chapter 18
over a decade | dr. jack abbot
summary: After years of silence and carefully maintained distance, nothing has ever truly changed between you and your ex-husband - Dr. Jack Abbot. You’ve mastered the art of civility, keeping the past buried beneath routine shifts and professional courtesy. But when a long-forgotten connection begins to surface, both of you are forced to confront what you left unresolved years ago. tags: +18, SMUT, NSFW, divorcees, lovers to enemies to lovers, cheating, mutual pining, fluff, widowed jack abbot, age gap (unspecified), forced proximity
a/n: my apologies if the chapter is too cliché. i was binging my "dating joel miller" playlist, i was in the mood :D
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The flight had been a cramped misery, leaving you with an ache in your lower back and the feeling like every bone in your body had been broken.
It matched the rest of your week. As expected, the hospital had been a madhouse. Neurology was always the first department to feel the weight of winter – car accidents and holiday decorating ending with people falling off roofs and ladders. Where there was ice, there was trouble.
When the door to your hotel room finally clicked shut behind you, you let out the long sigh of relief as you heard nothing but pure silence.
The hotel room was exactly what you expected: blue walls, a king-sized bed with a white duvet and a single window overlooking a snow-covered parking lot. You dropped your suitcase onto the luggage rack but didn't bother to open it. You didn't even take off your jacket right away before sitting on the edge of the mattress, your knees still aching from the hours spent pinned into the middle seat. You pulled your phone from your pocket to check the time.
2:10 p.m.
The fundraising gala wasn't until six, leaving you with hours of empty time that felt entirely foreign after the high-volume schedule you had been keeping for the last few months. Deciding to take a nap, you finally shed the jacket, unbuttoned your travel clothes and let them drop onto a nearby chair. Stripped down to nothing but a T-shirt and underwear, you slid into the bed. The mattress was soft enough that you felt yourself sinking, almost melting into it, until the tension began to ease from your back.
As you lay there, eyes fixed on a tiny crack on the ceiling, you realized the hotel wasn’t entirely silent.
The walls were thick, yet there were muffled noises of someone pacing in the room next door, right behind the headboard. To your surprise, the activity behind the wall wasn't irritating, but strangely calming. The rhythm helped you fall asleep, drifting off into a deep, unbroken rest for a solid hour.
You woke up with the fog in your brain slightly cleared. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the coldness of the floor biting at your skin right away.
Maybe you actually needed this, you thought, trying to muster even a shred of enthusiasm. To get out of your head and socialize.
You walked into the small bathroom. You stripped off your clothes and caught your reflection in the mirror. Your skin was pale from tiredness, the shadows under your eyes a testament to the sleepless nights you’d spent in Chicago.
Turning the shower handle, you waited until the water ran burning hot and stepped inside. You stood directly under the heavy stream for a long time, letting the heat redden your skin. The steam clung to the tiles and filled the space until the glass door fogged over completely. It felt like a cleansing ritual to wash away the dirty feeling of the airplane cabin and the lingering ache in your body.
You did your makeup with precision, hiding the dark circles beneath layers of concealer. Then, you slid into the dress. A plum satin gown clung to your frame before spilling into a long, fluid skirt that brushed the ground with every step. You left your hair completely loose, letting it cascade in waves over your shoulders and down your back.
Finally, you stepped into a pair of white, open heels with straps wrapping around your ankles. The heels forced your posture to straighten, immediately lifting your chin and locking your spine into place.
By the time you finished, the woman looking back at you looked like she belonged at a ball.
The event dragged into its third hour. Your feet were numb inside your heels, the thin straps cutting faint lines into your ankles with every step you took. Your throat felt dry from robotically explaining the purpose of your clinical trials to wealthy board members who smelled strongly of expensive perfume and whiskey for the last forty-five minutes.
On the main stage, the chief of the Mayo Clinic was halfway through another of his speeches. His voice echoed as he thanked everyone for their generous donations and cheerfully instructed the room to stop talking business and "have some fun".
When you finally managed to move away from the men gracefully, you barely had time to catch your breath before a familiar face cut through the crowd. It was your old colleague from the neurology department back at PTMC.
“Look at you, gorgeous," she chirped, squeezing your arm in an enthusiastic greeting. "The nurses on the floor keep asking when you’re coming back to your senses and moving back to Pittsburgh."
"I don’t think I ever will," you said, laughing softly.
She offered a playful pout, then quickly excused herself, teasing that she needed to go hunt down some rich men before the ball ended.
Left alone again, your throat felt like sandpaper. You adjusted your grip on your clutch bag, your eyes scanning the crowded ballroom, desperately hunting for a waiter carrying a tray of champagne or water, and then–
Jack Abbot.
