like you,” you admitted, though your voice came out shaky. “You’re a friend of Sam’s—I respect you enough for that.”

“That’s the problem,” Bucky said, the complaint sounding like a painful corak. “You don’t like me. You tolerate me.”

With his vibranium hand still propped up against the truck near your head, his right hand trailed up to play with the ends of your hair. He twirled the strands between his fingers with a careful, almost yearning touch, his fingertips gentle against the locks.

He kept his head down, but even without looking, you could feel the burn of his gaze on the back of your head.

“I want more.”

A short, sharp breath escaped your lungs at his admission. More?

“Bucky,” you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. “What more could you possibly want from me? If I can tolerate you—isn’t that already enough?”

“No, it’s not,” he groaned. He lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against your hair and breathing you in. “I want the girl who was there for me when I was having a nightmare. I want the girl I was eating beignets with and dancing with in the middle of Jackson Square.”

Your heart was beating so fast you felt like you were running out of air.

He pressed closer, and a small gasp escaped you as you felt his thigh wedge firmly against yours. When your hand scrambled for the side of the truck for support, you gasped as as you felt a twitch coming from between his legs.

“But instead, I’m getting nothing but a real fucking brat,” he hissed into your ear.

He rocked his hips forward, letting you feel his hard erection against your bottom, forcing you to press even deeper against the truck.

You couldn’t believe it—the man you swore you hated was hovering over you, rocking his hips against yours like an animal. You were pinned hard against the truck, helpless to do anything but take it.

The worst part was that even if you tried to protest, you knew he’d see right through you. You were actually enjoying this. You craved the feeling of him, the way Bucky was grinding against you from behind right here on the side of the road, where anyone could drive by and see exactly what he was doing to you.

Despite being caught in such a vulnerable position, you couldn’t help but let that stubborn streak flare up one more time—mostly because you were dying to see how much more you could get out of him.

You tilted your head back until it rested against his shoulder, looking up at him and batting your lashes.

“Is this it then, Barnes?” you teased, rubbing your bottom against his straining, painful bulge. “You think pinning me against a broken truck and acting like a caveman is going to make me like you? You’re even more desperate than I thought.”

A broken, ragged shudder escaped his lips as he watched the curve of you settle perfectly against his cock.

It had been a long time since he had been in contact with a woman like this—much less the one woman who had been driving him absolutely crazy since the moment he stepped foot back in Louisiana.

Bucky’s hands moved from the truck to your waist, giving you a possessive squeeze.

He held you still as he continued to grind into you. A low groan escaped him as the friction of his clothes against his sensitive skin hit just right.

He felt like he was on the verge of losing it. He could have come right there from the dry humping alone.

But he wasn’t about to give in that easily.

“Desperate...” he muttered, breathless, as he continued to hump you like an animal. “Yes—I’m desperate. I’ve been desperate for you this entire fucking time, and you didn’t even know it.”

His fingers tangled into your hair, giving it a sharp tug that forced a gasp from your lips and exposed the long line of your neck to him.

“Every time I come back to Louisiana, I’m always hoping you’d be there—even if your very existence aggravates me.”

He was always looking for you?

Bucky nuzzled his nose against the sensitive skin there, his lips grazing your throat as he continued to talk filth.

“Need to kiss you,” he mumbled against your skin, peppering your neck with sloppy, wet kisses. “Need to stick my tongue down your throat—bet that’ll shut you up for good, won’t it?”

His rough hands roamed relentlessly over your body, bunching the fabric of your top and squeezing your breasts through the thin material. He was possessive, his touch leaving no doubt about who you belonged to in this moment.

You let out a breath as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, cupping your tits in his palms.

“A lot of talking, but not a lot of action,” you taunted, trying to bite back a moan as he gripped you harder. “Seems very on brand for you, doesn’t it?”

With a snarl, his grip on your hips tightened. He spun you around, nearly slamming your back against the truck. Your yelp of surprise was cut short the second his lips found yours.

The kiss was desperate, almost inexperienced in its hunger, but he moved like a man who had been starving for this very moment with you.

You couldn’t help but lean into him, your hands tangling into his hair with a tug. You moaned into his mouth, and Bucky groaned back, his tongue pushing past your lips to delve deep into the wet warmth of your mouth.

