Again
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 9, 956
Summary: The morning after Jack Abbot takes you home, you wake up in his bed, wearing his shirt, and realize that whatever happened between you did not disappear with the dark. Then he makes coffee. And breakfast, and things get worse.
Warnings: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, age gap, morning-after intimacy, protected sex, kitchen counter sex, oral sex/female receiving referenced in conversation, dirty talk, praise, light bossiness, jack being competent in a deeply unfair way, prosthetic leg mention, aftercare, coffee/breakfast as emotional warfare, reader realizing she wants more than a hookup, liv/robby side chaos, alcohol/wine mention, friends meddling, cliffhanger-ish ending.
Author’s Note: Thank you so much for all the love on forearms and trouble. I truly did not expect this to turn into a mini-series, but Jack made coffee, and Liv started meddling, so here we are. This part is morning-after softness, kitchen-counter consequences, and the deeply dangerous realization that maybe “again” does not just mean sex.
Xoxo, Del
| Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 |
You woke up alone in Jack Abbot’s bed.
Not abandoned alone. Not cold alone. Just alone enough for your brain to come online before your body did, which was unfortunate, because your body had several things to report.
Your thighs ached. Your lips felt tender. Your skin was warm beneath the black T-shirt you had fallen asleep in, and the first conscious breath you took smelled like him.
Clean cotton. Warm skin. Coffee.
You opened your eyes.
Morning light slipped through the edges of the curtains, soft and pale across the room. The sheets were tangled around your legs. Your jeans were on the floor. Your underwear was somewhere worse, probably. His shirt covered you to mid-thigh, soft from wear and still faintly warm from your body.
His room looked different in daylight. Less dangerous or more dangerous, you weren’t sure. The chair in the corner. The dresser. The low lamp. The prosthetic was no longer beside the bed, which meant Jack was already up.
Which meant you had stayed. You had slept in Jack Abbot’s bed. You were wearing his shirt. And your first coherent thought was not panic. It was whether coffee was a thing he offered before or after you were supposed to leave.
Fantastic.
You let your head fall back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. You were in so much trouble. You had known that last night, somewhere between his mouth and his hands and the devastating discovery that older men did, in fact, know exactly what they were doing.
But morning made it worse.
Morning meant it had not disappeared with the dark. Morning meant your body still remembered the exact shape of his hands. Morning meant Jack was somewhere in the house making coffee like a real person, and you were lying in his bed wondering if it would be insane to ask for another round before breakfast.
You closed your eyes. The answer was yes. Obviously. Deeply.
Then a cabinet closed somewhere down the hall. Your eyes opened again. You sat up slowly, because sitting up quickly seemed ambitious after the night you had had. The shirt slid down one shoulder. You caught the collar and pulled it back into place, which was ridiculous, because the man had seen you in significantly more compromising positions than this.
Still. Daylight had rules. Apparently.
You found your underwear near the bed, which felt like a personal victory, and pulled it on before standing. Your jeans were within reach. Your red top was absolutely not.
Your red top, if memory served, was somewhere by the front door.
Because Jack had taken it off you against the wall approximately twelve seconds after you entered his house. Your face went hot. You grabbed your jeans and stepped into them, but you left his shirt on.
For practicality.
Obviously.
Not because the fabric smelled like him. Not because the thought of walking into his kitchen wearing it made something low in your stomach curl. Not because you wanted to see his face when he saw you.
You were a liar, apparently.
Good to know.
You padded down the hallway barefoot, following the quiet sounds of movement from the kitchen. His house was different in the morning, too. Still quiet. Still solid. Still lived-in without being messy. A jacket thrown over the arm of a chair. Boots near the back door. A framed print on the wall you had not been able to notice properly the night before.
You wanted to look at all of it. You did not.
Because Jack was in the kitchen.
Shirtless. Gray sweatpants low on his hips. Hair sleep-mussed and sticking up slightly on one side. Prosthetic on. Coffee grounds in one hand. Mug waiting on the counter. Like a cruel little domestic hallucination your body had designed specifically to ruin you before nine in the morning.
You stopped in the doorway.
Jack looked up from the coffee maker. Then he stopped too. Not dramatically. Jack did not do dramatic. But his hand paused over the filter, and his eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer.
His shirt. Your bare feet. Your jeans.
His gaze returned to your face. “Morning,” Jack said.
Your mouth felt dry. “Morning,” you said.
Brilliant. Very smooth. Very normal.
Jack’s eyes dropped to the shirt again. Your fingers caught the hem before you could stop them. His jaw flexed. The coffee maker sat open beside him, completely forgotten.
“I was making coffee,” Jack said.
“I can see that,” you said.
His eyes moved over you again. Slowly this time.
“Got distracted,” Jack said.
Your pulse tripped. You looked at the mug waiting on the counter. Then at his chest. Then at his mouth.
“That seems to be going around,” you said.
Jack set the coffee grounds down. The sound was small. Ordinary. Your body reacted to it anyway.
“You sleep okay?” Jack asked.
“Eventually,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Eventually?”
“You told me I’d need it,” you said.
Jack looked at you for one quiet second. Then his gaze dropped to the shirt on your body again. You should have looked away. You did not. His hand moved toward the coffee maker like he was going to keep pretending this morning had any chance of being normal. Then you looked at his mouth. Jack’s hand stopped. His eyes darkened.
“Breakfast?” Jack asked.
Your gaze lifted. “Are you offering?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
Your chest warmed before you could stop it.
“You feed all your one-night stands?” you asked.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
Oh.
That was unfair. That was deeply unfair.
You looked down at the counter, suddenly too aware of the shirt on your body and the quiet house around you and the fact that he had said it like it was simple. Like the answer did not change the air in the kitchen.
