Jack takes off his prosthetic like it’s any other chore, which it is, because it’ll never be something he lets carry weight.
It’ll carry him, but nothing else, and when you watch him through half-lidded eyes as he removes it with practiced hands, you think he’s beautiful bare. You don’t tell him that tonight.
You’ve learned the whole of Jack well enough that you know he has to be in a particular mood to accept your desecration of his insecurities.
You’ll hunt them down one by one, one day, with your cunt and your need to hold him forever...
With the fact that you’ve given him the most perfect baby girl in the whole wide world, and you’ll give him more and more and more.
“Night.”
Jack sets down his prosthetic against the nightstand, and he’s easy in sliding under the covers and pulling you in with an instinctive tug.
“Goodnight.”
His voice is rough. The house is dark and still. He sleeps for a few blessed hours with you in his arms, but only after checking that the baby monitor is truly on for the third time.
“She go down okay?—”
“Yes, Jack. She’s a champion at knocking out.”
Jack sleeps, but sometime later, he wakes up earlier than he’d like to. You’re still a warm weight nuzzling into him, face smushed against him. There’s nothing wrong except the fact that it’s a shame his bladder can’t make it till daylight.
He reaches toward the nightstand—
And he goes still when his hands find air.
“...The hell?”
Jack, half-asleep and in no mood for wherever the hell his prosthetic leg could’ve gone, frowns before reaching again.
Nothing. His nose flares as the sheets slide off his thighs. He searches the floor, then under the bed, and it’s not fear that’s making his pulse climb. Nope.
It's just the simple, humiliating realization that something he kinda depends on is missing, and he doesn’t know how that happened, so he’s just as confused. Confused and embarrassed. Two very fun emotions. God fuck.
He turns back toward you, the peaceful girl who’s completely unaware that her husband is sitting in the pitch dark because he’s lost a limb. He swallows.
He’s gonna have to ask you. He hates this. He loves that it’s you that’s ruined him and you that can crack him open, that it’s you he’ll be vulnerable with. But he hates having to ask, because the husband that doesn’t deserve you and the father to your baby shouldn’t be losing his fucking limb and making you go look for it.
Jack leans closer and murmurs your name. With no response, he tries again, a little firmer.
“Sleepy. Baby.”
He swallows again when your eyes flutter open, a small sound you make to go along with it.
“...Wha…wha’s goin’ on?”
Jack blinks slows. He’ll smother the embarrassment flickering under his nerves later.
“My leg’s gone.”
You blink at him. Yep. That’s something to blink at. He won’t blame you.
“What?”
Jack simply gestures toward his side of the bed, because maybe if he pretends like this happens all the time, then he doesn’t have to be suddenly hyperaware of what’s not just missing from the room, but from the whole of him. Sounds like a fucking plan.
“I took it off. I put it by the nightstand. It’s not there. It’s not under the bed. It’s not anywhere on my side.”
You squint into the dark. “Well, did you move it? Maybe it rolled under the bed and maybe over to my side—”
You pause, and Jack stares as he watches your shadowed expression shift. It’s confusion to realization, your eyes widening slightly—to a look where you’re finding something…adorable.
“Oh. Oh my God. I can take a guess.”
You throw the covers off, sliding out of bed.
“I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going—”
You squeeze his hand, smiling sleepily. Fitting. “Trust me.”
Well. He has to, doesn’t he? You’re gone into the hall before he can say anything else.
He sits there for a hot minute, and don’t worry, sleepy, he doesn’t have to be reminded of his own helplessness.
Making kiddo look for your limb while you sit pretty. Husband of the year—
You reappear before he can even wonder why he couldn’t hear your footsteps down the hall, but your eyes are glossy, and you’ve found it—you’ve tucked his prosthetic under your arm.
“What the hell?”
“I found it, and you’ll be happy to know where. Oh my god.”
Your face is open in a way that makes Jack’s chest crack open with a furrowed brow. You set his prosthetic in front of him on the bed, and you climb onto the bed on your knees.
You pull out your phone. Jack couldn’t guess what you’re so in awe about.
“What are you—”
“Look, Dad.”
Your voice is trembling between the line of laughter and slight tears, and Jack can only listen when you hold the phone up to him.
He freezes. The sight is—the sight is…
The only thing as beautiful and ridiculous than what you’re showing him is you.
On the screen is a photo you must’ve taken just minutes ago in baby’s room, only lit by her baby-sun nightlight. She’s asleep in her crib, face turned into her pillow.
She’s got her chubby toddler body wrapped around his prosthetic leg like it’s a stuffed animal.
She’s hugging it. Like the thing is comforting.
…Like it’s Dad.
You shine in watching Jack stare into the screen, and it’s the blunt force of tenderness burning its way into his heart. His throat might close to the point of suffocation.
Not a bad way to go.
“Chubby must’ve took it while we were sleeping. Just…she just dragged it into her crib and fell asleep with it. We’ve got a little thief on our hands.”
“...Why?”
He’s unbelieving. He can’t believe—
“I think she thinks it’s…I don’t know. She’s two. If she has your leg, she has you.” Your voice is warm, near wrecked in the explanation. “I’m surprised she was able to carry it. She’s got baby muscle.”
…He can’t believe he’s this fucking loved.
The joke he tries going for slips out broken with a low sigh. He swallows again, dragging his finger along the metal of his prosthetic.
“My kid…stole my leg.”
“Yes she did. She also had my badge clip. I left it. It might be a little easier to take from her in the morning than your lovely chunk of metal.”
“Inherited her mommy’s love for trinkets.”
You laugh at that. Jack’s mouth twitches into something thin.
He’s loved by a perfect kid from a perfect woman, and he guesses he can only be defeated by their love in its most absurd form. Even if that’s what he’ll never deserve.
“...She can keep it next time. Long as she brings it back to me.”
You lean in to kiss his shoulder. He only wants the moment he leaves this world to be like this, you lingering with your lips, the grainy sight of Chubby needing the part of him he sometimes loathes to go to sleep.
“She loves you so much, Jack. But maybe we can find her a stuffed leg.”
Pairing - Jack Abbot x Attending Physician Dr. Angel
Word count - 1.6k
Summary - Santos, Whittaker and Javadi find out their attending is married and are desperate to find out who it is and how long she’s been keeping this a secret from the ER. A betting board ensues, making everyone more desperate to find out.
Warnings - 18+, MDNI, cursing, reader is married with children, fluff, no use of Y/N, reader not physically described, nickname is Dr. Angel.
Main Masterlist & The Pitt Masterlist
You’re hunched over the break room table, arms folded like a makeshift pillow, cheek pressed into the crook of your elbow. Soft, uneven snores leave your lips as you catch a few precious minutes of sleep before a gruelling double shift.
Christmas is the busiest time in The Pitt, falls from ladders whilst decorating, lacerations from prepping Christmas dinner, burns, scalds, food poisoning- not to mention the amount alcohol induced injuries that come through the doors.
Your peace however, lasts maybe 5 minutes.
The door to the break room swings open and in trudge Santos, Whittaker and Javadi, mid-conversation and talking way too loud for the hour.
“I’m telling you, the bar’s supposed to have a mechanic bull-”
“-and bottomless wings on Thursdays!”
You groan internally, refusing to lift your head. Maybe if you stay perfectly still, they may think you’re dead and leave.
Dennis is the first to notice his very much alive attending collapsed over the table. He freezes before frantically waving down the others to try and lower their volume.
Trinity squints at you before letting out a small snort. “That cannot be comfortable”
“Be quiet!” Victoria hisses, smacking Trinity’s arm as she circles the table to grab a snack from her bag. On her way back she stops dead, eyes widening. “Holy shit.”
Santos and Whittaker follow her stare straight to your left hand.
The huge engagement ring catches the fluorescent lights, the sparkly wedding band tucked beneath it looks like something out of a luxury commercial.
Your voice emerges, muffled and unimpressed from the cradle of your arms. “None of your business kiddos”
“Fuck- how long have you been awake?!” Santos jumps.
You lift your head just enough to glare at them through sleep-heavy eyes. “This whole time, you guys are the loudest people here. Now either lower the volume or go take your break somewhere else”
“But-” Whittaker opens his mouth.
“That’s an order from your attending” You raise your eyebrows, punctuating it with a soft, involuntary yawn.
They scatter instantly, shooting each other incredulous looks.
Once the door swings shut, you twist the glittering ring with your thumb. You slide both bands off after a moment, loop them onto the chain around your neck and tuck them beneath your scrubs.
You drop your head back into your arms, determined to steal at least another minute before being pulled into the thick of the emergency room.
You’ve just made it through pre-rounds with Robby when Trinity appears at your elbow.
“So .. Dr Angel, how was your evening?” She asks, her voice pitched with fake innocence.
“Very productive” You stare up at the patient chart displayed next to the nurse’s bay.
Dennis sidles up to your other side. “Productive like .. paperwork productive? .. Maybe marriage paperwork?”
“Really you two?” You drum your fingers over the desk. “Go and help your patients”
An hour later, you’re sanitising your hands after consulting with a patient when a cup of coffee is shoved into your hands by Javadi.
“I just think it’s really beautiful, you know? Marriage. Commitment. Love. Rings. Big rings, huge rings. Rings that look like they cost more than this years tuition-”
“Thanks Victoria” She beams at you, in total belief that she’s about to receive more information. Instead you walk to your next patient with a parting smile.
By lunch, the Pittlings have recruited reinforcements, Perlah, Donnie, even Jesse. All of whom try desperately for any sort of information about your mysterious husband.
You’re then cornered at the med cart by Princess, who’s pretending to grab supplies for a patient. “So, hypothetically if someone was married-”
“No”
“and hypothetically hiding it-”
“Nope”
“Would it be because the husband is famous? .. or dangerous? .. is he famous and dangerous?!”
“North 4 is waiting on their meds Princess”
Dana’s voice carries from the nurses desk as you drag your hands down your face for the millionth time this shift. “Trauma inbound, Angel, 2 minutes tops- you got this one or do you want Robby to take it?”
“I got it Dee, they give you anymore details?” You ask, snapping on a pair of blue gloves.
“Nope” She pops the P and sends you a smirk. “But I hear some people ‘round here are wanting more details from you”
She wiggles her left hand, you can’t help but roll your eyes, fighting a smile before heading to the ambulance bay.
On the way, you pass Ahmad’s betting board which is now decorated with neon sticky notes.
Who is Dr. Angel married to?
ER Doctor - Dana, Robby, Santos
Civilian - Ahmad, Perlah, Mel
Cop - Javadi
Criminal (morally grey) - Ogilvie
Firefighter - Donnie, McKay, Mohan
Made up to stop people from hitting on her - Joy
Someone famous - Princess, Emma
OR Doctor - Langdon, Whittaker
Peds Doctor - Mateo
Ahmad stands proudly beside it. “Morning Doc”
“What the hell is this Ahmad?” You stop dead in your tracks to examine it.
He lifts his hands up, trying to stifle laughter. “Don’t blame me! The people want to bet!”
You find yourself back hunched over the break room table just as you were before the start of the shift. 12 hours gone, only 12 more hours to go.
Every spare minute has been dodging questions, redirecting conversations about husbands and threatening (but not really) to write everyone up.
The door swings open again and you brace yourself for another onslaught of questions.
Instead Jack strolls in, backpack slung over his shoulders and a red shirt peaking out of his black scrubs. Completely unaware that the whole ED has been theorising about his existence.
“Hey Angel” he heads straight for the coffee pot.
You lean back in your seat, arms crossed loosely “You’re not supposed to be here for another two hours Jack”
“Well, you sound thrilled to see me” he teases, placing the cup in front of you before pulling up a chair.
“I know- I’m sorry, I am happy you’re here” You run your hand over your face, keeping eye contact with him. “.. Just tired”
“What’s bothering you?” His expression softens.
You let out a humourless laugh “Did you not see Ahmad’s betting board? ‘Who is Dr. Angel married to?’ I’ve had residents and med students alike questioning me like I’m a spy”
Jack’s mouth twitches upwards. “Sweetheart, you’ve been keeping this on the low for the past 15 years, how did they finally figure it out?”
“Whittaker, Santos and Javadi saw me with my rings on” You smirk slightly. “Victoria said that it looked like it cost more than her car”
He chuckles, taking your hand and lifting it to his lips. Pressing a kiss to the spot where your rings usually sit. “Only the best for my wife”
You brush a hand through his greying curls. “Kids okay?”
He nods “Dropped them at your parents, said we’d be back in time for them to open presents from Santa in the morning”
That pulls a real smile from you. You stand, squeezing his shoulder as you pass. “Gotta get back out there, waiting room’s a disaster”
“Hey” His fingers curl around your wrist gently, tugging you back. “I love you”
“I love you too” You lean down to press a chaste kiss to his lips.
Jack places a hand on your jaw, deepening the kiss slightly-
“Holy fucking shit!”
You jerk back, nearly knocking the coffee from the table.
Trinity stands in the doorway, her eyes wide and hands thrown in the air like she’d just witnessed a miracle.
“I knew that Robby and Dana knew who your husband was! Yes!” She turns on her heel, sprinting down the hallway to already collect her winnings.
“Best Christmas present ever! Suck it Huckleberry!”
“Merry Christmas to you too, I guess” you murmur, shaking your head in disbelief as Jack cackles squeezing your hand.
Quite An Impression - jack abbot x marine biologist!reader
find other parts here !!: 2, 3, 4.
Pairings: jack abbot x marine biologist!reader
Summary: when a jellyfish sting at work leads you to the ED, an unsuspecting Jack finds himself more and more interested in the pretty marine biologist that invites him for a tour of the aquarium she works at.
Warnings: minor injuries, talks of ER/ED, explicit language, injured animals (it all ends good), age-gap, slow burn, pinning, mentions of widower jack, yearning/longing, probably some scientific & medical inaccuracies.
Word Count: 5k+
Author’s Note: part 1 is FINALLY here !! i’m so excited to get this out to you all, it’s been a long time coming !! i hope it lives up to expectations !! (am i gonna use sabrina references for each title ?? it’s possible…) bonus: uncle!jack content !! <3
“Jack”, Robby popped his head into the break room; “Come here, you’re gonna wanna see this, brother.”
Jack was bent halfway at his knees, inches from finally, finally, sitting down for the first time in hours and letting the weight off his prosthetic when Robby interrupted him. He didn’t even bother to suppress the groan that left his mouth as he pushed himself back to his full height.
He’d feel the soft couch cushions under him after this, he promised himself that much.
Jack followed Robby out, swinging his stethoscope back around his neck and holding both end of it in his hands.
“What do we got?”, Jack asked, inhaling the same way he always did during a long shift; the kind that made his back arch a little and his chest puff out.
“Female, late twenties to early thirties, jellyfish sting on the left arm and hand”, Robby read out the chart in his hands.
Jack almost stopped walking, a surprised look on his face that turned almost into a smirk.
“You serious?”
Robby laughed; “Hell yeah, figured you’d want in on it.”
Jack scoffed in the way he did when he found something funny; “Hell yeah I want in on it”
He grabs the chart from Robby’s hands flicking through the pages as he reads; “Haven’t seen anything like that since med school.”
“You and me both, brother.”
Robby turned and pushed open the exam room door with his back, sliding on a pair of gloves as he wheeled over on the swivel chair.
You looked up from the bed, eyes bright and not at all like you were in pain. Jack stopped in his tracks at the sight of you.
He realized then he wasn’t expecting someone so…pretty.
So lively and bright.
“Hi i’m Doctor Robbinavitch, this is my fellow attending Doctor Abbot, we’re gonna check you out today”, Robby says, offering a small and professional smile.
“At least buy me dinner first”, You jut back with a laugh.
Oh. Jack wanted to make that laugh leave your lips over and over again.
Robby got to work, carefully inspecting your sting, gloves fingers pressing gently into the raised red skin.
“So jellyfish sting, huh?”, Robby asks, motioning to Jack for a syringe off the tray next to him.
Jack hesitates for a moment, but his brain eventually follows, letting his eyes wander away from you for a moment.
Your hair was clipped back in a claw similar to Dana’s, a few strands falling loosely around your face and ears. A pair of black leggings and a Pittsburg Aquarium shirt. Even in the simplicity of it all, you looked so pretty. Jack swallowed hard.
“Yeah, comes with the job”, You say with an easy shrug, like it’s nothing new.
Robby pauses; “Oh yeah?”
“Yup. Marine Biologist at the aquarium. Little guy snuck up on me today.”
Robby chuckles; “Happen often?”
“More than you think. Not my first sting, won’t be my last.”
Your eyes wander over Jack, who’s still standing slightly off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. You lean a little closer to Robby.
“He always hover like that?”, You ask.
The noise that leaves Robby’s nose makes you laugh.
“Only when he’s working.”
You nod, eying Jack up and down. His silver curls and broad shoulders. The stubble that decorated his jawline. His dark hazel eyes that seem to get darker each time his eyes land on you.
“So often then?”
Robby looks up and tilts his head; “How’d you know?”
“I read people”, You shrug; “He seems like the type.”
Robby bites his cheek from saying something that’ll have Jack kicking him later, shooting him a look. You’re so accurate at reading him, it makes Robby gloat.
“Hey Doctor Abbot”, You nod your chin at him; “You ever sleep or blink or do you just…hover?”
Jack’s eyes flick back to you, the tiniest twitch of a curve at the corner of his lips as he adjusts his weight, shifting on his feet; “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
You snort, covering your mouth.
Oh you’re adorable, Jack thinks.
Robby’s still examining your sting, taking pictures on his phone cause who knows when he’ll ever see one again.
“Been meaning to visit the aquarium”, Robby says, not looking up, “My daughter likes fish.”
You light up instantly, eyes flicking between the two men, clocking Jack’s jaw twitching like he’s fighting internally on whether or not he wants to say what’s on the tip of his tongue. He eventually decides against it.
“How old is she?”, You ask.
Robby’s smile softens; “Almost two.”
You hum in response; “Fun age, usually very curious.”
Robby laughs like he couldn’t contain it; “Oh she’s very curious.”
You turn back to Jack, just as Dana pops her head into the room.
“Robby, when you’re done pawning over the jellyfish sting—trauma one needs you”, She says it with a smirk, a witty sarcastic tone with no heat behind it. Just enough to agitate him.
“Cmon Dana, this is so cool.”
Dana rolls her eyes, pointing two fingers at him; “Trauma one, now.”
She’s gone as quickly as she appeared, a sigh leaving Robby as he bows his head with a laugh, snapping his gloves off.
“That’s my cue”, He says, wheeling back in the chair and standing; “Doctor Abbot here will finish up. Get you some topical steroids and something for the pain and you’ll be good as new.”
You don’t see the wink Robby sends Jack’s way as he leaves the room, following the same path Dana had just taken.
Jack pushes off the wall, pulling a pair of gloves out and setting up everything he’ll need on the steel tray in front of him.
“I’m going to deactivate the area with some acetic acid, it’ll stop the stinging”, He begins, pulling on his gloves with a quiet smack.
“Acid?”, You ask, furrowing your brows.
Jack hums with a nod; “Don’t worry, it’s basically just vinegar. Shouldn’t hurt too much.”
You watch as he dumps the liquid carefully over your arm and hand, whatever stinging was there slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind a dull ache and general soreness.
“I’m gonna check to see if there’s any tentacles that need removed. Then we’ll get you all set up with some antihistamines and a topical corticosteroid”, He explains each step as he’s preparing it—whether it’s to ease the nerves he can sense off of you or to reassure himself—you find yourself appreciating it.
You can’t help swinging your legs a little as you watch him slide a pair of glasses onto his nose, a new pair of gloves on his hands as he grabs a pair of tweezers.
