gotta stop
situationship!jack abbot x nurse!reader
summary - no matter how hard you try, you can’t quit jack abbot.
wc - 12.4k (SORRY IM USED TO WRITING SERIES FR)
warnings/tags - MDNI, toxic jack, toxic reader, reader is described as female, angst, good friend ellis, probable inaccuracies for nurse duties, jealous jack, avoidant reader, avoidant jack, unprotected p in v, reader does something so toxic for jack, resolution at the end
a/n -- inspired by the song 'stop' by bella kay -- ok i had a real fun time with this one. This is for all my baddies who have been in a situationship beforeeeee shit is not for the weak! This went on for a while and possibly lost the plot toward the end but idk yall let me know what you think I’m still new to one-shots hehe
masterlist
The lights in the PTMC were giving you a headache.
Bright, fluorescent, and just harsh enough to remind you that you hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep this afternoon. And now an incoming GSW was exactly what you needed to get the adrenaline pumping again.
You’d always loved the night shift. There was something about working while most of the city slept, even though the world outside never really stopped moving.
Sure, it didn’t leave much room for a social life beyond the friends you’d made in the ED, and your version of nightlife looked a lot different from most young, single people your age.
Not that you minded.
You’d traded clubs for dive bars sometime in your mid-twenties anyway.
These days, your idea of unwinding was nursing a strong cocktail in a dimly lit booth, the kind of place with sticky floors and questionable music. Sometimes with your favorite coworkers. Sometimes alone.
And afterward?
Well.
A little stress relief never hurt anybody.
“Where’d you go just now?”
The sound of a tablet scraping across the main desk of the Pitt pulled you from whatever mental vacation you’d been taking.
You blinked twice and looked up to find Dr. Ellis standing across from you, peering down slightly as you practically slumped against the desk. Papers were scattered in front of you, charts half-finished, and your collection of glitter pens lay in disarray from when you’d knocked over the holder while chasing a naked patient down the hallway an hour ago.
“Oh, you know.” You waved a hand vaguely. “My happy place.”
The sarcasm was obvious—a reference to the self-care seminar Robby had forced every nurse to attend last month.
You waved yourself off, changing the subject. “What’s the ETA on the GSW?”
“Rerouted to Westbridge. We may actually get a chance to—”
“Don’t you dare say it.”
Shen appeared beside you, leaning onto the desk with an iced coffee in hand.
“You gonna put a coaster under that Pink Drink?” you asked, nodding toward the condensation already racing down the side of the plastic cup. “Or you gonna let it sweat all over someone’s x-rays?”
Shen scoffed.
“I’ve told you before. It’s only pink because of the limited-edition strawberry syrup.”
He said it like you were somehow the ridiculous one.
“As long as it’s not the Sabrina Carpenter drink anymore, I don’t give two shits what’s in it.”
Ellis shot you a look of agreement. “I cannot listen to the chorus of Espresso one more time for at least six months.”
“But it’s the song of the summer!”
“It was the song of the summer. Two years ago, Shen.”
Shaking your head, you grabbed a coaster and slid it beneath his cup since he seemed entirely uninterested in doing it himself.
Shen muttered something under his breath about being “culturally underappreciated” before taking a giant slurp from his iced coffee.
“See?” Ellis said, watching him intently. “This is why we can’t have nice things.
“No, lack of public funding is why we can’t have nice things.”
“You seem slightly more aggressive than usual. What’s up?”
“Other than the fact that I slept maybe three hours earlier?” You rubbed your forehead, keeping your eyes trained on the double doors like if you stayed vigilant enough, gurneys and EMTs would simply stop coming through them. “Existential dread. The naked patient practically assaulting me earlier. The parent who claimed I was indoctrinating their child into Buddhism—a religion I do not practice.”
She whistled.
“Been a minute, huh?”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Since what?”
“Since you’ve seen him.”
Your face twisted into something that could only be described as a mixture of surprise and disdain.
Shen’s eyes darted between you two, leaning in slightly closer to you in anticipation as his mouth was somehow still wrapped around the orange and pink straw.
“Am I supposed to know who you’re talking about?”
“Oh, come on. Every time you show up here in a foul mood, it’s been at least a week since you and him met up. You’re practically a billboard with ‘needs to get laid’ written across it in bright red font.”
“I am not that readable.”
Shen decided this was a good time to join in, adding, “Earlier, you told Whitaker he should consider putting up a ‘For Sale’ sign for tiny elves to live in his hair.”
You frowned, eyes still fixed on the double doors as your fingers fidgeted with your badge.
“Okay, and was I wrong? He needs a curl routine. I’ve been telling him that for a year now. It’s not a good look for us.”
She offered you an amused smile, the kind she always did. Parker Ellis was probably your favorite doctor in the department—always willing to help despite half of it falling outside her responsibilities, always ready with advice when you needed it. You knew she didn’t hand that out to everyone, which only made you appreciate it more.
And Shen was…well, he was Shen. You got a laugh out of him every so often.
You didn’t typically make a habit of getting close with the doctors, as they tended to be in and out of a hospital most of the time. The other nurses were more your speed, but something about the doctors of the night shift—
“Hey, we all need ways to relieve stress when we work in a place like this. I take edibles. Shen plays a concerning amount of Minecraft. You choose to indulge in a toxic situationship with a guy who only calls you when he wants to get his rocks off.”
“Okay, when you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”
“Shen’s Minecraft addiction is pathetic.”
“The fuck?” Shen scrunched his face at the stray comment, but Ellis only continued.
You bit the inside of your cheek, failing miserably at suppressing your laughter as you leaned forward, pressing your forehead briefly against his shoulder.
She pointed a finger at you. “—You’re a consenting adult. As long as nobody’s getting hurt, who cares if all you and this dude see each other for is sex?”
Your stomach tightened a little at that.
Her question didn’t exactly sit well because—
She added, “Plus, from what you’ve told me, it’s pretty damn good.”
A throat cleared beside you.
You were a nurse in an emergency department. It didn’t exactly say it in the job posting, but “know the vibes of every doctor who works here and find a way to cohesively fit into the team so you can make their lives easier because that’ll actually make your life easier” might as well have been in the fine print. At least, that’s what Dana told you on your first day.
So you knew how different residents operated. You knew how the interns behaved. And you definitely knew how attendings liked to, well, attend.
And this particular attending usually cleared his throat when he found you chatting at the desk with doctors that weren’t him.
You straightened, your expression tightening—not at all like a kid caught talking in class—as your eyes met his.
Dr. Jack Abbot had a particular habit of appearing whenever you were having a perfectly pleasant conversation with another doctor.
It was one of the more irritating things about him.
You’d noticed it months ago.
The second he caught you leaning against a desk with Shen, laughing at something Ellis said, or discussing anything not directly related to patient care, he’d suddenly remember a task that needed doing. A chart that needed updating. A patient that needed medication. An ortho consult that should’ve been paged five minutes ago.
Always work-related.
And always suspiciously timed.
You knew how attendings operated. You knew which ones were strict, which ones were laid back, which ones expected perfection and which ones expected effort.
Jack wasn’t actually hard on you.
The annoying part was that he seemed to save this particular brand of impatience exclusively for moments when you were talking to somebody else.
