The One Point Difference
Chapter Four: No Staring Before Coffee
Med School!Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 6, 642
Summary: Two weeks into living with Jack Abbot, the apartment starts to feel less like his place, with your boxes in it, and more like something neither of you is ready to name. There is coffee. There is shirtless kitchen warfare. There is retaliatory yoga. There is accidental studying. And then, somewhere between borrowed pens and shared notes, you realize the dangerous part might not be wanting Jack. It might be liking him.
Warnings: Academic rivals to lovers, roommates to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn, mutual denial, med school stress, romantic tension, shirtless Jack, flirting/banter, mild jealousy-adjacent tension if you squint, accidental domesticity, brief suggestive thoughts, no smut.
Author's Note: The mortifying ordeal of realizing the person you swear you hate is actually very easy to spend an entire afternoon with. This chapter is less about “oh no, he’s hot” and more about “oh no, I like him in my space,” which is obviously much worse.
Xoxo, Del
| Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 |
Two weeks later, you and Jack Abbot had settled into a routine.
You hated that even more than the first routine.
The first routine had been accidental. Emergency housing. Shared bathroom. Coffee pot logistics. Two people trying not to murder each other before morning lectures.
This routine was worse.
This routine had structure.
Every morning, you walked to class together.
Not because either of you had agreed to it.
Not because it was pleasant.
Because you lived behind the same front door, attended the same medical school, and Jack had been unfortunately correct about the fact that you liked sleep more than you disliked his company.
On Mondays and Wednesdays, you walked home together too, because your last lectures ended at the same time and neither of you had managed to invent a convincing reason to linger on campus for twenty extra minutes just to avoid the other.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, you split after lunch for separate labs, study groups, review sessions, or whatever other academic obligation had been designed to ruin your afternoon.
On Fridays, you did not walk home together.
Technically.
You simply ended up at the same crosswalk within thirty seconds of each other, turned in the same direction, and maintained a deeply mature three-foot distance until you reached the apartment.
That was different.
You did not study together.
You studied near each other.
Jack took the kitchen table. You took the couch. Sometimes the floor, if your back started to hate you. Sometimes the armchair, if you got there first and refused to move on principle.
You did not ask each other questions unless absolutely necessary, which apparently meant three to six times per night depending on the subject, the professor, and whether Jack was being difficult about admitting he needed help.
When Jack needed your notes, he stood at the edge of the living room with his textbook tucked under one arm and said, “Can I see your notes?”
You always looked up from your page. “Say please.”
Jack always stared at you like you had asked him to surrender territory.
Then he always said, “Please.”
That part was important.
Unfortunately, the system had consequences.
The first time you needed his notes, you tried to handle it with dignity.
You stood beside the kitchen table and stared at the open notebook near his elbow.
Jack kept writing for half a second.
Then his pen slowed.
Stopped.
He did not look up. “Use your words.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Can I see your notes for Singh?”
Jack lifted his head slowly.
Your stomach dropped.
“Can you?” Jack asked.
“No,” you said immediately.
His brow lifted. “No?”
You glared at him. “No, because I can already see where this is going.”
Jack looked up at you. “Where is it going?”
You held out your hand. “Into my hands. Ideally.”
Jack leaned back in his chair like he had all night to enjoy this. “Try again.”
You tightened your hand around the edge of the table. “Abbot.”
His brows lifted. “One word.”
You pointed at the notebook. “Notes.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved. “Different word.”
You glared at him.
Jack looked deeply, offensively patient.
“Please,” you said.
His mouth curved. “See? Not fatal.”
You sighed. “The night is young.”
Jack slid the notebook toward you. “Page thirty-eight.”
You opened it and immediately hated how useful it was.
“Your handwriting is pretentious,” you said.
Jack picked up his pen again. “My handwriting is legible.”
You glanced down at the page. “Pretentiously legible.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Still counts.”
You looked up at him.
Jack looked very pleased with himself.
You pointed at him with his own notebook. “Do not start making that a thing.”
“Too late,” Jack said.
You also did not share meals.
You shared leftovers.
There was a difference.
Meals implied planning. Meals implied intention. Meals implied someone looking into the fridge and thinking about what another person might want after a long day of pretending not to be exhausted.
Leftovers were practical.
Leftovers were math.
If you made too much pasta, and Jack was across the hall, and eating all of it yourself would be medically inadvisable, then offering him some was simply responsible roommate behavior.