He kept you pinned firmly against the truck, his thigh between yours. You were growing wetter by the second, and you took it upon yourself to start rubbing against him, grinding your dampened cunt against his thick thigh.

Bucky pulled away to rest his forehead against yours, both of you panting for air. He watched, eyes dark and blown out, as you practically fucked yourself against his leg.

A taunting, low laugh left his lips at the filthy sight of it.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “You’re fucking asking for it now.”

Reaching behind you, he yanked the door handle and threw it open.

“Get in the damn truck,” Bucky demanded roughly.

You scrambled inside with a defiant grin, your lips puffy and swollen. You didn’t hesitate to discard your bottoms, leaving yourself in just your panties as you sprawled across the bench seat.

From your spot on the upholstery, you watched with uneven breaths as Bucky began to fumble with his belt.

“Turn around,” Bucky instructed, palming his cock through his jeans as he finally rid himself of the thick fabric. “Face down, ass up.”

Before you could even get into position, Bucky crawled into the truck right after you.

The truck dipped with all the weight shifting to one side, and he slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t even give you time to adjust before his hands found your hips, spinning you around until you were bent over, ass presented to him with your hands planted firmly on the worn leather of the Chevy’s seats.

“God—eager, are you?” you teased.

“Shut up,” Bucky hissed as his flesh hand found the back of your hair, pinning you down so your cheek squished up against the leather.

His fingers hooked the waistband of your cotton panties, giving them a harsh tug and nearly ripping them.

With your face pressed into the seats, you couldn’t make out what he was doing from behind you—only the sounds coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck—look at you,” Bucky groaned, accompanied by the sounds of his jeans and belt being pushed down. “Dripping and completely bare—all just for me.”

Then, you heard the sounds of skin rubbing against skin.

The truck started to shake as deep, breathy little moans escaped Bucky’s mouth. Craning your head to peek at him, your eyes widened at what you saw.

Bucky was admiring the view from behind, his eyes completely glued to the curve of your ass and your wet, puffy cunt—clenching and begging for him. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his cool, vibranium hand spread your ass wide to get a better view, while the other was stroking his cock hard and fast.

Pre-cum already bubbled at the tip as breathy groans kept leaving his mouth. He was so big—so fucking big—and you weren’t sure he was even going to fit.

Trying to tilt your head to get a better look, Bucky’s hand immediately left his cock and went straight back to your head, pinning you in place against the seat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

You winced. “What? I can’t even look at you now?”

“You don’t get to make demands of me anymore,” he murmured roughly. He guided his cock up and down against your slit, coating himself and spreading his pre-cum everywhere. “Not when you’re bent over like this. Bent over like a dirty little slut.”

Your pussy immediately pulsed and twitched against Bucky’s tip. He probed and teased the entrance, pushing against the tight heat of your cunt to make you moan, but never quite slipping inside.

It was enough to drive you insane.

Despite everything, you wanted him to fill you right here—right in the truck in the middle of the road, where anyone could see you getting fucked by him.

You started to wiggle your hips, your entrance catching his tip and forcing a broken groan from his throat.

“Still all this talk and no action,” you taunted, wiggling your ass against him. “You just keep proving me more right every day. You’re all talk—”

A yelp broke from your lips as his palm connected with the bare curve of your ass. Your body arched, a sting blooming across your skin and making your toes curl.

“You just don’t know how to keep that mouth shut, do you?” Bucky growled, leaning over you until his breath was hot against your ear.

Without waiting for an answer, he brought his hand down again, forcing another yelp from you as the slap echoed in the small truck.

Your bottom—bare and vulnerable—began to throb with a pulsing heat. Bucky’s right hand smoothed over the warm skin, and he mockingly clicked his tongue when you bucked your hips back for more, seeking friction from his cock despite the pain.

“Christ,” Bucky groaned, his fingers swiping your sensitive slit. “Did you just get wetter?”

“Bucky…” you whined against the leather seat. “... p-please.”

Bucky froze behind you, his eyes widening slightly as the word hung in the air. Then, a devilish little grin tugged at his lips.

Please?

Did you just say ‘please’?

