Chapter Three: Lemon Drops
You thought it was going to be just another shift behind the bar—until you noticed how good Dr. Dennis Whitaker looked in his scrubs. Months later, a messy breakup leaves you reeling, heart still tangled in everything he didn’t say. Then you find comfort in the last place you expected—one of his attendings, Dr. Jack Abbot.
CW: Dennis Whitaker x Reader, Jack Abbot x Reader, Bartender! Reader, Love Triangle, Angst with a Happy Ending, Second Chance Romance, Pining / Regret, Mutual Attraction, Breakup, Miscommunication, Jealousy, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Reader Has Needs And Stands On Business, smut, MNDI, BYE GO AWAY, slow burn, I love old men, Why can’t a girl be selfish and have em’ both, never let a man make you a second priority, non canon, idk how the medical field operates, AU where the doctors can actually do things
Next Part
The air outside was colder than you expected, the kind of cold that didn’t just touch your skin but went straight through you, clean and sharp, like it was trying to reset your whole nervous system. It hit the second the door shut behind you, slicing through the heat still clinging to you from the bar, from the room, from the event’s perfume and sweat and champagne breath, from him.
You didn’t go far. Just a few steps down the sidewalk, out of the line of sight of the entrance, heels clicking softly against the pavement until you stopped and let yourself exhale like you’d been holding your breath for hours.
Slow. Deep. Like it would fix something. Your chest still felt tight anyway, like a band pulled too far and left there, waiting for the snap. You tipped your head back and stared up at the narrow stretch of sky between buildings, black and indifferent, a strip of night framed by brick and glass. The noise from inside dulled into something distant. Muffled laughter. A bassline you could feel more than hear.
The low hum of a night that was still happening whether you wanted to be part of it or not, whether you were inside serving it or outside trying to remember how to breathe around it.
God. What were you even doing. You pressed your lips together, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the leftover makeup, the heat in your cheeks, the sting behind your eyes that you refused to acknowledge.
You could go back inside. Clock back in. Finish your shift. Do what you were supposed to do. Pretend you hadn’t just seen him for the first time in months and felt every unresolved thing in your body slam back into place like it had been crouched there waiting, patient and cruel. Pretend you didn’t care. Pretend you weren’t furious that the sight of his face still did something to you.
You let out a short, humorless breath. Yeah fucking right.
Your hand slipped into your apron, fingers brushing against something smooth and stiff. Cardstock. You froze for half a second like the universe had reached into your pocket and handed you a choice. You pulled it out and stared at it under the streetlight. Dr. Jack Abbot. Clean. Simple. No nonsense. Just a name and a number, black ink and confidence, like he’d never once had to second-guess what he wanted.
Your thumb ran over the edge of the card once, then you unlocked your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.
Already getting boring without you here.
You hit send and your stomach flipped immediately after, heat crawling up your throat. Too much. Too forward. Too desperate. Too reckless. Too, too, too. Your phone buzzed before the thought could finish, like he’d been waiting with his hand already on the trigger.
JA: That didn’t take long.
A small breath slipped out of you, something almost like a laugh, something almost like a smile.
Hard to replace good-looking and cynicism
you typed back, and it wasn’t even a lie.
Another buzz came right away.
JA: What about Santos? Thought you were catching up.
Your thumb hovered for half a second, your eyes flicking back toward the doors like you might see her standing there, arms crossed, reading you like a warning label.
We’re not that close anymore.
The lie sat weird in your chest the second you sent it, not entirely untrue and not entirely true either, you haven’t seen or spoken to her much since the breakup.
Three dots. Then:
JA: Sorry to hear that.
Then another message.
JA: What time are you off?
You stared at it, and your body betrayed you by reacting. A flutter low in your stomach. A spark of adrenaline. The dangerous relief of being wanted by someone. You glanced back toward the door. Toward the fundraiser. Toward everything waiting on the other side of it. Dennis. Santos.
JA: Night’s still young,
Jack added leaving the door open and letting you decide if you wanted to step through it.
You should go back inside. Clock back in. Finish your shift like you were supposed to. Be responsible. Be professional. Be the girl who always swallowed her feelings with a smile and made it work and made it easier and made it less messy for everyone else.
Your jaw tightened so hard you felt it in your teeth. God, you were so tired of being the one who stayed. Who waited. Who understood. Who adjusted. Who made room for everyone else’s needs like yours were optional.
Your thumb moved before your brain could catch up.
I’m off now.
You stared at it sitting there, the kind of text that could change the entire night, the kind of text you could never take back. Then you hit send. Your heart kicked hard enough you felt it in your throat, and your stomach flipped like you were stepping off something high.
Jack’s reply came almost instantly.
