#dr. abbott

[butyoudidthis4what]

Dr. Abbot

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

17.1k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: sweaty, scruffy Jack Abbot in uniform; shirtless Jack; spoilers for season 2 episode 7 (kind of? You have to know what happens for it to spoil?); doesn’t totally follow the show’s storyline; doctor!reader; anxiety; angst; fear for partner’s safety; crying; arguing(ish); reader gets in her head; very small not-quite full anxiety attack for reader; discussion of being shot, gunshot wounds, bullets, guns; oral sex (m rec.); reference to oral sex f rec.; vaginal fingering; dry humping; slight hint of soft dom!jack; hand around neck but no choking; inappropriate use of supply closet; bad puns/jokes/double entendres; no use of y/n. 

Summary: Jack shows up to the Pitt sweaty, scruffy and in full uniform and you react accordingly. Until Jack tells you a little more about what happened, that is.

AN: Am I over the flu? No. Have I rested at night or taken any time off work? Also no. I just wanted this out so badly and unfortunately there is no hot doctor here to force me to rest so I was left to my own devices and poor decisions!! My turn for a sweaty uniform Jack fic? Yes. Plus he's so scruffy I can't. I probably should've waited to finish this until I was better because I wanted this to be good and it feels so wildly eh. I don't know. My head is fuzzy from the flu and I wrote a solid 65% of this while sick, fevered, and jumping back and forth between the chills and sweating into dehydration, so who knows how it actually is (certainly not I). 😂 We know I always hate my smut so there's also that factor playing into things (but also it doesn't feel like there's actually that much smut lolllll). Anyway, sweaty and scruffy Jack Abbot supremacy!!! Thank you so much for reading and all of your support!! ♥️ I hope you can enjoy and that it's okay!

You hear Jack but you can't see him.

And for some reason that makes your stomach drop and anxiety bloom icy shards through your veins. Your anxiety has been on deck, humming in the background just waiting for a reason. It found it.

You can't see him because your back is to the door of your patient's room as you work on them. You hear his voice but only just barely through the door, can only hear it because you know it, know what he sounds like. You can't make out what he's saying, can't figure out if he's a patient or doctor. It could easily be either.

There are so many things that pass through your head all at once as the sound of his voice fades. Is he hurt? Is it serious? You know he has an airway if you could hear him so that's something at least. Unless he lost it and that's why you can't hear him anymore. And he isn't screaming in pain, though you know he never would, he always gets quiet, grits his teeth, tries his hardest not to show it no matter how bad it is.

Somebody would've come and got you if it was him, if Jack was the patient. Or it would've drifted in somehow, everyone would've sounded more panicked, would've been louder. It's fine. He's fine. You're sure. You're almost sure. Almost.

You swear to christ if he's just hurt or injured non-critically you're going to go in and see him, give him a kiss and hug him if you can, tell him you love him, and then you're going to have to walk out of the room to compose yourself and go walk off…something. You're not sure what to label that emotion you think you'll have and hope you'll never have to find out.

Somewhere you find it in you to access that ability you have that you kind of really hate and tune most of that out, don't let it invade your thoughts completely so that you can return your full focus back to the patient in front of you whose problems are emergent but not imminently life threatening.

"Hey," Princess calls your name as she steps into the room. You glance over at her with furrowed brows, think you might actually be sick with the wave of panic that passes over you. What if she's here to tell you it's Jack. That Jack's the trauma patient that just rolled in. "He's fine. I asked him as they rolled in if he was injured or anything and he said he's fine. And then I told him I was going straight to tell you his answer and asked him again if he was injured or anything and he said he's fine again. He's in trauma one with Robby working on the patient he brought in."

The relief that washes over you is palpable to everyone in the room and you swear you feel tears sting for just a second. You smile at her and nod. "Thank you. I love you Princess." Your voice is somewhere between playful and thankful, and serious and sober.

She smirks at you but you can see the softness in her eyes. "I know." Her smirk drops into a smile at you and she nods before walking out of the room leaving you and the Pitt team you've assembled to continue working on your patient.

Once you finish dealing with your patient's emergent needs you walk out and turn to go to the hub. You spot Jack standing in full uniform just outside of trauma one, his profile to you as he clearly fills someone in on what just happened in there.

Your eyes run up and down his body and fuck. Fuck. To say he looks good in his uniform would be the understatement of the century. Your heart rate speeds up and you start to really feel it. How attracted you are to him. How worked up for him you are. How fucking needy you are for him in this moment.

You haven't even taken in all of him and are already nearly fucking vibrating and soaked for him, you swear.

Your eyes drag back up and take in his neck, sweat glistening on it. Sweat you'd really, really like to lick off him. His shoulders are a little tensed, which you don't like but you're sure you could suck that right out of him if he lets you. Your eyes continue up and hit his profile and hair and you think you sway. It's so overdramatic, you think to yourself, but it's fucking true.

He looks not quite angry, but so serious with a little edge of something there, lips pressed in a line and his jaw set, eyes narrowed just slightly as he looks at his friend who shares a similar expression. Jack hasn't shaved recently so his stubble is a little longer than it normally ever gets. The way it's pretty much all white now makes you shift on your feet as lust and sheer desire course through your body enough to make you breathe slightly deeper.

All that runs through your mind are thoughts of feeling his stubble all over your body again, your breasts and nipples, your neck, your jaw, the skin around your lips, your inner thighs from how long and intensely he goes down on you. You want, or need at this point, Jack to add to the stubble burn he's already in so many places.

You're the reason it's been a little over 36 hours since he's last shaved. The reason his stubble is as grown out as it is now. You're the reason he didn't get to shave this morning. He ran out of time, too lost in you and your body.

You force your eyes to move from his neck and jaw and cheeks further up. Sweat beads at his temple and you're desperate to kiss it away. And then you get to his hair. His fucking hair. Those salt and pepper curls that always drive you up a wall to half-madness because they're just so fucking hot and sexy and attractive and handsome to you. And now they're sweaty. They're so perfectly fucking messy, stuck to his forehead in places, pushed up a little on top, almost a little fauxhawk happening, the curls at the nape of his neck plastered to his skin from the sweat. His curls are fucking perfect right now.

A little piece of your heart aches with love at the same time you feel like you could come just from him touching you because that is your man. That's your Jack. The man you love more than anything and everything in the universe and who you know loves you all the same.

You're breathing harder at the sight of him and you feel absolutely fucking ridiculous at it but you're dizzy because you're so turned on for him, you can feel it everywhere, skin electric, cunt throbbing and getting your underwear embarrassingly soaked, you're sure. And you're sure every person in the place who can see him and is attracted to men is thinking about the handsome man outside the door with his scruffy neck if they're close enough to see and his perfect, sweaty curls.

It doesn't matter though. Maybe you should be jealous. A different you would for sure be jealous. But you're not. You know Jack only has eyes for you, he reminds you of it all the time, reminded you this morning when he woke you up with his tongue and cock so you could get ready together. And honestly you're too fucking smug and horny for him right now to have jealousy swimming around in your brain.

Because those perfect curls are yours. Jack is yours.

Rings on your fingers to prove it. To make sure everybody knows.

Your thumb absent mindedly plays with your diamond wedding band you wear at work, thumbs over it to rotate it around your finger, your engagement ring on a special necklace made just for the task around your neck because it rips gloves. The movement is one of those little grounding habits you have, one you know Jack has too.

You need him right now. You need to get your hands on those sweaty curls or you're pretty sure you'll die right here in your own god damn ED.

But you can't exactly go up to him and ask him to accompany you to the supply closet because he looks really hot and so now you're turned on and horny for him and are pretty sure you will actually cease to have a pulse if you don't get to run your hands through his sweaty curls and kiss him to feel his stubble. And if you go up to him and just ask him to come to the supply closet with you he'll ask why and you don't have a why. Or at least not an appropriate why.

You need to get him to follow you there without having to talk to him. But you're not sure if he'll follow you or just call across the floor and ask what you need if you look normal. Maybe if you looked sad? There's no way you can pull off sad right now, not when you're this on fucking fire for him. You're not sure looking super happy or excited will do it either. You're going to have to make it look like you're a little irritated or annoyed, not necessarily at him, though you're sure that's where his mind will go.

You set your jaw and press your lips in a line, put just a hint of irritation into your eyes that you try to make seem like annoyance so it looks like you're annoyed with something that happened here. And then you wait to catch his gaze. Your expression almost falters when you finally do because before Jack can even consciously process the expression on your face his face is lighting up as his stoic seriousness fades into a smile just at seeing you and his shoulders relax a little. A smile that lasts a second, second and a half at most before his face falls and his lips pull down, eyebrows furrowing as he realizes you look mad or irritated. Did he do something? Did something happen?

Fuck. You kind of feel like a dick.

But then you look at him again and your thoughts go back to his dick. It's not like you're keeping him in limbo. He'll know in like twenty seconds that you're not really mad. He won't even really have time to hit anxiety, he'll walk into the closet and then you'll be on him pushing him into the wall and kissing him and running your hands through his curls. And worshiping him however he'll let you.

You look over at the supply closet and nod at it, look back at him quickly and then do your best to look like you're stalking off to it.

"I've gotta go, I'll be back," Jack mutters, taking off after you before his friend can even answer.

When you get into the closet you stand a little behind the door, know Jack isn't going to fling it open so it won't hit you. This way you can be right there to push him up against the wall by the door and lock it as you start kissing him.

The door opens just a little more than enough for Jack to step through. "Hey, what's up? Did something happen? I'm okay." Jack is confused when you aren't standing right there waiting for him when he steps in the door. He sees you out of the corner of his eye as the door closes behind him but by the time it registers you're already moving, locking the door and pushing him up against the wall right next to it. Well. He lets you push him up against the wall, he could easily hold his ground if he wanted to.

"Wha-" Jack doesn't get the word out fully before your lips are on his, the hand you've slid to the back of his neck pulling his face down toward you to make it easier to kiss. You bring your elbows to rest on his shoulders, as you kiss him, lick at the the seam of his lips urgently because you need to kiss him that deeply right the fuck now, his perfect silvery white scruff scratching your skin deliciously.

Jack is a little confused about what exactly is happening and why, but he's sure as fuck not questioning it. He'll never fucking question this. One arm wraps around your body to pull you as close to him as you can get with all the gear he's wearing, the other holding one side of your face, his fingers pressed just firmly enough in an angled line down your cheek as his thumb presses up against your chin gently to help hold you in place for him and give you a little reminder that he's still very much in control.

Your fingers are finally able to run through the sweaty curls that are 95% of the reason you're in this closet doing this right now and if someone had their ear to the door and heard the moan it pulls from you they'd think you and Jack were having sex, that's how fucking erotic it sounds. Because that's how fucking erotic running your fingers through his sweaty curls is for you.

As you moan Jack drops his jaw for you, and your tongue is right there to slip inside his mouth and glide along his tongue. The moan gives you away. Jack knows immediately. Knows why you're here and that you looked irritated just to get him to follow you into the closet. You can feel the warm huff of a laugh he lets out through his nose and feel the corners of his lips pull up slightly in a smirk and it just makes you wetter and needier as you make out with him.

"Nothing's wrong," you pant against his lips when you have to part for a breath. Your lips press against his again briefly for a kiss, "I just," another kiss, "had to get you in here." You kiss him again, longer this time, eagerly open your mouth for his tongue when he runs it across your lips in a wordless question.

You kiss until you can't again, thirty seconds, a minute, two, five. Neither of you know for how long. And neither of you care right now.

"The uniform," you pant against Jack's lips as you break for air, give him a quick kiss "and the scruff and the sweaty curls." The last word is almost whined and Jack feels himself start to get hard for you. "Fuck Jack." You let one hand leave his curls only so that it can dip down and untuck all his layers, find the end of the longest layer he's wearing while you continue to kiss him. You slip your hand under it and make a clawing motion with your fingertips and nails gently at the sweaty skin just above his waistband before starting to move your hand up as much as you can to feel his sweaty abs, perfectly balanced between definition and a healthy softness, his skin even warmer than usual.

"I was pretty sure I'd die if I didn't get my fingers through them," you murmur against his lips. "If I didn't get my hands on you and your scruffy face and your sweaty body in uniform. I need you." You nibble at Jack's bottom lip and suck on it at little before kissing him again because you can't fucking stop. You need more, need him to fuck you or let you suck him off or something.

"Fuck," Jack grunts into the kiss, the groan to the word making your whole body feel electrocuted. He keeps making out with you, lets your fingers slip under the line of the vest and press into his skin far more firmly than usual from the weight of his gear. The fingers of your other hand are still running through his curls, playing with them and tugging at them. You give the softest whines and moans as you continue to kiss, sounds he knows he is pulling from you, without even trying. Sounds only he'll ever hear. The thought makes his now fully hard cock throb hard enough it almost hurts.

Jack is ready to fuck you right here, bend you over and get you to support yourself on a shelf while he fucks you incoherent from behind, the headiness of you and the situation getting to him hard, his mind hazy as he gives into it all. Or he could stick his leg out a bit so you can grind one out against him while you stroke him. It's been a bit since you've given him a pure handjob, your mouth or pussy or both or your tits usually becoming involved.

But you guys really can't and Jack knows it and deep down you know it even if you don't want to admit it. It goes against every instinct and need and desire in his body and mind but Jack knows he needs to start winding this down, that you guys need to get back onto the floor.

He pulls his head back to break the kiss and rests his forehead against yours. "Baby," Jack pants softly.

"Yeah, Handsome?" You pull your hand out from under his vest and layers and bring it to the waistband of his pants and blindly start looking for a button, hand slipping under the canvas belt you can feel sitting over the top of his pants, undoubtedly holding an unreasonable amount of supplies. You're not completely sure what's there because you didn't spend a tremendous amount of time looking at his lower body, and the time you did spend looking was mostly spent looking at his ass.

"We can't." Jack shakes his head against yours, groans about it because he fucking hates that it's the truth. He does his best to tell himself the wait will make it even better once you get home tonight.

You just hum in response, keep looking for a button and kiss Jack again.

"Hey, you," Jack mumbles against your lips, his hand on your face coming down to your hand searching for a button and pulling it away even as he continues to kiss you.