“Just the ones who survive the headboard?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth curved. There he was.
“You barely survived the headboard,” Jack said.
Your breath caught on something dangerously close to a laugh. Jack’s face changed at the sound. Only for a second. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth again, and the warmth became something else. You should have stayed where you were. You did not. You crossed the kitchen slowly, stopping only when you were close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him. Jack turned toward you, one hand still near the coffee maker, the other hanging loose at his side.
His chest was right there. His mouth was right there. All of him was right there, sleep-mussed and shirtless and entirely too calm for someone who had altered the course of your brain chemistry less than twelve hours ago.
“You said coffee,” you reminded him.
“I did,” Jack said.
“You’re not making it,” you said.
“No,” Jack said.
Your pulse jumped. Jack stepped closer until the backs of your thighs met the counter. His hands settled at your waist, warm and familiar.
“Up,” Jack said.
The word went straight through you. You looked at him. “Coffee?”
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “After.”
Your hands found the counter behind you, and you lifted yourself up. Jack’s hands stayed steady at your hips, guiding but not hauling, keeping you balanced as you settled onto the cool surface. The counter made you gasp softly. Jack’s eyes flicked to yours.
“Cold?” Jack asked.
“A little,” you said.
His hands slid beneath the hem of his shirt. Your breath caught.
“Better?” Jack asked.
His palms were hot against your bare skin. You swallowed. “Not sure better is the word.”
His mouth curved, and then he kissed you.
Morning Jack kissed differently.
Not softer exactly. Just less staged by darkness. There was an open coffee maker beside you and sunlight coming through the blinds, and his mouth opening over yours like none of that mattered. Like he had woken up already wanting you and had only been waiting for you to walk into the room. Your hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the sleep-mussed hair at the base of his skull. Your other hand gripped his shoulder.
Jack felt both. His eyes darkened. Your fingers tightened in his hair. A rough sound left him. That was all the warning you got before he stepped fully between your knees and kissed you harder.
Your thighs parted around him.
His hands moved up your legs, over denim, then back to your waist, like he could not decide where he wanted to touch first and hated that there were still clothes in his way. Your fingers tugged lightly at the hair beneath your hand. Jack pulled back just enough to look at you.
“What?” Jack asked.
You looked down between you, at your half-buttoned jeans, at his hands already resting like they belonged there.
“Nothing,” you said.
“That’s not nothing,” Jack said.
Your mouth curved. “You said that last night.”
“You were lying last night too,” Jack said.
“Maybe,” you said.
Jack’s hand slid to the button of your jeans. The humor left your body immediately. His eyes stayed on yours. Still a question. Still Jack. You answered before he could ask.
“Yes,” you said.
His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”
The button opened. Then the zipper. Then Jack was working your jeans down your hips while you shifted on the counter, one hand still locked behind his neck, the other braced on his shoulder. His mouth stayed close to yours. His breathing changed when the denim slid lower. Your breathing did too.
His hands guided your hips just enough for him to draw your jeans down your legs, and by the time they hit the kitchen floor, your pulse was everywhere. Jack’s hands slid back up your bare legs. Warm. Certain. His thumbs brushed the edge of your underwear, and every word you had disappeared.
Jack looked up. The pause was small. Barely a pause at all. Still, you felt the question in it.
“Yes,” you said again, quieter this time.
His gaze held yours. Then his fingers hooked into the fabric and drew it down your legs. Not as slow as last night. Not as patient. Morning had made him rougher around the edges, and your body liked that too much. Apparently, your body liked everything about him. Terrible development.
Your underwear joined your jeans on the kitchen floor. Jack’s hands returned to your thighs, and his eyes moved over you in his shirt and nothing else. His shirt. His kitchen. His hands spreading your thighs wider as he stepped closer.
Your stomach flipped hard enough to be annoying. You reached for the hem of the shirt. Jack’s hand closed over yours immediately. Your breath caught. His eyes lifted to yours.
“Leave it on,” Jack said.
The words hit you low and hot. You nodded. His gaze sharpened. You remembered.
“Okay,” you said.
Something flickered across his face at that word. The same thing as last night. Still. Jack leaned in and kissed the inside of your knee. Then higher. Your fingers tightened at the back of his neck.
“Jack,” you said.
His mouth curved against your skin. “Yeah?”
The word vibrated into you. You hated him a little. You really did. Then he paused. His forehead dropped briefly to your thigh.
“Condom,” Jack said.
You blinked down at him. Then your mouth curved. “You keep those in the kitchen?”
Jack lifted his head and gave you a look. “No.”
“That seems like poor planning,” you said.
His hand squeezed your thigh. “Don’t move.”
Your mouth curved. “That sounded like a rule.”
His eyes moved over you, sitting on his kitchen counter in his shirt and nothing else.
“It was,” Jack said.
Then he turned and left the kitchen. You lasted maybe ten seconds. Maybe less. In your defense, he had left you on his counter, wearing his shirt, with your underwear somewhere on the floor and the smell of coffee still in the air.
There were only so many reasonable expectations a person could have.
Your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt and between your legs.
The first touch made your breath catch.
You were already warm. Already wet. Already aching. Already half-ruined by the sight of him shirtless in his kitchen and the memory of the way his mouth had felt the night before.
Your head tipped back against the cabinet. Your teeth caught your lower lip. You moved your fingers again, slow and light, just enough to take the edge off.
Or make it worse.
You were not sure there was a difference.
By the time Jack came back, foil packet between his fingers, your head was tipped back, and your breath was already uneven.
He stopped in the kitchen doorway. Completely. For one second, Jack did not move. Then his eyes dropped to your hand beneath his shirt. Your fingers stilled. Jack’s gaze lifted to your face. His jaw flexed.
“Fuck,” Jack said, voice rough. “You’re perfect.”
