#widower!jack

[fromsil]

──⋅✮ the terrible date

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ pairing. widower!jack abbot x charge nurse!reader

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ about. a terrible date, on your evening off, ends you up at the emergency service in a bad state. the very same emergency service you work at. (wc: 5.560)

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ.ᐟ warnings. soft angst. age difference (eleven years). flirting. blood. medical inaccuracies. canon medical procedures. car accident. quick reflexion about deceased wife. chubby reader.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤᯓ duo masterlist. main masterlist.

All through dinner, he had been dismissing your job as a charge nurse. Like so many others before him, he thought you were too young and making it up just to impress him—his exact words. You truly didn't know why you didn't leave after he had said that.

He did believe you were a nurse, sure, just too young for the responsibilities you were talking about. At thirty three, who was running an entire service? He has asked with disdain and mockery.

Truth be told, you were used to that kind of judgment. When you had been transferred to the emergency department, the nurses had given you sideways looks before they saw what you were capable of. Lena had trained you, explained how things worked, and made sure you understood exactly what you were getting yourself into. It had been a hell of a ride this past year, but you'd say you were doing well and so did your nurses and the doctors.

It was a hard, demanding, and stressful job, yet one you were thriving in.

Gulping down the last of the wine in your glass, you zoned out, no longer really registering what Jordan was even saying. He talked about his job endlessly, unbothered by whether you were listening at all. You took comfort in the fact that you had finished your dessert and were simply waiting for him to finish his.

The moment you'd get home, you'd call your best friend and tell her you never wanted to be set up with anyone ever again. You already knew what she would say: that you needed to get over the massive crush you had on your sort of boss.

The night shift attending. Doctor Jack Abbot.

In your defence, he had been the one to start the flirting. And he had gone in hard. He had been all over your work during your training, and on your first night as charge nurse, he hadn't restrained himself on the praising.

Usually, you weren't the type to be thrown off by a man's words, but Jack was different. It was hard to explain what had shifted between the two of you, since you had known him from your very first day at the hospital—back when you were a surgery nurse. He would occasionally come up to the floor to check on a few patients, always warm and polite, a refreshing change compared to some of the surgeons.

When a charge nurse position opened up in the ER, you had applied and after a few interviews, you had gotten it. The step up was more than welcome, even if the role was more draining.

Once you had finally found your footing, built trust with your nurses, the doctors, the interns, and the students—you had felt confident enough to flirt back.

And from that point, there had been no coming back. He was older, but you didn't care. What were eleven years, really, at your age? Nothing drastic, nothing that would stop either of you anyways.

Also, you couldn't help but think he looked far better now than when he was younger. You had once seen a photo from when he was first hired, and while he had been genuinely cute back then, the silver in his hair and the quiet confidence and dominance that came with age had made him something else entirely.

It had started with small compliments, scattered here and there. How good your new hair colour looked. How fresh your makeup was. How well you worked. How the place wouldn't survive without you. All of them unapologetic, said loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. You were no different. Every haircut earned a comment from you. You would bring him food when you could tell the night was going to be a long one. You praised what a good doctor he was, just as he praised what a good nurse you were.

It was a little much and at first the rest of the crew had felt awkward around it—as though they were always walking in on something. Eventually they learned to move around the charged atmosphere you two put out and stopped hesitating to interrupt when needed.

After a year on the night shift, neither of you had ever acted on any of it, both seeming to feel that doing so might ruin what you had. As if it was something sacred. That hadn't stopped you from developing serious feelings for the man, and you were almost certain they were returned.

But for one reason, you were afraid. You had noticed that Jack had stopped wearing his wedding ring somewhere between your promotion and now, and that had unsettled you deeply. You didn't want to replace her—his late wife—you couldn't even if it was your greatest wish. It wasn't, you had too much respect for the deceased woman, it wasn't even a thought that had crossed your mind. However, you were terrified that was exactly what he was looking for in you.

It would be impossible to fill her shoes—to fill the hole she had left behind in Jack's heart. Even with all the love you could possibly have for him in a near future, you would never be her. And that was a terrifying thought: maybe he was simply looking for a replacement. Someone to fill the hole. A hole no one would ever be fit to fill.

That had been why you had accepted this awful date.

After splitting the bill, at his demand, you were now out on the street ready to part ways. He had driven you both here, but honestly, you couldn't stand the thought of spending another minute with this man. It wasn't that late and you lived close enough, you could and would walk.

As you pushed through the restaurant door, you felt a quiet frustration settled—you had wasted a perfectly good dress on someone who hadn't even bothered to notice it. It clung to your curves beautifully, with a low neckline that deserved at least a glance at your breasts. It hugged your stomach too, but you had never made any effort to hide the fact that you were on the curvier side, and you weren't about to start now.

After exchanging a few polite words, both of you promising to text—either of you knowing full well the both of you were lying—you set off toward your place, mildly annoyed that he hadn't even offered to drive you home. What a complete waste of an evening off.

Not three seconds later, you heard a loud crash behind you, unmistakably the sound of a car accident. You turned to find your date on the ground several feet from a stopped car, a large shard of windshield glass lodged in his shoulder.

"Oh, fuck," you breathed, and then you were running.

He was conscious, sitting up on his own, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once you were satisfied he was alert, you rushed to the car. The driver was conscious too, yelling about how Jordan had come out of nowhere, his hands shoving uselessly at a jammed seatbelt.

People nearby had already called 911. All there was left to do was wait. As a nurse, walking away felt almost criminal, so you stayed. While bystanders gathered around the driver and worked to get him out of the car, you went back to Jordan.

You crouched in front of him, and for just a moment your eyes left his—long enough for something warm and wet to splash across you, followed by a sharp groan.

"I don't think I was supposed to do that," Jordan said, the glass shard now in his hand a look of shock splattered across his face.

Blood had poured from the wound straight into your cleavage before slowing to a trickle running down his chest. You pressed both hands hard against the wound without hesitation.

"No, you weren't." You kept your voice flat, falling on your knees on the concrete scratching them. He was about to pass out—you could see it in the way he was staring at the glass in his hand. "Can someone get me a towel? Anything?" you called out to the crowd.

The response was immediate, as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Seconds later you were pressing down on the wound with a clean towel while Jordan lay unconscious on the ground. It wasn't blood loss that had taken him under the wound was small, even if it had bled dramatically after he took of the piece of glass. It was the sight of his own blood.