JA: There’s a place a few blocks over. Quiet. No rich assholes. You in?
You laughed softly under your breath, the sound small and private, like you didn’t trust the world with it. You stared at his text again, then at the entrance again, and for a second you let yourself imagine the other version of the night. The one where you went back in. The one where you let Dennis pull you aside, let him say whatever he’d been swallowing, let yourself say what you’d been swallowing. The conversation you’d been avoiding for months like it was a live wire.
And then the question came, sharp and simple, cutting through the fantasy: what would change? He still wouldn’t show up. He still wouldn’t fight. Hell, he wasn’t even fighting for you now, just standing at an empty bar with a lukewarm beer and a face that looked like regret wore it down to the bone.
Your phone buzzed again.
JA: No pressure.
You looked at the screen. Then back at the door. Then down at your apron hanging over your arm like a tether. Something in you snapped clean in half, neat and sudden, like a thread pulled too tight.
“Fuck this,” you muttered under your breath, not loud, not dramatic, just honest, like you were finally saying what you’d been thinking for far too long.
You could come up with an excuse later. My stomach hurts. My period started. Family emergency. Anything. You could deal with it tomorrow. But tonight, tonight you were done choosing the harder option just because it was familiar. You were done being noble about your own loneliness.
Send me the address
The reply came with a pin, and it felt almost absurd how fast a decision could solidify into something real. You slipped your phone back into your pocket, took one last look at the entrance like you were closing a chapter, then turned away from it completely.
You didn’t look back. You didn’t hesitate. You just started walking, heels tapping a steady rhythm into the sidewalk, tired of waiting, tired of being brave in ways no one applauded.
Somewhere behind you, the fundraiser kept going. Lights. Laughter. Conversations you weren’t part of anymore, a whole glittering room pretending to be meaningful. And somewhere inside, Dennis Whitaker stood at a bar that suddenly felt a little emptier than it had five minutes ago.
_____
Santos watched you disappear through the doors, and she didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t chase you. She didn’t call your name. She just stood there, feeling the moment shift in her hands like something fragile she didn’t know how to hold.
Dennis stood beside her at the bar, fingers curled loosely around a drink he hadn’t touched in minutes, eyes drifting back to the entrance every few seconds like you might reappear if he stared hard enough. Like you’d come back because you always came back. Like you were still the girl who stayed.
You didn’t.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. The crowd shifted. Conversations changed. Someone laughed too loudly behind them. A server brushed past with a tray of champagne flutes. The night kept moving like it didn’t care about any of them, and you didn’t come back.
Santos let out a slow breath through her nose, then reached over and rested her hand briefly on Dennis’s shoulder, a touch that said I’m here without offering false comfort.
“I don’t think she’s coming back,” she said quietly.
He didn’t look at her. Just stared straight ahead, jaw tightening slightly like he was trying to swallow something that didn’t go down easy. “Yeah,” he said, his voice was small. “Yeah, I figured.”
Santos squeezed his shoulder once, grounding, then pulled her hand back. She didn’t tell him what she’d seen. Didn’t tell him about Jack. Didn’t tell him that you hadn’t just stepped out for air, you’d stepped out of the whole damn situation and chosen something else. Somewhere else. Someone else.
Dennis took a slow breath, finally lifting his glass and taking a sip like it might steady him, like the burn might give him something solid to hold onto. It didn’t. It just tasted like bitter and too late.
⸻
Across town, the bar was quieter.
Low-lit, warm, the kind of place that didn’t ask anything from you except to sit down and stay a while. Conversations stayed close here. Laughter didn’t echo. The world outside felt like it had been turned down a few notches, like someone had taken the edge off it.
You sat across from Jack, one leg crossed over the other, your drink half-finished and forgotten somewhere near your hand. The conversation had drifted the way good ones do, easy at first, surface-level, then slipping into something a little sharper. A little more intentional.
It wasn’t like the bar and he certainly wasn’t like Dennis.
There was no hesitation here. No careful circling around something unspoken. No waiting to see who would make the first move and who would pretend not to notice.
Jack met you head-on. Dry humor. Steady eye contact. The kind of confidence that didn’t perform itself, didn’t need to. It just existed, quiet and certain.
“You always this quick to ditch a shift?” he asked, one brow lifting slightly, tone somewhere between amused and curious.
You smiled into your glass, letting the rim press briefly against your lips before you answered. “Only for very compelling reasons.”
“Good to know I made the cut.”
You glanced up at him then, something playful tugging at your mouth. “You barely made the cut.”
“Barely still counts.”
Your knee brushed his under the table.
Neither of you moved away.
The contact lingered, subtle at first, then deliberate. Like neither of you felt the need to pretend it hadn’t happened.