“Let me know if anything hurts”, He says.
But you’re too busy watching him.
The way he leans in close, the overhead lamp he brought over casting a slight golden hue to his curls, making them shine like silver. His features look more prominent this close up—aged in a rugged and handsome way that shows he has years of experience and stories behind him. Steady hands that hover. Sharp eyes that train on whatever he’s looking at. His brows furrow a little as he concentrates, his lips parted just slightly as he works.
“So you always pick fights with jellyfish or do you rotate through sea creatures?”, Jack asks, eyes flicking up to your face for a brief moment before returning to your arm.
You try to suppress a laugh—it doesn’t work.
“Nah, new animal each week. They’re usually pretty nice though…think that jellyfish had it out for me.”
Jack’s lip quirks at the corner of his mouth.
“What’d you do to it?”
“God nothing, they don’t have brains to know if I even did.”
Jack hums softly in response, letting you talk as he works. Committing everything you’re telling him to memory.
He lets a beat or two pass before speaking again; “Which one’s your favorite?”
You tilt your head; “My favorite what?”
“Animal, sea creature, whatever you call it.”
You can’t help the smile creeping onto your lips; “Beluga whale…name’s Arlo. He was brought in as a baby with an injured flipper about a year into me working there. I’ve pretty much helped raise him.”
Jack’s chest softens.
“He ok now?”
“Oh yeah!”, You say waving with your other hand, “He’s doing amazing! Just safer to keep him than set him out into the wild. I honestly don’t know how well he’d do with his flipper being permanently damaged.”
Jack finds himself nodding along as you talk, not realizing how long it’s been until he’s almost done tending to your arm. But he doesn’t really want to stop, or for this to end. He could listen to you talk all day.
So he lets you.
He listens intently as you talk about your job; which animals are your favorite, which ones are learning new commands and tricks, what shows you get to put on for guests. The conservation jobs you’ve been on. He watches your free hand move about as you talk—the many faces you make when—each full of passion. He finds himself enthralled by all of it.
“We also do two tours a day for guests to take them around some behind the scenes stuff, meet some of the animals”, You explain.
Jack lifts his head up, eyebrows raised at that; “Yeah? That sounds kind of interesting.”
Without a beat, you respond;
“Yeah? You should come. I’ve got tickets for this weekend you can have.”
Jack falters for a moment, forcing his brain to slow down and his breathing to continue.
“Oh that’s really thoughtful, but I’d hate to just take them, let me do something in return-“
“You’re patching me up, I think that’s enough.”
He stares at you, really stares. The unwavering look of certainty on your face, that small, smug smile at the corner of your mouth that was already doing things to him.
Then finally, he lets his shoulders drop with a sigh; “Ok.”
You perk back up instantly; “Yeah? Great!”
Jack smirks to himself as he pulls off his gloves, wheeling over to the computer stand and tossing the blue latex out. You find yourself staring a moment too long at the way his biceps flex under his scrub top—black material pulled taught against his skin and across his chest—littered with freckles; each different and unique in their own way. You’d be perfectly content counting and tracing each one.
“Think I’ll live, doc?”, You ask.
Jack’s lips twitch again; “Keep your arms away from jellyfish and I think your chances are pretty high.”
You let yourself smile, not caring how ridiculous and enthralled in him it makes you look. He was interesting.
You listen as Jack explains your discharge instructions, hands you a paper with them on it and a number to call if you need it.
“Come back if it gets really painful or infected. Keep using the topical cream I gave you and it should heal up good in no time.”
“Thank you, Doctor Abbot”, You say softly, sliding off the exam bed and letting him guide you out the door.
You don’t miss the way his hand hovers at your lower back, not quite touching, but the ghost of his warmth is there.
He nods once, head jutting towards the exit doors; “Know your way out from here?”
Like he’s offering to walk you.
“Yeah, thanks”, You smile; “Well hey, hope we can talk again sometime.”
His lips quirk; “Hopefully on better terms than this.”
“That’d be nice”, You say, knowing full well it won’t be the last time you walk through those hospital doors; “Maybe this weekend?”
Jack stills for a moment, the wheels in his brain turning before he offers a movement that’s almost a nod.
“Yeah”, He says it like he’s thinking, “Yeah, we’ll see.”
With that you’re heading towards the door with a thanking squeeze to his bicep that makes him feel like he’s a teenager again, watching as you stop and turn back towards him again.
“See you around, Doctor Abbot.”
Jesus, he was in fucking trouble.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Jack finds Robby in the break room later, hovering over a pot of hospital coffee.
“You free this weekend?”, Jack asks.
Robby quirks a brow; “What’re you asking me out?”
Jack bites his tongue, his eyes squeezing shut to compose himself; “No, I was gonna offer you these tickets I got.”
“What tickets?”
Jack sits down at the small round table with Robby in tow, passing him a steaming cup as he does.
“Remember the patient with the jellyfish sting from earlier?”, Jack asks.
Robby’s already smirking; “You mean the one that was flirting with you?”
“She wasn’t flirting-“
“Jack”, Robby chuckles; “You’re geriatric not stupid.”
“You’re geriatric and still older than me.”
Robby can feel the glare Jack shoots his way burning into the side of his head.
“What about her?”, Robby asks.
Jack sighs into his coffee; “She offered me tickets for some tour of the aquarium this weekend…they’re already in my inbox. Figured maybe you and Noelle would wanna take Nora.”
Robby shakes his head; “Nah she offered them to you man, you take them.”
“And do what? Stand around like a creep?”
“I don’t know…go?”, Robby says it like it’s obvious; “She offered you these tickets. Not me. You have to go.”
Jack doesn’t answer, just sipping on his coffee that’s starting to taste more and more like dirt with each passing day.
“She obviously likes you brother, or she wouldn’t have said anything”, Robby says.
Damn it, Jack really hated when Robby was right.
The older man sits up in his seat.
“Listen, Noelle’s out of town this weekend so it’s just me and Nora. Why don’t we go with you?”, Robby offers.
For some reason, that makes Jack relax a little.
“Careful”, Jack says with an arched brow, already clocking Robby’s enthusiasm; “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you actually like me, brother”,
“God don’t make me regret this”, Robby says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“What else am I here to do?”
Jack stands to lean against the counter, stirring his coffee and tracing the rim of the cup.
“You’d seriously go?”, He finally asks, shoulders closing in a little.
“Yeah, why not?”, Robby shrugs; “Nora loves seeing the fish and for some reason you. Plus I can play matchmaker if i’m there.”
Jack groans; “And there it is.”
“What?”
“Your ulterior motive.”
“Gotta entertain myself somehow, brother”, Robby says, smacking a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
It takes everything in him not to smack Robby right then and there.
“I hate you.”
Secretly though? Jack’s grateful and almost relieved at Robby’s offer. But he’d never live down the day he tells him that.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
“Unca ‘Ack! Unca ‘Ack! Phish!”, Nora’s little voice shrieks as she bounces it Jack’s arms, pointing to the floor to ceiling cylindrical fish tank.
They’d made it exactly five steps in from the front entrance, and Nora was already amazed. Her wide brown eyes stared at the fluorescent colors—her tiny hand pressed up against the glass—the tank lights reflecting off her face.
“Papa! Phish!”, She called out for Robby, turning her entire body abruptly in Jack’s arms, making him readjust his grip.
“Careful, Peanut”, Jack warned softly, his own eyes wide as he watched her, willing his hold on her to keep up.
“I see the fish, Munchkin”, Robby says, stepping in next to them and smiling up at the fish that swim by.
The sound of people bustles around them, other families being drug along by their own toddlers seeing something across the room. A group of teenagers off in the distance.
It smells like seawater—not in the gross dead fish way, but salty and soft—wafting through the air. It’s slightly cool inside, overhead fans and misters in certain spots with signs that say ‘Feel the Ocean!’
Jack has no doubt that kids would be absolutely sucked in by all of it.
“What time is it?”, Robby asks, eyeing his watch.
Jack beats him to it; “10:30, tour starts at noon.”
He’d looked at the schedule, of course he had.
Robby smirks knowingly; “What should we go see first?”
They find themselves in the underwater viewing tunnels—polar bears and elephant seals swimming overhead—light reflecting off the water.
Nora’s eyes are wide, pointing at each animal that swims by. Making sure Robby sees, and then Jack.
The ‘Dory tank’ quickly becomes her favorite, running as fast as her small and chubby legs will carry her almost two year old body—pulling Jack by wrapping her entire hand around two of his fingers.
He grunts in surprise, struggling to catch up for a moment before he’s laughing; “Peanut you’re gonna take me out.”
Robby claps him on the shoulder, quickly adjusting the backpack slung over his shoulders; “Don’t worry, I know CPR.”
Jack shoots him a glare; “You’re so lucky the kid’s here.”
Nora’s hands are pressed up against the glass, face as close as she can get it without actually touching it—Robby and Jack had both scolded her twice already about the germs—her small mouth falling open with a grin as big as her face.
By the time 11:30 rolled around, Jack was leading the way towards the Penguin exhibit where the tour would start. Nora was now in Robby’s arms, giving Jack’s back a break. She weighed almost nothing to him, but the constant pulling on his neck and shoulders each time she bounced or lean towards something made him a little sore.
Robby set Nora down, letting her walk over to the giant tank in front of her, Penguins swimming around at her height as they dove in and out of the water.
“Nora, smile for mommy!”, Robby called out, kneeling down.
Nora grinned as wide as she could, a penguin swimming past her just as Robby captured the photo.
“I see?”, Nora asked, already climbing into Robby’s lap where he was crouched down.
“See? Very cute, huh?”
Nora giggled, eyes on Robby’s phone before she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Mommy see?”, Nora asked.
Robby nodded; “Mommy will love it, it’s a keeper. Think it should go on the fridge when we get home?”
Nora clapped happily at the idea of that.
Meanwhile, Jack noticed the employees starting to make their way out onto the landing from the doorway to the side. Then his world froze when his eyes landed on you.
Clad in your wetsuit, a ponytail braid down your back that swished back and forth as you walked. Clinging to you perfectly. Water shoes squeaking faintly, clearly slightly wet. His heart hammered against his rib cage. He didn’t notice Robby slide in beside him, Nora still in his arms.
It didn’t take long for you to find him, and once your eyes settled on his frame, your cheeks turned pink.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
Starting a tour was absolutely second nature to you now. But you’d had nerves all day. Hell, you’d had nerves since earlier in the week when you met Jack. He’d been rattling around your brain ever since like he lived there.
When you followed your coworkers out onto the Penguin landing exhibit, you couldn’t help but let your eyes scan the group of people waiting. As soon as your eyes met his, you felt the blush creeping up your neck. Seeing the way he reacted the same, eyes unwavering and hovering over you—looking you up and down—had you biting your bottom lip in a last ditch effort to suppress a smile.
It didn’t quite work.
You offered him a wave that came off slightly shyer than you would’ve liked; but he didn’t seem to notice, and offered a wave back.
You could see the man you remembered as Robby nudging him with his elbow, eyes now trained on you as well—the little girl in his arms bouncing as she watched the Penguins.
After a quick introduction, it was your turn to talk, forcing you to finally pull your attention away and stand closer to the front.
You introduced yourself to the crowd; “But you can call me Skipper, I’ll be leading you on your tour today. Are you ready to see some animals?”
The response from families and kids around you was instant, but all you could see was Jack from the corner of your eyes; expression soft and gaze determined not to miss a thing. So the staring was an outside of work thing too, huh?
You didn’t mind. His eyes were soft in the way they were when he’d tended to your wound—like he was taking in every word you said and cataloging it for later—the same way he did with a patient’s information or a SWAT mission log.
God, you were screwed.
The tour went on smoothly, and as you talked, Jack found himself sinking deeper and deeper; like the ocean had opened up and swallowed him whole in the most peaceful and sunlit way.
He committed each fact you said to memory like his life depended on it; Octopuses have three hearts, the ocean produces 50% of earth’s oxygen, Angelfish choose one partner for life, a Blue Whale’s tongue is heavier than an entire Elephant, Dolphins are sleepwalkers, 50-80% of all life on earth is found under the ocean’s surface—he desperately wanted to seem like he knew something about your work.
You showed off starfish, turtles, dolphins. Jack watched with a childlike awe as you used simple hand signals for the dolphin, who happily obliged and did tricks for fish. He had no idea so much went into all of it.
His favorite though? Was finally getting to see Arlo the Beluga you talked so fondly about. He was huge to say the least. A permanent smile almost etched on his face.
Nora laughed when a spray of water from Arlo’s blow hole misted her face, clapping and bouncing where she was perched on Robby’s shoulder’s.
“‘Gain! ‘Gain!”
Jack—who was normally so enthused with his niece, only spared a quick smile at her before he was drawn back to you.
You with your bright smile and eyes to match as you held out different shells and artifacts. You who knew quick facts and talked so passionately about your work, you who kept glancing at him each time your eyes swept over the group of visitors in front of you.
Your heart stuttered in your chest each time you looked up to find his eyes already on you, like they never left in the first place.
─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─
By the time the tour ended in the stingray room, you were a little smug to say the least. Eyes flicking to where Jack stood each chance you got as you spoke with other guests. Taking in how he stood carefully behind Nora who was pressed up against the glass again, watching stingray’s swim by. Protective and oh so gentle.
Jack’s hand was carefully on the tot’s back as he crouched down next to her, dipping his face close to talk softly in her ear. Like he was making sure she knew all his attention was on her.
Eventually most of the guests cleared out, only a few staggering behind to check out other animals in the room. You quickly made your way over to the two doctor’s at the big tank—Jack already rising to his feet as he saw you approaching, taking Nora’s tiny hand in his.
“Well look who came”, You breathe out, smile engulfing your cheeks.
“Wouldn’t miss it”, Jack spoke.
His voice was softer than it had been in the ED, more relaxed and mellow. Like he belonged here standing with you.
“I hope it lived up to its expectations.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Jack’s smile didn’t waver, a comfortable silence drifting over the room as you both looked each other over. You in your wetsuit, Jack looking so mundane and domestic out of scrubs it hurt. His hair a little more messy than usual, no doubt from Nora playing with it.
Robby cleared his throat.
“Papa! Up!”
The small voice and noise beside you snapped you both out of your gaze, eyes flicking to the brunette man as he lifted Nora up into his arms.
“Nice to see you again, Robby”, You say, offering a small nod; “Who’s this lil girly?”
“This is Nora”, Robby beams, tucking his head more to her level; “Nor, can you say hi?”
Nora offers you a small wave, hiding her face in the crook of Robby’s neck.
“Hi Nora, I heard you like fish?”
She perks up a bit at that; “Phish?”
“Mhm”, You nod, “Wanna meet one of my friends?”
Nora’s already nodding enthusiastically as you lead them back to Arlo’s tank. He’s already hovering close to the edge, head peeking out and still smiling.
“It’s almost Arlo’s feeding time, he’ll be so happy to see us”, You speak out loud, not really sure if it’s more towards Nora or yourself.
You climb onto the landing at the edge of the tank, pulling a bucket of fish over with you, snapping a pair of gloves on.
“These are his favorite.”
Almost on cue, Arlo’s halfway out of the water, looking almost like he could clap as he opens his mouth for the fish you throw him. The water splashes, Nora giggles in Robby’s arms.
“Do ‘gain!”, She shrieks.
All three of you laugh as you happily toss another fish Arlo’s way before turning back to Nora; “Wanna pet him?”
Nora’s eyes grow so wide there’s almost no iris left, looking up to Robby like she’s asking for permission.
“Cmere, I’ll show you how”, You explain how to be gentle, guiding Robby over so they’re both close enough.
You take Nora’s tiny hand and press it flat against Arlo’s nose, letting her pat it gently. Another squeal from her tiny body, now almost vibrating with excitement.
“He’s a little slimy, isn’t he?”, You beam, nose slightly crinkled as you look between the two.
Then you look up at Jack, who’s standing with his legs wide and arms folded across his chest, so similar to the way he had been when you first met him. A small twitch at the corner of his mouth. But his eyes gave him away. His love for Nora and seeing you with her practically pouring out onto the landing, and a hint of something else entirely that you couldn’t quite place as he looked back at you.
“Mommy, ‘icture?”, Nora asks.
“Sounds like a good idea to me”, Robby says, “Do you mind?”
He’s holding his phone out to you.
“Not at all.”
You switch spots with him, letting them stand against the tank in front of Arlo, raising the phone to take the picture when Robby cuts in again.
“Jack, get in here brother.”
He hesitates for a moment, before ultimately standing on the other side of him, squishing Nora comfortably between them. Both of her arms wrap around the back of their necks as he smiles crookedly, her few tiny teeth poking out.
“Smile!”
You take a few, pausing at the one where Jack and Nora are looking at each other—bright goofy smiles that make your heart ache. You wanted to burn it into your memory. Instead you hand Robby his phone back, watching as he walks off with Nora as his phone begins to ring, leaving you alone with Jack.
He’s rocking on his feet, back on his heels as he shoves his hands in his pockets.
“So Skipper, huh?”, He’s right back to teasing.
You groan; “Coworkers gave it to me when I started, not my first choice.”
Jack shrugs; “It’s on theme. Better than fruitcake.”
You quirk a brow; “Fruitcake?”
“One of our frequent fliers gave that one to Robby.”
Jack’s small smile turns a little mischievous.
“Oh i’m never forgetting that”, You laugh.
Jack laughs too, like the whole thing is so easy.
A beat of comfortable silence passes before he speaks again;
“Thank you for inviting us, really”, He says, rubbing the back of his neck; “Nora loved it.”
You don’t hesitate; “And you?”
Jack’s mouth parts at your forwardness, that stupid little smirk twitching again.
“I thought it was…nice.”
“Nice?”
“What? Nice is good!”
“Nice is what you say when something is boring but you don’t want to say it.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t bored.”
“Could’ve fooled me, Mr. ‘it was nice’.”
Jack sighs, shaking his head as he smiles at his shoes, rocking on his heels again.
“Fine. It was really interesting. I had a good time”, He sighs, but there’s no real heat behind it, rather amusement.
“See? Was that so hard?”
“You’re trouble”, He juts, eyebrows almost in his hairline.
You bite your lip, watching as he traces your face with his eyes, his own demeanor suddenly falling serious again.
“But seriously”, He says, “Thank you for having us. I really did enjoy it.”
You nod in return; “I’m glad you came.”
“Me too.”
Jack looks over to where Robby’s standing with Nora, talking away on the phone with Noelle; a softness taking over his features again.
“You really love her, don’t you?”, You ask, following his gaze.
“Yeah”, He says; “I’d do anything for her. She’s good for him too.”
He lets a beat pass.
“Don’t tell Robby that, I’ll be out a pony.”
“A pony, huh?”
“Secret side business.”
You snort at that, desperately trying to cover your mouth but the noise had already slipped out. You except him to cringe, but instead he looks, amused? Content? Happy?
Reveling in the fact that he finally got to hear it again.
Inside Jack’s heart did a flip at the noise. Wondering how many things he could say to make you laugh like that again.
“How’s your arm?”, He asks.
You flick your gaze down to your bandage.
“Pretty good. Doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Jack nods; “That’s good. I’d hate to see you still hurt.”
Your heart stutters.
“How can I repay you…for all this?”, He asks, gesturing around.
You wave him off.
“Again, patching me up was plenty. Thank you, Doctor Abbot.”
“Jack”, He says once, “You can call me Jack.”
“Ok, Jack.”
You test it out, tongue tingling at the shape of his name. Already liking the way it sounded. Yeah, that seemed perfect. Jack.