You exhaled slowly and looked up just as ambulance lights swept down the street.

The paramedics assessed Jordan, applied pressure to the wound, and were now loading him into the ambulance. You stood there weighing whether to follow. You recognised the crew, and given where the restaurant was, you already knew they were heading to PTMC.

You looked down at your hands, still trying to decide and that was when you noticed it. Something was wrong. At some point between the accident and now, you had sliced your palm open. It wasn't serious, nothing you couldn't handle yourself, but your hands were covered in blood.

Blood that wasn't yours. Blood that could be infected.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," you muttered, then raised your voice to flag down the paramedics before they pulled away.

Walking into the ER was one of the most humiliating experiences of your life. Rationally, it wasn't that bad, you were staff, you walked in here almost everyday. But you were also covered in someone else's blood, and those two facts did not sit well with each other.

Your date had been taken straight through when they arrived, while you had deliberately hung back for a few minutes. It had seemed like the considerate thing to do at the time.

It was, after reflexion, possibly the worst decision you had made all evening. Because rather than looking like someone who had helped an injured man, you looked like a woman who had been assaulted.

The first person to spot you was Shen, who had been laughing with Ellis at the nurses' station. His laugh cut off the instant his eyes landed on you, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. Within seconds he was crossing the floor toward you at speed, already calling out for a wheelchair.

"No, no, I'm okay," you tried explaining as the entire ER seemed to converge on you at once. "It's not my blood, I'm fine."

But it was too late. You were gently lowered into a wheelchair while Lena rushed you into a free room, and everything you said was brushed aside—they had likely decided you were in shock and weren't taking any chances.

Lena was already calling for Abbot while hands came at you from every direction. Someone was listening to your heart and lungs, someone else was pressing along your ribs asking if it hurt here or there, nurses were checking your vitals from both sides.

It was the arrival of Abbot that finally pushed you over the edge. He came through the door looking as though someone had told him you were dead. The room felt like it was closing in: the nurses crowding around you, Lena directing everyone with sharp precision, all those hands on your body. It was too much.

You stood up quickly and backed yourself toward the far wall, away from all of it. You'd give them that much, you must have looked unhinged in that moment with palms raised in front of you like a barrier, your breathing starting to climb.

"Enough," you said, chest heaving. "I'm not hurt. This isn't my blood. I was with the man from the car accident who just came in, Jordan."

Every doctor and nurse in the room looked to the charge nurse on duty. Lena gave a short nod, confirming that a Jordan had indeed just been brought in.

"The idiot pulled a piece of glass out of his own shoulder and the blood went everywhere, all over me." You kept going, your breathing steadying now that nobody was staring at you like you were about to collapse. "I would have gone straight home if it weren't for the fact that I cut my hand and his blood is all over the wound." You looked around the room. "I just need a blood test."

That was when your eyes found Abbot's. He hadn't said a word yet—still standing at the entrance, arms folded across his chest. He looked almost composed, except for his eyes, which were moving over you carefully, methodically, searching for anything anyone might have missed.

"Okay, everyone back to work," he said at last, apparently satisfied you weren't in need of urgent care. When no one moved, you rolled your eyes before his voice boomed again. "Come on, Nightcrawlers. You're needed elsewhere."

That did it. The room cleared, leaving only you, Abbot, and Lena. Almost at the same time, as though they had rehearsed it, both of them tilted their heads toward the bed.

You let out a small laugh and shook your head, but you moved toward it all the same. Once you were sitting, Lena slipped the pulse oximeter back onto your finger and studied your face with quiet intensity.

"I'll be right back for the blood test," she said, her voice soft in a way that told you she was still being careful with you.

Technically, blood tests weren't part of a charge nurse's duties, but you weren't going to say a word. If she wanted to do it herself, you would let her.

It must have been genuinely frightening, seeing a colleague walk through those doors covered in blood. It was only now beginning to register that you could have gone home first to cleaned up and change before coming in.

"Well, that was something," you said lightly, glancing over at Jack, who still hadn't moved from the doorway.

The look on his face told you he did not find the situation even remotely amusing. His expression was hard enough that you felt your gaze drop, your fingers starting to fidget in your lap, until a sharp bolt of pain shot through your hand and up to your elbow.

Abbot was in front of you within seconds. He reached for your hand, then caught himself—almost as if he had reached out for your on instinct— and turned to pull a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall before taking your hand carefully in both of his and lowering himself onto the rolling stool.

"This is pretty deep," he said, eyes on the wound.

"No, it isn't," you scoffed.

You were a nurse. You knew how to assess an injury, and this was a cut you could have handled at home with what you had in your bathroom cabinet.

You laid back against the bed as he glanced up at you with that look again, and made yourself comfortable while Abbot reached for the saline. He opened his mouth, something sarcastic clearly on its way, but Lena reappeared in the doorway before he got the chance.

It took only a few minutes for Lena to run through her checks and let you know they had drawn blood from Jordan as well and were still waiting on his results. You gave her a thumb up and thanked her warmly while Jack continued rinsing your hand with saline.

He swivelled on his stool and rolled toward the supply drawers. "Have a look for yourself, genius. Not deep, my ass."

You pushed yourself up slightly and looked down at your now clean palm and, well, fuck. It was deeper than you had thought. Considerably so. How had you even managed that? You had felt the concrete scrape your knees, but how had you not noticed your entire palm getting sliced open?

"Shit," you said, and let your head fall back against the bed. "I need stitches."

"Yep," was all he offered in return.

What was supposed to be a quick stop at the ER had turned into you becoming a patient. You were on the other side of things entirely but apparently you were getting the full VIP treatment, because Abbot had already turned back around with a suture kit in hand.

"You can call one of the nurses. I know you have more important things to do," you said, watching him lay everything out.

Without even looking up at you, still focused on getting everything the way it was supposed to, Abbot shocked his head.

"Nuh uh," he let out, followed by an almost whispered, "I can take care of you."

The words, the cadence, the casual dominance, the way his voice dropped lower than usual—it sent a shiver straight down your spine and ran straight between your legs. It took everything you had not to press your thighs together.

You knew he would notice, as Jack noticed everything.

You opened your mouth to argue. His eyes met yours with a look that left not room for complains. That happened so often with Jack, the way he could hold a room without even trying. That effortless, unassuming authority he carried without ever seeming to reach for it.

"Shen has the floor covered," he said simply, leaving no room for further debate.