Your stomach dropped and regret stung hard. You should have been listening more carefully. You should have paid closer attention when your colleague was gossiping about how PTMC had sent a representative from almost every major department tonight. If you had, you would have braced yourself.
Jack was leaning against a marble pillar near the side exit, away from the crowd. He was listening to someone speak, his head tilted slightly to the right, one eyebrow arched in that skeptical way of his. His curly salt-and-pepper hair was neatly styled in stark contrast to how it usually looked after hours of a night shift.
The last time you had stood in the same air was June – the night he had laid his soul bare, his voice cracking as he confessed he was still in love with you. And instead of answering him, instead of reaching out or telling the truth about the chaos in your own heart, you had fled to Chicago.
Now, it was December and you hadn't seen his face in six months.
The professional mask he wore for the sake of the gala cracked the exact second his eyes shifted and locked onto yours. Jack froze. His brows drew together, his mouth parting in stunned disbelief, his eyes scanning your face as if he were trying to confirm he wasn't hallucinating. You could see his expression change the exact moment he realized that it was actually you standing there.
But neither of you moved. For a few seconds, you just stared at each other across the ballroom.
Then, the old instinct kicked in.
The defensive habit of running from him and putting as much distance as possible between you two took over. You turned your back on the stage, stepping away and pushing your way through the crowd. You knew he would still follow. He always did.
You finally stopped near the end of the bar when the absurdity of the situation caught up to you. You were a grown woman, a respected doctor, yet you were actively running away from a man in the middle of a charity gala. What the hell were you doing?
So, swallowing the lump in your throat, you forced yourself to turn around. As you predicted, he was already there.
"Doctor Abbot."
You managed to say it clearly, forcing your voice to sound steady despite the hammering in your chest.
Jack greeted you by your first name.
"How’s Chicago?" he asked, his tone careful as if testing the waters between you.
"Good."
It was all you could manage. Your eyes darted anywhere but his face, finally landing on a waiter carrying a silver tray. You snatched a glass of champagne and took a large gulp, letting the bubbles burn in your throat. There was absolutely no way you could do this sober.
"Good," he repeated, nodding slowly.
Jack’s focused gaze never left you. He looked at your mouth where a gloss of champagne still lingered on your lower lip. Then his eyes drifted down. He took in the dress in his favourite shade of purple and the way the material hugged your figure. The intense staring made your cheeks flush, making you feel entirely exposed.
"You look incredible."
You dropped your gaze at your glass, watching the tiny bubbles rush to the surface in a poor attempt to ground yourself.
"Thank you," you murmured. clearing the tightness from your throat. "You look... good, Jack. But you were the last person I’d expect to see at an event like this."
A quiet laugh escaped his lips.
"I’m covering for Robby," he explained. "He caught something nasty from a patient and Gloria needed someone from the ED to go. But..." he paused, his chest expanding under his tuxedo jacket as he took a breath. "I could say the same to you."
You looked back at him, tilting your head. "Why?"
"Because I know you."
The words sounded completely unplanned, slipping out of him without any hesitation. However, it came out certain, like the most obvious thing in the world, a fundamental fact that hadn’t changed since the divorce. He knew you hated the crowds and he knew you drank when you were overwhelmed.
You couldn't force yourself to reply. Jack noticed.
To break the pressure, he raised his own glass and took a sip. He kept his eyes down this time, staring into the liquid as if granting you the space to draw a full breath without his stare pinning you to the spot.
That was when the light from the central chandelier caught the back of his left hand. Your breath caught in your throat the second your eyes dropped to his finger.
"Your ring," you blurted out. The words tore out of your mouth before you had the presence of mind to stop them. "You’re not wearing the ring."
Jack froze, his glass halfway back down to his side. He cleared his throat as he looked down at his own hand, his thumb tracing the pale ribbon of naked skin where the band had lived for years.
He nodded slowly. "I took it off."
"When?"
"The night you left."
You inhaled deeply. A repeated need to escape became the only clear thought left in your mind.
Even when he had crawled back into your life in Pittsburgh, begging for a second chance, Jack had still refused to part with that ring. He had been wearing the ring when he carefully proposed a clean slate of friendship. He had been wearing it when he kissed you in his mother’s town and he had still been wearing it when he stood in front of the bar at your farewell party, his voice breaking as he told you he’d never stopped loving you. Every single time Jack reached for you over the last year, that piece of metal had been there – a testament to the life he’d built after you and a sign that he clearly wasn't ready to let the past go.
And now, when you had finally walked away, it was gone.
