#dr. abbot

[geminiwritten]

you have no idea ; jack abbot

summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.

notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 18889

Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.

Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.

He had never really had anything to be jealous of.

Until now.

Now there are far too many things.

Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.

Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.

Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.

So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[incorrect-the-pitt]

[an-abysma1-0bserver]

Any Way You Want It

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Baker!Reader

Summary: Jack finally meets the pretty baker everyone’s been talking about.

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI). Dry humping. I got inspiration from “Yes, Chef.” Jack Abbot having some dirty fantasies about reader. Making out (not too bad, but it’s Jack, so…). Soft!Dom!Jack? I dunno, maybe. You guys are in charge of your media consumption. Slow burn. Language. Older man x younger woman trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. There may be a few pet-names sprinkled in. Pining. Soft!Jack. Insecure!Jack. Loss of limb mention. Loss of a spouse mention. Some hurt/comfort. Some angst. Some fluff. The story switches POV (I’ll try and make it mostly Jack’s POV, but we’ll see). Medical inaccuracies. Whatever else I failed to mention.

Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.

I decided to do some changes. Instead of this being one, long fic, it’s probably going to be a two-parter, maybe more. I’ll see how the next part goes! Hopefully you guys like it.

Word Count: 9,258(ish)

Series Masterlist || Masterlist

Next Chapter ->

Jack liked getting in to work early. It gave him time to settle into the rhythm of the place before it fully woke up—or, more accurately, before it tipped into the strange, electric chaos that came with nights at the Pitt. He thrived on that rhythm, even if it was unpredictable by nature. There was still a pattern to it, something he could anticipate, something he could brace himself for.

Routine mattered. It was one of the few things that kept everything else from slipping too far out of his grasp.

His therapist had called it grounding. Jack just knew it worked.

So he walked in like he always did—backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee half-finished, running on too little sleep but already feeling that familiar, steady rise of adrenaline. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. The air smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. Normal. Expected.

Until it wasn’t.

Jack slowed as he approached the nurses’ station, something in the atmosphere just…off enough to snag his attention. Shen, Crus, and Ellis were clustered together—but so were a handful of day shifters. Santos. Whitaker. Perlah. Princess. Even Dana.

That alone was unusual.

What made him stop entirely, though, was you.

You stood at the center of it all like you belonged there—like you’d always been there. Simple outfit, nothing flashy, but it suited you in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else. You were smiling, laughing at something Santos had said, the sound easy and unguarded, like you weren’t trying to impress anyone.

Jack frowned, just slightly.

You weren’t staff. He would’ve known.

And yet—everyone else clearly did.

His steps slowed without him meaning them to, his usual beeline to the back room faltering as his attention snagged, held. He watched the way your expression shifted when Whitaker spoke, attentive and warm, like you were genuinely listening. The way you nodded when Shen jumped in, a soft laugh following like it had been pulled from you without effort. The way your features gentled at something Dana added, something quieter, more grounded.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

You fit.

That was what threw him.

Jack’s grip tightened slightly on the strap of his backpack. This—this wasn’t part of the routine. This wasn’t something he could immediately categorize or file away or prepare for. You were a variable, dropped right into the middle of a system he relied on staying at least somewhat predictable.

And still—

You were pretty.

The thought came uninvited, blunt and immediate, and Jack exhaled quietly through his nose like he could dismiss it just as easily.

He couldn’t.

He took another step forward, slower this time, his attention still fixed in a way that felt…inconvenient. Unnecessary. He didn’t do this—didn’t linger, didn’t get caught up watching strangers like he had nothing better to do.

But then he caught it.

Something soft threaded through the sharp, sterile scent of the hospital—warm, faintly sweet. Subtle enough that he might’ve missed it if he hadn’t already been paying too much attention.

It lingered in the air around the nurses’ station.

Around you.

Jack paused again, just for a second, his brow furrowing as something in his chest shifted—not dramatic, not overwhelming, just enough to register. Enough to feel like something had…clicked slightly out of place.

Or maybe into place.

He wasn’t sure which bothered him more.

His jaw set as he finally stepped closer, pulling himself back into motion, back into something resembling normal.

Still, his gaze flicked back to you—brief, measured, like he could get one last look without it meaning anything.

It didn’t work.

Because now you weren’t just a disruption.

You were a question.

And Jack had never been very good at leaving those alone.

Shen noticed him first.

“Hey—there he is,” he called, lifting his ever-present Dunkin’ cup in greeting, a grin already forming as he waved Jack over. There was something almost knowing in it, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Jack resisted the urge to hesitate.

He stepped forward anyway, adjusting the strap of his backpack, posture instinctively straightening as he slipped into something more professional, more contained. Whatever this was—whoever you were—he could handle a simple introduction.

He always could.

“Jack,” Shen said easily, gesturing between the two of you. “This is—”

But Jack barely registered the rest of it.

Because you turned.

And for a second—just a second—everything in him hit a quiet, abrupt pause.

Up close, it was worse.

Or better.

He couldn’t decide.

Pretty had been an understatement. An oversimplification. Something convenient he’d told himself so he could move on. But there was nothing convenient about this—the way your expression softened as your eyes met his, the faint trace of exhaustion beneath it that didn’t dull anything, only made it more real. More human.

More—

Jack swallowed, grounding himself before his thoughts could drift any further off course.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, your voice gentle, a little worn around the edges but still warm. The kind of voice that didn’t demand attention, but held it anyway.

Your smile followed—small, almost tentative, but genuine.

It did something to him. Something subtle and immediate, like a shift in pressure he couldn’t quite adjust to.

Jack nodded once, a little sharper than he intended. “Jack Abbot.”

It came out steady. Good. Normal.

You didn’t seem put off by the brevity.

“I hope you don’t mind,” you continued, your tone softening just slightly, like you were easing into something you’d said before, “but I brought some goodies for everyone.”

Jack blinked, the words taking a second longer than they should to settle.

“Goodies?” he echoed, faintly, like he needed to hear it again to place it properly.

You nodded, and there it was again—that easy, unforced warmth. “I run a bakery not far from here. Whatever we don’t sell for the day, I bring here for the night shift.”

For a moment, Jack just…looked at you.

A bakery.

Of course you did.

It made an odd kind of sense—the softness he’d already associated with you, the faint sweetness in the air he hadn’t imagined, the way everyone here seemed just a little more at ease around you. Like your presence smoothed something over without trying.

God.

You were nice, too.

The realization landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere just behind his ribs in a way that felt inconveniently permanent. Pretty was one thing. Pretty was easy to dismiss, to file away as a passing observation.

This wasn’t.

This had weight to it.

Jack shifted slightly, his grip tightening again on his backpack strap before he forced himself to let go, flexing his fingers like he could shake off the feeling.

“You do this often?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more measured—not out of disinterest, but the opposite. Like he was being careful with something he didn’t fully understand yet.

Didn’t want to mishandle.

His gaze flicked over your face again, quick but deliberate, like he was trying to memorize something without being obvious about it.

It didn’t work.

Because even as he stood there, trying to keep everything in its proper place—routine, distance, control—he could already feel it shifting.

Just slightly.

Just enough to notice.

And enough to know that whatever this was—

It wasn’t going to stay simple.

Your smile widened—just a fraction, but enough that he noticed.

“You guys are my best customers.”

“She’s a godsend, Abbott,” Ellis chimed in, already halfway through a muffin, crumbs catching at the corner of her mouth.

“I can’t get through my shift without her,” Santos added, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. “Truly.”

Jack barely acknowledged them.

His attention had already drifted—first to the boxes scattered across the station, then to the contents inside. Muffins, cupcakes, croissants, all in varying states of being picked over, like the staff had descended on them the second they’d appeared.

They did look good.

Better than good.

His gaze shifted back to you, almost automatically—and found you already looking at him.

That same soft expression. That same quiet, knowing smile, like you were waiting to see what he’d say.

Or maybe just…waiting.

Jack held your gaze a second too long.

Long enough for his eyes to dip—brief, involuntary—to your lips.

And then he caught himself.

His jaw tightened slightly as he looked away, clearing his throat under the guise of casual thought.

“You could just save them to sell tomorrow,” he said, his tone measured, bordering on practical. Safe.

You shrugged, easy, unbothered. “I could,” you agreed, tilting your head just slightly. “Except I know how you doctors and nurses are.”

That pulled his attention back.

Jack arched a brow, something faintly skeptical threading through his expression. “Do you?”

There was a challenge in it. Mild. Curious.

You didn’t miss it.

“My mom was one,” you said, and just like that, something in your tone softened—not heavier, not sad, just…grounded. Real. “A doctor. Emergency department. I grew up seeing how exhausted her shifts made her. I grew up knowing she barely ate anything, if anything at all.”

The answer settled over him, quieting that instinct to question—at least a little.

Still.

“So you opened a bakery?” Jack asked, his voice lower now, more intent. Like he was trying to trace the line between then and now, find the logic in it.

Find you in it.

You met his gaze without hesitation.

“I like feeding people.”

Simple. Direct. No performance, no over-explanation.

And then, just slightly, your smile returned—warmer this time, edged with something that felt almost playful.

“Especially my favorite hospital.”

Jack huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something close to amusement flickering across his face before he could stop it.

“Your favorite, huh?” he echoed, tilting his head just a fraction. “That sounds like bias.”

“Maybe,” you said easily. “Or maybe you just make it easy.”

There it was again—that subtle shift. Not overt. Not enough for anyone else to call it out.

But enough.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you, sharper now, more assessing—not in a clinical way, but something quieter. More personal. Like he was trying to figure out if you meant it, or if this was just part of your charm, something you offered to everyone who walked through these doors.

“Do you say that to all your customers?” he asked.

It could’ve come off dismissive.

It didn’t.

Not with the way he was looking at you.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you held his gaze, that same soft expression settling in again—but this time, there was something more deliberate beneath it. Something that made the moment stretch just a beat longer than necessary.

“Only the ones I like,” you said finally.

Jack stilled.

Just slightly.

Something in his chest shifted again—that same subtle, inconvenient pull from before, only stronger now. Harder to ignore.

Around you, the station carried on—Ellis talking, Santos laughing, someone opening another box—but it all blurred at the edges, dulled by the quiet focus settling between the two of you.

Jack exhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself against something he hadn’t planned for.

“Dangerous business model,” he muttered, though there was no real bite to it.

If anything, it sounded…almost like a warning.

Whether it was for you—or for himself…even he wasn’t entirely sure.

You laughed softly—and it did something to him.

It was subtle, but immediate. His eyes fluttered once, his shoulders tightening just slightly as something prickled along his skin, like his body had reacted before his mind could catch up. It was ridiculous. Over nothing. Over a sound.

And yet—

“Good night, Doctor Abbot,” you said, your voice gentler now, like you were easing him out of the moment rather than ending it. “I hope you have a good shift.”

Jack nodded, slower this time. “Yeah. You too.”

It didn’t make sense. You weren’t even staying. You weren’t even a doctor.

But the words came out anyway.

He watched you leave.

Didn’t mean to—but he did. His gaze followed the line of your movement, the easy way you slipped out of the controlled chaos of the station like you’d never disrupted it at all. Like you hadn’t just…shifted something.

His throat felt oddly tight as he swallowed, forcing himself to look away, to move, to do something normal—like putting his bag away, like starting his shift.

Like you hadn’t lingered.

“She’s cute,” Shen said, entirely too pleased with himself, taking a long sip of his coffee as he shot Jack a look.

Jack didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

“I wonder if she’s single,” Ellis added with a cackle.

That earned them both a look—flat, unimpressed, just shy of a warning.

“Don’t you guys have work to do?”

They laughed it off, of course.

But Jack was already gone—mentally, at least—dragging himself back into the structure of the night.

* * *

The shift unfolded the way they always did.

A steady rotation of the expected and the completely unexplainable. Minor injuries patched up and sent out. Major ones that demanded everything he had. And then the strange ones—the ones that made you pause, made you wonder what kind of night had led someone here in the first place.

Night crawlers, he called them.

You had to be a little strange yourself to thrive in it. Or at least comfortable with it.

Jack had learned to be.

Still, somewhere between cases, between the noise and the movement and the constant pull of responsibility, his mind wandered—briefly, inconveniently.

A flash of a smile.

A voice, soft but steady.

I like feeding people.

He pushed it aside every time.

It didn’t stick.

* * *

By the time day shift started filtering in, Jack felt it.

The exhaustion. The dull, persistent ache in his leg, in his shoulders, in places he didn’t have the energy to name. He’d made it through on caffeine, a granola bar, and one short breath of fresh air that hadn’t been nearly enough.

Routine kicked in again.

Handovers. Notes. Mentally mapping out the next few hours—food, shower, maybe yoga if he could convince his body to cooperate. Check the police monitor. Sleep, if it came.

“Anyone want to do a Sugar run?” Shen called out, already halfway to grabbing his things.

Jack shot him a dry look. “You guys cleared out all those boxes and you’re going back for more?”

“This is for day shift,” Shen said easily. “Sug’s opening around this time.”

“We’re not total monsters, Abbot,” Ellis added, giving him a look of mock offense.

Jack’s nose crinkled slightly. “‘Sug’?”

“We call her Sugar,” Robby said, leaning casually against the nurses’ station. “I think Santos or Whitaker came up with it. Maybe Javadi—I don’t remember.”

“She’s sweet and brings us sweets,” Crus added, like that explained everything.

Jack huffed quietly. “That’s…”

“Corny? Yeah,” Robby cut in with a grin. “We know. She hasn’t told us to stop.”

Sugar.

Jack glanced down at the edge of the station where a few crumbs still lingered, remnants of what you’d brought. His thumb brushed absently against the surface, like he was checking for something that wasn’t there anymore.

“She’s not even on shift,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

“She doesn’t need to be,” Shen said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Her place is, like, ten minutes out. You could walk it if you really wanted to.”

Jack didn’t look at him.

Didn’t take the bait.

But something in his expression shifted—just slightly, just enough to give him away if anyone had been paying close attention.

Ten minutes.

Close.

Convenient.

Too convenient.

He exhaled slowly, straightening, already turning back toward the work he still needed to finish.

“Yeah,” he said, flat, dismissive. “I’m good.”

Shen hummed like he didn’t believe him for a second.

Jack ignored it.

But later—when the station quieted, when his hands finally stilled, when the weight of the night settled into something heavier and harder to shake—

His thoughts drifted again.

Uninvited.

A bakery not far from here.

Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way the hospital never was.

Jack’s jaw tightened faintly as he grabbed his things, pushing the thought down as he headed out.

He had a routine.

And he wasn’t about to start changing it now.

Even if, for the first time in a while…

…he was actually considering it.

* * *

After handovers, Jack should’ve gone home.

That had been the plan—always the plan. Food. Shower. Maybe yoga if his leg cooperated. Sleep, if his mind allowed it.

Instead, he found himself walking in the opposite direction.

Shen had given him the name. Directions, too—casual, offhand, like it meant nothing. Like Jack wouldn’t actually use them.

And yet.

By the time Jack fully registered what he was doing, he was already halfway there, moving on instinct more than intention. Like something in him had already decided, and the rest of him was just catching up.

It was…irritating.

That lack of control.

Or maybe just unfamiliar.

When he finally found the place, he slowed to a stop just outside.

The bakery was simple, but thoughtfully put together—clean lines, warm light spilling through the windows, a display case near the front already half-filled with pastries. Not overly polished. Not trying too hard.

It felt…real.

Lived-in.

Like you.

Jack exhaled quietly, running a hand briefly over the back of his neck before stepping inside.

The soft chime of a bell rang overhead.

“Good morning,” you called, your voice carrying easily through the space as you finished packaging something for an older woman at the register. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Jack nodded, even though you weren’t looking at him, and moved toward the display case.

Up close, it was worse.

The smell hit him first—warm, sweet, layered. Sugar, butter, fresh bread, something faintly citrus underneath it all. It settled around him, softer than the sterile sharpness of the hospital, and for a moment, he just…stood there.

Taking it in.

Letting it settle.

He scanned the pastries, more out of obligation than anything else, his attention already drifting.

Because he could feel it.

That awareness again.

And sure enough—when he glanced up—

Your eyes met his.

Recognition sparked instantly.

“Jack Abbot,” you said, your smile coming easy, like it had been waiting for him.

Something in his chest tightened—subtle, but definite.

“Yeah.” He nodded once, shifting his weight slightly.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

There was no accusation in it. Just curiosity. Maybe a hint of something else.

Jack held your gaze a second longer than necessary before answering.

“You were highly recommended.”

Your laugh was soft, familiar already in a way that didn’t make sense.

“That’s very nice,” you said, brushing your hands lightly together. “But I should be thanking you guys. I’ve no doubt I’d be out of business if it wasn’t for your hospital.”

“I doubt it,” Jack replied, quieter now.

There was a certainty in it that made your smile shift—just slightly, just enough to show you noticed.

“You seem pretty sure,” you said. “Did you try any of the goodies I left last night?”

Jack hesitated.

Not visibly—not enough for most people to catch—but you were watching him, and that made it harder to hide.

A faint warmth crept up the back of his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Not entirely a lie.

You didn’t call him on it.

Instead, your expression softened again, like you understood more than he’d said.

That did something to him.

More than it should have.

Because it wasn’t just that you remembered him. It wasn’t just the way you were looking at him, like he was worth remembering.

It was the way it felt.

Easy.

Too easy.

Like something in him had been…quiet for a long time, and you’d somehow found it without trying.

Jack shifted, grounding himself before his thoughts could spiral into something he wasn’t ready to examine.

“What can I get for you today?” you asked.

He let out a slow breath, forcing his focus back to something tangible.

“What do you recommend?”

You hummed, brows knitting slightly as you considered, your attention fully on him in a way that felt…deliberate.

“I just made some almond-paste croissants and chocolate chip muffins,” you began. “But if you’re not looking for anything sweet, I’ve got regular croissants, lemon poppyseed muffins, bagels if you want something practical—”

“Practical?” Jack echoed, one brow lifting.

You looked at him then—really looked at him.

Not quick. Not surface-level.

Assessing.

“You seem like the practical kind,” you said softly.

It wasn’t judgmental.

If anything, it sounded…thoughtful.

Jack tilted his head slightly, something almost curious flickering in his expression. “Is that bad?”

Your lips curved faintly. “No. Not necessarily. Practical can be good.”

A beat.

“It can be comfortable.”

Jack’s gaze sharpened just slightly. “What’s wrong with comfort?”

“Nothing,” you said easily. “But sometimes it’s good to mix things up. Spice of life and all that.”

For a moment, he just looked at you.

There was something in the way you said it—not pushy, not trying to convince him. Just…offering the idea. Letting it exist between you.

Like you were testing the edges of him.

Jack felt it again—that quiet pull, stronger now. Not overwhelming, not reckless. Just…persistent. Curious.

Inconveniently compelling.

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close.

“You pick,” he said, his voice lower now, roughened slightly by exhaustion—and something else.

Something warmer.

Your eyes flickered, catching the shift.

A soft laugh slipped out of you, quieter this time.

“Risky choice, Doctor,” you murmured.

Jack didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he said, just as quietly. “I’m starting to get that.”

He didn’t sound like he minded.

* * *

It became a routine.

Not all at once—nothing with Jack ever did—but gradually, in the way habits formed when you stopped questioning them.

You showed up at the Pitt like clockwork, boxes in hand, a familiar warmth threading through the sterile air as you made your rounds. You never stayed too long—just enough to greet everyone, to exchange a few words, to catch Jack’s eye across the station.

Just enough to find him.

And he always noticed.

Even on the busiest nights, even when he was elbow-deep in something complicated, there’d be a moment—a flicker of awareness, like something settling into place—right before he’d look up and see you there.

Like he’d been expecting it.

Like he’d been waiting.

“Morning, Abbot,” you’d say sometimes, soft and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Morning,” he’d return, just as steady—but there was something different in it now. Less clipped. Less distant.

Your name came easier to him, too.

He used it.

Often.

More than he needed to.

And then there were the mornings.

Jack told himself that part was about convenience.