"Jack!" You break the kiss long enough to whine his name over two syllables before kissing him again.

"I want to," he groans against your lips, "god, believe me I want to." Jack moves your hand that he's still holding over his cock to let you feel how hard he is for you. "But we can't, Baby. We've gotta stop." He pulls your hand away before you can really start to palm at him and starts to pull his lips from yours.

Or tries to, at least. You chase his lips with yours, keep kissing him as much as you know he's right and you guys need to stop. "Sweetheart," Jack drawls, a warning edge to it that makes you shiver. "Seriously. We can't." He gives you one last kiss and then pulls away too fast for you to effectively chase.

"We don't have to do anything. I'm more than happy to do all the work on my knees, Baby." As much as it pains you, you pull your other hand from his curls, the thought of his cock in your mouth enough to make the loss of the feeling of his damp curls through your fingers worth it.

You use that hand to start looking for the button of his pants again, finding it easily this time. But before you can get it undone Jack's free hand is wrapping around your wrist and pulling it away.

It happens very quickly then.

Before you have time to finish whining at him for moving your hand Jack has your positions reversed, your back now against the wall, one of his hands holding both of your wrists and pinning them above your head while his other hand is wrapped just tightly enough around your throat to make sure you know who's in control.

He moves his pointer finger on your neck to press gently below your chin to get you to look up at him as he stares down at you, your faces just far enough apart to see each other. You greedily take in every detail of his handsome face, the laugh lines and crows feet you adore and are proud to have contributed to, his plush lips that are a deeper shade of pink than usual and a little swollen, unfairly long eyelashes, transfixing hazel eyes you could look into forever and study every day and find something new, a new color or fleck or crypt or furrow, and of course, his god damn fucking scruffy stubble that you need to feel everywhere.

His eyebrows raise slightly and he slowly moves his index finger back to where it was, lets his thumb brush across the skin of your neck as he loosens his grip, no longer exerting any pressure and just letting his hand rest wrapped around your throat.

"Calm. Down." Jack emphasizes each word, his voice low and even more gravelly than usual. The way he says it isn't patronizing or condescending. It's just fucking hot, a sexy, I'm in control edge to the words that does absolutely nothing to calm you down. "We can't. Not today."

You pout at him for a second and then huff. "Okay one, how are you expecting me to calm down when you pull this move with both of my wrists in one of your hands pinned above my head and your other hand on my throat? And two, when in the history of ever has telling someone to calm down made them calm down?"

Jack gives you a look. "One, it wasn't that type of calm down and you know it. I've never told you to calm down outside of a situation like this and sex and I never will." He's right of course. Jack has never told you to calm down during an argument or while you were upset or crying, for whatever reason, he's never said it in an emotional sense to you, and you know he never will. "Two, I know you have an enormous amount of self control when you want to Baby, because three, I've seen telling someone to calm down be incredibly effective with my bratty girlfriend who became my bratty fiancée who became my bratty wife when she really wants to be allowed to come."

"Well… You like that I'm a brat." You stick your tongue out at him.

Jack blurts out a laugh at the move, unable to stop himself because it's so unexpected and random and ridiculous. He smiles widely in disbelief at you. "I do love it. Did you just stick your tongue out at me?"

You shrug, do your best to look incredibly unbothered. "And what if I did?"

He laughs again, trails it off into something low from his chest. "I'll have to think about that," he bobs his head and pulls his lips down, eyes boring into yours to make it clear it's sexual.

"Oh, yeah?" you smirk, raise your eyebrows. "That a promise or a threat?"

"You know full well by now that I don't make threats, my dear," Jack murmurs, voice unfairly hot.

You nod with feigned nervousness. "Oh, I'm very scared."

Jack clenches his jaw slightly and there's a little twitch under his eye that makes you even more satisfied with yourself. His thumb stops brushing against the skin of your neck as he gives it another little squeeze while leaning in to kiss you again. "You really should be," he murmurs against your lips.

He leans into you more as he kisses you again, his vest pressing into you deliciously. Jack nips at your bottom lip as he releases your hands, a silent order to be good. His now free hand finds your hip and squeezes lovingly before pressing against it to help pin you to the wall further.

Your hands find his curls again and you sigh into the kiss, content to do this with Jack all day. You keep your eyes closed for a second after the kiss ends and then slowly flutter them open. "You're going to have to fuck me with this all on one day," you murmur, holding his gaze. "While sweaty."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face and he leans back in. "Only if you're good for me," he whispers against your lips before giving you one last lingering kiss and pulling away.

You click your tongue and tsk at him. "I'm always good for you."

Jack snorts a laugh and moves his other hand so that they're both at your hips. "Yeah, okay."

"I resent that." You bring your hands down and pat his chest above all the stuff that's attached to the front of it, glancing down at it all and it finally all clicks. You cock your head at him as your heart rate goes back up a little. "Are you armed?"

Jack doesn't miss a beat. "I'm always armed for you."

There's silence for a beat as the two of you stare at each other. "That was terrible," you start laughing, emphasizing the first syllable.

"It was so fucking bad but I had to," Jack laughs with you.

You share some lighter kisses as your laughter trails off, ones that are quicker and sweet and fit the mood. Eventually the two of you part and smile at each other.

"I just needed to get my hands on your sweaty curls. Run my fingers through them," you shrug, let out a sigh. "I thought I might drop dead if I didn't. I was so fucking turned on. I mean I still am, the kissing helped me get some of the energy out, but fuck, Jack. I'm the luckiest fucking woman. You're so hot."

Jack hums. "Good to know I can still get to you after five years together."

You roll your eyes at him playfully. "Yeah, because that's definitely news to you and something you're just now finding out, Jack rabbit." Sarcasm drips off every word.

He tilts his head and smiles at you looking so happy with himself as he leans in for another quick kiss.

You chuckle at him and shake your head. "Okay, Sweaty, when's the last time you had some water or gatorade or something? It's ridiculously hot and humid out there and you're in long sleeves and pants and layers and wearing at least 30 pounds of shit and kevlar, which I'm very thankful for and need you to be wearing, don't get me wrong, I'm just saying." You pat the top of his vest.

"I can feel it. You're running hotter than normal." One hand rests on his neck for a second and then the back of it on his forehead just to confirm what you already noticed earlier. "I got you some pedialyte and gatorade on the way in just in case you ended up here or for tonight. It's in the fridge. And I can get you some ice packs for your neck if you want."

You frown a little, know it'll only be so effective while he still has everything on. "Can you take any of it off now? Or are you going back out?" Jack stares down at you with one of the most adoring smiles you've ever seen on him, something sappy and sentimental and palpably loving about it. You give him a small, questioning smile back. "What?"

Jack shrugs, keeps smiling at you all the same. He wishes he could think of some way to articulate how you're making him feel right now, how loved you're making him feel worrying about him like this and preparing for him to be dehydrated and noticing him running hotter than normal, how good it feels to be loved that much, to know somebody cares about him that much. You always make him feel like that of course but there's something especially poignant about it in the moment, its presence heavier in Jack's mind and body.

"Nothing," he murmurs, shaking his head softly. "I just love you."

You smile back at him. "I love you too."

"I know," Jack whispers, nodding this time. "Trust me, I know."

"I'm glad you know." You raise your eyebrows slightly, a gentle, silent ask for him to answer your questions.

"No, I'm not going back out, so yes I can." He lets go of your hips and takes a few steps back so that he can start taking his vest off.

"Good," you sigh, noticeable tension dropping from your shoulders. "I'll help."

Getting Jack's vest off is pretty straightforward and doesn't take long. As he sets it on the ground you take a step back to admire him in just this part of his uniform. You should've expected the large sweat marks all over the zip up he's wearing but it wasn't something you really thought about. Seeing it though, your mouth legitimately waters.

"Oh, jesus fucking christ," you breathe, licking your lips.

"What?" Jack looks at you with furrowed brows as he stands back up straight from setting the vest down.

Seeing the sweat marks with him staring at you now just makes it all even hotter and you have to remind yourself that you're supposed to be helping him take off layers to cool down. You look up at him. "You're sweaty."

Jack looks down and grimaces. "Yeah, I probably stink. I'm surprised you couldn't smell me when we took turns against the wall."

You shake your head at him and give a single laugh, almost look dazed in an amusing way, your eyes returning to his body. "You probably smell un-fucking-reasonably good, like your body wash and deodorant and you and sweat. I'm literally salivating."

Jack lets out an amused laugh. "You're crazy."

"For you, yes," you agree, nodding at him and pulling your eyes from his sweat marks back up to his eyes.

"Ha," Jack laughs. "Yeah, smooth."

You smile and shrug at him, take a step closer and reach out to start unzipping the long sleeve, planning on smelling him to your heart's desire once all possible layers are off. But when you glance back up at him after finding the zipper and starting to pull it down Jack's face has changed and your hands and feet go cold as your heart drops because you know. You just know.

You force yourself to unzip it all the way and then help him shrug it off before you say anything. But the second that's done, you're talking.

"Tell me." The words come out just above a whisper. Jack raises his eyebrows slightly, uneasiness washing over him even more. He should've known you'd clock him this fast. Your face is largely emotionless, though the look in your eyes gives away your anxiety. "Tell me whatever it is you're thinking about how to tell me, Jack."

Jack takes a breath and licks his lips before starting. "I'm okay. I'm perfectly okay and I'm here and safe and everything is okay." Your expression remains stoic and impassive and when he realizes you're not going to say anything else Jack continues. "A bullet grazed my back just above my vest."

You don't know why but you do your best not to react to the confirmation. You know what he means. He was shot. Jack was shot.

It's an impact all of your own for you to absorb with absolutely nothing protecting your heart. And Jack, he can see it, he can see the words hit you, can tell from the way your eyes fall from him that you're distraught and struggling.

"I'm quite certain it just needs cleaned and a small dressing, if that," he offers when you don't say anything.

You nod slowly, worried that if you do too much, move too much too fast or say too many words you'll crack. "Yeah," you whisper.

"Honey,-"

Something about him calling you that snaps some little piece of you. "You told Princess you were fine." You finally look back up at him, breathing noticeably harder with glassy eyes and your mouth set in a line.

"Because I am." He says the word like he's pleading with you and in a way he supposes he is. "I promise you, I am fine. I'm okay. It grazed me."

"You were shot, Jack." It's like life and animation suddenly find their way back into your system. You scoff at him and shake your head, hold up your hands at him and shrug deeply. "You were shot and you're being so fucking blasé about it. You were fucking shot."

"At." He doesn't say it in a corrective tone, keeps it upbeat, with the smallest smile to try and keep things light. Or make them light again. "I was shot at."

It doesn't work in the slightest. If anything it backfires.

"You say that like it makes it any fucking better, like, like a fucking preposition is going to make it better! Like a bullet didn't have fucking contact with your skin!" You stop talking and hold your hands up as you take a step away from him. You know that emotion you were thinking about earlier in the day, the one you weren't sure what to label and were hoping you'd never have to find out, is taking over and that you're getting too escalated and upset for anything further to be productive. "I have to go. Like I said, there are drinks in the fridge for you. Have one please."

"Baby," Jack sighs softly, taking a single step toward you. "I was just trying to lighten the mood, I'm sorry."

"Can you just…" You drop your hands and press one to your chest and rub as you think of what you want to say. Of how much of what you want to say to actually say. "Imagine if our roles were reversed, Jack. Imagine if I told you that a bullet grazed me enough to need medical treatment no matter how little or minor. Imagine if I told someone else that I was fine and then didn't immediately tell you when I saw you. Imagine I was shot. Imagine that I was even just shot at, let alone shot at close enough to get grazed by a bullet. Just imagine that Jack."

"I… Sweetheart, please…" He holds his hand out praying you'll take it, let him pull you into him and talk this out.

"I need… I don't even know what I need Jack. Space, I guess. Time to… Calm down. Figure my head out or at least try. Just…" You shake your head as you look at the door and then back at him. "Go put your shit away or wherever it needs to go and grab a drink and find an open room. I'll come find you in a few and get it cleaned and bandaged."

You take the few steps to the door and pause at it. "You need to fix your hair." The way you say it is so truly forlorn and aching that it makes Jack nauseous, especially when you say his hair and not his curls even though he doesn't know why he noticed that nuance, why it feels like it has some sort of meaning. But at the same time there's something so incredibly sweet about you pointing it out to him even when you're this upset, looking out for him and not wanting him to be embarrassed or something, like he could ever be embarrassed of you. "I love you." Your voice sounds as small as Jack has ever heard it, and scared, a bone deep fear etched into the words.

"I love you too. More-" You walk out of the room before he can finish, leaving him alone. "More than anything," Jack whispers to the back of the door.

He stands there staring at it and does what you asked. It's the least he can do at this point. The feelings that run through him don't surprise Jack. He expected them, expected the fear and anxiety and sadness that gets close to paralyzing. But it doesn't make them easier to deal with at all and Jack has it lucky. He can snap himself out of them, remind himself that they aren't real and won't ever be.

And when he does take himself out of them it makes the reality of your situation and how you're feeling hit Jack that much harder as he imagines not being able to take himself out of it. Imagines being stuck in those feelings and having one of his worst nightmares come true. He doesn't think he'd be reacting as well as you are, he'd be a mess, a total fucking reactive mess.

He takes in and lets out a breath before he grabs his gear and leaves the closet. Jack doesn't fix his curls because you made them look however they do and he loves it and is proud of it and you, and right now he doesn't give a fuck if everyone knows you were in there making out or if they think you were doing other shit. Right now his curls have a mark of you to them and he's not getting rid of it.

You're not even sure where you're going when you step out of the closet, just let your feet take you somewhere. You end up on a bench outside the cover of the ambulance bay in the July sun. You don't do well with the heat for a number of reasons and you know Jack wouldn't want you sitting out here, especially in black scrubs, and maybe that's a little bit of why you do it. It's petty and passive aggressive and inappropriate and wrong but you stay seated.

You think about so much and yet almost nothing at all it feels like. You can't come up with a name for how you feel, can only say that it's consuming you whole at the moment. You sit in it and let yourself go through what feels like all five stages of grief, though you don't cry. You won't let yourself cry. You tell yourself it's because you're at work but really it's because that would make it too real. You'd be crying because Jack got shot. Because your best friend, your husband was shot.