The timing made your head spin, fracturing your thoughts into a dozen different directions.
Why now? Why wait until you were already gone to finally free his hand? It felt cruel. If he had taken it off a month sooner, or even the day he said he loved you, would it have changed anything? Would you still have moved to Chicago, or would you have stayed in Pittsburgh with him? Would you have been able to forgive? Would you have given him a second chance?
The unfairness of it tangled in your chest, leaving you entirely paralyzed. You didn’t know what to think, let alone how to categorize the rush of emotions flooding your mind. The anger, the heartbreak and… the hint of relief? They all blurred together until you couldn't tell them apart.
It was too much to process with his dark eyes watching the confusion rise across your face.
"Excuse me," you whispered, your voice cracking.
You took a step backward, retreating into the crowd before he could reach out. Jack called your name, his voice laced with panic, but it didn’t stop you. You turned your back on him, letting the sea of tuxedos swallow you whole.
As your heels clicked against the marble, you forced your brain away from him. You forced yourself to focus on the numbers, on the stark reality of the room. You remembered exactly why you were here – you needed to secure donor funding for the new clinical research track in Chicago.
So, locking your jaw, you smoothed the front of your dress, blinked back the sudden burn in your eyes and forced the professional smile back onto your face as you approached a group of strangers who looked nothing like Jack Abbot.
The performance you’d pulled off inside the gala made you feel quite proud. It was kind of funny what a little professional flirting could accomplish when you needed it to. More than anything, it had successfully kept your thoughts far away from the elephant in the room.
But the moment the event ended, you needed air, no matter how cold it was outside.
Now, standing outside, you stared down at your phone. The little car icon on the Uber app was spinning in circles, the estimated arrival time jumping annoyingly from twenty minutes to thirty-two, then back to twenty-five.
You let out a sigh, watching the mist vaporize in the freezing air. Your fingers were already losing their feeling, locking up around the edges of your phone. You really should have waited inside.
"Nothing?"
You looked up. Jack was walking toward you from the glass door of the hospital, his coat over his arm, his car keys already in his hand. His untied bow tie was dangling around his collar, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing the hollow of his throat.
"It’s a thirty-minute wait," you admitted, dropping the phone into your purse and immediately tucking your arms tight under your chest. "Apparently, everyone else had the exact same idea at the exact same time."
"I’ll give you a ride."
"No need," you said immediately, forcing a smile. "I can wait inside and–"
"I'm not leaving you out here," he interrupted. His tone wasn't aggressive, but it was the one he always defaulted to when he’d already made up his mind. You knew that tone a little too well. It left absolutely no room for negotiation.
"Jack, seriously, no," you pressed, taking a small step back. "I can manage."
"It’s the middle of December," he said, rolling his eyes as he put his coat on. "I rented a car specifically so I wouldn’t have to freeze my ass off waiting for an Uber. Don’t be stubborn."
Without waiting for your answer, he turned on his heel and headed down the salted sidewalk toward the parking lot.
"Come on."
He didn't look back, but the slower pace of his stride made it obvious he was waiting to hear the clatter of your heels behind him.
Every rational part of your brain told you to walk back inside the building. You didn’t want to accept Jack’s help. You were entirely uncertain of what that would mean to him and worse – you were completely unprepared for what it would mean to you. But you were still in heels, the hem of your dress was already damp from the snow, and the cold was biting into your skin. Your jacket turned out to be too thin for December weather.
So, with a muted curse, you followed your ex-husband.
Jack unlocked the car and you climbed into the passenger seat. Jack settled back into the driver's seat, starting the engine. He kept his right hand loosely on the steering wheel while resting his left elbow against the window frame, his knuckles propping up his chin.
"Where are you staying?" he asked, his eyes scanning the road as he shifted into drive and pulled out of the lot into the white-out conditions.
You gave him the name of the hotel. "It’s a fifteen-minute drive."
It didn’t escape your attention how Jack’s fingers tightened on the wheel, his chest rising and falling in one heavy breath. The man didn't say a word for a full minute. The only sound inside the car was the thump of the windshield wipers clearing the snow from the glass.
"What?" you asked, turning your head to look at him.
"Nothing," he said, keeping his eyes on the road. "That's my hotel, too."
You swallowed. Oh.
The drive was rather quiet. You rested your head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the streetlights blur into long streaks through the melted snow. A low-volume radio station was playing Linda Ronstadt’s song, the melody filling the gaps where conversation should have been.
Every now and then, Jack’s gaze flicked sideways, as if casually, as if just for a split-second to check on you. But seeing you sitting there, so close that he could catch the scent of your perfume, was pulling at his restraint.
