#jack abbot

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[satellite-evans]

take your kid to work day

Pairing: Jack Abbot x reader

Summary: Your daughter fakes a stomachache to surprise her parents at work on Take Your Kid to Work Day, never realizing the panic it would cause.

Word count: 4.2k+

Warnings: fluff, tiny angst

A/N:

this was co-written with my friend Nora! We actually wrote some other stuff together too, but this is the first fic where she wrote the most of it. She also wants to write fanfics but is a little hesitant. Can’t wait for you to open your own blog and share your talent with tumblr Nora, this one’s you!!!💓

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

When your daughter Lucy heard about Take Your Kid to Work Day, she came home convinced it was going to be the greatest day of her entire six-year-old life.

Her class had spent nearly a week talking about it. Every morning another child had a new story, another exciting detail to add. Emma was going to help frost cupcakes at her mother's bakery. Noah couldn't stop talking about riding in his dad's garbage truck, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen that he was going to press the "real buttons." Olivia was getting a behind-the-scenes tour of the aquarium where her mom worked. Even little Ben, whose father worked at a bank, marched around the classroom with a paper tie taped around his neck, declaring he would be "approving loans all day." By Thursday afternoon Lucy had listened to enough stories that she'd begun planning her own. She was absolutely certain she would wear one of those little white doctor coats she'd seen in toy stores. She'd carry a clipboard. Maybe even a stethoscope. Everyone would finally get to see how cool her parents' jobs were.

So when you and Jack walked through the front door that evening after a twelve-hour shift, you barely had time to take your shoes off before Lucy came barreling across the living room like an excited puppy.

"Mama!"

She wrapped herself around your legs so tightly you had to catch yourself against the wall to stay upright.

"Daddy!"

Jack wasn't spared either. She launched herself at him next, nearly knocking the backpack from his shoulder.

"Whoa, easy, bug," he laughed, catching her under the arms before she could accidentally headbutt him. "Someone's excited. Where's your grandma?"

"In the kitchen. I have something important to say."

You and Jack exchanged an amused look over the top of her head. Important announcements from Lucy ranged anywhere from losing a tooth to discovering worms in the garden.

"Oh?" Jack asked, setting his bag down.

Lucy nodded so enthusiastically that her ponytail bounced. "It's Take Your Kid to Work Day next Friday."

Her grin stretched so wide it nearly split her face.

"And I get to come with you."

The silence that followed was tiny.

Barely a second.

But it was enough.

Jack's smile faltered first. You watched it happen almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth relaxing as his eyes drifted toward yours. The excitement on Lucy's face hadn't dimmed yet. She was already imagining hallways and stethoscopes and showing all her friends pictures afterward.

You felt your heart sink before either of you had even opened your mouths.

Lucy noticed immediately.

Her smile wavered.

"...What's wrong?"

You crouched until you were eye level with her, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear while you searched desperately for words that wouldn't break her heart.

"Oh, sweetheart..."

Jack carefully lowered himself beside you, adjusting his balance before slipping an arm around Lucy's shoulders.

"Our jobs are a little different from everyone else's."

She frowned in confusion.

"But I can still come, right?"

Jack let out the smallest sigh.

"The emergency department isn't really a place for kids."

Her forehead wrinkled.

"Why?"

You looked at Jack for half a second before answering.

"Because the people who come to see us aren't coming for fun." You spoke gently, carefully choosing every word. "They're usually having one of the worst days of their lives. They're very, very sick..."

"Or hurt," Jack added quietly.

"They can look scary sometimes," you continued. "There can be blood. People cry. Sometimes they're frightened, sometimes they're angry, and sometimes they need every doctor and nurse in the room paying attention to them."

Jack nodded. "Our job is making sure they get help as quickly as possible. We can't always stop to explain what's happening, and there are things no six-year-old should have to see."

Lucy listened with surprising seriousness, though it was obvious she still didn't understand.

"But..." she said softly, "I'll be quiet."

Your chest tightened.

"I know you would."

"I could sit in the corner and color."

Jack smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You probably could."

"I wouldn't touch anything."

"We know, sweetheart."

"I wouldn't even talk."

Jack smiled sadly. "You'd probably be the quietest kid in the whole hospital."

For the briefest moment, hope flickered across Lucy's face before reality settled back in. She looked between the two of you, swallowing hard.

"So..." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "...I can't?"

The words were so small they made your chest ache. You reached for her little hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"No, sweetie. I'm sorry."

Her eyes filled almost instantly.

"But everyone else gets to go to their parents' work."

Jack closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Every parent hated hearing those words because sometimes there simply wasn't a fair answer. He rubbed his thumb absentmindedly over the back of her tiny hand.

"I know."

"I wanna see where you guys work."

"I know."

"I wanna wear one of those little doctor coats."

Despite the ache in your chest, a smile tugged at your lips. "You would look absolutely adorable."

"I could help."

Jack let out a quiet snort, his expression turning dramatically serious.

"Oh, that's exactly the part I'm worried about."

Lucy blinked. "...Really?"

"Oh, absolutely," he said with a solemn nod. "I think you'd spend the whole day walking around the department telling everyone what to do."

"I would not."

"You absolutely would."

She crossed her arms.

"No."

"No?"

She puffed out her chest, planting both hands on her hips as she deepened her voice into what she apparently believed sounded very authoritative.

"'Okay everybody, one at a time! No pushing! You have to wait your turn!'"

Jack laughed so suddenly and genuinely that it echoed through the house.

"There it is."

You couldn't help laughing too.

"Our little charge nurse."

Lucy dissolved into giggles, pleased she'd made both of you laugh.

The moment was warm.

Light.

Comfortable.

Until it wasn't.

Her smile slowly faded as she remembered why she'd started the conversation in the first place.

"...But I still don't get to come."

Jack's laughter disappeared just as quickly. He opened his arms without saying a word, and Lucy climbed into his lap as naturally as breathing. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, wrapping her little arms around him with a sigh that sounded much older than six years old.

"No," he admitted quietly, kissing the top of her head. "Not to work."

The room fell silent.

You watched Jack gently rub circles over Lucy's back while she sat curled against him, neither of them speaking. The disappointment in the room was almost tangible. You knew Jack was feeling it just as sharply as you were. Both of you spent your careers taking care of other people's children, yet this was one of those moments where your own daughter simply had to accept that your jobs came with doors she couldn't walk through.

Finally, you leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

"How about this?"

She peeked up hopefully.

"When we're both off next weekend, we'll take you to the hospital."

Jack immediately caught on.

"We'll show you the cafeteria."

"My locker."

"The ambulance bay."

"If there aren't any helicopters flying, maybe we can see the helipad from outside."

"The empty waiting room."

"My office."

Lucy sniffled, considering the offer with all the seriousness of someone negotiating an international treaty.

"...Can I push a wheelchair?"

Jack looked over at you.

You shrugged.

"If nobody's using it, sure."

She thought for another long moment before giving a tiny nod.

"...Okay."

It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.

It wasn't even close.

But she accepted it with the quiet resilience children somehow managed to find after their hearts had been disappointed. Before long she was asking what was for dinner and whether Grandma was still making pancakes the next morning, and by bedtime she seemed perfectly content again.

You smiled to yourself as you tucked her in that night, smoothing the blankets over her little shoulders.

Children had an incredible ability to move on.

Or so you thought.

Lucy had absolutely no intention of moving on.

She smiled when you tucked her into bed that night. She happily ate pancakes with Grandma the next morning. She colored pictures at the kitchen table, watched cartoons, and talked excitedly about the hospital tour you had promised for the following weekend. If anyone had asked, she seemed to have accepted your answer completely.

She hadn't.

To a six-year-old, "next weekend" felt impossibly far away. Everyone else would get to visit their parents' jobs on Friday. Everyone else would come back to school Monday with stories to tell. Emma would talk about frosting cupcakes. Noah would probably tell everyone he got to honk the garbage truck horn. Olivia would have pictures of fish. And Lucy... Lucy would have to say she stayed home because her mommy and daddy worked somewhere she wasn't allowed to go.

That simply didn't seem fair.

By Wednesday she had the beginning of a plan.

By Thursday she had improved it.

By Friday morning, she was convinced it was foolproof.

Your mother had barely finished pouring herself a cup of coffee when she heard small footsteps padding down the hallway. Lucy appeared in the kitchen doorway still wearing her pajamas, her favorite stuffed rabbit dangling from one hand while the other pressed dramatically against her stomach.

"Grandma..."

Your mother looked up immediately.

"Morning, sweetheart."

Lucy took two slow steps into the kitchen, making sure not to walk too quickly. Sick people probably didn't move very fast.

"I don't feel good."

The smile disappeared from your mother's face at once.

"Oh, sweetheart."

She set her mug down without taking a sip and crouched in front of her granddaughter, brushing a hand over Lucy's messy bed hair.

"What's wrong?"

"My tummy hurts."

"Oh no."

Lucy gave a pitiful little nod.

"It hurts a lot."

Your mother frowned with concern.

"Can you show me where?"

Lucy froze.

That...

She hadn't prepared for.

She looked down at herself, suddenly realizing stomachs had different parts. She'd heard you and Jack ask patients that question before. Daddy always wanted to know exactly where it hurt.

Panic fluttered in her chest for half a second.

"...Everywhere."

Your mother's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.

"Everywhere?"

Another solemn nod.

"Mhm."

She gently rested both hands on Lucy's shoulders.

"Did you throw up?"

"No."

"Do you feel like you have to?"

Lucy pretended to think about it before giving a hesitant little shrug.

"...Maybe."

"Do you have a fever?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm..."

Your mother pressed the back of her hand against Lucy's forehead before checking again with her palm, the way mothers and grandmothers always seemed to do. Her skin felt perfectly cool.

No fever.

That was reassuring. Still, children didn't always spike a temperature right away. Maybe she'd eaten something that hadn't agreed with her. Maybe a little stomach bug was just beginning.

Lucy watched every expression that crossed her grandmother's face. She could tell she wasn't entirely convinced.

She needed to make it more believable.

So she let out the tiniest little whimper she could manage. Not loud enough to sound dramatic, just enough to make it seem like the pain had returned.

Your mother's face softened immediately.

"Oh, you poor thing."

Lucy leaned instinctively into the comforting touch, a small stab of guilt twisting in her chest before she quickly pushed it aside. She wasn't trying to be naughty. She just wanted to see Mama and Daddy at work like everyone else got to.

After a long pause, she lowered her voice to an almost frightened whisper.

"I think..." She looked up through her lashes with the biggest, saddest eyes she could manage. "...I need the hospital."

Your mother smiled gently as she tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy's ear.

"Oh, honey. I don't think we're there just yet."

Lucy's heart sank.

"...But my tummy really, really hurts."

"I know it does."

"We should go."

Your mother hesitated. Normally she would've waited an hour or two, called you first, given Lucy some water, and seen whether she felt any better after breakfast before rushing to the emergency department.

But abdominal pain in children was one of those things she'd learned never to dismiss completely after watching both you and Jack work in emergency medicine for years. You had both told stories about children who seemed perfectly fine until they suddenly weren't. Appendicitis. Intussusception. Things she'd never heard of before you became a doctor and Jack became a nurse.