Your bakery was on the way. The food was good. Better than good. It made sense to stop in after a long shift, to grab something warm before heading home.

It made sense.

What didn’t make sense was how long he stayed.

At first, it had been quick—an order, a nod, a quiet thank you before he left.

Then it turned into a few extra minutes. A question about what was fresh. A comment about something he’d tried the day before.

Now? Now he lingered.

Leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching you move through the space with practiced ease. Taking orders, remembering names, slipping into conversations like you belonged to all of them and none of them at the same time.

And still—

You always came back to him.

“What’s good today?” he asked one morning, voice rough from a long shift, though there was something lighter underneath it now.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, already smiling. “Depends. Are you feeling practical, or are you finally ready to take my advice?”

Jack huffed softly, shaking his head as he stepped closer to the counter. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

There was something in your tone—playful, but pointed. Like you meant more than just pastries.

Jack’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it should have.

“You always this persistent?” he asked.

“Only when I think I’m right,” you shot back, setting something down in front of him. A cupcake. “Try this.”

He glanced down. Not what he usually ordered.

“Thought I didn’t get a say,” he muttered.

“You said ‘you pick,’” you reminded him lightly. “I’m just honoring your wishes.”

Jack almost smiled.

Almost.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Starting to think that was a mistake.”

Your eyes met his then—steady, searching, like you were trying to read something beneath the surface.

“Is it?” you asked.

It should’ve been an easy answer.

It wasn’t.

Because somewhere between the routine, the conversations, the way you looked at him like you saw more than just what was in front of you—

It didn’t feel like one.

And that was the problem.

* * *

Jack noticed things.

He couldn’t help it.

The way your smile shifted when he walked in—just slightly, but different than it was with anyone else. The way you remembered his order before he said it, but still asked sometimes, like you were giving him an excuse to stay longer.

The way you stood a little closer than necessary when you handed him his coffee.

Small things.

Easy to dismiss.

Except they kept happening.

And Jack—

Jack didn’t trust easy.

Didn’t trust things that felt good without a clear reason.

Because he knew better.

Knew what it meant to get used to something—to someone—and then lose it.

Knew what it meant to carry things that didn’t just…go away.

He was older than you. That much was obvious. Worn in ways that didn’t show at first glance but settled in if you looked long enough. A widower. A veteran. A man who woke up some nights with his heart racing and no clear reason why.

A man who had learned how to function around the absence of a limb like it was just another part of his routine.

You—

You were light. Not naive, not untouched by life—but lighter. Softer around the edges in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

You had options.

You had time.

You had no reason to look at him the way you did.

And yet—

“You’re staring again.”

Jack blinked, pulled from his thoughts as your voice cut through them, gentle but amused.

“I’m not,” he replied automatically.

You hummed, unconvinced, leaning your elbows lightly against the counter. “You do that, you know. Get this look on your face like you’re trying to solve a problem that doesn’t exist.”

His jaw tightened faintly. “Habit.”

“Dangerous one.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, studying you now instead of pretending he wasn’t. “You always this observant?”

“Only when I care enough to be.”

There it was again.

That subtle shift.

Not a confession. Not anything he could call out.

But enough.

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his coffee cup.

“You don’t know me well enough for that,” he said, quieter now—not harsh, but firm. Grounding. Drawing a line before something crossed it.

You didn’t pull back.

Didn’t get offended.

If anything, your expression softened.

“I know enough,” you said.

Simple.

Certain.

And somehow, that unsettled him more than anything else.

Because a part of him—one he didn’t like acknowledging—wanted to believe you.

Wanted to lean into it. Into you.

Into something that felt…dangerously close to hope.

Jack looked away first, shaking his head faintly like he could clear the thought.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That makes one of us.”

But when he reached for the bag you’d packed for him, his fingers brushed yours—

And neither of you pulled away right away.

Just a second too long.

Just enough to feel it.

That quiet, steady tension that had been building for weeks now—

No longer easy to ignore.

And definitely not as one-sided as Jack kept trying to convince himself it was.

* * *

Jack avoided you.

Not by accident. Not because he was too busy or too tired or because something had come up.

It was deliberate.

Two weeks of adjusting his route home so he didn’t pass your bakery. Two weeks of ignoring the instinct to turn down that street anyway. Two weeks of telling himself it didn’t matter—that you didn’t matter, not like that.

It was easier this way.

Cleaner.

Familiar.

Because this—whatever this had been becoming—wasn’t.

Jack flirted. That was nothing new. It was easy, automatic. A deflection more than anything else, something to keep things light, to keep people at a distance while making it seem like he wasn’t.

No one expected anything from it.

No one looked too closely.

Except you did.

That was the problem.

With you, it hadn’t felt like deflection. It hadn’t felt like a game he could step out of whenever he wanted. You met him there. Pushed back. Paid attention in a way that made it harder to keep things surface-level.

You saw him.

And Jack didn’t know what to do with that.

So he did what he always did when something edged too close to something real. Something familiar.

He pulled away.

* * *

“You’re being weird.”

Jack didn’t look up from the chart in his hands. “I’m always weird.”

“Not like this,” Shen shot back easily, leaning against the counter. “This is…broody weird. It’s different.”

Ellis snorted from beside him. “He’s been like this all week. It’s depressing.”

“I’m right here,” Jack muttered.

“Yeah, and you’re killing the vibe,” Ellis replied without missing a beat.

Jack flipped a page a little harder than necessary. “Don’t you two have patients?”

“Don’t deflect,” Shen said, pointing his coffee at him like an accusation. “You haven’t done a Sugar run in, what, two weeks?”

Jack stilled—just for a second.

Barely noticeable.

Ellis caught it immediately. “Oh, it’s about her.”

“It’s not about her.”

“Mm,” Shen hummed, unconvinced. “So you just…what? Forgot where the bakery is?”

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy,” Ellis said. “You still went before.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Shen pressed.

Jack finally looked up, his expression flat, edged with something that made it clear the conversation was over.

“Drop it.”

There was a beat.

Ellis and Shen exchanged a look.

“Okay,” Ellis said slowly, hands lifting in mock surrender. “But for the record? You’re being a downer.”

“Truly tragic,” Shen added. “We miss the version of you that brought back pastries.”

Jack didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

Because they weren’t entirely wrong.

* * *

The shift dragged.

Not because it was particularly bad—but because everything felt…off. Like he was moving through it a step behind where he should be.

Distracted.

Which wasn’t like him.

Jack prided himself on control. On focus.

On not letting things bleed into places they didn’t belong.

But his mind kept circling back anyway.

A voice. A smile.

The way you’d said, I know enough.

He hadn’t gone back.

And you hadn’t come in.

That shouldn’t have bothered him.

It did.

* * *

It was late—technically early morning—when he stepped outside for air.

The cool hit his skin, grounding, familiar. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy sitting under his skin.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Jack froze.

Your voice.

He knew it instantly.

He turned, slower this time—and there you were, standing a few feet away, arms crossed lightly, not angry but not exactly casual either.

You looked…tired.

Not in the same way he did. Not physical.

Something quieter.

Jack’s jaw tightened faintly. “I’ve been working.”

You raised a brow. “So have I.”

A beat.

“You stopped coming by.”

There was no accusation in it. Just fact.

Which somehow made it worse.

Jack looked away briefly, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. “Been busy.”

You didn’t let it go.

“Jack.”

Just his name.

Soft.

But firm enough that it pulled his attention back to you.

“You don’t seem like the type to just disappear on people,” you said. “Not without a reason.”

Something in his chest tightened.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t—not without saying something he wasn’t sure he was ready to put into words.

You stepped a little closer—not crowding him, just enough to close the distance.

“If I said something,” you continued, quieter now, “or did something that made you uncomfortable, you can just tell me.”

That stopped him.

Because that wasn’t it.

Not even close.

Jack let out a low breath, something heavier sitting behind it as he finally met your gaze again.

“You didn’t,” he said.

“Then why—”

“Because you’re—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening as he looked away again, frustrated now. With himself more than anything.

You waited.

Didn’t push.

Just…stayed.

That made it harder.

Jack exhaled sharply, like he was forcing the words out before he could stop himself.

“Because you’re young,” he said finally. “And you’re…you.”

That didn’t explain anything.

He knew it.

Your brows knit slightly. “Okay…”

“And I’m not,” he added, quieter now.

There it was.

The edge of it.

Jack let out a humorless huff, shaking his head. “I’m not what you think I am.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Which, somehow, gave him just enough space to keep going.

“I’m older,” he continued, voice rougher now. “I’ve got…baggage. More than you probably realize.” A pause. “More than you should have to deal with.”

His gaze dropped briefly—toward his leg, then away again like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

“I’m not—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I’m not the kind of guy you build something easy with.”

The words sat heavy between you.

Honest.

Uncomfortable.

Real.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“You think I’m looking for easy?”

Your voice was softer now, but steadier than he expected.

Jack looked up.

Really looked at you.

There was no hesitation in your expression. No awkwardness. No polite backing off.

Just…you.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you could have it.”

“And you think that means I should want it?”

That caught him off guard.

Just enough.

You stepped closer again—not enough to overwhelm, just enough that he couldn’t pretend there was distance anymore.

“I noticed you pulling away,” you said. “I noticed you thinking too hard every time I said something even a little personal.” A faint, almost teasing edge slipped in. “You’re not as subtle as you think you are.”

Jack huffed quietly despite himself.

Then you softened again.

“But I also noticed you kept coming back,” you added. “Until you didn’t.”

A beat.

“I didn’t imagine that, right?”

Jack’s throat felt tight again.

“No,” he admitted.

You held his gaze.

“Then don’t decide for me what I can or can’t handle,” you said gently.

It wasn’t a challenge.

It wasn’t pressure.

Just…truth.

And somehow, that made it harder to argue with.

Jack exhaled slowly, something in his shoulders easing—not completely, not even close—but enough to feel it.

“You don’t make this easy,” he muttered.

A small smile touched your lips. “I thought you didn’t want easy.”

Jack almost smiled back.

Almost.

This time, he didn’t look away.

“I wanted to see everyone first,” you said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Let them know I didn’t forget them.”

Jack watched you for a moment, something cautious settling back into his expression—familiar, instinctive. “Then what?” he asked, quieter now.

There was a part of him that already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Your smile shifted—just slightly, just enough to give you away.

“Then you’re coming with me to the bakery.”

Jack’s brows furrowed immediately. “I don’t think—”

You lifted a hand.

It wasn’t forceful. Not sharp. Just…certain.

And somehow, that was enough.

His mouth closed, the rest of his protest catching in his throat before it could fully form. His jaw tightened faintly, more out of habit than resistance.

“I’m not asking,” you said, softer than your words implied. “I need some outside perspective.”

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose, studying you.

You looked…hopeful.

Not pushy. Not expecting him to give in.

Just waiting.

There was a flicker of something in your eyes—something that edged close to uncertainty, like this mattered more than you were letting on. And paired with that quiet excitement underneath it, it did something dangerous to his resolve.

Because Jack was good at saying no.

He just wasn’t good at saying no to you.

Not when you looked at him like that.

Not when it felt like he’d already taken enough steps back.

His shoulders dropped slightly, the tension easing out of them in a way that felt almost involuntary.

He gave a small, wordless nod.

Your smile softened immediately—warmer now, relieved in a way that settled somewhere low in his chest.

“Thank you,” you said, and before he could think too hard about it, your hand came to rest on his forearm.

It was brief.

Light.

But it lingered just long enough to register.

Warm.

Intentional.

Jack stilled, his breath catching just slightly before he forced it back into something steady.

Then you were gone again—slipping back inside, drawn immediately into the orbit of the station.

And just like that, the space you’d occupied felt…different.

Quieter.

Jack stayed where he was, leaning back against the wall, his gaze following you despite himself.

He watched the way you moved through the nurses’ station, like you belonged there—like you always had. The easy familiarity, the way people lit up when they saw you. The quick hugs, the laughter, the effortless way you folded yourself into their conversations without ever taking too much space.

You fit.

Not just in the hospital—but in his world.

That realization settled in deeper than he expected.

Because it wasn’t just that you were welcome there.

It was that he liked that you were.

Liked the way you softened the edges of a place that rarely allowed for it. Liked the way people relaxed around you. Liked the way you’d somehow carved out a space that was entirely yours—without forcing it.

And…he liked the way you looked at him.

Even if it still unsettled him.

Even if part of him kept waiting for the moment it would change.

Jack dragged a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly as he tried to shake the thought.

Didn’t work.

Because when you turned back toward him, smiling like you knew he’d still be there—

He felt it again.

That pull.

Stronger now. Harder to ignore.

You stepped back outside, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft chime, and for a second, you just looked at him.

And Jack smiled back.

Not guarded.

Not forced.

Just…real.

Small, but there.

Like something in him had finally stopped fighting it.

The walk to the bakery was quiet.

Not awkward—never that—but easy. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled, that settled naturally between steps and breaths. Jack stayed half a pace beside you, aware of you in that quiet, steady way he hadn’t quite learned how to ignore.

When you reached the door, you unlocked it and pushed it open, stepping aside slightly.

Jack gestured for you to go in first.

You did—of course you did—but not without that small, knowing smile, like you’d clocked the instinct behind it.

He followed, slower, taking in the space again as the door shut softly behind him.

“So why do you need my perspective?” Jack asked, his voice low in the quiet.

“I came up with some new recipes,” you said, moving to flip on the lights. Warmth filled the space almost immediately, chasing away the dim early-morning gray. “Sundays I start later than usual. I just wanted someone’s opinion…”

“And you asked me.”

It wasn’t disbelief.

Just…something close to it.

You turned to him then, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “I trust you.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

Jack nodded, but something in his chest tightened—just slightly, just enough to notice. Trust wasn’t something he handled lightly. Not from anyone.

Especially not from you.

He followed when you motioned him back, setting his bag down where you suggested, his movements more deliberate now—aware of himself, of the space, of you.

“You got anywhere I can sit?” he asked.

You paused, like the thought hadn’t fully clicked until that moment. “Here—” You disappeared briefly, returning with a chair from the small office off to the side. “You’ve been on your feet all night,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Didn’t think about that…”

Jack watched you for a second before sitting, careful as he extended his leg. The familiar ache pulsed up from the prosthetic, dull but insistent. Taking the pressure off eased it almost immediately, and he exhaled quietly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

A few minutes later, you came back with plates.

More than a few.

Jack blinked at the spread, a quiet huff leaving him as he leaned back slightly. “Sweetheart, I don’t think I can taste all of this.”

The word slipped out easily.

Too easily.

And the reaction it pulled from you—immediate, visible—didn’t go unnoticed.

Your cheeks warmed, your gaze dipping as you shifted your weight. “I know, I just…” You exhaled, a little self-conscious now. “I got this urge to bake last night. I usually bake when I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I got carried away.”

Jack studied you for a moment.

There was something there—something you weren’t saying—but he didn’t push.

Instead, his attention dropped to the desserts, then back to you.

“You pick,” he said softly.

Your lips curved faintly, like you’d expected that answer.

You handed him a plate and a fork, fingers brushing briefly against his again. This time, neither of you commented on it.

“It’s caramel apple cake,” you said, leaning back against the counter, watching him.

Jack took a bite.

And for a second—just a second—everything else dropped away.

A low sound slipped out of him before he could stop it, something instinctive, unfiltered. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes closing briefly as the flavor settled.

It was—

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

“You like it?” you asked, quieter now.

He opened his eyes, looking at you like the answer should’ve been obvious.

“It’s delicious, sweetheart.”

There it was again.

And this time, you reacted even more.

A subtle shift. A breath you didn’t quite hide. Your gaze dipping for half a second before returning to him.

Jack noticed.

Of course he did.

He took another bite, slower this time, more deliberate—and didn’t miss the way you watched him.

Not just casually.

Intently.

Like his reaction mattered.

“I’ve—uh, got some more if you’d like to…” you offered, your voice just slightly uneven now.

“I’d love to.”

The next plate was a blueberry cream cheese cinnamon roll.

Messier.

Softer.

Jack barely got through the first few bites before you tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

“You’ve got—” You gestured vaguely toward your own mouth. “Right there.”

Jack paused, glancing at you. “Where?”

“Corner,” you said, stepping just a little closer. “Here—”

You didn’t touch him.

But you got close enough that he could feel it.

Your presence. Your warmth.

Jack held your gaze for a second longer than necessary—then, slowly, deliberately, he lifted his thumb to the corner of his mouth.

Wiped.

Not rushed. Not careless.

Measured.

His tongue flicked out briefly, catching the smear of frosting from his thumb, and he didn’t look away from you when he did it.

The shift in the air was immediate.

Subtle.

But unmistakable.

Your breath caught—just slightly—and your gaze dropped, then lifted again, something different in it now. Something heavier.

Jack’s chest tightened.

Not with hesitation.

With awareness.

Of you.

Of how close you were.

Of the way the moment had shifted into something neither of you had named—but both of you felt.

He set the fork down slowly, his hand lingering near yours on the counter.

“You gonna tell me how it is,” he murmured, voice lower now, roughened by something that had nothing to do with exhaustion, “or just watch me eat it?”

A small, breathy laugh escaped you, but it didn’t break the tension.

“It's good,” you said. “Really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

Not away.

If anything, closer.

Just slightly.

Jack’s gaze dropped—briefly, unmistakably—to your lips.

Then back up.

A question.

A warning.

Or maybe both.

Your fingers shifted against the counter, just brushing his.

That was all it took.

Jack leaned in—slow, careful, giving you time to stop him.

Plenty of time.

He didn’t rush it.

Didn’t assume.

But he didn’t pull back, either.

Not until the space between you narrowed to almost nothing—your breath mingling, your presence overwhelming in the quiet of the bakery.

And there—

Right there—

He paused.

Held.

Like he was giving you the choice.

Even if every part of him already knew—

He didn’t want to stop.

You were the one who closed the distance.

It wasn’t rushed—wasn’t reckless. Just a quiet decision, made in the space he’d left open for you. Your lips brushed his, soft, testing, like you were asking a question without words.

For a split second, Jack didn’t move.

Then you pulled back—barely an inch—and that was all it took.

His hand came up instinctively, steady and sure as it found your jaw, and he pulled you back in.

The kiss wasn’t careful anymore.

It was still controlled—because Jack was always controlled—but there was something underneath it now. Something that had been building for weeks, pushing against restraint. His lips moved against yours with a quiet kind of hunger, tempered by hesitation, like he was still trying to be sure this was real.

You could taste the sweetness of the frosting, the lingering blueberry on his lips, but it was the way he kissed you that made your chest tighten—grounded, present, like he was anchoring himself in the moment.

When you tilted your head, deepening it just slightly, the sound that left him was low—rough, pulled from somewhere deeper than he meant to let you hear.

It sent a shiver down your spine.

His grip tightened—just a fraction—before easing again, like he was catching himself even as he leaned into you.

Weeks of tension folded into it. The teasing, the distance, the way he’d pulled away just when things had started to feel too close—all of it surfaced in the way he held you now.

Like he didn’t quite know what to do with it—

Except this.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.

Your foreheads rested together, your breaths uneven, mingling in the quiet space of the bakery.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Jack nodded, but it wasn’t immediate. Like he had to come back to himself first.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low, a little rougher than before.

You hesitated, searching his face.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t want you?”

The question settled between you, heavier than anything that had come before it.

You pulled back just enough to really look at him—to catch the shift in his expression, the flicker of something guarded slipping back into place.

“I don’t care that you’re older,” you added, your voice quieter now, but steady. “I don’t care if it isn’t easy. I just…want to know why.”

Jack swallowed.

His hand came up again, slower this time, more deliberate as it cupped your face. His thumb brushed along your cheek, rough against soft, grounding himself in the contact.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then—

“I was married.”

The words were simple.

But they carried weight.

You felt it immediately, your throat tightening as his gaze dropped briefly—not away from you, but inward, like he was seeing something else entirely.

“For a while,” he continued, quieter now. “She died…not that long ago. A few years.”

A pause.

“I didn’t handle it well.”

There was no self-pity in it. Just fact.

Honest. Unvarnished.

Your chest ached.

“You built a life with someone,” you said softly.