Heat rushed up your neck so fast it almost made you dizzy.
“That feels like an exaggeration,” you said.
Jack stepped into the kitchen. “No.”
Your breath caught. His eyes stayed on yours as he crossed the room, the foil packet still held between his fingers. “It doesn’t.”
Your hand started to move away. Jack’s eyes sharpened.
“No,” Jack said.
You froze.
He stopped between your knees. “Don’t stop.”
Your stomach flipped. “You told me not to move,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved, but there was nothing soft about it. “I changed my mind.”
Of course he had. Of course, that worked on you. Your fingers moved again, slower this time, and Jack watched like he had no intention of pretending he was unaffected. His jaw tightened. His breathing changed. The foil packet crinkled in his hand.
“Jack,” you said, suddenly shy in a way that made no sense after everything he had done to you the night before. His eyes lifted to yours.
“Yeah,” Jack said.
Your fingers faltered. Jack leaned in and kissed you. Not slow. Not careful. Hot and open and a little messy, like whatever restraint he had woken up with had lasted exactly as long as it took him to find you on his counter touching yourself in his shirt.
You made a sound against his mouth. Jack swallowed it and tore the foil packet open. That should not have been attractive. It was. Everything he did with his hands was starting to feel like a personal attack. His sweats and underwear went down only as far as they needed to, and the sight of that made your mouth go dry.
Jack noticed. His mouth brushed yours.
“Eyes up,” Jack said.
You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped again. Jack huffed a rough breath against your mouth.
“Or don’t,” Jack said.
That made it worse. All of it made it worse. He rolled the condom on with less patience than he had the night before. Still controlled. Still competent. But faster now. Rougher at the edges, his breath uneven, his body crowding yours against the counter like he had decided breakfast was officially someone else’s problem.
Your hand slipped from beneath the shirt and returned to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair again. Your other hand gripped his shoulder. Jack’s hand closed around your thigh and pulled you closer to the edge of the counter. Then he lined himself up. Your fingers tightened in his hair.
“This okay?” Jack asked, voice rough.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
His hand tightened. Then he pushed into you. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter was cool beneath you. Jack was hot everywhere else. It was not like last night.
Last night had been dark and deliberate, all patience and pressure, and Jack watching you like he had hours to learn every reaction. This was morning light and unfinished coffee, and his sweatpants shoved down just enough. This was his shirt bunched around your waist. This was Jack swearing under his breath as your body took him.
This was rougher. Sloppier. Less controlled.
Still careful, because Jack apparently could not stop being Jack, but not polished. Not slow. Not the kind of careful that looked like restraint. The kind that looked like one hand gripping your thigh and the other braced against the counter while he lost his mind.
“Fuck,” Jack said against your neck.
Your hand tightened at the back of his neck, fingers twisting in the sleep-mussed hair at the base of his skull. Your other hand clutched his shoulder. Jack groaned. Not quiet. Not controlled. A real, rough sound that told you exactly what it did to him when you held on like that.
His hand came to the back of your head because he wanted your mouth closer. Even like this. Even rough. Even wrecked. He still wanted your mouth near his. He still wanted your face where he could see it. You said his name, and his hips stuttered once. Then his mouth found yours again, messy and hot and badly aimed as he started to move.
A hard thrust made your breath break against his lips. Your legs tightened around him, and Jack’s grip shifted under your thigh, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your body and his.
The coffee grounds sat forgotten behind him. The empty mug waited on the counter. Morning kept happening around you like the two of you were not ruining each other in the kitchen. You tried to answer the kiss, but the angle caught deep enough to make your mouth fall open instead.
Jack noticed immediately.
His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, then lower, slipping between your bodies with the same brutal certainty he had brought to everything else.
Your whole body jolted. “Jack,” you gasped.
His mouth brushed your jaw.
“There,” Jack said, voice rough. “That’s what you needed.”
You hated that he knew. You loved that he knew. His fingers moved against you, firm and steady, matching the rougher rhythm of his hips until your grip at the back of his neck turned desperate.
Your nails pressed into his shoulder. Jack groaned. Actually groaned.
“Fuck,” Jack said against your mouth. “Do that again.”
You did not know if he meant your hand, your body, the sound you had made, or the way you clenched around him when his fingers circled just right. You did all of it anyway. Jack’s forehead dropped to yours. His breathing was uneven now, rough and hot against your mouth.
“That’s it,” Jack said. “Come on.”
Your voice broke. “You’re very bossy in the morning.”
His fingers pressed harder. Your whole body went tight. Jack’s mouth curved against yours.
“You like it,” Jack said.
Your breath caught. You hated that there was no point denying it. Not with his fingers moving like that. Not with his body pressed against yours. Not with your hand locked in his hair like you were trying to keep him exactly where he was.
“Yes,” you gasped.
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. “I know.”
His fingers moved again, and the rest of your answer disappeared. The pleasure built fast. Faster than you expected. Maybe because you were already wrecked from the night before. Maybe because he was shirtless and sleep-mussed and fucking you on his kitchen counter like breakfast could wait for all he cared. Maybe because one of his hands was between your legs and the other was gripping your hip, and his mouth was still close enough to steal every sound you made.
Maybe because it was Jack.
That was probably the problem.
Your thighs tightened around him. His hips stuttered once. Only once. Then his hand at your hip held you steady, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his fingers kept moving.
“Jack,” you said, and his name came out shaky.
“I know,” Jack said.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
Your body broke with his name still on your tongue.
You came clinging to him, one hand locked in his hair, the other digging into his shoulder as Jack kept moving through it, rough and steady and close enough that you felt the groan he made when you tightened around him.
He kissed you through the worst of it.
Or the best of it.
You were not sure there was a difference anymore.