She didn't want to overreact.

She also didn't want to ignore something important.

Her eyes lingered on Lucy's face. The little girl looked uncomfortable enough to be believable, even if she wasn't crying. Some children tolerated pain differently.

Your mother sighed softly as she stood.

"Alright."

Lucy's eyes widened before she could stop herself.

Really?

It worked?

Excitement rushed through her so suddenly she almost smiled.

Almost.

She bit the inside of her cheek just in time, quickly lowering her head and pressing a hand dramatically back against her stomach.

"I'll get dressed," your mother said. "Then we'll have one of Mommy's friends take a quick look at you, okay?"

Lucy nodded with all the seriousness she could muster.

"...Okay."

As your mother disappeared upstairs to change, Lucy remained standing in the middle of the kitchen, hugging her stuffed rabbit tightly against her chest.

Her plan had worked.

In just a little while, she'd finally get to see where her mom and dad spent all day.

She had no idea that before the morning was over, two people who had faced mass casualty incidents, violent trauma, and countless life-or-death emergencies would see her name on the emergency department tracking board and experience a kind of fear neither of them had ever learned to prepare for.

The emergency department had been in controlled chaos since seven that morning.

Every room was occupied. Hallway beds had filled before breakfast. Monitors chimed from every direction, phones rang almost constantly, stretchers rolled past one another with practiced precision, and conversations overlapped until they became little more than background noise. Jack had barely stopped moving since clocking in. He had just finished helping stabilize an elderly patient in respiratory distress and was updating the tracking board when a new name appeared among the incoming pediatric triage patients.

His own last name.

At first his brain didn't process it.

He frowned automatically, assuming it was another family with the same surname. It wasn't uncommon.

Then his eyes shifted to the details beneath it.

Accompanied by: Lucy.

The world seemed to narrow into a single point.

His stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.

No.

No, no, no.

His mind filled the blanks long before reason had a chance to intervene.

Car accident on the way to school.

She'd fallen from the playground.

An allergic reaction.

A seizure.

Appendicitis.

A ruptured appendix.

Internal bleeding.

She'd stopped breathing.

His chest tightened so sharply that, for one terrifying second, it felt impossible to draw in air.

He was already moving before he'd consciously made the decision.

"Jack?"

Dana looked up from her workstation as he hurried past.

"You okay?"

He didn't answer.

Couldn't.

His prosthetic clicked faster against the floor as he rounded the nurses' station, weaving through stretchers and staff with an urgency that made several people instinctively step aside. Every extra second felt unbearable. His heartbeat pounded so loudly in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him.

Across the department, you were finishing charting after discharging a patient when your own eyes drifted toward the tracking board.

Your last name.

Pediatric triage.

Lucy.

Everything inside you went cold.

"No..."

The word escaped before you realized you'd spoken aloud.

Your pen slipped from your fingers onto the counter.

You didn't bother picking it up.

Someone behind you asked a question you never heard. You abandoned your chart mid-sentence and hurried out of the trauma bay, every rational thought dissolving beneath one singular, suffocating fear.

Not my baby.

Please not my baby.

You'd both spent years watching parents run into emergency departments wearing that exact expression.

The look that silently begged someone to tell them their child was okay.

Now you understood it from the inside.

Jack reached pediatric triage first.

He rounded the corner so quickly he nearly lost his footing, instinctively compensating before his prosthetic could catch awkwardly beneath him.

Then he stopped.

Lucy sat on one of the triage beds beside your mother, happily swinging her legs back and forth as she hugged her stuffed rabbit. She looked perfectly content, completely fascinated by everything happening around her.

The moment she saw him, her entire face lit up.

"Hi, Daddy!"

Jack didn't answer immediately.

He couldn't.

His breathing still hadn't caught up with him. His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs as his eyes swept over her with clinical precision born from years in emergency medicine.

Skin color okay.

Breathing normal.

Alert.

Talking.

No blood.

No bruising.

No obvious deformities.

No signs of respiratory distress.

No altered mental status.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Relief crashed into him so suddenly his knees threatened to buckle.

He had to grip the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.

"Jack?"

Your mother stood immediately, guilt already written across her face.

"I am so, so sorry. I should’ve called."

You arrived only seconds later, breathing almost as hard as Jack.

"Lucy!"

Your daughter beamed.

"Hi, Mama!"

You dropped to your knees in front of her without hesitation, your hands automatically moving through the familiar sequence every parent in emergency medicine knew by instinct. Forehead. Neck. Arms. Wrists. Face.

"What happened?"

Your mother looked apologetic.

"She was perfectly fine this morning. She'd been playing, and then all of a sudden she started holding her stomach and said she was in terrible pain. I didn't know if I should wait or..."

"You absolutely did the right thing," you assured her automatically, even as your attention remained fixed entirely on Lucy.

"Honey?"

Lucy nodded solemnly.

"It hurt."

"Where does it hurt, bug?" Jack asked.

She pointed vaguely toward the center of her stomach.

"...Here."

"How bad?"

She held up eight fingers.

"On a scale of ten..."

"...Eight."

"When did it start?"

"This morning."

"Did you throw up?"

"No."

"Feel sick?"

She hesitated.

"...Maybe."

Jack exchanged the briefest glance with you.

Neither of you relaxed.

Because children lied about vegetables.

They didn't usually lie about pain.

And even when they weren't lying, they were notoriously bad at describing it. Jack had treated smiling children with ruptured appendixes, kids who laughed while walking on fractured ankles, toddlers quietly coloring despite severe dehydration. Looking well meant almost nothing in pediatrics.

You rested a reassuring hand against Lucy's abdomen.

"I'm just going to press a little, okay?"

She nodded.

You gently palpated one quadrant.

"Does this hurt?"

"No."

You moved to another.

"How about here?"

"No."

Lower right.

"No."

Lower left.

"No."

Jack watched every tiny flicker of her expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. She wasn't tensing beneath your touch. She wasn't guarding her stomach or curling inward instinctively. If anything, she seemed far more interested in everything happening around her than in the examination itself.

Her eyes wandered constantly around the department, following nurses rushing past, patients being wheeled down the hallway, monitors chiming, stretchers rolling by, the ambulance doors sliding open every few minutes. She wasn't frightened by any of it. She looked fascinated.

You noticed it too.

Before either of you could ask another question, Lucy turned back toward Jack, wearing the brightest smile she'd had all morning.

"So..." She tilted her head innocently. "...Can I see where Daddy works now?"

Silence settled over the four of you.

Jack closed his eyes.

Very.

Very slowly.

Your mother frowned, looking between the three of you.

"...Lucy?"

Your daughter's grin only widened.

"It worked."

Jack opened one eye.

"...What worked?"

"My tummy."

Neither you nor Jack said a word.

"It wasn't really hurting." She paused, as though she'd only just realized you weren't reacting the way she'd expected. "I just wanted to come."

For several long seconds, nobody moved.

Jack slowly lowered himself onto the chair beside her, more because his legs suddenly felt weak than because he'd intended to sit.

Because his prosthetic leg suddenly felt unsteady beneath him.

He rubbed both hands over his face, forcing out a long, shaky breath before looking back at his daughter.

"You..." His voice was rougher than he intended. "...You faked it?"

Lucy nodded proudly, completely oblivious to the emotional hurricane she'd just unleashed.

"That was the only way Grandma would bring me."

Your mother's mouth fell open.

"Oh my goodness..."

Lucy looked between the two of you with complete sincerity.

"I wanted to see where you work."

Jack let out another slow breath that sounded dangerously close to becoming a laugh. Not because anything about this was funny, but because relief had nowhere else to go.

"You scared ten years off my life."

Her smile faltered.

"...I did?"

Jack swallowed, the image of her name on the tracking board still burned into his mind.

"When I saw your name pop up..." His voice caught unexpectedly, forcing him to pause. He looked away for a moment before gathering himself enough to continue. "I thought something terrible had happened."

You nodded quietly beside him.

"I thought my little girl was hurt."

Lucy's face crumpled almost instantly. The excitement disappeared, replaced by confusion and guilt.

"I..." Her shoulders curled inward. "...I didn't know."

Of course she hadn't.

She was six years old. In her mind, she'd come up with the smartest plan imaginable. Pretend to have a stomachache. Go to the hospital. Surprise Mommy and Daddy. She'd never stopped to think about what it would feel like for two emergency clinicians to suddenly see their own child's name appear on the tracking board.

She looked down at her sneakers, twisting one toe against the floor.

"I'm sorry."

Jack watched her quietly for a long moment. Every ounce of frustration he'd felt dissolved beneath the sight of her trying so hard not to cry. Without another word, he opened his arms.

Lucy climbed into them immediately.

He wrapped her tightly against his chest, closing his eyes as he rested his cheek against her hair.

"I'm not mad."

She looked up uncertainly.

"...You're not?"

He shook his head.

"I'm relieved."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"So unbelievably relieved."

He held her for another moment before leaning back just enough to meet her eyes.

"But you cannot ever pretend to be sick like this again."

She nodded immediately.

"Okay."

"I need a real promise."

"I promise."

You moved closer until your shoulder rested against Jack's, wrapping an arm around both of them. Almost instinctively, Lucy reached for your hand with her free one.

"I'm sorry, Mama."

You squeezed her little fingers.

"I know."

"I just wanted everyone at school to know my mommy and daddy have cool jobs."

Your heart ached.

"We know, sweetheart."

"They all got to go."

You met Jack's eyes for a brief second. Sometimes the hardest part of parenting wasn't saying no. It was understanding exactly why your child wanted something so badly and still knowing the answer couldn't change.

Jack kissed the top of Lucy's head.

Jack was quiet for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"Since you're already here..." He glanced at you, silently asking the question before either of you spoke.

You smiled back.

"I think our patient has been thoroughly examined."

Jack nodded solemnly.

"I agree."

He looked back at Lucy.

"So I'm officially discharging you."

Her eyes widened.

"You are?"

"Mhm." He reached over and gently tapped the tip of her nose. "No tummy ache. Cleared to go home with Grandma."

She giggled.

"But..." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Before you go home, I think we can spare five minutes."

Lucy's mouth fell open.

"Really?"

"We can show you the nurses' station." He pointed toward the center of the department. "My locker. Maybe the ambulance bay if there isn't anything coming in."

"And the cafeteria," you added with a smile.

Jack nodded.

"But that's it."

"No treatment rooms."

"No sick patients," you said gently.

"And you stay with one of us the entire time."

Lucy threw her arms around his neck so quickly he almost laughed.

"I promise!"

"I know you do." He hugged her back before pulling away just enough to look at her seriously. "But that doesn't change one thing."

"What?"

"If you ever feel left out again, you tell Mommy or me."

She nodded.

"You don't have to scare us to spend time with us."

The smile slipped from her face.

"...Okay."

"I mean it, bug."

"I know."

She leaned forward to hug him again, then reached for you too, nearly pulling the three of you together on the waiting room chair.

Jack caught your eye over the top of Lucy's head.

"I think she inherited our problem-solving skills."

You laughed.

"No."

"Our stubbornness."

Lucy looked up immediately.

"I heard that."

"Oh, we know," Jack said with a grin. "Trust me, we know exactly who you got it from."