If Jack made too much rice, or eggs, or one deeply suspicious but surprisingly good skillet dinner out of whatever had been in the fridge, and there happened to be a bowl left on the counter with your name not written on it but somehow implied, that was also logistics.
Food logistics.
Apartment logistics.
Survival.
The bathroom schedule had become the only place where your rivalry had paperwork.
Every morning, you had twenty-two minutes.
Jack had made the schedule.
Of course Jack had made the schedule.
He had written it in clean block letters on a notecard and taped it to the inside of the bathroom cabinet like a man who believed civilization depended on posted procedures.
It was not laminated only because you had threatened to move out.
If you went over by one minute, Jack knocked immediately.
Every time.
Without fail.
“You’re over,” Jack said through the bathroom door on Monday morning.
You looked at your reflection in the fogged mirror, mascara wand frozen halfway to your eye. “It has been thirty seconds.”
“It has been one minute and twelve seconds,” Jack replied.
Your eyes narrowed at your own reflection. “You timed me?”
Jack’s voice stayed calm on the other side of the door. “I’m leaving without you.”
You leaned closer to the mirror and finished the mascara. “Great. Enjoy your lonely little walk.”
Silence.
Then, from the hallway, Jack said, “You have two minutes.”
You smiled despite yourself.
He did not leave.
He never left.
That was the problem.
By the end of the second week, the apartment had started to feel less like Jack’s place with your boxes in it and more like something neither of you had agreed to name.
Your sweater ended up on the back of the couch and stayed there for three days.
Jack’s old mug migrated to the shelf beside yours.
Your pathology notes lived on the coffee table.
His cardiology textbook lived on the kitchen table.
There was always coffee in the morning.
Always enough for two.
You did not talk about that.
Talking about that would have been dangerous.
So you talked about normal things instead.
Rent. Rotations. Gross anatomy review.
Who used the last of the milk.
Whether the radiator noise was getting worse.
Whether Jack was physically capable of shutting cabinet doors all the way.
Whether you were physically capable of being ready on time.
You were, for the record.
Mostly.
And then Saturday came.
Saturday should have been safe.
There were no lectures. No labs. No hallway full of classmates ready to witness whatever horrifying roommate behavior you and Jack Abbot had apparently started producing against your will.
There was no reason to be awake before eight.
Which was why, when you finally dragged yourself out of bed a little after nine, still half-asleep and morally opposed to consciousness, you expected exactly three things from the kitchen.
Coffee. Silence. Privacy.
You got one of them.
Barely.
You shuffled down the hallway in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt, one hand dragging through your hair as you aimed toward the coffee pot with the blind faith of someone who had not yet remembered that she shared an apartment with her academic rival.
Then you reached the kitchen.
And stopped.
Jack was there.
Shirtless.
Sweaty.
Standing near the sink with one hand braced on the counter and a glass of water in the other, his chest rising and falling like he had just come back from a run. His hair was damp, curls darker at the ends and pushed back from his forehead in a way that did absolutely nothing to help you survive the situation.
Your brain, which had successfully completed an entire year of medical school, offered you one clear, academic thought.
Oh. No.
Jack looked up.
You looked at him.
At his face.
Only his face.
Mostly his face.
His brow lifted. “Problem?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out.
That, unfortunately, was a problem.
Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand, still frozen midair, as if you had been about to reach for the coffee pot and had lost motor function halfway through.
Then his mouth almost moved. “Coffee’s made.”
You blinked.
Coffee. Right. You were here for coffee. You were a person with goals.
“I can see that,” you said.
Jack glanced toward the coffee pot. “Good.”
You stepped into the kitchen with every ounce of dignity you had left, which was not a lot. “Don’t sound surprised.”
Jack lifted the glass to his mouth and took a drink of water.
You did not watch his throat move.
You did not.
You looked at the cabinet instead.
Jack lowered the glass. “You stopped walking.”
You opened the cabinet too forcefully. “I was thinking.”
Jack leaned one hip against the counter. “About?”
You pulled down the nearest mug and set it on the counter. “Coffee.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on you for one second too long. “Convincing.”
You reached for the coffee pot. “Don’t start.”
The coffee poured into your mug with a steadiness you personally deserved an award for maintaining.
Jack stayed by the sink.
Still shirtless. Still sweaty. Still existing in your kitchen, like the lease allowed this.
You set the coffee pot back and leaned against the counter beside it, mug clutched in both hands like caffeine could restore your dignity.