Jack nodded once.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

His thumb kept moving, absent, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“I was in the military before all this,” he added after a moment, like it was part of the same story—because to him, it was. “That’s where I lost it.”

His gaze flicked down, briefly, to his leg before returning to you.

“Not exactly a clean exit.”

There was a faint edge of dry humor there—but it didn’t hide anything.

“After that…it’s not just physical,” he went on, voice lower now. “Some things stick. You learn how to function around them, but they don’t just go away.”

You didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t try to soften it.

You just listened.

Jack exhaled slowly, his hand still warm against your face, though his grip had loosened slightly—like he wasn’t sure how much of himself to hold there anymore.

“So yeah,” he said finally. “Older. Widower. Missing a leg. Doesn’t always sleep through the night.” A faint, humorless huff. “Not exactly a great pitch.”

Your brows pulled together, something almost pained crossing your expression.

“That’s what you think this is?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

It was all there.

In the way he looked at you—steady, but guarded. Like he was bracing for the moment you’d see it the way he did.

Like something that came with too much weight.

Too much history.

Too much to ask.

Still. His hand hadn’t left your face.

And he hadn’t stepped away.

Jack leaned in again.

This time there was no hesitation.

The kiss deepened immediately—messier, fuller, everything that had been held back finally slipping loose. It wasn’t just want anymore; it was relief, tension unraveling, something like acceptance woven through it. His hand tightened at your jaw, anchoring you there as your lips moved against his with growing urgency.

When your tongue brushed along his bottom lip, Jack exhaled sharply—something low and rough escaping him before he could stop it. His mouth opened, and the kiss shifted again, slower in some moments, then suddenly hungry the next, like neither of you quite knew how to pace it.

At some point, the distance between you disappeared entirely.

You were in his lap—he didn’t even register when it happened—just the sudden awareness of your weight, your warmth, the way you fit against him like you’d been there all along.

Jack’s hands found your hips instinctively, gripping, grounding himself as your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. The sensation sent a sharp line of heat down his spine, something electric sparking under his skin.

He felt it everywhere.

Too much and not enough all at once.

Your body pressed to his, warm through layers of clothing, but it still wasn’t close enough. Not for what was building, not for the way his pulse had started to pound, not for the way every nerve in him seemed to light up at once.

Jack broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath—only to trail lower, his mouth brushing along your jaw, slower now but no less intense. His grip shifted, one hand steady at your side as the other pressed more firmly at your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you.

A soft sound slipped from you—barely there, but it hit him like a spark.

Jack stilled for half a second.

Then he leaned in again, his lips finding your neck, slower, more deliberate this time. Not rushed—focused. Like he was learning you through touch alone.

“Jack—” you breathed, his name soft, unsteady.

That did something to him.

Something dangerous.

His jaw tightened faintly as he exhaled against your skin, his forehead briefly pressing to your shoulder like he needed a second to steady himself.

Because this—

This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

Not just the attraction. Not just the pull.

But how fast it escalated. How easily it got under his skin. How quickly it stopped feeling casual and started feeling like something he couldn’t just step away from.

His hands flexed at your hips, grounding, but not pulling you closer—not yet.

Like he was holding himself right at the edge.

“You’re not making this easy,” he muttered, voice low, rougher now.

But he didn’t move you away.

Didn’t let go.

If anything, his grip lingered—firm, certain—like he was still deciding how far he was willing to fall into this.

And not entirely convinced he hadn’t already started.

Jack’s mind started to slip the longer he held onto you.

The more he kissed you, the more he let himself feel it—the warmth of your body, the way you responded to him so easily—it became harder to keep things contained. His hands moved almost without permission, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing against bare skin.

Soft.

Warm.

Real.

His breath hitched quietly at the contact, like even that was enough to undo him.

You arched into him instinctively, and Jack’s hands spread along your sides, palms firm now, grounding himself in the feel of you. Like if he focused on that—on something tangible—he wouldn’t drift too far into everything else pressing at the edges of his mind.

“Jack—” you breathed, your voice unsteady, pulling his name from him in a way that went straight to his core.

It wasn’t just the sound.

It was the need in it.

The trust.

The way you said his name like you wanted him there.

Jack exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing briefly against your shoulder, his lips dragging along the curve of your neck again—slower now, but no less intense. His nose brushed your skin, his breath warm, uneven.

This was dangerous.

Not just because of how badly he wanted you—

But because of how fast it was becoming more than that.

His grip tightened slightly at your sides when you shifted against him, your body pressing closer, seeking friction, seeking him. A low sound rumbled up from his chest before he could stop it, his control slipping another inch.

He wasn’t used to this.

To wanting something this quickly. This strongly.

To not being able to shut it off.

Jack dragged in a breath, trying to steady himself, but it did nothing. If anything, it made him more aware—of the heat between you, of the way your bodies fit together, of how easy it would be to keep going.

Too easy.

His eyes squeezed shut for a second, his jaw tightening as his hands flexed against your skin.

He could feel the edge of it—the point where this stopped being something he could pull back from cleanly.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, his gaze darker now—heavy with everything he wasn’t saying.

“Hey,” he murmured, quieter than before, but no less intense. “Look at me.”

His thumb brushed lightly along your side, grounding, steadying—more for himself than for you.

Because this—

This wasn’t just heat.

It wasn’t just want.

It was something deeper. Something that had been building since the moment he first saw you at the nurses’ station, smiling like you belonged in a place that rarely allowed for softness.

And now you were here.

In his arms.

Looking at him like you chose to be.

Jack let out a slow breath, something shifting in his expression—less frantic, but no less intense. If anything, more certain.

More dangerous.

“Yeah,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then, quieter—

“Yeah…I’m in trouble.”

And for the first time in a long time—

He didn’t try to stop it.

[butyoudidthis4what]

Call Me

Jack Abbot x F!Nurse!Reader

8k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: some will they won’t they flavor; reader is assaulted by a patient’s husband (light description of it, but not as it’s happening); reader gets a bad bruise and has stitches; guilt; anger; fear; crying; self-blame; self-hate; quick thought of self-harm; no use of y/n or related.

Summary: An assault causes you and Jack to finally discuss your feelings for each other.

AN: This is one of my favorite tropes/plots so I was excited to finally get to write something for it! That said, I don't really love this for some reason, but I don't think I'm going to love anything right now, so I'm just going to roll with it lol. It is fairly wordy up front because I cannot set a scene with any level of brevity, but I promise there is dialogue and interaction at the end. Hopefully fluffy and flirty and sweet dialogue and interaction! Based on this ask and this ask from the 1k celebration (I promise I'm working my way through them and haven't forgotten.). I hope it's okay enough and that you're able to enjoy, and thank you for all of your support! ♥️

Jack feels it the second he walks in for his shift.

Something is off. It's the glances at him out of the corners of his coworker's eyes and the looks they then exchange with each other or their hushed whispers.

Most people wouldn't notice. But for Jack it's that pesky PTSD hyper-awareness that never quite dies all the way regardless of how much therapy one has and how healed one feels.

It's strange. He has no idea what it's about. He took a few extra days off which is somewhat unusual for him, yeah, but it doesn't feel like it should be weird enough for this. Whatever. He doesn't really pay it much attention and maybe he is just reading into things. At this point he's too excited to get to the lockers and see you to really care about anything else.

You're not there when he turns the corner but that doesn't mean much to him because he almost always beats you. He just walks over to the wall opposite the lockers and presses his back against it, closes his eyes and waits for the familiar fall of your footsteps as you arrive. It seems to take longer today. You must be running late.

He doesn't let himself think anything of it, not yet anyway. But when it gets to be just a few minutes before your shift and Jack has to leave to go start handoff and there's still no you, he doesn't fight the slightest twist of his stomach.

The twist resolves quickly when he walks to the hub and sees the back of you in a room with a patient and Santos. That makes sense. You must've gotten here early and gotten pulled into something. You're one of the best nurses they have across shifts so of course someone would grab you if they could. He'll track you down after handoff once you're finished there. Jack figures you'll be looking for him too.

Jack figures wrong.

You deliberately got here and involved with something early, earlier than Jack normally arrives because you need a reason to not be by the lockers or at handoff. You're going to need lots of reasons to avoid him tonight. Because you don't want to see him.

Well, it's more you don't want him to see you.

You have no idea why you're avoiding him and hiding from him and not telling him what happened, no idea why you think this is the best strategy, but you are and you have. It feels wrong, makes your stomach hurt a little, lying by omission to Jack. Because he's… Jack.

The two of you haven't known each other that long all things considered, you've only been at the Pitt for about eight months now, are equally as new to the city, but you and Jack act like you've known each other forever. You both feel like you've known each other forever, clicking so immediately in a way that you're both pretty sure can only be fated.

Jack had a bit of a chip on his shoulder with you when you first started. There had been a couple really bad hires in a row, those people who interview amazingly and then perform terribly. You came in hot on the heels after an incident that nearly killed a patient and so Jack couldn't help but be protective of his patients and his people and his ED.

But you quickly won him over with your ability to stay calm in the face of the worst of the worst and with your competence and ability to adapt and anticipate and observe carefully to learn, not just in general but to learn him. You'd only worked together a couple of shifts when you started having the next instrument he was going to ask for in his hand before he could ask for it and prepping things the specific way he liked and moving with him perfectly, knowing exactly where he was going to next so he didn't have to ask you to move.

In the end, it only took six shifts together before you became Jack's go to nurse for anything and everything.

Your schedules almost always align, they've always been like that. At first it was coincidence and then it became Jack asking Robby to make sure they always do. And of course the more you’ve worked together the more comfortable you’ve grown professionally and personally.

The flirting started early on, the moment you were both comfortable enough with each other that a comment fell off Jack's tongue much to his horror until he realized you were okay with it, until you flirted back in response. Jack is generally a little more flirty than you but that's just because you're slightly shier and a touch more reserved in a sense.

But there's more to you and Jack than just the flirting. You’ve become each other's person, you open up to each other about everything, tell each other everything, because it just feels right. Because talking is easy and judgment free. You're each other's safe spaces before you consciously realize it.

As to why you're not together yet… So many reasons and yet none at all.

Or at least none that justify depriving yourselves of each other romantically.

It's more on Jack than you if he's honest with himself, both of you know it. He knows he's holding back, that he's scared because you're special to him and he doesn't want to somehow ruin the two of you by asking you for more even though you're so clearly interested in more.

You’ve been here long enough now and you and Jack have gotten close and flirty enough that rumors that you're secretly together have just started to fly. But they don't last long.

After what happened, everyone is now certain you're not together. Because you would've called Jack.

You would've called Jack when that patient's husband attacked you if the two of you were together, were partners, boyfriend and girlfriend. Despite how brave of a face you put on and how much you insisted you were fine it was obvious to everyone just how shaken you were at the time. So they all know you would've called Jack or had one of them call Jack in a heartbeat if you were a couple.

They all also know that you haven't told Jack what happened. That Jack doesn't know what happened. Jack took those extra days off so he hasn't worked the past three nights with you and Robby and Dana have been off the last two days so they haven't seen you to be able to tell him. 

They know because if Jack knew he'd have come. It wouldn't have mattered where he was, at his place, at his cabin hours away in the woods, somewhere a plane ride away or how many hours or days after the assault it was.

He would've come. He would've dropped anything and everything and shown up for you.

And certainly he would've made you take at least some time off. You've taken none. You didn't even go home the night it happened once you were cleared. You all but begged Shen to let you stay because you didn't want to be at home alone thinking about it. At home alone wishing Jack were with you.

Because everyone knows Jack doesn't know, the most talked about subject on day and night shifts is how Jack is going to react when he finds out, when he shows up at work and sees you. Everyone knows not to tell him even without you asking and saying anything, they know that you need to be the one to tell him. So nobody says anything. 

The second he leaves the hub after handoff he's walking the floor looking for you. He's missed you. He hasn't been away from you for this long in a while now. He's craving you, if he's honest with himself. Your attention and your eyes on him and your touch and the sound of your voice. The sound of your voice saying his name. Jack.

It's not that he doesn't let anyone else call him by his first name, he doesn't really care that much. It's that other than Robby, Dana, and Lena, nobody else calls him Jack, only you. It started as Dr. Abbot, and then Abbot, and then a mix of Dr. Abbot, Abbot with the occasional Jack, and then Jack with the occasional Abbot, and at this point it's pretty much always Jack.

He isn't able to find you before getting pulled in with a patient which bums him out but he's sure he'll find you after, that you'll track him down as soon as you're free. Except the night passes and he doesn't find you and you don't track him down.

At first he tells himself it's just a busy night and this happens sometimes but, for the Pitt, the night is verging on quiet, and this has never happened before, not like this. Jack can't remember the last time he ran a trauma without you while you were working absent some obvious reason for your absence. He's not sure it's happened since you started, and tonight he's run several, hasn't had you in a single trauma with him.

The thought starts to trickle into Jack's consciousness that you're avoiding him. That you don't want to see him. Because the Pitt simply isn't busy enough for you guys to have not seen each other unless one of you was trying to avoid the other. And Jack isn't trying to avoid you.

He knows he took time off and he's heard from others tonight that the last three nights were pretty rough, but you knew he was taking the time off and that you'd be working without him so you can't seriously be mad about that, about him taking time off. You had fucking encouraged him to, telling him he needed and deserved a break. 

Jack can’t think of any other reason you’d be avoiding him. Did he do something the last time you were together? Say something wrong? He can’t think of anything, can’t think of anything that made you feel off with him. You’d walked out with him and he’d walked you to your place on the way to his like normal your last shift together. You guys had texted some while he was off. Maybe not as much as normal after your one day off after your last shift together, but you went back to work so he chalked it up to you being tired from work. It has to be the flow of patients working perfectly against you.

But then Jack sees you in the hall a couple of times, always your uninjured side profile, thankfully. He calls for you sometimes, when he can, and you'll look at him from the corner of your eye, he'll see you look at him, and then watch you quickly walk away as he's smiling at you without giving him anything in return, not the hint of a smile or a wave or any kind of acknowledgment. And so the unavoidable reality he’s already known crashes down around Jack the fourth time it happens.

You are avoiding him.

Why? What did he do?

Your avoidance crushes Jack. He's been missing you like crazy and fucking yearning for you in the most ridiculous way that makes him feel like a teenager with a crush. And after four days away from him you're just… done? He tries to think of what he did, of anything he could've done that would upset you so much you’d do this. 

Then he remembers the looks everyone was giving him when he walked in. Remembers everybody knows how bad he's down for you. Their looks were of pity, weren't they? You're with someone else. You must have been seeing someone and taken the next step to a relationship and announced it somehow. Maybe you walked in with them while he was gone so people would ask questions and you could answer, tell everyone.

That would mean he lost you before he even had you. Lost you because he was too afraid to ask you for more, to ask you out. Lost you because he was so worried about ruining things between you that he inadvertently pushed you away.

Jack watches you with slightly glassy eyes from across the hall as you're in working with a patient and her husband that Jack examined earlier. Even though your back is to him Jack can tell that you're getting along with both the patient and her husband because they're both smiling and laughing. You turn back from grabbing something off the counter at the same time as the husband stands from his chair and Jack watches you flinch and take a step backward.

Jack has seen a lot of reactions from you by now, has seen you with upset patients and family members yelling at you and coming close to getting in your face, but Jack has never, never, seen you flinch. And that bothers him. A lot. Because the husband wasn't even upset or angry, he was just standing up. Before Jack can start to really think about that and what it could mean he's notified of a trauma pulling in and has to jump into that mode and turn the personal side of his brain off.

They have the patient in the room and transferred when Jack looks up and sees you in the corner at the computer scribing, only your uninjured profile visible to him. "Hey!" he calls to you, follows with your name while looking down and starting his assessment of the patient. "Nice to finally see you tonight, you gonna come up here and help or what?"

He glances up at you and you don't move. You don't turn your head to look at him. "Scribing," you call back to him blankly, little to no emotion in your tone. You've never spoken to him with that tone.

Jack knows something is fucking going on because you never fucking scribe. It's just not where you're the most valuable and you don't like doing it and you have other people, other people in the fucking room, who are better at it, at least one of whom prefers it. Jack looks at you like you're insane for a second but then is right back to work because he has to be. 

He doesn't know it but you're still on limited duty and being in the trauma room kind of breaks your heart right now because you're so close to the action you love and yet so far away. Your eye isn't that swollen anymore, certainly not enough to impede your vision, but you still follow protocol, stick to scribing here in the trauma room and the most basic cases out on the floor.

It's a trauma though, and so your focus is on the patient and what's happening in the room and not on hiding yourself and your face from Jack. So when your name gets called followed by a question from another nurse across the room you don't think twice about turning your head to glance at them as you answer.

Jack looks up just in time to catch your eyes for half a second and then a glimpse of your face, isn't able to see much with how quickly you turn back around but he knows he saw bruising and he thinks maybe stitches. You got hurt. When he wasn't here to help. His eyes remain on you as he thinks about it. With what he just saw coupled with your avoidance of him and the way you flinched, Jack realizes you weren't just hurt. You were hit. 

"Dr. Abbot," Ellis's voice cuts through all of the emotions bubbling up in Jack. He knows he has to get back to work, that this patient in front of him is higher in triage than you are for him right now as much as he hates it, hates that he can't just abandon what he's doing to get to you.

Jack forces himself to focus back on the patient but the anger rises in him, the panic and worry and guilt, all driven by the additional boost of adrenaline nastier traumas like this cause. You got hit and he wasn't fucking there for you. He needs to know more about it, and now.

When did it happen? Did it happen here at the Pitt? God what if you went out on a date and the guy you were with did this to you? Are you seriously injured? Did you get yourself checked out? Did whoever examined you take proper care of you? What exactly even happened? Why the fuck are you here and not at home resting? Why wouldn't you just tell him? Why didn't you call him when it happened or at least right after?

Jack is looking up and peeling his gloves off to get over to you the second he can but when he looks up you're already gone. A quick scan of the trauma room confirms you've left so Jack nearly bursts out of the doors, head on a swivel as he looks over the floor trying to find you. He doesn't see you so he walks the floor, asks everyone he comes in contact with if they've seen you.

When it becomes obvious you're not in the Pitt Jack checks all the places you've mentioned before. That one supply closet, the half empty floor, the creepy basement. But you're nowhere. Jack refuses to believe that you would just walk out and leave in the middle of your shift though, so he keeps looking.

And then it hits him. The roof. He'd thought of it initially of course because that's where he goes, but he didn't think you'd go there because you told him once while on the roof that you hate heights. By the time that came out you'd come up to the roof looking for him and to help him and comfort him at least five times. He asked why you came if you were afraid and you shrugged simply, told him that you knew he needed someone and that you'll always be that someone for him until he tells you to stop.

You know that the last place Jack would think to look for you would be the roof and Jack knows that's exactly why he's going to find you up there.

And sure enough, Jack walks onto the roof and around the side a little and finds you. He doesn't say anything as he approaches you, but between the door and his footsteps he knows you hear him. You're standing so that one of the lights illuminates the side of your profile visible to him, but the shadow of the building further hides the injured side of your face.

Jack stops walking ten or so feet away from you, the two of you perpendicular to each other. A silence settles over you and it's not awkward or tense, just charged. Charged with a million emotions and things you both want to say but aren't sure you can.

"Hi." You break the silence first hoping maybe you'll be able to divert the conversation.

There's a beat before he responds and you can feel Jack studying your profile still. "Hi." He takes in a breath to say more but you speak first.

"How was your time off? Did you do anything fun?" You tilt your head just slightly, not enough for him to see anything but enough for you to be able to see him more out of the corner of your eye.

Jack huffs. He's not mad at you and you know that, but you're already down and tired and not feeling well mentally and in pain so your brain overrides what you know and interprets his huff as irritation at you and it just makes you shut down more.

"Really?" he asks. "We're really going to do this instead of talk about whatever the fuck happened?" You don't say anything in response, moving your head back to how it was and staring out at the glittering horizon. He sighs softly when you don't answer. You already know the answer to the question you asked. You’d still been texting while he was off. "It was good. It was nice being off and just getting to chill at home and do only things that I wanted to do."