"I did not fake being stubborn."

"You absolutely did."

That earned another burst of laughter, loud enough that even your mother laughed through the tears she'd been quietly wiping away.

As Lucy happily slid off Jack's lap, already asking a hundred questions about ambulances and whether nurses really kept candy in the break room, the knot in his chest finally began to loosen. The fear hadn't disappeared entirely. He wasn't sure it ever would. Seeing her name on that tracking board had unlocked a terror he hoped never to feel again.

But as he watched her bounce happily between you, clutching one of your hands and one of his as though the last twenty minutes had never happened, he found himself smiling despite everything.

He would take fake stomachaches, dramatic plans, and six-year-old schemes over seeing his daughter in one of those treatment rooms for real every single day.

[roobydoos]

Stocking up on Pitt Pals

[bompeii]

beach boys ☀️

a cutesy rabbot birthday request from patreon last month, befitting this wicked heat wave 🔥

insta | ao3

[fangirl-dot-com]

hii!!! you write my favourite rendition of the hatosy boys (especially the evil ones hehe) so i wanted to request them with a reader who's a personification of "it's not rotten work, not to me", who despite witnessing all sorts of crimes/hardships still chooses to remain by their side without any fear despite the boys trying to (unsuccessfully) push them away?

I Love Even the Darkest Parts of You

tags: brett richards, jack abbot, grant riley, andrew "pope" cody, titus danforth, charlie reid, terry mccandless, sammy bryant, reader is their significant other, pet names, fem!reader, ooc characters (brett, jack, grant, sammy), this collection contains dark themes including: mentioned rape (NOT ANY OF THE BOYS - in regards to a patient in Jack's section), murder, assault, sexual assault, double crossing, gang violence, corruption, literal human sacrifice, theft, betrayal, arson, blackmail, 18+ MDNI

notes: thank you anon for another expansion of my hatosyverse! I hope that this is what you were looking for, and I decided to do one shots for all of them! my other works like this are in my pitt masterlist, so please check those out if you enjoyed this! and if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy!

word count: 9.6k - THIS GOT OUT OF HAND

Brett Richards

When Brett showed up at Station 42 during the harshest dry season California had seen it years, it was as if the heavens opened up and sent an angel down in the form of a 50-year-old fire chief who knew how to subdue even the worst of fires and destruction.

You'd been on the team for years, and the flames that popped up out of nowhere seemed to attack with a vengeance. Your poor team was high-strung, and moral was at a new time low. Even you were on the brink of leaving, not being able to take loss after loss after loss.

But right before you could step off the edge, Brett had come riding in on a four-wheeler, and suddenly hope had been renewed. He commanded precision and excellence; he charged into places no man ever wanted to charge into. In all areas, Brett was Station 42's saving grace.

Turns out, he quickly started to become more than your fire chief. Through late nights at the station and countless conversations about cats, Brett became your salvation. He was there for the losses, was there for the gains. And as time went on, the two of you started to cross the line where life wasn't meant to be lived without the other. You'd met his daughter when she finally came around; in return, he met your sister and charmed his way into a family Thanksgiving invitation.

The two of you lived in a rose-stained world.

However, some things were proven to be too good to be true.

The reason Brett had been instated as Station 42's fire chief had always been a mystery. Each time you asked, he either shrugged it off or gave you a half-assed answer. And each time, whatever he said planted the smallest seed of doubt and continued watering them until it grew too large to ignore any longer.

One day, you pressed.

"Brett, come on, I bet it's not a big deal," you stated. "Whatever brought you here must have been a good thing."

Brett gave you one of the nastiest side-eyes you'd ever seen. "Just drop it, sweetheart."

You crossed your arms and sneered. "I tell you everything, and all I'm asking for is the reason you came here in the first place. We all know that the station wasn't expecting you."

He hissed your name. "If you keep pressing, I'm walking out."

"Oh, so you're just going to keep running from this? The great Brett Richards has finally met his match," you spat.

A fire lit deep in his hazel eyes, and suddenly, he was stalking towards you until he backed you up into a counter. Your breath hitched when he took a hold of your biceps and squeezed.

"You want me to tell you the real reason?" he said darkly.

That seed of doubt had your stomach rolling, but you nodded either way. Whatever was about to come flowing out of Brett's mouth might just break apart what the two of you had built.

He ran his tongue along his bottom lip before speaking. "They were going to throw me out. Said I was too old to do anything more, and suddenly my 31 years in the service meant nothing. So I did what I had to do to show them that I wasn't something they could just throw away."

You swallowed thickly, mind running through so many scenarios that he could be talking about.

"What'd you do, Brett?" you croaked.

He looked down to the floor, almost in thought, and then looked back up to meet your eye. "I had to make sure there was a job that needed me. And a fire chief without a fire . . . well . . . let's just say I made sure there was something to be handled."

The months before Brett joined flashed through your eyes. Fires that couldn't be explained; starters that completely appeared out of the blue; but most importantly, it was the way they all dulled to a soft roar with breaks the moment Brett started climbing the ladder again.

You felt like all the wind had been sucked out of you as you gazed into his eyes that quickly melted into a softness you had fallen for. Brett's hands slowly let go of their grip and swung to his sides.

"Brett . . ." your voice trailed, and he flinched like he was waiting for you to start screaming and run out the door. Against every bad thought, though, you softly placed your palm along the scruff of his jaw, and his eyes widened.

"You can leave," he said in almost a whisper. "I understand. I-I'll send in my resignation tomorrow morning."

You pursed your lips. "I'm not going to leave."

Brett blinked rapidly. "But—"

"Listen, am I happy that you're an arsonist with a hero complex? No. But I understand the need to be wanted." You sighed loudly. "I mean, hell, I've done things I'm not proud of to get where I am; so many people have."

As you spoke, Brett stayed silent despite his eyes showing everything that he wanted to say.

The side of your mouth quirked up in a half smile before it fell. "If you want me to leave I can—"

"No," he swiftly interrupted, hands clenching at his sides like he was barely holding back from grabbing onto you again. "I don't want you to leave. I can't have you leave."

You nodded slowly. "Then I'll stay." Your other hand cupped the opposite side of his jaw. "I love you."

It was as if a weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders, and he all but fell into you, arms finally finding a hold around your waist. One of his hands lifted and rested at the back of your skull while the other squeezed your hip.

"I love you," he whispered. "I can't live without you. I'd rather burn the entirety of California before I let you go."

Jack Abbot

The moment you walked into the Pitt at 6:30 am, you could feel the charge in the air. Normally, the small area between night and day felt small, almost containable. The night shift knew how to get things done, and most times, you were met with the lovely sight of just a few chairs filled in triage. When you walked through the mental detector, you did find few patients, but the real sinking feeling didn't hit until you stepped into the hub.

Normally, you'd greet John, catch up on gossip with Parker, and find Jack to give him a small kiss before he went back to your shared home. But the further you walked, the more the abnormalities stood out.

John almost refused to make eye contact, and he looked more worn down than you'd ever seen; and that was saying something since yours and his residencies started in the throws of Covid. Parker quietly stood near the rows of tablets, blankly staring between the slots as though she couldn't will herself to pick another one up.

And Jack? Jack was no where to be found.

Usually, he'd stay near the lockers, but as you stuffed your bag into yours, he failed to show up with that tired, sweet look he always gave you.

Not being able to find him, you made the usual trek over to the nurses' station where Lena seemed to be frantically gathering papers. It wasn't until you were standing right in front of her that she finally looked up.

"Hey, Lena," you greeted, careful to not let your voice sound too cheery. "Have you seen Jack at all? I needed to give him something before work."

Unlike most ER couples who tried to keep their relationships on the down low, you and Jack had marched into HR the moment you knew he was going to last. You already worked day shift, and he nights, so keeping the two of you separated was already in place. The only downside was the sheer lack of time you got to see each other out of work, but that made all the stolen moments and days off more special.

Before answering, Lena winced and straightened another stack of papers. "Tonight's shift was rough."

"No kidding," you responded. "I've never seen it so dead in here."

She hummed knowingly. "Maybe check the roof. He vanished not too long ago."

You nodded. "Thanks, Lena."

Not wanting to waste any time, you quickly found yourself taking the elevator up to the last floor and then the staircase that led to the roof access. One push of your hand had the door creaking, the sound cutting through the dawn. It didn't take long for your eyes to settle on Jack, who stood with both hands tucked into his scrub pants. Your heart clenched when you realized that he was on the wrong side of the railing, and it had you wondering at how bad had the night shift been.

"You know," you began as you walked forward, "the roof isn't technically high enough to kill you. Sure you might go splat, but at least you'd be within five feet of the nearest hospital."

Instead of the usual dark-humor banter that he'd normally join in on, Jack stayed silent, not even moving a muscle.

You took another few steps forward and stopped on the opposite side of the railing and placed both hands against the metal, leaning your weight on your arms. You turned to look at him. Nothing unusual about his gloomy expression showed that maybe something more happened during a particularly rough shift.

"Jack," you tried again. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

His chest rose and fell with a large huff, but again, he stayed quiet. You frowned and turned back toward the skyline, letting the wails of sirens and the awakening sun wash over you in a way that only Pittsburgh could manage.

"I did something bad."

Jack's voice had barely raised above a whisper, but you caught onto it anyway with your head snapping in his direction.

You hunched in slightly. "Like . . . you're going to get sued for medical malpractice bad?"

Jack's jaw clenched, and he swallowed thickly as if he could swallow or keep his next few words in his mouth and hide them in his soul.

"We had two patients come in two hours ago. One twenty-year-old female, the other a thirty-two year old male. Female came in with signs of abuse: bruises, cuts, dislocated shoulder." Jack shuddered at the memory. "And obvious evidence that she'd been raped."

Your heart clenched. "Jack . . ."

He kept going. "The male had come in with a concussion and a stab wound to the abdomen. With questions, we were able to put everything together. She'd stabbed him when he didn't take no for an answer. He died; she's up in a room."

You reached up to touch his shoulder, but he violently flinched away.

"That wasn't your fault, Jack. Honestly, that's some type of divine karma."

Jack squeezed his eyes shut. "You don't get it; do you?" His eyes opened, but they refused to find yours. "Stab wound was to his lower, right quadrant. She hit his appendix, and by the time he came in, he was already showing signs of septic shock." He inhaled sharply. "I stitched him up and put him in a room; he seized and died twenty minutes later."

You began to blink rapidly.

"I made sure he died; I-I killed him."

There it was: his confession. Jack Abbot, by all definition, was a murderer. He'd done the one thing doctors were sworn against to do; Hippocratic oath be damned and buried. In one righteous attempt at justice, he'd become the judge, jury, and executioner.

Inside, Jack panicked that this was indeed about to break every good thing he had: his job, his friendships, his integrity, and most importantly, you. He knew that once you left and clocked in for your shift, you weren't going to come back home at the end of the day. If you knew any better, you'd run and run and run until Jack became a distant memory.

Yet, he couldn't understand why you were still standing just a few inches behind him, not saying anything, not screaming, not turning him in. With what little courage he had left, he turned and finally looked at your face.

You were already looking at him, eyes not even filled with fear or trepidation and instead filled with odd understanding. Jack was sure you could see right into his soul with the way you didn't even blink, didn't look away.