Jack watched you over the rim of his glass.
Then he lowered it. “New rule.”
You blinked at him. “Already?”
“Yes,” Jack answered.
You raised a brow. “We have a bathroom schedule, a dish policy, and a quiet-hours clause. What else could you possibly need?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “No staring before coffee.”
Your hand froze around your mug.
Heat climbed up your neck with horrifying speed.
“I wasn’t staring.” You said.
Jack tilted his head. “You stopped walking.”
“I told you, I was thinking.” You replied quickly.
Jack's eyes narrowed slightly. “About coffee.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “You were looking at my chest.”
“I was assessing the shared living environment.” You corrected him.
His brow arched. “Were you?”
“Yes.” You said.
He looked down at himself. “Find anything concerning?”
You took a sip of coffee to buy yourself time.
It was too hot.
You drank it anyway.
“Several things,” you said.
Jack leaned one hip against the counter, which was deeply unfair because it made his abdomen do something your medical education had not prepared you for. “List them.”
Your reply was immediate. “No.”
“Because you weren’t staring?” Jack asked.
You glared at him. “Because I don’t take orders from shirtless men before breakfast.”
“No staring before coffee,” Jack repeated.
You picked up your mug again, feeling a little steadier now that caffeine and irritation were both entering your bloodstream. “Do you always wander around half-naked before breakfast?”
Jack’s brow lifted. “I ran.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, because that had done absolutely nothing to answer the question and somehow still explained everything.
Jack set his water glass in the sink. “What?”
You gripped your mug tighter. “That was not the question.”
“I got hot,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “That was also not the question.”
His mouth curved slightly. “What was the question?”
You lifted your chin, refusing to move from the counter on principle. “Whether this is going to be a regular occurrence.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Does it need a rule?” Jack asked.
Your grip tightened around the mug.
The roommate agreement. Of course. Of course, he would do this.
You lifted your chin higher. “Yes.”
Jack folded his arms.
That did not help.
That made everything much worse.
His mouth curved slightly. “No shirtless running recovery in the kitchen?”
“No being…” You gestured vaguely at him with one hand and immediately regretted it. “Like that.”
Jack glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Like what?”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know what.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours, steady and unreadable in a way that warmed your face. “I really don’t.”
You tightened your grip on the mug. “You absolutely do.”
Jack did not answer.
Instead, he moved.
One controlled step toward you.
Then another.
You went still before you could tell yourself not to.
Jack braced one hand on the counter beside your hip and reached past you with the other for the coffee pot.
His chest was inches from yours.
Barely inches.
Close enough that the warm, salty scent of sweat, morning air, and Jack filled your lungs before you could decide not to breathe. Close enough that you could see the beads of sweat tracking down the side of his neck, sliding over his collarbone, catching briefly against the glistening skin of his chest before disappearing lower.
Your brain stopped working.
Fully.
Catastrophically.
Jack’s arm shifted beside you as his fingers closed around the pot's handle.
For one second, neither of you moved.
You kept your eyes fixed on the center of his chest, which was an enormous mistake.
So you looked up.
That was worse.
Jack was watching you now, expression still controlled, but his eyes were sharper than they had been a minute ago.
Aware.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
You swallowed. “You could have said excuse me.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
Briefly. Barely. Enough.
His voice was lower when he answered. “I thought about it.”
Your fingers tightened around your mug. “You should’ve gone with that.”
Jack’s mouth curved.
Small and slow.
“Too late now,” Jack said.
The coffee pot lifted from the counter beside you.
Jack stepped back.
The air returned all at once.
You hated that you noticed.
Jack poured coffee into his mug with maddening calm, like he had not just committed a felony against your nervous system before breakfast.
You stared at him.
He glanced over the rim of the pot. “Problem?”
You blinked. “No.”
Jack set the pot down. “Convincing.”
You pointed at him with your free hand. “Put on a shirt.”
Jack’s grin sharpened.
You closed your eyes briefly, then opened them. “As a courtesy to the shared living environment.”
Jack leaned back against the opposite counter with his coffee. “As a courtesy.”
You nodded once. “Yes.”
“To the shared living environment,” Jack repeated.
You nodded again. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at himself, then back at you. “The living environment seems fine.”
You pointed toward the hallway with your mug. “The living environment wants you to put on a shirt.”
His grin appeared before he could stop it.
Small, cocky, devastating.
