day eighteen: handwritten notes (jack abbot x reader)
summary: you and the kids write notes for jack when he has to work on christmas eve
pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader
words: 1.1k
tags: fluff, domestic jack
Jack was not happy. A wave of flu had crashed into Pittsburgh and left the Pitt with a surge in patients and a record high of staff calling out sick. That meant Jack had to take a last minute night shift on Christmas Eve when Shen tapped out with a high fever.
Jack really didn't want to be at the Pitt tonight, he wanted to be home with you and his kids. Ellie was two this Christmas, old enough to unwrap presents herself and comprehend what she got and be excited about it. Jack wanted to be there for that, wanted to be present mentally and physically. Instead he had to work the night before and would likely be dead on his feet when he got home. His options were to sit in the living room and struggle to stay awake as the kids opened their gifts or go to bed and miss it altogether. Both options left you to wrangle three kids under five by yourself and that made Jack feel worse.
When he finally had a moment to eat his lunch, he opened the lunchbox you lovingly packed for him and found some post-it notes stuck to his food containers. Jack felt himself smiling for the first time in hours as he pulled everything out of his lunch box, recognizing the large shaky scrawl of his sons.
Have a good shift Daddy!
Two notes said the same thing, one for each boy. Jack could see the pencil marks made by you writing the message for them that the boys traced over with crayon. Jack could tell which of his sons wrote each message. Henrys note was covered in little stars he drew in every available space, he'd been very into space recently and had been taught by a classmate how to draw a star without lifting his pencil from the paper. The background of Lucas' note was completely coloured in with various bright colours, some of the lines overlapping with the words.
Jack set the notes carefully aside and grabbed the final one, written by you in neat, tiny writing.
Have a good shift my love. I know having to miss Christmas Eve with us isn't easy for you, but the kids and I are very excited to see you in the morning. And I know the patients and staff appreciate that you're there. Chin up Jack, I love you. - Your super smart and sexy wife.
Jack laughed a little at your signature, it was something he always said to you whenever you asked what he wanted for his birthday or Christmas - "I have everything I could ever want including our beautiful kids and my super smart, sexy wife." He appreciated your note and how well you knew him. He hadn't told you that he wasn't happy about taking this shift but you knew him so well you knew he was already thinking about tomorrow morning.
Maybe he'd have the energy for Christmas morning after all.
Jack did not have the energy for Christmas morning after the jam packed shift he'd had. He was asleep on his feet when he unlocked the front door and made his way inside. Thankfully the house was close to the hospital and meant it wasn't a far drive for him. As Jack pulled off his last winter boot, the thunderous footfalls of his four year old twin boys was his only warning before his sons collided with his legs in a hug.
"Merry Christmas Daddy!" They said in joy filled unison. Jack smiled tiredly down at them and ruffled their hair, not having the strength to pick them up at this moment.
"Merry Christmas boys."
"Hey guys," The boys whipped around at your voice, both of them bouncing with excitement. You were still in your pajamas with your robe haphazardly wrapped around you. "You can open your stockings now, but first remind me of the rules."
"We can only open the stockings right now." Lucas replied.
"And we have to be quiet while Daddy is sleeping." Henry added.
"Good job, go on." You gestured behind you with a movement of your head and the boys took off as quickly as they'd arrived. Jacks brows furrowed in confusion as you walked up to him, shuffling sleepily in your slippers. You took his face in your hands and gave him a tender kiss.
"I laid out some comfy clothes for you and your towel is hanging in the bathroom if you want a shower. We're going to hold off on presents until you get some sleep." You explained and Jack opened his mouth to protest. "Nope, it's already been decided, and the twins are in agreement. They have the gifts in their stockings to keep them entertained, including those mini gingerbread house kits." You said the very last part in a whisper since it was Santa who fill the stockings and not you.
Jack didn't have words for how much he loved and appreciated you in this moment. So he let his lips do the talking as he put his very limited energy into kissing you soundly and hugging you close. You wrapped your arms around his neck and slipped your fingers through his hair.
"Ellie is asleep in our bed, waiting for you." You said when Jack pulled back. "Apparently she likes sleep more than she likes presents. She told me it was too early when I went into her room to get her."
"That's my girl." Jack said with one more kiss to your head as he headed further into the house.
"Boys, say goodnight to your Daddy." You instructed the boys as you both passed them in the living room. They waved at Jack from the couch, surrounded by ripped up bits of wrapping paper from the gifts in their stockings.
"Goodnight Daddy!" They said together, Henry blowing Jack a kiss while Lucas' attention went back to his stocking. You gave Jack a lighthearted push towards your bedroom.
"Off to bed with you, and don't even think about setting an alarm. I'll come and get you." Jack walked away, knowing you were going to let him get as much sleep as he needed. He opened the door to the bedroom and saw the little lump in the otherwise flat duvet and knew that was Ellie. He closed the door quietly and got changed into the clothes you laid out for him before slipping under the covers, doing his best to not wake his daughter.
She woke up anyways when the mattress shifted, lifting her head from where she laid on her stomach, her curls sticking up in all directions. She turned her sleepy gaze on Jack and smiled softly.
"Daddyyyyy!" She whispered, her voice tired. Jack shifted closer and pulled her against his side.
"Go back to sleep sweet girl."
"O'tay." Ellie said without protest, dropping her head onto Jacks arm and closing her eyes. Jack followed suit, closing his eyes and drifting off quickly.
✧･ﾟ: * summary: jack’s boys see something suspicious on christmas eve. pittcember day 3!
✧･ﾟ: * content: the fluff levels are off the charts. mildly suggestive shenanigans. the abbots celebrate christmas eve feat. jack in a half-ass santa costume (wc: 1.2k) divider credit to @pixopix
“Shut up, Noah! You’re making stuff up again!”
The boys are hissing at each other under the dinosaur-patterned covers. It’s just past midnight and Nate, the one whose bedroom they’re crowded into, would love to be asleep. He’s four years older and he’ll never let Noah forget it.
Three minutes ago, Noah had climbed into Nate’s narrow twin bed and shaken him awake with urgent news.
“I am not!” Noah whines. “Mommy was talking to Santa Claus and then they kissed.” He says the last word like it’s a criminal offense.
“Mom would never do that to Dad,” Nate huffs. “She wouldn’t.” Maybe he’s trying to convince himself more than his little brother. He’s not even sure that he believes in Santa anymore. But he certainly doesn’t believe someone as cool as Santa would do something like that.