“There’s gotta be someway I can repay you. This couldn’t have been easy to set up.”
“Really it’s fine, Jack. My treat-“
“How about dinner?”
You freeze, mouth still parted and eyes wide as he continues with a smirk;
“My treat.”
You need an excuse, something believable, because if you’re honest with yourself—you’re already falling for him; and that seems dangerous.
But you don’t find one. Secretly? You’re relieved you don’t.
“Dinner sounds perfect”, You say, and then; “Just no seafood places. Too close to work.”
“Noted”, Jack smiles, nodding gently; “How’s next Friday?”
“Friday’s perfect.”
Suddenly you’re exchanging numbers with him, watching as he saves his name in your phone and you do the same to his. Then he’s saying goodbye all too soon, walking off to join Robby and Nora again; leaving the air around you too cold and lingering of his warmth and cologne.
You wave to them as they go, smiling down at your phone, breathing hitching as the new contact name staring back up at you.
Summary: Jack was no better than Robby when it came to relationships. He moved through life after his divorce using intimacy as a distraction rather than a connection. And then… he met you.
Warning: (MDNI 18+) acquaintances to lovers, wealth advisor reader (girl boss and very successful), starts off slightly angsty (jacks deployment and leg), mentions of infidelity, emotionally constipated jack, he fucks an original character (not descriptive at all, allusions of smut only), fuckboy/commitment phobe jack? language, competency kink (jack is very turned on by your intelligence), flirting, sexual tension, jacks intense eye contact, alcohol, feelings, mutual pining, reader has a dog, mentions of men threatened by success, pet names, making out like teenagers, dirty thots, mentions of sexy time, fluff alert, domesticity, I think that’s it
A/N: There’s totally a joke/interaction in this fic that I saw on this post, and I want to emphasize how funny this is. I did not come up with this. Full credit to @tanely GIF by @pittgifs found HERE.
For 5 years, Jack had been a husband. He wore the ring, paid the bills, and was building a life with his wife.
His second deployment occurred a couple of years after he made attending, which felt like a brutal, unnecessary interruption. The deployment was a 15-month stint. He served 10. The last 5 were erased in the flash of an explosion. The concussive roar replaced time with pain. He wasn't granted a graceful homecoming; he was medically discharged, shipped back to the States for good, and now a broken piece of 'machinery'.
He arrived home on a Thursday, the details blurred by painkillers and disorientation. Jack's wife helped him to the couch after crying profusely, her touch careful, and avoiding the bulky dressing on his residual limb. When she finally announced the pregnancy a couple of days later, it had felt like a miracle. He had gotten that last home visit at the 8 month mark of his deployment, when they had been intimate together. The doctor confirmed that she was about 10 weeks along.
That baby became his reason. The thought of holding his child fueled the brutal pain of learning to walk again on a prosthetic. For 5 months, he pushed through the agony of phantom limb pain and the pitying looks he received. All because he just cared about one thing: the image of a tiny hand in his.
The confession didn't come in a fight. It came one evening, over a beautiful dinner she had cooked. He was talking about converting the spare room and about safe paints for a nursery. His voice—full of fragile desperate hope finally broke something in her.
She put her fork down. The click of ceramic on wood was the loudest sound in the world.
"Jack," she said, and her voice was terrifyingly calm. "We need to talk about the baby."
He froze, a piece of chicken halfway to his mouth. "What about the baby?"
She took a breath, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. "I don't… I don't know if it's yours."
The words hung in the air.
"W-what?" he stuttered.
"There's… there's someone else." The admission was flat, drained of all emotion except a weary finality. "Another teacher at the school. It started… after you deployed. It's… It's serious. I think I'm in love him."
Her reasoning, when she finally offered it, was delivered with a chilling simplicity. He worked too much, she explained. She admitted that she should have told him how she was feeling sooner, but she didn't know how since he was saving lives. Anyways, the point was, he was never there. He worked all the time. All the long hours at the hospital—it felt like his job always came first. Then the deployment was the nail in the coffin. She felt alone, and the other man was just… there. Present. It wasn't a grand passion, she insisted; it was an easy, gradual slide into something that felt like being seen again.
The final unraveling was a cold, clinical procedure. The test results, a single sheet of paper, held the definitive verdict: 0.0% probability of paternity. She filed the divorce papers alongside the test results. There was no discussion of custody, no debate over visitation. He lost his wife to a man he had never fucking met, and he lost a baby that had never been his to lose. All that remained was the hollow, grinding pain in a leg that wasn't there, and the silence in his sad apartment with no spare room to convert.
He was furious for years. It was easier that way. He was the wronged party, after all.
But therapy, and the grim finality of his divorce, had sanded the anger down to a cold, hard truth. She hadn’t been completely lying. The job had come first. Jack had thought that providing was love. He had been a good doctor, a good soldier, but an absent husband. Maybe he just wasn't built for marriage. Maybe his capacity for that kind of priority was broken.
Since his divorce, he was in a self-imposed exile from commitment. He dated, if you could call it that. He had casual relationships. He slept around. The first time after the divorce was nerve-wracking. It had been 2 years of "celibacy" before he met a beautiful graphic designer at a bar. In her dimly lit bedroom, the process of removing his prosthetic felt like some grotesque unveiling. His hands fumbled, his mind racing with imagined disgust. But she had just watched, her expression calm, then reached out and placed her hand over his, stilling the frantic movement. "It's okay," she said, simple as that. He truly appreciated it.
Experiences varied after that. Some women asked thoughtful, clinical questions about the amputation and the mechanics of the prosthetic. Others asked nothing at all, treating it as just another piece of clothing to be discarded. A few were awkward, their eyes flicking to it then away, their touch becoming hesitant. He learned to read the signs quickly. He preferred the ones who asked nothing; it allowed for a cleaner, more transactional intimacy. He became proficient in the art of the uncomplicated exit. A shared meal, a drink, a night in his bed or theirs, and then the gentle, firm disengagement. He was always kind, very generous, but emotionally impenetrable.
He was just as bad as Robby, but he never shit where he ate because the hospital was sacred ground, his last remaining temple of purpose and order. However, the core compulsion was the same as his buddy's: Use intimacy as a distraction, not a connection. A way to feel something without the risk of feeling everything. The relationships, such as they were, never went anywhere. He couldn't bring himself to commit. Not to a shared calendar, not to meeting friends, certainly not to the terrifying vulnerability of a future. He had done it once, with the full force of his being, and it had failed catastrophically. The memory of that failure was a more effective barrier than any physical limitation. He built a life that was professionally fulfilling with incredible friendships. Jack was, as he told himself, content. He had his work, his routines, and his pleasant physical connections here and there. It was enough. It had to be.
And then… he met you.
The hotel room smelled of stale air conditioning, cheap floral room spray, and sex. The muted glow of a floor lamp cast long shadows across the rumpled king-size bed. Jack stood by the window, his back to the fucked out form of Layla, a flight attendant based in Dallas that he had met casually a few months ago. They sometimes fucked whenever she was in town. She had taken a long layover to see her sister, who lived in Pittsburgh. They were going to go to dinner tonight. So, Layla suggested that she and Jack quickly grab drinks at her hotel bar midday. Her flight was at 7 AM tomorrow.
Jack was already pulling on his scrubs since he had 20 minutes to get to the hospital for the night shift.
On the bed, Layla stirred, the sheets rustling. She propped herself up on her elbow. He sat on the edge of the mattress, not necessarily to retreat, but to be closer as he pulled on his shoes.
"The walk of shame, but in scrubs. It's hot," she teased, watching him dress with a soft, sleepy smile on her face.
"Shame's not in my vocabulary," he quipped. Jack finished tying his shoes and didn't immediately stand. Instead, he leaned back on one arm, turning his body to face her fully on the bed.
She pouted playfully, tracing a finger along the seam of his scrubs. "Too bad you have to leave. I'm suddenly feeling a little... off. My heart's racing. Temperature's definitely elevated." She guided his hand, placing it over her bare chest just above the sheet. "Feel that? Irregular rhythm. Might need a doctor."
A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He reached out and gently hooked a finger under the edge of the sheet, tugging it just a fraction lower.
"Diagnosis: acute intoxication. Cause: exceptional company. Prescription..." He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss full of the heat they had just shared before pulling back just enough to speak against her mouth."...a strict regimen of remembering every detail of the last hour until the next dose can be administered."
"Mmm, a delayed-release treatment. Cruel." She nipped at his jaw. "What if the symptoms get worse… maybe I need to schedule a return trip?"
"You have my number," His tone was light, almost dismissive as he checked his watch. "My real patients are waiting. Try to get some good sleep tonight before your flight, Layla."
He didn't wait for a reply. He gave her one last charming… but ultimately empty smile. Jack grabbed his wallet and keys from the dresser, then quietly opened the hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, closing it softly behind him without looking back. The drive to the hospital was a quiet transition. The ghost of Layla's perfume on his scrubs faded with the cold air from the AC vent. By the time he parked in the staff garage and walked through the automatic doors of the ER, he was ready to get to work.
The day shift team was bleary-eyed, finishing notes and handing off patients, while the night shift (Jack's nightcrawlers) was slowly filtering in. Jack stood near the main nurses' station as Robby slapped a printout onto the counter between them.
"You get to stroll in just in time for mandatory fun. 'Financial Strategies for New Attendings.' Conference Room B. Starts in five. Admin wants you as the night shift lead present for 'continuity' or some other HR bullshit buzzword."
Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, his expression one of amused tolerance.
"Continuity of boredom, maybe. But I'll suffer through. Ellis formally accepted her attending position last night." A genuine, proud grin broke through his usual cool facade. It was rare for residents to stay in the same hospital. Residents usually finished training and then took attending jobs elsewhere.
"Yeah, it's official. King, too." Robby said while shuffling his own paperwork. "She went to the AM session."
"Best part of this damn job is watching the good ones climb."
"Alright, Captain Midnight." Robby clapped Jack on the shoulder, a gesture of weary camaraderie. "The ship is yours. And for God's sake, get some real coffee."
Jack turned, his gaze sweeping over Shen, who was walking in—and of course sipping on his Dunkin coffee.
"Shen. Can you handle handoff with Robby? I have to be somewhere shortly."
"Sure thing," the junior attending replied.
Shen and Robby's conversation was suddenly a rapid-fire exchange of patient statuses and pending labs. Jack stood nearby, and he caught Ellis’s eye as she entered the bay.
"Alright, people." Jack's voice cut through. "Brief intermission from the usual programming." He waited a beat for the nearby chatter to die down. "For those who haven't heard the good news—Dr. Ellis is one of our new trauma attendings!" He started the applause himself, with a few sharp, loud claps. Some of the day shift who were still here, along with the trauma night shift team (other attendings, nurses, residents, techs), joined in immediately.
Ellis offered a humble wave, but the excitement in her eyes was undeniable.
"C'mon, Ellis," Jack started, "Your first official duty is absorbing an hour of financial literacy. Consider it your 'welcome to a real salary' tax."
Ellis groaned.
"Look, it's not all bad. It's the 'how not to blow your first attending paycheck on stupid shit' talk. Boring, but useful." He began guiding her toward the doors, then paused, looking back at Dr. Shen. He was already immersed in the patient handoff with Robby.
"Also, Shen? Make sure to do the chant. It's important for the team."
Shen didn't look up from his tablet, giving a dismissive wave. "Yes, yes, I'll do the chant."
As Jack and Ellis moved out of immediate earshot, Shen leaned closer to the team, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please say we did the chant," he rolled his eyes. "The old man will be so upset with me if we skip it. Night crawlers, whoo!"
Robby snorted a laugh, shaking his head as he handed over another chart. Meanwhile, Jack led Ellis into the quieter hallway, the distant, half-hearted echo of a team chant (or perhaps the promise of one) fading behind them
"Congratulations are still in order, Ellis. Seriously. You earned every bit of it."
"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. It still doesn't feel entirely real."
He chuckled, pushing open the door to Conference Room B. The room was set up classroom-style, with a presenter at the front facing away and clearly setting up. There was a scattering of other newly minted attendings from various departments at the hospital. He was about to slump into his own seat when the presenter at the front of the room turned from the projector screen to face the audience. Jack stopped mid-motion, his hand still on the chair back.
He registered a woman's face. And… it wasn't just attractive; it was fucking disarming.
Gloria's voice cut in from the side, and she introduced you by name. She explained that you were a wealth manager at one of those fancy schmancy firms, "…our presenter,"
Then, as Gloria spoke, Jack's gaze inadvertently dipped. You were leaning slightly against the podium. He caught the elegant line of a knee-length charcoal skirt and the subtle shift of fabric. He looked away immediately, a reflexive, almost guilty flick of his eyes back to your face. He didn't mean to notice. He really didn't want to be that guy.
"…Brown undergrad…" Gloria continued.
You smiled then, a brilliant, genuine flash of white teeth as you acknowledged Gloria's introduction. The smile transformed your face from severe beauty into something warm, approachable, and utterly captivating. It reached your eyes, crinkling the corners slightly.
Gloria kept rattling off your credentials and the firms you had worked at,"…Harvard Business School, and more than a decade on Wall Street before pivoting…"
Jack slowly sank the plastic chair, which creaked under his weight. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but there was a specific potent alchemy taking place here… It was the razor-sharp focus in your eyes meeting the unexpected warmth of your smile. It was wrapped in a package of undeniable sophisticated allure. You were intoxicating.
"...to wealth management. We're truly lucky to have her."
People started clapping, and you gave a gracious nod, your hands resting lightly on the podium. You waited for Gloria to sit down before your gaze swept over the attendees—lingering for a half-second on Jack's frankly stunned face before moving on.
What the fuck were you doing in PTMC's sad little basement conference room?
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, his attention now fully locked on the front of the room.
Ellis smirked.
The polite applause died down. You let the silence hang for a moment before you spoke.
"Before, I get started. Everyone in this room... without a single shred of exaggeration... is a superhero." You let the word hang there, your voice thick with sincerity. You shook your head slightly, as if marveling at the fact. "You are walking into rooms every single day where people are at their most terrified and their most vulnerable. You hold hands and deliver unbearable news with more grace than should be humanly possible." Your own hands came together in front of you with your fingers loosely interlaced. Congratulations. Not just on becoming attendings—which is a massive, huge accomplishment. But… for choosing this path every single day. And most importantly... thank you. Thank you so much for saving lives. Every. Damn. Day."
Jack's usual cynical expression was wiped clean. He looked at the new attendings around him who were clapping and high fiving. Tired faces lit up with smiles. Some were surprised, and a few even blinked back sudden moisture in their eyes.He had sat through a dozen of these mandatory workshops over the years. Every other speaker had just always clicked to the first slide, diving straight into compound interest and loan amortization. It was always transactional. Cold. No one had ever started by calling them superheroes. No one had ever thanked them.
"Alright, let's be honest for a second." A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "I know what you're all thinking. What the fuck am I doing here?"
A ripple of low, relieved laughter spread through the room. Jack, who had been staring at you, let out a short, surprised chuckle at your language.
"And I don’t blame you," you smiled, feeding off of it. "But here's the thing—you all are about to experience the most bizarre financial whiplash of your lives. For years, you make what, resident pay? Which is basically no money. You survive on caffeine, cafeteria mystery meat, and the grim satisfaction of keeping people alive." You paused, letting the nods of agreement continue. "And then, almost overnight, you become attendings. And suddenly, you're making… a shit-ton of money. It's fantastic… but it's also terrifying. Let me use my cousin as an example—he's a cardiothoracic surgeon, and he's definitely my aunt's favorite child."
The room laughed again.
"So, my cousin finished his fellowship a few years ago. He got the fancy title, and the massive paycheck landed. First thing he did? He bought a beautiful house. A $1.5 million dollar house. Because he deserved it, right? He earned it. Then, surprise, his wife got pregnant—baby on the way. Amazing. But now, between the monster mortgage, the prenatal everything, the life insurance he suddenly needed, and the new Volvo he just had to have… the pile of 'deserved' expenses started looking a lot like a mountain of debt. The money that felt infinite suddenly had very real, very large holes in it."
Your gaze swept the room, landing briefly on a few nodding faces before settling, almost casually, on Jack. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, completely still. His eyes were locked on yours.
"He's a brilliant surgeon. He can crack a chest and rebuild a heart. But he had zero framework for what to do with the money that skill generated. That's the disconnect. That's the whiplash. And nobody talks about it, because talking about money feels… vulgar. Especially when you've just started making it."
The room was quiet, absorbing the story. A new attending in Ortho near the middle, her hair in a messy bun and a coffee stain on her scrubs, raised her hand tentatively.
"Sorry, but... is your cousin okay? Like, financially? Did he have to sell the kid?"
You laughed. It was a genuine hearty sound that Jack wanted to hear more of.
"See? This is why I like doctors. Morbidly practical. No, the toddler was not liquidated as an asset, though I did float the idea when they started looking at daycare pricing." More laughter occurred. You were funny. He liked that. "But seriously, yes, he's fine. We mapped out his plan together when he realized he was in over his head."
A new attending in Peds with folded arms spoke up, his tone curious rather than anxious.
"Okay, but practically speaking, how? How did he actually get out of the hole?"
"The 'how' doesn't really matter," you smiled, tapping the podium lightly with your fingertips. "The point is: don't do what he did. Don't let the first big paycheck trick you into believing you're immune to reality. However, you should absolutely enjoy your life. You've earned a nice dinner. Buy the good whiskey. Get your own fucking place. No more roommates, and no more tiptoeing around or scheduling conflicts when you want to..." your expression turned sly "well, let's just say when you want your bed to be used for more than just sleeping," you delivered with a wink.
The line hit like a lightning bolt. The room didn't just laugh; it erupted. A wave of hoots, hollers, and howls of laughter crashed over you. Someone in the back let out a long, loud wolf-whistle. Jack's eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape in genuine shocked delight. He looked from you to the roaring crowd and back, shaking his head, but the grin breaking across his face was one of pure, unadulterated approval. Gloria, however, had reached a new level of discomfort. But in the end, she gave a single slow nod as if acknowledging the practical (if indelicate) point about privacy. You grinned, letting the cheer wash over you.
You held up a hand, eventually quieting everyone down.
"Here is your first, your only, and non-negotiable financial directive: Obliterate your medical school loans as fast as you can. Be ruthless." You clicked the remote. A stark, simple statistic filled the screen behind you.
MEDIAN MEDICAL SCHOOL DEBT: $200,000+
AVERAGE INTEREST OVER LIFE OF LOAN: ~$150,000
The numbers sat there, heavy and silent.
"That's not just debt," you continued. "That's a second mortgage on your future, with a variable rate on your soul. Every dollar you pay off early isn't just a dollar. It's a dollar plus the 6, 7, 8 percent interest." You clicked to a new slide. This one had two simple, contrasting images. On the left: a sleek, new car. On the right: a bold, red "$35,000" with a line through it, next to a calculation showing how many months of loan payments that sum could erase.
"So, before any major purchase—" you paced a few steps to the side, “—you should ask yourself: Is this a payment I could have thrown at this debt instead?" As you finished the sentence, you reached for the top button of your tailored blazer, popping it open. You shrugged it off your shoulders (the gesture was really one of shedding formality), revealing a crisp, well-fitted white blouse underneath.
You turned back to the room, rolling your shoulders. "Alright," you said, planting your hands on your hips. "Ask me fucking anything."
Nearly every hand in the room shot up immediately. And there, among a forest of arms…was also Jack's.
The room had emptied, the buzz of conversation fading into the hallway. You were carefully coiling the HDMI cable when Gloria appeared at your elbow.