As your initial, extra-heightened reaction fades you realize that continuing to sit out here isn't doing anything for you, is arguably making you worse. Because you miss him. You want to be close to him. Today could've gone so much differently and it shoves in your face even more than working at the Pitt already does the fact that time is precious and always too short. There's never enough of it with the ones you love. And you don't want to spend the time you do get with Jack away from him and upset or mad or having him think you're either of those things.

So you get up and go find him.

Jack is taking his shirt off as you walk into the room Dana mentioned seeing him go into. You shut the door before opening the curtain enough to step through and pull it back closed.

"Wish I got to walk in on you taking your shirt off every shift," you joke, half-heartedly if you're honest, trying to break what feels like tension in the room but that doesn't truly exist.

Jack looks up at you and smiles, very obviously trying to feel you out and see where you are. "Could probably be arranged," he says lowly, tossing his shirt to the side and flashing his eyebrows at you with a hint of a smile.

You let out a soft laugh through your nose and roll your eyes affectionately. Jack sits on the edge of the bed and pulls the mayo stand he's set some supplies and a bottle of pedialyte on a bit closer to him. You walk over wordlessly and set two acetaminophen tablets next to the bottle in front of him.

He knows better than to argue about whether he needs them right now. If you want or need him to take some acetaminophen for pain or swelling or whatever so that you feel like you're helping take care of him he's going to without even a questioning glance. Plus, it is a little sore and he knows it'll be worse tomorrow. He probably wouldn't bother going to find some acetaminophen for himself if you weren't here, but you are.

You watch as Jack picks up the tablets and opens the bottle, takes them easily and has a bit more to drink, just for you, you're sure.

It hits you as you study him while he drinks. "You didn't fix your curls."

Jack sighs in relief internally when you say curls instead of hair as bizarre as he knows that it. He shrugs shallowly while putting the cap back on the bottle of pedialyte and setting it back down. "I liked the way you did them for me."

You give him an amused, knowing smile and nod as you push the stand aside so you can stand between his legs. "You're sweet."

"Only on you," he murmurs, resting his hands on your hips.

You arch a brow at him and cock your head for a second, smirking as you rest your hands on top of his thighs. "Laying it on thick Dr. Abbot."

"Hey, that's the truth," his right hand leaves your hip and comes down to your left hand and plays with your wedding ring, "Dr. Abbot."

"Yeah, I know," you murmur, scrunch your nose at him and lean down for a quick kiss. "I'm sorry for walking out on you."

Jack shakes his head. "You didn't walk out. You needed space and you communicated that. You're allowed to need space, Sweetheart. It's healthy."

You shrug. It doesn't feel healthy to you in the moment. He doesn't push you to talk more, knows you will when you're ready.

"Let me take a look?" you raise your eyebrows slightly as you ask.

"'Course," Jack nods.

"Better not need more than cleaned and a small dressing." There's nothing behind your words. Because it doesn't matter what it needs, you both know you'll do it, take care of him without any resentment or true anger.

Jack squeezes your hips before releasing them so you can walk around. "It won't."

You know within seconds of looking at it that he's right, of course. You knew that all along, trusted his assessment or you never would've left him alone, never would've left his side. But seeing it makes it hit you all over again just like him telling you did.

A bullet did this to him. A bullet. A bullet you know all too well could've done so, so much fucking worse to him if the wind had blown a little harder or the shooter had turned at a slightly different angle or one of any number of small things.

You're quiet as you take it in standing behind him, trying to process through this initial part before speaking or going to stand in front of him and share eye contact with him again. Tears sting at your eyes and you finally let them but even then they don't form all the way.

Jack gives you the time and the space and the quiet that he knows you need for this. But he starts to get worried you're getting lost in your head. He's relieved when he hears you start to move and then you're standing in front of him again by the mayo stand starting to open supplies.

"Was I right?" he asks gently.

You look up at him and nod. "Yeah. Of course you were."

"Good," he whispers.

It's obvious he thinks you're mad at him and you hate that because you're not. Not truly. And you don't want something to happen and him to think that you are.

"I'm not mad at you." You still your hands and look over at him, his eyes already on you. "I'm not, Jack. I promise. I'm sorry for making you think that I am. I'm just…" You start pulling pieces of tape and let out a long sigh. Silence hangs between the two of you for a moment, it's not tense or charged or uncomfortable though, it's not fraught. It's thick with the love you and Jack share for each other and everything attendant.

"I'm just…" You're very clearly in your head. You've pulled about twelve pieces of tape when you'll need two or three, maybe four, depending on how you decide you want to dress it. You finally snap out of it and shake your head at yourself before setting the tape down and holding onto the edge of the mayo stand tightly just to have something to feel and ground yourself to. "I… I don't know, honestly. I don't know Jack."

Your face breaks like you're going to start properly crying but you keep it together and don't, just lick your lips and sniffle hard before smoothing your face back out. Two tears escape and you huff as you wipe them away.

It breaks Jack's heart.

He never likes seeing you cry or upset or sad or anxious or scared or anything like that but something about your face crumpling like that and you only letting two tears go rips a gaping hole in his chest right now.

"Baby," Jack whispers so softly, the word wrapped in a sort of ache that comes straight from the heart.

You crack a little at it and breathe back a sob through your nose before one of those broken, sad whines from trying to stop yourself from sobbing that you just can't control and can't prevent making rips from your throat. You suck in a breath through your teeth, look and sound pained as Jack watches you. "All I can imagine is never hearing that again. Never hearing you again. All I can see is you being the one brought in on a stretcher and me leaving here without you and never seeing you again and I can't fucking breathe, Jack, I can't fucking breathe."

"But I'm not mad at you Jack or upset with you, I promise. I'm like this because I'm scared and I love you. I'm really fucking scared. And," you try to sniffle hard, but it doesn't work, bigger breaths that are difficult to control coming out, "being mad or upset with you, that's not how I want to spend my time with you, it's not how I'm going to."

You swallow hard and shake your head, another distraught whine coming from the back of your throat. "Because you were fucking shot at and grazed today and if the trajectory of that bullet had been just a little different they might have been wheeling you into trauma one, or have been sending someone to pull me into the family room while taking your body away from the scene in a black fucking bag and, and then I, I, I wouldn't be trying to take your clothes off in the supply closet, I'd be picking out clothes to bury you in. Picking out the last thing you'd ever wear from our closet, and I, and, and, and…"

You finally break, clamp a hand over your mouth as you start to sob, the thoughts too much for you to continue to keep inside. You shake your head at him, move your hand just to squeak out a barely audible, "I'm sorry." There's nothing you want more than to be in his arms but you take a step away because you don't want him to have to deal with this. With you like this.

"No, Baby, don't apologize, come here." Jack slips off the edge of the bed and holds a hand out to you, pulls you toward him when you take it. "Come sit with me, yeah?"

Even though there's a huge part of you that doesn't feel like you deserve it you nod and help Jack pick you up for just a second before he sits back on the edge of the bed and scoots back a little more, your legs and arms wrapping around him tightly as you bury your face in his neck and cry, let it all out.

"Shhh," he soothes you, not at all rushing you to stop crying. He holds you close with one hand and lets the other rub circles on your back. "I've got you. It's okay, you're okay. I'm here, Baby and I'm perfectly okay."

There's so much you want to say to him but you can't stop crying long enough to get any words out for two minutes or so. And when you can force words out it's mainly to repeat the same things to him, almost a little chant as you rock yourself into him in a desperate attempt to self soothe in his arms.

"I'm sorry Jack," you choke out against his neck, moving your head so he can hear you better. "I'm, I'm so sorry. This is so unfair to you. I'm just so scared Jack," you repeat over and over.

"Everything's okay Sweetheart, you have nothing to apologize for," Jack murmurs to you just loudly enough for you to hear over your tears. "I know you're scared, I'm here though okay, you can feel me, I'm here with you and I'm okay. And there's nothing unfair about you feeling how you do, I promise. I love you. It's okay, I've got you." Like you, Jack repeats himself over and over praying that you'll be able to take his words to heart while knowing from personal experience how hard it is to do that.

After another few minutes your sobs slow to just crying into Jack's neck and then shuddery, hiccuped breaths as you sniffle and try in vain to breathe in Jack and his scent, the smell of home and comfort and safety. Jack continues to murmur little reassurances and sweet nothings to you as you come down, shifting a little at some point so that your face is less in his neck and more resting on his uninjured shoulder.

Jack grabs some gauze for you to use as a tissue off the mayo stand and smiles to himself as his heart absolutely fucking aches when you use it to wipe off his neck first before using it to clean yourself up. It takes you another moment to speak once you've got yourself a little put back together.

When you do speak your words are simple. "I'm sorry." You pull yourself away from Jack's warm skin so you can look at him.

Jack gives you a crooked smile, looks at you like you're adorable and a little crazy, his eyes squinted just a touch more than usual. "For what, Baby?"

You rest your arms gently along the top of his shoulders and let your fingers scratch and massage and play with the curls at the nape of his neck. "Being like this, sobbing into you when you're hurt and I'm supposed to be taking care of you. Making you feel bad and overreacting."

He shakes his head at you slowly. "I'm hardly hurt and you're not being like anything and you're certainly not overreacting." Jack pauses for a second as he looks you in your eyes. "I thought about it like you asked me to, our positions being reversed and I can guarantee you I'd be feeling and reacting the same way as you. I'd be just as upset. Your reaction is incredibly valid, Sweetheart."

You shrug shallowly, look down at his chest. There's something about how small the shrug is and how you won't look at him that tells Jack both not to push that topic further and that you're acknowledging that he's right. "And you know I don't care if you cry into me, Honey. You know that's where I want you to cry into if you have to cry so that I can hold you and try to help comfort you and keep you feeling safe so you can get it all out."

"I know, thank you," you murmur. You take in a deep breath and then look back up at him. "Thank you for holding me and giving me a safe space, for being my safe space."

"You're welcome. I always will be, Baby." Jack leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. "Do you want to talk about it more now?"

"No," you whisper, shaking your head. "Not really. Not today and probably not tonight or tomorrow. I just want to be with you for a bit first if that's okay."

He nods. "Of course that's okay, we can do that. I was planning on sticking around here with you until you're off anyway, pitch in where I can."

You give him a small smile. "I'd like that, thank you." You lean into him and share a few sweet kisses before you nuzzle your nose against Jack's cheek and sigh happily at the feeling of his grown out stubble against your skin which makes him chuckle.

The sound helps relax you and you press a lingering kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him again. "I know it hurts more than you're letting on, Jack. It was a graze, yeah, but it's still a graze and an impact."

Jack shrugs with his uninjured shoulder and pulls his lips down. "Yeah, but it's not that bad though, I promise, even with it being worse than I'm letting on to everyone except you because you see it regardless."

"You let me see it," you murmur. You bring a hand to his face and drag your knuckles down just beneath his cheekbone lightly before cupping the side of his face. Your eyes find his again. "You let your guard down with me. You let me see you. And I cherish that more than you'll ever truly know."

Jack turns his head in your hand to kiss your palm before bringing his head back to look at you. He leans into your palm and swallows thickly. "I do yeah. Because I know that no matter what, no matter how tough I am or seem or can't be or think I should be, you'll be gentle with me."

"I'm glad you know." You give him a small, soft smile.

Despite the fact that you and Jack have cleared the air and made up and things are good and okay, there's still something kind of somber and anxious in the air, augmented by how carefree and light and flirty and lusty and horny for each other you were in the supply closet. You hate it, feel like you ruined such a good thing, especially when you're still just as hot and worked up for him underneath it all.

You know you just need to chill out some and you're sure by the time you're home this fog will have passed but you still hate it in the meantime. You move your hand back to Jack's curls and continue to play with them. "I don't want us to be down like this. I want to be how we were in the supply closet," you sigh, an adorable little pout to your lips.

Jack takes in a deep breath and nods. He knows what you mean, that it's not a sad kind of down but more that you're subdued. He looks around the room just for the show of it and then cocks his head at you and smirks a little. "We could lay down and make out again."

You laugh softly and raise your eyebrows, nodding at him. "And when someone walks in?"

"They get a free show," he shrugs easily. "Tax exempt bonus compensation."

You start to giggle and Jack's heart soars at the sound even more than it did at your soft laugh. "You're ridiculous."

He doesn't deny it, but does offer more of a real answer. "We know whoever it was would be like 'Oh! Sorry!' and turn around and scurry out and go tell the first person they saw, probably."

"True," you smile at him and there's a pause as the two of you look at each other. "I'm really glad you're okay. That's such a fucking understatement actually," you laugh under your breath. "I love you Jack."

Jack returns your smile. "I love you more."

You shake your head. "Not possible."

"It is very possible and it's true and I win," he nods.

"Nu-uh."

Jack gasps overdramatically. "What do you mean 'nu-uh?' The injured person always gets to win and I'm injured." You raise your eyebrows and tilt and bob your head at him a little with an amused smirk because he's spent so much time trying to convince you he's not injured as such. But you know what he means and why he's saying it in this context. The realization passes over his face and you have to stifle your laugh. "Ish," he tries to backtrack with a slow nod. "Injured-ish."

"Injured-ish," you nod slowly, narrowing your eyes at him and smirking widely so he knows you're not upset by it. And you're not. It seems that at least for right now you really just needed to have a cry about it all to make it not so scary and something you can at least kind of joke about like this where it's not fully making light of what happened. "Well, I got told my husband was shot today."

A hint of a smirk pulls at the corners of Jack's lips as he looks at you and tries to read your reaction. You know immediately.

You shake your head at him, trying to keep a straight face and sound serious but not quite pulling it off. "Jack Abbot." His name is a little laughed, the warning edge you try to infuse belied by the smile creeping at your lips.

Your reaction tells Jack all he needs to know, that he can say what he wants without upsetting or hurting you. He leans in and gives you a kiss that's so soft it's almost more of him ghosting his lips over yours. "At," he murmurs at your lips before pulling back to look at you. "You got told your husband was shot at today."

"You are such a fucking ass sometimes," you huff, trying so hard not to laugh but unable to stop a few from coming out as you shake your head at him.