Noah is talking a mile a minute, the way his dad does sometimes. “I know I wasn’t supposed to go downstairs but I just wanted some water and I didn’t wanna wake up Mommy. I thought I heard somebody talking in the living room so I had to stick my head in on the way to the kitchen.” Noah’s chin starts to wobble. “And there he was!”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Nate asks, trying to head off the five-year-old’s tears.
“His back was turned toward me but he had a red shirt on. And the hat!” He wails in response, and Nate shushes him harshly.
“Go to sleep. I’m sure they weren’t actually kissing,” Nate whispers.
“Can I stay with you?” The question is an afterthought. Noah’s already tucked up under the covers and his little slippers fell to the floor when he climbed in.
Nate sighs. “Fine. You baby.”
The little boy with the auburn-tinted curls ignores this slight and is fast asleep within minutes. Nate stares at the ceiling for a while, watching the headlights from cars dance across the plaster, and thinks.
Downstairs, Jack has you pinned to the couch, and his stubble is especially scratchy where he let it grow out. It’s bitterly cold outside and he told you he wanted to really lean into the whole Santa thing, especially now that his curls are fully gray. He’s tracing his lips across the side of your neck and pressing his knee up between your legs.
The two of you just stuffed the boys’ stockings with candy and trading cards and everything else boys their age could want. (Jack has always said you spoil them, but he’s in charge of the stockings, and that’s when the truth comes out.) You added the few presents that are from Santa specifically and were about to make your retreat.
Then Jack had tempted you onto the couch.
“Jack, we need to go back to bed,” you hiss, but he bites lightly at your pulse point, and you gasp. “You’re so evil.”
“But I’m Santa and this is how I’m choosing to enjoy Christmas,” he hums, coming up to bite your earlobe. Heathen.
“You stole the hat from the holiday party bin at the hospital and you’re wearing a red shirt and gray sweatpants.”
Jack chuckles into your collarbone and wraps his arms around your back so he can squeeze you to him. His casual strength will never cease to surprise you, you don’t think. “You love me in gray sweatpants.”
“You’re going to wake up the boys,” you giggle.
“They’ll think I’m Santa Claus. Let me show you what a good girl you’ve been this year.”
You hear a rustle in the direction of the staircase in the hall. It’s the sound that the string of garland makes when it scratches against the wood. With your heart in your throat, you push Jack back, and he lets out a little frustrated grunt. When you can finally see beyond your husband’s shoulder, you realize with horror that staring back at you is Nate, in the doorway to the living room.
Jack, his hair a little wild, finally turns and sees his older son standing there.
“Hey, baby,” you say cautiously.
He’s grown so much that his Spider-Man pajamas are a tad too short for his legs. He’s in the middle of a spurt at nine years old and is going to have the build of his dad. Right now, his wide eyes remind you so much of Jack’s that your heart twists.
“Mom?” He’s looking between the two of you curiously. He takes one step into the room, his plush Spider-Man slippers sliding across the hardwood. You can practically see the pieces fall together in his head
“What is it, baby?” You hold open your arms and your not-so-little boy runs around the couch, dodging Jack’s wheelchair, and up into your lap. He burrows his head into your shoulder and you and Jack share a very serious look.
“Santa doesn’t exist, does he?”
His voice is so small against your shirt that you almost don’t hear him. But you do. And it makes you realize how much your baby boy has grown up. Jack looks ready to make up some excuse, but you cut in.
“No, sweetheart. I knew you were going to figure it out pretty soon.” You brush some of his curls back and kiss him on the temple. “You’re so smart.”
“Jackson and I were talking about it at school and it just didn’t make any sense,” he says, perking up with new enthusiasm. “All the houses in the world in one night? And now Noah thinks you were kissing Santa instead of Dad.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Huh?”
“He came down to get some water and saw you.” Nate eyes the hat still on Jack’s head and giggles. “He thinks Dad was Santa.”
Luckily both you and Jack are very practiced in the parental art of not meeting each other’s eyes when the kids say something hilarious, because otherwise, you would be howling with laughter. Jack takes Nate from your arms and tickles him.
“I am Santa. I have been all along!”
“That’s true,” you hum, while you look between your husband and your son, remembering when he was a toddler and never wanted to leave Jack’s hold. “We’ll break the news to him after Christmas is over so he doesn’t think I’m being mean to Dad. You could never keep a secret from him, Nate.”
Nate squints at you but his ears are turning pink—he knows you’re right. He dotes on his little brother and the Santa secret would eat him up inside.
After some hot chocolate (following a good ten minutes of pleading), Nate finally calms down enough to fall asleep, and you tuck him in some blankets on the couch. Jack hops from the cushions and into his wheelchair. You follow him down the hall and help him into bed, even though he insists he doesn’t need you to pull the covers back. It’s not about needing the help, you tell him.
“Merry Christmas, Santa Claus,” you whisper once the two of you are snuggled in. “I love you.”
“Can I get an additional gift this year? I’ve been so good.” He returns to nipping at the supple skin under your ear.
You roll your eyes, even though in the dark he can’t see it, and scoff. “Fine, fine.”
Summary: A broken boiler, a freezing apartment, and one terrified toddler send you running straight into Michael’s arms. Cold hands, warm blankets, whispered confessions, and a single word that changes everything. Tonight, for the first time, you don’t have to do any of it alone. Tonight, you stay.
Your shift is barely an hour in when the clerk knocks on the break room door.
“Hey, uh… someone’s here for you.”
Your stomach drops.
Parents don’t get called out of shifts unless something’s wrong.
You push through the ED doors and see your babysitter standing at triage, coat still on, hair dusted with snow, looking frazzled and apologetic.
She’s holding Dottie (your two year old daughter) who is bundled like a burrito in two blankets, cheeks red, eyes tired.
Your babysitter sighs as soon as she sees you.
“I’m so, so sorry to bring her here, but… your apartment is freezing. I can see my breath in the living room. I’m not getting paid enough to keep her warm in a walk-in freezer. Respectfully.”
You blink, stunned.
“I— I had the thermostat up when I left. It shouldn’t be—”
“It’s not working,” she says firmly. “I called maintenance twice. Nothing. She started shivering, and I’m not sitting with a toddler in a twenty-degree apartment.”