"Whatever he had coming for him . . . it made sure that you'd be there to make sure it happened," you said slowly. "I highly doubt anyone is going to look into it; worst case scenario is that they need to get prints or DNA from his body, but that's only if she decides to open a case. To her, the worst person she knows died because she didn't just lie there; she fought back and won."

Jack could only stare at you and thank whoever gave you to him. You held out your hand, and he took it while swinging a leg over the rail before following with the other until he was on your side. You didn't spare another moment before bringing him into a hug where you pressed a small kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"What would I do without you?" he muttered into your hairline.

"Probably walk off the ledge," you replied with a small scoff that was more of a laugh than anything else. "We should probably go back down, cowboy, or Robby's going to climb my clock about being late."

Jack hummed but made no effort to actually move. "One more minute, please. One more minute where I get to hold you and believe every word you say."

Grant Reilly

With the rapid success of North & Vine, you would have thought that Grant would get tired of you really quick. Between interviews with women leaned in too closely and influencers who moaned loudly when they tasted his food, you were sure that in just a few weeks, Grant would be another added tally to your growing list of failed relationships.

But when North & Vine was awarded its second Michelin star and Grant paraded you around like you were the actual trophy, you let yourself believe that this was going to last.

The two of you had met through his first attempt at a star. He the chef, and you the food critic that ran tastings and ratings like the Navy. At first, you thought he was too ambitious, that he was reaching for something unattainable. Grant thought you were too uptight, that your head was too far up your ass to taste good food.

Somehow, that led you to his bed, and the next week, your praise for North & Vine was printed all over food magazines and journals alike.

Contrary to popular belief, your praise was not an exact effect of being bedded by Grant Reilly. His food was good, and the past negative critics never really reflected what he was truly capable of. And by the time the first star came around, all the negativity had dulled to a trickle.

Every now and then, though, you'd see one come through on the website or through the grapevine of the group of critics you were a part of. To keep everything separated, you stopped your reviews the moment your relationship with Grant came to light, but that didn't mean you stopped all together.

Here and there, you'd go to a competing restaurant, barely swallow the food down, and then write a review you knew would plummet scores. You had to keep a reputation, and just because you were dating Grant didn't mean that you'd be a kiss ass to others.

However, as you scrolled through reviews for North & Vine just to see how they were doing, you quickly became shocked by the number of positives versus the smallest if not drained-dry negatives. It was almost as if their food had become the blueprint.

You thought about bringing it up to Grant, but then he'd been awarded with the second star, and you didn't want to ruin his stride. It didn't even cross your mind that it seemed odd. Grant's food was revolutionizing the culinary world.

But as you typed out your latest review for a neighboring restaurant while waiting for Grant to join you in bed, you decided to bring it up.

"Hey, Grant?" you asked, voice loud enough that he could hear you over the running sink.

"Yeah, honey?" he answered around his toothbrush before ripping it out to spit.

"I'm seriously so proud of you. I've never seen a restaurant go from so many negative reviews to barely having any at all." You typed another sentence. "It's honestly crazy."

The water shut off, and Grant stepped back into the room. You turned his way and smiled at the sight of his bare, freckled skin. Your hand reached out and beckoned him to join you.

"Only because of you, honey," he muttered while climbing into bed, his warmth instantly spreading and clinging to your body as his arm wrapped around your waist. "You started it all."

"I did not," you shot back with an eye roll. You dropped a hand from your laptop in favor of running your fingers through his salt-and-peppered curls.

He hummed lowly. "I beg to differ."

You absentmindedly scratched at his scalp while your eyes scanned the latest reviews. To your surprise, the newest one leaned more on the negative side.

"One just came in," you mentioned. "Said that your food could be recreated by a five-year-old and would still come out better."

You felt the moment Grant tensed against you before he eased, although not as relaxed as he had been. Instantly, you felt bad for reading it out loud.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No, it's fine," he interrupted. "I like knowing what people are saying. Adds fuel to my fire. I'll have him taken care of don't worry."

You really should have questioned what he meant by I'll have it taken care of but instead, you closed your laptop, set it on the nightstand, rolled over, and cuddled into Grant's side, which ended up progressing into something hotter.

When morning came around, the thought of the negative review had been wiped from your mind. Well, that is, until you noticed that it had been deleted and the critic's page had been erased as well, completely getting rid of any left over data.

In the back of your mind, Grant's words rang freely, and suddenly, for the first time since you met him, you had the slightest inkling of a bad feeling.

"Did you know that the review I read two nights ago was deleted?" you asked out loud.

Grant was across the way making dinner like he always was, but his attention could always be split between you and food. However, he didn't even look up from the sauce when he answered.

"Really?" he mused.

"Yeah. And get this, the guy's account was completely wiped."

"Huh."

You narrowed your eyes. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah, honey, I am. I guess I don't understand what you want me to say. Some guy who insults my food has his comment taken down. Sounds like good news to me," he responded, hand still steadily whisking the liquid.

"Grant . . ." you trailed. "I just . . . you said you'd take care of him the other night and . . ."

That had him ripping his eyes away and looking over at you. In one fluid motion, he slid the pan over to a different burner and turned the dial, the flames disappearing back into the stove. He sighed loudly before turning to face you.

He didn't look mad; quite the opposite actually. His face bore a smirk, and his hazel eyes were glossing with delight.

"I'm surprised that you didn't catch on sooner," he said, feet taking him closer to where you were perched on the sectional.

You sat there stunned. "What?"

Grant crossed his arms, and his biceps bulged in his crisp white shirt. "I didn't really expect you to notice." For the slightest moment, a wash of uncertainty projected through his features before he schooled them. "Baby, if you really think that all chefs are content with a few positive reviews here and there, then you're about to learn that sometimes we have to make sure that we stay successful."

He sat down across from you, and you found yourself not wanting to move away. His torso twisted so that he was situated enough to look you in the eye.

"Do you know how damaging a review like that could be for my restaurant? Everyone seems to be waiting when the ball will fall from my court." He leaned forward and brushed a hair from your face. "But there's nothing a little persuasion can't do to keep us afloat."

You gulped loudly. "You-you—"

He pressed a finger against your lips. "And really, honey, you're doing the exact same thing. Sure you stopped writing reviews for me, but that didn't stop you from tanking my competitors."

You looked down. "I don't blackmail people into deleting things though, Grant."

He winced at the word. "I wouldn't call it blackmail. Did you know the guy who posted that review had a bakery closed down because he didn't like a cupcake flavor? He shut down someone's income with a couple of sentences like that." Grant snapped for effect. "I can't have that happen to me—to us."

Your stomach flipped at the thought of Grant losing North & Vine.

Grant knew the moment it all sank in, because your face morphed from a pinched expression to something closer to comprehension of the situation. He couldn't help but smile when he leaned over and grabbed your laptop before placing it on your lap.

"I'll go back to making dinner, but why don't you stretch your fingers a little, honey," he said sweetly. "I wouldn't mind giving you an exclusive taste for the summer menu so you can write about it."

Andrew "Pope" Cody

*religious reader is used for canon purposes

You knew something was wrong with Andrew the moment he knocked on your front door.

Instead of his usual three rapid knocks, his fist only lightly tapped once against the grain; the sound quiet to the point that you almost missed the sound all together. When you opened the door, you were met with the side of an anxious Andrew, his fingers twisting together in rhythmic patterns.

Over, under, over, under, over, under.

He shifted his wait as he waited there until you stepped aside to let him in. Even as he walked, it seemed like he was stepping on egg shells. In the few months you'd known him and loved him, you'd never seen him like this before: jittery, apprehensive, and fearful of what was to come.

You tried to think of what could have caused him so much inner turmoil. But as far as you knew, nothing seemed to stick out. Between the study meetings he went to and the dates you dragged him on, you hadn't seen him much during the weekdays. So something must have happened during the hours you were apart.

Andrew stopped the moment he hit your living room. He swallowed thickly. "Hey."

"Hey," you echoed. "I thought you weren't coming over till later."

He shifted his weight again, hands still folding into each other. "I needed to talk to you."

Concern buzzed through your veins. Andrew really was never the one to reach out first, as he had explained that being in a relationship was a very new experience for him. You had hoped that you could show him what love was supposed to look like, but now as he stood looking like he was about to throw up, you weren't too sure if you were successful.

You cocked your head. "Yeah? Is something wrong?"

Wrong could be an understatement of many things. Even though Andrew tried to hide it, you weren't privy to what his family was like. You hadn't had the privilege of meeting any of his brothers, and thankfully hadn't had the privilege of meeting his mother, but you were smart enough to put two and two together.

Pasadena was about an hour away from Oceanside, but you'd lived in the area enough to where weekend trips to the beach city became familiar. And down there, the Cody name remained infamous.

However, you, wanting Andrew to bloom under love, kept your knowledge of his identity shut tight. Did it worry you that he might have been using you from the start? At first, yes. But then you saw how he started opening up, trusting, and melting into any affections you handed him, asking for nothing in return.

And now that he was there, in your house, acting stranger than you'd ever seen him, something gnawed at your insides and screamed at you to fix it.

"Hey," you whispered when Andrew didn't answer your question. You took a step closer to him and gently placed your hands on his face, thumbs rubbing against cheekbones. "What's the matter? What's going on, hm? You can tell me."

Every word you said was true, or well, that's what Andrew wanted to believe. Yet, his brain told him the opposite, that if he was about to confess what he did one dark night, he'd lose you forever.

"Andy," you said, a bit more stern this time. "Talk to me, baby."

His eyes shifted around the room nervously before settling back on yours. "Do you think forgiveness is possible?" he asked quietly.

You nodded. "I do. And I know that Jesus' love is absolute."

Your attempt at Biblical comfort did little to ease him.

He closed his eyes and braced himself. "Is it possible for Him to . . . to love someone who's done something horrible?"

Your brows furrowed, and you accidentally let out a nervous laugh. "Is it possible? I sure hope so."

"Could you?" he asked, and your chest tightened.

"Andrew, what's wrong? You can tell me anything," you responded, never taking your eyes off his.

Andrew inhaled sharply. "I hurt someone." His bottom lip wavered. "A woman I loved—I loved her. But I did it anyway."

Your mind swum with confusion, because, genuinely, you didn't truly know what Andrew was capable of. However, you knew he was capable of loving you, and that had to mean something.

"Did what, Andrew? What did you do?"

"I thought she was going to hurt my family," he confessed, and his head jerked out of your hands like they had burned him. He took a step back, putting space between your bodies. His hazel eyes fell to the floor. "And I held it there until she couldn't breathe anymore."

Andrew trembled where he stood, and he finally ripped his eyes from the ground so he could look at you one last time. His hands itched for the gun he kept in his truck, for him to put a bullet through his brain for what he's done.

But when he met your eyes again, he was shocked by the look you were giving him. Your eyes were glossy, but not in the scared way he was expecting.

You should have been scared of him; why weren't you scared of him? Why weren't you pushing him out of your house? Why weren't you screaming at him to never come back? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why—

Andrew's breath hitched when your hands returned to his cheeks. He watched your tongue run over your bottom lip before you sucked in an inhale through your mouth.