You turned away from him with your coffee. “I’m going back to bed.”
Jack looked toward the clock on the stove. “It’s nine-thirty.”
You started toward the hallway. “Emotionally, it’s still dawn.”
“You have to study,” Jack said from behind you.
You tightened your grip on the mug. “You have to wear a shirt.”
A quiet huff of laughter slipped out of him.
You heard it.
You hated that you heard it.
You made it halfway to the hallway before his voice followed you, low and entirely too pleased.
“Good morning to you too.”
You stopped.
Your fingers tightened around the mug.
You did not turn around.
You stared straight ahead at the hall, at your bedroom door, at safety.
Then you said, with as much dignity as a woman fleeing a shirtless man in her own kitchen could manage, “Morning, Abbot.”
Behind you, Jack laughed under his breath.
You kept walking.
This was going to be a problem.
By noon, you had decided two things.
One, Jack Abbot knew exactly what he had done.
Two, you were not above retaliation.
This was not flirting.
This was justice.
Which was why, after lunch, you changed into fitted shorts and an old tank top, dragged your yoga mat into the living room, and unrolled it in the exact stretch of floor between the couch and the coffee table.
It was a perfectly reasonable place to do yoga.
It was also directly visible from the kitchen table.
That was a coincidence.
Mostly.
Jack was exactly where he usually was on Saturday afternoons, seated at the kitchen table with a textbook open, a pen in his hand, and one of his painfully organized notebooks beside it.
You did not look at him as you stepped onto the mat.
That would have been obvious.
You lifted your arms overhead, rolled your shoulders back, and bent forward with the serene focus of a woman who had absolutely no ulterior motives.
The kitchen went quiet.
Beautiful.
You kept your hands on the mat and stretched a little deeper.
Behind you, the kitchen chair creaked.
Not loudly or dramatically.
Just enough.
Your mouth curved before you could stop it. You stayed folded forward for one more breath, then another, giving the silence plenty of time to incriminate him.
Jack did not say anything.
Neither did you.
Slowly, you rose halfway, planted your palms on your thighs, and looked back at him over your shoulder.
Jack was not looking at his textbook.
He was looking at you.
Specifically, he was looking at the part of you currently arranged in a way that made his attention extremely easy to identify.
His eyes lifted to yours a second too late.
Perfect.
Even better, a faint flush had started high on his cheekbones.
You arched one brow. “Problem?”
Jack’s face did not change.
That was impressive.
The blush stayed, though.
His pen shifted once between his fingers. “No.”
You held his gaze. “Convincing.”
Jack leaned back in his chair as if he had just been caught committing a felony. “You’re in the middle of the living room.”
You straightened slowly and turned toward him. “I live here.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “I noticed.”
The words landed before either of you could pretend they had not.
Your stomach flipped.
You lifted your chin. “I’m stretching.”
Jack looked at the yoga mat, then back at you. “Subtle.”
Your eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry?”
His mouth curved slightly. “You heard me.”
You folded your arms. “Are you accusing me of something?”
Jack set his pen down with maddening care. “Retaliation.”
You stared at him. “That is a serious accusation.”
Jack’s eyes flicked briefly to the mat before returning to your face. “That is a serious stretch.”
You stared at him.
Jack stared back.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
You hated him.
You hated that you wanted to laugh.
You turned back to the mat before your face could give you away. “Flexibility is important.”
Jack did not answer.
That was your first warning.
Unfortunately, you kept talking.
“I find it useful outside of yoga too,” you said.
The silence behind you changed.
You froze.
You had not meant it like that.
Not exactly.
Not out loud.
From the kitchen, Jack’s pen tapped once against the table.
Once.
Then stopped.
You closed your eyes.
Behind you, Jack’s voice came out very even. “Do you?”
Your face went hot. “For posture.”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “Of course.”
You stared down at the mat. “And preventing injury.”
Jack’s pen shifted softly against the table. “Important.”
You swallowed. “And general mobility.”
Jack was quiet for a beat. “Very practical.”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Don’t.”
Jack’s mouth curved, but the flush on his cheekbones had deepened slightly. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You were about to.”
Jack held your gaze for one second longer than necessary. “I was considering it.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you lowered into a lunge, one knee bent, palms flat on either side of your foot, because apparently you had decided the only way out was through.
Behind you, the kitchen chair creaked again.
You smiled down at the mat.
“You going to study?” you asked, keeping your voice mild.
Jack was quiet for half a second too long.