Dottie lifts her head from the blanket.
Her lower lip trembles.
“Mommy…”
You take her immediately, tucking her against your chest.
Her hands are ice-cold even through the sleeves. Her little fingers are so cold they feel wet, like she’s been holding ice cubes.
Your heart cracks.
“Oh, baby. You’re so cold.”
She presses her face into your scrub top, making a tiny noise that sounds half-whimper, half-relief.
Your babysitter adjusts her bag, still apologizing.
“I really am sorry. If it was just me, I’d tough it out, but she’s little. And she kept asking for you.”
You shake your head quickly. “No, you did the right thing. Thank you for bringing her here.”
“She ate dinner,” the sitter adds. “But she refused to go to bed. She kept saying she didn’t like the cold.”
Your throat tightens.
“Thank you,” you say again, softer this time. “Get home safe.”
She leaves with a sympathetic grimace. You carry Dottie toward an empty family room near the waiting area and settle into a chair with her in your lap. The warm ED air is already helping, but she’s still trembling under the blankets.
You smooth her hair back from her forehead.
“It’s okay, honey. I’m here now. We’re warm. You’re okay.”
Dottie shakes her head, eyes glossy.
“Cold,” she sniffles. “No like cold, Mommy.”
You pull the blanket up around her ears. “I know, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you.”
But inside, panic churns.
Heat outages happen, but never like this.Never when you’re not home.
Not when she’s this little.
You try calling maintenance.
Straight to voicemail.
You try the emergency line.
The emergency line picks up, finally. A bored voice says, “Yeah, we know about the building. Boiler’s shot. No update yet. Have a good weekend.”
Dottie shifts in your lap and whispers, voice tiny and hoarse:
“Want Mikey…”
Your chest squeezes painfully.
“I know, baby. He’s working too. We’ll see him soon.”
She burrows closer into you, her breath warm on your collarbone.
Then, in that sleepy, unfiltered toddler way, she mumbles:
“Papa… wanna Papa…”
You freeze.
Your heart jumps into your throat.
She doesn’t know what she said.
She’s half-asleep, overwhelmed, cold, seeking comfort.
But the word lands with the weight of a hundred unspoken truths.
You kiss the top of her head, breathing through the ache.
“It’s okay, baby,” you whisper. “You’re safe.”
She curls tighter against your chest.
And that’s when a familiar voice calls your name from the hallway sounding urgent, breathless, scared.
Michael.
You hold Dottie a little closer as his footsteps get louder.
Michael’s cutting through the ED hallway, warm blanket in hand, when he glances into the family room and stops dead.
You’re there.
Sitting stiffly on one of those awful plastic chairs, shoulders curled protectively around a bundle in your lap.
His heart stutters.
That’s Dottie.
Blankets wrapped around her.
Face blotchy and tired.
Little hands red from cold.
He pushes the door open without thinking.
“Hey,” he breathes. “Are you—?”
You look up and he sees it instantly:
You’re not okay.
Before he can say another word, Dottie stirs at the sound of his voice.
Her eyes blink open, unfocused, heavy with exhaustion… and then she recognizes him.
Her whole face crumples.
“Paaapaaa…”
It’s not loud.
Not excited.
It’s a broken, tiny, relieved cry, a toddler’s instinctive reaching for the safest person in the room.
Michael’s lungs seize.
She reaches her trembling arms out toward him.
He drops the blanket he was holding.
“Oh— sweetheart,” he murmurs, falling to his knees beside you, hands already moving. “C’mere, baby. C’mere.”
You shift her toward him and she immediately latches onto his scrubs, burying her face in his neck like she’s been waiting for this.
Dottie is plastered to his chest, tiny face buried under his jaw like she’s trying to hide from the entire world.
Her sniffles are quiet, exhausted, trembling little things that hit Michael harder than any trauma alarm ever has.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, rocking her gently. “You’re safe now.”
But she’s still shaking.
Still cold.
And still clinging to him with both fists twisted in his scrub top, refusing to loosen her grip even for a second.
He turns to you.
“What happened?”
You wipe at your eyes, shoulders tight with guilt and fear.
“I had Natalie pick her up from daycare,” you say weakly. “She was supposed to watch her while I worked tonight. I didn’t—God, Michael, I didn’t know the heat was out. When I left, it was a little chilly but— I didn’t know.”
Michael’s stomach twists.
Of course you didn’t.
You work twelve-hour shifts.
You weren’t home.
You had no reason to suspect your apartment was turning into a refrigerator.
But Dottie whimpers again, a soft, broken, “Mmm… cold…”and that’s when something old and dangerous wakes up inside him.
He steps toward the warmer.
“We’re heating her up,” he says, tone snapping into medical mode before he can stop it.
You follow closely, wringing your hands.
He sets out a pediatric blanket from the warmer, checks the temperature against his cheek, and nods. “Okay. Warm enough.”
He tries to peel back the cold blanket she’s wrapped in—
And she LOSES it.
“No!” Dottie cries, clutching the blanket with both hands. “No, Papa! No take it! Mine!”
Michael freezes.
Her voice is panicked.
Not bratty.
Not stubborn.
Scared.
“Hey, hey…” he soothes, heart twisting. “I’m not taking it away forever. I’m giving you a warmer one, sweetheart.”
But she shakes her head violently and tries to crawl even further into him, actually tries to burrow into his coat, tiny fingers clawing at the fabric like she’s searching for a place to hide.
Michael’s chest cracks open.
He gathers her in tighter, one hand splaying protectively over the back of her head.
“Oh baby… I know. I know you’re scared.”
His voice trembles.
He doesn’t even try to hide it.
You choke back a sob.
“She’s never acted like this,” you whisper. “She never clings like this. Not even when she’s sick.”
“She’s cold-stressed,” Michael says softly, rubbing her back in slow circles. “She’s confused. She thinks the blanket is what kept her safe, so she doesn’t want to lose it.”
You nod, crying quietly now.
“I should’ve known,” you whisper. “I should’ve texted Natalie, or checked the thermostat at lunch, or—”
“Stop.”
Michael’s voice is gentle but firm.
He steps closer to you, Dottie still curled into him like a trembling little koala.
“You didn’t know,” he says. “You weren’t there. And you trusted the heat in your own home—like anyone would. You did nothing wrong.”
“But she was freezing—”
“And she’s WARMING now.”