Jack felt sick about the ring, hating how you’d caught him off guard. This wasn't the revelation he wanted.
And, damn, this man was stuck.
It was his twisted way of coping, a loop he couldn't break out of. He had been clinging to that wedding ring for years. He had spent years wearing it, yet had taken it off the second you left. And now, while you were building a life in Chicago, he was rotting alone in the brick house you two used to share, consumed by the memory of you.
He had literally traded one ghost for another, coping with the losses by finding new ways to torture himself.
"When is your flight?" he asked as an attempt to drag the conversation into something casual.
"On Monday," you answered, not shifting your position against the window.
Jack nodded once, his eyes fixed on the red taillights of the car in front of you. "Same."
Another block passed. The snow was coming down heavier now.
"How's your…" Jack hesitated, his fingers tapping once against the wheel. "…boyfriend?"
A cold knot immediately formed in your stomach. You weren't angry with him for asking - in fact, you couldn’t blame him. "Jack…"
"Okay," he sighed. "I’m sorry."
Neither of you spoke for a long time after that. You watched the buildings pass by as Jack drove away from the city center, the sound of slush crunching under the tires filling the space between you.
"We're not together anymore," you said anyway, entirely for his own sake, knowing the curiosity was probably eating him alive.
Jack didn't look over. Not a single muscle in his face moved, but his chest remained expanded, as if he were holding his breath, absorbing the information.
"Oh."
He didn't press any further and for that, you were grateful.
Your eyelids felt heavy, drifting shut from time to time. But every time you closed your eyes, your mind instantly replayed the image of his left hand now resting on the steering wheel. The lack of a wedding ring seemed to bother you more than when you first saw him wearing it a few years ago. It had felt like a slap on the cheek then. And now–
"Hey," Jack’s voice cut through.
He leaned slightly toward your side of the car. You opened your eyes to find him looking at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Don't you dare fall asleep on me now," he murmured. "Don't make me carry you to your bed."
When Jack finally pulled into the hotel’s gates, the parking lot looked like a ghost town. He parked the car right outside the main entrance.
Before you could even find your phone or the small plastic packet containing your room key in your purse, Jack was already out of his seat. By the time your fingers brushed the internal door handle, the passenger door swung outward from the outside.
Jack stood there with his right hand extended toward you. You hesitated for a second, your fingers tightening around your purse. Then, picturing slipping on the ice in your mind, you reached out and let your hand slide into his.
His grip was firm, but he didn't squeeze. He anchored you as your heels found the treacherous sheet of ice coating the asphalt of the hotel parking lot.
Suddenly, your foot slipped.
You lunged forward, losing your balance. Your weight shifted heavily against Jack, your free hand instinctively catching his shoulder. His forearm went rigid beneath your touch, his other hand instantly gripping your waist to hoist you upright.
"Careful," he murmured.
He was so close. Jack’s face was only inches away, his breath creating a thick cloud of steam that mingled intimately with yours. You watched his gaze drop, completely undisguised, fixing onto your mouth as his lower lip parted a little.
The fingers on your waist clamped tighter, his thumb instinctively rubbing small circles on your side. On Jack’s shoulder, your own fingers remained buried in his bicep, desperately clinging to him for balance.
"Thank you."
Slowly, you shifted your weight, testing the ground. The immediate danger of slipping had passed, yet your hand didn't move. Your fingers remained hooked into his coat as you walked toward the hotel.
It was only when your heels found the salted concrete walkway near the entrance that you finally forced your hand to drop.
Jack didn’t attempt to pull you back, but he still didn't shove his hands into his pockets when stepping back to position himself half a step behind you. He wanted to reach out – to touch your hand again, the small of your back, the curve of your waist – just for a moment, just to prove to himself again that you were actually standing there, real and within reach. But he didn't. Instead, he simply stayed close, his shadow overlapping yours, hovering near enough to ensure he could catch you if your heels failed you a second time.
"You should get some sleep," he said. You could hear a bittersweet ghost of a smile in his words. “You look tired."
"I am," you whispered as you stepped through the door.
The hotel lobby was deserted. A single desk clerk was visible through the glass of the back office, his head buried in a book, entirely indifferent to the two of you walking past his desk. You moved toward the elevators in total silence. Jack reached out with a single finger and pressed the up button.
"Which floor are you on?" he asked.
"Four."
So he pressed the number.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor was quiet. You stood in opposite corners of the metal box, intentionally avoiding each other's reflections in its mirror. Both of you stared at the digital floor numbers as they ticked upward. You could hear Jack’s breathing and with every floor you passed, the almost violent urge to close the mere two feet of distance between you grew more intense. Yet, you stayed glued to your corner.