"Mm, yeah," he gives you a saccharine smile, "but you love that and I'm your ass. You're the one who decided to marry me after all."

"I really do, yeah," you laugh gently. "And yes, you are mine and I would make that choice every single time without a second thought."

"And I'll always be yours." He gives you a genuine smile this time and leans in, gives your forehead a kiss.

"We're okay?" you murmur as his lips linger against your skin.

Jack tilts his head at you when he pulls back and moves his hands to your hips, squeezes gently. "We're perfect on my end. We good on yours?" He knows that you guys are, but he still does want to check in a little and make sure his 'at' joke was really okay and not something you just swallowed down.

"Yeah," you smile widely at him, nose and lips and eyes still a little swollen from all the crying. You look adorable, he thinks. "We're perfect on mine too." Your fingers continue to play with his still damp curls as that adorable smile turns into an equally adorable pout. "But I do think we should make out again."

Jack doesn't miss a beat, you're only just able to hear his soft laugh and catch a flash of his smile because he leans into you and starts doing exactly that, his lips caressing yours as he slides his hands from your hips to your back to pull you flush against him.

You and Jack make out again, slower at first until things pick up again and you both get greedier and more escalated, start getting handsy with each other. It feels like you're back in the supply closet again.

Eventually the need for more oxygen than you can get while kissing forces you to pull your lips from each other's. "Should probably get this dealt with and back out there," Jack pants softly as he rests his forehead against yours. "As much as I'd rather do this the rest of the day and night."

"Probably, yeah." You nuzzle your nose against his and take a moment to relish in him and his smell and his hot breath against your skin, proof that despite being shot at he's still here and alive and nearly perfectly fine and with you. Because as much as you need to set a lot of it aside for the rest of today and probably tomorrow, you're not exactly over it. "But I'll spend as much time as I deem necessary taking care of my most important patient."

"Mm, yeah? That so?" Jack murmurs, smiling against you.

"Yeah, so I better finish up quickly here and go check on them," you tease.

"You're so full of shit," he huffs a laugh, smiling and squeezing your waist with one hand and pinching your ass gently with the other.

You giggle and kiss all over his face. "There could never be any patient or anybody more important than you." You press a lingering kiss to Jack's lips and share a tight hug for a few seconds before he wordlessly slides off the bed with you so that you can unwrap your legs from around him and set your feet back on the floor to stand. Jack gives you one last kiss before he lets you out of his arms and sits back on the edge of the bed for you.

As you clean and dress his wound you ask what happened and Jack explains. You know it's probably bothering and getting to him more than he wants to admit to himself or let show. And you feel incredibly selfish but you can't help but imagine Jack in his Hiro's place, especially as you tend to the injury left on his skin by a bullet. You set that aside for now though because it's not what matters. Your husband and his feelings are what matter the most to you right now.

When you're finished you bring your lips down and press a soft kiss just above the dressing you've put over Jack's wound. You peel your gloves off and toss them and everything left on the mayo stand in the trash as you walk to stand in front of him again, grabbing his shirt from the other end of the bed where he tossed it.

You scrunch up Jack's shirt to help him get it on. He doesn't really need the help of course, but you want to give it and it helps make you feel better and a little more in control and Jack certainly has no objection. Before you hold it up for him though you pause. "I'm here. If you need to talk about it," you tell him softly.

Jack shrugs, far too fast and trying far too hard to be truly unbothered. "I'm okay. We saved him. He'll be in the hospital for a while and have a long recovery obviously, but he'll be okay."

You give him the softest smile and raise your eyebrows at him slightly, effectively calling him out on what you know to be his bullshit. You expected that answer though, especially here at work. Who wants to face those emotions if they can pretend they don't need to?

He takes in a breath and nods. "Yeah," he whispers. "Not here. And probably not tonight or tomorrow. Like you said, I just want to be with you for a bit first."

"Okay," you murmur. "There's no pressure. And when you are ready to talk, it doesn't have to be with me. You've got your therapist and Robby. I just want you to know I'm here for you."

Jack laughs softly and shakes his head at you. "I know that, I always know that. I knew before you said it. You always make me feel like you're here for me. I love you and I'm so lucky to have you."

"I love you too." What you're sure can only be described as a mushy love sick smile pulls onto your face. "And I'm the lucky one in this relationship."

He shakes his head, smiling. "This is one we're always going to have to agree to disagree on, Sweetheart."

You hum at him. "I suppose it is." You lean in to take a quick kiss from him and then help him get his shirt on. "You know I'm really bummed I'm not helping you get your shirt back on because I took it off you before you fucked me."

"I thought you wanted the uniform to stay on," Jack smirks.

You click your tongue at him. "Well yeah, but a girl can still imagine getting fucked by her husband at work."

His smirk deepens. "You like imagining that sort of thing?"

"I like imagining many sorts of things with you," you smirk back at him.

"Oh yeah?" Jack flicks his eyebrows up, reaches out for your hips and pulls you closer so that you're standing between his legs. "What else do you like imagining?" he says lowly, voice dripping with want and need.

You're smiling as you lean in for another kiss, keep it almost frustratingly chaste. You kiss from his lips up his stubble covered jaw until your lips are right at his ear. "A girl also needs her secrets," you whisper.

You move quickly then, step back and out of his hands and start walking away before Jack can tighten his grip on you. Both of you know that you'll tell him everything you like to imagine at some point and that you already have told him some of those things.

Still. He doesn't get to know now like he wants, just has to imagine what you imagine. Jack whines over-dramatically as you walk away. "Tease!"

You finish throwing in a final stitch and glance up at the monitor while Garcia watches the field. The numbers start to stabilize as she announces the field is staying dry. You nod at her as you step back so that the others in the room can get ready to move the patient up to the OR quickly now that he's stable. You pull off your gown and gloves as they wheel him out, throw them in the biohazard bin, let out a long breath and then walk out like nothing happened.

Like Jack isn’t standing there in the vestibule between the two trauma rooms absolutely fucking losing his god damn mind.

Jack was in the vestibule with the doors open long enough to have heard and seen everything that just happened, to watch you pull whatever the fuck that was out of thin fucking air and save the patient from what had appeared to be close to certain death in the Pitt, give him at least a shot in the OR. Everything you do is hot in Jack's opinion. But that, that has to be one of the top ten hottest things you've ever done, that he's ever seen.

He understands your desperation from earlier when you got him to follow you into the supply closet. Because Jack needs you. Now.

You're just so fucking hot. Physically, yes, always of course, and you're wearing those scrub pants that he absolutely fucking loves because of how they make your ass look, and the cut of your scrub top emphasizes your curves in all the right places and with the bra you're wearing your tits look fucking fantastic.

But your intelligence and your capability are just as fucking hot. That was so fucking smart. You are so fucking smart. Jack doesn't think he'd have come up with that on the fly like he heard you tell Garcia you did, that you didn't read about it somewhere. You were so textbook in certain ways and creative in others, controlled in your approach but flexible and willing to fully commit and go for it to save your patient.

Realistically a small percentage of doctors probably have the skill set to do something like you just did under the kind of pressure you did it under even knowing what to do in advance, much less come up with the maneuver and adapt it as needed mid-trauma. But you did. That was all you. His girl. His woman. His wife.

And so he needs you, is already hard for you and knows he won’t be able to stop walking or anyone who looks at him will be able to see, knows the movement will hide his prominent hard on.

He turns back to the trauma room he had been in and stalks out of it with his face set, shaking his head to himself slightly. He's trying to set up his irritation in case you're out at the hub and see him walking out. Like you he feels bad using a bit of a ruse to get you to follow him but he makes sure he seems irritated and frustrated with the world and not you, though, also like you, he figures you might start to think it's at you. He'll straighten out any confusion you might have very quickly.

You are at the hub when Jack walks out of the trauma room and because you seem to have a radar for him you look up and find him easily, smile automatically just at seeing him like he did with you before you furrow your brows a little at how done with the world he looks. Did something happen? Did he get bad news about Hiro? Did you do something?

Jack's eyes find yours and he shakes his head subtly and you can see him let out a breath. He flicks his chin, a silent request for you to follow him. A request you follow without a second thought, walking off after him.

Given the fact that you did the same exact thing to him hours ago, the thought should probably occur to you that Jack is doing the same. But it doesn't because you're just not thinking about it, at least in part because you haven't done anything to earn a reaction from Jack that's similar to your reaction to him earlier today.

"Baby?" you start as you follow him in. "What-"

Jack is quick, predatorily quick, and so before your mind has a chance to catch up with anything you hear the click of the lock as he locks the door and find yourself pushed back up against the wall exactly where you were earlier, Jack's hand behind your head so that you don't hit it from the force of him nearly pinning you to the wall in one swift motion.

It steals your breath, as does the way Jack drops his head and looks at you, hazel eyes blown and almost glowing in the low light of the closet.

"You have no fucking idea, do you?" Jack laughs under his breath. "Not a single fucking clue how hot that was."

"What was?" You're still a little breathless and the sound sends a shot of pleasure through Jack, has him throbbing against his boxer briefs and cargos as he bites his bottom lip.

Jack releases his lower lip from between his teeth. "That move during the trauma. The one you just pulled out of fucking thin air."

"Oh." You laugh softly and shrug. “I was just doing my job.”

"Feel that?" Jack grabs one of your hands and brings it down and holds it over his cock, grinds his hips up against you so that you really feel how hard he is. "That's what it did to me. That's what you did to me. Your intelligence, your capability. That was so far beyond just your fucking job, Sweetheart." Jack releases your hand and kisses you hard. When he pulls away he brings his hands to your face and holds it gently, something tender to it. "That was… Only a small percentage of doctors could pull off that move if they'd been taught it, knew how to do it going into a high pressure situation like that. And you fucking came up with it off the cuff, in the middle of a fucking trauma with the pressure of knowing your patient's life likely depended on it, having to adapt and be willing to change course but also stay committed."

He drops his hips and presses into you to pin you to the wall as he kisses you again, his tongue easily slipping into your mouth when you give him the chance. You moan into the kiss softly which pulls a much louder groan from Jack who drops his hands from your face to run down the front of you and palm and squeeze at your breasts. Your hands unsurprisingly find his curls and tug at them as Jack rolls his hips against you hard.

Jack breaks the kiss for some air and trails his hands down to hold your hips as he kisses and sucks lightly at your neck, his stubble teasing your skin and making you whine for him. "You're going to publish that and we're going to go to a conference and everyone in the whole god damn room is going to want you. As a doctor and as a woman. And you're fucking mine."

"Yeah, I am yours," you pant softly. "Always will be Jack."

"I know," Jack almost growls into your neck before suddenly pulling away from you, his face leaving your neck and his hips leaving yours.

Before you can start to ask why or what happened one of Jack's hands is at the waistband of your scrub pants pulling the bow of the drawstring free and then trying to slip inside.

"Jack," you laugh breathily. You love when he gets like this, you really do. But he was right earlier and nothing has changed. And you're so fucking close to being done with your shift. As much as it pains you, you bring one of your hands down and wrap it around his wrist to stop him from sliding his hand down your pants. "What was it you said earlier? Calm down."

"I'm perfectly calm," Jack hums as he uses his other hand to cup your pussy over your pants and start rubbing, blindly seeking out your clit with his thumb. You can't lie, it's infuriatingly attractive when he succeeds in finding it in only a matter of seconds when most men couldn’t find it if you were naked and brought their finger right to it.

"Oh but when I try to suck you off or get you to fuck me in the supply closet I'm not calm?" You grab his other wrist with your other hand and pull his hand away. Really, Jack lets you do it. He could easily keep his hand there against your pull.

Jack whines a little and shakes his head. "You're thinking entirely too much, Baby."

He kisses you again before you can respond and you melt into it even more this time, release his hands for them to roam his body so yours can roam his as you make out. Jack thinks back to his earlier idea, sticking his leg out for you to grind one out on while giving him a handjob. There's also still the option of bending you over and taking you from behind as you hold onto a shelf. He could kneel and throw your legs over his shoulders to start with, get you nice and worked up and wet for him with his tongue.

"Jack," you murmur against his lips. "We can't." You're so close to being off, just have a few more things to do in your last ten minutes and then hand off and you can hopefully get out of here on time or at least within thirty minutes of on time, but not if you stay in here with your husband, as much as you want to.

You're both just as keyed up and needy and ready for each other as you were when you found yourselves in here earlier. If anything you're even more keyed up and needy and ready for each other because you've both spent the last however many hours thinking about finally getting home and having the other.

"Why not?" Jack mumbles against your lips.

You let out an airy laugh. "Because…" You realize you don't really have an answer other than you're at work technically still on shift for another ten minutes. But you sure were ready to fuck him while on shift earlier. "It'll be better at home," you offer weakly as Jack kisses you again.

"Both," Jack mumbles against your lips. "We can do both. I'm not opposed to both, I'm more than happy to have you both here and at home." He brings his lips back to your neck, makes sure his stubble scratches at your skin with just the right pressure to tease you again, his teeth nipping at you occasionally this time.

"Jack," you breathe, a hard shiver of pleasure running up your spine. "Let's finish here so we can go home."

"I'm all for finishing here," Jack murmurs into your neck.

You have to laugh a little at his comment and his ability to make something so innocuous a double entendre. You can feel Jack smile against the skin of your neck and he nips at you one last time before groaning.

"Fuck," Jack sighs into your skin. He knows you're right the same way you knew he was right earlier no matter how much you disliked it. "You're right, I just don't wanna stop," he pouts as he pulls away from your neck to look at you.

"Hey," you give him a soft, teasing smile, run your fingers through his curls. “We just have to survive ten minutes and however long it takes us to get out of here."

"Yeah, I guess," he half huffs half sighs playfully. "Still fucking sucks." Jack takes a small step back so that you can walk by him even though he wants to keep you right where he has you. "Go finish up, yeah? That way we can leave as soon as possible. I'll be out in just a minute after I chill out." He motions to his quite obvious erection straining against his pants.

"'Kay," you giggle with a nod. You give him one last lingering kiss before walking to the door. You pause there again and turn to him, smirking at him and winking as you unlock the door and go to walk out, repeating his own words back to him. "Good to know I can still get to you after five years together."