He angles Dottie slightly so he can slide the warm blanket between her and the cold one, layering them instead of removing the first.
The second the heat touches her back, she gasps softly, then melts into full-body relaxation, head limp on his shoulder, fingers unclenching just enough for him to adjust the blankets.
He exhales shakily.
“There you go, sweetheart,” he whispers. “That’s better, isn’t it? Papa’s got you.”
Dottie nods against his throat, tiny voice hoarse:
“Papa warm…”
Michael’s eyes close.
He doesn’t correct her.
He couldn’t if he tried.
He looks at you, your blotchy cheeks, your shaking hands, your guilt, your love for your daughter twisting inside you like a knife….
Dottie lifts one little hand from his collar…
and reaches blindly toward you.
Not to go to you.
But to pull you in.
She wants both of you.
Together.
Your breath stutters as you step closer, pressing your forehead to Dottie’s back, your hand braced against Michael’s arm.
He wraps that arm around you too.
Because in this moment, there’s no distance.
No maybe.
No hesitation.
Just a freezing toddler who trusts him with her whole heart and her mother who didn’t deserve to feel alone for one second.
Michael swallows hard.
“All three of us,” he murmurs. “We’re gonna get through this. Together.”
Dottie is finally warm.
Finally calm.
Finally breathing soft, steady little breaths against his neck.
But she hasn’t loosened her grip for even a second.
Not one.
She’s fused to him, little arms hooked around his collar, tiny fingers curled in his scrubs, legs locked around his waist like she’s anchoring herself to the safest place she knows.
You’re watching them with a complicated look of guilt, relief, exhaustion, something else tangled beneath it.
That’s when Michael says it:
“You’re not going back to the apartment tonight.”
Your stance stiffens.
“Mikey—”
“Nope.”
He cuts you off, tone low, controlled, but edged.
He shifts Dottie higher against his chest when she whines sleepily.
“You’re not sleeping in that place until the heat is fixed.”
“It’ll get fixed,” you insist. “Maintenance always—”
He actually laughs.
A short, humorless sound.
“Maintenance left a two-year-old in a twenty-degree apartment.”
You flinch.
He steps closer.
Not aggressive but certain.
“You’re going to work a twelve-hour night shift,” he says quietly, “and then what? Go home to a meat locker?”
You open your mouth.
“And don’t,” he warns, “say you’ll ‘bundle up.’ Don’t insult both of us like that.”
Your breath hitches from the shock of his tone, from the truth in it, from the way it hits you square in the chest.
“Mikey, I’m not helpless,” you whisper.
“And I’m not asking you to be,” he snaps back with soft volume, sharp words. “I’m asking you not to be reckless.”
You blink hard, stung.
“I’ve been doing this alone for a long time,” you whisper. “I know how to take care of us.”
Michael’s jaw works, face flashing with anger, fear, heartbreak, all of it tightening under his skin.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You have. And it’s killing you that you still think you have to.”
Your eyes go wet.
He shifts Dottie again, one hand splayed protectively across her back, the other hovering like he wants to touch you but isn’t sure you’ll let him.
His voice softens but the sternness stays.
“I’m not telling you to depend on me,” he says. “I’m telling you to stop pretending you don’t need anyone.”
Your breath catches.
“Michael…”
“No,” he says, firmer now. “Listen to me.”
He closes the distance between you, Dottie’s warm little body pressed between your chests as he leans down enough to look you dead in the eyes.
“If you go back there,” he says, voice low and rough, “you’re putting yourself and her in danger. And I will not sit here and watch you do that because you’re afraid letting me help means you’re weak.”
A tear slips down your cheek.
He wipes it before you can.
“You’re not weak,” he murmurs. “You’re exhausted. And proud. And stubborn. And doing your best alone when you don’t have to anymore.”
You open your mouth to argue and nothing comes out except a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh, because he’s right and you’re so fucking tired, and you hate that he can see it
You swallow hard.
“And I’ve been asking you,” he continues, quieter now but no less intense, “to move in with me for months. Not because I want control. Because I want you. I want her. I want a life where neither of you ever has to choose between independence and survival.”
Your breath shakes.
“Mikey…”
He takes a slow breath, then lays it out plainly:
“You are not going back there tonight.”
You open your mouth, but Dottie lifts her head just enough to whimper:
“Papa house…. wanna Papa house”
Both of you freeze.
Michael closes his eyes like the words hit him directly in the heart.
When he opens them again, his voice is softer but still unwavering.
“Come home with me tonight,” he says. “Both of you.”
You stand there, trembling with the weight of everything, your pride, your fear, your instinct to protect her, your instinct to protect yourself.
Finally, voice small:
“Okay. Just tonight.”
He nods once, but you see the disappointment flicker.
So you add carefully:
“If maintenance fixes the heat before the weekend… we stay at our place. Just until it’s safe.”
His jaw tightens.
“And if they don’t?”
You meet his eyes with something braver, something steadier:
“Then Monday ,our next day off, me and Dot come make your house a home.”
Michael’s breath leaves him in one shaky exhale.
“…You mean that?”
You nod.
“I mean it.”
He steps forward, forehead touching yours, Dottie sandwiched warm and safe between you.
His voice is barely a whisper.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “We start tonight.”
The shift ends with Michael still carrying Dottie.
Still.
Like the entire twelve hours were just one long, continuous toddler-wearing endurance challenge.
You push through the employee exit with him, rubbing your eyes.
“Okay, seriously,” you mutter, “how did she get away with being held your whole shift? Anyone else would’ve gotten yelled at by charge.”
Michael’s mouth curves slowly, smug, infuriating.
“Being an attending has its perks,” he says lightly.
You snort.
“Michael.”
“What?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious.
“She didn’t want to be put down. I wasn’t going to traumatize a toddler on a cold-stress night because someone might complain I’m rounding with a barnacle attached to me.”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth softens.
“She really wouldn’t let go?”
“She screamed if I even leaned forward.”
He shifts her gently, her small body still melted against his chest.
“I think my spine fused to hers at some point.”
“She loves you,” you whisper.
He looks at you for one lingering second, too long, too tender, before he unlocks the car.
By the time you reach his house, Dottie is still asleep and still clinging, one fist knotted in his scrub top like a tiny hostage-taker with no intention of negotiating.
Michael steps inside first.
You follow and stop cold.
Because there’s a room.
A whole room.
Lights dimmed, decorated softly.