Jack followed you over the edge not long after. Not with the same control as last night. Not with the same careful warning. His rhythm went rough, then uneven, his forehead pressed to yours and his breath breaking hot against your mouth.
“Fuck,” Jack said, voice low and wrecked.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
That seemed to do it. His hand gripped your hip, and his whole body went tense as he came with a groan he did not even try to hide, mouth open against yours, one last hard thrust making your breath catch all over again.
For a second, neither of you moved. The coffee maker sat open beside him. The mug on the counter was still empty. Morning light kept spilling across the kitchen like nothing had happened. Jack’s forehead stayed against yours. His breathing was rough. Yours was worse. Your hand loosened in his hair, then smoothed over the spot you had been gripping.
Jack huffed a breath against your mouth. “You okay?”
You opened your eyes.
He was close enough that you could see the sleep still caught at the edges of him, the warmth in his expression, the way his hair was even worse now because of your hands.
“I’m okay,” you said.
His thumb moved once at your hip. “Sure?”
You nodded. “I’m sure,” you said.
He studied you for one more second. Then his mouth touched yours as he slowly pulled out of you. Soft this time. Brief. A kiss that felt like punctuation.
“Coffee now?” you asked.
Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “Now coffee.”
He helped you down carefully, his hands steady at your waist when your legs proved slightly less trustworthy than you would have preferred. You pointed at him.
“Don’t,” you said.
Jack’s brows lifted. “Didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Still observant.”
“You are very annoying before breakfast,” you said.
“I haven’t made breakfast yet,” Jack said.
“Exactly,” you said.
Jack dealt with the condom, then pulled his sweats and underwear back into place like he had not just fucked you on his kitchen counter in broad daylight. Like his hair was not a disaster. Like his mouth was not swollen. Like you were not sitting there in his shirt, trying to remember your own name.
Then he washed his hands.
Of course he did. Practical. Calm. Infuriating.
You watched him move around his own kitchen with quiet competence, rinsing his hands, drying them on a towel, and returning to the coffee maker like this was a normal interruption to his morning. Like he had simply paused breakfast to ruin you. Like that was a reasonable thing to do.
Jack measured the coffee grounds again. You stared at him. He glanced over.
“What?” Jack asked.
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His mouth curved faintly. “That’s still not nothing,” Jack said.
You looked at the open coffee maker. Then at his sleep-mussed hair. Then, at the hand he had just used to press between your bodies, now calmly reaching for the carafe.
“You’re just making coffee,” you said.
Jack poured water into the reservoir. “I said I would.”
You shook your head. “You say that like you didn’t just—”
Jack looked at you. Your mouth closed. His brow lifted. You pointed toward the coffee maker.
“Continue,” you said.
His mouth curved. Then he did. A few minutes later, he set a mug in front of you.
“How do you take it?” Jack asked.
You blinked at him. Jack’s eyes warmed. You told him how you took it. He listened. He made it right. That was worse. Breakfast came after. Simple. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. No performance. No grand gesture. Just food you absolutely needed and a man who seemed to have decided that taking care of you was the obvious next step after taking you apart.
You tried not to make too much of that. You failed privately. Eventually, your phone buzzed on the counter. Liv. Obviously.
Liv: ARE YOU ALIVE????
You stared at the message. Jack glanced over. “Liv?” Jack asked.
You looked up. “How did you know?” you asked.
“She seems like the all-caps type,” Jack said.
“She is,” you said.
Another message appeared.
Liv: DID YOU FUCK FOREARMS??? I NEED TO KNOW BC I HAVE QUESTIONS, AND ALSO BROWN EYES IS STILL HERE!!!
You snatched the phone closer. Jack’s brows lifted. Your face went hot.
His mouth curved. “Forearms?”
You closed your eyes. “I hate her.”
“Noted,” Jack said.
You opened one eye. “Please forget you saw that,” you said.
“No,” Jack said.
“Jack,” you said.
“Still accurate,” Jack said.
You threw a piece of toast at him. He caught it. Of course he did. You looked down at your phone before your face could get any warmer.
You: Yes. I’m at his place.
You: Wait.
You: BROWN EYES IS STILL THERE????
Liv: DO NOT DEFLECT.
You: I answered your question. Now answer mine.
Liv: Yes.
You: Liv.
Liv: What?
You: So he slept over?
Liv: Define slept.
You: OH MY GOD.
Liv: Don’t act scandalized, Miss I’m At His Place.
You: He made breakfast.
Liv: HE MADE BREAKFAST????
You: Technically coffee first.
Liv: I need you to understand that none of this is helping me be normal.
You: You have Brown Eyes in your apartment, and you’re worried about normal?
Liv: He is currently shirtless in my kitchen, drinking orange juice from a wine glass.
You: I need details.
Liv: I need details.
You: Come over later and we’ll talk.
Liv: DETAILS details?
You: I said what I said.
Liv: I’m bringing wine. And possibly a whiteboard.
You: No whiteboard.
Liv: Fine. Wine.
You: It’s morning.
Liv: I said later. I’m a professional.
You locked your phone and set it facedown on the counter. Jack was watching you. Not nosy exactly. Just observant in the most inconvenient way.
“What?” you asked.
His mouth barely moved. “Whiteboard?”
You stared at him. “You read fast.”
“Occupational hazard,” Jack said.
Your eyes narrowed. “You were not supposed to see that.”
“You held it in front of me,” Jack said.
“I was under emotional distress,” you replied.
Jack’s eyes warmed. “From breakfast?”
You narrowed your eyes further. “From you.”
That landed.
His expression shifted, just enough that your stomach dipped, and for one second the kitchen went quiet in a way that felt too honest for how little sleep you had gotten.