Jack closes the front door of your shared townhouse behind you, locks it and flicks on the lights and sets his backpack next to yours on the credenza as you finish toeing your shoes off and moving them on to the shoe rack with your feet. He wraps one arm around your waist and pulls you to him, his hands settling on your hips as yours splay across his chest, an amused smile pulling onto your face, eyebrows raising slightly. "Now, where were we?" he murmurs, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips, his eyes smoldering as he looks down at you.

You tilt your head and smirk at him, the most caring edge to it. There's quite frankly absolutely fucking nothing in the world you want more than Jack right now. But. "I was thinking on the way home. You have to be absolutely exhausted from the heat, Jack, and sore. Let's get you a shower and something to drink and in bed, yeah? We have all of tomorrow." You lean up on your toes to press a soft kiss to his lips.

Your concern is genuine of course, and if what Jack truly needs is in fact to shower and get in bed, you're all for that. But you know that's not what he needs, nor what he wants. You just like making him work for it a little, know he likes the element of what almost feels a bit like chasing you.

"Oh, no," he laughs under his breath, shakes his head at you once. "You can't get me that wound up at work twice and then nothing."

Jack gives you the slightest nod as he finishes speaking, one so subtle only you would be able to see it. It's a nod he doesn't need to give you because you already know but he does anyway. A nod that says actually you could do exactly that. You could tell him no right now and he'd respect it and stop, that you don't owe him a single fucking thing and that while yeah, he loves this game and knows exactly what it is, he'll stop in a second if that's what you want or need.

You hum a little and your smirk grows. You shrug. "I mean I didn't get you wound up the second time."

He clicks his tongue. "Right, right," he drawls, hands sliding from your hips to your ass and squeezing. "Just like I didn't get you wound up the first time."

"Well," you take in a deep breath and step closer to him, and then closer again so he has to take a step back and another and another until you have him pressed up against the wall just like you did earlier at work. You both know it's exactly what he wanted. "I don't know, Baby," you murmur, syrupy sweet, "I'm not sure you can afford to lose the sodium."

Jack's eyes close slowly and he takes in a deep breath through his nose, his face turning just slightly as you giggle. The sound makes his cock throb hard against the confines of his boxer briefs and cargos, makes him get even harder for you somehow.

He still tries to keep it up though, lets out a long sigh. "A cum joke," he mutters, "oh my fucking god."

"I don't think it was that much worse than your 'I'm always armed for you' cock joke." He can hear the smirk in your voice.

He opens his eyes and looks at you and shrugs, the smile he's trying so hard to hold back peeking through in his crows feet. "It was effective, I guess. Mood ruined. No further sodium loss will happen. Let's go shower and get in bed."

You smirk and give him a look that says oh please, take a step even closer to him, your bodies pressed a little more firmly together now. One of your hands runs down his chest and abdomen, fingers skirting just under his waistband to tease him before your hand continues down and starts rubbing his fully hard and aching cock over his pants.

Jack takes in the slightest sharp breath, his hips canting against you a little before he catches himself. "You sure about that Dr. Abbot?" You find just about where the ridge of his head is and start rubbing your thumb over it, relish in the way his breath catches in his throat and you watch his eyes blow a little more as you hold his gaze. "Because I'd really, really love to have your cock in my mouth and throat."

"Fuck," Jack groans quietly, cock twitching at your insinuation that you want to take him all the way.

"I had this whole nice little plan too," you fake pout, feigned disappointment playing on your features. "Take you to the couch and get your leg taken care of and then get you to just sit back and relax and let me do all the work so you don't have to further exert yourself." You shrug and pull your hand off him, sigh dramatically. "But I guess if I ruined the mood-"

"Cock first," Jack interrupts you, missing your attention to his cock. "And yes it's okay, my leg is okay, I promise, it can wait for this." He needs you, the pleasure already racing through him so fast and so intense that he swears to god he's going to embarrass himself after five years together, three of them married, by coming a second and a half after you get your mouth on him.

You cock your head slightly, furrow your brows in confusion. "What? I don't…" you trail off, shaking your head.

"Cock first. Right here. Cock first and then deal with my leg," Jack pants at you, one hand leaving your ass to start trying to get his pants undone.

Your brows furrow further. You do a good job of keeping yourself neutral as you fuck with him again. You understood what he meant the first time he said it. "What?"

"Cock first and then leg," he repeats. "Suck my cock first and then we can deal with my leg."

"What?" you ask again, the question obviously feigned this time as a smirk ghosts your lips.

Jack rolls his eyes at you and you giggle. "Oh jesus christ woman," he brings his hands to your shoulders and pushes down on them with just the right amount of pressure, "get on your knees and suck my fucking cock."

You beam up at him as you unbutton his pants and start to sink to the floor, nodding. "Sir, yes sir," you smirk as you settle on your knees and pull his pants and boxer briefs down far enough in one go.

"That was terrible- fuck!" Jack's hips buck slightly at the absolute jolt of pleasure your lips sealing around the head of his cock and sucking hard sends through him. You expected it, move your head back in time with the motion so that he doesn't get to shove himself any further into your mouth or throat yet. "Oh fuck!" Jack groans in pleasure as he looks down at you taking his cock in your mouth.

Your head bobs up and down him shallowly at first, taking a little more of him each time but only by a centimeter or less. You love almost teasing him with it, love building it up achingly slow for him.

Once you're worked up to sucking his cock in earnest you make sure to prolong it, suck him hard and how he loves and how you know makes his mind hazy with pleasure, but back off when you know he's close until you can feel his lower abs twitching. It's your sign that he's not going to be able to last much longer with this long of a fuse for you to work with until he comes. It's your sign that he needs it.

You pull your mouth off him, swirl your tongue around his head and use the tip to flick at his frenulum. "Fuck Baby," Jack breathes, voice shuddery with pleasure as he groans softly and leaks a drop of precum for you that you're quick to clean up with the tip of your tongue at his slit before taking half of him back in your mouth. "Oh shit," Jack pants hard, a soft thump of his head hitting the wall as it falls back in pleasure, his eyes closing as he focuses on and loses himself to the sensation of your mouth around him.

You let your eyes close so that you can focus on the feeling of him in your mouth and every little groan and moan and sigh of pleasure you pull from him as you continue sucking him off like your fucking life depends on it. Eventually you're able to hear and feel Jack pull his head back up and know he's looking down at you again. Your eyes flutter open and you smile around him when you make eye contact, take more of him than you have all night as you look up at him through your lashes.

"God I can't believe I get my cock sucked this fucking good on a weekly fucking basis," Jack rasps, his cock twitching in your mouth. "Multiple times a fuckin' week."

You hum around him as your head moves back down him and then back up. You pull all the way off him, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the head of his cock that earns you a keened whine from him. "I can't believe I'm lucky enough to get to suck your cock on a weekly basis," you pant softly, move your lips closer to him so they flutter against his head with your next words. "Multiple times a week. I'm," you press a kiss to the tip of him, "so," another kiss about halfway down the top of his shaft, "lucky," a final kiss right at the base of him, your nose brushing against the silvery happy trail you adore so much. You drop your mouth and stick your tongue out, lick a hot stripe up the underside of him from his balls to his tip and then take him back in your mouth again.

"Yeah," Jack sighs all breathy, a heavy groan to it and a bit higher pitched than normal. "Yeah," he breathes out, "yeah, you're so good to me."

You hum around him again, suck as hard as you can as you pull up his cock. Jack almost laughs a groan, because how is this his fucking life, how is he so lucky. His ability to think with any level of clarity is truly starting to go as you quite literally suck it out of him. "Can't believe I'm married to someone as hot as you. As fucking…" he trails off as the pleasure your mouth brings him overwhelms him. "As," he tries again, "as…."

Very carefully and very, very lightly you scrape your teeth up him on your next pass and Jack shivers hard at the flood of intense pleasure that rushes through his system. You wrap your left hand around half of him, make sure that your wedding band and engagement ring that you put back on during the trip home are on top for him to see since he brought up being married, suck on him a little more shallowly as you stroke the rest of him.

"Oh I love you," Jack groans, watching your rings that tell everyone who sees them that you’re married to him sparkle in the light against his cock, your mouth a heaven he knows for a fucking fact he doesn’t deserve, and one you give him so, so freely. "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou."

You're not sure why but for some reason that's always one of the hottest things Jack says to you while you're going down on him. I love you. It never fails to get to you.

You double down on your efforts and Jack lets out a strangled groan. "I'm gonna come, Baby," he pants hard, voice pure gravel. "Gonna come, where do you…where?"

Jack knows you really don't love swallowing all that much. He knows you'll do it from time to time and that you don't mind when you do because you're always the one that tells him to, who brings it up and offers to do it. And there is something so fucking attractive and hot to you about the way he knows that and always remembers it and acknowledges it and asks and never pressures you or 'accidentally' comes in your mouth 'because his orgasm surprised him.'

You let your eyes flutter closed for a few seconds and focus on keeping your throat relaxed as you take Jack all the way, gagging just once or twice before your nose is nuzzling into well kept gray hair. It's you telling him he can come in your mouth. Both of you know it.

"Yeah? You sure?" Jack's eyes search yours as his chest heaves and your head moves slowly up and down him. There's no hesitation to be found, no look that tells him you don't really want to but are doing it for him. Your eyes tell him you're more than okay with it, that you want this for him and for you.

But at the same time you can read in Jack's eyes that he wants more verbal confirmation. You nod as you pull off him, keep your lips right against his head. "Just let go for me Handsome, yeah?" you pant softly, give him a smile so breathtaking and beautiful and sexy that he's honestly impressed he doesn't lose it immediately.

You suck on his head once or twice and then bob your head up and down him all the way once. "Baby," Jack breathes. "I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come." You work your mouth down him all the way again and let your nose nuzzle into him again before you swallow around him and bring one hand to play with his balls and Jack is fucking gone.

He comes down your throat with a loud groan of your name, watches for a few seconds before his head tips back in pleasure and hits the wall gently again. Your name and a flurry of curse words drip off his tongue just before the praise starts and continues through his orgasm.

"You're so good," Jack pants, unable to catch his breath as his orgasm starts to ebb. "Oh, fuck Sweetheart you're so good, so good for me."

Tunnels start to set in at the edges of your vision as Jack finishes coming. You know he'll lose his fucking mind if you pass out so you start to pull off him, coughing a bit once he's out of your mouth and choking on air as you try to breathe it in too fast, your hands flying up to cling at his shirt to help you stay upright with the momentary dizziness that sets in. It feels fucking good if you're honest, being that light headed.

"You okay?" Jack is quick to ask, bending slightly so his hands can wrap around your forearms to help steady you. "And you sure you were okay with that? Me coming in your mouth?"

You have to laugh, let your head tilt forward to rest on his lower abdomen for a second before you look up at him. "Well, it was really more my throat now, wasn't it Baby?" You nod at him. "I'm sure. And I'm so much more than okay Dr. Abbot," you laugh a little more. "I'm fucking great."

Jack pants a laugh with you and nods. "Good." He helps you back onto your feet and pulls his pants and boxer briefs up but doesn't bother rebuttoning his pants, knows they'll stay on enough to get him to the bedroom. He kisses you as hard and deeply as he can with how hard he's still breathing. You smile against his lips and pull yours from his, move them to kiss at his face and neck and clothed chest as he comes back down. "Go get on the bed for me Sweetheart," he tells you once he's recovered and his breathing is mostly back to normal.

You pull your lips from his scruff and give him a look with a little smirk. "It was cock first, leg second," you remind him.

Jack half whines at you. "I meant to say cock first, pussy second, leg third."

You shake your head at him. "Not after today, Baby," you murmur. "We're going to take care of your leg and shower and then get in bed."

He pulls his lips down in consideration and nods once. "Alright," he acquiesces, "I like the sound of bed."

"Get in bed and sleep. You don't need to exert yourself any further today," you clarify for him with a look. But nothing about you right now is particularly firm or serious, not your tone or your expression. You're not quite fucking with him all the way because your concern is genuine of course, and he knows if he truly needed to just take care of his leg, shower and sleep, you'd be more than okay with that. It's more like you're protesting half-heartedly to give him that chance to chase you a little how you both love for him to do sometimes, the chance to persuade you to give yourself over to him. "You've already done more than enough for me, Sweetheart. I know you're sore and exhausted from the heat and then working at the Pitt for hours and getting grazed."

"I'm okay," Jack nods at you, rests his hands on your hips and kisses the tip of your nose. "I promise."

You rest your hands on his chest again and rub a little. "I know and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Sweetheart, having sex with my wife isn't going to make me not okay," Jack laughs, but it’s not at you. "You really think we're going to sleep this early?" This time it's him who gives you a look.

"We have tomorrow off, all day and night for things," you murmur, push up on your tip toes and give him a kiss.

"Exactly! We don't have to be up early! We can do whatever we want tonight and sleep in as late as we want tomorrow, spend as much time lounging in bed as our hearts desire." Jack's hands slide down to your ass and squeeze and don't let go. He pushes off the wall and takes a step forward that you match by taking one back. "And if you don't want me to exert myself you could fuck yourself on me, yeah?" he murmurs lowly as he starts to slowly walk you backwards to your bedroom. "Be in control for the night."

"There's not even a good position, Jack. You need to keep weight off your shoulder and back." It's not even a half-hearted protest anymore.

"It's okay, I promise." Jack nods slowly, his eyes locked on yours but still able to check the path in front of you to make sure it's clear and you won't trip over anything. He loves the way you trust him completely, unthinkingly, know he won’t let you trip or run into anything or hurt yourself.

You know he'll be fine if he exerts himself more or puts weight or pressure on the area he was grazed, you just worry. But he's caught you and you know he knows by that fucking smirk he's wearing. "Why do I have a feeling whatever position we start in is going to end up with you on top of me sucking as many hickeys into my chest and the top of my tits as you possibly can while you fuck me damn near as hard as you can into the mattress?" There's an obvious strain of longing and lust to your voice.

The question gives you away, whatever position we start in means you will in fact be starting, and it confirms for Jack that he's got you and that you're looking forward to it. "Because I'm just in that kind of mood for you and you know me well enough to be able to tell just from our conversation and my expressions and body language." His smirk deepens. "And I won't be fucking you damn near as hard as I can into the mattress. There won't be any near to it, I'll be fucking you as hard as I can into the mattress, until you are begging to come on my cock."