"Good," you murmur.

"Sweetheart." God, you both love and hate when he calls you that, hate because it's teasing and you wish it was really a pet name being used by your boyfriend. He uses your name professionally and generally around the hospital but when it's just your Pitt coworkers and especially when it's just the two of you he calls you Sweetheart. Something about it and where you're at mentally right now just makes your heart hurt. Tears rush to your eyes and that fucking hurts too, physically.

Jack takes another few steps to close more of the distance between you and can see your accumulating tears as he studies your profile. "Sweetheart," he repeats. "Show me that bruise please."

"It's fine Jack, honestly." Your attempt to make your voice convincing is half-hearted at best, your tears obvious in it.

"I'm going to see it eventually," he points out gently. "You're not going to be able to avoid me until it heals."

He's got you there. You both know it. You don't know why you're even so reluctant to show him. It's Jack. Jack's the one you show just about everything to without even realizing it, he just pulls it out of you, you're so comfortable around him and trust him so implicitly.

You take in and breath out a long breath through your mouth and then turn so that you're facing Jack and step out of the half shadow you're standing in and into the light so that it's brightly illuminating the side of your face you've been keeping from him.

"Oh." The word is barely formed as it leaves Jack's mouth with all of the air in his lungs like he's been punched in the stomach, had all the wind knocked out of him. It's much worse than he thought, than he got a glimpse of downstairs.

You have two sets of stitches, one along your cheekbone all the way up to just below the outside corner of your eye, the other set starting just above your ear and traveling up your scalp just in front of your hairline. A deep purple bruise surrounds your eye and covers your cheek, continues up along the path of the stitches that travel up your scalp. And the sclera of your bruised eye is almost completely red with a subconjunctival hemorrhage.

Jack's heart breaks at the sight, at the thought of you being hurt and getting these injuries and the amount of pain you would've been in. But that anger he felt in the trauma room comes roaring back to life, his jaw setting and teeth grinding together. He needs to know who did this. He needs to know who hurt you, who hurt his girl.

So does the guilt. He needs to hurt himself for not being there, wherever and whenever this happened. For not protecting you.

"See?" You shrug. "It's really not that bad."

"What the fuck?" Jack looks at you incredulously. "What the fuck do you mean it's really not that bad?"

"It's some stitches and a tiny fracture, Jack. The CT and x-rays all looked fine other than a small zygomatic fracture, they gave me a dose of prophylactic antibiotics. I'm fine. I'm okay. It's really nothing." You give him the best smile you can manage but it's still only really with half your face and more of a grimace.

"Yeah, then why were you trying to hide it?" he says through an incredulous laugh, shaking his head at you a little. "What the fuck happened? Who did this to you? Was this at work? When? Why the fuck did they do it? What the fuck?" He laughs helplessly to himself and repeats it another couple of times in a loud whisper because his mind can't figure out any other way to process it. "What the fuck? What the fuck?"

You dodge his first question because you simply don't have an answer. "Three nights ago, Monday night, and I don't know, it happened fast. Patient’s husband didn't like what I had to say or whatever, I don't know. I'm a nurse. They love to hate us and blame us for everything. I turned around to grab something off the counter and when I turned back around a fist was coming at my face, hit my cheek more than my nose, so it's not broken. I kind of spun as I fell and hit my head on the counter. That's how I got the scalp laceration. He was wearing a ring that cut my cheek when he hit me. That's all. It could've been worse."

When he hit me.

The words ring through Jack's mind over and over. When he hit you. When he fucking hit you.

Objectively, you're correct in a sense, and Jack knows it, especially now that he knows what happened. It could've been much worse, in any number of ways and for any number of reasons. But that doesn't matter, it's beside the point now. The point is this guy fucking hit you.

This guy fucking hit you and he wasn't there. 

He wasn't there to prevent it, he wasn't there to stop it, he wasn't there to treat you, he wasn't there to take care of you, physically or emotionally. He wasn't fucking there. That was the first night you worked without him. If he hadn't taken extra time off he would've been there. But he did and so he wasn't.

All Jack can see is red, it tinges every thought he has, every move his body subtly makes. He needs to know who and he needs to go find them. Nobody gets to hit you.

All Jack can see is red and it bleeds into his words and his voice and his tone. "How much time did you take off? Why the fuck are you back already? You need to not be here."

You're already understandably in a particularly low spot following the attack and you've been missing and wanting Jack so much it hurts and now his words, the anger in voice, the way his usual softness with you has disappeared just makes you feel rejected and like he's mad at you. And you can't deal with that on top of everything else mentally right now. You just can't.

"I didn't take any off. Once I was technically discharged I finished my shift on light and modified duty of course because the swelling near my eye made it harder to see. I've been here for my shifts every day since then, still on light and modified duty like I am today. I didn't need or want time off." You swallow hard, pray you can keep the tears that have returned out of your voice. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it happened, but Dr. Abbot I really don't want to do this right now. There's an incident report and more description in there and photos and statements and whatever in it. So if there's nothing else I'd like to just go back to work."

Jack's face furrows in confusion and he shakes his head just slightly as he looks at you. "What?" he breathes. Dr. Abbot? He hasn't been Dr. Abbot to you outside of patient interactions in a long fucking time now. 

What is that about? Why are you apologizing to him and telling him about an incident report? Why do you think he gives a fuck about anything other than you and how you are? He comes back to Dr. Abbot. What is that? And why don't you want to talk to him about this? It's him and you, you guys talk about everything and this is a huge fucking thing.

His eyes flit around your face, taking in your injuries again and then catching your gaze and it clicks.

"No!" He rushes the word out. "No, I'm not, I," he stumbles over his words, "I'm, I'm not mad at you. I'm not mad at you at all. I'm mad at everyone but you, I'm mad at the world, I'm mad at my-fucking-self. But I am not mad at you, Sweetheart and I am so sorry for making you think I was. I don't give a fuck about an incident report or anything like that."

Jack pauses to take a couple of breaths, chest rising and falling noticeably more than normal, his entire demeanor shifting back to how it usually is with you if not a little softer. "I… I, this is you. Somebody hit you." The last word catches in his throat and he swallows thickly. "Somebody hit my girl," he whispers. "And I need to know what happened at the time and after because I care about you and I need to know how to help you."

You blink at him. "Oh."

Deep down you're pretty sure you knew that but still. “It’s not your fault Jack and I don’t want you to be mad at yourself.”

Jack ignores your statement because he doesn’t believe it, takes a couple steps toward you, closing most, but not all, of the distance left between you. "Why didn't you call?" There's a certain ache in his voice that you recognize too well. "I would've come. I would've been here so fucking fast."

"Why would I have called Jack?" It comes out quickly and you ask it simply. He knows you're not being mean or trying to make him feel bad or anything like that. And he knows it's a fair question, a fair point. He can't argue. "We're not… I didn't know…We've never discussed…" You take a breath and try to pull it together. You're being way too dramatic about all of this and you can't be. You can't let yourself get worked up and properly cry. It's unfair to Jack and it's painful.

"I went to call you." You whisper your admission. "I wanted to, but… Why?" You shrug at him, looking so distraught it makes it hard for Jack to breathe and he has to battle the urge to pull you close and never let you go. "I can take care of myself and at the end of the day… It's not on you… We’re not together. And it's not your job to take care of me."

"Yes it is." Jack's words are almost instant, said so quickly following yours that it's obvious it's not something he had to think about, that there's no question for him that taking care of you is something he needs to do, something he wants to do. "Yes it is."

You and Jack just look at each other for fifteen seconds or so, the only sound between you that of the city below filtering up. And then Jack moves, closes the last of the distance between you so that you're right in front of each other. His eyes say more in that moment than they've ever said to you before, a whole declaration of how he feels about you in a single look.

Jack pulls his eyes from yours so that he can appraise your face, appraise your injuries, appraise what happened to you. 

Appraise what he failed to protect you from.

He looks so upset it breaks your heart, his eyes getting glassier every second. He looks devastated, like he'll never quite forgive himself for not being there. You want to throw your arms around him and kiss him and then hold him until he feels better, has forgiven himself. But instead you stand in front of him and let do what he needs to do, let him take whatever it is he needs to take from this.

Jack brings one hand up slowly and starts moving it toward your face, relief flooding his veins when you don't flinch like you did with that patient's husband. He brings his index finger forward and runs his fingertip over your bruised skin, his touch impossibly light and causing you no pain as it moves over your skin, avoiding your stitches. Microexpressions you've learned to read so well flash across his face as his finger moves, guilt and anger and upset and sadness and a consuming sorrow gracing features that are too handsome for his own good and that you've grown to adore, that you've damn near memorized.

His eyes return to yours and a few breaths pass before Jack leans down and in. You flutter your eyes closed, not sure of what his plan is here, not sure if he's about to kiss you or if he's just trying to look at your stitches better or what. You let out the softest gasp when you feel Jack's lips at your jaw below your injured cheek, not because it hurts but because it's unexpected.

He presses his lips against your skin just slightly so as not to cause you pain, moves them up to kiss just above your eyebrow with the same delicacy and then to the bridge of your nose. Something in your heart aches beautifully at the realization that he's kissing as close to your injuries as he possibly can without hurting you.

You can feel his breath ghost over your lips but before you can even start to tilt your head to lean into the kiss he’s gone. You slowly open your eyes, trying to figure out what to say, Jack standing up straight again and watching you. "Jack," you breathe, lost in his gaze again in a second.

"I want you to call me," he whispers, low and gravelly and raw, like he's been choking on these words for far too long. Because he has been.

"I want you. And not just because of this. I've wanted you. We've been dancing around it, I've been making us dance around it and have been holding how I truly feel about you back and not acting on it because it scares me. It scares me how much you mean to me. How much you matter to me. How much I need you." Jack's eyes start to turn a bit glassy as they search yours while he talks. "But what scares me more is the idea of you not calling. Of me not being your first and immediate call."

You both know that calling has stopped being literal for the most part, that this is about being together, being a couple. "Because I wouldn't be able to stand watching you call someone else. And more than that because what if, god forbid, something happens again but next time it's worse? What if it's worse and you don't call me? If nobody calls me? If I'm not called in time?" Jack shakes his head a little, a hint of terror in his eyes at the thought for a moment before he finds the soft reassurance he needs in yours. "I want you to call me. I need you to call me."

"I want you." The last word pulls down, is weighted with the strength of his feelings for you. "I need you." This time the last word pulls up, is breathy and light and calm, a reflection of the way you make him feel. "All of you, all the time, always."

"You've always had me, Jack." You try to swallow back the tears you feel forming again. "I want you and I need you and… I want to be yours."

"You are. You always have been," he nods, a smile ghosting his lips and showing all his feelings for you even with the guilt and anger at himself that his features still hold. "Stay still for me again, yeah? And tell me if it hurts."

You nod and then hold your head still for him as Jack leans back down and in toward you. One hand finds the uninjured side of your face and cups it gently, his thumb just under your cheekbone. His other hand stays on the opposite side, wrapping gently around your neck, his thumb below and slightly to the side of your ear, other fingers pressed just firmly enough against the back of your neck to help keep you steady.

He tilts his head far more than he normally would and leans in so slowly, keeps his eyes open even as you let yours close so that he can see where he is in relation to you and try to keep from bumping your face or squishing your nose hard. Not that you would care if he did because then his lips are on yours in a kiss, so soft and sweet you think it could fix anything.

Jack closes his eyes and kisses you again, and again, lingering and tender, each kiss continuing to feel like it could make anything better. Like Jack could make anything better.

Because he could. Just like you could make anything better for him.

Kissing jack makes you feel safe and protected, two things you've struggled to feel since the attack. And when he pulls back just enough to smile at you and brush this thumb over over the corner of your jaw and under your ear it makes you crack, the emotions you've been doing your best to avoid pouring out because you're safe now and Jack will protect you and being with him, truly being with him, is all you've wanted and you're exhausted and hurting and just want to be able to be not okay for five minutes. And with Jack you know that you can not be okay a whole lot longer than that. You can not be okay for as long as you need.

Jack sees it. Sees you. "Alright, Sweetheart, come here," he murmurs, gently and carefully pulling you into him, letting you get your head settled comfortably against his chest as you start to sob into him. You wrap your arms around him and cling to the back of his scrub top as Jack wraps his arms around you, holding you tight and kissing the top of your head and whispering little reassurances.

You just cry into him for a moment before the words start slipping out. "I wished you were there," you admit through a sob, "I wished you were there and I, it was so scary Jack and I just wanted you there." Your face and head pound with every sob, burning pain consuming what feels like half your face as you continue to cry.

Jack hates it, hates that he can't hold you properly, can't cup the side of your face and hold your head to him, hates that he knows you're not curling into him and crying into him the way you want to because of your face, because of what that man did to you. He hates hearing you cry. He hates knowing you're in pain. And he hates that he wasn't there.

"I knew you'd protect me," you force out through a ragged breath. "And I wanted to call, I knew you'd come, I knew you'd show up for me."

"Always," Jack murmurs just loud enough for you to hear, presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. "I'll always protect you. And I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

"Don't." You shake your head against him a little. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"I know. But I still am and I'm sorry this happened to you, that you're going through this." A warm hand runs up and down your back and it starts to center you.

You let yourself take it and lean into Jack a little further as you continue to cry, let him take a little more of your body weight and envelop you and your senses, his smell that you've come to love, the heat of his body and the sound of his heart beating beneath your ear. If the two of you were laying down you'd fall asleep quickly like this, exhausted from the last few days and the crying and the pain and missing Jack.

"Hey," Jack says softly once you've been quiet for a minute or two, tears slowing. "Look at me." You pull your head away from him just enough and Jack cups the uninjured side of your face again, other arm still wrapped around you. "I know how strong you are. I know you can take care of yourself. You have. You always have, but…"

Jack trails off, eyes searching yours for a moment and then softening into an expression pleading with you to believe him while also telling you there’s no room for argument. "I'm taking care of you now," he whispers.

"I'm taking care of you now, as your partner and lover and best friend." He brushes his thumb over your uninjured cheekbone softly. "And I know I said that taking care of you is my job, but I need you to know that taking care of you is never truly a job or a chore or a burden or something that I feel like I have to do, and it never will be, whether it’s because of injury or illness or your mind. Taking care of you… It's just a part of me. A part of me that I'm lucky to have, that I'm lucky you give me."

"Jack," you breathe, his words helping to heal some forgotten piece of your heart that you feel warm and deep in your chest. You don't look uncomfortable, and you're not. You look like you want him and need him like he needs you, the slightest uncertainty that tells him what he just said is going to be a hard thing for you to believe and accept. But Jack's fine with that. He won't give up. He'll remind you every day if that's what you need. "I feel the same. You know that right? About all of it and about you." Your eyes soften into an expression that tells him you feel about him how he feels about you, that you'd do anything for him, want to help him and care for him and will never view it as a chore or any of the other ways he described it.

Jack smiles softly at you. "I know." And he does. He truly does, even if he, like you, doesn't understand it.

"Good," you murmur, leaning your head into his hand slightly and giving him a small, lopsided smile.

Jack's smile grows and he starts to lean in again, trusting that you'll know what to do and be still for him. "No, wait, stop!" You pull away from him before he can kiss you and Jack immediately steps back and takes his hands off you. "Well no, not like that, not all the way. I just want to clean myself up before you kiss me." You gesture at your runny nose, a byproduct of your crying. With your fracture you're not allowed to blow your nose and you really shouldn't be breathing in through it hard. Plus it just fucking hurts. "You can still touch me," you murmur, "if you want."

"If I want to?" Jack raises a brow at you. "Of course I want to. It's all I want. It’s all I’ve wanted for months." His hands come to rest on your hips, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. "Do we need to go get you some tissues or you wanna use my shirt?" A hint of a smirk pulls up on his lips.

You half roll your eyes at him. "Oh no, I have a bunch. I need them constantly. You never realize how much you inhale hard or blow your nose until you can't." You shake your head as you start to dab at your nose carefully, folding and refolding the tissue until you need another one. "I fucking hate this," you mutter. "It's never ending dabbing and it's gross. You're not going to want me after this."

"Oh as fucking if," Jack laughs, rolling his eyes at you. But he's glad to see you feeling a little better and coming back to yourself, being a little flirty. "You think a runny nose and some mucus is going to scare me away?"

"I mean it could," you shrug with a little teasing smile to tell him you're fucking around as you continue to dab and try to get your nose to stop running. "Fucking god, it just never fucking stops. This is the worst fucking part I swear."

"This is the worst fucking part?" Jack looks at you, a combination of amused and incredulous.

"Yes!" you huff playfully. "Do you know how hard it is to be in bed crying on and off because you're in pain and scared and sad and missing your person and wishing he was there, and, and, and…" you grow flustered realizing the admission you just made, like it's somehow going to be a surprise after everything already said tonight, after getting together. "And just, you know, how hard it is to be crying and not able to blow your nose?"

He hates that you were upset in your bed alone and crying on and off, but your admission about missing him and wishing he was there in your bed with you warms Jack, sends a bolt of pleasure up his spine on instinct because you want him in your bed with you.

"I've had a couple of nose injuries before," he nods. "But I probably wasn't doing as much crying, no." His soft smile pulls into a much larger smirk. "You missed me? Wished I was in your bed with you?"

Neither of you have forgotten what happened to you, what you haven't talked about enough yet, what you need to. But now is not the time or place to get into that conversation and you both know it. And this, this lighthearted flirting and being together, it's healing in its own way.

"Yeah, I wanted you in bed with me, wanted you to hold me and to be able to rest the non-injured side of my face on your shoulder or chest and relax and just feel safe again." You pause for a moment and look at him with slightly creased eyes so that Jack knows just how much you mean it, mean that he makes you feel safe. After a few seconds you let as much of a smirk pull onto your face as possible. "Among other reasons I've thought about extensively before, too."

"Well the good news is that me being in bed with you can be arranged very easily." His hands squeeze your hips as you stuff all your tissues back into your pocket, having gotten your face and nose as good as it's going to get. You both know sex of any kind is going to be off the table for at least a week or so while you get through the worst of the pain. But that doesn't stop you from flirting about it. "And I can't wait to hear more about these other reasons you've thought about extensively," Jack murmurs lowly, voice dripping in lust he doesn't even try to cover.

You step a little closer to him and wrap your arms around his neck, run your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck the way you've always wanted to. "What makes you so sure I'll tell you and not just keep my fantasies to myself?" you murmur back in an equally heady tone.

Jack laughs softly, a short, quiet rumble from the back of his chest as he smiles at you. "I think I'll be able to get you talking, Baby."

Something about him calling you Baby as opposed to Sweetheart sends a bolt of pleasure up your spine now. A breathy, "Yeah?" is all you can get out.

"Mhm," he hums. "Am I allowed to kiss you again now?"

"You're allowed to kiss me forever Jack," you whisper.

A small but adoring and loving smile pulls onto Jack's face as he looks down at you. "That sounds perfect."

I need him desperately 🫠🫠🫠. I hope it was fluffy and comforting at the end and overall okay and enjoyable! I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments, they mean so much to me! And thank you so much for taking the time to read! ♥️

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[fromsil]

──⋅✮ from the start

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ pairing. ex!jack abbot x reader

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ about. ending up at the pittsburgh trauma medical center should have been a delight—so many familiar faces and some of the best doctors you knew. but it was also the very hospital where your ex-husband worked. as you waited for results, time passed getting you closer to the night shift. the dread of seeing him pulled you down memory lane, and every step felt heavier than the last. (wc: 16.000)

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ.ᐟ warnings. angst. smut. age gap (twelve years difference). undertones of daddy issues. heavy on praises. soft dom jack. unprotected sex. undertones of eating disorders. unexperienced reader at first. chubby reader.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤᯓ masterlist.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Santos. I heard you took a fall," said the doctor as she stepped into the cubicle, parting the curtain gently. She was alone, which surprised you—this was a teaching hospital, and doctors were rarely alone for long.

You knew you weren’t a major case, but you’d still hoped someone else might come along. Someone more familiar.