Which bothered you more than you’d ever admit out loud because you were good at your job.
Your patient satisfaction scores were always high. You stayed late when people needed help. Even Gloria had thrown the occasional “good work” your way, which was practically a standing ovation.
So every time he acted like you were one conversation away from bringing the entire department to its knees, it got under your skin.
“Are we almost through with the social hour,” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets, “or can we get some morphine to bed three sometime tonight?”
Right on schedule.
You glanced at the clock—you’d been standing there for approximately forty-five seconds.
“No, we’re through,” you offered him a saccharine smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Good.” He nodded once, now turning to Shen. “You’re needed in Peds.”
He stepped past Ellis, whose eyes tracked him before flicking back to you. Shen trailed behind, a mischievous look on his face. She let out a small huff of laughter, then glanced after him again.
Until she looked at you, which, your facial expression could only be described as someone who had just had their parade rained on, set on fire, and then clinically assessed by Jack Abbot
“Yeah…maybe call dude up and see if you can find some time,” she said. “Because you’re wound tighter than wire around a coil.”
“I can relieve stress without sacrificing my self-respect, Ellis.”
“Can you?”
You scoffed, clutching a hand to your chest in exaggerated offense.
“I don’t need some man to help me relax—especially not one who’s as emotionally constipated as this guy is.”
You gathered your pens quickly and messily, stress and dishonesty practically radiating off you in waves. Ellis watched with a knowing look as you shoved a blue glitter pen into the pocket of your scrubs. One sleeve of your baby pink undershirt was pushed halfway up your arm, the other hanging past your wrist.
You were a mess.
“You can’t quit him, can you?” she asked bluntly.
Your head jerked up, strands of hair falling across your cheeks.
“I can stop whenever I want.”
The rest of the shift didn’t get any kinder.
It never did.
A patient screamed at you because the wait time “felt like a violation of human rights,” which, according to him, apparently included triage priority and two actively coding traumas that had rolled in back-to-back.
Another tried to leave against medical advice with an IV still in, insisting you were “controlling the narrative of his body autonomy,” which you would’ve laughed at if you weren’t already three coffees deep and running on pure spite.
The coffee was its own horror story.
Burnt, lukewarm, and somehow still sour, like it had given up on being coffee halfway through its existence. You drank it anyway.
By the time the worst of the chaos finally slowed, your scrubs felt like they had absorbed the entire shift—bloodless but heavy, like your exhaustion had physical weight. Your head ached in that dull, persistent way that made every overhead announcement sound like it was being shouted directly inside your eardrums.
You charted on autopilot. Answered pages. Signed off on things you barely remembered reading.
And all the while, there was that steady hum underneath everything.
Not the monitors beeping or the coding alarms.
You.
Something restless in your chest that wouldn’t settle no matter how much you moved, no matter how much you did, no matter how many people you helped.
When you finally clocked out, the morning air hit you like a kind of mercy.
It was quiet. Empty enough to feel almost unreal after the controlled chaos of the ED. You liked how walking out of a shift into a brand new day felt like a fresh start.
You sat in your car for a moment before starting it.
Hands on the wheel. Forehead leaning briefly against it. Eyes closed.
The silence should’ve helped—but it didn’t. Because now there was nothing to distract you from your own thoughts.
From the shift replaying in fragments—flourescent lights, Ellis’s teasing, Jack’s annoyed glance across the desk, the way your body always seemed to register him before your mind caught up.
And worse than that.
The way your mind kept circling back to the same thing, over and over, like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The way his eyes flicked between your chin on Shen’s shoulder, the sharpness in his stare when he’d paused—just for a second too long—before speaking.
The way it shouldn’t have meant anything.
And the worst part was how quickly he’d buried it again, like nothing had happened at all.
You exhaled slowly, started the car, and just drove.
Traffic lights sliding over your windshield in slow, rhythmic pulses. Red. Green. Red again. The city moving around you like it didn’t know or care what kind of night shift you’d had.
Your hands stayed steady on the wheel, but your mind didn’t.
It kept drifting back to relief.
To something that would make the tightness in your chest loosen for even a little while.
And the more you tried not to think about it, the more obvious it became what your body was already deciding for you.
You didn’t end up at home.
You didn’t even hesitate when you pulled into his building.
You just sat there for a second in the driver’s seat, engine ticking softly as it cooled, staring up at the familiar windows.
Then you got out.
Second guessed your decision.
You walked up anyway.
Because you could tell yourself a lot of things.
That it was just stress.
That it was just habit.
But your hand was already lifting before you could talk yourself out of it.
And then you were knocking on Jack Abbot’s door.
Like he was expecting you, he swung the door open with a familiarity that always managed to piss you off.
You hated being expected. It meant you weren’t as convincing as you thought every time you swore it was the last time.
“Back so soon?” he asked.
There were two voices in your head.
The first was logical. The one that listed consequences and self-respect and the long, boring, very healthy path of walking away.
The second was louder.
And a hell of a lot faster.
“Shut up,” you said.
And then your lips were on his.
There was no hesitation from him.
His hand came up to your jaw like it had done this before, like it knew exactly where you’d break and where you wouldn’t. The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely registered it.
Not when he was already pulling you closer.
Not when the shift started dissolving at the edges the way it always did the second he touched you.
You told yourself, distantly, that you’d meant to stop.
That you’d been serious this time.
That you were still someone who made decisions and followed through on them.
But that version of you didn’t stand a chance in his apartment.
“What did I tell you about sitting around and talking on shift?” His voice was low against your mouth.
Your hands found his chest—whether to push him away or pull him closer, you weren't entirely sure. The fabric of his shirt was soft under your palms, warm from his body, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath it. Steady. Unhurried.
Like he had all the time in the world.
“I told you,” You glared up at him defiantly. “I’d stop when you admitted why it bothers you so much,”
He walked you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, and the impact sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the collision. His knee slid between your thighs, and you made a sound that would've embarrassed you if you had any dignity left to spare.
You didn't.
Not here. Not with him.
“It doesn’t bother me,”
His lips moved to your jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of your neck that made your breath hitch.
“You’re such a liar,” You tilted your head without thinking, giving him access, and felt his mouth curve into a smile against your skin.
Smug bastard.
"Guessing this is the last time?" he murmured, changing the subject like he always did, rough in a way that shouldn't have worked as well as it did.
Your eyes snapped open.
The audacity.
"Keep opening your mouth," you said, breathless but sharp, "and I'll walk out."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face was infuriating. Amused. Knowing. Like he could see straight through every lie you'd ever told yourself about this.
About him.
"We both know you won't."
Your jaw tightened.
Because he was right, and you both knew it, and that made it so much worse.
You should've said something cutting. Should've shoved him back and proven him wrong just to wipe that look off his face.
Instead, you kissed him again.
Harder this time. Angrier, maybe. Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as some distant part of your brain screamed at you to stop. To leave. To have even a shred of self-respect.
But his hands were on your waist now, thumbs pressing into your hips through the thin fabric of your scrubs, and every coherent thought you'd had dissolved under the weight of it.
This was what you'd come here for.
Not conversation. Not comfort.