You let out a shuddery breath and shiver, swear you can feel yourself get wetter for him at your words. Jack flicks the light on as you hit your bedroom and shuts the door behind him, stops walking with you once you're at the side of the bed. "You don't have to make me come just because I made you come, Jack."

"I know," he nods, grabs the waistband of your pants and underwear and shoves them down as far as he can get without breaking eye contact with you. "And it's not about that. I'm not trying to play it tit for tat." One of Jack's hands slips between your legs and he tilts his head and smirks at you when he feels how wet you are, slides one finger and then a second inside of you with ease, stealing your breath. "I haven't stopped thinking about fucking you since the supply closet, the first time. And I'd really like to go down on you before fucking you into the mattress as hard as I can as you put it."

You clench around his fingers, couldn't stop from doing so if you'd tried. "I," you gasp slightly, Jack's smirk deepening as he makes a come hither motion with his fingers inside of you. "I suppose the oxytocin from another orgasm will help you with pain relief and healing."

"Yeah," Jack agrees in that breathy, slightly higher pitched tone he uses sometimes. "Yeah. It will. So will the oxytocin I'll get from having my tongue in your cunt."

"Jesus, Jack," you breathe, thoughts of feeling his stubble between your legs and his tongue on your clit and inside of you so heady you almost feel dizzy. "Fuck, okay. Okay, yeah. If that's what you want and need, Jack, yeah. Please."

Jack hums a single laugh, eyes sparkling and smirk still on his handsome face. "I think it's what you want and need too, Beautiful." He pulls his fingers from you and brings them up so that they're between your faces and you can both see how wet you are for him. "In fact, I know it is." And he's right, of course. It has been this entire time even though you've been making him chase you and work for it a little. Jack makes a show of sucking his fingers clean, groaning at the taste of you. "Now be a good girl and stay still while I strip you, okay?"

I need him so badly I could scream about it forever. He's just so 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠. I love him. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable!! Thank you so much for reading and for all of your support! ♥️ I love hearing your thoughts and comments! ♥️

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[bugs-theshroom]

The night shift is so pretty and they are a bisexual's dream (im said bisexual?

[thepencilnerd]

Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER. 

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after. 

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts. 

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip. 

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat. 

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face. 

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He  leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to.  I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs. 

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard. 

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself. 

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold. 

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to. 

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away. 

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact. 

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself. 

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still. 

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them. 

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered. 

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.  

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale. 

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..." 

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact. 

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light. 

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there. 

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes. 

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight. 

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in. 

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you. 

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself. 

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you. 

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer. 

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack. 

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening. 

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor. 

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up." 

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long." 

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home. 

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs. 

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader   word count: 2k and i have so many other ideas, lmk if you want more parts! notes: this one goes out to the nonny in my inbox when i asked for ideas! i kinda blended both your ex!reader and babydaddy!jack ideas! hope you enjoy!

You ended things amicably — as amicably as two people can when love’s still there but the capacity to hold it isn’t. Jack didn’t have space for you, your kid, his job, and his trauma. Something had to give.

But you co-parent well enough. There are bumps, but the rhythm is there.

Usually, handoffs are easy. He comes over, eats dinner with you both like old times, then wrangles Beau back to his place. But today’s different — off-cycle. You’re headed to the airport for a work trip, and Jack’s just wrapping up a shift, so you agree to meet at the hospital.

It feels strange walking in. You haven’t been back since the two of you ended things. There are plenty of familiar faces… and a few new ones.

The second Beau sees Jack, he’s wriggling out of your hand.

“Beau—no running in the ER—” you start, but he’s already barreling toward his dad.

“Oof, kiddo, remember we said soft hugs?” Jack laughs, catching him easily, hoisting him up into his arms.

Dana and Robby round the corner just then.

“Hey, look who it is!” Dana says, but Beau clams up, burying his face in Jack’s neck.

“Sorry, you know kids. He’s shy this early,” you say, brushing a hand down Beau’s back. “Be nice to Dana and Uncle Robby, baby.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen either of you around,” Dana says, pulling you into a quick hug. “I only get my Baby Beau fix from Instagram stories now.”

“Oh, I figured Jack would still be throwing his infamous backyard parties,” you say, trying to keep it light.

“Nope, those petered out. What’s it been—three years?” Robby glances at his watch, then at Jack with a pointed look.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize what he’s referencing.

Samira passes by next, lighting up at the sight of Beau. “Hi, Beau! Didn’t know I’d get to see you today!”

“Hi, ‘mira,” Beau murmurs, a soft smile still pressed into his dad’s shoulder.

“Sorry to interrupt, Jack—could I get your opinion on something before you head out?”

Jack looks around. You jump in before he has to juggle.

“I’ve got a few minutes. I can set him up in the lounge?”

Jack nods, grateful. “That would be amazing. It’ll just be a minute.”

As you head down the hallway, you catch a whisper from a pair of interns behind you.

“Damn, didn’t know Abbot married a hottie.”

Dana’s voice cuts in, dry: “Not married. She’s smart enough to not sign a contract with a guy who’s half in love with his job.”

You finish laying out Beau’s coloring book when Jack slips into the lounge, pouring himself a coffee, rubbing at one eye. That tired, end-of-shift look still gets you.

“You know, you could’ve told me you were d-a-t-i-n-g,” you say.

“Huh?” he blinks. “Want a cup?”

“I’m running late,” you wave him off. “And I don’t mind — I just think maybe we should tell each other when new stuff like that comes up. For his sake.”

Jack straightens, confused. “I have no idea what you're talking about. And you didn’t give me a heads up about Carl or Craig or whatever his name was.”

“Chris. And yeah, I should’ve told you. I did tell you, eventually. I’m working on being better about communication, and I’d hope you’d want the same.”

He sighs, then pulls you just outside the lounge, out of earshot.

“Okay, I don’t want to make you even later, but if we’re going to talk, then talk. Don’t allude to stuff — just say it.”

You exhale. “I thought maybe you and Samira were… seeing each other. From the way she spoke to Beau. And the looks from Dana and Robby—”

Jack actually laughs. “She’s 29. I’m her attending. We grab coffee, I mentor her. Sometimes when I have Beau, yeah. If that bothers you, I’ll keep it in mind. But I’m trying to be a good doctor. A good mentor. A good… whatever to you. And it still feels like I’m messing it all up. So just—don’t assume. Talk to me.”

You flush. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m just stressed.”

He twists a strand of your hair between his fingers, gently. “Y’know… would take a lot of stress off both of us if you moved back in. We could split the chores. Carpool. Coordinate pickups. Plus, I can think of a few stress relievers we used to be real good at…”

You swat his hand. “Okay, sure. Ha. Ha. I’m going to say bye to Beau. See you Saturday.”

On your way out, you pass Dana outside on her cigarette break.

“You know, a couple doctors I know say those things kill you.”

She exhales a laugh. “Not if this job kills me first. Life’s too short already to deprive yourself of the things — or people — you love.”

“Sure, Dana.”

“Any time, missy. And just so you know… he’s different. He’s been going through it, but he’s doing the work. Seeing that therapist. Doesn’t come in as much on his days off. There’s some… balance there now.”

“Sure, Dana. Bye, Dana.”

But the thought lingers.

Two days into your trip, you’re feeling a bit lonely. It always hits harder when Jack has him. You don’t usually FaceTime when they’re together — boundaries. But this feels like an exception.

you: how’s my boy? jack: i’m doing great. how’s my girl? you: 🙄 you: how’s Beaujack: see, you gotta be more direct. a man could get confused jack: he’s great. hit a double. got a popsicle. we’re watching transformers for the 80th time. classic boys night. you: bad time to try to facetime?

Incoming Call: Jack Abbot (ICE)

You swipe to answer, suddenly aware of the dark circles under your eyes, still in the hotel bed after a full day of networking.

“Mooooommyyyy!” Beau’s voice shrieks through the phone. “I did so good at baseball and then got a treat and Daddy made pasta and we’re gonna watch a movie!”

“That sounds amazing, baby! Are you having a good time?”

“The best! When do you come back?”

“Three sleeps.”

“And then we have Mommy and Daddy time?”

“Of course. You think about what you want to eat, okay? I’ll pick it up on the way.”

“Okay. And then we all sleep here?”

You pause. “No, baby. Remember? I sleep at my house, Daddy sleeps at his. You sleep at either.”

He gets quiet. Your chest aches.

“Alright, time for jammies and teeth. Go get ready, kiddo.” you hear shouted from the other room.

“Okay, bye Mom!” he says, dropping the phone.

Jack’s face replaces the ceiling. “I like hearing your voice in the living room again. Makes the house feel full.”

“Jack. You gotta stop.”

“Just saying. Beau’s not the only one who likes the sound of you here. My offer’s still on the table.”

You roll your eyes. “Sure, Jack. Hey… would it be okay if I called again Friday? I know we don’t usually, but… I miss him.”

“You’re never a bother. I could strap the iPad to my chest, have you join us for the whole day.”

You laugh. “God, Jack. You really know how to make a girl’s night better.”

“Oh baby, don’t I always.”

“Bye, Jack.” you roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling when you hang up.

--

The weather turned halfway through your drive from the airport, and between the stop for food and the hike from the only available parking spot, it feels like you swam the last block.

Jack opens the door barefoot, in joggers and a hoodie, towel slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” you breathe.

“Hey,” he says, eyes flicking down to your drenched clothes. “Jesus.” He reaches instinctively for your bag, handing you the towel, hand brushing yours. “C’mon. Let’s get you warm.”

You step inside. Beau’s already wrapped around your legs before you can shrug off your coat. Jack disappears into the kitchen, already dishing out dinner.

“You don’t have to—”

“Just eat,” he says, setting a bowl in front of you. “You’re freezing.”

You sit. The food’s still warm, garlicky, comforting. You glance up at him. “You’ve gotten better at this.”

“Ordering takeout?” he teases, leaning against the counter.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No… this.” You wave a hand vaguely at the house — the toys in the living room, the quiet rhythm of it all. “The parenting. The life stuff. You don’t seem rattled anymore.”

He gives a half-shrug. “Had to be better.”

You eat in companionable silence while Beau chatters from his spot at the table, recapping his week in half-sentences and excited tangents.

“Mom, can I watch a show while you finish?”

“Dad’s house, dad’s rules,” you say, looking to Jack.

“Sure thing, kiddo. But grab your gifts for Mom first — then one episode.”

Beau vanishes.

“Gifts?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “Just some stuff he made. He’s proud of it.”

The silence that follows stretches, not quite awkward, but thick with something unspoken.

Then Jack says, low and clear, “I miss you.”

You look up, startled. Heart catching in your chest.

“I know I don’t say it often. Or the right way. But I do. I miss you. Not just the idea of you being around — you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about how it felt, before things got hard. And… how lately, it’s been feeling like that again. When you’re here.”

You put your fork down, gently. “Jack…”

“I’m not asking to go back. Or to pretend the last few years didn’t happen. I’m just wondering if maybe we could try something new. Something more intentional.” He gestures faintly in the direction of Beau’s room. “We’ve already rebuilt the foundation, haven’t we?”

You study him. The steadiness in his eyes. The quiet way he’s offering — not demanding.

Finally, you exhale. “I didn’t think I’d get another version of you.”

“I didn’t think I had another version to give,” he says softly.

“So… what are you saying, exactly?”

“I’m saying I want you back,” he murmurs. “In the way that counts. I want to build this life with you — not just pass each other in it.”

You reach up, cup his cheek. “That’s a really nice speech.”

“I practiced,” he grins.

“You’re still kind of an idiot.”

His smile widens. He brushes a damp strand of hair off your forehead. “I said I’ve grown, not become a completely new person.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “Okay. So how do we do this?”

“What?”

“I’m not just moving back in and jumping into bed with you, Jack. You still have a lot to prove.”

“Of course,” he says, straightening a bit. “I was thinking… maybe a family movie night tomorrow? Something easy.”

“Okay,” you nod. “I like the sound of that.”

“And if that goes well, maybe a grown-up movie night? I’ll wine and dine you. And we can make out in the back row like teenagers.”

You laugh, big and genuine. “I think I like the sound of that too.”

“God, I missed your laugh.”

The silence that settles then feels different. Full, not tense.

Then Jack says, almost too casually, “Oh — I’m switching to days.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

“Robby and I talked. Figured I’d use this week off to reset my sleep schedule. I start the day shift officially tomorrow.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Jack…”

“This isn’t about you. Well — a little. But it’s mostly about Beau. Nights just aren’t sustainable anymore, and I want a more stable schedule for him. It’s time.”

You reach up, fingers brushing the side of his hair. “Okay. But only if it’s right for you. I never wanted you to give up what you love.”

“I’m not giving up what I love,” he says, voice quiet but sure. “I did that three years ago. I’m just rearranging things now — so I don’t lose it again.”

You don’t answer with words.

You just kiss him. Soft. Certain.

And when Beau comes racing back in with a construction-paper-wrapped something clutched in his hands, he skids to a stop and grins.

“Are you guys kissing?”

Jack smirks against your forehead. “Yeah, bud. I think we might be.”

[ebodebo]

MY HEART IS YOURS | JACK ABBOT

Your husband comforts you after a patient death.

CONTAINS: fem!reader, established relationship, graphic depictions of blood (there's so much blood,) miscarriage (not reader,) death of an infant, medical procedure that ends in a patient dying, use of medical jargon, angst with comfort, & no use of y/n. [2.4k+ words]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: hi babies! i slacked so much on writing for the pitt this season omg, but catch me next season writing 500,000 fics. also, i haven't seen the final yet... i was waiting to get back from a trip to watch with my parents, so wish me luck! also, also this is my first angst fic in so long, so please go easy on me. i hope you love it? maybe that's weird to say, but, whatevs, enjoy! consume at your own discretion.

“She’s hemorrhaging. We’re losing her,” one of the nurses shouts, urgency cutting through the chaos as she thrusts a pair of sterile gloves and a crinkling gown into your trembling hands.