"Really, truly, thank you again. That landed perfectly. We'll definitely be in touch for next year's cycle."
"My pleasure, Gloria. Really. This group was fantastic."
You shared a quick smile as she headed out, and you zipped up your laptop bag and reached for your blazer. Jack was pretending to check his phone, but his posture was stiff. He looked up, made eye contact, then looked down again. Just as you slung your bag over your shoulder and took a step toward the exit, he moved, cutting a path to intercept you near the door.
"Hey. Uh. Sorry to—just wanted to say, that was... really great." His real foot tapped a silent, rapid rhythm against the floor "Seriously. I've sat through a lot of these. They're usually a special kind of torture. That was... actually useful."
You leaned your shoulder lightly against the doorframe, tilting your head. "A special kind of torture, huh? Was it the boring breakdown of mutual funds versus ETFs, or was it the shitty PowerPoint animations on bond yields?"
Jack's composure seemed to fracture. His mouth opened, then closed, and he shook his head in a sharp frustrated motion.
"No, I just mean—" he started, his voice tighter now, but you didn't let him finish.
You cut him off (not with words) but with a soft, understanding laugh. You held up a hand with your palm out, motioning a gentle 'you're fine' signal.
"I know. I know what you meant. This stuff isn't exactly the sexiest topic."
"Look, I... I really did appreciate the session. Seriously. You could tell the other attendings were actually listening for once, not just scrolling on their phones." He let out a short, awkward chuckle, his hand rising to rake nervously through his slightly unruly curls. He left his hand tangled there for a moment. "Hell, even Gloria looked awake." As he spoke, his other hand, the one not buried in his hair, found the seam of his scrubs pants, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric in a quick, anxious rhythm. He caught himself doing it and abruptly shoved both hands into his pockets. An hour ago, Jack had been balls deep inside a woman. His hands knew exactly what they were doing. Why were they fumbling now, all over the place? He was standing here like a fucking intern who just got paged to a code blue for the first time. Why couldn't he have just said the workshop was good and walked away?
He decided to change topics.
"So, how did you get involved with this?" he asked curiously. "Not exactly the typical volunteer gig."
"My mother was in a car accident last year. A bad one. PMTC took care of her." You paused, the memory clear in your eyes. "The care was... it was everything. The nurse who was on my mom's case mentioned the hospital was looking for volunteers for financial literacy outreach. It seemed like a good way to help the hospital and pay it forward."
"How's your mom doing now?" he inquired with genuine concern. He didn't want to ask specifics just in case it was a triggering question. However, Jack noticed the slight, almost imperceptible widening of your eyes—a flicker of surprise at the question.
"Incredible, thanks for asking."
He nodded slowly, filing away the good piece of news in a place that usually stored harder things.
"Who was the nurse?"
"Dana Evans."
At the mention of the name, a warm smile broke across Jack's face, transforming his previously tense expression.
"Dana's great. I'm glad she was on your case. She practically runs the damn place. He shook his head slightly. "No, she does run it. We just pretend we're in charge."
The sound of your soft giggle at his comment made him feel like he was on top of the world.
"So, if she runs the place... what do you do?"
"I'm Dr. Abbot. Um. Jack." He extended his hand toward you, his movement now steady and sure. "Night shift chief senior attending.
"Nice to meet you," you shook his hand. He fell into step beside you as you both moved out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway of the administrative wing.
"Can I get your number?" He blurted it out, the question cutting through the comfortable silence. The moment the words were airborne, he seemed to recoil from his own abruptness. "I—uh—mean your work number," His steps faltered for a half-second. You turned your head to look at him, and a smirk touched your lips. "I've actually been... thinking about restructuring some things. My portfolio's a little too conservative, maybe." He gave a small shrug, trying to make the lie sound smooth. "Could use a second opinion."
"The minimum account sizes we usually work with are usually $2 million," you stated, your voice devoid of inflection, simply stating a fact. "The clients we typically work with are generally those with a minimum net worth of $15 million or more."
Jesus Christ. The fact that the hospital landed you as a speaker was a miracle.
"Oh." The sound was a soft exhale, all the air leaving his lungs. "Yeah. I... I definitely don't fit that criteria." He swallowed, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "At least not the ladder."
"Not the latter," you repeated with an intrigued murmur. "Interesting clarification, Dr. Abbot."
"Jack." The correction was immediate. "Please. Just Jack."
Without a word, you shifted your laptop bag on your shoulder, unzipped a compartment, and retrieved a sleek matte black business card holder.
"Like I said—Jack," you emphasized his name. "I really respect PMTC. What they did for your mom... that matters to me. So here's my offer… forget the minimums. That's for my other clients." You gestured dismissively, as if swiping those imposing figures off a whiteboard, and then extracted a single card and held it out to him between two fingers. He took the card, his fingers brushing against yours, and read your title:
Senior Vice President, Group Director | Private Wealth Management
"You can call the number there. My executive assistant handles my calendar." Your tone was even and very to the point. "She can schedule a high-level consult. We can discuss personalized investment strategies that align with your financial goals and long-term priorities. And then, based on that, I can personally recommend you to financial advisors I trust. People who are good, ethical, and who won't treat you like a small fish. People who can actually help you build what you want."
He looked at you then, his gaze holding yours just a moment too long for it to be purely about finances. He didn't need advice. He had a VA financial planner he trusted implicitly. Jack just needed a reason (any fucking reason) to see you again, and this was the one he'd grabbed onto. He didn't see a ring on your finger, and that didn't necessarily mean you were single, but... fuck, he hoped it meant that you were.
"How much would this cost me?" he asked, the question rough. "Quite frankly, I don't think I can afford you."
"It's on the house."
He shook his head, a stubborn, flustered set to his jaw. "I can't accept that. It's... too much. I can't just take your time for free."
"Consider it my investment in some good karma, then," you murmured, shooting him a deliberate flirty wink.
You turned before he could formulate a response, and Jack simply watched you walk away. And yes, his eyes tracked the sway (and fucking) gorgeous, maddening curve of your ass in that skirt. But as the distance grew, the feeling that settled over him was confusing. It wasn't just lust. He wanted to know you. He wanted to understand the mind behind those sharp eyes. He wanted to know what you read, what you hated, what you dreamed about. It was a wanting that felt dangerously like the beginning of something… and it fucking terrified him.
You hated admitting that when your executive assistant, Pam, had put the call sheet on your desk with 'Dr. Jack Abbot - Personal Finance Consult' scribbled in the margin, your pulse had done a stupid, traitorous little jump. You had clocked him during the workshop because while the other attending checked their pagers or doodled on handouts, his eyes (those fucking intense hazel orbs) had been fixed on you. Not on your PowerPoint slides, not on the bullet points about 401(k) rollovers, but on you. He was listening with a focus so absolute that it had felt like a physical weight in the room. It had thrown you off your rhythm a couple of times. And when he talked to you… that brief, 5-minute exchange at the end of the session had left you feeling flustered and giddy in a way you hadn't experienced since… god, since forever.
You probably stared at his name on your call sheet for a full thirty seconds before you might have manipulated your schedule. So, calmly, you told Pam to slot him in for the following Thursday at 2 PM, knowing full well that the Thompson meeting was supposed to be there. But old man Thompson had cancelled at the last minute to play golf, and you saw an opening. You could have (should have) filled it with the Henderson portfolio deep-dive. That was the responsible, professional move. Instead, you told Pam to push Henderson back a week with a flimsy excuse about needing more data. A frivolous and utterly uncharacteristic decision.
And now, sitting across from Jack in your office, you were feeling an unprofessional schoolgirl rush of heat and light-headedness. It wasn't just his handsome face. It was the way he was looking at you again. His eye contact wasn't polite; it was intense. When you explained defensive portfolio strategies, his gaze didn't flick to the charts on your monitor. It stayed locked on your eyes, as if he were trying to decode a secret language written in your pupils. When you asked about his risk tolerance, he held that gaze, his answer measured, but his eyes... his eyes were speaking volumes you couldn't quite translate. It was unnerving.
You finished the session on autopilot, sliding the printed portfolio summary across the desk to him. "These are my initial recommendations, Jack. Based on our discussion, a balanced, moderate-growth approach seems appropriate."
He finally glanced down at the summary, his long fingers tracing the edge of the document without picking it up.
"You're in a remarkably strong position," you continued. "You're only in your 40s, with no debilitating debt, solid dual income streams from your profession and the rental property you purchased a few years ago. Your apartment is paid off. Frankly, you have the capacity and the time horizon to be more aggressive. Some of the capital you're currently parking in ultra-conservative savings vehicles could be working much harder for you."
When you finished, he was quiet for a long moment. Which made sense. Financial disclosure was intimate in ways people rarely acknowledged. It wasn't like revealing a secret; it was more like handing someone the keys to your choices, your fears, your discipline, or lack thereof. It represented decisions made, priorities chosen, and risks taken or avoided.
Since he wasn't a formal client with a contract, you had asked him to provide rough numbers and estimates (a ballpark) for your initial assessment since you wanted to respect his privacy.
Your assessment: Jack Abbot was doing just fine. More than fucking fine didn't begin to cover it.
"You're very persuasive…And your assessment is... uncomfortably accurate," he grunted out.
You slid a paper across the desk, placing it deliberately on top of the printed summary. "These are three advisors I respect. They're more... entrepreneurial in their approach. They would likely recommend shifting a significant portion of your low-yield holdings into sectors with higher volatility but substantially higher long-term growth potential."
He ran a hand through his silvering hair—a gesture you were noticing he did a lot. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Sure."
"I have a financial advisor," he admitted.
Your eyebrow arched instinctively, a silent question hanging in the space between you.
"Apparently, a not so great one. Or at least, a deeply complacent one." He let out a short, frustrated sigh. "What you just did in 30 minutes… you're obviously very, very good at what you do."
You appreciated his compliment. "Well, that's what second opinions are for. Even the most established plans can benefit from a fresh perspective."
"No… I probably need to let him go and find someone new." Jack's gaze dropped from yours for a split second before coming back. "But, that's not it. I—uh only asked for your business card because—I really wanted to see you again." Then you saw it—a faint, warm flush creeping up the column of his neck, staining the skin above his crisp collar.
You leaned back in your chair.
"What a bold assumption. How do you know I'm single?" you asked, your voice a mix of amusement and direct challenge.
He didn't flinch. The blush on his neck seemed to stabilize, replaced by a look of quiet confidence. "The company website. The 'Our Team' section." He paused, letting the admission settle. "It ended with saying that you love iced caramel latte's—which respectfully isn't real coffee. It's sugar," you smiled at his dry assessment, "—enjoy playing pickleball with your friends, and are a dog mom to your 7-year-old Australian shepherd." His smile grew. "There was no mention of a partner. I checked. Thoroughly."
You felt a faint warm heat rise to your cheeks, and before you could stop it, your teeth caught your bottom lip. Your professional facade was crumbling, and for the first time in a long time, you didn't rush to rebuild it. Finally, you released your lip, a faint, tingling sensation remaining where your teeth had pressed.
"That's a rather aggressive form of due diligence, Jack," you teased, feeling an eager warmth in your chest.
"I-I was hoping that I could, uh, take you out sometime? If that's something you would even consider," he asked in a husky voice that felt too intimate for inside your office.
"Yes. I would like that." Your voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.
"Good. That's... really good."
You were on FaceTime with your best friend, Mya, phone propped up against a stack of books on your dresser while you rifled through your closet. The screen showed her lounging on her couch with a glass of wine, already mid-rant about your outfit choices.
"Girl, if you're trying to get fucked on the second date, you need to step up your game," she said, pointing dramatically at the camera. "That black dress makes you look like you're going to work. Try the red one."
You sighed, holding up a red dress against your chest. "This one?"
"Closer, but still corporate. Where's that lace top I gave you? The black camisole with the thin straps?"
You pulled it from the back and held it up. "Really? You realize it's two sizes too big for my chest, right?
She laughed. "Okay fair. Skip that."
"Must be nice having perfect tits," you teased, slipping on another (shorter and skimpier) dress you thought of and turning for her approval. "How's this?"
"Yes!" she snapped. "Now we're fucking talking. Dr. Night Shift is going to forget how to speak when he sees you in that."
You posed, one hand on your hip. "You're acting like this is a sure thing."
"Honey, your ass in that dress is to die for."
"I guess," you muttered.
The memory of last week flashed through your mind. Jack had kissed you in his car after your first date, like he wanted to devour you with his hands gripping your waist and his tongue sliding hot against yours. The second you invited him inside your place—he froze up. He pulled back just enough to mumble something about covering a shift for his friend and colleague Robby in the morning. Jack looked equal parts frustrated and almost…relieved? After he walked you to the door (such a gentleman), you went home alone, turned on, and were slightly confused.
The good news was that he was an immaculate kisser. The bad news was that you didn't know if he knew how to use his equipment. You were old enough not to need a 3 date minimum. Dating was hard enough without wasting time. Sometimes, you just wanted a good fuck, whether it led anywhere or not. Sadly, your past experiences with men had been mostly disappointing (emotionally, at least), so you preferred knowing early if the sex was bad rather than dragging things out with polite waiting. No more pretending to be coy when you knew what you needed.
"Uh…hello?" Mya said, waving on screen. "You spaced out."
"Just remembering how he kissed me and then totally fucking bailed."
"Classic mixed signals. Tonight you cut through that shit. Wear that dress, and if he hesitates again… tell him your pussy has a schedule too."
You snorted.
"Did you buy your tickets yet?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes."
"It's just not the same city without you. I miss you."
"I wouldn't miss your opening for anything," you said, and meant it. The grand opening of her gallery was coming up, and you had already marked the date in red on your calendar. You'd been counting down since the day she officially signed the papers on the space. Mya had worked toward this moment for years. Gallery assistant, then manager, then curator. And now, finally, she was a gallerist with her own gallery.
You missed her a lot. She was always begging you to move back to Manhattan. She was relentless about it
"Come home," she would say.
The thing was, you had spent nearly your entire adult life chasing that 80-100 hour grind in investment banking. Mya had never experienced the 5 AM wake-ups for 6:30 client calls, or the weeks without sunlight, or that particular kind of exhaustion that made you forget to call your family back for almost two weeks straight. In an immigrant family, that was unforgivable—they genuinely had been worried you had been kidnapped, and your overprotective father flew in to check on you.
You'd made the pivot 3 years ago into wealth management, and you now had a way more predictable schedule. Suddenly, staying in an expensive city didn't make sense anymore. Moving back to Pittsburgh meant giving up a lot (your incredible Chelsea apartment and even more incredible friends): the skyline, the neighborhood bars where everyone knew your name, the rooftop where you had watched a thousand sunsets, and fuck, the feeling of being in the center of everything. But it meant gaining something too: your family. Sunday dinners. Your mama knowing you were eating real food. Your old friends who still lived here, who got what it meant to be from here, and to be a yinzer in your bones.
Being home had given you back something you didn't realize you had lost over the years: yourself
"I miss you too," you said, watching her nod on the small screen.
"Wait, wait, wait—" she leaned closer to her screen. "Lose the bra."
You reached up and slipped the straps off your shoulders. The bra came free from under your dress in one smooth motion, and you set it aside. Your hands slid inside the neckline, cupping your bare breasts directly. You lifted and squeezed them, adjusting the soft flesh to sit just right in the dress. Once you were satisfied, you winked at her.
She let out a low whistle, then shook her head with a wicked grin. "Go get laid, honey."
Jack walked you to your door, his hand resting at the small of your back. The kiss started soft but quickly deepened, his tongue sliding against yours as he pressed you against the doorframe. His hands found your ass, squeezing firmly while his mouth moved to your neck.
You fumbled with your keys, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. "We can take this inside."
Jack hesitated. "I should probably get home."
You pulled back slightly, studying his face. Your brows drew together as you searched his expression, trying to read what was going on behind those eyes. The way he kissed you made your stomach flip, but the sudden pause left you uncertain. You bit your lower lip, the same nervous habit you'd had in your office when he first admitted he wanted to see you again. Your fingers stayed loosely hooked in his belt loops, not quite letting go.
"What's going on?" you asked, your head tilting as you searched his striking face for an answer.
"What do you mean?"
"Look," you cut in, voice sharp with slight frustration, "is there a problem here? You can tell me if you're not into me like that, but your hands on my ass are telling a different story."
Jack's hands stayed on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "I am very into you. I just—"
"You just what?" you pressed.
Jack hesitated, his eyes looking almost green under your front porch light. "I don't want to rush things."
You let out a small laugh, "Rush? Jack, I'm not some teenager. I'm a grown woman. If you want to fuck my brains out. I'm not exactly offended. The feeling is mutual."
He blinked, clearly thrown, cheeks flushing. "You... really just say what you're thinking, don't you?"
"Yeah," you shrugged. "I guess I do."
He just stood there not responding for quite some time, and suddenly the heat of the moment had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, awkward residue. You pulled away, detangling yourself from his loose grip, and turned toward your front door.
"Well," you said, your voice flat and drained of all its earlier fire. "Um. Okay. These things don't always work out. Have a nice night."
Jack stood in the entryway, watching your back as you fumbled with the lock, and felt something crack open in his chest. The sharp edge of your words—these things don't always work out—hit harder than he expected. He was being honest. He wasn't trying to rush things because he just legitimately didn't know how to date anymore. A lot of women he'd been with since his ex-wife had started the same way: a first meeting, then sex within hours—sometimes a date (or fuck again) afterwards. Or a Layla situation. He wasn't proud of the string of one-night stands that had accumulated over the years, but he was always responsible about it. Jack tested regularly and never took unnecessary risks.
In today's day and age (when dating seriously), was he supposed to wait a certain number of dates before trying to get physical? Or months? He once read an article about a woman who wouldn't sleep with a guy until he hit the 90-day mark. Jack was willing to become best friends with his right-hand to be respectful and wait for you.
"Wait," he said, the word coming out way more desperately than intended. "Sweetheart… please let me explain."
You paused, one hand still on the deadbolt, and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Your expression was carefully neutral, but he could see the disappointment flickering in your face. "I'd rather do this without standing in heels," you said, with a sigh that sounded like pure exhaustion. It made him feel like an asshole. "You can come inside, but this is not an invitation for anything more," you turned the key and pushed the door open, "as you've effectively killed the mood," you muttered under your breath.
He heard you.
Goddammit. He had actually managed to fuck this up before it had even properly started.
Suddenly, a storm of white and tan fur exploded into the entryway. It skidded to a halt, placing itself squarely between you and Jack. It started barking at Jack with the kind of territorial intensity that made him take an instinctive step back. The dog's hackles were up, protective, and Jack realized with a sinking feeling that even your dog knew he messed up.
"Remmy, sit," you commanded, your voice dropping into a hard, authoritative tone.
Remmy immediately dropped his rear end to the floor, his barking ceasing mid-sound, though his eyes (one blue and one brown) remained fixed very suspiciously on Jack's face.
"Good boy," your voice shifted into something soft and soothing. "It's okay, sweetie," you murmured, kneeling to kiss the top of Remmy's head, your fingers scratching behind his ears. "This is Dr. Abbot. He's just gonna be here for a little bit."
Fuck, he had really messed this up. You were calling him Dr. Abbot again.
"He's harmless," you assured Jack, your hand still gentle on Remmy's head. The dog's tail had started a tentative wag, "Just curious about new people."
Jack's knees cracked slightly as he lowered himself to Remmy's level, mirroring your posture. Up close, he could smell the dog—that warm, earthy scent mixed with whatever shampoo you used on him.