Dr. Santos was pleasant enough. She checked your vitals, your reflexes, and ran through the usual assessments. When everything came back normal, she explained that she was waiting on your lab results before deciding whether you could go home or if more tests were needed. She offered a gentle smile before slipping back through the curtain.

You sighed heavily. You knew exactly what was wrong : a mountain of deficiencies, severe sleep deprivation, and the fact that you hadn’t eaten all day—maybe not even the day before. You had told all that to the paramedics but they had refused to let you go.

“Um, sorry,” Dr. Santos said, pausing before she left completely. She turned back with a curious look. At this look, you raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t help but notice your name, Miss Abbot. Are you related to Dr. Abbot? Are you his daughter?”

You rolled your eyes. You couldn’t really blame her, she must have been new. You hadn’t seen her before. Still, it felt a little unprofessional, though you decided not to comment.

“I’m his ex-wife. Don’t call me Abbot,” you replied—a bit too sharply, but you couldn’t help it. The day had already been bad enough.

“Oh, okay,” she murmured, she’d made things awkward.

“Listen,” you called after her before she was out of earshot. “It’s nothing personal, but is Michael , uh, Dr. Robby, on shift?”

When she nodded quickly, you let out a relieved sigh. “Could you call him here for me? Or Dana?”

“Sure, of course,” she said softly, and disappeared through the curtain once more.

Further down the hall, Dr. Santos reached the nurses’ station, scanning the area for Dana or Robby. Finding neither, she winced, replaying the conversation in her head. She hadn’t worked with Dr. Abbot for long, and yes, she’d noticed the ring—but the woman she’d just seen seemed far too young to have been married to a man his age.

Checking your file again, she saw you were into your early thirties and cringed even harder. The information had been right there. She’d just missed the perfect chance to keep her mouth shut. In her defence, she thought you were not even over 30 yet.

“You need something?” Perlah asked from behind the counter, sitting next to Princess. Both nurses watched as Santos visibly spiralled into an internal breakdown.

Glancing around, Santos switched to Tagalog so the others wouldn’t understand.

“I fucked up,” she muttered. “I called Abbot’s wife his daughter.” She looked genuinely pained just admitting it out loud.

When Princess said your name as a question, she frowned in worry. Santos nodded miserably.

Princess immediately stood up, scanning the room. “She’s here?”

Santos handed over your chart, and the nurses quickly looked through it. Nothing unusual—just another fainting spell. You’d been having them for years, never really taking care of yourself, even though your husband was a doctor.

Still speaking in Tagalog, Perlah smirked. “You didn’t actually call her Abbot, did you?”

“She asked if she was his daughter, you didn't hear?” Princess said, laughing loudly at Santos’s despair.

“What’s going on?” a man’s voice said from behind Santos.

“Dr. Robby!” she exclaimed, jumping at the sudden sound. Quickly, she snatched the tablet out of the nurse’s hands. “I—uh, I have a patient who asked for you by name. Could you take a look at her?”

Frowning, Robby pulled his glasses from the pocket of his scrubs and gently took the tablet from his student’s grasp. Normally, he didn’t do favours—he didn’t examine patients just because they remembered him or he had been recommended. But when his eyes landed on the name at the top of the file, followed by a last name he knew all too well, his frown deepened.

It eased slightly when he saw the reason for your visit, the usual mess.

“Thank you, Santos. I’ll handle this one,” he said quietly, turning and heading toward your cubicle : South 12.

One second, you were walking down the street, rushing to catch the last bus of the night. It was late, and your shift at the restaurant had just ended. You were cold, exhausted, and craving the comfort of your own bed on that bitter winter night.

But God had other plans.

The next thing you registered was the ground beneath you—cold, hard—and a man’s voice cutting through the fog in your head. A bright light flickered across your eyes, then vanished, then returned again.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” the man asked from above you.

Your head was resting on something that wasn’t soft but wasn’t uncomfortable either. The right side of your skull throbbed—a deep, rhythmic pain, as if your heartbeat had migrated behind your eye. Your vision was blurred, the world hazy and spinning. You could feel nausea rising like a wave.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated, more urgently this time.

All you managed was a faint hum. Speaking felt dangerous—like opening your mouth might unleash the sickness clawing at your throat.

“I’m Doctor Jack Abbot,” he said, his voice calm but alert. “Can you tell me your name?”

You whispered it, barely audible, before gagging again. “Gonna throw up,” you croaked—and then you did.

The doctor reacted instantly, rolling you onto your side and supporting your shoulders so you wouldn’t choke. The vomit splattered across his shoes and one strap of his backpack—the same one he’d been using as a makeshift pillow for your head.

When you finally looked up at him, your vision cleared just enough to see the mess, and tears of embarrassment burned your eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered between shallow, trembling breaths. You felt faint, hollow, desperate to just close your eyes and let it all fade.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said softly, his tone steady and kind. “I’ve seen worse, I promise.”

He sat you up gently, guiding you upright so you wouldn’t accidentally rest your hand in your own vomit. Squatting in front of you, he pressed two fingers against your wrist—index and middle—checking your pulse, frowning a little.

He was handsome, in a quiet, rugged sort of way—older than you by at least a decade, if not a bit more. There was something about him that spoke of experience, of someone who had taken a beating from life and somehow come out the other side still standing. Though he couldn’t have been much over thirty-five, streaks of grey threaded through his hair that was still mostly brown, and faint crow’s feet deepened at the corners of his eyes. Freckles dusted his skin, and a light stubble shadowed his jaw.

“You hit your head pretty hard when you fell, ma'am,” he said gently, releasing your wrist and setting it softly on your thigh. “With the nausea, you’ll need a CT scan and some blood work, just to make sure we understand what’s going on.”

And just like that, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the green dial button.

You stopped him before he could press it. You didn’t need a doctor—you’d seen plenty already. You already knew why this was happening.

“It’s anemia,” you whispered, voice thin and shaky. “And a fucking bunch of other deficiencies. Don’t need the ER.”

You pushed yourself up, first to your knees, then to your feet—unsteady, swaying like a newborn deer. The world tilted for a moment, and before you could fall, Jack was there, silent and steady, his hands firm on your shoulders to keep you upright.

He had risen with you without a sound, as if he’d been expecting it.

“Anemia or not, you still hit your head hard enough to cause blurry vision, disorientation and nausea,” he said flatly, not giving you room to argue. “You could have a concussion and if that’s left untreated, it can do some real damage.”

You sighed, watching as he pulled a random towel from his bag to wipe off his shoe and the strap of his backpack. The gesture made you cringe with guilt. Anyone else on this street would’ve taken advantage of you fainting—grabbed your bag, your wallet, maybe even your phone—but he hadn’t.

He didn’t know you. He could’ve just checked that you were breathing and left you there. But you guessed that kind of indifference went against whatever oath he’d taken when he became a doctor. It felt strange, almost disarming, to have this random—and admittedly very handsome—man caring about your health.

Most doctors you’d seen barely looked at you, dismissing your symptoms with a wave and a just eat more iron. They weren’t great, but they were the only ones you could afford.

Now he was picking up his phone again, thumb hovering over the dreaded green button, and panic clawed at your throat.

“I can’t afford the hospital,” you blurted, wincing at how pathetic you sounded. “It’ll ruin me.”

But really, what did he expect? You were a twenty-year-old almost-dropout, working late shifts at a crappy restaurant just to keep a roof over your head. Shitty clothes, shitty apartment, shitty food habits, shittier family—the whole package. You couldn’t just walk into the ER and walk out with a $10,000 debt. Your credit score could barely handle a phone plan.

He hesitated, thumb still suspended above the screen.

Exhaustion was washing over you now—heavy, sinking. You’d already fainted once, and all you wanted was your bed. Just to lie down for a few hours and forget the world existed until you'd have to go to school tomorrow.

No, fuck that. You weren’t going to class tomorrow either. Skipping another lecture meant inching closer to losing your scholarship, but right now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

He sighed and locked his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. His eyes stayed on you, watchful, conflicted. You could practically see the battle playing out behind them. The doctor in him wanted to act, no matter what you’d just said.

“No, fuck!” you blurted suddenly, your gaze snapping away from him.

Your stomach dropped as you watched, helpless, the last bus of the night drove past the two of you.

Tears stung your eyes, your throat tightening with frustration. This was your fault. You shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have wasted time arguing with him. The moment you’d opened your eyes, you should’ve just run—disoriented or not—straight to that damn bus stop.

Missing that bus meant a forty–minute walk back to your flat. After the day you’d just had, you weren’t even sure you could manage that. In defeat, you opened the Uber app on your phone. A twelve–minute drive for twenty bucks—fucking expensive.

“I’ll drive you home,” the doctor said, grabbing his bag by the handle, not the strap. “If you don’t want to go to the ER, at least let me drive you home.”

And you did.

Even though every rational part of your brain screamed it was a terrible idea—dangerous, even—despair had a way of dulling your instincts. You let him. You let him drive you home. You let him give you his number in case you developed symptoms overnight. You let him hand you a small bottle of pills from his bag.

You let him take care of you.

Now, you were sitting in the passenger seat of his car, fidgeting with the pill bottle while he listed off all the possible concussion symptoms and there were a lot, and you listen carefully. When he finally finished, you glanced up at him, exhaustion heavy in your voice.

“Where’s your practice?” you asked, still studying the label on the bottle. You were trying to decide if you’d just stumbled into finding a decent doctor—or if he was one of those who worked on the fancy side of town, near the hospital.

He scoffed softly, a faint smirk curving his lips. “Don’t have one, sweetheart.”

What?

Your head snapped toward him so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Panic shot through your chest, your heart skipping a few beats. He wasn’t a doctor? He’d said he was a doctor. You looked down at the pills again—there was no way you were taking anything from that bottle. You’d throw them out the second you got inside.

Before you could come up with a polite excuse to thank him and bolt, you heard him laugh quietly from behind the wheel.

“I’m a medic,” he said, glancing at you with that same infuriating smirk. “In the army.”

As if to reassure you further, he reached into the back seat, rummaged for a moment, then dropped a military ID into your lap. There it was. Jack Abbot, his photo a few years younger but still undeniably him. All his information was printed neatly on the plastic card.

Oh. Yeah. He really was twelve years older than you.

Weirdly, that realization made you squeeze your thighs together just a little. Unconsciously.

At the top of the card, his rank was listed—or rather, it wasn’t. Just five bold, capital letters : MEDIC.

“Oh,” you breathed out, relieved. He could’ve mentioned that earlier, would’ve saved you the brief heart attack.

That realization hit you like a delayed punch : you’d just gotten into a stranger’s car and given him your real address. He didn’t seem like the type to show up unannounced, but still—he was a man, a soldier, the kind that get protected by the system. The thought sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Go home and sleep, kid,” he said when you stayed quiet. “And call me if anything feels off. I’m in town for another month before I’m off again.”

You nodded meekly, gathering your bag and placing his ID carefully on the dash. Looking back at him, you managed a small smile — a quiet thank you — before reaching for the door handle.

Before you could step out, a warm, steady hand closed gently around your wrist.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, the tone leaving no room for doubt. “Anything. It’s already killing me to let you go without a CT scan, so… don’t die on me, okay?”

“Promise,” you said softly, meaning it. For once, you were genuinely grateful—grateful he hadn’t forced you into a hospital, and even more grateful that, just for a moment, someone had treated you like you mattered.

That night, you went to sleep convinced you’d never see him again—just another fleeting moment with a stranger who’d been kind. You didn’t know you’d end up calling him the very next day, after an hour spent throwing up.

You didn’t know that call would be the start of a thirteen–year relationship.

The curtain was yanked open, startling you as you sat on the bed, half-distracted by a game on your phone. Waiting,for what, exactly? You weren’t even sure anymore.

“Not gonna lie and say it’s a pleasure to see you,” Robby said as he stepped inside, giving you a quick once-over, his eyes scanning for any symptoms Dr. Santos might have missed. When he found none, his expression softened. He stepped closer and pulled you into a brief hug. “Never under these circumstances, but… it’s still good to see you.”

You sighed into his shoulder and hugged him back, just as quickly. It really was nice to see a familiar face.

“I told them to take me to West Penn,” you started, naming the other town hospital, “but the paramedics refused. Said it was your zone.”

The look he gave you was pure disbelief—unimpressed, knowing you were full of it.

“Okay,” you admitted with a small eye-roll. “I told them not to take me to a hospital, and after they said no, I asked for West Penn. I was married to a doctor for twelve years, Mike. I know what’s wrong with me.”

He didn’t look convinced, not that you expected him to. Doctors never liked that line. Neither did nurses.

“Clearly not, if you ended up here,” he said, sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose before glancing at your chart on the tablet. He sighed, no lab results yet. It was a busy day.

“How long has it been since you last passed out?” he asked, turning away to grab the blood pressure monitor.

“I don’t know… over a year, I think.” His back was still to you when you hesitated, debating whether to add the next part. “I didn’t eat today. That’s why I fainted,” you mumbled, already regretting it the second the words left your mouth.

Robby’s reaction was instant. He froze mid-step, then spun around to face you, eyes wide and a deep frown creasing between his brows.

“I felt under the weather this morning,” you rushed to explain, your tone softer—not because he was angry, but because you could feel the worry radiating off him. “It’s nothing like before, Mike. I promise.”

He sighed, whatever was running through his head, he kept it to himself. Silently, he wrapped the cuff around your arm and took your blood pressure. His brow furrowed when the numbers flashed slightly above average, though that could’ve meant anything—stress, exhaustion, or the sheer weariness written all over your face.

Someone called his name from outside, and he sighed again. Standing up, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your head, a quiet, instinctive gesture of comfort. Almost paternal.

“Still waiting on your labs, but I’ll be back, okay?” he said, setting the monitor back in its place. “Try to rest a bit. I’ll have someone bring you food.”

You nodded, leaning back on the gurney. “Think you can find a blanket?” you asked with a small smirk, knowing full well he would.

He smiled at the question, rolling his eyes as he headed out, leaving you behind.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow breath. It was comforting, being surrounded by people you knew—friends, even—but the comfort only went so far. What you really wanted was to be home.

Your gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. Two hours until 7 p.m. already. Anxiety curled tight in your stomach. You didn’t want to still be in this hospital when that hour came.

He was leaving in a few days. He’d told you the last time you saw him—casual, like it was nothing, though you’d felt something inside you tighten at the words. It had been a few weeks since you had passed out on the street.

It wasn’t as if you were sick all the time. You didn’t have a list of chronic conditions, just the quiet fallout of years spent ignoring your own needs—prescriptions left to expire, symptoms brushed off, fatigue you called normal. He’d seen through all of it in minutes, like reading a language only he could understand.

Every time you found yourself at the Military Hospital—where you had no real right to be—he was there. You weren’t military, but that was where he worked when he wasn’t deployed.

He’d lied once, called you family just to get you through the doors. The nurses had known, of course. They always did. Their glances lingered longer than necessary, curious but silent. No one ever said a word.

Each time you left, he handed you a prescription : vitamins, supplements, the bare minimum to keep you standing—and repeated the same thing, soft but firm: “Take care of yourself, kid.”

You never did. Not because you wanted an excuse to see him again—though sometimes that was part of it—but because life was too heavy, too fast. Eating properly, sleeping eight hours, keeping yourself whole… it all felt impossible.

And maybe, deep down, you knew he’d show up when things got bad enough.

Now, you were back in the hospital waiting room, the faint antiseptic smell clinging to your clothes. You’d texted him about the rash spreading across your skin, the burning, the itching that wouldn’t stop and some stomach pains, and he’d told you to meet him here.

You’d arrived before he did. The minutes dragged. You stared at the door every time it opened, pretending you weren’t waiting for him—even though you were.

When he stepped through the sliding doors, you sat up immediately. His eyes found you right away, a soft smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t come over—just gave a small tilt of his head before heading toward the office area, knowing you’d follow.

Inside, once the door closed behind you, he pulled on a pair of gloves and glanced over. His gaze lingered on your neck, where dozens of tiny red spots bloomed across your skin like a rash of needles.

“Take your clothes off please,” he said gently, already turning to the computer to pull up your chart.

You froze. You’d known it was coming, but the words still hit hard. You hated showing your body, hated the idea of anyone seeing it—even yourself most of the times. Two men had, in your entire life, and only once each. You tried to reason with yourself : he’s a doctor, he’s seen everything.

But the thought didn’t help. Your mind whispered that yours would be the worst one yet.

Still, your body moved on autopilot. You peeled off your leggings and sweater, left in a T-shirt and your underwear. That should be enough, you told yourself. Without realizing it, your arms wrapped tight around your middle, shoulders drawn in, stomach pulled flat.

When Jack turned back, his brow furrowed—first at the clothes you still wore, then at how small you were making yourself. He didn’t say anything. He just approached, the sound of the gloves faint as he flexed his fingers.

“Lie down,” he said quietly, nodding toward the exam bed. His voice was softer now, almost careful—like he was reminding you he wouldn't hurt you. He watched as you lay back on the exam bed, your hands still locked protectively over your stomach.

His gaze moved slowly, tracing the faint white spots scattered across your legs and arms. As gently as he could, he reached for your wrists, guiding your hands down to rest at your sides. At his touch, your eyes fluttered shut, and you took a long, shaky breath.

Then his hands moved to your abdomen, lifting your shirt just enough to press along your stomach and lower. His touch was steady, clinical, careful not to linger more than needed. When he was sure nothing hurt, he lifted the stethoscope to your chest, first listening to your heart, then your lungs. Everything sounded normal.

“You can get dressed,” he said softly, stepping back.

You sat up, your movements small and quiet, pulling your clothes back on. From his chair behind the desk, Jack’s eyes flicked toward you once more—catching the single tear that slipped down your cheek before you wiped it away. He didn’t comment, but he noticed everything. Years in the field had taught him that silence often hid pain deeper than any wound.

But you weren’t a soldier. You were just a young woman who looked exhausted and scared and so, so fragile—and something about that broke his heart a little.

“It’s nothing serious,” he said finally, eyes fixed on the computer screen so he wouldn’t make you more uncomfortable. “Looks like an allergic reaction. Probably to the supplements. Have you been eating?”

Your gaze shifted toward him as you tied your shoes. He still didn’t look up, his fingers moving across the keyboard—and that’s exactly when your stomach growled, loud and unapologetic in the quiet room. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been eating on purpose—but finals had been yesterday and today, stacked between two double shifts at the restaurant. By the time you got home, you’d been more exhausted than hungry.

This morning had been no different. You’d studied for hours before heading to campus, then straight to work. The only reason you were even here now was because your boss had taken one look at you and sent you home.

“Didn’t have time today,” you mumbled, not sure why it sounded like an apology.

At your words, Dr. Abbot frowned and glanced down at his watch. It was late, meaning you hadn’t eaten in at least twelve hours. You didn’t like that look on his face, the one that said he was quietly putting pieces together. The longer he stayed silent, the deeper your guilt dug in. You started biting the inside of your cheek, wishing he’d just say something instead of thinking.

“You’re off to work after?” he asked finally, eyes flicking between your face and the computer screen. His tone was neutral—like it was part of the exam—so you answered without question.

“No. They sent me home for the night,” you said with a weak laugh. “Thought I had chickenpox.”

He hummed softly, writing something on his tablet before looking back at you. This time, his gaze was steady, deliberate—a kind of quiet resolve behind it.

“Alright,” he said, standing as he stripped off his gloves and shut down the computer. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in tone. “We’re going to pick up your prescriptions at the pharmacy—they’ll be under my name, so you won’t have to pay for them.”

You frowned immediately. That couldn’t be legal. But before you could even form the words, he kept going.

“Then,” he continued, slinging his bag over his shoulder, “we’re going to a little diner a few blocks from here. My treat.”

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. He wanted to take you out to eat.

It was the first time a man had ever really asked you out—or maybe you’d just been too tangled in your own insecurities to notice when someone had tried before. But this felt different. Jack wasn’t giving you time to overthink it, he was leading, steady and certain, and all you had to do was follow.

Maybe you were just reading it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t kindness or interest, maybe it was pity. It had to be pity.