The smell of antiseptic and hot metal floods your nose. Your fingers fumble for the gloves, adrenaline turning everything slick and surreal. 

The woman on the gurney, her swollen belly shining through streaks of blood, blinks up at the fluorescent lights. Her voice is barely more than a breath, raw and lost. “Wha… what’s happening? Is my baby okay?”

You crouch beside her, the mask muffling your voice as you lean close. "You’re bleeding heavily from your uterus. We’re doing everything we can. Just breathe with me, okay?" Your voice trembles, and her eyes, wide with terror, search your face for hope you’re not sure you can give.

“My… my baby…” she whispers, her eyes filling with a primal, desperate fear. Her fingers twitch, reaching for you, for anyone who can promise her a miracle.

You nod quickly, forcing your voice steady. “The baby’s in good hands. We need to get blood into you—right now. Just keep breathing. Please.” Her gaze turns glassy, drifting as blood loss pulls her away from the room, from you.

Just before her eyes slip shut, she manages to focus on you, lips trembling. “I… I trust you. Please… save my baby girl.” Her words are a plea threaded with fading hope, a mother's final prayer to a stranger.

In an instant, her eyes flutter closed. The monitor erupts into a shrill, unrelenting scream. 

Time fractures. 

Every heartbeat is a countdown.

“Her BP's bottoming out!” a nurse yells, her voice ragged with panic as the room explodes into frantic motion. Gloves snap, trays clatter. You barely recognize your own hands as you move.

“Heart rate’s dropping—thirty! She’s in PEA!” another voice calls out, the numbers on the monitor tumbling toward zero. Every second is slipping away.

You swallow down the bile burning at the back of your throat, forcing yourself to focus, to move. The world narrows to blood, breath, and the desperate hope of another chance.

“Shit. It’s a rupture—open the tray! Scalpel!” you bark, voice ragged and raw. You shove the gurney rail down, half-crawling onto the bed to get closer. The scalpel lands in your palm, slick with sweat. You slash through the gown, skip the prep—there’s no time. “Incision starting!” The blade bites a jagged line from sternum to pubis. 

In a rush, you slash through the skin, fat, and tissue in two heavy strokes, and the moment the blade nicked the peritoneum, the pressure gave way. 

A geyser of blood erupts—dark, hot, and endless—soaking through your gown, burning against your skin. It splatters across the table, drowning the instruments, painting everything red.

It wasn’t a slow leak.

It was an unrelenting flood.

A force of nature, wild and unstoppable. 

Within seconds, your world is a lake of red. 

Everything you know about medicine feels useless against this tide.

You work blind, hands submerged past your wrists in warmth that shouldn’t be outside a body. The scalpel drags uselessly, slipping in the blood. “Suction! I can’t see the uterus!” Your voice cracks as you beg for more than the room can give.

You plunge your hands into the chasm you’ve made, fingers searching for the torn edges of muscle. Blood pours over her hips, splashing onto your shoes in thick, sticky ribbons. “Uterus is shredded—won’t contract! Methergine, now! Inject straight in—anything, please!” Nurses close in, faces set in grim determination, hands trembling as they try to help.

“Careful, the floor’s a river,” a scrub nurse warns, her voice tight. 

You hardly hear her.

You’re fighting for a life and losing.

“Fuck the floor! I’m losing my angle—there’s blood in my shoes. Just keep the suction clear!” you shout, desperate. You fumble for the aorta, hands slipping, heart pounding out a frantic rhythm.

“She’s in V-fib! Starting compressions!” someone shouts. You see gloved fists pump rhythmically inside her open chest. The room pulses with a collective heartbeat that feels borrowed.

“Don’t stop! I’ve almost got the clamp—just hold on, one more minute!” Your voice cracks, desperation bleeding through every word. You’re begging for time you don’t have.

“Twenty units of blood, ten of plasma—it’s pouring out as fast as we get it in. She’s cold, Abbot. She’s gone.” The anesthesiologist’s voice is low, almost apologetic. 

You can’t look at him. 

You refuse to give up. 

Not yet.

“I can fix this—just need her to stay with me a little longer. Clamp! Now!” You meet the eyes of your team—pity, resignation, something worse. You shake your head, refusing. “Come on, momma. Stay with me. Please.” Your hands move, but you can feel her slipping further away with every heartbeat.

The monitor flatlines, the sound deafening. 

You freeze, hands buried in a life that’s already gone. A sigh escapes you, heavy with the weight of her loss.

The silence is complete—a soundless scream. 

Finally, the anesthesiologist’s voice breaks through, hollow. “Time of death: 18:15.”

You look up, voice shaking. “The baby. We… we delivered her. She was here.” The words hang in the air, fragile and already fading.

The door creaks open and the pediatrician enters, her eyes widening as she takes in the carnage. “We couldn’t get the baby’s heart back. She was down too long. I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracks, and the room feels colder.

You lower your gaze, eyes burning, and finally slip your hands from her body—blood up to your elbows, sticky and cold. “Can someone tell her husband?” you murmur.

It’s not a question, just a surrender.

You know you should be the one to tell him. But right now, your courage is spent.

You can’t face the man whose life you’ve just broken. 

You can’t bear to see what you’ve become in his grief.

Their blood is on your hands—literal and unforgiving. 

The guilt spreads, hot and uncontainable.

“Yeah. I’ll do it,” the other doctor says softly. You step away, your feet sliding in blood that already feels cold.

“Dr. Abbot, are you okay?” a nurse asks, voice gentle. You know she’s just being polite. You know you look anything but okay.

You don’t answer. 

You just walk out, every step heavier than the last, and push through the door. 

The woman’s husband is waiting—his eyes searching, desperate.

His face crumples in horror as you appear, bloodstained and broken. “Is that… is that my wife’s blood?” His words tremble, clinging to hope that’s already lost.

You look up at him, tears burning your eyes. “I’m so sorry.” The words barely make it out. “They didn't make it.”

He staggers back, sucking in a ragged breath. “You took her from me. You… you took everything from me.”

The words hit you like a bullet. “I… I tried. I tried everything. She was losing too much blood.” Your voice splinters. 

He shakes his head, lips trembling with rage. “You killed her. This is your fault.” The hallway spins, his grief a blade you can’t dodge.

You choke on his words, forcing yourself past him—anything to keep from crumbling in front of a man who has just lost his life.

Your heart hammers, breath shallow, as you stagger into the ED. He follows, his voice a roar you can barely hear over the rush of blood in your ears. 

You’re drowning, and no one even sees.

Langdon and Dana snap their heads up at the commotion. “Jesus…” Langdon mutters, seeing you—soaked in red, being haunted by a shadow that is a man fueled by grief and rage.

Jack’s head jerks around from talking to Robby, and they both look at the scene playing out in front of them. 

Jack doesn’t hesitate. 

He barrels toward the man, planting both hands firmly on his chest. “Back away from my wife. Now. Or I’ll throw you out myself.” His voice is thunder—protective, unyielding.

It’s unprofessional, but Jack doesn’t care. 

No one talks to his wife like that—not today, not ever.

Robby rushes over, pulling Jack back. “Whoa, hey. Let’s all calm down. What happened?” His voice is steady, but his eyes are wide, taking in the aftermath.

“That doctor killed my wife and my baby—she took them from me!” the man shouts, voice cracking. You keep walking, desperate for air, desperate for escape.

Jack watches you tear off your blood-soaked gown, mask, and hospital badge, tossing them in the trash as you stumble out the doors. 

He shakes his head, glaring at the man. “Be glad I’m working,” he mutters, before hurrying after you. He fishes your badge from the trash, jaw tight with worry.

He finds you huddled on the concrete just around the corner, knees hugged to your chest. He exhales, the sound heavy, before sitting down beside you—close but not touching, not yet.

“You okay?” Jack asks softly, knowing you’re not, but needing to ask, needing to reach you through the darkness.

You shake your head, shoulders hunched, eyes locked on your blood-soaked shoes. The metallic tang of fear and failure lingers in your mouth. “She… she trusted me, Jack. I killed her and her baby.” The words crack as they leave you, barely more than a whisper.

Jack’s heart breaks seeing you unravel, but he knows nothing he says can reach the place where your guilt lives. He keeps his voice low, steady. “It wasn’t your fault. You did everything you could.”

“Her husband… he was so angry,” you mumble, your jaw aching from biting down on the inside of your cheek. “I can still hear him. He hates me. I don’t blame him.”

He nods, staring at the brick wall across the street, jaw clenched. Then he turns, voice gentle but firm. “Hey. Look at me.”

You hesitate, fighting the urge to disappear. Finally, you drag your eyes up to meet him, searching for something—relief, forgiveness, anything.

He sees the tears tracking down your cheeks and his face crumples. “Come here,” he says softly, opening his arms. It’s not just comfort—he’s anchoring you to the world.

“I’m covered in blood,” you protest, voice hollow. He just shakes his head, eyes shining with worry, and you can’t resist anymore.

You scoot closer, collapsing into his embrace. His arms are strong, steady—your head finds his shoulder, and for a moment, you let yourself be held. Your body shakes with silent sobs.

“I can’t hate him,” you whisper. “He lost everything. I’d be angry too.”

“Anger’s one thing. But he shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” Jack murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. “You didn’t deserve any of that.” His voice is all warmth and ache.

You choke out a sob. “I don’t want to be here anymore, Jack. I… I can’t do this. Not after today.”

“No one’s making you stay, sweetheart,” he whispers. “But you’re meant for this. The world needs doctors like you, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.”

“Would you be mad at the doctor? Would you be mad for the rest of your life?” 

His voice drops, trembling with an edge you’ve never heard before. “That wouldn’t happen,” he says softly, but there’s a desperate finality to it, like he’s fighting back the image.

You swallow, voice barely audible. “What wouldn’t?”

He meets your eyes, and for a moment, you see fear flicker in his. “If you died…” He pauses, breath hitching. “I wouldn’t know how to go on. I’d be lost right there with you.” His words are raw, honest—a confession pulled straight from the ache in his chest.

You watch him in silence, the weight of everything that’s happened hanging between you. Your breaths are ragged, the distant wail of a siren rising and falling in the background. You don’t trust your voice, so you just let your head sink onto his shoulder, drawing comfort from his steady presence.

You stay there, pressed against him, your bodies unmoving as the world keeps spinning. The minutes crawl by, thick and heavy, until finally you lift your head. Jack’s hand fumbles in his pocket—he’s clumsy, hesitant, like he doesn’t want to break the fragile calm.

He holds out your plastic hospital badge, his hand trembling just a little. “I… uh… got this back for you,” he says softly. His eyes flicker away, almost shy. “Figured you’d want it for your memory box.”

A weak smile tugs at your lips as you take the badge, your fingers brushing his. “You really dug through the trash for this?” The words come out watery, but there’s gratitude in your voice.

He grins, and for a moment the heaviness lifts. “Wasn’t so bad,” he shrugs, watching you turn the badge over in your hand. “I did, uh, accidentally grab Shen’s overnight oats.” The memory makes you both smile—just for a second, you remember how to laugh.

“Gross,” you laugh out.

“It had all that health crap in it—some weird powder.” He’s watching you, soaking in the sound of your laughter like it’s the first sunlight after a storm.

You playfully hit his arm, laughing. “You’re disgusting.”

He watches you, a quiet warmth spreading through his chest as he sees a glimpse of the woman he loves peeking through the pain.

“There’s my pretty girl,” he murmurs, the words gentle—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he speaks too loud.

You roll your eyes, but can’t quite hide the flush on your cheeks. Even now, after everything, he can make you feel safe.

Reality crashes back in, your smile fading as your shoulders sag. “I feel so weak,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. It hurts to admit it.

“Hey, hey,” he says, cupping your face gently. “You’re my tough girl.”

“I don’t feel so tough,” you admit, your eyes brimming again. “I just… walked away,”

He shakes his head, thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “You did what you had to do. You were protecting yourself. Anyone in your position would have done the same.”

You try to lighten the mood, voice wobbling. “You know, you’re pretty empathetic for such an old man.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Who you callin’ old?” The sound of your shared laughter fills the empty night, a small thread tying you back together.

You shift uncomfortably on the cold concrete. “Thanks for coming out here. I know the hospital needs you.” Gratitude, guilt, and relief swirl in your voice.

He gives you a look—half-teasing, half-sincere. “Kind of offended you’re thanking me. You’re my wife. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Jack squeezes your hand, grounding you. 

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. 

The sirens fade. 

The night air is cold but somehow less empty.

“We’ll get through this,” he whispers.

You don’t know if you believe him. 

But for now, you let yourself lean into the warmth of his shoulder, and, for the first time tonight, you let yourself breathe.

MINI AUTHOR'S NOTE: damn i really abused tf out of the dash button.

[dragonsondragons]

Self Care - Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader

Summary: Jack’s new girlfriend takes self care really seriously given the line of work they’re in. He starts to observe these habits and some of them rub off on him.

Tags: Super fluffy, no use of y/n, implied age gap, suggested sexual activity, no real smut just Jack feeling you up a little, beekeeper!Jack

Author’s Note: Why am I obsessed with beekeeper!jack. There may be more where this came from because I had so much fun with this one– perhaps Jack and reader gardening (wink wink) while in their garden? Leads to sweet and slow stoned sex? Let me know what you think or if you have any requests! I’m always looking for more ideas. 

Also, fill out this google form if you'd like to be added to my taglist :)

—————

You do your little stretching routine after you wake up and you ask him if he wants to join you. He gives it a try, reluctantly at first. Then he starts to realize how good it makes him feel and does it with you every time. 

“What's this pep in your step you got going on here, brother?” Robby notices one day at hand-off. “Something to do with your favorite resident? Or should I say…new lady friend,” he does a little jazz hands.

“I regret ever telling you about us,” Jack rolls his eyes at lady friend. “But yeah, actually. She’s got me stretching when we wake up,” he explains.

“Ah. She’s got you whipped is what you mean.”

Jack chuckles under his breath. “Fuck off, stretching is good for you. And being whipped isn’t so bad either.” ____

You have a little garden that you tend to in the morning as the sun’s still rising right when you get off shift. It's cathartic, to take care of something that can't puke or bleed on you. Can’t punch you in the face. 