Just this—the way he touched you like he'd memorized every place that made you fall apart. The way your body responded before your mind could catch up. The way everything else faded into background noise.
His mouth moved back to your neck, and you felt his teeth graze your pulse point. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make you gasp.
"You're terrible at this," he said against your skin.
"At what?"
"Pretending you don't want to be here."
Your hands slid up to his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to make a point.
"You're terrible at shutting up."
He laughed—low and quiet and far too pleased with himself—and the sound vibrated through you in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.
His hands moved lower, fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your scrub top, and the contact of his skin against yours sent a shiver up your spine. Warm. Rough in places. Familiar in a way that made your chest threaten to explode.
You'd told yourself you wouldn't do this again.
You'd meant it, too.
At least in the moment.
But here you were, pressed against his entryway wall at six in the morning, letting him unravel you piece by piece like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Because it was for him.
That was the problem.
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, and there was something in his expression that you couldn't quite read. Something that looked almost like concern, if you didn't know better.
"Long shift?" he asked.
You let out a breathless laugh. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend you care."
His jaw tightened, just slightly, and for a second you thought he might actually say something real. Something that wasn't wrapped in sarcasm or deflection.
But then his mouth was on yours again, and the moment passed.
Maybe that was better.
Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in it as you kissed him back with everything you had left. All the frustration and exhaustion and restless energy that had been building under your skin for hours—and since the last time a week ago—poured into it.
He made a sound low in his throat, and his grip on your hips tightened.
You were going to regret this.
You always did.
But right now, with his body pressed against yours and his hands pulling you closer, you couldn't bring yourself to care.
Not when this was the only thing that made the tightness in your chest loosen. The only thing that made you feel like you could breathe.
Even if it was temporary.
Even if it was a lie.
His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, and you arched into the touch without thinking. Your back pressed harder against the wall, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered that you were still wearing your work shoes.
That you hadn't even made it past the entryway.
That this was exactly how it always went.
But then his mouth found that spot just below your ear, and every rational thought you'd ever had scattered like smoke.
"Bedroom," you managed, though it came out more like a plea than a command.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, and the look on his face was devastating.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."
And then his hand was in yours, and he was leading you deeper into the apartment.
Into the same mistake you'd made a dozen times before.
The one you'd probably make a dozen more times.
You were going insane, to say the least.
After that last time, you once again swore you could stop, and when Jack Abbot laughed in your face, you swore that spite would carry you through.
That was three weeks ago.
Your body was practically screaming at you for release.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried—you had your own methods of relief at home, in various sizes and shapes, but he might as well have put a curse on you. He plagued your mind, your thoughts, and now, even your damn fantasies. You couldn’t even get past closing your eyes with your head on the pillow without hearing his voice in your ear.
“Are you listening?”
“No,” You admitted.
Ellis smirked. “Wow, that was easy.”
“I gotta stop,” You said, more so to yourself. “I need to get past this guy, this can’t be healthy.”
“I mean, I could’ve told you that a year ago,”
“See? Even that is embarrassing—doing this for an entire year.”
“How did it even start, anyway?”
Her question was one you often asked yourself.
You were literally there, and somehow it was still remarkable that any of this had managed to happen in the first place.
It had started on one of those rare nights when you didn’t have work. Even rarer, you didn’t have a shift the next day either. So you joined a few of your ED friends for their weekly gathering at the pub down the street from the PTMC.
He was there too.
Before you’d ever spoken to Jack Abbot, you’d noticed him.
You noticed everything about him, actually.
The commanding presence that never felt overbearing. The quiet charm. The way people naturally gravitated toward him without him seeming to ask for their attention.
Then you started working together.
And assisting Jack was easy in a way that shouldn’t have mattered. The two of you seemed to fall into a rhythm almost immediately, anticipating what the other needed before it was said aloud. You worked well with plenty of doctors, but with him it felt different. Smoother.
Natural.
The night at the pub passed slowly, conversations drifting from work gossip to stories about patients to the kind of personal details people only share after a drink or two. You got to know some of the day-shift staff in a way you never really could during a chaotic handoff.
Then, little by little, people started peeling off.
Heading home to partners, spouses, kids, pets.
Eventually, it was just you and Jack left at the table—and neither of you had anyone waiting at home.
So the conversation kept going.
And going.
Until the bartender started flashing the lights for last call.
You could admit now that the alcohol wasn’t the only reason you agreed when he suggested moving the party to his place.
That began a bad habit of spending nights off together at his apartment, which turned into you following him home from work twice a week. Until it was happening every day.
Until—
“I’m calling psych,” Ellis said abruptly. “Dude has you dissociating.”
“Can you cut me some slack?” you groaned. “My sleep score on this stupid Oura ring is averaging like a 42, and no amount of Dunkin from Shen is helping. In fact, it’s probably making it worse.”
“I told you that ring is full of shit.”
“Probably,” you admitted, “but there’s no doubt this whole…situation has tanked my ability to sleep.”
“You know what?” Ellis leaned in slightly, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I’ve got a friend who’s recently single. Maybe I can set you two up.”
You ignored the immediate flicker of alarm in your chest—the automatic warning your brain always set off at the mere suggestion of entertaining any man who wasn’t the night shift attending.
“I don’t know,” you said instead, fingers fidgeting with your badge—the stupid tell he’d pointed out once.
The second Ellis said it, something in you tightened.
A sharp, instinctive recoil you didn’t get a vote in.
Like your body had heard the suggestion and decided, absolutely not.
It made no sense, really. It was just a date. Just an option sitting harmlessly on the desk between you.
“You know,” you added lightly, like it didn’t matter, like you weren’t suddenly hyperaware of your own pulse, “I’m… probably just not in a dating place right now.”
Her head tilted in that knowing way. “Not in a dating place.”
“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Night shift keeps me way too busy—”
“Yet you have time to get in that man’s bed?”
The words hit before you could stop them from hitting. Your brain didn’t even get a chance to form a response—
—Because, conveniently, Crus appeared like a lifeline in scrubs, walking up with a chart for Ellis to sign, as if he’d been sent by the universe specifically to rescue you from this conversation.
Your face lit up at the sudden exit.
“I totally forgot Crus put a pot of coffee on earlier. I’m gonna go try it!”
And before anyone could stop you, you were already backing away from the desk.
Fast.
A little too fast.
“No, I didn’t—” He started.
“Thanks, Crusy!”
You were gone before she could finish.
Crus blinked, looking between you and Ellis as you disappeared down the hall. “What the fuck is wrong with her?”
Ellis didn’t even look up from the chart.
“Avoidant attachment.”
Your eyes squeezed shut in relief as you slipped into the break room, the door still in your hand behind your back as you exhaled slowly.
Then the illusion cracked, and you heard a low chuckle cut through the silence.
You didn’t open your eyes. Didn’t need to.
“Mid-shift pick-me-up?”
You scowled in the direction of his voice, finally letting your eyes open. Jack was standing between you and the whirring coffee pot, one arm lazily leaning on the back of a chair like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just fucked your entire attempt at emotional escape.
“Is there any more?” you asked, because you could be strong. You could be level-headed around him.
“I’m makin’ some,” he said. “Someone drank all of it.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking down over you in that quiet, habitual way he had. Not obvious—never obvious. Just enough to feel.