A toddler bed with a quilt.
Stuffed animals arranged neatly.
A nightlight casting warm gold across the walls.
A bookshelf with board books.
And on the dresser?
A framed picture of you and Dottie at the pumpkin patch.
And another of Dottie on Michael’s shoulders at the zoo.
Your breath leaves your lungs.
“Michael,” you whisper, “this is… when did you do all this?”
He adjusts Dottie on his shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes.
“I—had time,” he mutters. “I started it the week you told me you were keeping separate places ‘for now,’” he admits, not meeting your eyes. “Figured if I finished it… maybe you’d never leave.”
But the tips of his ears flush pink.
He’s embarrassed.
Scared.
Hopeful.
God.
You step into the doorway, unable to stop staring.
“Mikey… this is beautiful.”
He finally lays Dottie on the bed as gently as human fingers can manage.
She curls instantly into the quilt, body seeking warmth, still clutching his finger.
And when he tries to pull away, her little voice cracks in a barely-there whine:
“No go… stay…”
He sinks to one knee beside the bed again.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs.
Then soft as breath, quiet as prayer he leans down and presses a long kiss to the top of her head.
And he says it. “I love you,” he whispers.
Not loud.
Not meant for anyone but her.
Not something performative or planned.
A truth escaping because he can’t hold it in anymore.
“Wuv you, Papa.” Dottie murmurs back half-asleep
He wasn’t supposed to hear it yet. He tears up instantly, looks at you like he’s been caught stealing something sacred. You just nod, eyes wet, and mouth: “She means it.”
His eyes widen like he’s just realized he stepped off a cliff.
“I—” he stammers, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did, but— I shouldn’t have said that without— I don’t know if that’s crossing a line— I didn’t mean to overstep—”
“Mikey,” you say softly.
He swallows hard, terrified now.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I know she’s yours. I know I’m just— I didn’t want to confuse her or make you feel like I’m trying to take a place that isn’t mine.”
You step up beside him.
Not touching him yet.
Just close enough for your voice to reach him without the room hearing.
“You didn’t cross a line,” you say softly.
He looks up at you, he’s uncertain, raw, hopeful in a way that hurts.
“She loves you,” you continue. “She chose you. Today of all days? You’re the person she clung to.”
You gesture gently at the toddler burrito still gripping Michael’s finger.
“She feels safe with you. That’s not something you forced. That’s something you earned.”
His breath catches.
“And,” you add softly, “I knew you loved me. But hearing you say it to her… Michael, that’s different.”
Now his expression shifts entirely.
Not embarrassed.
Not scared.
Just vulnerable.
“I do,” he whispers.
You blink.
He steadies himself.
“I love you,” he says, voice shaking.
“And I love her. I didn’t know if I was allowed to say it yet, but… I do.”
And then, finally, you touch him, fingertips brushing the side of his face, slow and unsure and perfect.
“Of course you’re allowed,” you whisper.
His eyes close.
He leans into your hand.
And behind him, half-asleep, Dottie sighs contentedly, like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than either of you.
You don’t remember falling asleep.
One minute Michael was covering you with a throw blanket on the couch, his voice soft as he said, “Sleep. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Hours have passed.
The house is dim.
The nightlight from Dottie’s room spills a warm glow into the hallway.
And the faint sound of toddler giggles pulls you awake.
You stretch, disoriented, until memory hits.
Heat outage.
Cold apartment.
ED.
Dottie clinging like she’d drown without Michael.
Michael’s room.
Michael whispering I love you to your daughter.
You sit up slowly.
And that’s when you see them.
Michael’s living room has turned into a toddler Olympics arena.
Dottie is in pajama pants and one sock (one… WHERE is the other?), hair sticking up from her nap, cheeks flushed from sleep and mischief.
Michael is on all fours on the rug, letting her climb on his back like a very tired, very patient jungle gym.
He makes an exaggerated groan as she tries to stand.
“Whoa, that’s a big jump, Dot. I’m not a trampoline—”
“YES PAPA TRAMPOLINE,” she declares, bouncing.
You snort.
Michael looks over at you and his entire face softens.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you that quiet, relieved smile like seeing you awake is the final confirmation that you’re all actually here, safe, warm, together.
“Hey,” he says softly. “How’d you sleep?”
You rub your eyes. “Like someone tranquilized me.”
He laughs warmly, “Good. You needed it.”
Dottie spots you from atop Mount Michael and shrieks:
“MAMA YOU AWAKE!!!”
Then she tries to leap off Michael’s back toward you.
He catches her mid-plummet with a reflex so fast it’s practically medical instinct.
“Whoa! No flying, Dot. Mama doesn’t have trauma gear on.”
She wiggles in his arms, full-body excitement.
“Come play!”
Your heart stutters, because this, THIS right here, is the moment you always told yourself you couldn’t have.
Quiet.
Domestic.
A man who loves your child like she’s his entire universe.
A home that feels like home.
Imperfect and alive.
You clear your throat. “Give me two seconds. I have to call maintenance.”
Michael groans.
Dottie imitates him dramatically.
“Papa do it,” she says, patting his cheek.
You raise a brow. “He’s not calling to yell at my landlord.”
Michael mutters, “I absolutely am.”
You pull out your phone and dial.
Three rings.
Four.
Five.
A tinny voicemail recording picks up:
‘You have reached Ridgeview Apartments Maintenance Office. Leave a message.’
You let out a laugh that isn’t humorous at all.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Michael stands, shifting Dottie onto his hip like it’s second nature.
“They didn’t call you back?”
“Nope.”
He stares at you for a long, steady beat.
Then he says, confidently:
“They’re not fixing it tonight.”
You exhale. “Probably not.”
“Or tomorrow.”
“Probably not,” you admit again.
“Or by the weekend.”
Your shoulders drop. “Yeah.”
“So,” he says, stepping fully into your space , but not close enough to trap you, just enough for warmth to bridge the inches between you, “that gives us one option.”
You lift your chin.
“You’re really gonna hold me to that deal?”
Michael glances at Dottie, who has started chewing on his collarbone for absolutely no discernible reason.
He sighs again.
“Yeah. I am.”
Dottie pats his cheek. “Papa home.”
And it hits you again how effortlessly she loves him.
How effortlessly he loves her.
How effortlessly you could all slip into this life.
He lowers his voice.