"Hey there, buddy," Jack said quietly, his voice stripped of its usual confidence. If the dog hated him, this was truly over. He extended his hand slowly, letting Remmy sniff his fingers before attempting to touch him. When the dog's tail continued its tentative wag, Jack's fingers found the soft fur behind Remmy's other ear—the opposite side from where your hand currently rested.
Okay, this was a cute fucking dog.
The thought hit him unexpectedly as Remmy's tail picked up momentum, the wag becoming less tentative and more genuine. Jack found himself smiling (actually smiling) at the way the dog's whole back end wiggled with the effort of it, like his tail alone couldn't contain whatever enthusiasm he'd decided to extend to a stranger.
The fur behind Remmy's ears was softer than he'd expected. Impossibly soft. Jack's thumb brushed against it again, and the dog leaned slightly into his touch, which shouldn't have felt like a small victory, but it absolutely did.
"I'm going to take him outside to the backyard so he can go nuts," you announced, as you stood back up, giving Remmy one last pat, and guided him past Jack. Remmy followed, but not without giving a final curious glance over his shoulder at Jack.
"Make yourself at home," you pointed down the hall. "The living room is straight ahead. I'll be back."
Jack walked forward and suddenly found himself standing alone in what was unmistakably a gorgeous space.
High ceilings with crown molding, hardwood floors that were softened by a patterned Persian rug in deep reds and indigos that gleamed under the soft glow of table lamps with cream-colored shades. The furniture was a mix of modern and vintage; a rich blue velvet sofa faced an antique fireplace with a white marble surround, and above it hung a piece of abstract piece of art. There were throw pillows in rich jewel tones scattered across the couch, and a soft-looking cashmere blanket was draped over one arm.
But what caught Jack's attention was the wall to his left.
Your vinyl collection was extensive. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, each record spine carefully organized, and even from a distance, Jack could see the quality of the collection. He moved closer without thinking, his eyes running over the names. It was a collection that refused to be confined to a single era or genre, each spine representing a different mood, a different story, and a different world. There were a ton of artists he didn't recognize as well.
Yet the vinyl was only part of it. The shelves continued across the adjacent wall, now lined with books. Finance textbooks dominated one section—dense, technical volumes with titles that made his head spin. Of course, you had a ton of practical money management books. He also noticed that you read a lot of legal thrillers, autobiographies (some of the same from his own bookcase), and had an extensive collection of cookbooks. It painted a picture of someone endlessly curious—someone who could dive deep into fiction one moment and lose themselves in a stranger's life story the next, only to emerge craving something beautiful to cook.
Next to your books was a shelf of framed photographs. Jack found himself drawn to them, and he was in the process of leaning in when one image made him do a double-take.
There you were, several years younger, standing beside former President of the United States Barack Obama at what looked like a gala. In another frame, you were laughing with a renowned philanthropist he recognized from the news, both of you holding champagne flutes. Candid shots of you laughing with friends, a woman he assumed was your sister, you holding Remmy when he was a puppy, and a picture of you with your arms wrapped around an older couple who had the same warm smile.
His eyes snagged onto another frame. Holy fucking shit, was that a picture of you, Roger Federer, and Rafael Nadal? You looked deep in conversation at what looked like a fundraiser—you had told him you were a big tennis fan.
Jack's mind spun back to your first date. You had mentioned your time in New York, your investment banking days, but you were casual about it in a way that now struck him as deliberately downplayed. He didn't know much about finance—his expertise was in medicine, not markets, but he had a feeling that you were the best at what you did. At your office, he had noticed your back-to-back rankings on your wall from Forbes' Top America's Top Women Wealth Advisors List. The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned just as you came down the hallway, Remmy trotting alongside you.
You had changed.
The dress (that had been driving him slowly insane) was gone. In its place were soft, oversized light green pajamas that looked so comfortable. Your feet were bare. Freshly painted toenails in a deep burgundy. You had washed off most of your makeup, and somehow you looked even more beautiful—more real.
You settled onto the couch just as Jack moved to sit beside you. Before he could, Remmy wedged himself against your side, curling up possessively and taking up more space than his small frame should have. Jack chuckled and crossed to sit in one of the opposite chairs instead, making himself comfortable across from where you sat. The cushions were soft and smelled faintly of lavender.
"So," you said, your voice neutral. "Explain."
"We haven't really talked about previous relationships much," he started, running his hands over his thighs. "I know I told you I was divorced—"
"You did," you confirmed, and there was no judgment in your tone, but there was a firmness that made it clear you were listening closely.
So, he told you the story, which he hadn't really shared with anyone in a very long time. He let the words tumble out… the whole ugly truth of his marriage. "And well, I haven't really been in a serious relationship since," he said after finishing talking. Your arms were still crossed, but your expression had shifted completely. The disappointment was gone, replaced by wide-eyed, stunned disbelief. Your lips parted slightly.
"Holy shit," you breathed, the words hushed. "That's… that's like some Maury Povich shit."
He rubbed a hand over my face. "Ugh. Yeah, I guess."
Then, without another word, you stood up. You just turned and walked out of the living room, leaving him sitting there. Great. He had overshared, and now you were gone? He heard a cabinet open and close in what he assumed was the kitchen. Glass clinked softly. His confusion deepened. Were you getting a glass of water? Preparing to politely ask him to leave?
Jack looked down at his hands, the weight of the entire disastrous evening pressing down on him. Then, he heard your footsteps returning. You walked back into the living room, but you weren't empty-handed. In one hand, you held two heavy-bottomed crystal tumblers. In the other, a bottle of Highland Park. You didn't look at him as you set the glasses down on the coffee table with a soft, definitive clink. You popped the cork, the sound loud in the quiet room, and began to pour. A generous two fingers in each glass. You slid one glass across the table toward him, then picked up the other.
"Bottom's up."
You took a slow sip, your gaze never leaving his over the rim of the glass. Then, you lowered your glass, holding it loosely in one hand. "That's a hell of a story. I thought my ex fucking sucked."
"What happened with your ex?"
You let out a short laugh through your nose. "Nothing like that."
He took a hearty gulp of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed, before turning his full attention back to you. His jeans were worn in just the right way, and the simple t-shirt stretched across his shoulders in a manner that was distractingly good. God, this man was fine as hell.
"Why don't you tell me about it?" Jack said, leaning forward just slightly, and resting his forearms on his spread knees. "I think it's only fair."
The memory rose up, sharp and sour. "I was engaged once."
"Engaged?" Jack's eyebrows shot up.
"Yeah. My fiancé," you said the word like it tasted of regret, "We met in business school—he went to work at his father's firm after we graduated because he couldn't land anything. I however had gotten a great offer from a reputable firm after a million interviews. It was a pretty cool gig, and over time..." you shrugged. "I could just feel it. His resentment. The quiet little digs he made at me."
You remembered the way he would change the subject when you talked about a win at work. You started hiding things. Stopped telling him about promotions, about big deals. You made yourself smaller… to make him feel 'better.' Your sister hated him from day one. Called him a dipshit with a trust fund. Your parents... they tolerated him. For your sake. 'We don't get it, but it's your life.' They had once told you.
"When he proposed, it felt so half-assed," you took a slow sip, the burn doing nothing to chase away the old sadness. "We were at some overpriced steakhouse he picked because he thought it was 'classy.' No knee, just him sliding a ring box across the tablecloth and saying "we might as well" like he was closing a business deal." The memory tightened your chest. "Which is the thing that really gets me—I'll never get that moment back, you know? That should have been special. And he made it feel... mediocre. Like I was a consolation prize he settled for." You finally looked up from your glass, meeting Jack's eyes again. The raw understanding of pain you saw there, without a trace of pity, was more potent than the whiskey. "I said yes anyway. Because I was so fucking in love with the idea of who I thought he could be. I wore that ring for 6 months, feeling it get heavier every day, until I finally took it off and left it on his kitchen counter and moved out." You looked away, your gaze drifting to the dark window, seeing not your reflection but the ghost of your own younger, hopeful face.
"Your ex didn't know what the hell he had." Jack shook his head. Jack could believe this guy had made you feel like you had to dim your light so he could feel big. What happened to real men being proud as hell watching their girl shine?
"I'm just tired of the contradiction," you admitted, reaching down to run your fingers through Remmy's soft fur. "Men say they want ambitious women. They say they are drawn to the drive, but I call bullshit. The moment you actually pursue it…" you sank your hands deeper into his coat, and Remmy leaned into you, his weight solid and grounding, "that's when they start looking for reasons, and suddenly you're 'too focused' or 'not the person they fell for,' or some other lame fucking excuse." Remmy's tail wagged slowly, and he nudged his nose under your hand when you paused. "As if ambition were only attractive in theory, and something charming to admire from a distance," you whispered sadly.
Jack scoffed. "A decent guy wouldn't pull that shit—he'd celebrate your success instead of feeling threatened by it."
You furrowed your brows, the creases deepening between your eyebrows as the weight of his words hit you.
"Hearing it said like that makes the whole thing feel even more pathetic."
"It's not pathetic. You loved someone who couldn't handle being loved by someone stronger than his ego allowed. That's on him, not you."
You started laughing then (really laughing) because the absurdity of it suddenly hit you. "Don't try to make me feel better when your wife tried to pass off another man's kid as yours."
Jack's expression cracked, and then he was laughing too. It wasn't a happy sound exactly, but it was real. You both sat there, shaking with it, the kind of laughter that bordered on hysteria. Remmy lifted his head from where he'd been sprawled across your lap, his expression shifting into clear confusion as he watched you both. He stared for a moment like he was trying to decode what was happening, then hopped down from the cushions with a soft thud. He padded over to his little rug in front of the fireplace (his favorite place) and settled onto it with a sigh, as if to say you two are on your own.
"I'm sorry," you said, catching his breath. "I mean—I guess it's good that she didn't go through with it."
He took another drink. "Yeah, well. Our marriage failing wasn't exactly all her fault. I wasn't exactly a present husband."
"That's not a pass for cheating, Jack…" you set your glass down deliberately, "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling you're being too hard on yourself. I'm so sorry that happened to you."
Thank god, he thought, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. You were calling him Jack again.
"She should have talked to you about how she was feeling instead of just... holding it all inside and then blowing up your marriage like that."
He blinked slowly.
"If she felt neglected, she should have said something. Given you a chance to actually hear her, and to try and fix it. How could you have worked on a problem that you didn't know existed?" you shrugged. "She made her choice—to cheat instead of to communicate."
You understood the weight of a demanding job. And sure, you were only hearing his side of the story, but he hadn't even bad-mouthed her—not once. Admitted that he took it too far, and let work consume everything. There was something in the way he talked about his marriage, a genuine regret that suggested he would have made adjustments if he had known earlier on.
"Well, you know what they say…'how you get 'em… is how you lose 'em.' Are they still together?"
"No, they're not… pretty sure he cheated on her, actually. At least that's what my mother says." He paused, deadpan. "My mother's a gossip."
You snickered.
"Look, it doesn't matter what happened between them. That's... that's their thing," he scratched his jaw. "The kid's the one who suffered. Families being torn apart is never easy."
Most people would've been ecstatic at their ex's misery. You hadn't met a lot of guys like Jack. And the fact that he gave a damn about the kid? That told you everything you needed to know about who he really was. He was a good man.
You leaned back, studying him with an expression that was more probing. "Look, thank you for being honest with me. That couldn't have been easy. But, I'm a little confused? Did you tell me this because you haven't... been intimate with someone since your ex-wife?" You had never been with an amputee (which you learned about Jack on the first date), and you wondered if that was adding a layer of additional nerves for him.
Jack stood up and took a couple of steps around the table and lowered himself onto the couch next to you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. Remmy lifted his head and let out a soft, warning whine at Jack's approach.
"Come on buddy, I need a moment with the pretty girl," Jack pouted. You stifled a laugh as Remmy's protective instincts flared. He gave a final assessing look. Then, with a quiet huff that seemed almost like a sigh of resignation, he lowered his head back to the floor. You bit your lip to contain your amusement. Jack turned his body fully toward you then, and he laced his fingers through yours before drawing your hands into his lap.
"No I definitely have. Look… I don't want to lie to you. I've been with a lot of women since my divorce," he grunted out. "I'm single. And well…" his sentence trailed off. He didn't need to finish.
You appreciated his honesty. There was an unexpected pang of jealousy twisting in your gut, but you weren't blind. He was attractive. A 'silver fox' doctor with a hot bod and a smile that could melt hearts. Women were probably throwing themselves at him. And honestly…with his history, you weren't shocked he was fucking around. It was probably easiest that way.
"We just met. It's totally okay if you just want to have fun," you tried to sound understanding, to give him an out, and to protect yourself.
His expression grew guarded. "Is that what you want?"
After all this time, Jack felt like he had finally met someone he was fucking crazy about. He barely knew you. It didn't make sense… and he had never believed in perfection.
But goddamn it, you were pretty fucking close.
He was terrified that was what you wanted. Just fun. A casual fling. And he believed that he would deserve it if you did. Over the years, he knew—somewhere in the back of his mind, that some of the women who had left his bed had wanted more. He saw it in their faces the morning after, a hope he deliberately extinguished with a polite smile and a firm goodbye. He was always honest with them about his emotional limitations, but honesty didn't erase the disappointment. Maybe this, you offering him the very emptiness he had offered others, was the price he finally had to pay. Maybe the universe was serving him his own medicine.
"I don't know," you said honestly. You let your gaze travel slowly down his body and back up to meet his. "If you had fucked me on the first date, I might have a better answer," you teased.
He smirked at your sarcasm. But…your playful mask slipped, revealing the genuine uncertainty beneath. You let out a slow breath, a vulnerability appearing in your voice. "I was just going to see how this went," you admitted, your gaze dropping to where your joined hands before finding his gorgeous eyes again. "And not really put any pressure on it." You shrugged, a small, self-deprecating gesture. "Whenever I get excited about something... about someone... it tends to just go south."
Jack's expression softened completely, and he reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him.
"Well, I'd really like to take you on a third date," he said. "I haven't had one of those in a really long time," he joked, the lightness in his tone a gentle counterpoint to the heavy conversation. Before you could formulate a reply, he closed the small distance between you. His hand slid from your chin to cradle the back of your neck, and he kissed you. His lips were warm and insistent, moving against yours in a way that instantly turned you into a puddle. You could taste the faint trace of whiskey, feel the scratch of his stubble, and an extremely embarrassing sound escaped your throat as you kissed him back.
He pulled back just far enough to speak, "I really like you," he murmured, the words a soft, raw admission against your lips. "And I know I'm not supposed to say that, but I can't help myself.”
"I really like you too," you replied and kissed him again, your fingers threading through his luscious hair as he groaned into your mouth.
"I do want to fuck your brains out, by the way," Jack said roughly when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard. "Just so we're crystal clear."
You grinned against his mouth. "Maybe we can save that for our next date," you said, fingers still tangled in his silvery curls. "But can I entice you into a respectable PG-13 make out session? I wouldn't be against second base."
Jack let out a laugh that vibrated against your lips.
"Fuck, sweetheart, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, then dove back in to kiss you.
The couch felt smaller by the second. Cushions creaked under shifting bodies. Every wet sound of your mouths moving together filled the space—soft gasps, low groans, the occasional curse slipping out when teeth grazed too sharp. Your pulse hammered in your ears, drowning out everything else except the way his stubble scraped your chin and the heat pouring off his body. You pushed him down onto his back, climbing over him as his hands slid lower. He grabbed your ass hard through the loose pajama pants, fingers digging in, pulling you tighter against the thick bulge in his jeans. You arched into the touch with a shaky moan that made him curse again.
"Jesus, the sounds you make," he breathed against your jaw, then sucked at the spot just below your ear. You tasted salt when you licked your lips, felt the rapid thud of his heart when you pressed closer. His cock strained against his jeans, thick and obvious, pressing up between your thighs every time he shifted.
Jack's thoughts were a filthy loop he couldn't shut off: how tight you would feel when he finally sank his cock inside you, how wet you would get, how loud you would get when he fucked you properly. He wanted to rip your comfortable pajamas off right there on the couch, spread you open, and bury himself to the hilt. But he didn't. Instead, he kept it to heavy petting and desperate kisses, letting the tension build until both of you were panting and half-laughing at how worked up you'd gotten.
Eventually, the kisses slowed, turning softer, almost sweet. His forehead rested against yours, both of you catching your breath.
"Third date can't come fast enough," Jack said.
Remmy barked in agreement.
Sprinklers clicked on in someone's yard as you and Jack made your way back to your place from the neighborhood park. Remmy trotted ahead on his leash, tail wagging like he owned the sidewalk. The proximity to the park had been one of the main reasons you bought the house.
Jack had taken the leash from you halfway through the walk.
You were still typing a reply to Mya about your flight details for tomorrow to attend her gallery opening this weekend when Remmy stopped to do his business. You reached for the roll of bags in your pocket, but Jack was faster. His fingers closed around the plastic before you could pull it out.
"I got it, baby," he said simply, already crouching down. It still threw you off when Jack did that—you could count on one hand how many times your ex had done it in all the years you had dated. He always reminded you that Remmy was your dog since you'd had him since before you two got together. Remmy had taken to Jack fast, and you could tell the feeling was mutual. By the time you reached your front door, the sun had dipped low enough to paint the sky in your favorite shades of purple and pink. Inside, you filled Remmy's bowl while Jack unclipped the leash and crouched on the living room floor playing with him. You pulled out your phone to text your sister and brother-in-law about what time to pick up Remmy tomorrow with their spare key.
Jack was dropping you off at the airport in the morning. He offered, and you said yes without overthinking it. You and Jack were existing in that strange, undefined space where you were sleeping together, seeing each other pretty regularly, but hadn't quite put a name to it.
After your third date (which occurred almost 2 months ago), you learned that his very fucking large equipment most definitely worked. Desperate kisses had turned frantic when he picked you up, and your hands wandered, tearing at each other's clothes. It wasn't exactly the classiest move fucking him before the date. But, later… when you finally did make it to pickleball, the afternoon felt electric, every moment reminding you of what had happened just before.
It was one of the most memorable dates you'd ever had.
You hadn't seen Jack in a couple of days because of conflicting schedules. The night before, you had hosted a dinner with some girlfriends and cooked cheesy spinach & mushroom tortellini. You wanted him to taste it, and you had set aside a generous portion for him to take home so it wouldn't go to waste while you were in New York. The leftovers from last night were still in the fridge, and you pulled it out along with some garlic bread you'd wrapped in foil. The oven beeped as it preheated, and you were sliding the dish inside when Jack appeared behind you. His mouth found the side of your neck, pressing an open kiss there.
"Smells good," he murmured against your skin.
"Thank you," you leaned back into him, just for a second. "20 more minutes."
"I wasn't talking about the food."
You turned around and swatted at him without much force, your hand connecting with his forearm as you twisted out of his embrace. He raised his eyebrows, a panty-dropping smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. You felt your downstairs area flutter at the way Jack's smirk lingered, that cocky tilt to his mouth promising trouble. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and he hoisted you onto the counter in one smooth motion, settling you between the cutting board and the half-unwrapped garlic bread. Your legs dangled, and he stepped between them, palms braced on either side of your thighs.
"20 minutes is a long time," he said, voice all fuckable and teasing. "Plenty can happen in twenty minutes."
"Is that so?" you managed, trying to sound unaffected despite.
"Mmm," he hummed, eyes dropping to your lips. "I could make you come twice. Maybe three times."
Jack didn't recognize himself anymore. He prided himself on understanding the human body—he was a doctor after all. He could explain away attraction, compartmentalize desire as a series of chemical reactions. Except when he looked at you, he didn't just want your body—though God knew he did, constantly, in a way that bordered on pathological. He wanted to know what you were thinking. He wanted to make you laugh just to hear that specific cadence of your voice. He wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up to your face.