Then Jack reached for his coffee like he needed something to do with his hands.
“Drink,” Jack said.
You looked at him over the rim of your mug. “Bossy.”
“Observant,” Jack said.
You held his gaze for one more second before you lifted the mug to your mouth, mostly because he was right and partly because arguing with him felt dangerous when you were still sitting in his kitchen wearing his shirt.
The coffee was good. Of course it was. You hated that a little too. Breakfast lingered after that. Not long enough to make it awkward. Long enough to make it worse.
Jack leaned against the opposite counter with his own mug while you ate, shirtless and sleep-mussed and entirely too comfortable in the middle of the morning he had just ruined. You tried not to watch him. He tried not to look like he knew you were trying.
Neither of you did a very good job. For a while, it was easy. Too easy. There was coffee. Toast. The quiet scrape of your fork against the plate. Jack’s hand reaching for his mug. Your bare foot tucked against the rung of the stool. His shirt still loose around your thighs.
It should have felt strange. It did not. That was the problem.
Eventually, the world outside Jack’s kitchen remembered it existed. Your phone buzzed again. A calendar alert this time. Then another message. Then the small, stupid list of things you had been supposed to do today came back all at once: errands, laundry, a shower in your own bathroom, clothes that were not currently on Jack’s kitchen floor or abandoned beside his front door.
You looked at the time and made a quiet sound under your breath.
Jack glanced over. “What?”
“I have to go,” you said.
The words came out softer than you meant them to. Jack’s face did not change much. Still, you saw him hear it.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You looked at him. “Okay?”
His thumb moved once along the side of his mug. “You have things to do.”
You nodded. “I do.”
Jack nodded. “Then you should do them.”
You should have been relieved by how easy he made it. Instead, your chest felt weird. You slid off the stool and reached for your plate, but Jack took it from your hand before you made it two steps.
“I can get it,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
He turned toward the sink anyway. You stood there for a second, ridiculous and barefoot and too aware of the shirt still hanging loose around your thighs.
“You’re kind of annoying,” you muttered.
Jack rinsed your plate. “I’ve heard that.”
You smiled despite yourself. He set the plate in the sink, dried his hands, and turned back to you. The air shifted again. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just aware. You were still wearing his shirt. Your red top was still by the front door.
And unfortunately, you both still had to live in the world outside Jack’s kitchen. You found your red top exactly where you had expected it, abandoned near the front door like evidence, and changed back into your clothes with Jack leaning against the wall nearby, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You don’t have to look smug about it,” you said.
“I’m not,” Jack said.
“You are,” you said.
“Maybe a little,” Jack said.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
Jack walked you to the door. Daylight made the threshold feel different. Last night, he had guided you inside with his hand at your back and every unspoken thing between you pressing against your ribs.
Now, he stood in front of you, barefoot and sleep-mussed, one hand braced on the doorframe, looking at you as if he were trying to decide how much he was allowed to want before you left. Then he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulled out his phone. He held it out to you.
“Number,” Jack said.
You looked at the phone. Then at him. “That was not a question.”
“No,” Jack said.
Your stomach dipped. You took the phone from him, fighting a smile as you typed in your number.
“Bossy even with contact information,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Observant.”
You saved the contact before you could overthink it. Trouble.
Then you handed the phone back. Jack looked at the screen. For one second, he went very still. Then his eyes lifted to yours.
“Trouble?” Jack asked.
You shrugged, trying very hard to look casual. “You kept calling me that.”
His mouth curved slowly. “So you do listen.”
You shrugged. “When it benefits me.”
Jack’s thumb moved across the screen. Your phone buzzed in your back pocket a second later. You pulled it out.
Unknown number: Jack.
You looked up at him. “You texted me your own name?”
“You have my number now,” Jack said.
You shook your head. “I also have eyes. I watched you type.”
His mouth barely moved. “Still worked.”
You saved the contact before you could overthink it. Forearms.
Jack looked at your screen. Your face went hot. “You were not supposed to see that.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You saved me as Forearms?”
“It’s accurate,” you replied.
Jack stepped closer. “Trouble.”
You swallowed. “Forearms.”
His hand came to your waist, warm and certain, and he pulled you close enough for one more kiss. It was not like the kitchen. Not like the bedroom. Not like the truck.
This one was slower.
Quieter.
A little too much like something you might want again for reasons that had nothing to do with sex. That was dangerous. You kissed him anyway.
When you pulled back, Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I’ll drive you,” he said.
Your chest warmed. Of course he would.
“I can get an Uber,” you said.
“I know you can,” Jack replied.
Your brows rose. “But?”
Jack’s thumb moved once at your waist. “But I drove you here.”
You looked at him for a second too long. That should not have done anything to you. It did.
“You also made me breakfast,” you said.
“That doesn’t cancel out transportation,” Jack said.
Your mouth curved. “Is that official policy?”
Jack nodded once. “Yes.”
“ER attending policy?” you asked.
Jack gave you a look. “General decency.”
That landed harder than it should have. You glanced past him toward the house, toward the kitchen, toward the morning you had already let get too soft around the edges. If he drove you home, he would walk you to your door. If he walked you to your door, you would kiss him again. If you kissed him again, there was a nonzero chance you would invite him in. And if you invited him in, you were never getting your laundry done.
“I should Uber,” you said.
Jack watched you. Not offended. Not confused. Just watching closely enough that you knew he understood more than you had said.
“Okay,” Jack said.
You blinked. “Okay?”
His hand slipped from your waist. “You want an Uber, get an Uber.”
Your chest did that weird thing again. Relief and disappointment, both at once. Very annoying. You opened the app before you could change your mind. The ride was four minutes away.
Jack glanced at the screen. “Send me the details.”
You looked up. “Jack.”
His expression did not move. “Humor me,” he said.