“You two stay here. All week. No going back there until heat is fixed. And Monday…” He swallows once. “Monday we make this official.”
Your stomach flips.
Not with fear.
With relief.
With want.
With the truth you’ve been running from.
Dottie wiggles, reaching for you now.
“Mama sit. Mama read book!”
You laugh tired, warm, heart aching in a good way.
Michael watches you both with something soft and terrified and hopeful in his eyes.
You settle onto the couch with Dottie in your lap, her curly head tucked under your chin. She hands you a board book upside down.
Michael flops onto the rug dramatically.
“Fine. I’ll be the floor parent. Again.”
You roll your eyes affectionately.
“You like being the floor parent.”
“Yeah,” he says, grabbing a stuffed elephant and making it dance for Dottie. “I really do.”
Dottie shrieks with laughter.
You look at her.
Then at him.
And the truth settles in your chest like something warm finally thawing.
This isn’t perfect.
This isn’t planned.
This isn’t easy.
But it’s real.
It’s home.
You flip open a board book and settle in.
“Alright, circle time,” you announce. “Who’s ready for a story?”
Dottie raises both hands like she’s at a concert.
Michael raises one.
“This feels targeted,” he mutters. “Why do I have to sit crisscross applesauce?”
“You’re the one who agreed to floor parent duty,” you remind him.
He grumbles something that sounds like, “Attending doesn’t cover this,” but Dottie pats his cheeks and he melts instantly.
You begin reading in your best cheerful storyteller voice.
Dottie is laser-focused.
Michael pretends he isn’t, but you see him mouthing the words with you by page three. At some point, Dottie crawled into Michael’s lap.
Twenty minutes pass like this cozy, silly, and peaceful.
And then, without warning
Dottie freezes mid-bounce.Blink.Blink.
She slumps backward into Michael’s chest like a puppet with cut strings.
He catches her automatically.
“Oh—?” Michael glances down. “Dot? You alive?”
No response.
Just a toddler who has achieved instant REM sleep.
Completely limp.
Mouth open.
One arm dangling dramatically.
Head on his shoulder.
Dead to the world.
You snort.
Michael stares at her in disbelief.
“She was JUST yelling,” he whispers. “Was this… was this a power failure?”
“It’s called being two,” you say. “Their battery goes from 100% to ‘system shutting down’ without warning.”
He shifts her carefully, her arms flopping like a ragdoll.
He softens immediately, brushing a thumb over her cheek.
“Hey, baby girl…” he murmurs. “You tired?”
She snores softly in answer.
You press your hand over your mouth, choking on how cute and how heartbreaking it is.
Michael gently lowers her off his lap to the rug, laying her on the blanket you spread earlier.
He adjusts her the way only someone who has watched you parent and learned every move by heart knows how to do, tucks her hair behind her ear, fixes her pajama leg, sets her elephant toy beside her.
Then he sighs deeply. He yawns so wide his jaw cracks. “I’m not tired, I’m—”
Thud.
He’s out cold mid-sentence, still in his work clothes..
Face-first.
Next to her.
Right on the rug.
He doesn’t even try to get up onto the couch.
Doesn’t adjust.
Doesn’t say anything witty.
He’s down.
And one second later?
He snores.
Loudly.
Like someone turned on a chainsaw inside a bear.
You cover your mouth again to keep from laughing out loud.
“Hopeless,” you whisper.
He snorts mid-snore.
Like he’s arguing in his sleep.
You slide off the couch and sit on the rug between them.
Dottie is curled on her side, thumb in her mouth, one tiny foot resting on Michael’s ribs.
Michael is starfished on his back like a man who has accepted defeat.
One hand still lightly touching Dottie’s arm — even unconscious, he’s making sure she’s close.
You pull the throw blanket over both of them.
The room is warm and dim and quiet.
And looking at them , your daughter safe and warm,
the man you love snoring like a dying tractor,
their bodies touching even in sleep….
You feel something settle deep in your chest.
Something like peace.
Something like belonging.
Something like home.
You whisper, barely audible:
“My family.”
And from the floor, in the middle of a snore cycle, Michael mumbles something that sounds like:
“Mmh… ours…”
Your heart flips.
You lean down, kiss the top of Dottie’s curls, then Michael’s temple.
He stirs just enough to mumble, eyes still closed, “Stay.”
You whisper back, “We’re not going anywhere.”
A/N: Confession: I’ve been dying to give Michael a soft little baby to love, and Dottie has fully taken over my brain. If you want more scenes of her calling him “Papa,” clinging to him, or just absolutely owning his entire heart… say the word.
I have zero self-control and would happily write a mini-series about them. 😭🧸❄️
A/N: omg? already day 10! it’s such an honor to be able to write for you guys! (p.s. this was probably terrible)
Day 10; J. Abbot x cock warming
Parings: Jack Abbot x Reader
Warnings: smutish?
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Your eyes flutter open, groaning softly and sitting up. Eyes scanning the room, you smile content. The room was trashed, but in a good way.
Your wedding dress lay in a pile on the floor, parts of Jack’s tuxedo are scattered around the room. His tie draped over a lamp. Heels flipped over by the door way, dress shoes in front of the bed.
On the bedside beside you sat three shiny rings.
One solid black wedding band- for Jack
Two silver rings for you - a silver band with diamonds engraved around it and one with the large diamond Jack picked out in the middle.
At least a hundred bobby pins sat next to the rings.
Glancing over, you see Jack, face down into the pillow. His hair was cut neat for the wedding but now his curls poked in every direction possible. On his side sat his prosthetic leg propped against the night stand. His back was exposed, along with part of his neck. You could see long red lines down his back, and the sight of what looks like a hickey on his neck. Your cheeks flush and you pull the sheet around you and stand up.
Once your feet hit the ground you feel the soreness in your body.
Before you manage to get out of bed, a pair of arms pull you back into the bed, prickly stubble brushing against the crook of your neck.
“good morning Mrs. Abbot” Jack mumbled into your skin, pressing kissing to it.
You giggle “good morning Mr. Abbot”
Jack pulled you into his lap, letting the sheet sit on your shoulders. The tip of his hardened cock pressed against you. Looking at him, you raise a brow. He taps your hip and you lean forward and slide down onto his cock.
You lean forward, pressing your head against his chest, him pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “i’m so glad you’re my wife.”
Day Thirteen of Pittcember Holiday Celebration 2025
Click here for the Celebration Masterlist!