“Someone tired.”
“Hm,” you hummed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of admitting that you, in fact, were not getting any sleep.
“Been a while,” he added after a beat.
His gaze lifted again, slower this time, like he was taking inventory. Like he needed to memorize you again after any stretch of absence.
“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms as you stepped further into the room. “That was the last time.”
“Sure it was.”
Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was the disbelief. Or maybe it was the fact that you’d tried—unsuccessfully—to get yourself over the finish line this morning three separate times before you finally gave up on hearing his voice in your head.
Either way, something in you snapped.
You walked closer, eyes locked on his, mouth set in a thin, controlled line.
“I meant it that night,” you said, tipping your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m done.”
“Are you?”
“Yep. I even have a date.”
Something flashed in his eyes—quick, unreadable—but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared, replaced by something sharper. More challenging.
“A date.”
“Ellis’ friend. She’s setting it up.”
“And when is this ‘date’?”
You hated the way he said it.
Like it wasn’t real. Like it wasn’t solid yet. Like it didn’t deserve space in the same room as him.
And sure, okay, it wasn’t.
But it still made your jaw tighten.
“What do you care?”
“So I can be available,” he said evenly, “for when you inevitably come by after.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Well that’s presumptuous.”
“Is it?” His gaze didn’t move from yours. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
You almost choked on the speed at which you snapped back.
“That—that was because we had just had that mass casualty that fucked me up and you know that.”
“I also know,” he said, voice calmer now, almost tired in the way he said it, “that you tend to try to date other people.”
A beat.
“And somehow,” he added, eyes still on you, “you still end up here.”
“I can assure you, Dr. Abbot,” you said, smiling softly—mocking, sweet—using his title the way he’d told you to in public. “I can, in fact, date other people.”
He bent down slowly, bringing himself to your level. Close enough that the space between you stopped feeling like space at all.
“I’d love to see you try.”
And that’s how you ended up at a bar.
Sitting across from Ellis’ friend.
Ordering drinks. Making polite conversation. Nodding at the right moments. Smiling at the right times.
You did everything you were supposed to do.
You even laughed once or twice.
Ellis’ friend was nice. Normal. Stable in the way that should’ve felt like relief.
He didn’t have a traumatic past, or carefully measured words that felt like something else was always hiding underneath them. No guarded edges. No unreadable silences that made you feel like you were constantly trying to translate him.
And yet, every time your phone buzzed against the table, your attention flicked to it before you could stop yourself.
Every time the door opened behind him, something in your chest tightened on instinct.
And every time it wasn’t him, you hated yourself a little more for noticing.
This was what you wanted, right?
Distance.
Options.
Proof.
A life that didn’t orbit a man who barely admitted you mattered outside of four walls and a locked door.
But instead, you just kept thinking about how quiet your apartment would be after this. How loud your thoughts would be.
And how unfair it was that even here—on a date you’d insisted you could handle—you still felt like you were waiting for something else.
Ellis’ friend excused himself to use the restroom, giving your brain a brief opening—just enough quiet to pull you back to a night you hadn’t fully unpacked.
A night you almost told Ellis about.
It had been somewhere in the middle of it all—those weeks where “indulging” had stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like a routine.
You remember stopping at his front door, scrubs wrinkled from where they’d been tossed somewhere on his bedroom floor, hair slightly mussed, still carrying the aftermath of him in the most intoxicating way.
You’d turned to him in the doorway, eyes lifting to his.
That expectant look you wore sometimes. The one that, for some reason, seemed to scare him more than anything else.
“Hey,” you started carefully. “What do we say if people ask, you know…”
“We don’t say anything.”
His voice hadn’t been soft.
It hadn’t been cruel either.
Just certain.
You blinked. “Right, but… like, what is it?”
A shift.
Barely there, but you saw it. The way he opened the door a little wider. His mouth parted, like he was going to explain it. Clarify it. Do something that would either help you or hurt you.
And you couldn’t stand the idea of either.
So you stopped him.
“Sorry,” you laughed quickly, even though something in your chest was already starting to cave in on itself. “Right. Yeah. Obviously this is nothing—you’re the attending. I just meant like, so no one at work mentions it. And you don’t get in trouble. I mean, you’re not technically my superior anyway, so we’re probably fine. And now I’m rambling. I’m gonna go.”
“Hey, I—”
“No, Dr. Abbot, you really don’t need to say anything. We’re good.”
A beat.
“You can… uh. Call me Jack. Here, anyway.”
It should’ve meant something.
And it almost did.
But his usual composure was slightly off, like he was trying to catch up to the moment and not entirely succeeding.
You just nodded. “Sure,” you said softly, already stepping back. “Anyway… see you at work.”
And then you left.
With your pride carefully, quietly, and completely dismantled.
What you didn’t say out loud—what you never said out loud—was that those weeks had started to feel like something you could accidentally get used to.
Sleeping over on nights off. Coffee in the morning. His apartment slowly becoming familiar to you.
And you were naïve enough, back then, to think that familiarity might mean you were building something.
Not just…falling into it alone.
And of course you were—what did you expect? That sleeping with the night-shift attending would somehow evolve into anything other than an inevitable fizzling out?
You had a habit of falling too hard in places you didn’t belong.
And this was just another version of that.
After that night, you both pulled back.
Careful, deliberate distance.
At work, you moved around each other like opposing currents in the same hallway—efficient, professional, slightly off in rhythm. Enough acknowledgment to function, not enough to blur anything further. Contact reduced to necessity. Words clipped.
Waiting, almost.
For something to shift.
For someone to say something that neither of you were willing to be first to say.
Until you broke first.
And after that, the pattern settled in: you’d show up at his place after hard shifts, or on days off when your mind wouldn’t quiet down. You’d get exactly what you knew he was willing to give—nothing more, nothing less.
And then you’d leave.
You’d swear it was the last.
Until it wasn’t.
“Ready to go?” Ellis’ friend asked as he returned to the table.
You nodded, grateful for an excuse to leave before your brain wandered any further down memory lane.
“Yeah. Early shift tomorrow.”
It was a lie.
A small one, but a useful one.
The check was paid and a few minutes later you found yourself in the passenger seat of his car. You’d Ubered to the bar, assuming you’d just call one home afterward.
Back when you’d thought you’d actually be paying attention to this date. But how could you refuse a free ride home?
The drive was pleasant. He was pleasant. That seemed to be the problem—nothing was wrong. No red flags. No awkward silences. No glaring incompatibilities.
Just an overwhelming absence of whatever stupid thing—or person—your brain seemed determined to chase.
Streetlights blurred past outside the window.
You stared at them.
Half-listening as he talked about something involving his neighbor and a broken sprinkler system.
“Alright,” he said eventually, slowing at a red light. “Where am I taking you?”
You answered without thinking.
“Fourth and Mercer.”
The words left your mouth automatically.
Like muscle memory.
Like reciting your own address.
Then you froze.
Because Fourth and Mercer wasn’t your address.
It was Jack’s.
The realization hit about half a second too late.
For a moment, you just stared out the windshield.
Then you laughed.
Once.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
You rubbed a hand over your face.