Both you and Jack had worked last night and it was a tough one. One of those nights where it felt like you lost more than you saved. You asked Jack to come back to your place after the shift ended, just wanting to be near him after your hell of a day. 

It was still early in your relationship, you had only spent the night at Jack’s place. This was his first time coming to stay at yours. 

You could tell he was so exhausted that you offered to drive home and he eventually accepted. He sat in the passenger seat of his Tacoma with his eyes closed as you drove, envisioning a shower, you looking soft in a ratty old t-shirt, and eating take out on the couch before going to sleep.

Instead, after you made two mugs of tea and set one before him on the coffee table, you headed to the backyard, slipping through the sliding glass door with a quiet “be right back, have to take care of some stuff real quick.”

After you’re gone more than 10 minutes and he almost dozed off twice, he started to wonder what this stuff was. He peeks out the glass door, seeing you knelt down at the edge of a garden bed peeling weeds out of the ground around your plants. The garden hose was on, filling up a big watering can to your left.

He comes to stand next to your kneeling form, placing a tender hand on the crown of your head and lightly running his fingers through your hair. “What are you doing, baby?”

“Checking on the plants. It helps me clear my mind from the day.” You smile softly up at him, see his free hand rub at his weary eyes. “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, I’ll be right in," you promise. He nods, turns to head back inside. 

He couldn’t believe you wanted to be pulling weeds and lugging watering cans after a shift. But when you trailed in a few minutes later, joining him under the spray of the water, he could see the way your shoulders were looser. You were more peaceful, at ease. It made him feel more calm too, just knowing you felt a little bit better. 

He started lugging bags of soil for you the following mornings. Dug up trenches to lay a new irrigation system for the crops. This time of spring brought so many birds tweeting around in the morning air, the perfect sound track to your calming moments together in the garden.

It was a peaceful endeavor, one Jack never thought he would find himself doing but turns out he absolutely loves it. After you tell him about the benefits of pollinators he really wants to start keeping bees (Jack Abbot is beekeeping age). He does all this research about it to make sure he doesn’t fuck with the bees, wants to do it right. Gets the whole mesh suit which you can't stop laughing at the first time he puts it on. Names his hive Beetopia. He's serious about these bees and you find it so endearing. You love that he's meshing into your life like this, making his own niche in something you both do together.

Sometimes when there isn’t much to be done he’ll make breakfast while you tend to the garden. He will always try to utilize the fruits and vegetables you grow as well as his self-harvested honey whenever he can. You eat it out on the patio, admiring the work the two of you have done. Your own little paradise. ____

Out of all the self care tactics that you have brought into his life, the bubble bath is definitely one of his sleeper favorites. His house had a huge bathtub in it that he never once used. One of the first times you stayed over, you went to use the bathroom before going to bed. His eyes were already closed when he heard you squeal in the en suite attached to his room. 

“How did you not tell me about this!” you yelled out to him. 

“What, the bathroom?” he responded half asleep and confused. You came back into the room and jumped into the bed next to him, resting your chin on his chest. He peeked his eyes open as he rubbed up and down your back.

“No! That massive tub, genius!” He was surprised. Hadn’t thought once about that thing since he moved in. 

“You like it?”

“I don't like it, Jack. I love it. Baths are so soothing and rejuvenating. I always feel like a newborn baby when I get out of the bath. And I don't have a tub at my place.”

“You’re welcome to use it anytime you want, honey.” He shifted you to your side, cuddling into you and kissing your cheek. 

“You’re too good to me. And as a reward I’m making you get in there with me.” he lets out a breath of a laugh as he drifts off to sleep with you in his arms. ___

You both had the next day off, for once. So there was no time like the present to christen Jack’s bathtub. He was nervous about getting in, not being able to wear his prosthetic to keep him stable, but you got in first and held onto him tight as he stepped over the edge and eased himself down into the water. You settled in front of him, letting out a breath as you melted back into him. 

You thought you liked baths already, but this was pure bliss. His strong body against you, your breaths synching up. He washed your hair and you washed his. The warm water soothed his achy back and the overcompensating muscles in his leg. 

Safe to say, baths become a regular occurrence for you two.

You get him a matching fluffy robe with a hood because one time he said he was jealous of how cozy you looked in yours after a bath. Once, Shen stopped by to drop off the butterfly portable ultrasound that he had borrowed and Jack answered the door in said robe. 

Jack had his stoic work face on, the grumpiness only enhanced by the fact that Shen’s visit was interrupting his time with you.

“Ha, you look like a Sith, Abbot,” Shen teased him, butterfly in one hand and a half drank Dunkin’ in the other. “Robe’d up and about to cut my hand off.” He took a loud sip of his coffee as Jack just glared at him. 

“Get out of here before I actually consider it.” He tugged the Butterfly from Shen’s grasp, about to slam the door in his face. 

“Oh c'mon Jack, that’s not very nice.” You ran up to the door and opened it further to reveal yourself. 

“Sorry John, he didn’t mean that.” 

“Yeah right.” He takes in your appearance beside Jack, wearing the same exact fuzzy robe. “Like the matchy matchy, very cute you two.” Shen pulls out his phone and snaps a picture before either of you could even process it. “That’s totally going in the group chat, dude,” he laughed. 

“Not making a good case for yourself here,” Jack muttered. Shen couldnt stop laughing, and at that you moved your hand off the door jamb and let Jack slam it shut. 

He turned to you then and let out a little chuckle at the whole ordeal. “He’s a piece of work.”

“Thought he was your favorite resident?”

“No, you're my favorite resident.” ___

Besides stretching to start the day on a good note, taking soothing baths, and tending to your garden you also do yoga sometimes to turn your mind off and tune into your body after a hectic shift. He’s still reluctant to try that one, and likes to give you your space to do the things you enjoy on your own sometimes. So he doesn't join you for that, but he loves watching you as you get ready to head to the studio. 

You always wear these skin tight, colorful matching workout sets that drive him crazy. He doesn’t mean to keep you from getting to class, but sometimes he just can’t help the temptation.

“Baby,” he draws it out in a long groan. He crossed the room to you, grabbing your hips and ghosting his hands up and down, reverently. You were trying to gather your keys and yoga mat to head out the door. “You’re killing me here with the powder blue.” The leggings hugged your ass just right. God, he was about to start drooling.

You try to squirm out of his hold to put your shoes on, but he won't budge. “Get a good look, Jack, because I gotta go. Gonna be late if I don't leave right now.” 

“Oh no, you're gonna be late already? Maybe you should just stay here with me,” he pouts suggestively. 

“Already paid for the class. Actually you did, your card’s on the account.” With your resident salary, Jack liked to treat you to things like a membership to a fancy yoga studio with free green smoothies. He loved ‘providing’ for you, even though you both knew you could be just fine by yourself. 

“Even better. I don't care about losing 30 bucks right now. Because you look way too sexy in those leggings to leave me here all alone.” He pecks your lips, then down your neck, sucking the spot where he knows will draw out a moan from you. You grasp your hand into his hair, getting lost in his efforts to entice you. 

“Let me peel these off of you,” he begs, running his fingers under the waistband of the leggings. His hands travel lower, kneading at your ass and pulling you tighter against him. “Just let me worship your beautiful body, sweetheart.”

How could you say no to that? Maybe you would miss your class, but this was a form of self care as good as any.

[sarahs-secrets2]

domestic ˋ♡ˊ

dr. jack abbot x reader

a little domestic life with jack because he needs some peace in his life!!! (not my gif <3)

wc: 1.5k

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The idea of sleep had come and gone, and you were now accepting the fact that there was no way you were going to be able to sleep until Jack got home. Usually, when he worked nights, you tried to adjust your sleep schedule to be somewhat similar to his, just so you could spend as much time as possible with him. Obviously, there were some expectations to this, like tonight. Jack was called in due to a staffing shortage on his night off. As much as you wanted to be selfish and keep him all to yourself, he went in and promised to take another night off to make up for it. 

Rolling over in your shared bed, your eyes flick over to the glowing numbers on the alarm clock. Jack still wouldn't be home for at least another three hours, if he was able to get away on time, which was rare. It hadn't taken much to pull yourself out of bed; there were too many thoughts running through your brain, and it was making you restless. A solid distraction was needed to take your mind off how early it was and how much you wished Jack were home. 

Your body is on autopilot as you walk into the closet and slip on one of Jack’s hoodies, his cologne lingering around the neckline, enveloping you in the smell. The hoodie brushes your upper thigh, covering your pajama shorts, making you acutely aware of how cold the house is when you're not under the set of blankets draping over your bed. Now, on your side of the closet, you rustle through the drawers trying to find your favorite pair of sweatpants, which are nowhere to be found. As you're about to give up, you see the edge of the fabric just barely peeking out from the hamper. 

It wasn't like you had better things to do, and this was the distraction you were practically begging for to pass the time, so here you were sorting the laundry into piles before the sun had even risen. Your shared bedroom in the early morning light was a blue-grey color with the lamp on the nightstand providing a warm yellow glow, just enough for you to see the laundry in front of you. The repetitive motion of going from the piles to the washer to the dryer had allowed your brain a little break. Before you knew it, the sun had started to ever so slightly peek through the blinds, changing the blue-grey tone to a soft orange glow. 

Jack did not know when he got home if you were awake or not and he assumed it safer to operate under the idea that you were fast asleep, considering the time. Jack, being Jack, was extremely mindful of how he entered the house. Not wanting to make any extra noise, he kept his grip on the door knob tight so the door wouldn't slam behind him as he eased it shut. 

He was well aware that you tried to keep your sleep schedule similar to his, but since this was an unexpected shift, he was surprised to see a light glow coming from the bedroom. He let out a small laugh to himself as he headed down the hall, noticing the sound of the washer and dryer running on his way. You were in your own world, with piles of freshly folded clothes to your left and the laundry basket of clothes from the dryer waiting to be folded on your right, all splayed out on the bed. 

Jack slowly creaked the door open, as tired and worn out as he was, the sight of you there in his hoodie, folding laundry this early in the morning, brought a smile to his face. He leaned against the door frame, just watching you. The ache in his feet that followed him throughout his shift didn't seem to bother him anymore, not here. All the stressors from the past twelve hours had melted away as he watched you blissfully folding clothes, the hoodie you had stolen from him lifting to show your pajama shorts as you reached across the bed to grab another basket of clothes to continue folding. 

“Bit early for laundry,” Jack’s voice was tired, but you could hear the smile on his lips as you turned around to see him leaning against the door frame, still in his black scrubs with his hair looking a bit more disheveled than when he left. 

“Hi,” you smile back at him, letting the shirt in your hands fall to the bed. 

“Hi,” he laughs, pushing himself off the door frame and walking towards you. It doesn't take many steps before his hands are connected to your waist, pulling your body closer to his. Your hands lay flat on his chest as you look up at him. Jack holds eye contact, he doesn't have to say anything for you to know that it was a rough shift. His eyes are heavy with sadness, his shoulders holding the weight of the night, and his grip on your waist is tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in front of his very eyes if he isn't careful. 

Your hands snake around his neck, tugging him closer. “I know,” it’s all you have to say for him to pull you into a hug. Jack buries his head in the crook of your neck, breathing you in to anchor himself. Time passes, but you aren't keeping track; your mind is on Jack. Your hand shifts from the back of his neck to cradle his head, your nails slightly scratching through his hair to calm his nerves. You feel him exhale against you, the weight of it all dissolving away. 

Jack pulls back first, his hands shifting back to your waist, still holding you close. “Missed you,” his voice is a whisper as he rests his forehead against yours. 

Your hands fall back to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “Missed you, too.” 

“I can tell,” he lets out an airy laugh. You pull back just a little to look into his eyes, brow furrowing slightly. “The stress cleaning,” his head nods to the piles of clean laundry, neatly folded on the bed. The bed he was hoping to get some sleep in. 

“I couldn't sleep,” you pop a fake frown, well aware of his teasing. “You should be thanking me for washing your shirts. I was just going to wash my sweatpants, but I figured-”

“Oh, you figured, huh?” Jack smirks back at you. His hands trail down from your waist, sneaking under his stolen hoodie to rest on your ass. You shrug back at him, batting your lashes, enjoying his touch. 

Leaning up a little, you place a kiss on his cheek, “Still not a thank you, but I’ll take it.”

Jack places a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Thank you.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, and you smile up at him. “Go shower,” you lean up slightly, kissing his lips softly, “I’ll put these clothes away, and then we can go to bed.” You can feel Jack holding back his smile through the kiss. 

“You’re not joining me?” His voice is low and playful as he squeezes your ass lightly. 

“Dr. Abbot,” you feign shock, giggling as you push him away slightly. “Shower first,” you point to the bathroom, and his hands go up in a mock surrender as he walks into the bathroom, flicking on the light. 

“Can’t say I didn’t try,” he laughs to himself as he leaves the bathroom door ajar just in case you change your mind.

Jack showers quickly, returning from the bathroom in a plain t-shirt and boxers. A hand runs through his salt and pepper curls as he pulls back the covers, climbing into bed. He’s surprised you're not already there waiting for him. You appear just seconds later with a laundry basket on your hip, more clothes fresh from the dryer. 

“Honey,” Jack offers a tired smile, “C’mon, leave it for later,” he pulls back the covers on your side of the bed, patting the empty spot next to him. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes your heart leap.

Smiling back, you place the basket in the closet to be dealt with later.“Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

Jack’s eyes are on you the whole time as he shifts back to lean against the headboard. He holds the blanket back as you climb into bed. “There she is,” he says, kissing the top of your head softly, pulling the blanket to cover you. His arm shifts behind you, wrapping around your shoulder and tugging you into his chest. Jack’s careful not to move too much as he reaches over and turns off the lamp on the nightstand. The blackout curtains you made sure to close while Jack showered keep the light from the sunrise out of the room, and the darkness is welcomed now that you’re finally in his arms and able to fall asleep.

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pls be nice, it's been a while since I've written! xx

[alloftheficsyoulovedbefore]

dr walsh - "heavy is the head that wears the crown"

dr ellis - "put me in coach"

dr shen - "i was still a resident three months ago"

dr abbott - "heard it on the police scanner"

I NEED MORE ABOUT THESE FOUR AND I NEED THEM NOW