"Everyone is worthy of forgiveness, Andy," you whispered. "Moses was forgiven for the Egyptian he killed in the desert. Paul was forgiven for overseeing mass executions of God's people. And David continued to be called a man after God's own heart after he had a man killed so he could take his wife." You stepped closer to the point of your chest touching his. "Andrew, you are worthy of forgiveness, no matter what you've done." You leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back. "I love you, Andrew; and that's never going to change."

That was his breaking point, and in the next breath, Andrew sank to his knees as sobs tumbled from his lips. His forehead pressed into your stomach, and all you could do was run your hands through his auburn curls.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered past the sobs. "I love you. I'm so sorry. Thank you; I love you; I love you; I love you." His arms wrapped around your middle and held you close. "Please don't give up on me. I'll do better. I'm sorry. I'm never going to hurt you; never gonna let anything hurt you."

Titus Danforth

Blood was a scent you knew you'd never be able to rid your memory of.

That certainty stuck with you and grew exponentially after you married Titus Danforth. Blood, most certainly, was the water of their family, the foundation, the very thing they built their entire empire upon. If you'd been smarter, you would have ran after the first whiff of the iron tang. But any shark, young or old, followed the scent without thought, because blood meant survival.

And you knew more about surviving than the next person.

Your first lesson in survival had come during your wedding night. Although you didn't know it at the time, you'd manage to outlive expectations by drawing the card labeled Tic-Tac-Toe.

You had giggled at the choice. "Look, darling." You raised it so that Titus could see it in all its innocent glory. "Guess you better be ready to lose."

Titus had smirked, and his soul, against its own self, has sighed in relief. "Little dove, I fear Tic-Tac-Toe is my specialty."

While blood hadn't been shed literally, it had been shed metaphorically. Your blood now belonged to the Danforth name, and the lack of said blood, in all its essence, had saved your life.

Weeks of marital bliss had gone by without hitch. The world was at your fingertips, and Titus promised that whatever you wished for would be granted; all you had to do was simply ask. A husband's duty was to his wife, and Titus was going to be the best damned husband anyone had ever seen.

Even if that meant doing the devil's work on the side to keep you safe.

It really wasn't until the first party of the season that you truly got to see what being a Danforth really meant. Sure, drinking sparkling wine and gossiping all day was common for rich people. But what happened after the bottles dried up and the conversations died was reserved specifically for those whose blood was exchanged for fortunes.

Titus took your hand at the sound of the gong. "Come, little dove. The real party is about to get started."

At his insistence, you pouted. "But everyone left already."

"Are you sure?"

You scanned the empty lot, and your eyes caught on the number of torches still lit around the open space. They narrowed at the silhouettes that seemed to dance with the flames. "Oh." Something clicked in your mind. "Are we going to play another game?"

Titus hummed deeply, almost satisfied with your answer. "You are going to sit safely in the study for the first round and watch how it's done."

You curled an arm around his arm and pressed your cheek into his bicep. "Sounds good, darling."

So, that's how you found yourself sipping at another drink while your eyes stayed glued to the small screen that'd been available. Your sister-in-law sat next to you, whiskey glass in hand.

"What game are they playing this time?" you questioned. The screen looked dark, almost like the live feed hadn't tuned on yet.

Ursula looked at you from the side of her eye. "They're hunting."

Your brows furrowed. "Hunting?"

"Can't believe my brother's kept you from all of this for so long," she said before adding a slight scoff.

"Kept me from what?" you asked. "What are you two not telling me?"

She didn't have time to answer, because a short man in a robe suddenly appeared at the front of the room with a large, ancient-looking book in his hands.

"Thank you for joining us tonight," he spoke. "As per tradition, the eldest will play the hunt first. And if the sacrifice hasn't been offered in three hours, the hunt will then fall to the next in line, and then so on."

You leaned closer towards Ursula. "Did he say sacrifice?" you whispered.

She hummed softly. "You'll see."

"Let the hunt begin."

The small TV turned on with a spike of static that thad you jumping in your seat, eyes returning to the screen. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of Titus, who was now wearing an all black ensemble with leather gloves. You swore your mouth watered a bit more, but you quickly swallowed it down with a sip from your drink.

However, you wanted to spit it right back out when the screen flashed to show a new scene: a terrified, stripped man with a ball gag in his mouth. Your empty hand gripped the armrest of your chair.

"What—"

Your question was cut off with a gunshot. Your eyes widened as the man took off before he was quickly followed by a running Titus. Ursula pulled you from your seat and dragged you to the large window. Her hand stayed at your back, keeping you from moving.

Your stomach flipped. What kind of family had you married into?

One that obviously hunted people for sport, or more importantly, for a supposed sacrifice.

Ursula gestured at the man with her glass when she felt you tremble beneath her palm. "Do you recognize him?"

He had managed to get a good distance on him, but when the overhead lights came on like at a football field, the recognition of the familiar, lithe body hit you like a truck. And suddenly, all qualms you had about Titus hunting the man down disappeared.

A slow snarl built in your lips before it turned into a sick smirk. "Tell me I get to go next."

Ursula couldn't help but smile at your words. "If Titus doesn't get to him first, you can go next."

"I want to make the bastard pay," you spat, mind swirling with the awful memories of what that man had done to you, how you had to wash your sheets after he finished with your best friend.

Even if his cheating had led you right into Titus' open arms, the yearn for his spilt blood boiled under your skin. Part of you wanted to see your husband succeed, but the other part wanted you to rip away from Ursula and go after him yourself.

The decision was decided for you moments later when Titus slammed his war axe into his leg, the pointy end sticking through the muscle, and your ex wailed into the air. Glee hummed through your veins as Titus dragged him back towards the compound, blood trailing behind.

You probably should have waited, but you darted the moment he got close enough. Your footsteps echoed against the grand walls, and the door creaked loudly when you opened it. The sound had Titus turning towards it, and for a split second, he thought he was about to be met with your tear-stained face and your rings being thrown in his direction.

But when your excited squeal pierced his ears and your arms locked themselves around his neck, he was pleased at your response.

"Did you enjoy watching, little dove?" he asked.

You nodded against him. "I loved it," you purred into his ear. "Loved how you chased him, and I loved when he squirmed and screamed."

To prove your point, you stepped on his injured leg, right near where the war axe was still embedded in his calf. A scream tore up his throat, and you practically vibrated.

Titus slung an arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. "You're going to love what comes next, little dove. His blood is going to look so pretty on your skin, yeah? Can't wait to see you drain the life out of him."

Charlie Reid

Being a CSI meant that every crime scene you got called to had to be looked over with a fine-toothed comb in one direction and then an even finer-toothed comb in the other to make sure that nothing slipped through the teeth.

Yet, sometimes, no matter how many times you walk the perimeter or put your face inches away from a footprint, your comb wasn't able to pick out all the leftover evidence.

Most of the times, the forgotten clues weren't that important; in your mind, if a bank robber got away but you were able to put a murderer behind bars, you did your job just fine. Plus, getting praised for a job well done by the deputy chief himself was something that you strived to receive. Because Charlie Reid wasn't known for giving out complements like candy; no, his were far and few between, often coming out more condescending when he did decided to spit one out to his crew.

So, when a good job or this is why you're my favorite was sent your way, you made sure that you would stay on his good side as long as possible.

Which, often, that meant letting evidence slip through your comb on purpose. A hair sample here and a missed fingerprint there; no one was going to know anything different. You'd cultivated a brand as a top CSI, making sure that you'd be the first one officers called to arrive on scene. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. And besides, you liked to think that you were protecting your own, especially when Chief Reid seemed to be caught in the crossfire. He had to have had a reason for what he did, and you wanted to make sure he stayed in power for as long as possible.

Charlie, as you liked to think, had no idea what you were doing. You cherry-picked which cases you picked up, scattering them to ensure that no one would ever catch what you were doing.

By then, the buzzing of your phone acted like a siren song, and every time you picked it up, you hoped that Charlie's voice would follow the answer swipe.

"CSI," you spoked loudly into the bluetooth of your car so that whoever was on the other line could hear you clearly. "What's your trouble?"

"Hey, kid. Glad you didn't make me wait for another ring."

You smiled widely. "Chief Reid! What can I do for you this lovely afternoon?"

Charlie's dark chuckle sounded through the car. "I gotta triple homicide downtown that looks right up your alley. Think you can pick it up?"

Your fingers drummed against the steering wheel. "Got it, Chief. You need the usual?"

"You know it, kid."

"Understood. I'll be there in five." You ended the call before he could answer and put on your blinker to make a U-turn.

It actually took less than five minutes by the time you pulled up on scene. Your wheels screeched to a halt, and the noise echoed against the brick walls. You didn't see Charlie right away, and one question to the remaining officer was answered that he'd been called into the precinct to handle some business.

That was fine; you could do without the distraction of his brushed out curls and fiery hazel eyes.

By the time you wrapped up and drove back to the precinct, the bullpen had dwindled down to a trickle of officers and detectives wrapping up their days. You smiled warmly at them while holding the massive stack of papers that made up your finished reports as you made your way to Charlie's office. Because of your familiarity, you didn't bother knocking and just let yourself in.

The sound of his door had Charlie looking up from his laptop, eyes framed by his readers that somehow made him look even hotter. His lips pulled into a tight smile.

"Hey, kid," he greeted. "Shut the door behind you."

You even made sure the locked clicked before you took a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Charlie closed his laptop and pushed it aside, making sure you knew you had his full attention.

"How was the scene?" he asked while leaning back.

"It was as fine as three dead bodies could be," you replied, fingers pushing against your report. "But I did find something out of the ordinary."

His eyebrow cocked, and his weight shifted. "Oh?"

"At first I believed that one of the victims was actually the one who fired at the other two." You placed one version of your report down on his desk for him to look through. "But as I scanned for prints and such, the data showed that there were actually four men on scene and not just three."

Your ears picked up on the way he tried to muffle a hitch in his throat. You continued on as if you hadn't and set the second version of your report down.

"One of sets matched someone already in the database," you said, eyes scanning his face for any recognition of your words. "Officer Park's finger prints were also on the weapon."

Charlie looked at you over the papers that he tossed haphazardly back onto his desk. He held your gaze as he ran a hand across his chin.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"What do I want?" you parroted before leaning forward to place a finger on the second version of the report. "Chief, this is the report that I just turned in."

He all but snatched it up and shifted through the papers until he landed on the one he was looking for. His brows furrowed when typed out wording only claimed three victims with one shooter. Shocked, he stared up at your calm face.

"To answer your question: I don't want anything. I just thought you might have wanted to be aware that this error occurred. I already sent the issue into IT, and they'll handle it in the morning."

Silence washed over the small office, but every single word that went unsaid was more than understood between the two of you. Without responding, Charlie pushed up from his chair, the leather creaking under the lack of weight. He took three steps around his desk and stopped next to your chair. You continued to make eye contact as his hand rose and gently gripped your jaw.

You bit your lip at the feeling of his rough finger pads against your smooth skin, and a part of you wanted him to grip you tighter.

"And what of the other report?" he asked, brushing his thumb against the corner of your mouth.

"That's the only copy," you answered. "Because of the error, I deleted it off my hard drive."