The normal response would be to correct yourself.
Give him your actual address. Go home. Take off your makeup. Get some sleep.
Maybe unpack whatever psychological damage had just caused you to instinctively send a date to another man’s apartment.
Instead, you found yourself shaking your head.
“Actually…” You looked back out the window. “Yeah. That’s right.”
The second the words left your mouth, you wanted to launch yourself out of the moving vehicle.
Because what the fuck was wrong with you?
Seriously.
What kind of person goes on a date with one man, accidentally gives another man’s address, realizes what they’ve done, and then decides to commit to it?
Apparently you.
You, who had spent the last month insisting you were done.
You, who had spent the last week avoiding him in the hospital whenever possible.
You, who had sat across from a perfectly attractive, emotionally available man for two hours only to subconsciously recite Jack Abbot’s address like it was your own.
Insane.
Clinically insane.
Potentially diagnosable.
If Ellis found out about this, she’d never let you hear the end of it.
Hell, if you found out someone else had done this, you’d tell them to seek professional help immediately.
And yet, the thought of seeing Jack—
You shoved that one away immediately.
Nope.
You were not about to sit here and unpack whatever deeply concerning emotional implications were hidden inside the fact that his address lived in your head rent-free.
Maybe it didn’t mean anything.
Maybe it was muscle memory.
Maybe your brain had been permanently damaged by night shift.
All plausible explanations.
Far more plausible than the alternative.
True delusion and toxicity drove you out of the car.
You offered your date a small wave through the passenger window, ignoring the increasingly bewildered expression on his face, before shutting the door and turning toward the building.
If he had questions, he was kind enough not to ask them.
Which was good.
Because you didn’t have answers.
Your feet carried you up the familiar steps before your brain could mount any meaningful objection. Through the front entrance. Down the hallway. To a door you could probably locate blindfolded at this point.
The realization should’ve horrified you.
Instead, it barely registered.
You knocked once.
And the door swung open almost immediately.
"Don't."
The word came out sharp. A warning.
To him. Maybe to yourself.
But Jack just stood there in the doorway—sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt, hands in his pockets—and that look on his face that said he'd been waiting for this exact moment.
Smug didn't even begin to cover it.
You should've turned around.
Should've walked away.
Instead, you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward you.
Your mouth found his before either of you could say another word, and the kiss was immediate. Desperate. All teeth and urgency and the kind of need that made rational thought impossible.
He didn't hesitate.
His hands were on you instantly—one sliding to your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he walked you backward until your spine hit the entryway wall with a dull thud.
This was the pattern.
The same one you'd fallen into a dozen times before.
You never made it all the way inside.
Not at first.
Something about the threshold—the space between leaving and staying—always unraveled you both.
His mouth moved against yours with the kind of confidence that made your knees weak, his body pressing into you until there was no space left between you. His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his lips.
"Even had him drop you off, huh?"
The words were low. Amused. Spoken directly against your mouth between kisses.
Your stomach dropped.
Because of course he knew.
Of course he'd been watching from the window. Of course he'd seen you get out of another man's car and walk straight to his door like you had no other choice.
"Jack—"
"Shh." His thumb brushed along your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth found the corner of yours. Then your cheek. Then just below your ear. "It's okay."
It wasn't okay.
Nothing about this was okay.
You'd just come from a date with someone else. Someone normal. Someone who didn't make you feel like you were constantly drowning.
And yet here you were, pinned against an entryway wall, heart racing, breath coming in short gasps as Jack's hands roamed over you like he owned every inch.
The worst part?
You wanted him to.
God, you hated yourself for it.
Hated how easily you melted under his touch. How your body responded before your brain could catch up. How the shame of it all only seemed to make you want him more.
His hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hem of your dress, and you bit down on your lip to keep from making a sound.
"So eager to see me," he murmured against your neck, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. "Couldn't even wait to get inside."
Your hands fisted in his shirt as he kicked the door shut, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed at you to push him away.
"What a good girl, always coming back to me."
The words hit you like a physical thing.
Your breath caught. Heat flooded your face—and lower—and you wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to fuck off, wanted to do anything other than stand there and let him see exactly what those words did to you.
But you couldn't.
Because he knew.
He always knew.
His mouth found yours again, slower this time, more deliberate, and his hand finally slipped beneath the fabric of your dress. Fingers trailing up your thigh with maddening patience.
You made a sound—something between a whimper and a protest—and he smiled against your lips.
"That's it," he said quietly. "Just like that."
You were going to hell.
Or maybe you were already there.
Because the only thing worse than how much you wanted this—wanted him—was how much he knew it.
How easily he could unravel you with a look, a touch, a handful of words that made you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
Even if it was the last place you should've gone.
His hands moved to your hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and he hiked your dress up in one smooth motion. The fabric bunched around your waist as he pulled you closer, one hand sliding to the back of your thigh, lifting your leg to wrap around him.
The wall was cold against your back. Unforgiving.
He wasn't.
Or maybe he was—just in a different way. Unforgiving in the way he kept you circling the same drain, always one step short of whatever this was actually becoming. Always dancing right up to the edge of it, like neither of you could decide who was supposed to fall first.
His mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as his other hand worked between you, pushing aside fabric, finding exactly what he wanted with the kind of precision that made your head spin.
"Jack—"
"Yeah," His voice was low, thick with desire. "Right here, sweetheart."
And then he was inside you.
The stretch, the fullness, the way your body yielded to him so easily—it was too much and not enough all at once. Your head fell back against the wall, a broken sound escaping your throat as he held you there, pinned between him and the plaster.
He didn't move. Not yet.
Just stayed there, buried deep, his forehead pressed against your temple, his breath hot against your ear.
"Tell me," he murmured. "Tell me you don't want this."
Your nails dug into his shoulders.
"Jack—"
"Say it." His hips shifted slightly, just enough to make you gasp. "Tell me you don't need this."
You couldn't.
The words wouldn't come.
Because they'd be a lie, and you both knew it.
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before driving back in with enough force to make you cry out. The sound echoed in the narrow entryway, shameless and desperate.
"That's what I thought," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
He set a rhythm then—slow, deliberate, controlled. Each thrust calculated to pull sounds from you that you didn't want to make. Each movement designed to remind you exactly who was in charge here.
"You can't get enough of this, can you?" His hand tightened on your thigh, holding you open for him. "Can't stay away."
"Don't—" The word came out as a whimper.
"Don't what?" He punctuated the question with a particularly deep thrust that had your vision blurring. "Don't tell the truth? Don't make you admit it?"
Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough that it should've hurt, but he just groaned and moved faster.
"Say it," he demanded, his mouth against your jaw. "Tell me you need this."
"I—" You couldn't finish. Couldn't force the words past the shame and the pleasure tangled so tightly together you couldn't separate them anymore.
He slowed. Almost stopped.
"Say it, or I stop."
"No—" The protest was immediate, desperate. "Please—"
"Please what?"
You swore you hated him.
Hated how easily he could reduce you to this—begging, pleading, completely at his mercy.
"I need it," you gasped out, the admission burning in your throat. "I need—fuck—I need you."
The smile you felt against your skin was pure victory.
"There she is," he murmured, his pace picking up again. "My good girl. So honest when I'm inside you.