Then his voice came lower. “Eventually.”
Your breath caught.
Barely.
But the apartment was small, and Jack Abbot had become horrifyingly good at noticing things you wished he would miss.
You glanced back.
He was still watching you. The blush had not gone away. Neither had the look in his eyes. Controlled. Careful. Not smug now. Aware.
Your satisfaction faltered.
This had been easier when you were winning.
You shifted your weight and sat back on your heels, suddenly very aware of the shorts, the tank top, the loose fall of your hair against your neck, and the fact that Jack was sitting ten feet away looking at you like he was trying very hard not to.
“You’re staring,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted.
Caught.
Actually caught.
The flush on his face made something low in your stomach pull tight.
His eyes flicked back to his notebook. “I was thinking.”
You blinked. “About?”
Jack looked up again.
One corner of his mouth lifted.
There he was.
Your face warmed. “Don’t answer that.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, pen still loose between his fingers. “Wasn’t planning to.”
You pushed yourself upright, suddenly desperate to be standing. “Good.”
Jack’s gaze followed you as you reached for the edge of the mat. “Done already?”
You rolled the mat with more force than necessary. “I got what I needed.”
Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “Did you?”
You froze for one terrible second.
Then you looked up at him.
His face was still flushed.
Yours was not better.
This entire plan had gone very badly.
You tucked the rolled mat under your arm and lifted your chin. “Stretching, Abbot.”
Jack looked at the mat under your arm, then back at you. “Right.”
You pointed at him. “Don’t make that sound like a question.”
Jack picked up his pen again, but his mouth was still curved. “I didn’t.”
“You did with your face,” you said.
His eyes flicked up to yours. “My face is innocent.”
You stared at him. “Your face has never been innocent a day in its life.”
That got him.
A quiet huff of laughter slipped out before he could stop it, and for one second, the blush and the laugh and the way he looked down at his textbook like he needed somewhere safe to put his eyes made your chest feel strangely tight.
You did not like that.
You liked it too much.
So you turned toward the hallway.
Jack’s voice followed you before you made it three steps. “New rule.”
You stopped, but you did not turn around. “No.”
Jack’s pen tapped once against the table. “No retaliatory yoga in the living room.”
You looked back at him over your shoulder. “It wasn’t retaliatory.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Convincing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “No staring during yoga.”
Jack held your gaze. “I wasn’t staring.”
You tipped your chin toward the kitchen table. “The chair gave you away.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved.
Then the flush on his cheekbones came back.
You turned away before either of you could make it worse.
For once, Jack did not say anything.
That felt like victory.
It also felt like the apartment had shifted again, one more inch toward something neither of you were ready to name.
You carried the yoga mat back to your room and shut the door behind you.
Then you leaned against it, closed your eyes, and took one careful breath.
This had been retaliation.
Technically.
Unfortunately, you were beginning to suspect Jack Abbot did not know how to lose correctly.
You stood there for another few seconds, listening to the quiet on the other side of the door.
No chair scraping.
No pen moving.
No dry comment from the kitchen.
Good.
That was good.
That was what you wanted.
Then you heard the faintest sound of Jack clearing his throat.
Your eyes opened.
No.
Absolutely not.
You pushed off the door, grabbed a change of clothes, and went straight for the bathroom.
A shower was neutral.
A shower was private.
A shower was a reasonable and medically advisable response to yoga, humiliation, and the deeply unfair fact that your roommate looked like that while being such a pain in the ass.
When you came back out, your hair was damp, your skin was warm, and you had changed into soft shorts and an old oversized sweatshirt that had survived more laundry cycles than most relationships.
Jack was still at the kitchen table.
He looked up when you came down the hall.
His gaze moved over your damp hair first.
Then the sweatshirt.
Then your bare legs.
Not long.
Not rudely.
But not fast enough.
You kept walking toward the couch, textbook tucked against your chest, and arched one brow as you passed him. “Study.”
Jack’s eyes lifted back to yours.
For half a second, he said nothing.
Then his mouth curved.
Small.
Still somehow pleased.
“Gladly,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes at him.
Jack looked back down at his textbook.
You crossed to the couch with the dignity of a woman who had absolutely not won that exchange as cleanly as she wanted to.
For the next twenty minutes, you actually did study.
You stretched out across the couch with your legs draped over one arm, one foot bare, the other hooked lazily at the ankle. Your textbook rested open against your stomach, and you held your notebook above your face, reading the same handwritten pathway until the words started to blur into one long accusation.