Once he had numbed your hand, he got to work. The silence that followed was uncomfortable in a way that surprised you, the two of you weren't used to quiet moment. There was always something easy and warm between you, something a little flirty and a little playful. The absence of it was starting to press on you.

"That's one pretty dress," Jack said, breaking it, almost as though he had sensed the shift.

"It's completely ruined," you said, glancing down at the dried blood stiffening the fabric. "And it didn't even get me a single compliment all night." The words were out before you had quite decided to say them.

"Really?" It wasn't quite a question, you could hear it in his tone while his eyes stayed on his sutures.

"Really," you confirmed, thinking back to the vaguely disgusted look Jordan had given it. "He split the bill too." You kept going, unable to stop yourself now that you had started. "And didn't offer to drive me home."

That made him look up.

"He let you walk home alone at night?" he asked, making sure he had understood correctly.

"Well, I would have said no anyways, I really didn't want to spend another minute with him… but the fact that he didn't even offer. That's a red flag if I've ever seen one." You laughed, and then the laugh faded the moment you caught his expression.

His jaw was set, his eyes hard and anger lingering behind them. Not at you but at the man who had let a woman walk home alone in the dark. You could practically watch the what-ifs moving behind his eyes.

"Karma got him in the end, though. I mean, he got hit by a car," you tried joking, reaching for even just a small twist of his lips.

The joke didn't land. He went back to suturing in silence, brow furrowed in concentration. Then, a few minutes later, without looking up.

"For what it's worth, you make the dress even prettier." His voice was barely above a whisper.

You laughed awkwardly, the way you always did when you didn't know how to receive a compliment, especially one about your body. "Well, enjoy it while you can. It's going straight in the bin when I get home."

"A shame," Jack said simply, and you knew he meant it.

You could feel the warmth spreading up your neck and into your cheeks, and you couldn't quite make yourself look away from him.

The ease of it, the way he could flirt so quietly and so naturally while stitching your hand, as if the two things required the same level of calm made him more attractive than you knew what to do with. You had a feeling this was a point of no return.

The thought dissolved when Lena reappeared in the doorway, a wide smile already on her face and a sheets of papers in her hand. You knew she had pulled a few strings to get the results flagged as a priority, and you were grateful for it—you needed the peace of mind.

"He's clean," she said, her smile widening. "You'll still need a round of antibiotics, but there's nothing to worry about."

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. It would have been a devastating thing, picking up an infection from a man you hadn't even wanted to have dinner with. When you opened your eyes, Jack was already gesturing for Lena to bring the results over. You watched some of the tension leave his face as he read through them.

Did he realise how expressive he was? At least with you.

"Thank you, Lena," you said warmly as she gave you a quiet wink and slipped back out of the room.

Soon enough, the sutures were done. Strangely, despite being someone who lived nocturnally even on your days off—deliberately, so as not to lose your rhythm—you were starting to feel the pull of exhaustion.

When Jack rolled away to dispose of everything, you wiggled your fingers experimentally, trying to gauge how much anaesthesia was left. Sensation was slowly creeping back, and the absence of feeling in your palm was really weird in that particular way that made you want to keep testing it.

"Stop that," Jack said, his back still to you, before turning around with bandages, antiseptic, and compresses.

"I can't feel anything," you said, not entirely sure whether he was telling you off to protect his work or protect your hand.

"I don't care. Don't ruin my good work." He looked at you as he said it, a faint edge of amusement in his expression.

"Oh, right, of course. My sincerest apologies, Doctor Abbot." You rolled your eyes and dropped your good forearm over your face.

All you wanted now was to go home and sleep. With an injury like this—even though you would have argued you were perfectly capable of working—you already knew Abbot would sign you off for at least a week, or until the stitches came out. There was no getting around it.

Once the bandage was secured, you moved to sit up, and a warm, heavy hand pressed gently but firmly on your shoulder and guided you back down. You frowned and tried again. The hand pressed once more.

"Don't move," Abbot said, clicking his tongue, his expression leaving no room for negotiation.

He shifted down the side of the bed and lifted the hem of your dress slightly without saying a word before reaching for the antiseptic. Of course, he had noticed your had scratched your knees. Abbot noticed everything.

"You don't have to do that," you said, keeping your voice gentle.

It was something you could easily take care of at home. You didn't need to take up any more of his time, knowing how wild the night shift could get. When you made another attempt to sit up, the same hand came to rest on your knee unhurried, measured and still so freaking warm. His eyes found yours, one eyebrow raised in a question that needed no words.

You tilted your head and felt a flicker of genuine irritation. "I'm a nurse. I can manage a few scraped knees myself."

He said nothing at first. He simply reached for a sealed compress and tore it open then paused, and looked up at you with a slow, knowing smirk. He knew exactly what he was doing. You hated wasting supplies and he was well aware of it.

"Oops," he said simply, and picked up the antiseptic.

It took everything you had not to say something about how annoying he was. You swallowed it and let him work in silence, watching. His movements were gentle and precise, carefully cleaning a wound that could have been sorted out under a shower at home.

His fingers were light against your skin, one hand cradling your knee while the other pressed the compress softly against the bruising. It was such an unexpectedly tender thing that it was making you feel warm and strange and a little undone. The way he was hunched over you, his posture terrible, as though his back wasn't going to punish him for it the moment he stood up straight.

"Your back, Abbot," you said, in a tone that came out far more like a scolding wife than you had intended.

The only answer you got was a knowing smirk as he moved on to the second knee. His fingers were warm, and you noticed—not for the first time, honestly—that they were the right size. Not large exactly, just... proportioned perfectly. It was a strange thing to be fixated on, but you had been quietly obsessed with his hands for months, and feeling them on your skin for the first time was doing something to your brain. Rewiring it, almost.

"All done," he said, pulling you back. "You can get up, now."

Feeling inexplicably guilty, as though you had been caught thinking something you shouldn't, you sat up too fast and felt the blood rush immediately. You lost your balance and missed the edge of the bed on your way down but Jack's military reflexes were faster. Both hands closed around your forearms and set you upright before you had any real chance of hitting the floor.

"Easy, tiger," he said, still watching your face with eyes that were a touch more worried than the joke suggested.

You laughed it off and stood again, slower this time, giving him a thumb up before grabbing your bag from the bed and following Abbot toward the nurses' station. After reassuring your colleagues that you were absolutely fine, despite knowing you looked anything but, you turned to Lena.