It shifted slowly from there.
Not rushed. Not messy. Not the kind of sloppy, impulsive thing you might’ve expected from yourself a few months ago.
Just… closer.
His hand found your thigh like it already knew where it was going. Not possessive. Not claiming. Just there. Warm. Grounding. Like he was checking if you’d pull away.
You didn’t.
Your fingers slid along his wrist instead, tracing the edge of his sleeve before curling lightly into the fabric. Testing. Meeting him where he was without giving too much away too fast.
A look passed between you.
Mutual.
By the time you stepped out into the night, the air felt warmer than it had earlier, or maybe you just didn’t care anymore. The distance between you had already disappeared, eaten up by the quiet understanding that this wasn’t going to stop at a drink.
By the time you made it back to your apartment, there wasn’t any space left between you at all.
The door had barely clicked shut before you were laughing again, softer now, closer, the sound caught somewhere between your mouths as his hands found you like he already knew the map. Your hips. Your shoulders. The small of your back like he meant to anchor you there.
A kiss that had started like a question didn’t stay one for long.
Jack didn’t hesitate. Didn’t second guess. He moved into you with a certainty that felt entirely different from anything you’d known before, learning you in real time, hands firm and steady as if your body was something he intended to understand quickly.
His mouth found your neck, warm and deliberate, and you felt your breath catch as his hands slid beneath your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one smooth motion. The air hit your skin for half a second before he followed, closing the distance again, leaving you with no room to think.
Only feel.
His hands settled at your hips, strong and sure as he lifted you like it was nothing, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as you clung to him.
“Bedroom?” he asked, voice low, roughened just enough to send heat straight through you.
You tipped your head back, a quiet sound slipping out before you could stop it, your body already answering for you.
“Hallway,” you managed, barely more than a breath.
Something in him liked that.
You could feel it.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t slow down. Just turned, carrying you easily, guiding you down the hallway you barely registered, your back brushing the wall for a second before he pushed your door open and kicked it shut behind him.
The world narrowed.
The bed caught you a second later, soft beneath you, but there was nothing soft about the way he followed, hands still on you, still grounding, still sure.
Then he paused.
Just for a moment.
His chest rose and fell, like he was catching himself, pulling something back into place.
You noticed immediately. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, then steadier, “yeah. More than okay. I just… need to tell you something before we go any further.”
You blinked up at him, breath still uneven. “Please don’t tell me you have a wife.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. “Widower, actually. And I was going to save that for the next time I had you in a bed and needed to ruin the moment…” he attempted to make the tragedy have an edge of humor. His words trailed off as he watched you carefully.
You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his gaze. You didn’t say sorry. You didn’t need to tell him something he had heard 1000 times before.
“Okay,” you said simply. “We can talk about that later if you want. I haven’t changed my mind. Unless you have?”
Something in him softened at that.
He exhaled, then leaned in, catching your mouth in a quick, heated kiss, pressing you back into the mattress with a roll of his hips that pulled a sound from you before you could stop it. You tried to chase his lips, but he held himself there for just a second longer, still giving you space.
“I’m an amputee. Below the knee. It doesn’t affect anything, I just… didn’t want to surprise you. If you’re uncomfortable—”
You cut him off with a kiss.
Firm. Certain.
“That doesn’t change anything,” you murmured against his mouth. “Now take your fucking clothes off.”
That did it.
Whatever restraint he had left slipped.
Everything else fell away.
Not the bar.
Not the fundraiser.
Not Dennis.
Not the tight, aching weight that had been sitting in your chest for months.
All of it peeled back, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but this.
Simple.
Immediate.
Wanted.
Time blurred after that.
Moments slipping into each other, breath and laughter and heat folding together until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. You lost track of the clock, of the city outside, of anything that wasn’t right there in that room.
By the time it was over, your body felt spent in the best way, loose and warm and humming, like every last bit of tension had finally been pulled out of you.
You didn’t know what time it was.
It felt like the sun might be close.
Jack lay stretched out beside you, one arm wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you in close like it was the most natural thing in the world. You fit easily against him, your head settling near his shoulder, your leg tangled with his without thinking.
He shifted slightly, pressing his mouth near your ear, his voice quieter now, almost amused.
“I’m a cuddler,” he murmured. “Don’t tell anyone.”
A soft laugh slipped out of you, lighter than anything you’d felt in weeks, maybe longer.
You pressed closer, letting yourself relax fully into him, your hand brushing lazily along his side.
“Your secret’s safe with me, Doctor Abbot.”
And for the first time in a long time. You didn’t feel like you were waiting for something or someone. You were exactly here you were supposed to be.
⸻
Morning came too quickly.