That was somehow worse than if he had made it sound like an order. You sent him the ride information. His phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down, checked it, then nodded once.
“Thank you,” Jack said.
You hated how much that worked on you.
“You’re very intense for a man in sweatpants,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Wait until I put shoes on.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself. Jack’s eyes warmed. The Uber pulled up before you could do something stupid with that look. Jack’s gaze moved to the car first. Then back to you.
“Text me when you get home,” he said.
You smiled. “You know, most people just say goodbye.”
“Text me when you’re home,” Jack said.
You stepped off the porch before you could stay another hour. Or another day. Jack stayed there while you got into the car. Of course he did. You felt him watching as you closed the door and buckled your seatbelt. You did not look back until the car started pulling away.
Mistake.
He was still there. Shirtless. Sweatpants. One shoulder against the doorframe. Hair ruined. Mouth curved faintly, as if he knew exactly what seeing him like that would do to you. You sank back against the seat before your dignity could suffer further.
You made it three blocks before your phone buzzed.
Forearms: Let me know when you’re home.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
You: I will.
A few seconds passed. Then another message appeared.
Forearms: And I want to see you again.
Your breath caught. That was unfair. That was so much worse than anything clever he could have said. Because it was direct. Because it was simple. Because it sounded exactly like him. You stared at the screen until your phone started to dim in your hand. Then you typed back.
You: Again?
His answer came almost immediately.
Forearms: Again.
You managed to grocery shop. You managed to do laundry. You managed to clean your apartment. You managed to do all of it without thinking about Jack.
Mostly. Partially. Not at all, actually.
You thought about him in the produce section when you reached for apples and remembered his hand closing around yours over the hem of his shirt. You thought about him while folding towels, which felt deeply unfair, because towels were not supposed to be erotic. You thought about him when you wiped down the kitchen counter and had to stop for a full ten seconds, staring at the clean surface as if it had personally wronged you.
By the time evening came, your apartment was clean, your laundry was folded, your groceries were put away, and your dignity remained questionable. You were setting two wine glasses on the coffee table when a knock came at the door.
Right on time.
Of course, Liv would be right on time for this.
Liv stood in the hallway with two bottles of wine, a bag of chips, and the expression of a woman who had a lot to say and no intention of being normal about it. She looked at you. You looked at the wine. Then Liv looked past you toward the coffee table, where the glasses were already waiting.
Her mouth curved. “Prepared.”
“You texted me in all caps before noon,” you said. “I adapted.”
Liv lifted the bottles. “I brought supplies.”
You stepped aside. “Come in.”
Liv walked past you and kicked off her shoes by the door, already looking around like she expected evidence to be sitting out in the open.
You closed the door behind her. “What are you looking for?”
“Damage,” Liv said, heading for the couch.
You followed her. “To what?”
Liv dropped the chips onto the coffee table beside the waiting glasses. “You. The apartment. Your morals.”
“My morals are fine,” you said.
Liv looked back at you. You looked back at her.
Then you sighed. “Mostly.”
“That’s what I thought,” Liv said.
She sat down like she had earned it, tucking one leg underneath her while she set both wine bottles on the coffee table. You took the opposite end of the couch and pulled one of the glasses closer. Liv picked up one bottle and twisted it open.
You watched her pour. “You look very pleased with yourself.”
“I had a good night,” Liv said.
Your eyebrows lifted. Liv handed you a glass.
You accepted it. “Brown Eyes slept over.”
Liv sat back with her own wine and took a sip before answering. “Yes.”
You held her gaze for a second. She held yours right back.
Then your mouth curved. “Good night?”
Liv tried to look casual. She failed.
“Oh,” you said.
Liv took another sip.
Your smile widened. “Oh.”
“Don’t,” Liv said, but there was no heat in it.
You lifted your glass. “I’m not judging.”
“You’re making a face,” Liv said.
“I am making an interested face,” you said.
Liv looked at you over her glass.
You settled deeper into the couch. “Continue.”
Liv was quiet for a second, just long enough to make you lean in without meaning to.
“Against the wall first,” Liv said.
Your eyebrows went up. Liv nodded once, like yes, exactly.
You took a slow sip of wine. “Okay.”
“We didn’t make it very far,” Liv said.
You nodded once. “I gathered.”
“Then the couch,” Liv said.
You looked at her over your glass. “The couch?”
Liv’s mouth twitched. “For a minute.”
You waited.
Liv dragged her thumb along her glass. “Then he got on his knees.”
Your eyes widened. Liv looked up at you. For one second, neither of you said anything. Then your gaze dropped briefly toward her bare thighs before you could stop yourself.
“Oh,” you said.
Liv’s smile turned private. “Yeah.”
You sat back slowly. “Was it good?”
Liv took another sip of wine. “I have beard burn.”
Your mouth opened.
Liv added, “Worth it.”
You nodded once, accepting that with the seriousness it deserved. “Good.”
Liv quirked a brow. “Good?”
You shrugged. “I’m happy for you.”
Her expression warmed.
“And a little impressed,” you added.
Liv laughed, softer this time, and leaned back into the couch. “Then the bedroom.”
You lifted your brows. “Naturally.”
Liv nodded. “And then we slept for a few hours.”
“That part almost sounds normal,” you said.
Liv looked down at her glass. You caught the shift immediately.
The humor faded from your face. “What?”
Liv shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing.”
“Liv,” you said.
“He had to work in the morning,” Liv said.
You waited.
“So we showered,” Liv said.
Your mouth curved, but you kept it gentle. “And?”
Liv looked up at you. You already knew. She smiled.
You shook your head, fond and unsurprised. “Of course.”
“It started as a shower,” Liv said.
You lifted your glass. “I believe you.”