Inflammatory mediators.
Vascular permeability.
Neutrophil migration.
Macrophage activation.
Awful.
All of it.
You shifted the notebook higher and frowned at your own handwriting.
You were somewhere between prostaglandins and leukotrienes, deeply committed to pretending the morning had never happened, when a shadow fell across the page.
You blinked.
Before your brain could decide what that meant, Jack’s face appeared upside down over the edge of the notebook.
You nearly dropped it on your own nose.
“Jesus,” you said, jerking the notebook down against your chest. “What is wrong with you?”
Jack was leaning over the back of the couch, forearms braced along the top cushion, his curls hanging slightly forward from the angle.
His mouth curved, not quite a grin, but close. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
You stared up at him, heart still trying to recover. “Why are you over here?”
Jack’s gaze moved lazily over your position on the couch. “Why are you studying like a Victorian invalid?”
You tightened your grip on the notebook. “I’m comfortable.”
Jack tipped his head a fraction farther over the back of the couch. “You look deceased.”
You stared at him for one beat. “That’s because pathology is killing me.”
That got the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth.
You hated that you noticed.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the notes in your hand. “You’re rereading the same page.”
You frowned. “Were you timing me?”
Jack raised a brow. “You sighed three times.”
You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, still facing him across the back of the couch. “That is not evidence.”
Jack’s expression stayed infuriatingly even. “It’s strong evidence.”
You sat up a little more, the textbook sliding down into your lap. “You’re very judgmental for someone hanging over a couch to harass me.”
Jack’s gaze dropped briefly to the page on your lap. “What are you stuck on?”
You should have lied.
Instead, you lifted the notes a little. “Early reversible changes.”
Jack stayed where he was, upside down and deeply irritating. “You know them.”
You frowned at him. “Then why don’t I feel like I know them?”
Jack’s shoulders shifted slightly against the back of the couch. “Because you’re tired.”
The answer came so simply that it knocked the sarcasm right out of you.
For half a second, all you did was look at him.
He looked back.
Still upside down. Still too close. Still somehow managing to sound annoyingly practical and unexpectedly right at the same time.
You looked down first and tapped the page with one finger. “Fine. Quiz me.”
Jack was quiet for a beat, and when you glanced up again, that softer version of his cocky expression had appeared, the one that looked less like he was winning and more like he was amused you had given him an opening.
“Confident,” Jack said.
You adjusted the notes in your lap. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Jack’s forearms stayed braced on the back of the couch as he looked at the page. “Earliest reversible change with hypoxic injury?”
You leaned back against the cushion. “Cellular swelling.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the notes. “Mechanism?”
You tucked one leg beneath yourself. “ATP depletion causes failure of ion pumps. Sodium accumulates inside the cell, water follows, cell swells.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved. “Textbook answer.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Correct textbook answer.”
He looked back at the page. “Ribosomal detachment from the rough ER causes what?”
You sighed. “Decreased protein synthesis.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to yours. “Good.”
The word landed wrong.
Not bad wrong.
Worse.
Warm wrong.
You looked back down at your notes. “Say correct.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “What?”
You kept your eyes on the page. “Say correct. Not good.”
There was a pause.
Then Jack’s mouth curved. “No.”
You looked up at him. “No?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
You stared at him. “Why?”
His gaze dropped back to the notes. “Good is faster.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
Jack turned the page. “Coagulative necrosis.”
Terrible man.
You forced yourself to focus. “Architecture preserved. Usually ischemic injury. Except brain.”
Jack nodded once. “Brain?”
You answered before he could finish. “Liquefactive necrosis.”
Jack’s finger moved down the page. “Abscess?”
You shifted the textbook higher in your lap. “Also liquefactive.”
Jack looked at you. “Caseous?”
You wrinkled your nose. “TB. Cheese-like. Gross.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Medical terminology at its finest.”
You shrugged against the cushion. “If pathology didn’t want me to say gross, pathology should be less gross.”
That got him.
A quiet laugh.
Not a huff this time.
An actual laugh, low and brief and surprised enough that you looked up before you could stop yourself.
Jack was smiling.
Not smirking. Not winning.
Smiling.
It changed his whole face for half a second, softening the sharp edges, making him look younger, easier, like someone you might have liked immediately if you had met him somewhere without exams and point differences and all the reasons you had built to be difficult with him.