"What are the chances Abbot doesn't put me on medical leave?" you asked, watching him chart you from across the room. It wasn't a complicated entry given the nature of the injury, but it also meant he was prescribing medication, and very likely signing the paperwork you were dreading.

"Absolutely none," Lena replied without looking up from her own screen.

"I could work," you started, but the look Lena levelled at you over her monitor stopped the sentence dead. "How will you manage?" you asked instead, guilt settling in your chest.

"Don't worry about me," the older woman said, her smile warm enough to be annoying about it. She stood and pulled you into a hug. "I know you have a habit of worrying about the elderly," she murmured, "but I'm not quite there yet."

"Lena," you gasped, pulling back with mock horror.

You glanced around quickly to check whether anyone had caught that. Satisfied that the rest of the night shift seemed to be occupied occupied, you shook your head slowly. Ready to scold her, you were stopped by a masculine presence.

"Here." Jack's voice cut through as he appeared beside you, pressing a folded set of papers into your good hand.

"You know, I could—" you started, glancing down at the medical leave form.

"No." He cut you off immediately, steering you toward the ambulance bay with one hand settled at the small of your back.

He didn't even give you time to properly say goodbye to Lena. You threw her an apologetic look over your shoulder. Her smile only widened and she was soon joined by Shen and Mateo, wearing the exact same knowing smirk.

Jack's hand sat across the small of your back as though it had always belonged there—and again, it was just so warm. He wasn't pushing, exactly. It was more like being gently herded, a steady and certain pressure guiding you precisely where he had decided you were going: home.

Once outside, you drew breath to say goodnight and finally make your escape taking a small stop away from him. Looking at Jack, you were met with something unfamiliar. It was rare for this man to check on his phone and yet here he was.

His phone was in his hand—the hand with no wedding ring anymore—he appeared to be thinking. He frowned faintly, then looked up at you, his expression easing just slightly.

"What's your address again? I looked it up in your chart but I forgot," he said, almost to himself, his thumb already moving across the screen.

You caught a glimpse of the Uber app open in front of him. Widening your eyes, you shook your head, this wasn't happening.

"No. Nope. Absolutely not." You shook your head. "Goodnight, Abbot."

You should have known better. Of course Jack Abbot wasn't going to stand there and watch you walk away at nearly midnight. For what felt like the tenth time that night, he reached for you. His fingers wrapped around your wrist—not tight, always gentle, always warm—holding you back. He had been deliberate about it too, catching your uninjured arm.

"If you think," he began, his eyes steady on yours, "that I'm going to do what that terrible date of yours did and let you walk home alone, think again. You're either getting in that Uber or you're sitting here until my shift ends."

In his eyes, you could see it was pointless to argue. You clicked your tongue, closed your eyes, and let out a long breath. When you opened them, you gave a single nod, eyebrows raised.

"Put that I'm paying in cash," you said. Not a request.

He didn't even glance up. He simply scoffed, as though you had said something mildly entertaining.

"I'm not joking," you replied, a little sharper than you had intended but the exhaustion was beginning to win.

"She's three minutes away, out front," Jack said, unbothered, already looking back at his phone. "Text me when you're home. Come back in a week for the stitches."

And then he was gone, back through the doors without a goodbye, without giving you a chance to get another word in.

You stood there for a moment, weighing your options. With him inside and unable to see you, you could absolutely just walk home and let him deal with a one-star rating from you skipping the ride home. Your ego was genuinely putting up a fight.

But something about the way he had looked at you before disappearing inside made it difficult to do anything other than what he had asked. Almost as if he had anticipated the internal debate, your phone buzzed: a screenshot from Jack, the car model and licence plate from the Uber app.

Less than fifteen minutes later, you were home. When you had tried to pay the driver, the woman smiled and told you it had already been taken care of through the app. You exhaled slowly, thanked her, and got out of the car. At least she was honest enough.

Right after locking your front door behind you, you went straight to the bathroom, desperate to get out of the bloody dress you've been in for hours now. It was almost starting to itch from how uncomfortable you felt in it. Before stepping into the shower, you fired off two quick texts to Jack.

how much do i owe you fucker? im home btw

It was late, you were tired, and you were annoyed with him, the insult had slipped out on its own. Besides, technically you were equals hierarchically speaking. He simply had an extra qualification to his name. And you knew he wasn't the sort of person to get offended over such a trivial thing—even more when he had been the one pushing your patience.

You took your time in the shower, washing slowly and thoroughly. You had already washed your hair before the date, but it felt necessary to do it again—like washing the entire evening off. You were careful around the stitched hand, working methodically around it.

Hair dried, skincare done, body moisturised, new bandage on—you were finally ready for bed. It was half past one in the morning, and if there was one good thing about the medical leave, it was that you could sleep in without feeling any sort of guilt.

You didn't check your phone. You simply plugged it in on the nightstand, turned off the light, and settled into bed. Despite everything, despite the irritation still slithering quietly under the surface, all your mind kept returning to as your eyes closed was the feeling of his hands on you.

How warm they were. How careful. How certain. How capable.

You were seconds from sleep when your phone buzzed. Once. Short and deliberate. You reached for it blindly, hand patting across the nightstand until your fingers closed around it. You tilted the screen toward you. Two words.

Two words that sent warmth pooling straight to places it had no business going at one-thirty in the morning.

Good girl.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ following part.

©fromsil.

a.n.: new aesthetic and a new abbot fic? hell yeah. (also if you can tell i have a fingers/hand/arms kink... no you dont, shut up)

[fromsil]

──⋅✮ the unexpected accident

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ pairing. widower!jack abbot x charge nurse!reader

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ⭑ about. after almost two weeks off, you came back for the night shift. however with your luck, it started as a terrible night—one you could only hope would get better. (wc: 13.400)

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ.ᐟ warnings. smut. fluff. domestically. age difference (eleven years). car accident (nothing major). medical inaccuracies. canon medical procedures. injuries. bruises. some insecurities. chubby reader.

ㅤㅤ     ㅤᯓ first part. duo masterlist. main masterlist.

It wasn't like you to be late, so you forced your legs to move faster even as sharp pain flashed through your hip and thigh. Of all days for this to happen, it had to be today—your first shift back after a week and a half of medical leave. And now you were walking into the emergency department nearly an hour late.

Of course, on the very day you were finally coming back to work, you'd been hit by a car.

It hadn't been a major accident, and it hadn't even been the driver's fault… but the impact had still been hard enough to hurt, and most likely bruise.