Liv gave you a look. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” you said, taking a sip. “But I support you.”
Liv smiled again, but this time it did not fully cover the quieter thing underneath it.
You watched her for a second. “He wasn’t weird after?”
Liv shook her head. That seemed to matter.
“He had to leave,” Liv said. “But he didn’t make it feel like he was running.”
Your chest went a little tight. Liv looked down at her wine again, thumb moving over the side of the glass.
“He asked if I wanted coffee,” Liv said. “I didn’t have any, so he found orange juice.”
You smiled faintly. “The wine glass.”
“The wine glass,” Liv said, and her smile went soft in a way that told you more than the story did.
You sat with that for a second.
Then Liv glanced at you. “What?”
You looked down at your own glass. Jack’s kitchen came back too easily. The coffee maker on the counter. His hand measuring the grounds. His voice asking how you took it. The plate he took from your hand, even after you said you could get it. His phone held out to you.
Number.
Then the porch. The Uber. His text.
Again.
Your stomach flipped.
“Oh, shit,” you said quietly.
Liv shifted toward you. “What?”
You stared into your wine as if it might save you.
“I think I like Jack,” you said.
Liv’s face softened. You pointed at her immediately. “Don’t.”
Liv held up one hand. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” you said.
Liv shook her head. “I was not.”
You frowned. “You looked gentle.”
“I’m allowed to look gentle,” Liv replied.
“It’s unsettling,” you said.
Liv smiled, but she let you have the deflection. You looked down at your phone on the coffee table.
“I mean…” you said, then stopped.
Liv waited.
“The sex was amazing,” you said.
Liv’s eyebrows lifted.
You looked at her. “Like, really amazing.”
Liv nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“And I definitely want that again,” you said.
Liv’s mouth curved faintly, but she did not interrupt.
You swallowed, staring at the dark screen of your phone. “But I think I want to see him again besides that.”
Liv’s expression softened.
You looked back at her. “Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Liv said. “It makes sense.”
You let out a quiet breath. “I think I want him to take me on a date.”
The room went quiet for a second. Not awkward. Just honest. Liv reached over and tapped her glass lightly against yours.
“Okay,” Liv said.
You looked at her. “Okay?”
Liv nodded. “Okay. Then maybe let him.”
You leaned your head back against the couch and closed your eyes. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
Liv settled beside you. “Probably.”
You laughed.
She smiled into her wine. “But so was getting in his truck.”
You opened one eye and looked at her.
Liv lifted her glass. “And look how that turned out.”
You groaned, but you were smiling when you did it.
The two of you stayed like that for a while, tucked into opposite ends of the couch with wine between you and the chips open on the coffee table. Liv eventually told you about the movie Robby had asked her to, insisting three separate times that it was not a date. You let her have the first two. By the third, you only looked at her.
Liv pointed at you, but her smile gave her away. “Don’t.”
You held her gaze over the rim of your glass. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it,” Liv said.
You shrugged, still smiling. “I’m allowed to think.”
“Not that loudly,” Liv said.
You laughed, and Liv laughed too, and for a little while, it felt easy. Almost normal. Except your phone was still on the coffee table. Except Jack’s number was still in it. Except every few minutes, your eyes drifted toward the screen like it might light up if you wanted it badly enough.
Liv noticed.
She reached for a chip. “You could text him.”
You looked back at her too quickly. “I know.”
Liv chewed, watching you. “So?”
“So nothing,” you said.
Liv’s brows lifted.
You took another sip of wine. “He said he wanted to see me again.”
“And you want to see him again,” Liv said.
“Yes,” you said.
Liv waited.
You looked down at your glass. “I don’t want to seem too eager.”
Liv stared at you.
You lifted your eyes. “What?”
“Babe,” Liv said, gentle and devastating. “You saved him in your phone as Forearms.”
You closed your eyes. “That was a choice made under duress.”
“It was a choice made with your thumbs,” Liv said.
You opened your eyes and pointed at her. “You are not helping.”
“I am helping,” Liv said. “You’re just not enjoying it.”
You looked at your phone again. The screen stayed dark.
Liv’s voice softened. “Let him want you.”
Your throat tightened a little. You glanced at her.
Liv shrugged one shoulder, but her expression stayed warm. “He said he wants to see you again. You don’t have to solve the whole thing tonight.”
You let that sit. Then you nodded once. “Okay.”
Liv smiled faintly. “Okay.”
You reached for a chip instead of your phone. It was not maturity.
But it was something.
Three days later, Jack still had not taken you on a date.
To be fair, Jack had also barely slept. At least, that was what you had gathered from the handful of texts he had sent between shifts. They were short, direct, and unfairly effective for a man who apparently did not believe in emojis.
Forearms: Still want that again.
You had stared at that one for a full minute before answering.
You: That sounds threatening.
His reply had come twenty minutes later.
Forearms: It was a promise.
That had been Monday.
Tuesday, he had texted you at 6:14 a.m.
Forearms: Home?
You had blinked at your phone from bed, still half-asleep.
You: Are you checking my location before 7 in the morning?
Forearms: Checking if you slept.
You: Did you?
The answer had not come for almost an hour.
Forearms: I will eventually.
You had smiled into your pillow like an idiot.
So, no. Jack had not taken you on a date yet.
But he had texted you.
Enough.
Not constantly. Not in a way that made it easy to pretend he was casual about it. Just enough that every time your phone lit up, your body reacted before your brain had a chance to be normal.
Which was unfortunate, because your brain was already having a difficult week.
Liv was not helping. Liv had gone to the movie with Robby on Tuesday night. A movie. Not a date. She had said that at least seven times, which was how you knew it was absolutely a date.
By Friday, you had stopped arguing with her and started letting her lie to herself in peace.
Mostly.