He continued to soothe your burning skin with his palm, his touch gentle and taunting. “Sorry, sweetheart. What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

You groaned, burying your face out of embarrassment. “You know what? Forget it—”

Another gasp escaped you as his hand came down hard against your bottom again, making your body jolt. Before you could pull away, both of his hands clamped down on your hips, dragging you back until you were pushed against him.

You could feel the ridge of his warm, throbbing cock resting right against the curve of your ass.

“Come on, baby. I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say ‘please.’ Say it again. I know you’ve got a voice.”

When you continued to remain stubbornly silent, he guided his cock toward your entrance, sinking just the tip in.

You arched your back, a needy sound catching in your throat. Bucky groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your tight hole. He wanted to grab your hips and slam you down on his cock—but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to make you beg for it.

“Fuck—come on, sweets. Just say please like a good girl,” he coaxed, his own voice breaking. “Come on, I want to hear you say it. Just one more time for me, baby. Say please once and I’ll give it to you good—I promise.”

Just once.

All he needed from you was a simple, breathy little ‘please’— a broken whimper he could hold onto.

He knew he couldn’t make you beg for much longer, mostly because he was just as greedy as you were. He was starving, and he wanted to fuck you right here, right now, until instead of begging him with a ‘please’ you’d be begging with a ‘stop’.

“P-please…”

The word finally broke from your lips—breathless and broken. It was exactly what he wanted to hear.

With his tip buried in your tight entrance, and you pulsing and wet around him, he needed to feel more. That breathy little ‘please’ was the perfect invitation.

“Good girl,” Bucky praised, his grip on your hips tightening as he began to sink into you—slowly, making sure you felt every agonizing inch. “Good fucking girl.”

Your mouth hung wide open, drool surely spilling out and onto the seats as Bucky stretched you wide until you felt completely filled. Your breath hitched, coming in short, panicked bursts.

“God, you’re so small,” Bucky groaned, leaning over you—his chest pressing hard against your back. “Tight enough to break me.”

Even with your lungs feeling squeezed and your head light from the stretch, you couldn’t help the small, muffled huff that left you. You turned your face to glance back at him with a dazed and defiant look.

“Maybe you’re just… hah… out of practice,” you managed to choke out, a weak smirk tugging at your lips. “Forgotten what a real woman feels like?”

Bucky’s eyes went dark, his brow twitching at your words. He didn’t give you the satisfaction of a laugh. His fingers dug into the leather on either side of your head and he began to pull out, agonizingly slow, only to slam back into you completely—filling you in one hard and ruthless thrust. A thrust hard enough to make the truck shake.

“Out of practice?” he hissed. He did it again, a short, hard thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “Since you’ve got such a big mouth, I’ll make sure to fuck that one next.”

Bucky grabbed your hips, his fingers pushing into your flesh and making you gasp as he began to rock his hips back and forth. He withdrew nearly all the way, leaving you cold and aching for a split second, before fucking all the way back into you.

The truck began to rock and creak, the worn leather squeaking beneath your sweaty palms as he fucked you into it.

He made sure you felt every ridge and throb of him, his tip aiming at your softest spots until your vision swam and blurred.

“Still.. got something.. to say?” he grunted between words, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt as he fucked you.

You couldn’t even form a syllable. Your eyes—rolled back—were disoriented as he used your body for his pleasure.

All the noises that filled the small space of the truck were filthy. The wet squelching of your pussy as Bucky’s cock pumped in and out of you. The breathy grunts and groans leaving Bucky’s lips. Your gasps and mewls whimpering in the air.

“I… hah—mph—B-bucky, I—”

“Look at you,” he huffed a deep, condescending laugh. “Can’t even talk now, can you? Just laying there and taking it. God—I’ve dreamed of this so many times, you know? You, pinned underneath me, finally putting this bratty pussy to work. When I fill you up, we’re not nearly done. I’m going to use your mouth next, I’ll make sure of it.”

Every filthy word that left Bucky’s lips only made you clench tighter around him, bringing you closer and closer.

“But fuck, your pussy is so tight—feel like I could be buried here all day,” Bucky groaned.

He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing with a pressure that sent sparks through your vision. He felt you flutter around him, tightening around his cock almost painfully so.

“Fuck—you gonna cum?” he asked roughly.