You'd already been running late, so you'd rushed across the street without noticing the light turned green. One second you were hurrying toward the crosswalk, the next a car had slammed into you or rather, you had slammed into it. The vehicle hadn't been going very fast, but it had hit you hard enough to knock you onto the pavement.

Your elbow had taken the fall on the concrete while your hip had taken all the car's force straight into it. On the floor, you felt the little pebbles breaking your skin while you could already imagine the giant bruise on your hip.

A crowd had gathered almost instantly, trying to assess your injuries as if you weren't a nurse yourself. Some people had even suggested calling an ambulance—which you fiercely refused, insisting you were fine and explaining you worked at a hospital anyway.

It had taken several minutes of convincing—and you showing off your nurse badge from PTMC—before the crowd and the driver finally let you leave, especially since the poor man looked terrified you were about to sue him. You'd reassured him repeatedly that you wouldn't, because the accident had absolutely been your fault and you definitely didn't have the money to pursue anything of this sort.

Still fifteen minutes away from the hospital, you'd texted Dana to let her know you were running late but were still coming in. Since being late was completely unlike you, you already had five missed calls from different staff members by the time you arrived, so you asked Dana to warn them you were coming as well. She only replied with a simply "Okay".

The moment you stepped inside, you headed straight for the staff room as quickly as you could. You shoved your dinner into the fridge, peeled off your jacket, tossing it onto the coat rack before a sharp sting shot through your elbow—the opposite side from where your hip ached.

Looking down, you realized the skin was scraped raw and streaked with drying blood.

"Argh, I don't have time for this," you muttered with a sigh, heading for the sink.

You rinsed the scrape under cold water, biting back a groan as the sting intensified, then dried it carefully with a paper towel. It had already stopped bleeding—it was only a minor wound—but it still looked rough.

Shaking your head, you grabbed the white long-sleeved shirt you always kept in your bag. As quickly as possible, and without flashing any of your coworkers, you pulled it on beneath your scrubs to cover it—hoping hard it wouldn't taint the shirt.

Finally satisfied that your injuries were hidden well enough, you left the room and headed straight for the nurses' station.

"I'm so sorry," you said as you approached Dana, who looked up at you over the rim of her glasses.

As gentle as ever, she pulled you into a quick hug and assured you it was fine—that these things happened to everyone. Even so, you could see the exhaustion on her face. It must have been a rough day shift, which usually meant an even rougher night ahead. You silently prayed for a quiet evening.

"I'll come in early next shift if you're working," you promised as she gathered her things after explaining what had happened today.

"You don't have to, sweetie. Just make sure you're alright," Dana replied with a soft smile before heading out for the night.

"Better yet, come in at seven-thirty tomorrow morning, okay? So I don't feel so bad," you teased, giving her your best puppy eyes.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, kid," she joked, shaking her head with a laugh.

After she left, you immediately went to Shen and asked how the beginning of the night had been. He assured you everything was running smoothly while sipping his usual coffee. His nonchalance used to annoy the hell out of you, but over time you'd gotten used to it. It was oddly soothing to have someone this chill and relax while everything around here always turned into chaos.

You also knew Jack was working tonight, and you were doing your absolute best to avoid him.

First, because you knew he'd immediately notice something was wrong with you as he noticed everything. And second, more importantly, because of the very last text he'd sent you.

Good girl.

Two fucking words that had haunted you for the past week and a half.

Sometimes you'd be grocery shopping or curled up on the couch reading, and suddenly your mind would drift back to that text. Instantly, warmth would spread through your entire body going straight between your legs.

It was absolutely ridiculous how two simple words could affect you so much, but you couldn't deny the reaction they triggered.

Your cheeks would burn so hot it almost felt suffocating and you'd suddenly have the overwhelming urge to slip your fingers beneath your panties.

Which was exactly why avoiding Jack Abbott seemed like the smartest possible decision.

Four days ago, when you'd returned to have your stitches removed, you'd specifically chosen to show up during the day shift, when you knew he wasn't scheduled. You knew how unpredictable he could be—showing up on his days off and lingering around the hospital for hours wasn't unusual for him—but arriving at one in the afternoon had felt like a safe bet that he'd hopefully be in bed... or just far from the hospital.

And thankfully, you had been right.

Getting the stitches removed had been quick, and you'd been more than happy to chat with Samira while she worked. You'd insisted a student nurse could handle it, but she'd waved the idea off, claiming she needed the break. Naturally, you'd indulged her.

Now, walking through the department with an iPad in hand, checking that every patient was where they should be, receiving the right treatment, eating properly, and generally comfortable, you found your thoughts drifting back to Jack once again.

The number of time you had imagined his deep voice saying those two words were shameful, but you couldn't help it. If anything it had been the bastard's fault and he should be the one feeling guilty. If guilt was even what you were feeling.

Shaking your head, you forced yourself to refocus. At home, obsessing over him was one thing—you weren't responsible for an entire staff and people's lives there. But this was work. Here, you needed to stay professional.

Hearing your name, you turned toward the sound and met Mateo's eyes. You gave him a small nod, waiting for him to speak.

"North 12 is getting discharged, and South 3 is still waiting on results, but upstairs isn't answering," Mateo explained as he pulled off his gloves and tossed them into a nearby trash can.

"Okay, I'll call when I get the time," you replied, already discharging North 12 on your iPad.

Still sensing Mateo lingering beside you, you looked up with a raised eyebrow. "Anything else?"

"Huh…" he started, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Abbott's looking for you."

"Tell him I'm busy," you answered as casually as possible before turning back to your screen.

The second Mateo was out of sight, you bit down hard on your lip, trying to control the immediate reaction that shot through your body at the mention of the older man. You usually weren't like this. But Jack was just… something else.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself so effortlessly, never ashamed of his actions, never trying to hide his interest in you. He was confident about it—openly so—and somehow that only made him more dangerous.

God, that old man was infuriating.

After finishing your rounds, you were almost surprised by how calm the night still was despite the packed waiting room and ED. Returning to your desk, you sat down to update the department board—which beds were free, who was waiting on scans, who was ready for transfer, and who still needed treatment.

"Vivi," you called as she passed by.

She immediately stopped and turned toward you.

"North 7 needs blood test."

"On it," she replied with a bright smile before hurrying off.

Watching her leave, you shook your head fondly. You really did have an incredible team of nurses. Then you sensed someone approaching.