The wall dug into your spine with each thrust. Your leg was starting to shake where it was wrapped around him. Everything was too much—the angle, the intensity, the way he looked at you like he'd won something.
Because he had.
"You came straight here," he continued, his voice rough now, control starting to fray at the edges. "Didn't even go home first. Just needed me that badly."
"Yes—" The word broke on a moan.
"Even after your little date. Even after trying so hard to move on."
"Jack—please—"
"Please what? Make you come? Make you forget about him?" His hand slid between you, finding exactly where you needed him. "Make you remember who you belong to?"
You shattered.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, pulling you under, drowning you in sensation. Your body clenched around him, trembling, and you heard yourself crying out his name like a prayer or a curse—you couldn't tell which anymore.
He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.
He followed seconds later, his grip on you tightening, his face buried in your neck as he came with a low groan that you felt more than heard.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Just stayed there, pressed together in the hallway, breathing hard, hearts racing.
Your leg was still wrapped around him. His hand still gripped your thigh. The wall was still cold against your back, but his body was warm—solid—and for just a second, you let yourself stay there.
Before reality could catch up.
Then he pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, and his hand moved to your face. Thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so gentle it made your chest ache. Mimicking a softness he once showed you, way back before this all got entangled in the way these things did.
"Stay."
The word hung between you.
You blinked. "What?"
"Stay over." His voice was quieter now. "Tonight."
Your heart did something complicated.
Because he'd never asked that before—at least, not since that morning. Not since you'd tried to define this thing and shut it down and he let you walk away pretending it didn't matter.
You stared at him, searching his face for something—anything—that would tell you what this meant.
But his expression was unreadable.
Guarded.
Same as always.
"I—" You started to pull away, to put distance between you, but his hand on your waist kept you there. "I should go."
"How?" he asked simply. "Your date dropped you off, remember?"
The logic of it hit you like cold water.
Right.
You'd given Jack's address. You'd gotten out of the car here. You didn't have your own car. You'd have to call an Uber, and it was late, and—
"I can call a ride," you said, even though the words felt hollow.
"You could."
He didn't move.
Didn't push.
Just waited.
And somehow that was worse.
Because you couldn't tell if he actually wanted you to stay or if he was just Jack Abbot, night shift attending, solving a problem. Couldn't tell if this was something or if you were reading into it the way you always did—seeing meaning where there wasn't any.
"Jack—"
"It's late," he said. "You're here. Just stay."
Your throat tightened.
"Why?"
The question came out smaller than you meant it to.
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then his hand dropped from your face, and he stepped back, giving you space. Letting your leg slide down until you were standing on your own again.
"Because I'm asking you to."
That was it.
No explanation. No declaration. No answer to the question you were really asking.
Just that.
You wanted to leave.
Wanted to walk out the door and prove to yourself—and to him—that you could.
But your feet didn't move.
And he knew it.
He always knew.
"Okay,"
It started small.
It was always small things with him—never enough to point at, never enough to accuse, never enough to justify the way it started messing with your head.
But you noticed everything anyway.
The way he paused—just briefly—before walking away from your station, like he was deciding whether or not to say something that wasn’t strictly necessary.
He never used to hesitate.
That was new.
And it made you hyper-aware of everything else.
He didn’t lean into the sarcasm as much when Shen made some comment that would’ve normally earned a dry remark from him. He didn’t linger in the doorway of trauma bays the way he used to, but he also didn’t leave as quickly either—like he was calibrating your distance instead of defaulting to it.
Even his silence felt different.
Intentional.
And it was fucking with you.
Because if you were being honest—if you were being brutally honest—you had built a system around the predictability of him.
Cold when he needed to be. Detached when he wanted to be. Clear lines, clear roles, clear nothing-you-could-misinterpret.
It had been easier that way.
Safer.
Even if it drove you insane.
But now?
Now there were these almost-imperceptible deviations in the pattern.
Like he was…paying attention in a way that wasn’t strictly required.
And you hated that your brain immediately started translating it into something dangerous.
Hope, maybe.
Or worse—meaning.
You were charting at the nurse’s station when he appeared behind you, not speaking right away. Just there. Close enough that you registered him before you turned.
“Can I see bed six’s labs?” he asked finally.
Normal.
Professional.
Except he didn’t leave immediately after you handed them over.
He looked at them.
Then at you.
Then back at the chart like he was stalling for time that didn’t exist.
“You didn’t get coffee,” he said.
You blinked once. “I did. Earlier.”
A pause.
“I meant since then.”
There it was again.
That thing.
That quiet attention that didn’t match the version of him you had built your rules around.
“I’ve been busy,” you said carefully.
“I know.”
You turned back to your chart like it was suddenly fascinating, because looking at him for too long felt like stepping too close to something you’d been actively trying not to name.
“You’re being weird today,” you muttered.
A beat.
“I’m not.”
You almost laughed at that.
Because if this was him not being weird, then you didn’t know what reality you were in anymore.
He finally took a step back, but not before his eyes flicked over you once more—quick, practiced, familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten without permission.
“You should eat something,” he said.
Then he walked off.
And you sat there for a second too long, staring at the space he’d just occupied, wondering when exactly “professional concern” started feeling indistinguishable from something else entirely.
Your mind thought back to that mass casualty that happened six months ago—the day that the PTMC turned dark.
All hands on deck. Every hallway filled. Every monitor screaming for attention it didn’t have time to get. Voices overlapping until they stopped sounding like words and started sounding like pressure.
You remembered moving on autopilot.
Remembered the way your body kept going even when your brain started lagging behind it.
Remembered the moment you couldn’t take it anymore.
The stairwell had been quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not peaceful—just empty. Like the building had forgotten how to breathe.
You don’t even remember deciding to go there.
Sinking down on the step with your head in your hands while everything you’d held together for the last hour finally split open without asking your permission.
You weren’t sobbing like in movies. It was worse than that—it was silent. Like your body was trying to process too much at once and failing in real time.
You heard the door before you saw him.
He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t do any of the things people do when they’re trying to create distance from something they don’t know how to fix.
He just came down the steps and sat beside you.
Close enough that your shoulders touched.
And then closer.
Until there wasn’t really space between you at all.
His hand didn’t hesitate when it found your back. Slow, steady pressure like he was anchoring something that kept trying to drift away.
You don’t know how long you stayed like that.
Minutes. Hours. Something outside of time entirely.
At some point, you stopped shaking.
At some point, your breathing stopped feeling like it belonged to someone else.
And at some point, you became aware of the fact that he hadn’t moved—hadn’t checked his watch. Hadn’t said a single word about needing to go back.
Just stayed.
Like leaving wasn’t an option he was considering.
When you finally pulled back, it was gradual. Reluctant. Like stepping out of water that had been keeping you alive.
You didn’t look at him at first.
Neither did he speak.
You wiped your face, exhaled once, and nodded like that was enough to reset the universe.
“Back to it?” you had said.
A pause.
Then, like nothing had happened at all:
“Yeah.”
And spent the next six months acting like something inside that stairwell hadn’t quietly rearranged itself without either of you acknowledging it.
And now, here he was, rearranging everything again.