"Jack!" you squealed, swatting at his chest again.
"I'm being honest about my intentions."
"Behave," you warned, but there was no real bite to it.
He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Where's the fun in that?"
A rational part of his brain (the part that had aced neurobiology) whispered about the oxytocin surge during new relationships and well—sex. It created neural pathways and made you seek out that person again and again. Evolutionary biology, really—mammals bonding to ensure offspring survival. It was supposed to be temporary.
So why did the thought of this feeling ever fading away terrify him in a way that made no clinical sense?
"Okay, so..." you started, looking embarrassed. "I feel lame, but I've never actually... you know. On a kitchen counter."
Jack pulled back slightly, his eyebrows shooting up. "Really?"
You were adorable.
"Yeah." You bit your lip, suddenly very interested in the pattern of his shirt. "Maybe that makes me boring."
"You weren't boring the other day when you—"
"Nope." You pressed a finger to his lips, cheeks burning. "We're not talking about that right now."
"We're not?" he asked innocently. "Because I seem to remember—"
"Okay, you know what?" You pulled your hand back and crossed your arms—though your cheeks were hurting from how wide you were smiling. "You're definitely not getting any until after dinner now."
"Are you really going to reject a triple orgasm guarantee?"
You were fighting the urge to cave. Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his heated gaze head-on. "I'm still going to get it. Just after my belly is full of food and wine."
"Fine," he relented after a beat, stepping back with a dramatic sigh. "You win this round. But you better be my dessert."
He turned to the cabinet and started setting the table without being asked, while you hopped off the counter. The fridge hummed quietly as he pulled open the door and reached for a bottle of wine. His phone buzzed loudly on the counter just then, screen lighting up with an incoming call.
"Dr. Abbot," he answered when he looked at the caller ID, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into the first glass, then the second, and he slid one across the counter toward you, offering it with a quick wink before turning his attention back to the call.
"I can't, actually," he said, his voice slipping into that clinical and very sexy professional tone. "I'm dropping my girlfriend off at the airport tomorrow morning."
Girlfriend?
You caught fragments of the rest—something about trading for a shift, coverage, logistics. His free hand gestured as he talked, wine glass held loosely in his grip.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
You felt a little silly suddenly, for all the times you wondered if maybe he was seeing someone else, if this was just a convenient arrangement for him. You weren't needy or clingy or paranoid. But in your defense, men sucked. So yeah, you wondered. You worried. Especially after you two started fucking. You weren't proud of it, but there were definitely times you rescheduled dates (just cause), or took your time texting him back once you realized your feelings were getting stronger. That whole calculated performance of seeming less interested so he'd be more interested.
"Ask Shen if he can cover it," he continued, "but he's working tonight, so I don't know if he'll want to do a double. He did one a couple days ago."
He took a sip of his wine while waiting for a response, eyes meeting yours briefly over the rim of the glass. Remmy suddenly bounded over to his leg, demanding attention. Without missing a beat in his conversation, Jack crouched down, one hand holding the phone, and scratched along Remmy’s neck. Jack was now launching into details about some trauma case. You could tell he was still half-listening to the phone conversation, his responses coming at appropriate intervals, but his attention was genuinely split now.
"I know, I know," he said, this time unclear if he was speaking to the person on the phone or Remmy. Jack's eyes crinkled at the corners, and his hand trailed down to Remmy's chest where he gave a few firm, affectionate pats.
This man literally picked up your dog's shit on walks. Of course, you were his girlfriend. Maybe men his age didn't need to spell things out. Maybe it was implied in the way he would fuck you, pressing you into his mattress, groaning into your mouth: You're mine (or your pussy is mine)
He finished the call a moment later and turned to look at you, his expression shifting to something more curious. "What?" he asked, straightening up from where he'd been playing with Remmy.
You bit your lip, fighting the smile that wanted to break free. "Nothing," you said, turning back to the oven. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything.
After dinner, you both relaxed for a solid twenty minutes to let the food settle before moving to the bedroom. He did, in fact, make you finish 3 times that night. You made a mental note to christen the kitchen counter for when you returned from your trip.
Let's just say that your boyfriend needed zero convincing.
I'm genuinely passionate about financial literacy (I taught in this space in grad school) so this story was basically my excuse to indulge myself and geek out. I'm treating this as a companion piece to 'You Look Good on Vacation.' I know some people were eager for a certain follow-up scene, but oops, I ended up writing how they met instead. However, this story does provide crucial context for why Jack would be so anxious about making the reader's vacation truly unforgettable. TBD (I make no promises) on that one.
That said, this absolutely works as a standalone if you prefer to read it that way!
sex with jack abbott is needy and passionate. his thrusts never seem to be lacking love and force. his kisses are always filled with intensity and desire, teeth and clashing tongues.
it’s you both whispering reassurances to each other, you telling him you love all of him, regardless of his ailments; and him telling you he loves you regardless of true age gap or your own insecurities. “so fuckin’ pretty honey, didn’t-didn’t know it could fuck-feel like this”
sex with jack abbott is waking up at sunrise because he thinks sex in the early mornings keep the relationship alive. his tip kisses your cervix and keeps sleepy moans whimpered out of your mouth. “that’s right baby, time to get up. need me for everything, gotta wake you up with an orgasm everyday-shit”
sex with jack abbot is getting a text after his shift saying “be ready”, knowing it means he expects you kneeling behind the welcome mat inside the house wearing that outfit he loves; a pink lingerie mini dress, knee high socks, and a bell collar that he bought you when he introduced you to his world. “nothing-nothing will ever compare to that s-sweet pussy if yours, but your mouth sure as hell tries hard” he says this with a disbelief filled chuckle.
sex with jack abbott is bdsm and kink filled but never lacking love and intimacy. he fucks like he’s angry with you but also like he needs and craves you. Jack abbott is a desperate man with vile needs.
summary: while you’re already stressed at work, your daughter scrapes her knee at school and makes you 10x more stressed. thankfully, dr. abbot falls in love with her, and takes care of her until all the pain is gone. and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a date out of it…
warnings: single mom!reader, daughter named lily, minor injuries, crying child, jack is an absolute sweetheart, reader is stressed about work and parenting, jack probably crosses professional boundaries with reader at the end but it’s all sfw and it’s fiction so who cares
a/n: i’m finally getting through my asks and drafts!! after like a month!! yayyyyy!!! sorry anon, this has been in my drafts for a while… also, lily is my cats name which is why i named her that :3 dividers by @/honeyluvsw 🤍
jack abbot masterlist
today has been… stressful, to say the least.
you have a deadline coming up at the end of the week, and the work isn’t even done yet.
you’re trying to plan your daughter’s birthday party, which has been an absolute mess because, well, she’s six and six year olds constantly change their mind about if they want princess decorations or mermaid ones.
and even then, your day gets worse when your phone starts buzzing at your desk. you don’t notice it at first, but you frown when you realize the number calling is your daughter’s school. you immediately excuse yourself, stepping out of your office and into the fresh air to answer the phone.
“hello? is everything alright?”
the nurse on the other line speaks softly, trying to ease your worries, “yes, but it seems your daughter’s taken a bit of a fall during recess. she’s very… upset, she’d like you to come pick her up.”
you sigh, “of course, i’ll leave right now. tell her i’m on my way.”
after another moment of small talk and ‘thank you’s,’ you inform your boss of the emergency and, thankfully, he understands, so you’re on your way.
it doesn’t take long to reach your daughter’s school, which is just a few minutes away from your workplace. you walk in and give your name to the attendance office, signing her out of school, and walk to the nurse’s office where she’s waiting for you.
your daughter, lily, is sitting on the bench, sobbing loudly. and when she sees you, she just cries harder. “mommy! mommy, it hurts!”
you rush over, kneeling in front of her, “oh, honey, it’s okay…” you murmur, trying to be comforting despite the immense anxiety you’re feeling. you brush a strand of hair behind her ears, wiping her tears away as gently as possible. “you’re okay, baby. we’re gonna take you to the doctor now, they’re gonna fix you right up.”
lily just sobs more, “no, no!” she thrashes a bit, “i hate doctors!”
“shh, shh, love…” your eyes widen, trying to will the tantrum away with sheer mindpower. “it’s alright, i promise. but i need you to calm down for a minute, okay?”
she sniffles a bit but nods, “mhm…”
you give her a soft, comforting smile and squeeze her little hand. “come on, we’re gonna make you all better.”
lily is surprisingly calm throughout the car ride, and she gets a little antsy in the waiting room. but by the time you get sent to a room, she’s an anxious mess.
she’s sitting on the examining chair, holding her favorite stuffed bunny as tight as she can. it’s her comfort item, her anchor while she freaks out internally about what will happen next.
it all gets better, though, when the doctor walks in. he’s tall, with soft hazel eyes that crinkle a bit at the corners, and silver curls that you may or may not find attractive.
the man kneels down in front of your daughter, getting on eye level with her. “hey there, sweetheart. what brings you in today?” he smiles at the both of you, sensing somehow that you’re just as anxious as she is.
she answers quietly, calming a little but not knowing for sure if she can trust him yet. “i hurt my knee on the playground…”
he frowns, “oh no, well that’s not very good!” he’s trying to be a bit playful, let her know she can calm down. “i’m dr. abbot, but you can call me jack if doctor sounds too scary. i need you to let me look at your knee for a second, can you do that for me?”
“okay…” she murmurs apprehensively, moving her hand away from her leg and letting him get a good look at the scrape.
“oh, that must hurt, doesn’t it?” he sympathizes with her. even though it’s just a scrape, he knows that to a six year old, it’s like a broken leg.
lily nods, “it hurts reallyyy bad… are you gonna fix it, dr. abbot?”
you smile, watching the interaction. he’s so sweet with your daughter, so caring, you can’t help but soften. “of course he’s gonna fix it, sweetheart. but you need to sit still.”
jack laughs, “yes, dr. abbot is gonna fix it. that’s my job, isn’t it? but your mom is right, you gotta be really brave for me and sit still for a few seconds while i put the antiseptic on it.”
he looks up at you for a moment, and you blush and look away. you’re not crushing on your daughter’s doctor. no. that’s not what it is, he’s just being nice to her, and you’re happy she’s just getting the care she needs… right?
he finally notices the small stuffed bunny in her arms. “ who’s your little friend, sweetheart?”
lily answers shyly, “that’s bentley bunny. he’s my friend. mom says he likes hugs, so she says i should hug him when i get scared.”
he smiles at both of you, “well, i think that’s a very good idea. your bentley bunny is a very good friend. i think you should hug him while i take care of your cut, yeah?”
she nods, and when jack starts to put the antiseptic on the scrape, she’s actually calmer than you expected. she whines a bit, but she just hugs her bunny very tight, and she actually seems comfortable with jack.
once jack is done, he pulls out two different boxes of bandaids; one pack has princesses on them, and the other one has little cartoon animals. “you’ve been so brave today, i think you deserve a nice bandaid to show how brave you’ve been.”
lily gasps, “princesses! i want the one with princesses!”
jack laughs, “alright, princesses it is. do you wanna give your little friend a bandaid too?” when she nods, he carefully places two bandaids on her knee to cover the scrape, and one on the knee of the small stuffed bunny she’s hugging.
he pats her leg gently, standing up, “all done, princess. you and mom can go home and rest now, maybe get some ice cream.” he smiles at you, “follow me, i’ll get her signed out.”
while you’re at the nurse’s station, signing her out and paying for the visit, your daughter is a few feet away, watching the fish tank nearby. you keep a close eye on her while jack leans against the desk. “so… you got a boyfriend?”
you laugh, absolutely surprised, “i… what?”
“sorry, sorry, that’s too straightforward, i just…” he chuckles and shrugs, “you’re a great mom. and it doesn’t hurt that you’re pretty.”
smiling, you shake your head, “no, i don’t have a boyfriend. why, you wanna take me out, dr. abbot?”
he grins, “i do, actually. of course, only if…”
“i get off work at five on saturday. i can hire a sitter for lily.”
his smile brightens, “great! so, i’ll see you then?”
you nod and smile back at him, “it’s a date.”
with that, you finish your paperwork and take lily’s hand, leading her out of the building, both of you waving goodbye to ‘dr. abbot.’ and, maybe, the next day at work, you’re a little happier than usual, knowing you’re going on a date with a certain handsome doctor on saturday.
SUMMARY: You have spent years warning people about your loud little dog before they come over for the first time. A lot of them leave, and you start to trust your dog’s instincts more than your own. Jack wins over the love of your dog despite your warnings and the barks. You hope that, finally, Jack won’t be the one to leave. Your dog seems to hope for the same…
NOTES: Reader has a mini schnauzer (Romeo), established relationship, references to previous toxic relationships, mild profanity, Jack is a bit cocky.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
You almost don’t invite Jack over. That is the truth of it, however much you pretend otherwise later, however much you laugh it off when Jack’s mouth quirks and he says something low and pleased about winning over your dog.
There is a moment, hand still on the door, where your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with memory, where you consider stepping back out onto the pavement and suggesting a walk instead, a drink, anywhere but here.
Home has always been yours first and safe second. Romeo makes it that way. He is already barking before you even turn the key properly, claws clicking against the wooden floor as he launches himself at the door like he has something to prove. You wince, shoulder tensing, already bracing for the inevitable explanation, already preparing yourself for Jack to reassess, to smile politely and decide this is more effort than it is worth.
You glance over your shoulder. “I did warn you.”
Jack does not look concerned. He never looks concerned in the way other people do, not outwardly, not with that small level of panic that you are used to reading and accommodating. His calm runs deeper than that, something steadier and harder earned. He just watches the door, head slightly tilted, as if listening past the noise.
“Sounds like he’s got opinions,” he says.
“That’s putting it lightly.” You push the door open before you can hesitate again. “Romeo, shut up.”
The barking spikes at the sight of Jack. It is immediate and visceral. Romeo plants himself a few feet back, ears raised, teeth bared in a way that is far too dramatic for a miniature schnauzer with a brown bow-tie collar and yet somehow still intimidating. You feel the familiar curl of embarrassment twist low in your stomach, heat rising up your neck.
“Jesus Christ,” you say, forcing a laugh that does not quite land. “This is what I meant. He’s an asshole.”
There is a script for this, one you have learned the hard way. You apologise. You explain. You promise it will settle. You reassure them that he is all noise, that he has never actually bitten anyone, that he just needs time. Then you watch them withdraw anyway, slow and subtle, the beginning of distance already taking shape.
You brace for it now, but Jack just steps inside.
Not cautiously, not with exaggerated care, just normally, like there isn’t a tiny, fluffy maniac barking up at him. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click and stands there for a moment, letting Romeo bark himself hoarse without reacting to it. No sharp movements, no attempt to reach out, no irritation flickering across his face.
You frown, thrown off your usual script. “Huh. Most men don’t make it through the door,” you say.
“Most men don’t know how to be patient,” Jack replies with a scoff.
Romeo does not stop barking, but something in the rhythm changes. Less frantic. More evaluative. You can see it, the way his head tilts slightly, the way his eyes track Jack rather than just react to him.
You fold your arms, tension still coiled tight in your chest. “He hates men.”
“Does he?” It is not a question, despite what it sounds like. Jack glances down at him, expression unreadable in that quiet way of his. “Or does he hate something else?”
You open your mouth to answer and then close it again. It is easier to say Romeo hates men than it is to explain the rest of it.
The way he used to hide behind your legs when voices got too loud. The way he would bark himself into exhaustion whenever someone overstayed their welcome, as if he understood before you did that something was wrong. The way he never, not once, warmed to anyone you dated before, as if he could smell the parts of them you kept trying to ignore.
“He’s never liked anyone I’ve brought home,” you say instead, softer now.
Jack hums, crouching down slowly, wincing at the strain, but deliberate in every movement. He does not reach out. He just lowers himself to Romeo’s level and waits, forearms resting loosely on his thighs.
“Fair enough,” he says. “I’m not just anyone, luckily.”
There is something about the way he says it that settles under your ribs, warm and unsettling all at once.
Romeo’s barking falters. It does not stop completely, but it drops in volume, turning into something more uncertain, more questioning. He edges forward a fraction, nose twitching, still wary but no longer on the offensive. You stare.
“That’s new,” you murmur.
“Mm.” Jack does not look at you. His focus stays on Romeo, steady and unhurried. “He’s just figuring me out.”
“You’re being sized up. He might eat you.”
“I’ve dealt with worse.”
A huff of laughter escapes you before you can stop it, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. It feels strange, this shift, this unexpected ease settling into a situation you had already written off as stressful.
Romeo takes another step forward. Then another.
You watch, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, as he closes the distance entirely and sniffs at Jack’s knee, quick and cautious. There is a pause, a beat of stillness where anything could happen.
Jack does not move. Not even when Romeo’s nose brushes against the seam of his jeans, not even when the dog huffs softly, considering.
“Go on,” you whisper, more to yourself than to either of them.
Romeo sneezes. Then, in a move so abrupt it almost makes you laugh, he sits down. Just… sits.
The barking stops. The silence that follows feels louder than anything that came before it.
Jack glances up at you then, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. There is something dangerously close to amusement in his eyes, something that tugs at the corner of his mouth in a way that feels unfairly smug.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I might be.”
Romeo leans forward and licks Jack’s hand. You feel it in your chest, sharp and sudden, like something cracking open.
“That is—” You break off, shaking your head. “He doesn’t do that.”
“Apparently he does,” Jack says.
There is no gloating in his voice, not exactly. It is quieter than that, more contained, but you know him well enough now to hear it anyway, that thread of satisfaction woven carefully through his tone.
“You’re insufferable,” you tell him.
“Give it a minute,” he replies. “I can get worse.”
Romeo shifts closer, pressing himself against Jack’s leg as if he has known him for years rather than seconds. His tail starts wagging, tentative at first and then with growing confidence, the earlier hostility completely forgotten.
You feel something twist in your chest again, but it is not tension this time. It is something softer. Something more dangerous.
“He’s never done that,” you say, quieter now.
Jack’s gaze flicks back to you, the smugness fading just enough to make room for something gentler. “Maybe he’s got good instincts.”
You let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall as the reality of it settles in.
Romeo, your fiercely loyal, man-hating little guard dog, is currently leaning into Jack like he belongs there. Like he has always belonged there. The thought lands heavier than you expect.
You look at Jack, really look at him, at the quiet steadiness of him, the way he has not tried to force anything, has not taken more than what was given. There is something achingly familiar in it, something that mirrors the way he has been with you from the start. Patient. Careful. Unassuming in a way that somehow matters more than anything louder ever could.
Your throat tightens. “Don’t let it go to your head,” you manage.
“Too late, baby,” he says, and this time the smile is unmistakable.
You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real bite. Because the truth of it is sitting right there in front of you, tail wagging and utterly content. Romeo likes him. And that feels like far more than it should.
There is a strange sort of quiet that follows.
Not the absence of noise, because Romeo is still there, still making small pleased whines as he noses insistently at Jack’s hand, still shifting his weight like he cannot quite get close enough, but the absence of what you had prepared yourself for. No tension. No careful monitoring of distance. No apology forming on your tongue every time the dog moves. You do not quite know what to do with it.
Jack scratches lightly behind Romeo’s ear, measured and unhurried, like he is aware of how easily this could have gone the other way and is not interested in pushing his luck. The dog melts into it, leaning harder, eyes softening in a way you have only ever seen when it is just the two of you at the end of a long day.
It does something unsettling to your chest. “He’s a traitor,” you say, though there is no heat in it.
Jack glances up at you, hand still moving in slow, absent strokes. “Or he’s got standards.”