When the doors parted on your floor, you stepped out first, the heels clicking against the tiled floor.
"Goodnight, Jack," you said, turning around to face him, forcing a finality into your tone. "Thank you for the ride, really."
To your surprise, he stepped out of the elevator as well.
He stood on the tiled floor just inches away from you. His gaze was absorbing every single detail of you, especially the tiny tremor in your lower lip that you were unsuccessfully trying to mask.
"Goodnight," he replied.
He turned left down the long, carpeted corridor. You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You looked down at your keycard packet - Room 410 - and looked up at the room numbers mounted on the wall. The directional arrow pointed left for rooms 400 through 415.
With a small knot forming in your chest, you started walking.
Jack was about fifteen feet ahead of you. His long strides had slowed down significantly. As the corridor stretched on, you watched him walk, noting the hitch in his stride – a reminder of the prosthetic, probably aching after hours of walking, beneath his trousers. You walked behind him in the dead silence of the building, the distance between you remaining exactly, painfully the same, your heels ticking away the passing seconds like a clock.
The hallway just kept going, the silence growing more awkward with each step you took. You'd already said goodbye at the elevator, and yet here you were, trailing him through the corridor like a ghost.
Finally, Jack stopped. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his plastic keycard and tapped it against the electronic lock of Room 412. The mechanism gave a click and the little light flashed green.
Yet, he didn't push the door open.
He stood perfectly still, his large hand resting on the handle, turned sideways to you. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at you.
You kept walking. You couldn't exactly stop in the middle of the hallway and wait for him to go inside without looking completely ridiculous. You kept your eyes fixed on the floor three feet ahead of you until your heels stopped exactly one door away from his.
You looked up at the numbers pinned to the wood in front of you.
410.
You looked at Jack’s door. 412.
The delicate, muffled footsteps you had heard through the thin walls of your room earlier that afternoon hadn't been a stranger. It had been Jack. He had been on the other side of your headboard the entire time.
A short, ironic laugh came from his throat.
"Of all the rooms in the building," he murmured, shaking his head.
He still didn’t enter the room. Instead, he took a half-step toward you, closing the distance just enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. His eyes locked onto yours intensely, making your chest ache.
Jack’s gaze, yet again, dropped helplessly to your lips. His mouth parted as his chest rose in a trembling breath. You could see the muscles in his jaw tightening.
It was plain as day that keeping his hands buried deep inside his pockets was costing him everything. It was agonising to force his arms to stay still, to stop himself from catching you by the waist and pulling you against him until there wasn't a single inch of empty air left between you. It took a tremendous effort on his part to stay away.
Your brain screamed at you to step back, unlock your door and end the night.
You’d spent over a decade healing yourself from the wreckage of what you two had been, trying to learn how to breathe without him. Reopening that door now was a terrible idea as it would drag you right back into the beautiful but truly exhausting chaos of him. You knew it was dangerous, that he was dangerous, yet–
"Jack…" you breathed out.
God, you missed the time when you used to be so simple together... You missed him.
Jack’s eyes flicked back up to yours at the sound of his name, wide and vulnerable. You hadn't seen that specific expression on his face in months – the one that made it terribly clear that he was drowning in the same memories as you were. He was remembering the way you used to fit together, back when your love didn’t hurt.
"You should go inside," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper, cracked wide open with a yearning he could no longer hide or control.
"Why?" you asked, your eyes locked entirely on his lips, your own breath hitching. "Jack-"
"Please," he whispered again, his tone a pathetic plea rather than a command. He didn't move an inch closer, but his head tilted down slightly, his eyes begging you to save him from himself. "Go inside."
"Why?" you repeated.
He knew he’d broken you, and he had never even attempted to forgive himself for it. Jack loved you - more than he knew how to handle, honestly - but it seemed like every time he tried to show it, he just ended up making things worse.
Jack wasn't blind to his own nature anymore. He knew that when it came to you, he brought nothing but wreckage.
"Because if I start kissing you, I won’t be able to stop."
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs, your mind spinning as you stared up into his eyes. The promise in his words made your knees weak, your own lips parting to finally give him the permission he was begging you to withhold.
But before you could answer, before you could make the beautiful, catastrophic mistake you both wanted more than anything, Jack tore himself away.
He stepped back, the sudden distance freezing you in place. He pushed the door open and stepped inside Room 412. The door clicked shut with a soft thud, leaving you standing entirely alone in the corridor.
You listened intently, frozen, as the muffled sound of him moving around drifted through the wall, painfully aware of how few inches of plaster were all that kept him from touching you.