Jack had always had a big heart, and he’d proved it time and time again—treating you, checking in, never asking for a cent. This was probably just another act of compassion from a man who couldn’t help but take care of people who needed it.

“I—I, hum…” You tried to find your words, to come up with a reasonable excuse—any reason why you shouldn’t go, why this wasn’t a good idea.

But before you could say anything, he was already at the door, his bag slung over one shoulder. He looked back at you with that same calm smile, one corner of his mouth lifting as he tilted his head toward the hallway.

“Right. Perfect. Let’s go,” he said simply.

And somehow, you did—ending up with a paper bag full of new supplements in your purse and a seat on the cushioned side of a booth in a small diner. Jack sat across from you in the chair, one arm resting casually on the table.

Your eyes kept flicking between the menu, the man in front of you, and the plates of food passing by, steaming, heavy, full of things you’d never let yourself eat. But it was all so tempting. You wished your brain wasn't working the way it did.

Everything looked so rich, so caloric. That was why you hated eating out—especially with someone like Jack. Someone calm, handsome, and kind. You didn’t want him to think you ate too much. You didn’t want him to see you that way, greedy, weak, unable to control yourself.

You scanned the menu frantically, chasing numbers more than ingredients, until you found the lowest-calorie option: a simple Caesar salad. You didn’t even like it, but that didn’t matter. It was safe. It was cheap.

Not that Jack cared about price—he’d told you the moment you sat down to order whatever you wanted. “Doesn’t matter what it costs,” he’d said, smiling in that calm, unshakable way of his.

But it mattered to you. Everything always did.

He’d already done too much for you—the prescriptions, the appointments, the concern. You weren’t about to let him pay for an expensive meal on top of it. Even if the smell of the mac and cheese made your stomach twist with hunger every time a plate passed your table.

The waitress had mentioned it was their special, the house favourite. "Best one in the whole area," she had explained with a big smile. And it smelled incredible.

But your doubts were louder than your hunger. They always were. So while you stared at the menu, trying to look decisive, your thoughts tangled into shame and calculations — all while missing the way Jack’s eyes quietly followed you.

He noticed everything.

The way you bit your lip, lost in thought. The way your gaze lingered on every plate of mac and cheese that went by, the longing there, and the guilt that chased it.

So when the waitress came back, notepad ready, and asked if you’d decided, you opened your mouth to order.

“A Caesar—” “We’ll have two mac and cheeses, please.”

Jack’s voice cut through yours—calm, confident, louder, impossible to argue with. He handed both menus back to the waitress before you could react, a polite smile still on his lips.

“Excellent choice!” she said brightly, jotting it down before walking away.

You just stared at him, wide-eyed, too stunned to speak.

Across the table, Jack only smiled—those gentle eyes framed by faint crow’s feet, the kind that came from his older years. His gaze held yours, steady and unreadable, like he was daring you to argue.

“They said it’s the best around,” he said at last, the corners of his mouth curving into a soft smirk. “Might as well find out for ourselves, right?”

As the night went on, the conversation stayed a little awkward.

Jack talked about his work, asked about college, and you answered—but your words were always short, cautious, like you were afraid of saying the wrong thing. The more he talked, the more you realized how different the two of you were.

He spoke about his patients with a quiet kind of passion, about the army, about the places he’d seen and the people he’d helped. You found yourself fascinated by his calmness, by the certainty in his voice—but the feeling came with a weight in your chest.

Because while he spoke like a man who had built a life, you were still just trying to get through yours.

It had been years since you’d left home, and you still didn’t have things figured out. You were balancing classes and shifts, held together by caffeine and sheer panic. Your head was filled with doubts, worries and family issues. You were a mess. You weren’t living—not really. You were surviving.

And Jack? He was educated. Grounded. Kind. His life seemed steady, built on purpose and compassion—everything yours wasn’t.

Still, he never made you feel small. Never talked down to you, never made you feel like a child—apart from the small "kid" he sometimes called you. He listened when you spoke, asked questions, even smiled at the little things you said as if they mattered. As if he cared.

That night, he made sure you finished your plate, ordered dessert, and even watched as you took your supplements. He acted like someone who cared, really cared and it was messing with your head.

For the first time in your life, a man wasn’t asking for something from you. He was just making sure you were fed, comfortable, warm. He joked with you, dropped small compliments between sips of his coffee, and listened when you spoke.

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

As the night went on, you could feel your body reacting to the attention—the way his eyes lingered when you spoke, the weight of his voice when he said your name. You pressed your thighs together beneath the table, trying to quiet the restless hum in your chest. It was too much.

So when you finally stepped outside and the cold night air hit your face, you breathed out a shaky kind of relief.

Of course, he drove you home. The ride was quiet, the low hum of a song filling the silence while Jack talked—gently but firmly—about what you needed to do when he was away. Take your supplements. Eat properly. Sleep.

When he parked in front of your building, he turned off the engine and looked at you. The car went still, the music fading into the background.

“You have to promise me, sweetheart,” he said softly, his gaze steady and warm.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, suddenly feeling small. It wasn’t scolding, not really—but he didn’t trust you to take care of yourself, and you couldn’t blame him. You’d proven him right before.

Still, something inside you wanted to change that. Wanted to make him proud. Wanted to hear him say you’d done well. The thought settled somewhere deep in you, stubborn and growing stronger every time you saw him.

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

When you opened the door two months later and saw Jack standing there, a sharp gasp escaped your lips.

His hair was shorter now more neat and strict—missing the soft curls you’d grown used to running your fingers through in your imagination. He’d filled out a little too, the new muscle was subtle, but you noticed.

His smile was gentle but tired, the kind that hinted at long nights and too many miles. His eyes, though as warm and steady as you remembered them—found yours as if no time had passed at all.

You didn’t know what took over you. Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the simple fact that he was here, barely back and already standing at your door. Maybe it was the months of silence pressing against your chest. The months of imagining what could be if you had a bit more confidence, if you were more.

Before you could think, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

For a second, he froze, surprise flickering across his features. Then his arms wrapped around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you closer until your body moulded to his. His low hum vibrated between you—deep and satisfied—when he felt the soft weight of your stomach against him.

You’d listened to him. You’d eaten.

He could see it right away, the colour back in your cheeks, the light in your eyes no longer dimmed by exhaustion. You looked alive, and that alone eased something tight in his chest.

When you kissed him, he didn’t hesitate for long. In a heartbeat, he took the lead, his hands finding your hips as he guided you gently inside. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, sealing the two of you off from the world.

His palms lingered at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs tracing the soft curve of your skin as though memorizing it. He could fell fat on the bone, more than when he had left. A small, satisfied smile ghosted over his lips against yours.

“You listened, didn’t you, sweetheart?” he murmured when he finally pulled back, his breath still brushing your mouth. You hummed, nodding faintly. That earned you a wider smile—one that reached his tired eyes. “Good girl.”

With those words, a small—and, if you were honest, pathetic—whine slipped from your throat. No one had ever praised you for something so small. No one had ever praised you at all. Growing up, that kind of affirmation had been foreign to you, and now here he was, saying it so easily it made your head spin.

Your legs brushed the edge of your bed. It wasn’t hard to reach—your bedroom was also your living room, and your kitchen. The second the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sank down, your lips breaking away from his as you caught your breath.

Jack’s pupils were blown, his gaze locked on you with a kind of focus that made your chest tighten. You watched as he dropped his bag to the floor, toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat, letting both fall in a careless heap. When the cold air of your apartment met his bare forearms, goosebumps rose instantly along his skin. It was still winter, and the chill in the room didn’t go unnoticed.

His eyes moved back to you, trailing over your worn-in comfort clothes—thick socks, matching sweats, and an long-sleeved T-shirt peeking out beneath the sweatshirt. The blanket and two comforters thrown over your bed told him everything he needed to know about the cold.

"You don’t turn the heater on?" he asked carefully, peeking around as if trying to find one.

"Doesn’t work," you mumbled. But even if it did, it was too expensive to run. The windows—even tightly shut—let so much wind through that it would only be a waste of energy and money.

He scoffed not mocking you, but angry at the building. This wasn’t a normal temperature, and with how many deficiencies you had, the cold wouldn’t help. It would be easy for you to catch something with your immune system running lower than average.

You could see the doctor in him getting angry for reasons you didn’t quite understand. When he finally shook his head, his eyes softened again, filling with something warm—desire, maybe. Kneeling before you, he made your breath catch in your throat. This was starting to feel too real.

Kissing had felt nice—safe, even—especially because you were still fully dressed. So when his hand reached your sock-clad feet, nerves fluttered in your chest. His hands moved slowly upward, gliding over your legs but staying on top of your clothes. His eyes never left you, watching, analysing every breath you took, every flicker of anxiety that made your gaze dart away.

"Gonna let me take care of you?" he cooed, his calloused fingers rubbing slow, comforting circles into your calves. "You earned it, being so good for me," he murmured, his hands travelling up to your thighs, kneading the soft skin like a cat making biscuits.

Hesitation crossed your mind. It was that never-dying thought you’d carried for years : he’s going to think you’re disgusting.

That little voice had always been there the one that made you so inexperienced, that kept you away from men who showed interest. Every time, you convinced yourself it was a joke, a bet, maybe even a challenge they’d set for themselves.

"Sweetheart?" Jack’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, his fingers now resting on your hips. They’d stopped moving when you didn’t respond. His eyes were still soft, but there was a flicker of doubt in them—you could see it. "You can say no."

And somehow, those words reassured you. It was strange being given a choice, not that your other partners hadn’t—but they hadn’t been so concerned with you. You wanted him to continue, but expressing it was harder than you thought.

"Yes," you said, your big eyes locked on his, filled with an innocence he couldn’t miss.

"Yes, what?" he asked softly, an eyebrow rising as he tried to suppress the smirk threatening to appear. He knew exactly what you meant, but he needed you to say it clearly.

Looking away from his probing gaze, your fingers fumbled nervously while your teeth bit your lips. It was hard to voice what you wanted—especially with a gorgeous man looking at you the way Jack did, as if you were his entire world. Confusing, since you’d only known each other for a couple of months.

"Yes, I—huh, I want…" you stumbled over your words, more nervous than you had ever been. "I want you to do it," you finally whispered, barely audible. Even in your head, it was still hard to ask him to take care of you.

But Jack didn’t tease. He didn’t mock. He only smiled and nodded, letting his fingers drift upward until they rested on your cheeks, gently tilting your face so your eyes met his. Pushing on his feet, he pulled you into a gentle kiss, so soft it almost made you tear up.

"Take your sweatshirt off, sweetheart," he murmured against your lips. It wasn’t a question, nor an order but something in his tone made you do it.

Once it was done, he asked you to lie back on your pillows. And you did. You didn’t know why it was so easy with Jack. You still hated the way your stomach pressed against your shirt, the way your hips filled your sweatpants completely, and how your thighs rubbing together had worn out the fabric a bit.

Yet, you didn’t feel the need to hide. Not right now. Not with Jack.

Crawling onto the bed next to you, Jack’s fingers lingered at the rim of your sweatpants, his eyes asking questions without words. Without giving yourself time to hesitate, you nodded quickly. If you thought about it too much, that little voice in your head would return. Closing your eyes, you didn’t want to see his landing on your body.

When the cold wind of the room brushed your bare legs, you tried to calm your beating heart with a shaky breath but it didn’t really work.

"So beautiful," he whispered against your skin. Jack didn’t push you to open your eyes or to speak—he wanted you to do it your way. Still, his lips traced gentle kisses across your bare stomach as he nudged your shirt slightly upward. They moved from hip to hip, leaving soft kisses and tiny nips.

"You hide all that from me, sweetheart? Didn’t want me to go crazy too soon?" he teased lightly. You could hear the smirk in his voice. You desperately wanted to see it, but you couldn’t open your eyes—not yet.

A shaky, breathy laugh left your lips as you peeked a little at the scene. The sight only made you whine, and you felt your panties dampen slightly. His lips were still pressing against your stomach and hips, sometimes brushing close to your mound—but his eyes, his eyes, were locked on your face. He watched like a hawk, memorizing you and your small expressions.

When your eyes met, his lips didn’t stop—no, they got braver. This time, they moved closer and closer to between your legs, wetting the cotton of your panties. A dreadful feeling made your eyes widen.

You felt his lips press against your pubes. It was so sudden, being here with him like this, that you hadn’t had time to take care of yourself down there—or anywhere, for that matter. In seconds, you noticed how prickly your legs felt with hair, the way his lips pressed against the untrimmed pubes, and how itchy your armpits had become.

"I haven’t—huh, I…" you stammered, hands shooting to his head, trying to push him away. In response, he let you move his head away from your body, though his hands remained firmly on your hips.

"What, sweetheart? You haven’t had someone between your legs?" he asked, genuine concern and care in his voice. It wasn’t judgment, nor misplaced curiosity—it was true interest in your pleasure.

That realization hit you: this was another thing you had to tell him. No one had been between your legs—not with their head, not with fingers. "No, I mean… yeah, that too, but…" you mumbled, trying to catch your breath. "I didn’t shave."

"Okay," he said immediately. His eyes were calculating, boring into yours as he tried to understand what you meant. "Does it bother you?" he asked, frowning slightly, searching for an answer.

In his head, he didn’t understand why you would let that stop him. He had felt the hair beneath his lips—it didn’t bother him at all.

"Shouldn’t it bother you?" you asked, confused.

That made his eyebrow rise so high it almost made him look mad. Although he wasn’t, you could see in his eyes—there wasn’t a trace of anger. "Why would I be bothered, kid?" he asked, wanting to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Frowning in confusion, you looked away from his eyes, your gaze locking on the ceiling. Your fingers were still threaded through his hair, and you noticed just then how soft it felt. "I don’t know… just a common thing," you murmured.

No sooner had the words left your lips than his face was right above yours. "Guess that makes me uncommon then, ‘cause I really don’t care. Now… does it bother you to the point you want me to stop, sweetheart?"

Seeing only truth and genuine care in his eyes, you shook your head no, letting him know you wanted him to keep going. With a happy smirk, he kissed your nose before disappearing back between your legs.

He didn’t wait this time, sliding your panties off and leaving you bare from the waist down. Your eyes stayed locked on the ceiling, open this time but not ready to look down. You felt movement on the mattress and imagined he had settled in comfortably. For what? You didn’t know.

He pressed his body between your legs, opening them little by little until your thighs rested on either side of his head—the warm weight of his shoulders grounding you. One of his arms cradled your thighs, while his hand rested lightly on your mound, playing softly with your pubes without a care in the world.

"Nobody ever took good care of this pretty pussy then?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. He knew he was pushing with his words, but it was his way of helping you relax. "A shame," he added, planting a small kiss on your clit that made your hips jump. "She’s too pretty to be ignored, sweetheart."

His words were crude, filthy, but you’d be lying if they didn’t warm your entire body. If they didn’t send chills down your spine at the sound of his low, commanding voice. No one had ever taken their time with you like this, and combined with his gentle praises, it was getting to you—way faster than you had anticipated.

Casually, he rested his head on your thigh as he worked his fingers gently. They started like ghosts, barely lingering over your clit and pussy lips. It wasn’t teasing—it was getting you used to the feeling. His eyes shifted from his fingers to your face as you closed your eyes again. He watched as your chest rose quickly with the shallow breaths you were trying to control.

A small laugh escaped his lips at the sight; you were so exquisite, and you had no idea. It was hard to suppress the urge to ravish you but he wouldn’t do that. That would scare you off, and he definitely wanted you to stay.

Barely turning his face toward your inner thigh, he left a soft kiss there before settling into his work. His fingers now traced controlled circles on your clit, while the thumb of his other hand exposed the little bean of your hood. He chuckled softly—this felt almost clinical. It wasn’t, but he had to teach you how to feel, and he would.

It didn’t matter how long it took. It would take as long as you body needed, he wasn't in any hurry.

You were trying to control your breathing, especially as his fingers moved so heavenly against your clit. It was a completely new sensation, something you had never felt before. The two times you’d had sex, it hadn’t felt like this at all. He wasn’t rushing—his fingers took their time. Small circles rubbed your clit, then wandered lower to your wetness, only to return again to your clit.

It was fascinating how wet you were. Even when you had tried on your own, it had never been like this. This man and his words were doing unfamiliar, impossible things to you.

His lips returned to your clit in soft, fleeting pecks that still made your hips lift off the mattress. The feeling was strange—almost overwhelming—and you weren’t sure if you liked it. The voice in your head tried to whisper doubts, but the moment his tongue flicked gently against your clit, that voice vanished, leaving only pleasure in its wake.

He kept at it, patient and attentive, while your eyes stayed shut tight. His tongue grew bolder with every gasp and whine that escaped your lips—small kitten licks turned into slow, deliberate strokes, and sometimes he even sucked gently on the sensitive little bud. Each time he did, your thighs instinctively tightened around his head. He didn’t seem to mind, though you tried to hold yourself back.

“Don’t,” he murmured between breaths, his voice rough but calm. “Don’t try to control it. Just let yourself feel, yeah? You’re not hurting me.”

As his lips left you for only a moment, his tongue was replaced by his fingers, skilled, sure, and patient. Then he combined them. His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles over your clit while his lips wandered—kissing your mound, your lower lips, your inner thighs. He was everywhere at once, and it felt delirious.

After a few minutes of this careful buildup, you finally opened your eyes. At first, you kept them on the ceiling, afraid to look down. Your breathing quickened as your thoughts started to spiral but when you did lower your gaze, the sight stole every bit of air from your lungs.

He was looking right at you. His head rested against your thigh, eyes locked on yours, steady, unhurried, full of patience. He looked like he could stay there forever.

“Ever had something inside, baby?” he asked softly, voice low and coaxing, careful not to startle you.

Still keeping eye contact, you nodded your head. Normally, a question like that from a man like him would have made you shrink with discomfort—but with Jack, it felt different. His tone was so gentle, so matter-of-fact, it didn’t awaken the voice in your head. It didn’t make you question yourself. It didn’t bring the anxiety back.

In answer, he gave you a soft smile and a raised eyebrow—then pressed another kiss to your thigh, right before laying a deeper one on your clit, replacing the fingers that now drifted toward your soaked opening.

When his middle finger slipped inside you, a long breath escaped your lips. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but it didn’t hurt either. At first, it felt no different from when you’d tried it yourself : numb and strange. But then he moved—slowly, steadily—in and out, while his lips stayed on your clit.

Maybe it was the double stimulation, or maybe it was just the way he knew how to move his finger, but something started to change. A deep, unfamiliar tension began to coil low in your belly, pulling your muscles tight and making you want to squeeze your thighs together to chase that feeling, to make it stronger.

A few minutes later—though it could’ve been hours for all you knew—Jack added a second finger. Your eyes flew open, meeting his immediately. The sight of him, focused so intently on you, almost undid you completely. It was too much—his gaze, his touch, the way pleasure kept blooming faster than you could catch it.

It was ridiculous, almost shameful, how little it took. Just a few minutes of his fingers thrusting in and out, curling inside to find that small, special spot in you before pulling back and doing it all over again. His lips closed around your clit in soft suctions, alternating with gentle licks and whispered sweet nothings.

It was all dizzying, and before you knew it, the tight coil that had been growing in your lower belly since he started snapped. Your back arched off the bed as your hands landed on his head, your fingers tangling in his short hair. Instinctively, your thighs tried to clamp down around him, but the hand that wasn’t busy held them apart, letting him savour the fruits of his effort even more.

Had you opened your eyes, you would have seen him, dreadful in a way, caught between your legs, watching and admiring the way your body reacted to him. But you were lost in your own little world of pleasure, something you had never experienced before. It was surreal. You had never believed your friends when they talked about sex—the few times you had tried it yourself had always felt dull.

“Fucking perfect,” you heard him murmur as you came back to yourself, your back landing on the mattress and your legs going lax over his shoulders.

You felt his fingers slip out softly, just as he pressed one last kiss to your clit. Looking down at the same time, you saw him put his fingers in his own mouth, eyes locked on you again. Heat rose to your cheeks and neck, and your hands flew up to hide your face reflexively. Everything he did was just so hot, it was almost overwhelming.