You snort despite yourself. “That’s not helping your case.”
“I’m not making a case.” His gaze drops back to Romeo, expression easing into something softer than you are used to seeing at work, where everything about him is sharpened by urgency and held together by control. “He’s already decided.”
The words land heavier than they should. You push yourself off the wall, needing to move, to ground yourself in something physical before your thoughts start running ahead of you. “Don’t read too much into it. He also once tried to befriend a man who dropped a hot dog on the pavement.”
“Did it work?”
“The man or the hot dog?”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “Either.”
“The hot dog,” you admit. “The man got barked at for breathing too loud.”
“Reassuring.”
You hover for a second, watching them, the ease of it, the way Romeo has completely abandoned his usual suspicion. It feels like witnessing something quietly significant, something you cannot quite put into words without making it sound bigger than it is allowed to be.
Your home has seen versions of this before.
Different faces. Different voices. The same eventual outcome. Romeo barking. You apologising. Someone leaving a little sooner than planned, a little less certain than when they arrived.
You have learned not to expect anything else.
“Come on,” you say, turning towards the kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”
“Sounds good.”
You take a few steps before realising he is not following. You look back. Jack is still sat on the floor, and Romeo is still pressed against him, entirely unwilling to let him go. There is something almost ridiculous about it, the way your fiercely independent dog has decided, within minutes, that this man is his person.
“Romeo,” you call. “Leave him.”
He does not move.
Jack huffs out a quiet breath, something close to a laugh. “I think I’m being held hostage.”
“You can extract yourself,” you say. “He’s not that strong.”
“I’m aware.” There is a pause, a brief flicker of something thoughtful crossing his face. “I just don’t want to move, really.”
Your stomach flips in a way that is deeply inconvenient. You turn back to the kitchen before he can see it, focusing on the familiar routine of filling the kettle, setting it on the hob, anything to give your hands something to do. The normality of it should be grounding. It is not.
You can hear them from where you stand, the soft shuffle of movement, the quiet murmur of Jack’s voice as he says something low you cannot quite make out. Romeo responds with a pleased little huff, the sound carrying easily down the short hallway.
It feels intimate in a way you had not prepared for.
Not just him being here, not just the shift in your space, but this, the way something you have always kept separate is folding in on itself without resistance.
You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter than necessary. It should not matter this much. It is just a dog. It is just a man your dog happens to like.
Except it is not just that, and you know it.
You have spent years trusting Romeo’s instincts more than your own when it comes to people, letting his reactions confirm what you already suspect but do not want to admit. He has been right more often than not.
Right about the ones who pushed too hard. Right about the ones who stayed too long. Right about the ones who made you feel small in ways you could not quite articulate at the time. He has never been wrong.
The kettle whistles sharply, dragging you back. You turn off the hob, exhaling slowly as you reach for the mugs. Your hands feel steadier now, the simple familiarity of the task easing some of the tightness in your chest.
By the time you step back into the living room, you have almost convinced yourself it is nothing. Then you see them again. Jack has shifted, sitting properly now with his back against the sofa, one leg stretched out, the other bent. Romeo is in his lap, head resting against his thigh, completely at ease. Completely at home.
You stop in the doorway. Something in your chest pulls, sharp and aching and warm all at once.
Jack looks up at the sound of your movement, eyes finding yours immediately. There is a question there, quiet and unspoken, like he is checking in without making a point of it.
You swallow. “Tea,” you say, holding up the mugs slightly as if that explains anything.
“My sweet little lifesaver.”
You cross the room, setting one down carefully on the coffee table before lowering yourself onto the sofa, leaving a small, instinctive gap between you. It feels necessary, even now, even with everything that has already shifted.
Jack notices. He always notices. He does not comment on it, does not close the distance, does not do anything except take the mug and murmur a quiet thanks. The restraint of it settles something restless in your chest, even as it makes something else ache.
Romeo lifts his head, glancing between you both, as if assessing the situation.
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.
He ignores you. Of course he does. With zero hesitation, Romeo climbs up, wedging himself between you and Jack with all the determination of a dog who has decided he knows best. He circles once, twice, and then settles, pressing into both of you at once like he is bridging a gap you are not quite ready to close yourself.
You stare at him. Jack exhales softly, something almost like a laugh catching in his throat.
“Subtle,” he says.
“He’s never subtle,” you reply, though your voice has gone quieter, something in it unsteady.
You are very aware of the way your arm is now brushing against Jack’s, of the warmth of him through the thin fabric of your sleeve, of how easy it would be to just lean.
You do not. You sit there, very still, as Romeo sighs contentedly between you, utterly convinced he has solved a problem that only exists because of you.
Jack takes a slow sip of his tea. “He didn’t like the others,” he says after a moment, not looking at you.
It is not a question. You shake your head anyway. “No.”
“Any of them?”
“No.”
A pause. “Right.”
There is no judgement in it, no probing curiosity, just a quiet acknowledgement. It should make it easier to breathe. It does not.
You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, eyes fixed on the movement of your fingers. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little bit,” he admits.
You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“You said that already.”
“I mean it this time.”
That earns you a proper smile, brief but real, softening the harder edges of his expression in a way that still catches you off guard, even now.
“He’s got good taste,” Jack says.
You huff. “That’s debatable.”
“Feels pretty solid to me.”
You roll your eyes, but it lacks any real force. Because underneath it, beneath the teasing and the deflection and the careful distance you are still trying to maintain, there is something else taking root.
It settles slowly, almost reluctantly, threading its way through the familiar caution you carry, easing into spaces that have been closed off for longer than you care to admit.
You look at Romeo, at the way he is so completely at ease, and then at Jack, at the steady presence of him, the way he has not tried to claim anything that has not been offered. Your chest tightens. This feels different. That is the problem. You are not entirely sure what to do with the difference.
It shifts again later, in a way that feels smaller on the surface and far more dangerous underneath.
You are halfway through telling him something inconsequential, some story from work that does not really go anywhere, when you realise you have stopped watching Romeo. That, more than anything, is what unsettles you.
There is always a part of your attention reserved for the dog when someone new is in your space, always a low-level awareness of where he is, what he is doing, whether you need to intervene, apologise, manage. It has become instinct, something ingrained so deeply you no longer notice it most of the time.
Except now it is gone. You notice the absence of it like a missing step on the stairs. Your words falter, trailing off mid-sentence as the realisation catches up with you. Jack’s gaze lifts from where it had been resting loosely on your hands, attentive even when you are rambling, quiet in a way that makes it easy to keep talking.
“You alright?” he asks.
You nod automatically, even as your eyes flick down. Romeo is asleep. Properly asleep, not the light doze he usually slips into when there is someone unfamiliar nearby, not the half-alert rest where his ears twitch at every small sound. He is out, completely and utterly, curled against Jack’s side like this is the most natural place in the world to be.
You stare at him. Something in your chest pulls tight, then tighter still.
“This is so weird,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Jack follows your gaze, taking in the sight with a quiet sort of understanding that makes your throat feel dry.
“Feels like a good sign,” he says.
It should be. It is. That is what makes it so difficult to sit with. You drag your eyes away, focusing instead on the faint pattern of wear on your coffee table, the small scratches and marks that have built up over time. It is easier than looking at what is right in front of you, easier than letting yourself fully register what it means.
“Or he’s exhausted himself by being so dramatic,” you offer, grasping for something lighter.
“Could be that.” His tone suggests he does not believe it.
You pick at the same loose thread on your sleeve, pulling it a little too hard this time until it snaps. The sudden give of it feels louder than it should, the small sound cutting through the quiet of the room.
Jack’s eyes flick back to you. “You’re miles away,” he says.
You huff out a breath, something caught between a laugh and something more strained. “Just thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Shut up.” There is no bite to it. There rarely is with him.
Silence settles again, softer this time, less uncertain than before. It wraps around you both, around the steady rhythm of Romeo’s breathing, around the faint clink of ceramic as you set your mug down on the table.
You feel it building, the weight of something you have been carefully not saying, pressing against the inside of your ribs.
It comes out anyway. “He has never liked anyone before,” you say quietly.
Jack does not interrupt.
You swallow, forcing yourself to keep going even as your instinct tells you to pull back, to make a joke, to deflect.
“Not just in a ‘he barked a bit’ way. Properly didn’t like them. Wouldn’t go near them, wouldn’t settle if they were here. It was always… tense.”
You risk a glance at him. Jack is watching you, not with that clinical attentiveness he has at work, not with the careful neutrality he uses when things get difficult, but with something softer, something that feels like it is just for you. It makes it harder to look away.
“I used to think he was just difficult,” you admit. “Or jealous, maybe. It was easier than considering he might be right.”
Jack’s expression shifts, something subtle but significant. “About them,” he says.
You nod. “Yeah.”
The word sits heavy between you. There is a lot you are not saying, a lot you do not need to. The shape of it is there anyway, in the spaces between your words, in the way your shoulders have drawn in slightly, in the careful neutrality you are trying and failing to maintain.
Jack exhales slowly. “He’s not wrong about me, you know,” he says.
It catches you off guard enough that you actually look at him properly, a small frown pulling at your brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not exactly low maintenance,” he replies, tone even, almost too even. “I come with my own set of complications.”
There it is. The quiet honesty of it, offered without fanfare, without expectation. You recognise it for what it is, the same kind of careful truth he gives you in pieces, never more than you can hold at once.
You shake your head, a small, instinctive movement. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His gaze does not waver. “Yeah.”
Something in your chest aches. You shift slightly, the movement bringing you a fraction closer without fully closing the space. It feels deliberate and not at all at the same time.
“I’m not saying you’re perfect,” you say, voice softer now. “That would be ridiculous.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
You almost smile.
“I’m saying he’s never been this… calm with anyone. Not like this. Not straight away. It’s usually a whole thing. Takes weeks, sometimes.”
Jack glances down at Romeo, who remains blissfully unaware of the conversation happening over his head. “Maybe I got lucky,” he says.
You shake your head again, more certain this time. “He doesn’t do luck.”
“Then what does he do?”
You hesitate. The answer feels too big, too revealing, like it will shift something if you say it out loud.
“He reads people,” you say finally. “Better than I do, most of the time.”
Jack is quiet for a moment. Then, very gently, “You give him a lot of credit.”
“He’s earned it.”
“And you haven’t?”
The question lands softly and still manages to knock the breath from your lungs.
You look at him, really look at him, at the steadiness of him, the quiet persistence, the way he has stayed without pushing, has listened without trying to fix things you are not ready to have fixed. Your throat tightens.
“That’s not the point,” you say, though it comes out weaker than you intend.
“Feels like it might be.”
You exhale slowly, your gaze dropping back to Romeo, to the rise and fall of his small body, the complete trust in the way he has settled.
“I trust him,” you say.
It is not a complete answer. Jack does not push for one. “Alright,” he says simply.
The acceptance of it settles something restless in your chest, even as it leaves other things exposed, things you are not entirely ready to examine too closely. You sit with it for a moment, the quiet stretching out, comfortable and not at the same time.
Then, almost without thinking, you let your hand drift down, fingers brushing lightly against Romeo’s back. He stirs, just slightly, but does not wake. Your hand stills there, resting against him.
Jack’s arm shifts a fraction as well, the movement small but enough that your fingers brush against his for the briefest second. It is nothing. It is everything.
You do not pull away immediately. Neither does he.
The contact is light, barely there, but it sends something warm and unsettling curling through your chest, something that feels suspiciously like the beginning of a decision you have been avoiding.
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “This doesn’t mean he gets to be smug about it,” you say, voice quieter now.
Jack huffs out a soft laugh. “Too late for that.”
You glance at him, catching the faint trace of it, the restrained satisfaction he is trying and failing to hide. “You’re unbearable.”
“Only a bit.”
“More than a bit.”
He tilts his head, considering. “Worth it?”
The question is light. The answer is not. You look at him, at the man sitting in your space like he has always been meant to be there, at the dog who has decided the same thing without hesitation, and you feel it settle, slow and certain, beneath the fear and the caution and the habits you have built to keep yourself safe. Different. Still different. But maybe not in a way that needs to be resisted.
Your chest tightens, then eases, like something finally giving way. “Yeah,” you say, softer than anything you have said all evening. “Hopefully.”
Jack does not smile properly at that, not in a way that draws attention to itself. It is smaller. Quieter. But it is there. And this time, when Romeo shifts in his sleep and presses further into both of you, you do not move away at all.
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summary: when a stubbornly charming chef keeps showing up in his ER, Dr. Jack Abbot finds it harder and harder to ignore the pull toward something—or someone—he didn't plan for…
warnings/tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, grumpy x sunshine, food as a love language, age gap, fainting/medical emergency, mild language
word count: 5.5k
a/n: my new hyperfixation i guess ???
“Fuck,” you grumbled, clutching your thumb in a blood-soaked kitchen towel, the fibers more crimson than cotton. The pain throbbed in pulses, each step sending a sharp reminder up your arm. You kept your eyes on the linoleum floors, following the resident as he led you deeper into the chaos of the emergency department and into an exam room.
“Oh,” the resident, Student Doctor Whittaker, said, his voice pitchy as he glanced at the kitchen towel. He quickly averted his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yeah, maybe we should keep that wrapped.”
You arched a brow at him, settling onto the exam table as the paper crinkled beneath you. The air in the room smelled sterile – alcohol wipes, latex gloves, and that faint antiseptic sting. “You’re not afraid of a little blood, are you? Because hate to be the one to tell you – you might be in the wrong profession.”
He gave a nervous laugh. “No, no – just… been a rough day,” he said, the humor dropping from his voice. “Can’t really handle another loss.”
You paused, tone softening. “Oh. Well, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” You glanced down at the towel, now visibly seeping. “Did you get a hold of my sister?”
He shook his head, eyes already shifting toward the door. “I tried, but she’s in the OR; still scrubbed in. But, don’t worry; Dr. Abbot is the attending on call tonight. He’s one of the best – ”
You frowned. “Abbot? Where’s Robby?”
Before he could answer, the door opened and a tall man entered the room, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a practiced snap. His scrubs were black, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and his expression was carved from stone. His salt-and-pepper hair was short but wavy; he easily had fifteen or twenty years on you… Still, he was cute.
“Well,” he began, his voice low and even, “It’s almost nine, and contrary to popular belief, even Robby needs to go home and rest. So, lucky you – you get me.”
You blinked. “Wow, smart and pretty. Lucky me indeed.”
He gave a subtle eye roll before his gaze met yours – steady, unreadable, deeply hazel. “So, what’ve we got?”
Whittaker stumbled to present. “Uh – female, 27. Has a deep laceration on her thumb. Cut it open on a grater – ”
“Mandoline slicer,” you corrected.
Abbot moved toward you, taking a seat on the wheeled stool. As he unwrapped your hand, you couldn’t help but ask, “Careful – you’re not gonna get queasy, too, are you?”
Without missing a beat, he stoically answered, “Only if this turns into something worse than a hand injury… like small talk.”
You let out a surprised laugh, half from the pain, half from how dryly he delivered the line.
“You’re funny,” you grinned. “I like you.”
He said nothing in response, merely peeled the cloth away, sticky and crimson, revealing the deep gash across the side of your thumb. Cold air kissed the open skin, and you hissed. He examined it without a flinch, gently turning your hand between his fingers.
“So, what were you doing with the mandoline slicer?”
“I’m a chef,” you answered. “The prep rush was insane today – guess my hand just slipped.”
He pressed carefully at the space between your thumb and index finger. You flinched, instinctively pulling back, but his other hand caught yours firmly, anchoring it.
“What?” you asked, watching his expression shift as he looked up.
“Stitches,” he decided.
“Fuck that.”
He arched his brow. “It’s a deep cut; can’t just put a bandaid on it and kiss it better.”
“Well, that’s because you haven’t tried,” you flirted, finding it to be an easy distraction from the pain. Still, his face remained unchanged. “Come on, are you serious? You really can’t just wrap it up and call it a day? I have to get back before the dinner rush.”
“It’s not optional,” he informed. “It’s not gonna heal if it’s not stitched up.”
“Don’t worry,” Whittaker piped up again, voice chipper. “Dr. Abbot could do this in his sleep.”
“I could,” Abbot said, already reaching for gauze. “But Whittaker’s going to do it instead.”
“What?” You both asked, heads whipping to him.
“It’s a good learning opportunity,” he replied casually. “And Robby’s always goin’ on about how we’re a teaching hospital. Besides, it’s just a few stitches – a teenager could do it.”
“A teenager is about to do it,” you muttered.
“He’s older than you,” Abbot pointed out, making your frown set on him.
“I want you to do it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he got queasy just looking at the kitchen towel,” you explained. You and Abbot both turned to Whittaker, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “It’s either you, or I wait for my sister to finish surgery,” you stubbornly gave him an ultimatum. “And she told me about those patient satisfaction scores.” You let out a low whistle.
Abbot stared at you for a beat, then turned to the student doctor. “Whittaker.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Go get me the lidocaine.”
You grinned in victory before offering your hand back out to Abbot.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” he muttered, arms crossing.
“You and my sister should start a support group,” you shot back.
He huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, maybe we will.”
When Whittaker returned, Abbot explained the procedure before getting to work: numbing first, then the sutures, probably six or seven. His voice was calm, precise. You clenched your other hand into a fist, eyes fixed anywhere but the needle. The sting of the lidocaine made your jaw tense.
“Ready?” Abbot asked. You nodded silently, lips pressed tight.
His hands were rough but skilled, careful – you could sense it.
As your eyes gazed over the room, they settled on the chain tucked beneath the neck of Abbot’s scrubs.
“Military?” you asked, voice quieter now as your free hand reached out to pull at the dog tags.
Without looking up, Abbot momentarily halted his work to swat your hand away. When your hand settled back by your side, he replied, “Used to be a medic. Liked the chaos so much, I went to med school for emergency medicine.”
You winced as one of the stitches tugged. “You good?” he asked, glancing up.
You gave him a wry look. “If I cry, will you hold my hand?”
“I’m already holding your hand,” he deadpanned.
You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Then, buy me dinner? Or, let me buy you dinner, at Francesca.”
“Francesca?” Whittaker perked up. “Wait – you work there?” You nodded, smiling. “That’s cool. I’ve heard some of the other residents talking about it. They really love the food.”
You turned back to Abbot with a pointed smile. “See? Good food, good company – what more could you ask for?”
“Probably some peace and quiet,” he muttered. But, before you could press, he was already tying off the sutures and wrapping your hand with fresh gauze.
“So,” you said eventually, “what’s the damage?”
“You’re a rightie?” he asked; you nodded. “It’s your dominant hand. That, and the fact that restaurants have a high risk of infection – wet, hot, high-contact. It’s gonna take a minute to heal. Probably five days off work to initially heal and reduce strain; another five until you’re back to full-duty – and when you are, make sure you wear some sort of splint or gloves. Come back then and I’ll take ‘em out. Sound good?”
A week off work.
You already knew you weren’t waiting that long.
Still, you grinned up at him. “Whatever you say, handsome.”
Two weeks later––four days after you were meant to get your stitches out––you finally found yourself back in the hospital. You couldn’t say you missed the bright fluorescent lights or the constant beeping of machines – you weren’t sure how your sister did it every day.
You did, however, miss Dr. Tall, Dark, and Broody.
That’s what you’d started calling Dr. Abbot in all your conversations with your sister. She’d blinked at you, been less amused, and professionally corrected you every time you brought him up.
“You mean ‘Jack’?” She’d say, and you’d grinned at that, ready to use this ammunition against him.