Looking up, you saw Abbott making his way toward your desk, hands clasped behind his back in that rigid military posture of his.

You were absolutely not prepared to talk to him, especially not in the middle of the ER but there was no escaping now. Short of divine intervention, you were trapped.

And somehow, you got exactly that.

Behind you, the red emergency phone rang loudly enough to cut through the chaos of the department. Abbott glanced toward the phone with a raised eyebrow while you immediately rolled your chair back and stood.

"PTMC Emergency, charge nurse," you answered, deliberately looking anywhere except at Jack, who remained standing directly in front of your desk.

As the paramedic spoke, your brain instantly started reorganizing the ER—eyes running everywhere in the room except on Abbot. "We'll be ready."

The second you hung up, you turned back, relieved to see Abbott had been joined by Ellis.

"Bar fight incoming," you summarized quickly, already moving toward the trauma bays. "One guy has part of a beer bottle lodged in his skull, and the other's unconscious with an open radius fracture."

Leaving the doctors behind, you pushed open the door to Trauma 1 and found Shen and Toomarian working on a patient who, thankfully, didn't seem critical.

"We need the room in two minutes," you said.

Your nurses immediately nodded.

"Alright, boss," Shen replied before looking back at his patient. "Let's go on a little trip!"

You rolled your eyes at his complete lack of seriousness while walking back toward the desk, only to hear an enthusiastic "Weeee!" behind you as Shen rolled the patient out of the room.

Taking the phone out of your breast pocket, you quickly composed the neuro number before putting the phone to your ears.

"Dr. Walsh," a voice answered on the other end of the phone a moment later.

"Was supposed to call neuro," you replied, confused as to why she had picked up instead.

"They're tied up. What have you got?" Emery asked immediately, skipping all pleasantries.

"Open head trauma with the bottle still embedded, and another patient with a open fracture," you explained while leaning over your desk and rearranging beds on the board.

"That sucks," the surgeon replied dryly, pulling a quiet laugh from you. "I'll come down in a few and page ortho on the way. Neuro's gonna be difficult tonight, but I'll see what I can do."

"You're the best," you mumbled, eyes fixed on your screen—and meaning every word.

Emery Walsh was one of the reason you missed being a surgery nurse sometimes. People found her dry and hard, but working with her, you'd learnt that she was a really good person.

"Yeah, I know. See you soon." Then the line went dead.

The phone stayed wedged between your shoulder and ear while you typed, barely noticing it anymore. Around you, the department shifted into controlled chaos as trauma rooms were cleaned, supplies restocked, and doctors prepared for the incoming patients.

Bar fights were common enough. The outcomes, however, were never predictable.

Slowly, you felt the phone slipping from your shoulder—until it disappeared completely. It didn't crash onto the desk or floor. Instead, someone gently placed it beside your keyboard.

You looked up and found Abbott standing there, right by your side, watching you with a slight smile and his head tilted faintly to the side. His eyes were soft but teasing staying on, what you were certain, were wide doe eyes.

"Walsh is coming down," you explained immediately quickly getting back on your feet while sticking strictly to work-related conversation. "Hopefully with ortho. Neuro's unavailable right now."

"We'll make it work," he said softly, voice deep and grounding.

That voice. The exact same calm, low tone your brain had replayed for a week and a half alongside those two words.

Good girl.

It was genuinely becoming a problem.

You nodded quickly and started to turn away so you could brief a few nurses, but Jack stopped you again.

"How's the hand?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Wanting to get through the conversation as quickly as possible, you answered immediately. "Never better."

"You did come, right?" he pressed, his eyes dropping toward your hand.

Ever since that text, your mind had been completely corrupted.

Even though his gaze was clearly fixed on your hand resting near your hip, your stupid brain instantly interpreted it differently… going to a very different place than you fucking hand. That absolutely did not help your obsession with that man.

"What?" you blurted out, louder than necessary.

"You didn't remove the stitches yourself, did you?" he clarified, clearly confused by your reaction.

"Oh." Your eyes widened as realization hit you. "No, no. Samira did it."

Frowning slightly, Jack looked at you with a strange twist to his smile, something dangerously close to a smirk. "Samira? From day shift?"

"Yeah, well…" You shrugged awkwardly. "I was off for more than a week. It's crazy how quickly your body adjusts back to a normal schedule."

The joke came out clumsier than intended.

You glanced at his eyes, immediately looked away, then stupidly looked back again before darting your gaze elsewhere for a third time, your anxiety practically written across your face.

"Right," Jack replied slowly, amusement clear in his expression.

"Okay," you sighed with an overly tight smile before quickly turning around and walking away.

Why did you have to be this awkward? Of course he hadn't been making some crude comment in the middle of a shift with half the ER around. Jack was bold, sure, but not that bold.

Your brain seriously needed to calm the hell down before you lost your mind completely.

Unfortunately, too distracted to pay attention to where you were going, you walked straight into Walsh as she strolled into the department.

"Wow," she blurted, eyes widening in surprise. "You good?"

"Huh? Yeah. Just getting ready for the traumas!" you called over your shoulder, not slowing down for even a second.

Forcing yourself back into work mode, you started assigning nurses to incoming cases and gathering supplies that were missing from the trauma rooms. By the time you finished restocking everything, the EMTs were already wheeling the patients in through the ambulance bay.

"Trauma 1 and 2 are clear and ready!" you shouted as the teams split apart and rushed into their assigned rooms.

Finally getting a brief moment to breathe, you called about the lab results Mateo had mentioned earlier, only to discover they'd somehow been lost in the system and were now being resent. Seconds later, the files appeared on your iPad.

Perfect timing, too, since Dr. Porat, R2 of the night shift, wasn't tied up with the trauma teams. After forwarding her the results, the front desk called your extension.

"Charge nurse speaking," you answered while scrolling through charts waiting to be reviewed.

"Jim Burlt's family is here," Chantana said softly over the line.

"Who?" you asked automatically, not recognizing the name.

"The truck driver who got electrocuted. He passed earlier, during day shift, I think." Her voice lowered so the family wouldn't overhear.

"Fuck," you whispered, letting your head fall back for a second. "Okay. I'm coming."

It wasn't that you didn't want to handle it—you just had no idea where the man's body had been taken. Dana hadn't mentioned it during handoff, and since you'd missed rounds, you were completely behind.

Pulling up his chart in the system, all you found were three cold words:

Dead on arrival.