“M-mph—mhm—!” you moaned against the leather, nodding your head frantically. “M’gonna cum, Bucky!”

A deep, sexy vibration of a laugh rumbled in Bucky’s chest—and you couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your body shook against the leather as your walls clamped down on him with heavy pulses. A broken, high pitched keen left your throat as you felt yourself come undone all over him, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you while he savored your tightness.

Bucky clenched his teeth, hissing as your pussy—already tight as it was—became restrictive and completely unbearable for him.

But despite the tightness, he didn’t stop—not even for a second.

It was too good not to.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, baby—” Bucky gasped, his hips moving uncoordinated as his cock pulsed and throbbed. “Fuck, fuck, gonna cum… inside… gonna fill you up—!”

Bucky pushed his hips into yours, bottoming out until there wasn’t a breath of space left between you.

You felt his cock pulse inside you—and then you started to feel even fuller than you already were. His cum began to seep into your tight pussy, pumping into you until you overflowed, the excess dripping out and onto the seats.

He dropped his forehead against the back of your neck, his hot breath tickling your damp skin as he felt himself start to calm down, catching his breath.

His hands roamed over your hips, giving you a gentle rub before he pulled himself out of your abused pussy with a wet squelch. He sat back on the seat, chest heaving as he motioned for you to come closer.

“Come here, baby,” he cooed.

Bucky gently guided you toward his lap, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your sweaty forehead. Then, his vibranium hand found the back of your head, slowly—gently—guiding you down toward his cock, which was still half hard and coated in juices.

“I said I was going to use your mouth next, didn’t I?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered with a shaky laugh.

You were exhausted, your body still trembling from the way he had completely ruined you, yet here he was—demanding more. Bucky didn’t look bothered at all. He just flashed a lopsided, lazy grin.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded softly, his vibranium fingers curling gently into your hair, guiding you back toward his lap.

You rolled your eyes even as you sank down, your tongue slowly dragging up his spent cock. Your tongue danced around the tip—then beneath the head—making him shudder and groan.

He was sensitive, yet he still wanted more. You stretched your mouth open, taking him in as best as you could. He was already thickening back to fullness, responding instantly to the warmth of your throat.

As you bobbed your head lazily on his cock, Bucky tossed his head back against the leather seats with a moan, rutting his hips up gently—just barely—seeking more.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “God—that fucking mouth—”

But the sound of his phone ringing cut through the truck, silencing him instantly. Bucky stiffened, his breath hitching as he felt around the tangled leather seats. He grabbed his phone, glancing at the flip-phone screen with a low curse.

It was Sam.

He answered, pressing the phone to his ear while his other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking your cheek as you continued to work his cock.

“Hey man! I'm halfway there,” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Just hold on for about twenty more minutes, alright?”

Bucky’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock. His hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, and he had to clench his jaw to keep from crying out.

“Alright,” Bucky managed to grit out, his voice a strained, gravelly mess. “We’re here… waiting— fuck.”

He cut himself off with a sharp intake of breath as you took him deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as a warning. There was a moment of silence on the other line.

He was sure the connection had died or Sam might’ve hung up.

“Yo, Buck? You sound hurt,” Sam said, his voice rising with concern. “Y’all good? You two aren’t fighting, are you?”

Fighting was one way to put it.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Bucky huffed, growing impatient. “You said twenty minutes, right? Okay. We’ll wait for you. Bye.”

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it somewhere behind him, his attention snapping back to you. You fluttered your eyes to look up at him, your mouth still stuffed with his cock.

“You heard that, baby? You’ve got twenty minutes to make me cum again,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “Think that’s enough time for you?”

You popped his cock out of your mouth, wiping at the saliva that spilled onto your chin with a smug, little grin.

“Bet I can do it in two.”

“Oh, here you go again.”

i actually had a lot of fun writing this. now i want to book a trip to new orleans.

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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[sugartalkingwrites]

i think everyone should know that i hc jack abbot as loud ass moaner. that man is grunting, groaning and moaning at the highest decibel know to man, he doesn't give a fuck who knows or who can hear. his/your neighbors think it's cause he's approaching geriatric age, you think it's because he doesn't know how to control his volume level when he's already so vocal during sex. really it's because he can feel you clench harder around him the louder he gets.