Not in any dramatic way. Not in a way you could point to and accuse him of meaning something.
Just the damn small things.
Restocking your glitter pens without being asked. Answering patients with a clipped patience when they got too loud with you, stepping in before you even had to react. Sliding a chart back into your station that you hadn’t realized you left open, like he was quietly tidying up the edges of your shift when you weren’t looking.
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
That was the rule.
That was always the rule.
But your brain kept betraying you anyway.
Because it felt like that day in the stairwell.
And now, watching him move through the department like that again—steady, controlled, too observant for his own good—you couldn’t help the thought that crept in at the edges.
That maybe this wasn’t nothing to him either.
That maybe it had never been.
And that was the thought you needed to stay away from.
So you needed to do something drastic.
You were halfway through your coffee when the break room door opened hard enough to make you look up immediately.
Not in alarm—just recognition.
Jack stood in the doorway for a second too long, not stepping fully in right away. His attention went straight to you, skipping over everything else in the room like it wasn’t relevant.
“Why is Robby asking me about switching you to days?”
You set your cup down slowly.
Not because you were rattled.
Because you were trying to decide how much of this conversation you were willing to have before your shift even started.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Probably because it has to go through you. Staffing, scheduling, whatever.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
That was the first sign this wasn’t just about paperwork.
“It doesn’t go through me like that,” he said after a beat.
You nodded once, like that detail didn’t matter much. “Okay.”
That seemed to irritate him more than anything else so far. He stepped fully into the room now, letting the door fall shut behind him.
“You didn’t tell me,” he said.
You leaned back slightly against the counter, keeping your posture loose on purpose.
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
A pause.
His jaw tightened briefly before settling again.
“You’re changing your schedule at this hospital,” he said, more controlled now. “And I’m only hearing about it through Robby.”
“It’s not finalized yet,” you said. “It’s just a request.”
“That’s not the point.”
You watched him for a second.
He wasn’t pacing. Wasn’t raising his voice. Wasn’t doing anything obvious.
But there was something contained in the way he stood there that you were starting to recognize too well.
Like he was holding himself in place more than he was standing.
“I don’t see why it’s a problem,” you said.
“It’s not a problem,” he answered too quickly.
Then stopped.
Corrected himself, slower this time.
“It’s just…unexpected.”
You hummed slightly, almost thoughtful.
“Since when do you care what shift I work?”
His eyes flicked to yours at that, steady but sharper now.
“I don’t,” he said.
It didn’t land convincingly.
Not even close.
You didn’t push it—instead, you let the silence sit there for a moment, thickening.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower.
“You won’t be around as much.”
It came out like a practical observation, but it didn’t sit like one.
You looked down at your coffee for a second before answering.
“I’ll still be here,” you said. “Just different hours.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
He shifted his weight slightly, then stilled again like he’d caught himself mid-movement.
“You don’t work days,” he said.
It wasn’t a correction.
Something closer to resistance.
You glanced up again. “That’s not really a rule.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
Another pause.
This one was longer.
He looked like he was considering something he didn’t like the shape of.
Something quieter.
Something he was actively not letting develop into words.
“You’ll be harder to find,” he said finally.
You frowned slightly.
“I’m not disappearing.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
But he didn’t elaborate.
And that was the problem.
Because the things he didn’t say were starting to feel louder than the things he did.
You straightened a little, watching him now instead of your coffee.
“You’re acting like this is a bigger deal than it is,” you said carefully.
A beat.
“I’m not,” he replied.
It was immediate again.
Too immediate.
Then, quieter, like he was correcting something internal more than responding to you, “I just want to understand why now.”
You held his gaze for a moment.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like he was challenging your decision.
It felt like he was trying not to lose something he wasn’t allowed to call his.
“I’m tired,” you said simply. “That’s it.”
He nodded once, but it wasn’t satisfied.
Just contained.
Like he’d accepted the answer without believing it fully.
The silence stretched again—long enough that it started to feel like a decision neither of you were saying out loud.
Finally, he looked away first.
“Do what you need to do,” he said, quieter than before.
And then he stayed there a moment longer anyway.
Like leaving first would make it real.
Like not saying anything else was the closest he could get to asking you not to go.
You didn't go home after your shift.
You went to his place instead.
The drive was short enough that you didn't have time to second-guess it, which was probably the only reason you actually showed up. By the time you were standing outside his door, your scrubs still on, your bag still slung over one shoulder, the momentum was the only thing keeping you upright.
You knocked once.
Not politely.
Hard enough that it wasn't a question.
The door opened after a few seconds, and Jack stood there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, looking like he'd just gotten home himself. His hair was still damp from a shower.
He didn't look surprised.
That was the first thing that pissed you off.
"We need to talk," you said.
He stepped back without a word, holding the door open.
You walked in, dropped your bag by the entrance, and turned to face him before he'd even closed the door fully.
"Why didn't you fight me on it?"
He shut the door carefully, then looked at you.
"On what?"
"Don't do that," you said. "The schedule change. You stood there earlier like it mattered, and then you just—let it go."
He exhaled slowly, like he was buying time.
"You said you were tired.”
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you gave me."
You stared at him.
He wasn't deflecting exactly—it was more like he was staying behind something. Some line he'd drawn for himself that you couldn't see but kept running into.
"You do this," you said, quieter now but no less sharp. "You act like it matters. And then the second I push, you back off like it was never a thing to begin with."
"I'm not backing off."
"Then what are you doing?"
He didn't answer right away.
You took a step closer.
"You’ve been checking on me during shifts," you said. "You ask when my dates are. You ask when I’ve eaten. You don't do that with anyone else."
"You don't know that."
"I do," you said flatly. "Everyone knows that."
His eyes flicked away briefly, then back.
"So what?" he said, and there was an edge to it now. "You want me to stop?"
"No," you said. "I want you to admit what it is."
Silence.
He shifted his weight slightly, and you saw it—the crack forming.
Small, but there.
"It doesn't have to be anything," he said finally.
You laughed, short and humorless.
"Bullshit."
"It's not—"
"Then why don't you see other people?"
That landed.
You saw it in the way his expression stilled, like you'd just said something he wasn't ready to hear out loud.
"I don't—"
"You don't," you interrupted. "I know you don't. You haven't since this started."
He looked at you for a long moment, and you could see him deciding how much to give.
Not enough.
Never enough.
"That's not your business," he said quietly.
"It is if you're going to act like I'm yours without actually saying it."
His jaw tightened again, sharper this time.
"I never said you were mine."
"You didn't have to."
Another pause.
Longer.
Heavier.
He turned slightly, like he was going to move away, then stopped himself.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his voice was lower now. Rougher.
"The truth," you said. "Just once."
He looked at you then—really looked—and for a second you thought he might actually do it.
Might actually let whatever he'd been holding back finally break through.
But then he shook his head, just barely.
"It's not that simple."
"It is," you said. "You're just making it complicated because you're scared."
"I'm not—"
"You are," you cut in. "You're terrified that if you call this what it is, it'll mean something. And if it means something, you'll have to actually do something about it."
He didn't deny it.
That was answer enough.
You stepped closer again, close enough now that you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands had curled slightly at his sides like he was holding himself back.