“Felt good, right, sweetheart?” his voice cooed in your ear as he crawled over your body, pressing kisses to the hands still covering your face.

Even with the dread creeping in, you felt the need to answer. So you simply nodded—fast and firm—wanting him to know it had felt good. More than good, in fact. He let out a soft laugh before pressing two more kisses to your hands. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

And then he was gone. Completely gone from the bed.

His disappearance made your hands drop from your face as a shiver of shame ran through you. You had given yourself so easily—and he was already going? Maybe this was just how it worked. Maybe he only wanted to release some tension before leaving. Sitting up on your elbow, you scanned the room, expecting to see him putting on his shoes—but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jack was approaching the bed again, a towel in hand. His own hands were slightly damp, probably from washing. He smiled at you, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips, as he knelt beside you. Without a word, still holding your gaze, he pressed the warm towel gently between your legs, making your hips jerk instinctively.

“Shhh, I know, I know,” he cooed, his other hand brushing your hair off your forehead. His touch—so careful, so attentive—almost made you want to cry. But you didn’t. Instead, you took a deep, shaky breath and let yourself fall back onto the mattress.

With still-gentle hands, he helped you pull your panties back on while coaxing you into bed. It was still early—not even midnight—but you obeyed anyway. With wide, doe eyes, you watched him slip back into the bathroom, only to pause in front of the bed for a few seconds.

“You don’t want to…?” The words caught in your throat, but you knew he would understand the meaning behind them.

With a careful smile, he shook his head. “That’d be a bit too much for you, wouldn’t it?”

You returned a tight smile, grateful he wouldn’t push you into anything. You would have said yes, ready to please him just as he had pleased you, even though you had been overwhelmed by just his fingers. So, with sad eyes, you watched him as you lay in bed, growing sleepier with each passing minute.

But he didn’t leave. He simply took off his pants and socks, then slid in beside you, pulling the blankets over both of you. It was still cold in your flat, and the warmth of him next to you made you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding—relieved. Relieved that maybe he liked you as much as you liked him, at least enough to stay the night.

Curling around him, you pressed your face to his chest, inhaling his scent in a deep, calming breath. He felt so comfortable, so familiar—it made no sense. But in that moment, you told yourself you never wanted him out of your life.

If only you had known how many sleepless, tear-filled nights that thought would one day bring.

Almost all of the day-shift students were gathered around the nurses’ desks, whispering questions and theories about you to Princess, in hope she answered their questions.

“She looks so young… didn’t take Abbot to have a younger wife!” Santos said, surrounded by Whitaker, Javani, and Princess. Santos had been the only one of them to actually see you—even if Princess had known you from your years married to Abbot, she hadn't seen you today.

“Like, young young?” Whitaker asked, confused and a little taken aback.

Princess just rolled her eyes, laughing softly. She had always loved gossip, and your ending up in the ER was creating the juiciest stories.

“She’s legal, Huckleberry,” Santos shook his head at his own dumb question. “She’s 33, but I’m telling you, she looks way younger.”

At that moment, McKay chose to join the conversation, clearly enjoying the gossip too. “They’ve been married 12 years,” she informed the group, leaning on the high desk her eyes still on her patient chart on the iPad.

The three students immediately turned toward her. Javani’s eyes were so wide it looked like they might pop out of her head.

“She married at 21?” Victoria asked, trying to wrap her head around how someone only a year older than her could marry a man 12 years her senior.

“Hum hum,” McKay confirmed, laughing at their faces. Meeting Princess’s eyes, they both continued chuckling.

“A year into dating,” Princess added, her eyes still on the patient chart she was filling out.

“Okay, now you’re fucking with us,” Santos replied, rolling his eyes and getting ready to leave the group behind. But McKay wasn’t finished.

“She has a lot of chronic deficiencies and other small things that kept coming up,” McKay began, locking her tablet and glancing back at the students. “They got married so she could have his army insurance and all the other benefits while he was away. It was before his… hum… accident.”

Both Whitaker and Javani were about to ask more questions, while Santos remained deep in thought. The way McKay and Princess had briefly talked about your marriage had made it seem sweet, if a little rushed. How could it go from that to you almost snapping at her for calling you Mrs. Abbot?

“Don’t you all have things to do instead of spreading things you shouldn’t?” Dana’s voice cut through the small group, scattering around the ER at his voice, in search of something to occupy themselves.

Her sharp eyes landed on Princess, still at her desk charting, a smug smile tugging at her lips. The smile only widened when she met Dana’s gaze, shaking her head with a small laugh.

“You know better, Princess,” Dana said, but the lingering chuckle in her tone made it clear that Princess wasn’t in any real trouble.

“It’s not like it’s ever not the main topic for a few days whenever she visits,” Princess shrugged as she stood, checking on a patient. “Gossip runs fast, it’s not my fault.”

Dana was left alone at the main desk, laughing softly at what her nurse had said. It was true—whenever you visited your ex-husband, everyone gossiped about it for days. How young you looked, how beautiful you were, how the hell Abbot had managed to land someone like you.

Dana liked you, a lot. She had always thought you were a good thing for Jack, with your sweet, confident nature. From what you had told her, you hadn’t always been this way. Abbot had taught you how to be yourself, how to carry yourself with confidence. Years with him had shaped you into the person you were now, and you always spoke of Jack with love and adoration.

And then, one day, Jack had arrived with your ring around his neck.

Dana hadn’t had time to see you today. Robby had said you were sleeping and had asked for food to be delivered. Dana had overseen the delivery, but she had been so swamped with work she hadn’t even had a chance to check in. Locking her tablet, she finally glanced at your chart.

The lab results were back. Her eyes scanned the page until they froze on one line.

“Fuck.” Her voice was sharp as her eyes darted around frantically for Robby.

They landed on the time: 6:37 p.m. Jack would be here soon, and he always looked at the patient list first, sorting alphabetically. Your name would be at the top. Everything was about to be a complete mess.

Her eyes finally found Robby as he walked toward the desk, talking with Mel. Dana felt a flutter of nervousness as he approached, even though she knew she shouldn’t—this was her job.

“Robby,” she called, gaining his attention. When he saw the serious look in her eyes, the soft smile he’d been carrying vanished. He frowned, leaving Mel behind with a gentle pat on her shoulder.

He nodded toward her, silently prompting her to continue.

“These are Abbot’s lab results,” Dana said, her voice tight.

Robby took the iPad from her hands and perched his glasses on the bridge of his nose. Dana’s gaze stayed fixed on his face, waiting for him to reach the line that had made her curse under her breath. Her foot tapped anxiously against the floor.

“Fuck,” Robby muttered. “You went to see her?” he asked, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his pocket.

“This just arrived,” she explained, shaking her head.

The doctor took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. At that moment, he wished he had called Jack the minute you had stumbled into his ER, but that would have angered you enough to refuse tests and treatment. So he hadn’t. And now, he certainly regretted it.

“I’ll tell her,” Dana said, watching Robby’s expression fall.

“No, I’ll do it. It’s not your job,” Robby said softly. He wasn’t undermining her, he just needed to take responsibility.

“Tell me how it goes,” Dana said before heading back to chart for the waiting patients. She was also behind on her nurses rotations so she needed to do so much before she could say hello to you.

Before the nurse was out of earshot, Robby muttered under his breath, “The only fucking day he had to get here on time.” That made Dana giggle, as Abbott usually arrived at 6 p.m. sharp. Maybe the divorce was finally making him realize there was a life outside the hospital.

Robby let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This was not news he wanted to deliver—it wasn’t even his place—but today, he was your doctor. The name on the top of your chart.

The curtain opening startled you out of your half-conscious state, your heart racing at the sudden fright. You sat up quickly, looking around the room, disoriented, until your heart settled at the sight of Robby entering, an apologetic smile on his face. You knew the ER didn’t move slowly—doctors rarely had time to be quiet.

“So… your labs are back,” Robby said, glancing down at the tablet in his hand as he perched on the stool beside your bed.

“What’s my sentence, Mike? Iron?” you joked, already guessing the most likely culprit.

It was always iron. Ever since you and Jack had separated, you hadn’t kept up with your yearly iron supplements. You had blamed work and moving, but the truth was you didn’t want to see another doctor. Robby had been your doctor for the past thirteen years; it felt too strange to go elsewhere.

“Well… yes,” Robby replied with a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Your teasing smile faded instantly. “But that’s not all,” he added, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Oh God,” you whispered, eyes widening in fear. Michael looked utterly devastated, and your mind immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion. “Is it… cancer?”

Robby’s eyes went wide as he looked up at you, noticing the small tears gathering in your eyes. Of course, why did he have to be so mysterious?

“No, no, no, it’s good news,” he started, rolling the stool closer and taking your hands in his. “Or… a bad one, depending on how you take it. But it’s not life-threatening.”

“What?” you whispered, frowning deeply at his confusing explanation.

“Oh God,” Robby breathed, shaking his head as he stared at his feet. He had done this for years, telling parents their child had died, handling far worse situations. Yet here he was, confusing

He just wanted to go home.

“You’re… pregnant,” he finally said, looking up into your eyes.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes going wide.

Hot water ran down your tired body, soothing tense muscles and washing away the fatigue of a long day at work. It was all worth it, tonight, your husband finally had a night off.

You had debated going out but had settled on a cosy, warm dinner and a quiet night in with Jack. It didn’t matter what you did, all that mattered was being with him—just the two of you.

It had been nearly two months since he’d truly had a whole evening off. You understood how important his work was, especially after his accident, but you always thought you mattered too. He had never given you reason to doubt it—not in the thirteen years you’d been together—but lately, small doubts had started creeping in.

Looking down at your left hand, your fingers brushed over your wedding ring. Simple, with a small diamond on top, it wasn’t much—but you cherished it. Deeply. Inside, it was engraved with the date you married, twelve years ago.

Turning off the water, you quickly dried yourself and slipped into comfortable, silky pyjamas. The soft fabric clung to your skin, making your nipples peak and giving you a thrill as you caught your reflection in the mirror. The clothes hugged your hips and thighs just a little too tightly, but it didn’t matter. You loved your body now—it had taken years of learning how—but there was no longer any shame in it. Probably slightly less than Jack loved it.

Smiling at the thought of his hands on you, you stepped out of the bathroom, greeted by the delicious aroma of the meal he had prepared. Jack was such a good cook—a fact that had surprised you at first. How could a manly, military man love to cook and be so damn good at it? Nothing about him was fair.

You went down the stairs, smiling, ready to call his name—then froze. Your smile dropped faster than you could speak as your eyes landed on him in the entryway. Your husband. In scrubs. Putting on his shoes.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a sigh as your eyes met his.

“You’re fucking kidding me?” you exclaimed, your voice louder than you intended.

You couldn’t believe it. He had promised. He had said nothing would make him leave tonight, but apparently, that had been a lie. Tears gathered in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. This was all the confirmation you needed : his work was, without a doubt, more important than you.

“There’s been a bus accident,” Jack tried to explain, taking a careful step closer. “Walsh called, they’re getting overwhelmed.”

His hand rose to catch yours, but you slapped it away—hard. The sound echoed in the quiet room, and he looked up at you, frowning. Neither of you were violent. When you fought, it had always been with conversation, listening to each other, trying to understand, not shouting or slapping away comfort.

But Jack could tell this was going to be different.

“Of course, yeah,” you spat, your voice sharp with mockery. “And that night you had the helicopter accident, all alone, with no back up showing up? What did you do? You did it all alone because that’s what you’re fucking trained to do. Why do they always need you?”

You knew it was unfair. He had sworn an oath to protect and heal—but your anger didn’t care. You pressed on. “And where are they when you need them? It’s like you’re their god and they can’t function without you. But what about me, Jack?”

Your words were harsh, cutting deep, and you could see the effect on him. His eyes darkened, sorrowful with every syllable you spoke.

“It’s like I don’t matter to you anymore,” you whispered, pushing past him toward the kitchen.

The sight made tears spring to your eyes again. He had set the table beautifully, lit candles, and a fresh bouquet of flowers sat in a vase nearby. The meal was simmering on the stove—you turned it off immediately.

You weren’t hungry anymore. You certainly didn’t want to eat something so perfect alone. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. Once again, his work had ruined it all. You could hear him following you, so you kept talking.

“All I asked for was one night, one single night of peace and quiet with my husband,” you continued, carefully putting the pot into a Tupperware, planning to store it in the fridge once it cooled. You could feel Jack’s eyes on your movements, probably ready to tell you to eat—but it was better if he didn’t say anything.

“Baby,” he tried again, keeping his distance this time. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right, it’s not fair,” you shot back, heat rising from the anger and rage blooming inside you. “It’s not fair that I’m married to your work against my will. It’s not fair that they always get to take you away from me. You have a fucking life outside that goddamn hospital, Jack. It’s time you start remembering it.”

Turning toward him, you couldn’t keep your eyes on him for more than a few seconds. The guilt and pain in his expression were too familiar. They were always there, every time he left you alone after promising he wouldn’t.

That was when your elderly cat—Pope—chose to let out a loud, demanding meow from in front of his bowl. The same cat Jack had adopted for you right after your wedding, so you wouldn’t feel lonely while he was deployed. His deployment hadn’t lasted long—he’d lost his foot barely a year in—but the cat had still helped, especially now that Jack worked nights.

He looked rough these days, his fur a little thin and his movements slow, but he was still the healthiest cat you’d ever known. His perpetually grumpy face made him look like a cranky old man—which, in many ways, he was. Especially when his dinner was late.

Right now, he didn’t care about the fight. He just wanted to be fed.

Sighing, you opened the cupboard and pulled out a can of wet food. It wasn’t supposed to be his wet food day, but you didn’t care. You wanted him happy—so you’d have someone soft and warm to cuddle when Jack left.

“It’s really not like that, sweetheart. You are important to me, but this is special,” Jack tried again, his voice calm, almost pleading. He watched you as you bent down to pet the old cat, your fingers gentle in his fur while he ate greedily.

“It’s always special,” you scoffed, straightening up to look at him. “Always something you can’t say no to. Can’t they call Mike?” The question came out desperate, like maybe, just maybe, this time there’d be another option.

“He already did the day shift, baby,” Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, as if that somehow justified everything.

You let out a short, humourless laugh. “Oh, right, because Robby’s never done a double shift before.” You shook your head, heat rising in your chest. No, there’s something else. Something he never told you, but one of the new nurses did, a long time ago.

His brows furrowed, but you didn’t let him speak.

“Or is it because you told them to?” you pressed, voice rising. “Because you made sure they’d call you if they needed backup? Because you wanted to be the one they relied on?”

Jack’s mouth opened slightly, his voice catching. “How—”

“Does it really matter?” you cut him off, stepping closer, your finger pressing against his chest—not hard, but enough to make him look down at you. “Maybe what matters, Jack, is that you’re always so willing to leave this house. To leave me behind.”

He was about to answer you when his phone rang again. He didn’t want to pick it up—not now, not when you were standing there, spilling every fear and insecurity that had been quietly eating at your marriage. But the name Walsh flashing across the screen was a cruel reminder of why you were fighting in the first place.

“We’ll talk about it when I come back, sweetheart,” he said at last, exhaling the words like they hurt. He wasn’t even angry—just tired. So damn tired. And guilt was eating him alive.

He turned toward the front door. You didn’t try to stop him, and he didn’t look back until he heard you mumble something, your voice so low it almost blended into the sound of the cat licking his bowl.

“I might not be here when you come back.”

He froze for a moment. He didn’t know if you meant for him to hear it—but he did. And it broke something deep in his chest. When he finally opened the door, he turned halfway back, his voice soft but clear.

“I love you.” And then he left.

The rest of the night was spent debating your life and your marriage. You sat on the couch with only one dim lamp lit, the room bathed in soft amber light. Pope was curled in your lap, his old bones rising and falling with every sleepy breath. He would let out a grumpy meow whenever you stopped petting him, a gentle reminder that he still ran this house.

Your mind kept drifting back through the years with Jack. From the first time you met on that lonely street, to your rushed wedding, born out of love, and maybe a little fear for your health. To the day he lost his foot, when everything you thought you knew about life shifted. You had stayed. You had cared for him, endured his anger and frustration, helped him heal.

And after the storm, you had peace. Real happiness. You moved to Pittsburgh for him when he got the offer at the hospital, and you’d fallen in love with the city. You left your broken family behind, found work you actually liked, made new friends. Jack did too. For a while, it was perfect.

It only began to unravel when he started the night shift.

At first, it was supposed to bring you closer : he’d work while you slept, and you’d share the daylight together. He was used to running on almost no sleep. But little by little, the calls came more often. The just one more hour turned into entire mornings, and then whole weekends. He was one of the best, they said. The hospital couldn’t function without him.

You hadn’t realized you were crying until a tear hit the back of your hand. You wiped it away quickly. You’d cried too many nights over a man who wouldn’t change, no matter how much you begged him to remember the life waiting for him at home.

And then there had been that one of too many lonely afternoon, when you’d finally called an attorney. The divorce papers were still tucked neatly in the drawer Jack never opened.

It had broken your heart to ask for them, but you’d told yourself it was necessary. You still had most of your life ahead of you and it hurt to think of spending it with someone who didn’t have time to live it with you.

You still loved him. You would always love him. But maybe, you thought, as Pope purred softly against your legs, maybe it was time to love him from afar.

Before you could turn this moment into another sobbing mess, you made yourself get up and go to bed. A cold bed. An empty bed. Still, that felt better than making any rash decisions at almost midnight.

You told yourself he’d probably be home soon—that maybe, if it was just a quick in-and-out at the ER, you could talk things through once you’d both calmed down. But of course, the clock hit midnight, and then one, and he still hadn’t come home.

You must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing you knew, the bed dipped behind you. Pope’s small weight had disappeared, he must’ve gone to greet Jack when he came in. You sighed softly and shut your eyes again, too tired to start anything. You weren’t angry anymore—just sad, heavy, and numb.

Jack’s body slid in behind yours, warm and familiar. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you gently back against him. You felt the brush of his lips against your shoulder, then the nape of your neck, and finally near your ear.

“You know you’re important to me,” he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. “I love you.”

It was the same thing he’d said hours ago, right before walking out the door. But this time, it came out softer, quieter, real.

You never doubted his love. You never had. What you doubted was whether this marriage meant the same thing to him as it did to you. Maybe you just saw it differently—had different definitions of what it meant to show up. You had barely talked about that before getting married, and for a long time, it hadn’t mattered. Somehow, it had always worked.

Until it didn’t.

"I know it's hard for you, but—" he was cut short when you turned around and kissed him. Hard.

In that moment, you didn’t want him to talk. You didn’t want to hear his voice — the same voice that spun promises he’d barely keep until the next call from Walsh, or Robby, or Dana. Whoever it was, he’d always answer. And he’d always leave you behind.

"Baby," he murmured, trying to push you off gently, clearly wanting to talk.

"Please don’t make me talk right now," you said, your breath trembling, warning him that tears weren’t far. "I don’t wanna talk. I wanna feel."

You wanted to feel his love, his body—him. Nothing else. No explanations. No excuses. No promises. Just the two of you, the way it was supposed to be tonight.

He didn’t say anything. Just sighed softly before kissing you again. His hands slid into your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue met yours. It had been so long since you’d felt him this close. His work was unpredictable—most nights you were already asleep when he got home, or getting ready to leave for work.

You pushed him onto his back, straddling his hips. In a rush, you tore off his shirt, then yours. You didn’t want delicacy, didn’t need tenderness—only his warmth, his touch, his presence.

Pulling away for just a moment, you slipped off your pants and panties, then pushed his sweatpants down his thighs.

"Sweetheart," he tried to soothe you, to slow your movements, but you couldn’t hear him. What your mind translated instead was that your husband didn’t want you.

"You don’t want me?" you asked, your voice trembling as tears welled in your eyes. Was that why he kept staying late at the hospital?

"Of course I do," he said softly. He took your hand and guided it gently to where he was already hard against his stomach. "I just don’t want you to do something you don’t want to."

You were on your knees, naked in front of him, desperate to undress him completely—and somehow, Jack thought you were forcing yourself.