"I'm glad you brought this to my attention." He smiled almost sadistically down at you. "You did the right thing, kid." His hand left your jaw and ran across the top of your hair before planting itself at your nape. This time, he held you tightly as to keep your face from turning away. "See, this is why you're my favorite. You're keeping this old man out of trouble." He licked his tongue across his bottom lip. "Why don't I reward you; yeah? Do you want a reward for doing a good job?"

Terry McCandless

If there was one thing you knew about Terry McCandless, it was that he always got what he wanted.

No matter if it was food on a plate made to his specifications or bringing in a suspect that suddenly confessed to a crime that didn't even seem to be one he committed, Terry was there making sure that he came out on top.

He had appeal, and he knew it. He let women throw themselves at him with wandering hands; he let men ask him out for drinks so they could benefit from his arrests. But against all odds and speculation, Terry had oddly stayed faithful to one person: you.

Somehow, someway, you managed to cuff Terry McCandless to your being, tying him down in a way that made all the old ladies swoon. Nothing said true love like monogamy, or at least, that's what they said while cooing at you.

You had learned to ignore them while also ignoring Terry's job.

Sure, he'd asked you a few times to sidle up to a suspect and push your boobs out so he'd be loose-lipped all while Terry listened in on the other side of a hidden mic you wore. Other times, he'd ask to play out his fantasies of pulling you over for a quickie against a fence you were sure carried tetanus.

But what the hell, you only lived once right?

That'd quickly become your motto, and Terry drank it up faster than a warm sweet tea on a Sunday afternoon. He licked the cup dry, knowing that you'd fill it right back up without a second guess. And Terry used that to his advantage as he watched you sweet talk your way through a bouncer via a small hidden camera connected to your crop top.

"I mean, I don't mind waiting, sir, it's just that my friends are already in there, and I'm worried they'll ditch me if I can't get through soon," he listened to you plead.

He couldn't help but smirk when the bouncer's eyes trailed down your figure before popping back up to your face.

Gotcha.

The bouncer quickly stepped aside and let you through, to which you thanked him profusely. Once you were in, Terry pressed the button for the two-way com.

"Good girl, darlin'," he muttered.

Inside the club, your heart fluttered at the praise. "Thank you, Terry," you whispered back, chin dipped so your lips were close to the mic.

Terry leaned back and shut the coms off. He knew you had this handled; he didn't have to worry. You could take care of yourself. Which that was why he didn't move automatically when the perp approached you at the bar with a sickening grin as he didn't try to mask the way he eyed you.

"Hi there, pretty lady," he said before licking his lips. "Can I get you a drink?"

You turned your way and smiled. "Only if you get one too." You even threw in a giggle to make it stick.

In your ear, Terry hummed nicely.

The man quickly ordered two drinks that you knew you'd hate instantly. It was neither a neon, fruity color nor a name you recognized, so you played with the straw when he slid it over.

"What's got you in a dump like this, princess?" he asked. "Pretty thing like you doesn't belong here."

"I'm just . . ." you trailed, biting down on your lower lip, "looking for a slow evening."

The signal words rolled off your tongue in a way it sounded believable. Slow Evening was thought to be a tip off for wanting to find hard drugs, especially at the club.

To yours and even more so to Terry's delight, the man looked elated by your words. Without saying anything, his hand wrapped around your wrist. He practically pulled you off the bar stool and dragged you to the back entrance.

"Keep going, darlin'," Terry muttered after you squeaked. "You're so close."

A crisp, evening breeze made your face tingled once the man stopped pulling you. In the next moment, he pressed into you to the point the small sliver of your naked back scratched against the brick of the building. You swallowed your whimper.

"So, you want a slow evening?" the man whispered. "It's a good thing I found ya first." He dug a hand into his pocket and produced something that looked like a Pixie Stix.

"Here you go, sweet thing," he said as he poured a bit of powder onto his hand. Once a small lump had formed, he put the paper container back into his pocket.

You thought he would just keep holding out his hand, but instead, he placed it on the spans of your throat. He leaned in, and you could smell the stink of his hot breath.

"Now, all you gotta do is sniff like a good girl." He pushed his drug-holding hand towards your face. "And I'll make sure your evening goes so so well." The hand holding your neck dropped down to the place between your thighs and squeezed. "If you know what I mean. You gotta give me a thank you for this."

Instead of you answering, the click of a gun next to the man's head went off, and he froze against your body.

"If you know what's good for you," Terry said, voice twanged with his southern drawl, "you'll get your slimy hands off of her and put them in the air."

You breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the man would do what Terry asked since he had a gun on him, but he did the opposite. He did drop his hands only for him to twist and turn on Terry, almost bulldozing him to the ground.

You quickly covered your face with your hands at the sounds of their grunts, but when the man started to actually cry, you finally looked at the scene in front of you and gasped.

Terry was fully straddling the man, and his fists were finding ground in the man's face over and over and over and over again. Blood had started to pool around the drug dealer's head.

"Terry," you whimpered. "You're gonna kill him."

Terry only responded with a grunt and another punch. It wasn't until you stepped in and physically grabbed his air-born arm that he scrambled off the now still body. He turned to face you, and his brows furrowed at your scared expression.

"Hey, none of that," he demanded softly while putting his blood soaked hands against your cheeks. "Look at me—don't look at him; look at me, darlin'." When your eyes flitted over to his hazel ones, he smirked. "There she is; there's my good girl."

He wiped a thumb across your forehead. "You did so well. You know what to do next, right?"

You nodded into his palm.

"I'm gonna go clean up, and you're gonna call this in, yeah? Do your whole crying thing with the tears, and good ole Terry's gonna come running to save you, yeah? No one touches my girl without my permission. He had it comin'. Let Terry take care of this."

Sammy Bryant

Life as a detective was never easy, especially when the man you loved seemed to be drowning in grief and you didn't know where the nearest life preserver was.

Ever since Nate was murdered, you could barely get to Sammy. Every night ended with him crying into a pillow and shrugging off your attempts at comfort. Your chest ached at his sadness, and you knew this ran deeper than most, because Sammy truly believed he was at fault for his best friend's death.

He'd seen worse things at crime scenes and in back alleys, but to see Nate get hit in the head and automatically pass away all while he tried to get through the screaming throngs as he gave warning shots could never be erased from his soul.

Home was bad for Sammy, but work was worse. Every turn was a reminder than Nate wouldn't be following him. Every time Sammy sat at his desk and turned towards Nate's, he'd always be reminded that the seat was going to be empty no matter how much he wished for time to roll back so he could save him.

You had to sit on the sidelines and watch Sammy die a bit each day the longer Nate's murderer went un-arrested. While you tried your best to get scoops on the streets or entice people to cough up a name, no one wanted to talk, to be a snitch to the pigs in blue, even if you wore a pantsuit.

The longer the search went on, the more you lost hope that Nate's murderer would be put behind bars, lost hope that your Sammy would never return to his sweet self.

Just the thought of it brought tears to your eyes as you curled within yourself under the covers of yours and Sammy's bed, his side long gone cold with his absence. Your fingers absentmindedly trailed space where his divot had caved into the mattress. He had said he would be late, but late had become "I'm not coming home at all."

You sighed loudly before pulling the covers up far enough that the hem rested against your chest. You reached over to turn the lamp on when your phone started to buzz loudly, and you jolted in place.

Your hand slammed against the black cover, and you quickly brought it up to your ear. "This is Detective Bryant."

"Baby," Sammy breathily said, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. "It's over; it's over; it's finally over."

You slung your legs off the bed and stalked over to your closet. "What's over, Sammy?"

"We got him. He's gone."

You were at the precinct in less than half an hour, hair messy but you couldn't care less for how you looked. Every step you took brought you closer to where Sammy was hunched over his desk.

"Sammy!" you called out, and his head jerked towards the sound of your voice.

He pushed off the wood and started walking towards you with his arms outstretched. The minute you were buried against his chest, he sobbed into your hair, hands gripping anywhere they could find purchase. Your hands ran up and down his back in soothing motions.

"H-How'd it happen?" you questioned.

Sammy pulled back enough to look you in the eye. "Come with me."

He didn't part from you at all as he led you towards an empty interrogation room. The chill caused goosebumps to race across your skin, but Sammy's warmth quickly made it ebb away.

"We got a call about shots fired downtown," he began to explain. "When we arrived on scene, there were already so many guys down. We got it under control, but apparently Vega had a bone to pick with Guerrero; he called war, and shit hit the fan."

Your breath hitched in your throat. "I thought Vega called for peace last week."

Sammy pursed his lips. "Yeah; until we found out he was dragging drugs through Guerrero's turf."

You gripped onto Sammy's biceps with white knuckles. "Sammy . . . Vega has never dealt with drugs." You wavered on your feet. "So tell me the fucking truth."

"I planted them!" he yelled, yanking himself from your arms. "Is that what you wanted to hear? That I planted drugs because I wanted Guerrero to start shooting in hopes that Leprechaun would be caught in crossfire. Because if tonight never happened, he was going to walk free." He began to pace. "And Nate—" His voice cracked, and your heart sunk. "Nate wouldn't be put to rest if he was still out there."

Your arms wrapped around your middle while you stood there in shock. You tried to say something—anything but the words died in your throat. However, your body warmed up before your lips, and your arms dropped to your sides.

"Sammy," you said softly.

He paused his pacing and looked toward you. "You have to understand why I did that. I can't have you out there while he was still walking around like he didn't commit murder." He took a step toward you. "I can't go home and sleep and just lie there imagining what he could do, who he could go after. I mean—" He scoffed. "We're trying for a baby, but I would not bring a child into the world unless that man was 6 feet under."

His words hit you like a freight train, and your hands curled at your sides as you laughed wetly through tears. You reached out and tugged him back to you before gripped his hand to place it against your stomach.

"I guess they're gonna grow up knowing their daddy would do anything for them," you whispered.

Sammy's eyes widened in a heartbeat. "What?"

"You heard me, Sammy."

He swallowed thickly. "We're going to have a baby?"

You nodded as teas continued to fall down your cheeks. "We are, and we're going to be so safe because you did what no one else would."

Sammy stayed quiet as he pressed a kiss against your lips. You could taste the salt of his tears on your tongue. When he pulled back for a breath, he connected your foreheads, and his hand rubbed small circles into your stomach.

"I'm going to do everything I can to make sure they grow up without having to ever worry about getting hurt," he whispered into your hair line. "Going to keep you both safe, I promise. And I'm going to come home every night. They won't know a world without a father. I'll be there for everything."

🏷️ permanent tags: @dumb-fawkin-bitch @nofinnn2 @books-thingys-andstuff @nyxmoretti @glitterquadricorn @itzpixiebabe @xoxoloverb @macbaetwo @cerberus101 @thorfemmes @goddess-of-spring @staygoldsquatchling02 @obi-wansgirl @phantom-101 @fly-me-away @xblackcatx @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @aoi-warrior @keepingitundercover @sofianotvergara @shawnhatosysrightbicep @straykids1011 @vicky066 @67-angelofthelordme-67 @sepidehmoafiglazer @multiversalfandomwriter222 @bellamys-girl1 @violet1661 @damoclesdarling @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @fancyvoidtragedy @hoffmanfan13 @lostfallenangelsblog @teenwolfbitches28 @isuckcigbuds @kaorisakamotofan @alexaplayldr @mszeitxt @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @yapeez @riseabovethorns-blog @thedivinegirlyp0p @valentine1047 @sl33ping-sir3n @toxicwasteee @chanelwidag @cloudrises @ravenwtfbro @ra-ven-124

[rynwrites4fun]

Slice of Life: Baby Blue | Jack Abbot x Reader

Jack Abbott x Best Friend’s Sister!Reader

Summary: You surprise Jack in a soft baby blue number.