And, even though you had every intention to return earlier so you could see Jack sooner, work at the restaurant had gotten busy. Between a busted oven and two line cooks calling out, you’d been elbow-deep in chaos. You’d barely been convinced by Eleni, your sous, to come back even now. She had to practically push you out the front door.
Taylor, the charge nurse who brought you in, gave a smile as she informed you, “Dr. Whittaker will be in in just a few minutes.”
Your spine straightened immediately. “Actually, can you get Dr. Abbot? Tall one with the storm cloud for a personality. You know the one.”
Taylor nearly dropped her tablet laughing. “Oh, I like you,” she said, already halfway out the door. “Let me see what I can do.”
Luckily, it seemed like a slow night in the ED––well, slower than usual––and in a few minutes, your request had been granted.
“You know,” Abbot said by way of greeting when he entered the room, “you don’t get to request a specific doctor in the ED. That’s not how it works.”
You tilted your head. “Yeah? Then how come you showed up?”
He ignored that. “Why didn’t you let Whittaker take them out?” He already sounded annoyed, and it brought you much more glee than it should’ve. “You know he’s perfectly capable of removing stitches. And putting them in.”
“And pass up another moment of your stellar bedside manner? Now, why would I do that… Jack?” You smiled sweetly.
His eyes flicked up fast at the sound of his first name. “I hate your sister,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
“She’s the best and you know it.”
Instead of arguing, Jack gently pulled the wrap from your hand. His fingertips were warm through the gloves, deliberate in their movements as he examined the injury.
“You didn’t wait the five days before going back to work,” he said flatly, frown setting in.
Your brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? Of course I did – In fact I – ”
You cut yourself off when you saw the look he gave you. All stern disapproval and low-simmering frustration – hot. And in a moment, you crumbled.
“Okay, okay, fine – but I took three days off! That has to count for something! I was going stir-crazy in my apartment, Jack.” You squirmed under his gaze.
He let out a deep sigh, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he grumbled, brows pinched slightly as he prepped the suture scissors in that deliberate, quiet way of his.
You couldn’t watch as he moved with steady practiced precision. Instead, your eyes settled back on his dog tags and after a moment of silence, you asked in a soft voice, “How could you tell? That I went back to work early?”
He met your eyes then, frowning. After a beat, he answered. “The skin around is red, irritated. The inflammation just started going down. You should’ve come in early if you were gonna go back to work. I said day 10.”
“I know.”
Dryly, he continued, “This is day fourteen.”
“I know, Jack.” You frowned now too. “You know, if you keep on like this, you’re not getting your present.”
That was when he noticed the light pink bag that sat on the chair by the exam table.
“I brought you something. As a thank you for stitching me up.”
Jack tilted his head to the side. “Not a bribe to soften the blow because you knew I’d know you went back to work early?”
You smiled up at him, this time in a way that asked for his forgiveness. “Why can’t it be both?”
Jack rolled his eyes, then began removing your stitches. “It’s healing,” he noted, “but slower than it should be. You pushed it too hard.”
“I was careful,” you defended. “I let Eleni do all the chopping and lifting heavy pans – I just ran the line… and plated.”
Jack hummed, observing. “You’re holding tension through your whole arm. That’s not careful.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but just then, he snipped one of the sutures and you flinched with a hiss of discomfort. His hands paused immediately, and his expression shifted – not annoyed this time, but concerned.
“Still hurts?” he asked, quieter.
You tried to play it off, half-laughing. “Hurts less than not being in the kitchen.”
Jack sighed again, shaking his head. “You think I’m impressed by your stubbornness?”
You gave a crooked grin. “No, but I think you like it.”
He didn’t answer, just focused on removing the next stitch. Silence stretched between you, the only sound the soft snip of scissors. When he finally leaned back, he said, “Okay, that’s the last one. Take it easy, okay? I mean it. Just plating for now – carefully.”
You lifted your head. “And if I don’t? You going to come hold my hand through the dinner rush?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “I’ll come by the kitchen if I have to.”
You watched him, smile growing. “Still thinking about saying yes to that dinner I offered?”
Just as quick, he quipped, “I’m thinking about you not landing in my ER again.”
Your brow rose. “Keep it up and you’re not getting the tiramisu.”
As he was wrapping your hand in new gauze, his gaze flickered up to meet yours. “Tiramisu?”
“My sister said you wouldn’t stop talking about it a few days ago. Got a craving.”
“Yeah, for DiAnoia’s,” Jack corrected.
When he was done wrapping your hand, you hopped off the exam table and offered him the light pink bag, with a tiramisu boxed inside.
“It’s better than DiAnoia’s,” you promised, already halfway to the door.
He snorted at that, not believing you. “But, be careful, it's sweet. Might clash with the whole brooding thing you’ve got going on.”
“I don’t brood,” he called after you.
You turned at the doorway, walking backward as you smirked. “Yeah? Tell that to your face.”
Then, you spun on your heel, feeling his gaze on you as you let the door swing closed behind you.
You couldn’t tell if the emergency room was changing or if you were just getting used to it. The fluorescent lights felt ambient now, the loud chatter muffled, and the beep of vital machines now felt distant.
“Miss me?” You grinned up at Jack as he strolled towards the nurse’s station. You leaned casually against the counter, trying not to let your excitement show too much.
Without looking up from the chart in his hands, he replied, “Still haven’t recovered from the last time.”
You glanced over at Taylor, who sat typing behind the station, and dropped her a wink. “That’s not a no,” you stage-whispered, giggling.
Jack finally looked at you then, eyes tired but alert, like your voice had stirred him awake. “What are you doing here?” he asked, handing off the chart to Taylor.
“What, can’t a girl visit her local cute, broody doctor?”
“I already told you I’m not that,” he frowned.
You tilted your head. “Cute?” you asked, pretending to be confused.
He narrowed his eyes on you. “Broody.”
“Right,” you nodded solemnly. “Of course not.”
The silence between you lingered a second longer than expected – long enough for you to catch the faint circles under his eyes, the crease between his brows. His scrubs looked wrinkled, like he’d been running nonstop since the start of shift. Your smile softened.
“I’m dropping some food off.”
His brows furrowed now. “For me?”
Your smile only widened, but faltered just a touch as you took in just how off he looked, a little out of rhythm. That bone-deep kind of tired. You wondered if he’d eaten at all tonight.
“For my sister,” you said lightly, though your feet were already carrying you toward the break room. You grabbed a paper plate and plastic fork, and returned just as quickly. You set the plate down and began undoing the takeaway box you’d packed.
“Wait,” Jack started, a note of warning in his voice – he already knew where this was going. You ignored him, and scooped a generous portion of pasta onto the plate before sliding it his way. The steam curled up toward Jack’s face.
“Try some.”
He sighed, saying your name like it was both a complaint and a surrender.
“Come on,” you coaxed. “Just a bite. And if you hate it, I’ll leave you alone.”
He gave you a long-suffering look – but brought the fork to his mouth anyway. The first bite had his eyes fluttering closed, just for a second. A soft sound escaped him – barely audible, but unmistakable. You caught it.
“That was a compliment,” you accused, pointing at him with a victorious grin. “I heard it! Everyone heard it!” You turned dramatically to Taylor, who watched with a dry amusement before shuffling over to a patient’s room.
Jack rolled his eyes. “Ok, hotshot, relax. It’s just pasta. Hard to mess it up.”
You scoffed. “You’d be surprised.” He shrugged, and you took it as a challenge. “Okay, then what? What can I make to convince you it’s not just luck – it’s these magic hands.” To make a point, you wiggled your fingers.
To your surprise, he actually gave it some thought. A flicker of memory seemed to pass through him. His voice was quieter when he spoke.
“There was this dish we used to get when I was in the military – in this little town outside Kabul. Locals made it in the market stalls. It was kind of like a lamb stew, over some flatbread. Spicy. Kinda messy to eat. But damn good.”
You blinked, surprised he’d offered to share something so personal. You cleared your throat, softly asking, “You were stationed in Afghanistan?”
Realizing the slip-up, Jack shrugged it off like he regretted saying anything. His eyes drifted to a fixed point behind you.
“Jack,” you said softly, reaching out to place a hand over his, which rested on the counter of the nurse’s station. The gentle tone of your voice kept him from pulling his hand out from underneath yours. If anything, that, alongside the glint in your big eyes, made him want to spill everything.
“It was the 68W program – for combat medics,” he revealed, using his free hand to pull the dog tags from under his scrub top. “Standard issue accessory.”
“I disagree,” you murmured, playful but sincere. “I’ve heard medics are some of the toughest ones in the room.”
Jack let out a tiny almost-smile. “We were just the ones who didn’t get to shoot back.”
You paused, then asked, “What was it called? The dish.”
He thought for a second. “I don’t remember. I think maybe – palau something – or – I don’t know. Doesn't matter.”
You shook your head, heart melting. “If it stuck with you… it matters.”
Jack didn’t say anything to that, but his gaze found yours again – direct. You caught him staring. He didn’t look away.
“If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to think you like me,” you teased, tone light.
He didn’t even deny it, just shook his head – either in denial or disbelief, you couldn’t tell.
“That’s okay. I like you enough for the both of us.”
That brought a pink tinge to his cheeks.
Instead of bringing attention to it, you simply offered a half-smile. “Okay. Challenge accepted. One mystery lamb dish, coming up.”
At that, Jack raised a skeptical brow. “You’re gonna recreate something I haven’t eaten in ten years, from a place you’ve never been, with no recipe?”
You shrugged. “Maybe it’ll finally convince you to come to the restaurant.”
And there it was – just for a second. The edge of a smile. Maybe even the beginning of a laugh. You nudged his side with your elbow.
“Admit it. You’re rooting for me.”
Jack just shook his head, but didn’t speak. Didn’t stop smiling either. Didn’t even say no.
The next time Jack saw you in the hospital, the occasion was less momentous. You didn’t have a light pink box with the Francesca logo on it and a sweet treat––or Afghani dish––inside. You weren’t your happy, bubbly self jumping around the place. Forget jumping, you weren’t even on your feet.
You were in a hospital bed, fluids pumping steadily through an IV line taped to your arm. Your sister, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, was scrolling through her phone with the ease of someone used to hospitals – until Jack stumbled in.
His eyes immediately found yours, and whatever breath he’d been holding on the way in came out sharp.
“Every day you’re here – you come and find me. Every day,” he said, voice low and urgent. “So, what changed today? Why was Robby the one to tell me you fainted?”
You and your sister exchanged a glance. She was already putting her phone down, her expression turning serious.
“Because it literally happened an hour ago…?” you offered, wincing a little. “And that’s still day shift.”
Jack raked a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every sharp movement.
“Robby had it covered,” your sister said, trying to calm Jack.
It didn’t help.
“Did he do an ECG?”
“Yes.”
“Echocardiogram?”
“Yes, Jack,” she sighed.
“What about a head CT?”
You frowned. “Why would he do a CT?”
“Because you probably hit your head when you fell.”
You let out a breath, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t hit my head.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Eleni caught me.”
Jack’s eyes bounced between you and your sister. “This happened at work?” You nodded, slowly. “Did this happen because of work?”
Suddenly, you were having a hard time meeting his eye.
To make matters worse, your sister answered for you. “She was covering for one of the other line chefs, stressed about a critic visit – Eleni said she was barely sleeping – ”
“The critic’s a big deal!” you defended, “and Luca was getting burnt out. He needed a break.”
“No, babe,” your sister cut in, not unkindly, “You need a break.”
Jack stepped closer to the bed, scanning the IV bag. His fingers brushed against your arm, checking the line, then pressing gently against your wrist. “Did Robby hook her up to saline?”
Your sister nodded.
“What about electrolytes? She’s dehydrated.”
“He – ” Your sister paused, then asked, a little surprised, “How did you know that?”
“Her lips are dry,” Jack responded, as if it was obvious. “She squints every time she looks up at the lights. And her leg is tense – probably cramping earlier.”
You and your sister shared another look, then you grinned up at him, pushing his hand away from your arm to grab it in yours, warm and steady. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed.
“You were worried about me,” you grinned, all smiles and no apology.
He exhaled deeply, rubbing his free hand defeatedly over his face. “Oh, my God. You fainted and this is what you’re focused on?”
You gave him a small shrug. “I’m fine.”
And, truthfully, you were starting to feel better. Color was returning to your cheeks, and the constant throb behind your eyes had dulled to a whisper. The IVs were helping; the rest, too.
A voice crackled over the intercom, paging your sister to OR 3. She stood, hesitating.
“Go,” you said, waving her off. “I’ll be fine. Go back to work.”
“Fine, but tell someone to page me when they discharge you. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”
You rolled your eyes but nevertheless nodded. As she stepped out, Jack moved to sit on the edge of the chair beside your bed, one hand running along the railing.
“How mad do you think she’s gonna be when I tell her you’re not going anywhere? I’m keeping you overnight.”
Your head whipped toward him. “What? Why?”
“For observation. I want to make sure it really was stress-related and not some underlying medical condition.”
You groaned, tilting your head back against your pillow. “Jack,” you groaned, frustrated by this decision.
“Oh, I know,” he mocked gently. “How could I do this to you? Keeping you overnight to make sure you’re healthy? I’m the worst.”
You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as dramatically as you could manage while tethered to an IV.
“Don’t be like that,” he tried, his hand uncrossing yours. Then, the same hand lifted to gently cup your cheek. “You know, you didn’t have to faint just to get my attention. Could’ve just called.”
The blush that crept to your cheeks was immediate, and you cleared your throat, looking away. “Dr. Abbot with the jokes – never thought the day would come.”
“What can I say?” he replied with a shrug. “I’m a complex guy.”
He tugged your blanket higher, gently tucking it around you like it was second nature. “Now, get some sleep. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”
You nodded, already feeling the weight of exhaustion settle behind your eyes. As Jack slipped out, he left the curtain half-open so he could keep an eye on you from the nurse’s station or while he was passing by to other patient rooms.
Instead, you found your eyes drifting to him. Even through the haze of sleep, you watched him move through the ED like a controlled current – swift, focused, unshakable. He was in full command, teaching, managing, healing. Something about how intense yet calm he was eventually lulled you to sleep.
When you woke again, sunlight was peeking through the slats of the blinds, and Jack was beside your bed, carefully unhooking the IV line.
“Morning,” he greeted, voice soft as it pulled you from your deep slumber. “How are you feeling?”
You rubbed at the sleep in your eyes and let out a groggy sigh “Wow, thought I died and went to broody heaven.”
“I’ll take that as ‘fine,’” he said dryly, grabbing a paper cup of water he’d filled for you and maneuvering the straw toward your lips like it was muscle memory.
“Can I go home now?”
He nodded, his eyes still scanning your vitals, “Soon. Just gotta fill out your discharge paperwork and then shift’s over. I’ll drive you home.”
“Drive me home? I’m wearing you down, old man,” you grinned sleepily up at him.
He rolled his eyes, raising a hand to press the back of it to your forehead. “You feel okay? No headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”
“Good as new,” you promised, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “Must be these magic hands.”
He smiled at that, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles before letting go.
“So,” you began as he signed off on your chart, “does being injured get me privileges?”
He arched a brow. “What kind of privileges?”
“Favors,” you said with a shrug. “Like you finally coming to the restaurant.”
Jack let out a low groan, head shaking. “It’s too early for this – you’re never gonna let that go, are you?”
“Not till you say yes. And, as you know, I’m very persistent.”
“Oh, I do know,” he said, then held his hand out. “Let me see your thumb.”
You blinked. “Why?”
Still, you offered it up. He examined it gently, brushing his fingers over the healing skin.
“When this heals completely, I’ll come to Francesca.”
You beamed. “In that case, let’s speed up the process…” You wiggled your thumb closer to his face. “Never did try that technique of kissing it better, huh?”
He gave you a look – but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the pad of your thumb.
When he set it back down in your lap, your stomach fluttered.
“Now, can I take you home or are you going to make me do a blood oath first?”
“You’ve been burying the lede, Abbot,” you teased, making your presence known as you walked across the hospital rooftop and joined him on the concrete ledge. Your shoes scraped lightly against the gravel as you sat, legs swinging just off the edge.
He glanced over, brows furrowed in confusion. No one but Robby ever came up here.
“Taylor told me where you were,” you informed. “How many conversations have we had – and you never mentioned this place? Or the crazy views it has?”
The city was sprawled out below you, glittering the dark earth. A breeze tugged at your jacket, crisp with late night chill.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, checking his watch. 2:56am glowed dimly in the moonlight.
You shrugged, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “Couldn’t sleep.”
His concern was immediate, instinctual. “Is it the stitches? Are you feeling dehydrated?” He was already reaching for you, fingertips brushing your wrist as if searching for a pulse.
“No, Jack,” you laughed, pushing his hands away. “I’m fine. I just… woke up with a thought.”
He stilled, waiting for you to explain what thought could’ve roused you out of bed in the middle of the night and forced you here.
You reached behind you and retrieved a familiar pink Francesca bag, the paper crinkling softly in your hands. In thick Sharpie ink, you’d scrawled his name with a lopsided heart beside it. His brows lifted in disbelief.
“No fucking way,” he murmured, greedy fingers snatching the food container out of the bag and tossing the lid aside like it might disappear if he wasn’t fast enough.
Inside sat the Afghani dish Jack had told you about that one day at the nurse’s station. The rich, spiced aroma was carried through the night air – saffron, cumin, caramelized carrots.
“It’s called qabili palau,” you offered, watching him tear a piece of naan, scoop up a mouthful, and take a bite. The moment the flavors hit his tongue, his eyes immediately rolled to the back of his head and he exhaled a quiet sound that was half-groan, half-moan.
“If you’re making those kinds of noises at my cooking, just imagine my skill in the bedroom,” you teased, flashing him a grin.
That earned you a look – but not one you expected. Quiet, intense. His mouth twitched at the corner like he was trying not to smile, and then he went back for another bite. And another. You watched him eat in silence, the wind occasionally rustling his curls, and you couldn’t help but feel the intimacy of the moment, on this quiet rooftop, and this ridiculous hour.
He quietly finished the food, sharing it with you. And, when the food was gone, his eyes drifted out across the skyline. He looked… lighter somehow. And it reminded you why you loved being a chef – because food had the power to take people home, even when they were miles and years away.
You nudged him. “Oh – I almost forgot!” You excitedly held your hand up like a prize, thumb out. The skin had healed cleanly, leaving not even a scar behind. “All better.”
His eyes found yours, amusement dancing in them. “I’m pretty sure I said when it’s healed, not the exact moment it is.”
You scooted closer to him, shoulders brushing, as you accused, “Oh, no. You’re not gonna get out of this.”
He shook his head at you, like he had countless times before, but this time… this time the look in his eyes changed. Slowed. Softened. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, sitting here, choosing him.
His smile faded as he lifted a hand to your face, brushing a windblown strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to,” he said softly.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed – not some messy, passionate crush. It was slow, intentional. The kind of kiss that people waited a long, long time for. His lips were warm, and soft, and they fit perfectly against yours.
You melted into it, one hand curling around the front of his scrubs as the city disappeared beneath your closed eyelids. The hospital lights, the stars, the hum of distant traffic – it all faded until it was just the two of you. Just Jack.
When he finally pulled away, he didn’t go far – just rested his forehead against yours, his breath brushing across your skin as he murmured, “You know, you scare the hell out of me. Make it hard to stay behind the lines I drew.”
You smiled softly at that, brushing your thumb over the edge of his jaw. “Good. Means it’s real.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then, he gently took your hand again, turning it over to inspect your healed thumb. You rested your head against his shoulder, grinning – you both knew exactly what this meant.
He sighed dramatically, mocking defeat. “What’s the dress code?”