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Female!Reader
Summary: being emotionally avoidant can only get you so far, especially when you’re stuck bunking with Jack in a on-call room during a snowstorm.
Word count: ~1.4k
Content: no use of y/n, reader uses she/her pronouns, reader doesn’t know how to deal with her emotions, reader is also kinda self deprecating (putting medicine first before her own needs type of way), no explicit content, age gap but not mentioned (Jack is late 40s, reader is early 30s), emotional tension, possibly ooc
Author's note: This one was fun to write! I really enjoyed coming up with the dialogue for this because I’m very used to Jack being a sweetheart from being to end so this was very different for me! I hope you guys enjoy it <3
“Stop hogging the blanket,” Jack growls, tugging the pathetic hospital-issued sheet and yanking it off your shoulder.
You tug it right back. “Not my fault you need extra fabric to insulate that cold heart of yours, Dr. Frost.”
It’s petty, childish even. Absolutely not your finest moment. Since starting your residency at PTMC, you’ve been nothing but professional with your coworkers, especially your attendings. They’re the only thing standing between you and surviving this hellish training with your sanity intact.
Once you found your footing with Dr. Robby on day shift, all that was left was building rapport with the night shift attending. Easy enough, right?
It was easy, until it wasn’t.
Jack understood your medical instincts almost instantly. Your rhythms, your decision-making, your chaos. He wasn’t intimidated by your presence or by a perspective that others might’ve dismissed as too new or too idealistic. And he treated you like an equal, not an inexperienced overachiever trying too hard. He absorbed your critiques without flinching. He didn’t just listen, but he trusted you.
And God help you, he flirted with you without even trying.
His hand brushing yours through double gloves felt like voltage. His glances lingered like he was memorizing you. The way he knew your coffee order, your suturing tray setup, your music taste. Even the shy smiles you share alone together in a crowded room. Each one felt like a whispered love letter you had no business reading, yet you couldn’t help but peek into.
It was too much all at once. Too much to realize that you, an actual grown adult, had feelings for your attending. You knew how this story usually went. If you pursued anything, and if by some miracle he reciprocated, there was every chance it would fizzle. He could get bored. He might want more than you could give. You weren’t ready for rejection that hadn’t even happened yet. It felt too vulnerable to consider giving yourself to someone when your whole life you’d been second priority, always putting patients first.
Falling for him felt like stepping out onto thin ice.
So you did what you always did.
You pushed. And pushed. And shoved until it became ugly and unnatural.
You started bringing your own coffee, even when you saw the untouched to-go cup cooling on the counter. You stopped sharing your golden-weekend plans when he tried sparking conversations. You deliberately avoided working on the same patients to avoid proximity, yet his lingering stare still found you.
But that wasn’t enough, was it? You needed to make sure your fears were justified in both directions, so the attitude came next. Picking fights was the quickest route. Twisting every tiny tension into a argument, because fighting was easier than wanting him.
Santos applauded your "performance," while Samira's furrowed eyebrows and Mel's wide eyes told a different tale, like you were signing up for a suicide mission for picking at the wrong attending.
You remember Robby’s shock when he heard from a nurse about the argument you and Jack had over wound care, thankfully over an unconscious patient.
Dana, though, was the most surprised. She even pulled you aside to ask if you were okay and if she needed to “kick Jack’s ass.” Your dutiful smile and small headshake didn’t satisfy her need to meddle, hence your current predicament.
The snowstorm hit overnight and into the early morning, convincing many night shift workers to stay later as the ER doors closed to all but high acuity patients and the roads started to look more like a death wish. After gathering supplies for possible power outages, you caught Dana handing out on-call room assignments to the night shift crew like it was summer camp and everyone was finding out their bunkmate.
Dana thought it was hilarious. Robby even chuckled. Perlah and Princess snickered as you and Jack snatched the swipe cards and marched toward the door.
Which is how you ended up here: trapped in a twin bed with the man you’ve been trying not to burn for.
“I’m not hogging if I’m barely covered,” Jack snaps, tugging the blanket back.
You scoff. “Some gentleman you are.”
Jack bolts upright, eyes flashing. “You know what?”
He climbs over you from the side pressed against the wall. You muster the strength not to lean into him, not to press against the heat of his body.
His voice drops, his defensive edge cracking. “I was a gentleman. I was good to you. Without even trying.”
He rises to his feet and starts pacing, all that sharp frustration unraveling into something raw.
“I remembered your coffee order like scripture. I knew your go-to labs for a patient before you even said them. I even sat through that indie playlist you swore would ‘change my life.’ I tried. You can’t say I didn’t. But then the sweetheart I knew just disappeared and got replaced by this robot who picks a fight every chance she gets. So yeah, sorry if I haven’t exactly been a gentleman lately, but I’m just matching what you’re giving me.”
Your chest aches under his frustration. Of course he’s hurt, you switched up on him with no warning. Beneath his anger, you feel the concern, the way he’s practically asking if you’re okay. You never meant to cause this much tension. You were trying to protect yourself, trying to protect him.
You let the blanket slip off your shoulders as you sit up, legs dangling. You stare at the cluttered desk, water bottles, ID badges, all your shared life in miniature.
“I like you,” you admit, voice barely above a breath. In your peripheral vision, Jack stops pacing. You keep going, because stopping now would kill you.
“I like you a lot, and it got overwhelming. I couldn’t stand next to you without wanting you to touch me. I got stupidly happy that you knew my coffee order. I felt seen, and wanted. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”
Your throat tightens.
“You’re my attending. I couldn’t act on any of it, and if you didn’t feel the same, God, I couldn’t stomach that disappointment. I’ve never put anyone above medicine. I don’t even put myself above medicine. So I pushed you away, hard. Too hard.”
You don't dare look at Jack as silence settles over the room.
But then, with the softness that could fix anything, “oh, honey.”
Your head snaps up.
Jack’s anger is gone, melted into something tender enough to undo you.
You shiver without meaning to. Jack notices instantly, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over your shoulders. Your need for warmth overrides your urge to bury your face in the collar and inhale, so you let it sit around you.
He huffs a soft laugh.“You’re lucky I see a therapist, because you picking fights with me over wound care? You nitpicking my notes with corrections? You just, pulling away from me?”
“You spelt emphysema wrong!”