Soft light filtered through your blinds, pale and quiet, the city just beginning to wake in the background. A distant car. A door somewhere down the hall. Life starting up again whether you were ready or not.
You stood by your front door in an oversized sleep shirt, hair a mess, still half wrapped in that slow, hazy feeling the night had left behind. One hand rested on the knob, the door cracked open just enough to let the morning in.
Jack stood in front of you, jacket slung over his shoulder, sleeves rolled, looking just as undone. Less polished than the man at the fundraiser. More real.
“You’re trouble,” he said, not unkindly.
You smiled, lazy and unbothered. “You’ll recover.”
“Debatable.”
His hand slid to your hip again, pulling you just slightly closer. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just lingering, like neither of you were in a rush to end it.
“Text me later,” he added.
“I will.”
He leaned in, pressing one last kiss to your mouth. Slow. Unhurried. Like he had time. Like this didn’t have to mean more than it did, but also didn’t have to mean less.
You opened the door opened wider and everything stopped.
Dennis stood there with a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. Like something out of a version of this morning that didn’t exist anymore.
For a second no one spoke.
Jack’s gaze flicked from you to Dennis to the flowers and the back to you.
Something shifted behind his eyes. Quick. Calculating. Not threatened. Just understanding.
“…Whitaker,” he said, recognition settling in.
Dennis didn’t respond.
He couldn’t. Because now he was seeing it too. The clothes. The proximity. The way Jack’s hand had just been at your waist. The way you stood there, not scrambling, not apologizing.
You weren’t his anymore. Understanding hit all at once. It was Heavy and Immediate.
Jack exhaled quietly and stepped back, his hand dropping from your hip.
“I guess you’ve got something to figure out,” he muttered, not unkindly, but with just enough edge to leave a mark.
He glanced at you once more, softer now.
“Text me later,” he said again, louder this time. Loud enough that Dennis heard it. Loud enough that it landed exactly where it was meant to.
Then, to Dennis, casual as anything, “I’ll see you at work.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The hallway felt too quiet after.
Too small. Like the walls had shifted in closer.
Dennis didn’t move, didn’t say anything.
Just stood there, flowers still in his hand like he didn’t know what they were for anymore.
You swallowed, shifting your weight slightly, the warmth from a few seconds ago already fading under the weight of something heavier.
“What are you doing here?” you asked.
And something in him snapped.
“What am I doing here?” he echoed, incredulous, his voice rising in a way you hadn’t heard before. “What are you doing?”
You blinked, thrown off by it. “Dennis—”
“My attending?” he cut in, sharper now, the words landing hard. “Seriously?”
Your expression hardened immediately. “Oh, don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” he shot back. “Show up with flowers like an idiot and find out you’re sleeping with my boss?”
“You don’t get to be mad about this,” you said, your voice tightening, something hot rising up your chest. “You don’t get to show up out of nowhere and act like—”
“Like what?” he demanded. “Like I still care?”
You laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Oh, I know you care. You just don’t act like it when it matters.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“No?” you shot back. “You had months, Dennis. Months. And now you show up with flowers like that fixes anything?”
“I was trying—”
“You were always trying,” you cut in. “That was the problem. Always trying but never doing.”
He flinched slightly.
“I didn’t have time,” he said, quieter now, but still holding onto the argument like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I told you that.”
“And I told you I needed more than that,” you fired back.
Your chest tightened, voice sharper, the words coming faster now because they’d been sitting there too long.
“I needed you to show up for me,” you said. “Not when it was convenient. Not when you could squeeze me in between everything else. I needed to matter.”
“You did matter,” he insisted.
“Then why did it feel like I didn’t?” you snapped.
He didn’t have an answer.
Your laugh this time was softer. “I wish you fought like this when we broke up,” you said quietly.
That one landed deeper than anything else. Dennis’s expression faltered completely.
You stepped back. Hand already on the door.
“Don’t do this now,” you said, voice firm again, steadier than you felt. “You don’t get to show up late and act like you still have a say in what I do.”
And then you slammed the door. The sound cracked down the hallway, sharp and final. Dennis stood there your rejected flowers still in his hand. Crushed slightly now.
He stared at the door for a long time. Like it might open again like maybe if he just stood there long enough, It would but It didn’t.
taglist: @cptg00s3
AN: Hiii i love you guys. The feedback from these chapters have been incredible and so lovely. I really appreciate everyone who’s shared, liked, and commented. I wish you a cool pillow everytime you rest your sweet angel heads. I promise i’ll be on my laptop soon to actually edit these and make them more presentable. I’ve been crazy busy and have just been rattling these suckers off in my notes app when I have time. Enjoy this chapter, next one is coming soon 🫶