"I want you," you said, stopping yourself before the rest could slip out.

One last time.

I want you one last time.

But you didn’t say it. Instead, you aligned yourself with him, letting him stay on his back. Even in your sadness and anger, you knew how much a full day and night on his feet strained his leg and back—you didn’t want to make it worse.

When you sank down onto him fully, a heavy whine escaped your throat. It felt good, achingly so, yet so foreign. It had been so long since you’d touched each other that you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it.

You felt his hands grip your hips in a tight squeeze, as if he were trying to ground both of you in the moment. When your hips began to move—slow, gentle thrusts at first—his grip only tightened. You let out a soft moan at the thought that he might leave bruises behind. Like he used to.

Used to.

That was what this moment felt like, what you used to be. A couple in love, tangled up in each other every chance you got. You clung to that thought, moving your hips faster, rising a little higher each time. His breathing grew heavier, matching yours, and when you placed a hand on his chest, you felt how hard his heart was pounding.

Behind your closed eyelids, all you could see was his younger, happier face, the one from your wedding night. You’d ended up in the same position back then too, only that night you’d been full of joy instead of ache. Your mind replayed flashes of laughter, of dancing, of promises whispered under the soft lights—each memory making the ache of longing grow sharper.

When you opened your eyes, hoping to pull yourself back into the present, you almost wished you hadn’t. Jack was watching you, the same way he always did. That look in his eyes hadn’t changed since your very first night together. He looked at you like you hung the moon. Like you were his everything.

He looked at you that way, but he still didn't stayed. The thought cracked something open, and tears finally spilled over your lashes. You moved harder, faster, chasing something—release, escape, anything that might quiet your thoughts.

"I love you," Jack gasped between moans, his eyes still locked on yours.

At those words, a sob tore from your chest. But your body didn’t stop. Through the blur of tears, you kept moving, grinding down for more friction. His body met yours perfectly—every thrust hitting deep, every movement both too much and not enough.

Desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him completely, you grabbed his hands, pressing one against your breast, guiding the other between your thighs until his fingers brushed your clit.

He got the message, and his fingers began to move in rhythm. His eyes never left your face—not even when you threw your head back with a sharp moan as he found the right pace against you. Your hips grew erratic, chasing release, and he could see the tears slipping down your cheeks, catching the soft light of the moon.

He didn’t say anything. There would be time for words tomorrow.

And just like that, after a few more tear-filled thrusts, you came—moments before he did. It wasn’t the kind of release that left you breathless and laughing. It was small, quiet, full of hurt and longing and love and sorrow. When your mind whispered again that this was the last time, you collapsed onto his chest, sobbing.

The tears didn’t stop for a long while. Not when Jack pulled out, not when he gently cleaned you up, murmuring soft words to soothe you. Not when he drew you close and wrapped his arms around you in bed. They only stopped when sleep finally took you—worn out from the day, from the ache, from everything.

Jack lay awake for hours afterwards, holding you against him. His chest was still damp from your tears, and he knew this time was different. He had messed up, and no apology could fix it easily. As he finally drifted to sleep, anxiety settled deep in his stomach, heavy with the thought of the conversation waiting for both of you tomorrow.

Except the talk never came.

When Jack woke up, he was alone in bed. He glanced at the clock and sighed—he had overslept, and you were already gone. On the coffee machine was a small post-it, your handwriting scrawled across it.

I’ll be back late. See you tomorrow.

No heart. No I love you. Just facts. He sighed again, understanding that maybe you needed space. He wouldn’t push you—he never had, and he wasn’t about to start now.

But maybe he should have.

Because when he returned the next morning, after his night shift, he was met with a cold, silent house. Something felt off immediately. Most of Pope’s things were gone—his toys, his two bowls. Your favourite coats were no longer hanging from the rack. He called your name, and the only response was silence.

As he passed the kitchen doorway, his heart sank.

On the table lay two things.

Divorce papers. And your ring.

As Jack passed through the ER doors, he felt a strange weight in the air. A lot of eyes seemed to settle on him. True, he was a bit early—by ten minutes—but that wasn’t unusual. Well maybe it was since he usually got here earlier than that. He glanced down at his pants, checked that his leg was properly covered. It was. So why the hell were people staring?

Looking around, he searched for Robby, hoping for a quick rundown of how the day had been, who the important patients were, what he needed to know. No sign of him. Dana? Same result.

Making his way to the nurse’s office, he swiped his card— ready to scan the patient list, bypassing the reasons for everyone’s visits just to gauge how his night would go. He offered gentle hellos and smiles to a few colleagues, returning their greetings.

Then his heart dropped.

The first name on the patient list: ABBOT.

You were here. In the ER. And no one had called him. The divorce wasn’t even finalized—he hadn’t signed the papers yet. He knew that wasn’t the point, delaying it didn’t matter. But why hadn’t anyone called him? He couldn’t make sense of it. Had you asked them not to call or did the nurses chose not to on their own?

Without a second thought, he ignored everything else. He focused only on the details in your chart. Passed out in the street. Brought in by paramedics. South 12.

On the other side of the ER, you were trying to process what Robby had just told you. Pregnant. Of course. The only time you had missed your pills, thinking it didn’t matter since you weren’t having sex anyway… and of course, you had. And now this.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. Even more so considering that a couple of years ago, you had tried—and it had never worked. You’d done all the tests, everything had come back perfect. No fertility issues. Jack had just shrugged it off, saying it simply wasn’t the right time yet. So you’d gone back on the pills, your periods too painful to stop.

But then you had forgotten a few doses and now, here was the result.

Tears had gathered in your eyes when Mike had told you. You clenched his hands tightly, smiling through the joy and frowning through the panic. What were you going to do?

"You know we tried for months," you said, laughing softly. You barely registered your own emotions — not the tears, not the laughter. "It never took. We tried everything. And now… now it chooses this time." Your voice dropped to a whisper as one hand left his, resting over your stomach.

"It’s going to be okay," he said, forcing a tight smile. From what you’d told him, he assumed the baby was Jack’s, which meant you might still have a few weeks to decide what you wanted to do. "We can do an ultrasound first, just to know—"

His words were cut short as the curtain was pulled back harshly. Robby leapt up reflexively, scanning for any threat to the patient, but there was none.

Jack.

It was the first time you’d seen him since that night—since you’d left your house. He looked the same, though a bit more tired, more worn out. This was the moment you had dreaded : the night shift, face-to-face with him.

"Oh," Robby said softly, stepping in for a gentle hug. He was glad to see Abbot—it meant he could finally leave—but also relieved that this wasn’t his case to handle anymore. Robby cared about you like a sister, but this was something only Jack should hear.

He left the room quietly, closing the curtain behind him, offering a soft smile and mouthing, You got this.

Once he was gone, heavy silence settled between you. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if you even wanted to talk about it yet. He had your chart open on the iPad in his hands, surely having already reviewed the results. He knew.

"Are you okay?" was the first thing he said.

You only nodded as you watched him sit on the same stool Robby had just vacated. The air felt heavy and tense. How had things come to this? You had once been so in love. Your eyes flicked down to your hand resting on your stomach.

"Is it mine?" he asked quietly, not looking at you.

A strangled gasp escaped you, and small tears slipped from your eyes. You brushed them away harshly, rubbing your cheeks and turning your face to the wall. You couldn’t believe he had even asked.

"Who else do you think it could be?" you spat, your voice sharp, still facing away.

He didn’t answer, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. You knew it was only a legitimate question—you had left him without explanation. He had no way of knowing whether you had moved on in the two months apart. Still, it stung.

"Did Robby do the ultrasound?" he asked gently this time.

Shaking your head, you looked back at him. His eyes met yours—the same way they always had, like you hung the moon. Just like the last time he had looked at you, it made your chest ache.

"I’ll be right back," he said, standing.

Ten minutes later, here you were. You were still lying on the bed, he sat onto the same stool beside you. Both of you stared at the ultrasound machine as Jack searched the screen, finally letting out a shaky breath and tilting it toward you.

"Here they are," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, pointing at a tiny, clear dot on the screen. "Still so small," he murmured, taking measurements, while you stared at your baby—or more accurately, what would become your baby.

You had created this together. It was bad timing, yes, but it was also a blessing. You had always wanted to be a mother—mostly because your own had been so shitty, leaving you with so much love to give. With Jack, it had been easy to daydream about a family. And now, it was real.

"By the size of our little bean, it’s eight weeks," he said, looking at you gently.

Our little bean. The words made your heart ache.

"Told you," you tried to joke, your voice weak, laughter mingling with tears. Right now, you had nothing left to fight. With another heavy breath, you asked the question that had been burning inside you. "What now?"

"We do whatever you want," Jack answered without hesitation.

You let out a small, relieved sigh. You noticed he was still wearing his wedding ring and the new chain around his neck. You’d bet your entire bank account that your ring was nestled there. And he still hadn’t signed the papers.

He was still attached—to your marriage, to the love you shared, to you. And you were still attached to him, but you couldn’t endure the pain of him being gone most of the time, especially now that you were pregnant.

"I want to do this," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I want to do this with you, but I can’t… if you don’t change."

This time, the tears ran freely down your cheeks. If he wasn’t willing to change, this would be the hardest decision of your life. You knew he would be a good father, and you could do joint custody, but you didn’t want him here just to be absent.

He was either committed—or you were gone.

"I’ll ask for the day shift," he said without a second thought, his eyes fixed on the tears sliding down your face. His own eyes were wet now, a few tears escaping. "I’ll do it. They won’t refuse, not with your pregnancy. I’ll be there."

He took your hands in his, holding them tight, his gaze locked on yours. You could feel his sincerity, his understanding, his willingness to change — to be present, to truly be there for you.

"You’re everything to me," he whispered, tears finally falling freely. "I can’t keep going if you’re not by my side."

When you didn’t say anything, he misinterpreted the silence, gently pulling his hand from yours. He leaned back slightly, eyes returning to the ultrasound screen.

"Can we redo it from the start?" you asked after a few seconds, your eyes full of hope and love.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he cupped your cheeks in both hands and kissed you. It was a kiss full of apology, sorrow, guilt… but also overflowing with love. You kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, pouring into him all the feelings you hadn’t been able to express over the past two months.

It went on for a few minutes. There was so much to catch up on, yet it felt right—still him, still your home.

When your lips finally parted, leaving you both breathless, you shared a gentle smile. He pecked your lips once more before turning back to the screen and clicking the print button, producing the first-ever picture of your baby.

As you watched the photo emerge, you silently hoped he truly meant it this time. You were willing to try again—one last time—because you loved him. This was his final chance, and somehow, deep down, you believed he wouldn’t mess it up.

Hands resting on your stomach, you leaned back on the bed, looking at him with hopeful eyes. Everything was going to be okay, you told yourself—and your baby.

"How’s Pope doing?" Jack asked, breaking the silence. You laughed, the sound light and genuine.

Yeah. Everything was going to be more than okay.

©fromsil.

a.n : this man had taken over my entire life. you can only thank @arabellasfvv for this, they forced me into watching the pitt...kinda. and yes im sorry, but i feel like jack would actually be those kind of husbands that are married to their work.

[dirtygir1]

so many thoughts running though my head but i’m just thinking ab being a resident and coming onto Jack and he’s so fucking nervous and conflicted he can’t even look at you (yes. i’m writing this soon.)

he’s invited you into his home for a drink after a a shift, just to see if you’re liking ptmc and the night shift rotation in general. he starts freaking out when you kiss him, rubbing at his chest over his shirt. “i..i can’t do this with you.” he breaths into your mouth, though he doesn’t pull away. in fact he’s got his arms stiff as a board on the side of him while you’re on your knees on his couch, rubbing at his biceps.

“mmm..why not?” “because i’m your attending, and you’re my resident,” he shakes his head, groaning when you deepen the kiss. “it’s..it’s an abuse of power and it’s…” a throaty sound comes from him when he feels you drag your hands up his shirt, nails so taunting against his skin that feels on fire. “it’s not right, you’re so young.” “yeah? i am?” you say against his lips, feeling him nod against you.

“think i’m a big girl, i can make my own decisions.” you’re not met with a fight when you pull his shirt over his head, and his eyes stay towards the ceiling as his breath heaves. you’re almost nose to nose as you bite your lip, searching for his eyes while they bounce around everywhere but you.

“Jack,” you lure him with your finger under his chin, forcing the contact while he licks his lips, a dirty, remorseful expression on his face. “do you want this?” your eyes don’t leave his until you kiss at his cheek, trailing lower and tonguing at the scruff of his jaw, feeling him relax in your touch with a sigh. he squirms in his seat, his legs spreading under you as he grabs at the inside of his thigh. aww.

“y..yeah. yes, sweetheart. jesus,” he finds the peaking skin under your top as he grabs at your hip, the hand hot against you as you suck on his neck. “i’d..ohmygod, i don’t even know what i’d do to you.” he ticks his head over in the slightest, giving you more room as you kiss down to his collarbone.

“honey it’s unethical, it’s not safe i-i mean i’m your boss—” “Jack.” you finally lift up, he’s got these big puppy eyes looking back at you. “take off your pants.” “okay.”

[str4wbsstuff]

well..im thinking of uncle!jack idk about you..

how he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he should not be getting involved with you. his best friend daughter— practically his niece. it’s wrong, you still call him uncle jack for christ’s sake. even like this, while you rock yourself down on his rough fingers perched perfectly in his lap. you mumble out the title through kiss swollen lips.

he should have denied your advances, ignored the coy looks. pushed your hands away when they rested on his cheeks, told you this was. for lack of a better term—fucked up to be doing with him, with you, together. but he didn’t, he let you kiss him in the quiet of your living room. let you press your impossibly soft, fruity lip balm flavored lips to his so gently. what did he come over for again..? a pipe..? the..kitchen. your kisses make it hard to think—yeah you said there was a leak beneath the kitchen sink and asked him to come fix it. and he he said yes, of course he did because by extension of robby, you were his little girl too.

when he walked in and caught sight of you in an old t-shirt, shoulder exposed and legs bare with seemingly. a lack of anything beneath it he kept his eyes trained on your face. to the best of his ability.

you hovered while he worked, kneeling next to him handing him this tool and that. bare knee pressed to his jean clad thigh humming while you openly ogled at the way his biceps flexed beneath the tight fitted black shirt he wore. how the summer sun had the freckles imbedded in his skin more visible over the exposed skin on his arms.

“take a picture kid, it’ll last longer.” he spoke flatly.

he can hear the smile as you respond “can i?”

huffing out a laugh he returns to his work capable hands tightening, realigning and fixing whatever issues he comes across. under your watchful gaze that carries a kind of heat that you should not, under any circumstances be directing at him. he had to admit the attention from a pretty thing like you was nice— and that’s what scared him. when he was done you offered to let him rest up on your couch which he agreed to. sinking his tired muscles into the cushions of your sofa. and now here he is, you in his lap grinding yourself down on those same capable fingers.

really, how could he say no too that sweet voice of yours. the scent of cocoa butter and something honeyed on your skin making him dizzy. and the bat of your eye lashes as you took one of his hands into yours, manicured fingers running over the veins and signs of aging.

saying he must get a lot done with hands like these, strong, steady and skilled. wishing you could experience the weight of these hands that to you— help up the sky. on you, in you. he gave you a look then, eyes roaming over your all too pretty face. you make this hard, so god damn difficult.

then, you kissed him with a gentleness that surprised the older man.

climbing into his lap as you deepened it, soft hands on sun aged, freckle dusted skin. he could get lost in it. he did for a moment eyes closing with the feeling of you on him. melting him into you like the allure you were. nose bumping yours as you went from pecking his mouth to slow kisses that made him ache for you.

“mm—sweetheart no—we shouldn’t. your dad he—“ and oh, your whine just breaks his heart. pitiful and soft.

“—he’s not here, uncle jack please..need you so bad. can be our secret pretty please..” you protested, hands still planted firmly on his face. lips a hair’s width from his.

“it—it’s not right kid..” he sighs.

words trailing off into a groan as he becomes privy to the way you grind your hips down onto his. hands coming to settle on your thighs unsure if he should push you off or not. it’s slow, he can faintly make out the feeling of your cunt through the fabric of his pants. and your..you’re only wearing panties.

“fuck me.”

“m’tryin, you won’t let me.”

that gets a laugh out of him, up from the chest and out through the nose. your lips trail down his neck in feathered pecks. he squeezes his eyes shut trying to regulate his breathing. feeling his cock twitch to life, beginning to strain and press against his boxers.

“jack i..i really want you. i’ll do anything. been needing this for so long. can’t even make myself cum if im not thinking of you.”

“—jesus”

“never feels good when i’m with anyone else, I just want it to be you. a-always got you on my mind..at night especially. when i—mng—need you the most..”

your words are broken up by your feverish grinding onto the outline of his cock. the denim catching on your cotton covered core wonderfully. small sparks of pleasure coursing through you. it’s a beautiful sight really.

he has to stop himself from letting irritation build beneath his skin at the line about you sleeping with anyone else. you’re grown, gorgeous and utterly enticing of course you’ve had your pick of men. luckily the jealousy is quelled by your notion that you always wanted it to be him.

“for my first time i..got someone who looked like you. didn’t act like you it was—ah— the closest i could get. to th-the real thing—“

his fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs. with each confession you make his resolve slips further and further out of reach. a run away kite in the wind, untamed and gone in the blink of an eye carried off somewhat far far away.

you pull back from his neck eyes low and hazy. looking into his, searching for rejection and there is none. just the eyes of a man holding onto a string of morals steadily fraying by the second looking back at you.

“don’t you think i’m pretty?” wispy, hopeful, quiet. an utterly heartbreaking pout on your lips.

that was it all it took.

jack immediately leaning in to capture your lips which causes you to sigh happily feeling all the tension in your body melt away. it’s heated immediately his tongue finding its way into the warmth of your mouth. mapping out the space for later use. the scruff of his stubble prickling your skin in the best way. hands now rocking you down on him causing the prettiest of whimpers to escape you. and he drinks them down greedily.

“this’ll be our secret yea?” he rasps. confirmation.

“mhm—mhm..” he nods kissing you a moment more before pulling back. explaining that while he won’t fuck you just yet, he won’t leave you like this either.

—

his fingers are impossibly deep, long, thick and textured. his middle and ring finger nestled snugly in the heat of your dripping cunt. stroking you over with years of practiced precision as you all but ride them. your face resting in the crook of his neck drooling out incomprehensible moans and drooling into his shirt. not like he cared.

“un—uncle jack..” you babble. his free hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “shh s’okay sweet girl.”

god that voice. his voice. you sniffle, the feeling of finally, finally having him after all these years overwhelming every nerve ending in your body. white hot heat searing you with every thrust of his hand and bounce of your hips. molten want buzzing beneath your surface.

“just needed me ain’t that right baby?” voice low and steady. it being the only thing keeping you grounded.

how could fingers feel so good? nothing before has even come close to this for you. not your fingers a past partners or any of your various vibrators. it’s like he’s remolding you from the inside out. reaching your depths with only a quirk of his wrist. doctor privileges? you wonder. the passing thought makes you slur out a laugh. and only then did you realize that jack had spoken.

“huh?”

you pick up your head eyes watery as you look at him, a lazy fucked out smile on your lips.

he smiles, crows feet on full display.

“alright? you feelin’ good?” its not much of a question as you know that he already knows the answer. but you still try to respond anyways and he beats you to it.

“yeah you are, look at you. already stupid off my fingers. so fucking cute, let me make you cum. kid.”

maybe it’s what he said, or the way he said it. but something about it set you off. maybe it was the way he whispered out “give it to me.” when your pussy began to spasm around his fingers. that had your hips stilling and hands unfolding from your chest to grip his shoulders tight. crying out a broken yelp of something between his name and “ohmygod” as it crashes over you in mind numbing waves.

he helps you ride through it. gentle words of encouragement drifting from him to you in your haze. slowing his pumping to a halt. pressing a kiss to your temple as you shake violently in his lap.

“that’s s’a girl..makin’ your uncle proud.”

[shanediomorrissey]