"Why do you think I asked for the schedule change?" you said, quieter now.
He looked at you, and something shifted in his expression.
Something wary.
"I don't know," he said.
"Because I can't keep doing this," you said. "I can't keep waiting for you to figure out what you want while you act like I'm the only person in the room."
His throat worked briefly, like he was swallowing something down.
"I'm not asking you to wait."
"You don't have to ask," you said. "I've been doing it anyway."
That hit him.
You saw it in the way his eyes closed briefly, in the way his breath came out just a little too controlled.
When he opened his eyes again, they were darker.
"I don't want you on days," he said.
It came out rough.
Unfiltered.
Like he'd finally let something slip that he'd been holding onto too tightly.
You stared at him.
"Then say the rest of it."
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just stood there, close enough to touch, looking at you like he was trying to decide whether letting you in would break him or save him.
"I can't," he said finally.
And it sounded like the most honest thing he'd said all night.
You held his gaze for another moment, then stepped back.
"Then I'm switching to days," you said.
He flinched.
Barely—but you saw it.
"And if you want me to stay," you continued, "you're going to have to give me a reason that isn't just showing up and acting like I'm supposed to know what this is without you ever saying it."
You picked up your bag.
Turned toward the door.
His voice stopped you before you reached it.
"Don't go."
You looked back.
He was still standing in the same spot, but something in him had shifted.
Something raw.
"Not yet," he added, quieter.
You waited.
He didn't say anything else.
But he didn't look away either.
"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I don't know how to do this."
His voice came out rougher than before, like the words were scraping their way out.
You stayed where you were, hand still on your bag.
"I don't know how to—" Another pause. His jaw worked briefly. "How to be with someone. Not like this. Not in a way that—that means something."
He looked down, then forced himself to look back up.
"I've never—" He exhaled sharply, frustrated with himself. "I've never had to name it before. Never wanted to. Because if I don't name it, then it's just—it's just there. It exists without me having to—"
He stopped again.
You could see him fighting for the next words.
"Without me having to risk it," he finished quietly.
The silence stretched.
You didn't move.
Didn't help him.
He needed to get through this on his own.
"I'm terrified," he said, and it came out almost angry. Not at you. At himself. "I'm terrified that if I call this what it is, if I say it out loud, then it becomes something I can lose. And I—"
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"I can't lose you."
It was barely above a whisper.
"That's why I didn't fight you on the schedule," he continued, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "Because fighting you would've meant admitting why I wanted you to stay on nights. And I couldn't—I couldn't say that. Couldn't say that I needed you there. That I needed to know where you were, that I could find you, that you were—"
He stopped himself.
Breathed.
"That you were mine," he said finally. "Even though I had no right to think that."
You felt something shift in your chest.
"All of it," he said. "The checking on you, the showing up, keeping you close—it was because I didn't know how else to keep you. I didn't know how to just—to just be with you like a normal person. So I did it like this instead. Like I could have you without actually having to say I wanted you."
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
"But you matter too much," he said, quieter now. "You matter too much for me to keep doing that. And I don't—I've never had that before. Never had someone matter so much that not having them felt like—"
He didn't finish.
Couldn't finish.
"I don't know how to do this," he repeated, and this time it sounded like a confession and a plea at the same time. "But I don't want you on days. I don't want you anywhere I can't find you. And I know that's—I know that's not fair, but it's the truth."
He looked at you then, fully.
Unguarded.
"I want you," he said. "I want this. Whatever this is. I just—I don't know how to do it without ruining it."
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then shook your head slowly.
"Then why," you said, voice tight but controlled, "did you say it was nothing?"
He blinked.
"What?"
"Months ago," you said. "When we—when this started. You said it was nothing. You agreed it was nothing."
His jaw tightened.
"I didn't say—"
"You did," you cut him off. "You stood there and you let me say it was casual, that it didn't mean anything, and you agreed."
"I didn't get to say what it was," he said, and there was an edge to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration turned inward. "I didn't—I didn't know how to say what it was."
You felt your chest tighten.
"So you just let me decide for both of us?"
"You already had decided," he shot back, quieter but sharper. "You said it first. You called it nothing before I even had a chance to figure out what the hell I was supposed to call it."
That landed harder than you expected.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
"It was easier," he continued, voice dropping. "It was easier to just—to go along with what you said. Because at least that way I didn't have to try and fail to explain something I didn't have words for."
He looked away briefly, then forced himself to look back.
"You named it," he said. "And I let you. Because I didn't know how to name it differently. And I was terrified that if I tried, I'd say the wrong thing and you'd leave."
The silence between you felt heavier now.
Different.
"So you just—what?" you said quietly. "You just let me carry that? Let me think that's all it was?"
"Yes," he said, and it sounded like an admission of guilt. "I did."
Another pause.
"Because it was easier than risking you," he added, barely audible.
You exhaled slowly, something unraveling in your chest that you hadn't realized was wound so tight.
"That's not fair," you said.
"I know.”
He didn't move. Didn't try to defend himself further.
Just stood there, letting you see exactly how much of a coward he'd been.
"You should've said something."
"I know."
But this time, he moved.
Finally.
He crossed the space between you in three steps, and then his hands were on you—one sliding around your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your head as he pulled you against him.
The contact hit you like a shock.
Solid. Warm. Real.
His arms tightened around you, and you felt something in your chest crack open—something you'd been holding closed for so long you'd forgotten it was even there.
You didn't pull away.
Couldn't.
Your hands came up automatically, fisting in his shirt, and you pressed your face against his shoulder as everything you'd been carrying suddenly became too heavy to hold on your own.
He held you tighter.
Like he was trying to make up for every time he hadn't.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, his voice rough against your hair. "I'm sorry I made you carry that alone."
You felt your throat tighten.
"I've been in love with you," you said, and it came out muffled against his shoulder. Quieter than you meant it to. "For a year."
His breath caught.
You felt it—the way his chest stuttered against yours, the way his grip on you shifted, became more deliberate.
More certain.
"I know," he said softly.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his hand slid from the back of your head to cup your face instead, thumb brushing across your cheekbone.
His eyes were darker now. Softer.
"I know," he repeated, "because I've been in love with you too."
The words landed between you like something fragile and vital all at once.
You stared at him.
"The whole time?" you asked, barely above a whisper.
"The whole time," he confirmed, and his voice cracked slightly on it. "I just—I didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to be someone who could say it."
Your eyes burned.
"You're saying it now."
"I'm saying it now," he agreed quietly.
His forehead dropped to yours, and you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of a year's worth of unnamed things finally settling into place.
"Don't switch to days," he said, and it wasn't a command. It was a request. Vulnerable. Raw. "Please. Just…stay with me."
You opened your eyes.
He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
Like maybe you always had been.
"I'm not leaving," you said finally.
His exhale was shaky with relief.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay."
He kissed your forehead, then pulled you back against him, and you let yourself sink into it—into him—for the first time without wondering if you were allowed to.
"I love you," he said quietly, like he was testing the words out. Seeing how they felt.
You felt them settle into your chest, warm and certain.
"I love you too," you said back.
And this time, when he held you, it didn't feel like he was trying to keep you coming.
It felt like he was finally letting you in.