Then he looked back at the page.
The smile disappeared.
But not completely.
Something in your chest felt strange.
Jack cleared his throat. “Fat necrosis.”
You blinked yourself back into focus. “Trauma to fat tissue. Pancreatitis. Saponification.”
Jack nodded once. “Good.”
You looked up slowly.
He was not looking at you.
The corner of his mouth moved anyway.
Terrible, terrible man.
Jack asked another question.
You answered.
Then you asked him one.
He got it right.
Unfortunately.
Then you asked him another, more difficult one, because you were not above pettiness in the pursuit of education.
Jack got that one right, too.
More unfortunately.
At some point, he stopped leaning over the back of the couch and came around to sit beside you.
Not close.
Not at first.
He sat at the other end, one arm stretched along the back cushion, your textbook open in his lap and his notebook balanced against his thigh. You sat with one leg tucked beneath you, your own notebook resting against your knee, a pen trapped between your fingers.
It was normal.
It was practical.
It was two exhausted medical students studying because that was what exhausted medical students did.
Except Jack was good at quizzing you.
That was annoying.
He did not give hints too early. He did not let you get away with vague answers. He waited through your frustration without rescuing you from it, then said one word that made your brain snap into place, as if he had known exactly which wire was loose.
You hated that.
You liked it.
You hated that more.
Jack tapped your textbook with the end of his pen. “Chemical mediators derived from arachidonic acid.”
You stared at the ceiling. “I hate that sentence.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “That isn’t an answer.”
You let your head drop back against the couch. “Prostaglandins and leukotrienes.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “Good.”
You turned your head to glare at him.
He did not look up.
The corner of his mouth moved anyway.
“You are enjoying this,” you said.
Jack turned the page. “You getting the answers right?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Me getting annoyed.”
His mouth curved. “That too.”
You looked away first, because the room had done that thing again where it suddenly felt smaller without anyone moving.
Safe ground.
You needed safe ground.
You grabbed his notebook from the coffee table and flipped to the cardiopulmonary section. “Define afterload.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “That’s your revenge?”
You settled deeper into the couch. “Define it without sounding like you’re being held at gunpoint by a textbook.”
Jack leaned back, considering. “Pressure the ventricle has to overcome to eject blood.”
You paused.
Then you frowned. “That was annoyingly normal.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Good?”
You pointed his notebook at him. “Do not make me weaponize your own notes.”
Jack reached over and plucked the notebook from your hand. “You’d lose.”
You scoffed. “I would absolutely not lose.”
“You’d get distracted by my handwriting,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “Your handwriting is not that impressive.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “It’s legible.”
“It’s pretentiously legible,” you replied.
His eyes flicked to yours.
For one second, he only looked at you.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Still counts.”
The laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Small.
Barely there.
But there.
Jack’s expression changed.
Not much.
Just enough for you to know he had heard it.
You looked down at your notebook immediately, like there might be something life-saving in the margin.
There was not.
There was only your own handwriting, several inflammatory pathways, and the horrifying knowledge that Jack Abbot had made you laugh without even trying.
The afternoon moved after that.
Not quickly, exactly.
Easily.
That was worse.
You quizzed him on preload.
He quizzed you on necrosis.
You asked him to explain Starling forces and then regretted it because he actually did.
Calmly.
Clearly.
Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, drawing a small diagram in the margin of your notebook.
You corrected the label on one arrow.
He stared at it for half a second.
Then he nodded. “Good catch.”
You blinked.
Jack looked up. “What?”
You looked back at the diagram too quickly. “Nothing.”
His gaze stayed on your face for a second longer. “That was nothing?”
You tapped the paper with your pen. “It was a rare moment of you being gracious. I’m processing.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Take your time.”
“I need three to five business days,” you said.
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
Low and brief and real.
You looked down at the notebook again, but this time you were smiling too.
That was the problem.
You were smiling.
Not because you had won.
Not because he had said something irritating and you had found the perfect response.
Just because.
Because he was sitting beside you with his sleeves pushed up, one of your pens in his hand, making ugly little diagrams in the margins of your notes.
Because he looked less like your rival when he was explaining something and more like someone who wanted you to understand it.
Because you had spent so much time trying to beat Jack Abbot that you had not prepared for what it would feel like to be helped by him.
You shifted on the couch, uncurling one leg from underneath you.
Your knee brushed his thigh.
Barely.
A small, accidental touch.
Skin against fabric.
Nothing.