With no better option, you headed into Trauma 1, since it sounded like the quieter room of the two. The moment you pushed open the door, Abbott looked up at you immediately—as though he'd sensed your presence before even seeing you.

"Know a Jim Burlt?" you asked, unable to stop yourself from instinctively checking the patient's vitals first. Stable.

"Yeah. Robby's patient," Jack replied, eyes already shifting back toward the trauma bed.

Patient. The word twisted uncomfortably in your chest. The man had arrived dead. There had been nothing anyone could do besides call the time.

"His family's here. Do you know where he is?"

"Morgue," Jack answered, finally looking back at you with sympathetic eyes. "And it's not a pretty sight. Especially for the family."

"Fucking perfect," you muttered under your breath before turning to leave.

As you headed toward the waiting area, a warm hand settled gently on your shoulder, stopping you mid-step.

You turned around to find Jack standing close behind you.

He'd already stripped off the bloody gown, gloves, and protective glasses from the trauma room. Without all the gear, he looked unfairly good—calm, composed, and for once actually rested.

"I'll do it," he said quietly, nodding toward the waiting room.

"It's okay. I can handle it. You clearly have your hands full." You assured him, painfully aware of the warmth spreading through your neck where his hand still rested close by on your shoulder.

"Robby already explained the case, and they don't need me in there anymore," he replied lightly, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Even though you'd initially thought Jack was highly professional and not nearly this bold, he quickly proved you wrong as he stepped closer, leaning toward you. His lips hovered far too close to your ear—close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your neck—when he finally spoke. "But this place will fall apart without you."

"Huh…" was the only sound your brain managed to produce.

When he finally stepped back, there was a teasing smirk tugging at his lips before he simply walked away, leaving you stranded in the middle of the hallway like your system had completely rebooted.

Your eyes struggled to focus on anything.

His words. His voice. That stupid charisma. It all tangled together until your thoughts turned into static.

The loud laughter of a drunk patient somewhere down the hall finally snapped you back to reality. Within seconds, you were moving again, heading toward your desk while taking a deep shaky breath.

It was genuinely unfair how easily he could throw you completely off balance while you seemingly had nowhere near the same effect on him.

Fucking diabolical.

Hours later, after working nonstop without a break, you finally stole a few precious minutes for yourself in the stairwell. It was quieter than the break room and safer than the ambulance bay. Here, nobody bothered you.

You still kept your phone nearby in your chest pocket, and never disappeared for longer than ten minutes, but at least you could drink your coffee in peace. You'd warn the attending and your nurses before just disappearing.

Only three hours remained in your shift now. Close enough to the end that you could finally see it.

Eyes closed, head resting against the stair railing, you sipped your coffee slowly while focusing on your breathing exercises—your usual way of bleeding off the stress that came with the job.

The hospital staff were used to finding you here during night shifts, so when the stairwell door creaked open and footsteps started approaching, you barely reacted at all.

"Abbott's looking for you." Walsh's voice shattered the brief moment of peace you'd managed to find in the stairwell.

"When is he not?" you sighed, taking another sip of coffee.

You only opened your eyes when you heard Emery groan dramatically as she dropped down beside you on the steps. She looked exhausted—but then again, who in this hospital didn't? Even so, there was still something sharp and alert behind her tired eyes.

"I'd kill for a cigarette," she muttered, rubbing both hands down her face.

"Stay strong," you laughed softly. "If you relapse, you'll drag me down with you."

It wasn't entirely true, but you still remembered the nights you'd both decided to quit smoking together. Back then, she'd sneak out through the ER ambulance bay and wait for you outside. For five peaceful minutes, the two of you would talk about life, relationships—anything except the chaos happening inside.

"Oh, fuck no," she smirked, side eyeing you. "I do not need cowboy doctor on my ass."

You turned toward her immediately. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Play innocent all you want," she dismissed while standing up, brushing the non existing dust of her pants. "And please don't call me for the rest of the night."

"Not my decision," you called after her as she disappeared up the stairs.

Laughing quietly to yourself, you finally pushed yourself to your feet and stretched your stiff limbs.

Huge mistake.

Pain exploded from your hip all the way down to your knee while your elbow throbbed sharply in protest. You should've expected this. Since the second you'd been hit by that car, you hadn't stopped moving long enough for your body to fully register the damage.

Now, after ten minutes of sitting still, it absolutely had.

Walking back to the ER without limping turned out to be significantly harder than expected, but somehow you managed it. You smiled tightly at nurses, greeted techs, gave instructions to interns, the usual—all while pretending nothing hurt.

By the time you reached the sink to wash your coffee mug, you were quietly breathing through the pain. At this point, the shift simply couldn't end fast enough.

All you wanted was for Dana to arrive on time—which she always did, though you had told her she could come in late… You were fucked.

"Why are you limping?" The deep voice behind you made you flinch so hard you nearly dropped the mug.

"Jesus Christ," you let out, your heart racing.

Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with Jack Abbott, standing there with his hands clasped behind his back like always.

"I'm not limping," you dismissed immediately. "Maybe you need glasses, old man."

Not wanting to deal with his scrutinising stare, you turned back toward the sink and focused intensely on cleaning the mug.

"So that's definitely not blood on your elbow," Jack replied dryly, his tone carrying that specific kind of sarcasm that really meant don't bullshit me.

Twisting your arm enough to see your elbow, your stomach dropped. A smear of blood stained the sleeve of your white shirt. You must've bumped it against a wall without noticing. And of course you'd chosen the one white shirt you owned.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, too quietly for him to hear. Then louder: "Old stain. Hard to get out, you know how it is."

With your back still turned to him, you prayed he'd just accept the lie and leave.

But miracles clearly had limits, and you'd apparently already used yours for the night. No one interrupted. No emergencies pulled him away. So he stayed.

He didn't move closer, but you heard the irritated click of his tongue behind you.

You deliberately took far longer than necessary washing the mug, dreading the moment you'd have to turn around and face him properly. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to find out you'd been hit by a fucking car.

That would mean another medical leave. And beyond the fact that you absolutely couldn't afford more time off, you genuinely didn't want it.

"So we're lying now?" Jack asked as you finally turned toward him.

There was something unreadable in his voice, not exactly anger, not exactly amusement either. His arms were crossed over his chest now, head tilted slightly as though challenging you. Instinctively, you mirrored him, crossing your own arms while raising an eyebrow in return.

You were not about to snitch on yourself. And judging by his expression, he clearly wasn't planning on dropping it.