Words: 2780

Warning: Age Gap (Mid 30s/Early 50s), Sensual and Sexual Themes/Suggestive Tone

Authors Note: *NAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE* Buckle up because this one is steamy!!! 🤪🫣 I’ve had this written so so so long ago. When I saw the gif and saw the look he gave (THE UP DOWN STARE GAHHH), the idea came about. I've had this written and saved in the dafts since october of last year GAHHHH. Those of you wondering what was in the black paper bag from Black Friday part…here ya go LOL. Enjoy - Ryn

SOL | MASTERLIST

You catch your reflection in the mirror, cheeks warm, pulse hammering in your ears. Nervous doesn’t even begin to cover it, you’re terrified. The light baby blue babydoll lingerie feels impossibly soft against your skin, unfamiliar in a way that makes your stomach flutter. It’s Jack’s favorite color, and somehow knowing that only makes your nerves spike higher.

You’ve taken the time to doll yourself up, hair softly curled, makeup just enough to make your eyes stand out, lips slightly glossy. 

You shift slightly, tugging at the delicate fabric as if trying to make it feel more like armor than vulnerability. The reflection staring back at you is a mix of confidence and uncertainty, and you wonder, when he sees you, will he see both?

You smooth your hands down the sheer fabric, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Okay,” you whisper to yourself, “you can do this! It’s just Jack. Jack who makes you laugh. Jack who loves you. Jack who looks at you like you hung the moon.”

But your pulse won’t slow. You’ve never done anything like this before. You’ve never worn something so intimate, so revealing, so deliberately sexy. The thought of stepping out, seeing his face when he looks at you, makes your heart pound against your ribs.

You take one more breath, fingers tightening around the door handle. “Okay,” you murmur again. “Here goes nothing.”

You exhale, open the door, and pad softly down the hallway toward the garage. The faint scent of oil and metal grows stronger with each step, mixing with the steady rhythm of classic rock humming low from the radio.

Through the open door, you see Jack, bent over the hood of his truck, sleeves pushed up, forearms streaked with grease. The late afternoon Sun spills across his shoulders, catching in his hair as he works.

You hover just inside the doorway, out of sight from the street. The garage door is open, but from where you’re standing, no one passing by could see you, not with the truck angled the way it is. It’s your small bubble of privacy hidden in plain view.

He doesn’t notice you at first, too lost in the task in front of him. The clink of a wrench, the soft scrape of metal, the quiet hum under his breath. Then he hears the soft creak of the door.  

“Beautiful, can you pass me the—”

He looks, mid-sentence.

The rest of the words die on his lips as his eyes land on you. For a long, silent heartbeat, he just stares, lingering over you as if memorizing every detail.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He straightens slowly, eyes never leaving you, and reaches for the rag on the workbench. The movement is almost mechanical, wiping his grease-stained hands one slow drag at a time like he needs to make sure this is real before he dares to speak.

He lets out a slow breath, the kind that seems to steady him against a force he didn’t expect.

“God…” His voice is low, almost a whisper. His eyes widen, flicking down and back up in a slow, stunned sweep that makes your skin hum. His breath catches faintly, like he wasn’t prepared for you to look like that, like he’s not entirely sure he’s awake.

Jack blinks, swallows hard, but doesn’t look away. His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as if he’s fighting the urge to say or do something he might not be able to take back.

“H-hi,” you stutter out.

“Hey,” he says quietly, still wiping his hands with the rag, his movements slower now. He doesn’t step closer, doesn’t say anything else, just watches you, waiting. It’s like he knows you need to make the first move.

You shift under his gaze, heart pounding, suddenly aware of every inch of sheer fabric clinging to your skin. The confidence you had in front of the mirror starts to crumble.

His silence only makes you second-guess yourself further, twisting your confidence into something fragile and uncertain. The quiet between you feels heavier than words, and suddenly you wonder if what seemed daring in the mirror now looks… wrong to him.

“This was a dumb idea,” you mumble, crossing your arms instinctively over your chest as heat floods your cheeks. “I feel absolutely ridiculous… in this.”

The baby-blue babydoll that had seemed flirty and playful before now feels far too revealing, thin straps slipping off your shoulders, the hem brushing high against your thighs, and the sheer fabric doing little to hide the rapid rise and fall of your breathing.

Jack’s brow furrows, just slightly. He drops the rag on the workbench and takes a slow step toward you, careful, like he’s afraid to spook you.

This was new territory for both of you. You and Jack had been intimate before, closely, physically, but lingerie had never been part of your dynamic. Never something you’d worn just for him, just the two of you. The thought of exposing this side of yourself, letting him see you like this, made your pulse spike, and yet there was a strange thrill in the vulnerability, the trust in uncharted territory.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer but not too close, like he knows you might bolt if he does. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you mutter, still avoiding his eyes, arms hugging yourself tighter.

He gestures vaguely toward you, to the way you’re folding in on yourself. “That. Acting like you’ve got something to be embarrassed about.”

He chuckles softly, a low, warm sound. “Why are you hiding? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“I… I don’t know,” you whisper, voice shaky. “It’s… different. Wearing this for you.”

He exhales softly and takes another small step, slow enough for you to stop him if you want. “Let me see you.”

Your fingers hesitate at your elbows, unsure, trembling just a little. But the way he’s looking at you steady, patient, almost aching, pulls something loose inside your chest.

You uncross your arms slowly.

His breath leaves him in a quiet, stunned rush. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even try, but his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to reach for you.

“Jesus…” he murmurs, the word barely audible, almost reverent. His gaze sweeps over you again, slower this time, lingering on the curve of the lace, the dip of the straps, the exposed skin underneath, the parts of you you’re trying, and failing, not to shy away from.

His voice gentles even more, the teasing stripped away. “You look… incredible.”

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s memorizing every line and curve.

“When did you get this?” 

“Black Friday shopping…”

He lets out a low sound half laugh, half ache. “So this is why you told me to stay put?” His eyes flick to you, then back again, wide with disbelief and something brighter. “This is what was in that black bag?”

You nod. 

He shakes his head slowly, a breathless, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re kidding…” His eyes lift to yours and then drift back down again “You’ve had this the whole time, and now you decide to—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, his voice rough with a mix of awe and want. “—wear it?”

You nod, cheeks warm. “I just thought it might be nice. Something different. For me… and for you.”

You nod, still not looking up, heat creeping into your cheeks. “ I bought it,” you admit softly, fingers fidgeting with the fabric. “Because I wanted to feel good in my own skin.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “But… also for you. I thought maybe it would be something you’d like.”

You shake your head, embarrassed, wishing you could disappear for a second. “It’s silly, I know.”

He swallows, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not silly,” he says softly, voice low but steady, like he’s trying to anchor you. “Not even a little.”

“I wasn’t expecting—” He stops himself, clears his throat. “I mean, damn, you knocked the wind out of me.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. His hand hovers near your arm, not quite touching, giving you just enough space to breathe while still making you acutely aware of him. “Thank you,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “For thinking of me. I appreciate it…”

Your heart hammers in your chest. “Do… Do you like it?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinks, genuinely caught off guard that you’d even ask. “Do I—” He cuts himself off, a soft huff of a laugh leaving him. A faint smile curves at the corner of his mouth as his eyes drift over you again, gentler now. “Yeah. Yeah, I do…more than you can imagine.”

His voice drops, warmer, almost reverent. “And blue,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “my favorite color. You could’ve worn anything—hell, you could’ve worn one of my old shirts and I’d still be standing here thinking the same thing.”

You feel your chest tighten at that, warmth flooding through you. “What’s that?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

“That I’m completely gone for you,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He steps a fraction closer, and the air between you seems to pulse. “That you… look incredible. Just… you. Every part of you,” he says, voice low, reverent, a quiet intensity behind every word.

Jack’s voice drops low, almost tentative. “Can I… touch you?” he asks, like he’s afraid the question itself might scare you off.

Your breath catches. You look up at him, his hand hovering midair, his expression careful, waiting. He isn’t assuming, isn’t pushing, just asking.

You nod once, slow. “Y-yes,” you whisper.

He starts to move, then hesitates, glancing down at his hands, still faintly streaked with grease despite the rag. A quiet, sheepish smile tugs at his mouth. “I should probably wash up first,” he murmurs.

You shake your head before he can step back. “N-no. It’s okay,” you say softly, your voice steady now, sure. “I don’t care.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, eyes searching, like he’s trying to decide if you really mean it. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. His fingertips brush against your arm first, feather-light like he’s giving you a chance to change your mind. Then a little firmer, tracing down until his hand settles against your skin, grounding you both.

His thumb grazes the edge of your strap, which has slipped off your shoulder, and he fixes it gently, an excuse, maybe, or just something to do with his hands while the air hums quietly between you.

You exhale, a soft sound that feels more like release than words.

His hands find your hips, warm and steady, grounding you when everything inside feels unsteady. He pulls you a little closer, not demanding, just waiting, giving you the space to pull away if you need to.

“Okay?” he asks quietly, his breath brushing against your temple.

You nod, the word catching in your throat before it can form. “Yes,” you whisper, though your heart is beating so fast you’re sure he can feel it.

Jack studies you for a long moment, his eyes searching your face, making sure. When he finally speaks again, his voice is even softer. “You’re sure?”

You nod again, this time a little firmer. “I’m sure.”

Something in his shoulders eases at that, the faint tension melting away. He lets out a quiet breath, thumb brushing along your hip bone like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

Then, without a word, he leans in closer. His lips press softly to the side of your neck, a gentle, lingering kiss that sends a shiver through you. You sigh, breathless, tilting your head slightly, caught between surprise and desire, heart hammering as the warmth of him presses closer, slow and deliberate.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent. “God… you’ve got no idea what this does to me,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost a whisper. “You, here, like this…”

The words make your pulse skip, the nerves still there but dulled by the warmth in his voice, the care. You tilt your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze at last.

“Show me,” you whisper.

He exhales, a low, almost frustrated sound. “I… need to wash up first,” he says, voice rough, as if reluctant to break the moment.

“Jack,” you whine softly, tugging at his shirt, the heat and frustration coiling in your chest. “Don’t. Please… don’t.”

He groans, running a hand through his curls, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Beautiful… I’m not gonna be with you if I’m all greasy and sweaty from working on the truck” he says, voice low but teasing, the tension between you still humming in the air. His eyes softening just a fraction. “Come on… you deserve better than that.”

You pout, tugging at his shirt again, frustration and mischief in your eyes. “Jack… come on, not yet… Just for a minute? Please?”

He exhales, giving in with a slow, reluctant smirk. “Okay, fine. A minute—then we’re going inside. I’m gonna shower first… and then we’ll continue.”