He shakes his head, amused. “Cutest damn cry for attention I’ve ever seen.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He smiles knowingly as he sits on the edge of the bed and lifts his right leg. You hear the latch click of his prosthetic as he releases it with a quiet groan. You could tell earlier in the shift that his leg was bothering him, but you couldn’t tell whether it was the cold or overuse. Either way, a small pit of guilt formed in your stomach at the thought that he hadn’t taken it off, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.
“We should sleep. We’ve got a whole day ahead of us to unpack your horrendous coping mechanisms.”
You shyly nod your head, a small smile itches your face as you still process everything.
A teasing smirk falls on his, “So I hope you don't mind.”
Jack climbs into bed, tucking himself under the blanket before shifting to face you, arm lifted in invitation.
You go to him so fast it’s embarrassing.
His arm drops around you as he chuckles, pulling you flush against him, fitting you against his chest like you belong there. Instinctively, your face buries into the crook of his neck, and he presses his nose into your hair.
He exhales, shaky and relieved. "I can't believe you and your bratty attitude are what kept me from holding you like this."
You hum into his skin, letting yourself soften completely. "I think I've said and done enough the past few weeks, so let me enjoy this."
He smiles into your hair, and you burrow deeper, surrounding yourself with his warmth and scent.
The storm raged on outside, promising a mess for you both in the morning, yet for the first time in weeks you let yourself sink into the warmth, the live wire of connection humming softly between you and Jack.
Whatever tomorrow brings, you’ll face it.
Right now, you melt into Jack as his arms wrap around you, held with a tenderness that promises understanding and forgiveness, something you finally allow yourself to receive.
The keys jingle as Jack pulls them from his pocket to unlock the apartment door. Unlocking the door, he pushes it open, tired from a long shift at the hospital. Stepping into the entryway He can hear someone humming along to what sounds like 80s rock in the kitchen. He steadies himself with a hand against the wall and toes off his shoes.
Shoes off Jack heads towards the noise and finds Dennis standing over the stove singing quietly and dancing along to the music as he stirs something, “And I know the night is fading, and I know that time's gonna fly.”
Jack stands in the doorway just enjoying the moment of listening to the younger man sing. “Hey babe,” Jack approaches Dennis from behind and wraps his arms around Dennis’s waist, “It smells good, what are you cooking?”
“Nothing fancy, just chicken alfredo,” Dennis turns his head to kiss Jack on the lips. They linger there both swaying to the music as Dennis continues stirring the alfredo sauce on the stove. “How was your day?”
“Boring and lonely without you there. I still can’t believe you chose peds over us.”
Dennis grins, “Peds doesn’t make me work 12-hour shifts and the kids are much cuter than the middle-aged men having heart attacks.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound as exciting or thrilling as the emergency department.”
“You and Robby are crazy old men,” Dennis laughs as Robby walks into the kitchen checking to see if dinner is ready yet.
“Yeah but we’re your crazy old men,” Robby kisses Jack before cozying up to the two men from the side and hugging them. “Dinner smells great honey,” he kisses Dennis’s hair. A new song comes on, and all three men continue to trade kisses and sway to the music waiting for dinner to finish cooking.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Van Kingdon smut Written for @pittfanworks' NSFW Pittcember Day Four: Deep Throating.
Warnings: Blowjobs, deep throating, cum eating, orgasm control, and threesomes. Or, threesome adjacent, at least.
Likes/Reblogs/Kudos/Comments are appreciated!
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that real quick?” Jesse asked as him and Frank were walking to their cars.
“Mel wants to suck dick. She gets….. overenthusiastic. I need a smaller dick for her to practice on.”
“Okay, it’s not like I have a micropenis, alright?”
“Is there an official definition of a micropenis?” Frank takes out his phone to start searching and Jesse grabs it out of his hand.
“No looking up definitions, you’ll go down a rabbit hole. Now, explain exactly what you want me to do.”
Frank sighs, as if nothing could be worse than not looking up the official definition of a micropenis, before explaining it all again. Jesse was smaller, so he’s a good person for Mel to practice on. Both Mel and Frank trust him and he’s a regular blood donor, so he gets tested regularly. It’s perfect, really.
“Merry Christmas baby.” Jack said as he passed you your final gift, a glossy red bag with a neat bow. You opened the bag to find a small velvet box inside, clearly holding some kind of jewelry within. You smiled at your boyfriend as you pulled out the small box, small enough to fit in your palm, and carefully popped it open.
Your heart stopped.
Inside the box was a gorgeous diamond ring, the shape and size and colour you’d always dreamed of wearing on your ring finger one day. The beauty of it stole your breath and you realized this was an engagement ring. Wait…engagement ring? That couldn’t be right. Having you open your own ring on Christmas was not Jacks style. He was a traditional guy who’d get down on one knee and definitely wouldn’t propose on a holiday.
“Um, honey?” You started, your voice unsure. “Did you mean to give this to me today?” You turned the box around to show him the contents and you watched all the blood drain from his face in shock. His mouth dropped open as he stared at the ring, completely frozen in place.
Okay so he didn’t mean to give this to you today.
“No, no, I-” Jack faltered, thoroughly confused. He got up suddenly from the arm chair he was sitting in and dashed into the bedroom you shared, emerging a few seconds later with an identical box. He popped it open and presented it to you - a very flattering pair of earrings.
“It was supposed to be earrings.” Jack said lamely, his voice a little high in hysterics, a tone you’d never heard from him.
“The boxes look the same, I can see where the mix up happened.” You said, trying to make him feel better while still being floored at the fact your boyfriend was planning on proposing.
“That’s no excuse, I should have double checked.” Jack lamented as he sat heavily in his chair, utterly defeated. “God I’m so sorry baby, I had a whole proposal planned out. There were two things left to confirm for the day but everything else was set and it was going to be perfect, I mean you were really going to love what I came up with but of course I thought wrapping your gifts after a double shift was a good idea-”
“Go ahead with the plan anyways.” You said suddenly, cutting off his upset rant. Jack paused, stunned by your words. You snatched the earrings from him and gave him back the ring - even though it pained you to do it, you wanted that ring on your finger now.
“Surprise me with the proposal.” You continued. “The gift mix up will be a funny story to tell on our wedding day.”
“Wedding day?” Jack asked excitedly, perking up immediately. You nodded, smiling ear to ear.
“You don’t have to be nervous about the proposal Jack, I’m going to say yes.”