That was how you ended up across from her in a booth at a bar that served appetizers until midnight, watching her insist that sending Robby a picture while he was finishing a shift was “normal flirting” and absolutely not evidence of anything serious.
You stared at her over the rim of your glass. “You sent him a picture at work?”
Liv pointed a fry at you. “After work.”
Your brows lifted. “You said he was still on shift.”
“He had twenty minutes left,” Liv said.
You lowered your glass. “Olivia.”
Liv widened her eyes. “What? I was being supportive.”
“You sent a man a picture of your bra while he was responsible for an emergency department,” you said.
Liv’s mouth twitched. “It was a good bra.”
“That is not a defense,” you said.
“It was supportive,” Liv said again.
You leaned back against the booth, already smiling. “What did he say?”
Liv took a sip of her drink.
Your eyes narrowed. “Liv.”
Liv set her glass down. “He sent a skull emoji.”
You blinked. Then you laughed.
Liv’s smile broke loose. “Right?”
“A skull emoji?” you asked.
“One skull emoji,” Liv said. “No words.”
You laughed harder, covering your mouth with your hand. “That is so much better than words.”
“It was devastating,” Liv said, looking painfully pleased with herself.
You wiped beneath one eye with your thumb. “And then what?”
Liv looked down at her drink.
Your smile widened. “Olivia.”
“He showed up at my apartment after his shift,” Liv said.
You stared at her.
Liv lifted one shoulder. “Briefly.”
You sat back slowly. “Briefly?”
Liv took a careful sip.
You shook your head, still smiling. “You are so full of shit.”
Liv smiled into her glass. “It was not a date.”
“You sent him a bra picture, he sent a death emoji, and then drove to your apartment after a shift,” you said.
Liv picked up another fry. “Exactly. A normal sequence of events.”
You looked at her across the table. “You’re dating.”
Liv pointed the fry at you. “We are not calling it that.”
“You’re doing it,” you said.
Liv’s eyes narrowed. “We are not calling it that.”
You held up one hand. “Fine.”
Liv looked suspicious. “Fine?”
You took a sip of your drink. “I can respect a technicality.”
Liv relaxed.
You added, “For now.”
Liv rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
The door opened behind you.
Liv looked up. Just once. Barely. Her eyes flicked over your shoulder, and something in her face changed for half a second before she smoothed it out. You noticed because you knew her.
“What?” you asked.
Liv blinked at you. “Nothing.”
You lowered your glass. “That was not nothing.”
“It was the door,” Liv said.
“You got weird about a door?” you asked.
Liv reached for another fry. “Maybe I’m passionate about entrances.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re being strange.”
“I’m always strange,” Liv said.
“That is not a defense,” you said.
Across the room, two men moved toward the bar.
You still did not turn around. Liv’s gaze flicked past you again. This time, her mouth twitched. Suspicion started to crawl up your spine.
Before you could ask, a voice behind you said, “Fancy seeing you here.”
You went still. Liv looked up with the worst fake surprise you had ever seen in your life.
“Brown Eyes,” Liv said, smiling slowly. “Wow. What are the odds?”
Oh. Oh, no.
You turned in your seat.
Robby stood beside the table with a drink in his hand and absolutely no believable innocence anywhere on his face.
Then Jack stepped into view behind him.
Your breath left your body in one quiet, inconvenient rush.
Jack’s eyes found yours.
For one second, the rest of the bar fell back.
His mouth curved faintly.
“Trouble,” Jack said.
Your stomach dipped.
You lifted your glass because your hand needed something to do, and you held his gaze.
“Forearms,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved a little more.
You turned slowly back toward Liv. Liv was suddenly very interested in her drink.
You lowered your glass. “Liv.”
Liv blinked at you. “What?”
Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“I ordered fries,” Liv said.
“Liv,” you said.
Robby took a slow sip of his drink.
Jack’s gaze shifted from you to Liv, then to Robby.
His jaw moved once. “You knew.”
Robby lifted one hand. “I knew there would be appetizers.”
Liv pointed at him with her drink. “Technically true.”
You stared at her. “You told him we’d be here.”
Liv finally looked at you with wide eyes and absolutely no shame. “He asked what I was doing tonight.”
“And you said?” you asked.
Liv lifted one shoulder. “That I was getting drinks with you.”
You stared at her.
Liv took another sip. “And appetizers.”
“You were strategic,” you said.
Liv smiled. “I can be both.”
Jack looked at Robby. “You dragged me here.”
Robby slid into the booth beside Liv like he belonged there. “You needed to get out.”
“I was working twelve hours ago,” Jack said.
Robby lifted his drink. “You’re welcome.”
Jack stared at him.
Robby took another sip like that settled it.
Jack looked at you then, and the irritation in his expression shifted into something quieter. Something warmer. Something that made your fingers tighten around your glass.
“You didn’t know?” you asked.
Jack’s answer came immediately. “No.”
The quickness of it did something stupid to your chest.
Liv noticed and her mouth curved.
You looked at her. “Don’t.”
Liv widened her eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it,” you said.
Liv smiled into her drink. “I’m allowed to think.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved, like he was trying not to enjoy that.
Then he slid into the booth beside you. Not too close. Close enough. His thigh brushed yours under the table. Barely. Probably by accident.
Your fingers tightened around your glass anyway.
Jack noticed.
Across from you, Robby settled beside Liv with his drink in one hand and the pleased expression of a man who had absolutely known there would be consequences.
Liv leaned back in the booth, smiling like she had personally arranged every one of them.
And you sat there with Jack Abbot’s knee brushing yours under the table, his shoulder close enough to feel, and the sudden, terrible realization that Liv’s ambush had worked perfectly.
You wanted to see him again.
And now he was sitting right beside you.
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