Jack stopped mid-sentence.
You stopped breathing.
His gaze dropped to where your knee had touched him.
Then lifted back to your face.
For one second, neither of you moved.
It was ridiculous.
You had touched him before.
His hand on your shoulder in the lecture hall.
Fingers brushing over a pen.
A sleeve in the hallway.
Nothing about this should have mattered.
But this was different.
Because no one was watching.
Because there was no excuse of a crowded aisle or a narrow hallway or furniture that needed moving.
Because you were both sitting on the same couch, surrounded by shared notes, borrowed pens, and the remains of an afternoon you had not meant to give him.
Your eyes flicked toward the window.
The light had changed.
That was when you realized.
The bright afternoon had gone soft and gray around the edges. The room was dimmer than it had been. Your stomach had started to ache with hunger, and you had not noticed because you had been too busy talking to Jack.
Studying with Jack.
Laughing with Jack.
Sitting beside Jack.
For hours.
Actual hours.
Your chest tightened.
Oh.
You liked this.
Not the idea of it.
Not the tension.
Not the annoying, electric, infuriating game of trying to make him blush and then regretting it when he did.
This.
The quiet. The couch. The notes. The way he looked at your diagram like your brain was something worth following.
The way he said good and made it sound like a dare.
You liked being with him.
The realization startled you so badly that you moved.
Too fast.
Your knee pulled away from his thigh, and your notebook slid half off your lap.
Jack’s hand moved on instinct, catching the edge before it could hit the floor.
He held it there, fingers curled around the cover.
You stared at his hand.
Then at him.
Jack’s brows drew together slightly. “You okay?”
You stood before you could think better of it.
“Fine,” you said, reaching for the notebook.
The word came out too quick.
Jack noticed.
He sat back slowly, still holding your notebook. “That didn’t sound fine.”
You reached for the notebook. “It was fine-adjacent.”
Jack did not let go immediately.
Not to trap you.
Not to be difficult.
Just long enough for you to look at him.
His voice was quieter when he spoke. “What happened?”
You hated that question. You hated it because it was not teasing. You hated it because he sounded like he actually wanted to know.
You took the notebook from his hand and tucked it against your chest. “Nothing.”
Jack looked at you for a beat. “That word is getting less convincing.”
You tried for a smile.
It did not feel like one. “Maybe you’re getting harder to convince.”
His expression changed.
Barely.
But you saw it.
You saw him understand that something had shifted, even if he did not know exactly what.
You stepped around the coffee table, needing space, needing air, needing the room to stop smelling like coffee and paper and Jack’s soap.
“I’m going for a walk,” you said, already moving toward the hallway.
Jack’s gaze followed you. “Now?”
You moved to grab your shoes, then turned toward the door. “Yes.”
Jack stood.
Not fully toward you.
Just enough that the movement caught in your peripheral vision.
Your whole body noticed.
“Do you want—” Jack started.
You looked back too quickly.
He stopped.
The offer sat there unfinished.
Do you want company?
Do you want me to come with you?
Your grip tightened around your notebook.
Jack’s mouth closed.
Then he nodded once, like he had decided not to make you answer something you could not handle.
“Take your key,” Jack said.
The ordinary words hit worse than the unfinished question.
You looked at the bowl by the door, where both of your keys sat side by side.
Two keys.
Same apartment.
Same bowl.
Dangerous.
You set your notebook on the narrow entry table and picked up your key. “I know.”
Jack stayed by the couch. “Okay.”
You opened the door.
Then paused, because leaving without saying anything felt too abrupt, and saying too much felt impossible.
You looked back.
Jack was still standing in the living room, your textbook open on the couch beside him, his notebook on the coffee table, one of your pens still in his hand.
He looked like he belonged there.
That was the problem.
“I’ll be back,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I know.”
You swallowed.
Then you stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you.
The air outside the apartment was cooler.
Less close.
Less warm.
Less him.
You stood there for one second with your key pressed into your palm and your heartbeat too loud in your ears.
Inside the apartment, everything had gotten too easy.
That was the problem.
Not the shirtless kitchen incident.
Not the yoga mat.
Not his stupid mouth or his stupid praise or the stupid way he laughed when he forgot to stop himself.
Those things were dangerous, yes.
But they made sense.
Heat made sense.
Want made sense.
This was worse.
Because for a few hours, you had forgotten to hate him.
And the terrible part was, you were starting to think he had forgotten too.
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