Before you can react, he scoops you up effortlessly, and you squeal, the sudden movement sending a jolt straight through you. He carries you across the garage, swiping tools off the workbench in a careless clatter before setting you down gently on it, like you’re something precious despite the rough urgency in his movements.

He steps between your legs, close enough that you feel the heat of him, the air between you crackling. His hands settle at your waist, thumbs pressing in. Then his mouth is on yours fierce, hungry, unrelenting. The kiss steals your breath, leaves you dizzy, the world narrowing to nothing but him.

“Jack—” you gasp, pulling back just enough to breathe. “The garage door is open. Someone could see us—”

He pulls away just enough to grin, eyes dark and amused. “Relax. You really think anyone’s paying attention? Because I’m pretty sure the only one losing focus here is you.”

“You realize you’re sabotaging your minute of fun? You’re wasting time,” he teases, glancing exaggeratedly at his watch, clicking his tongue. “Your minute’s almost—”

You cut him off, grabbing the front of his shirt and kissing him again, messy and unapologetic. He laughs against your mouth, quickly turning into a low groan as his hands tighten at your waist. Your hands grip his shoulders, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening, urgent.

He breaks the kiss just for a moment, forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours. His eyes roam over your face, memorizing every expression. “God… you have no idea how much I want you right now,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

A shiver runs through you. “Then don’t… don’t stop,” you whisper.

The straps of your lingerie slip again. You reach instinctively to take it off but his hands catch your wrists gently. “No,” he breathes, a little laugh tangled with a quiet groan. “Hey… don’t. I expect this to stay on. I want continue to admire you in it more later.”

You hesitate, breath catching, then nod. “Okay,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he murmurs, eyes dragging over you, unhurried and appreciative. “You got all dressed up for me. Leave it on.”

He grins against your lips before capturing your mouth again, hands roaming gently but insistently along your sides, each touch sending sparks through you.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist. “Okay… time’s up,” he murmurs, low and teasing. “I said a minute—now we go inside. Shower first, then we’ll finish this properly.”

“Jack…” you whisper, voice trembling.

“I’ll be quick, I promise,” he murmurs, pressing one last lingering kiss to your mouth. You sigh against him, breathless, heart hammering, fingers brushing lightly along his arms.

“Inside,” you say softly, eyes daring him. “And if you take your sweet time in that shower, I’m holding it against you.”

He laughs, smirking. “Don’t worry. I know better than to keep you waiting.”

Before you can react, he grabs your hand as you hop down from the workbench. Together, you rush inside, hearts racing, hands intertwined. The tension lingers, electric and promising, as the garage door closes behind you.

💜 @hobisystem @timefightrs @festinalente00 @karlawithacapitalk @madprincessinabox @mina2000alex @pascal-rascal424 @cari87 @the-reblog-desk @idfkwhyimhere4357 @blueblizzardreview @scribbles-by-cv @dulcebloodhnd @showgirlshawn @thelightnessofthebeing @huntycola @coldmuffinbanditshoe @artsymaddie @lv7867 @thedamnqueenofhell

🍰 @abbotrobbygirl @absinthe-over-tea @huntycola @honestlystop @poppy-wr1tess @pear-1206 @sagittariussupenova

[moodyabbott]

Younger reader sitting on Jack’s lap and shaving his face for him on a slow sunday morning 🥺 your thoughts pls!!!

thank you for this request!! i kinda changed it up a bit and didn’t have her exactly shave him.. but you’ll see!

jack x reader | mdni

—

the bedroom was cool and bright as the sunday sunlight spilled through the curtains from the open window across the room.

it warmed the rumpled sheets where she'd fallen asleep curled against his muscled body, only a few hours earlier.

her freshly manicured fingers instinctively reached across the mattress as she stored awake. looking for him. it was warm and inviting as she trailed her fingers across the emptiness which caused her to blink her pretty eyes awake, a sleepy frown crossing her face.

"jack?" her voice rasped causing her to clear her throat.

there wasn’t an answer and she furrowed her brow in confusion, sitting up and tugging the oversized t-shirt he gave her last night over herself before padding barefoot across the hall.

she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, yawning while she heard him shuffle around his bathroom quietly. the bathroom door was open and she smiled bashfully as she watched him smirk at himself through the mirror.

“yeah, yeah— you like that baby?”

she shivered at the thought of his drippy words, honey and sweet as they made her succumb into his arms as he splayed her across his mattress.

she shook her head, shaking her out of last night’s memory.

he stood at the sink in a pair of gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, his v-line on full display making her cheeks burn hot. he had one hand against the counter while the other splashed cool water over his face.

his salt and pepper hair was sticking up in every direction, and he looked far less like the cool and composed man he always is.. now, he looked like man in love.

jack caught her reflection in the mirror and his smile immediately spread across his handsome face.

"there she is." he beamed, “how’d my girl sleep?” he cooed making her core tighten at his morning voice.

her sleepy expression melted, "good.” she hummed timidly, “but, when i woke up..." she trailed as she leaned against the doorframe.

"you thought i disappeared?" he chuckled.

she nodded. "you left." she tutted, crossing one leg over the other causing the shirt to ride up her thigh.

"baby, i was gone for like, five minutes."

"felt longer." she pouted.

jack chuckled quietly, drying his face with a towel before opening his arms, wide and welcoming.

"c'mere."

she didn't hesitate for even a split second.

she padded over to him until she was standing between his knees as he leaned back against the vanity.

his hands found her waist, squeezing her in his large palms— his lips found hers causing her to whimper immediately into him while she wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers dancing in his curls.

"someone is very clingy this morning," he teased, pulling away from her lips with a loud pop.

"i think i’m allowed." she blushed.

"you absolutely are." he smiled, rubbing his nose against her cheek— she giggled before she rested her forehead against his, smiling.

for a minute they stood there in purse bliss. silently playing over everything that had happened— it was the kind of silence that only existed between two people who completely gave themselves to each other.

they smiled warmly, eyes burning bright, and hearts fluttering with excitement as she reached up and rubbed his jaw.

"hmm." her fingers brushed over the rough scruff that had already grown back overnight.

he watched her curiously.

"what?" he asked making her giggle.

"you really tickled me." she said bashfully, rubbing her index finger against the stubble.

"when?" he cocked a brow.

"last night."

his eyebrows lifted. "my stubble?” he laughed, craning his head back to look at her more seriously as she placed her hands atop his naked chest.

she nodded, cheeks warming, "it kept ticking my face.. and my— well you know, every time you kissed me."

they both laughed— warm and light as it filled the tiny bathroom.

"oh, did it?" he looked at her quizzically.

"mhm."

"baby, i’m sorry. i really had no idea i was such a menace."

"oh, you were."

"i owe you an apology." he pretended to look horrified.

"you do." she giggled.

he looked at her thoughtfully for a second before suddenly slipping his hands beneath her thighs. she squealed, jumping back but he was quick to pull her back so that she was closer than before.

"j—jack!" she gasped.

effortlessly, he moved her with him as he perched himself on the closed toilet lid and settled her sideways across his lap.

"comfy?”

she laughed, instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders as his hands caressed the small of her back.

"for what?"

he looked up at her with the most shameless grin.

"well, we can’t have the scruff offending you when i make love to you.” he tipped his chin toward her dramatically making her groan in playful disdain. "c'mon, baby." he gently took her hand and placed it against his jaw.

"wanna shave me?"

she burst into a fit of giggles, covering her hands over her face, "jack, i’m not shaving your face!"

"why not?"

“i can get used to it, i was just making an observation! and i've never shaved anyone!"

"you've got steady hands."

"are you kidding me?" she scoffed, “no!”

"c’mon, i trust you." he nodded as she shook her head quickly trying to get up from his lap but he held her down.

"jack."

"i’m serious."

"no, you're not." she squealed, “you can’t be serious, like you really can’t trust me!”

"it’s hair, it will grow back." he shrugged, reaching for the razor that he keeps under the sink.

she shook her head, “what happens i— if i cut you?"

"i'll survive." he deadpanned, “i’ve been hurt far more than you realize.”

she frowned at him, resting her forehead against his again, "you’re impossible. and bossy!"

"i know."

his hands settled comfortably around her waist again as she absentmindedly ran her fingertips over the stubble again.

he leaned into it immediately, humming happily making her press her lips together, "there you go." he said lowly making her squirm in his lap.

"you really like this, don't you?"

he closed his eyes with an exaggerated sigh, "you have no idea." he chucked while she scratched lightly beneath his jaw and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"o— oh that's dangerous." he moaned making her gape at him.

"what is?"

"my sweet spot." he chuckled as she smiled, her heart swelling.

"good." she smirked. he opened his eyes again, looking at her with so much warmth it made her breath catch.

"w—what?"

"i was just thinking."

"about?"

"how nice it is waking up with you next to me."

her smile softened as he reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"you know.." he trailed.

"what?"

"i’ve had a lot of good sundays." he said, pressing his lips against her hit making her tilt her head. "but i think this one's my favorite."

she leaned into him and hummed, "i really like sundays with you." as he pressed a kiss against her ear.

"i like everything with you."

jack smiled against her temple.

"so."

"so?"

"you're really not gonna shave me?"

she laughed, nudging his shoulder. "not a chance, dr. abbot."

he sighed dramatically, "guess you'll just have to keep petting me instead."

"i can live with that."

"so can i.”

and with that, he wrapped his arms around her a little tighter before lifting her up and walking them back towards the bedroom.

[angelabbot]

older bf!jack abbot who can’t keep his hands off of you..

content warning: smut - breast play, like, all breast play. jack calling reader ‘sweetheart, baby, angel’, dom!jack, jack being obsessed with your breasts.

a/n: not proofread! giving y’all something while i work on my prompt requests!

masterlist

jack abbot always had a particular love for your breasts and you never knew why.

he could happily spend hours on end alternating between kneading them in his rough hands and sucking your nipples into his wet mouth, tracing them teasingly with his tongue.

he bought various different bras in different colours and designs simply because he loves to see them ‘all dolled up’. it made you embarrassed at times. your cheeks would flush a soft pink as you lay out in front of him, his eyes locked onto your chest exclusively. “they’re so beautiful, sweetheart. they’re looking so pretty in their lace.” he cooed, groping them tenderly over the fabric.

“j- jack.” you flushed, hiding your bright face behind your hands. “what, baby? i’m admiring you.” he stated, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before turning his attention to your breasts.

instead of undoing the clasp, he opted to pull the cups down and let them spill free. jack groaned at the sight he’d seen a million times yet would never get tired of. “i’m gonna give them the attention they deserve.” he promised before leaning down to suckle on your right breast, squeezing the other with his free hand.

you whined, hands reaching to grasp at the greying hair on his head. “j- jack, fuck.” you gasped. this was a familiar game you both played. jack sucking on your tits, pleasuring himself more than you, and you getting lulled into a steady stream of bliss.

you could feel jacks smile growing on you as you yawned. “sleepy, huh?” he murmured, pulling off your swollen nipple to meet your eyes. you shook your head, rubbing your eyes with a fist. “‘s okay, angel. you can sleep. i’ve gotcha.” he reassured softly. this is always how it went. you hummed groggily, nestling into the sheets as jack resumed his place on your chest.