"I guess it's your problem if you don't believe me," you replied with a smile so forced it practically hurt.

Before Jack could answer, Sophie stepped into the room—only to freeze immediately under the weight of both your stares. Her eyes widened slightly with concern.

"I'm just getting water," she explained cautiously, like she'd accidentally interrupted something terrible.

"Of course," you replied instantly, your tone softening. "Take ten if you need."

Then you looked back at Jack. The smile you gave him this time was entirely different—tight, restrained, and far less friendly—before brushing past him and leaving the room.

As you walked away, you heard Jack reassuring Sophie that she'd done nothing wrong and that she should take whatever break she needed.

The rest of the shift passed surprisingly smoothly, even if the pain stubbornly refused to fade. It was honestly impressive how well you managed to hide it from everyone.

Everyone except Jack.

He never brought it up again, but for the remainder of the night, you could feel his eyes on you every single time you winced—even slightly. Every time your limp slipped through before you could correct it, you caught him watching with furrowed brows.

Now, finally sitting down near the end of shift, you chatted quietly with Robby while the rest of the night crew signed off one by one.

The only person still missing was Dana. Because you had stupidly told her to come in late.

At least you'd warned Robby ahead of time so he wouldn't panic about being left without a charge nurse. You kept working through the final charts and updates, determined not to leave Dana with a disaster just because you were exhausted and hurting.

You'd pushed through for hours already. There was no point falling apart now when the end was finally in sight.

The moment you saw Dana walking through the ER doors, relief washed over you so strongly you almost sighed out loud.

The older woman chewed lazily on her gum, glasses already perched low on her nose while her stethoscope hung around her neck. Even the way she walked radiated competence. The second she reached you, you wrapped your arms around her and let out a tired groan into her shoulder.

For the next ten minutes, the two of you made rounds together while you updated her on the night—who'd been admitted, who'd gone upstairs, who'd died, which beds were opening up. The usual end-of-shift rundown.

Once you finished, she gently nudged you toward the corner where you'd dumped your belongings hours ago.

"Off you go, kid," she said simply before turning back toward the department.

And honestly? Sleep had never sounded so good.

Even if getting home meant enduring a painful fifteen minute walk, you figured you could survive it. You'd spent the entire night running around nonstop—what was another few minutes on your feet?

As you headed toward the exit, already dreading having to come back later that night, you pulled out your phone to check your texts and emails.

A sharp whistle suddenly pulled your attention away from the screen. Confused, you looked up. Standing in the ambulance bay—like he'd apparently been waiting there for a while—was Jack Abbott.

Which made absolutely no sense.

He'd left on time for once, along with most of the night staff, so why the hell was he still here? Even stranger, his car was parked right beside the ambulance entrance—something nobody was allowed to do, not even for five minutes.

"Forget something?" you asked innocently, nodding toward the illegally parked car.

"You," he answered immediately.

You scoffed automatically, but the sound died quickly when you realized he wasn't joking.

"What?" you deadpanned when he made no move to smile.

"I'm taking you home," he said calmly. "And you're going to tell me what happened to you."

It wasn't phrased like a question. Not quite an order either, but there was absolutely no room for argument.

"Jack—" you started, fully prepared to fight him on it anyway.

"Nope. In the car."

Then he casually walked around and opened the passenger side door for you.

When you still didn't move, he simply tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. There really was no escaping this. With a deep sigh, you shook your head and walked toward the open door.

The second you sat down, Jack gave a satisfied little nod, like he was pleased you'd listened, before closing the door for you.

A minute later, after he climbed into the driver's seat, you noticed your address already programmed into his GPS.

"How did you…" You trailed off, pointing weakly at the screen.

"From the Uber last time," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right…" you murmured, smiling despite yourself.

Being trapped in such a small space with him felt oddly intimate. The car smelt like him, a smell that was oddly comforting, messing with you. And unfortunately, your exhausted brain didn't help much more, immediately fixated on his hands resting on the gear shift as he put the car into drive.

You were far too tired to stop yourself from staring for a second longer than necessary. Then a thought suddenly crossed your mind.

"Can you even drive with your leg?" you asked as the car rolled forward. "Well, I mean, obviously you can…"

That made him laugh, a real laugh. Warm and genuine enough that you immediately turned your head toward him. And honestly, if you could've seen yourself right then, you were pretty sure you would've looked completely smitten.

"Was that rude?" you asked, giggling softly when you noticed how bright his smile had become.

"Not coming from you," Jack replied gently, sending you another small smile before looking back at the road.

That alone was enough to make you grin like a teenager.

Your cheeks and neck warmed instantly, heart beating embarrassingly faster just from the softness in his voice.

Resting your elbow against the door, you propped your head against your hand and stared out the window while gently rubbing your forehead. Your elbow protested immediately, but at this point everything hurt anyway.

Your hip had been throbbing for hours, a migraine lingered behind your eyes, and all you wanted in the world was a shower and your bed.

"God, I'm so tired," you whispered, knowing perfectly well he'd hear you.

"Want to tell me what happened now?" Jack asked, still using that same quiet voice.

Rolling your eyes toward the window, you let out a long breath.

Of course he wasn't going to let it go, you should've expected this. Honestly, it had been predictable from the moment he'd noticed you limping. Still, you'd hoped exhaustion might make him back off for once.

"Seriously?" you groaned, finally turning your head toward him with narrowed eyes.

"Surprise," he shot back with a smirk, knowing deep well none of you were actually.

Closing your eyes briefly, you felt exhaustion and pain mixing together until lying almost felt too difficult to bother with anymore. And really… what was the point?

He wasn't going to stop asking.

Turning back toward the window, you watched the sunrise spill soft orange light across the quiet city streets.

"Got hit by a car," you said suddenly.

Silence filled the car immediately afterwards, which definitely wasn't a good sign. But it was peaceful while it lasted.

"Come again?" Jack asked slowly, sounding like he genuinely thought he'd misheard you.

"I got hit by a car crossing the street. My fault entirely," you clarified casually, like it wasn't a huge deal. Because honestly? It wasn't.

You were alive. Nothing was broken. Nothing life-threatening had happened.

At worst, you'd end up with an ugly bruise on your hip, a scraped elbow, and aches for a few days—it could've been so much worse.

"I landed on my elbow, which explains the blood," you continued before he could interrupt. "And my hip took most of the impact, which is why I'm limping." You shrugged weakly. "I'm alive and mostly intact, Jack. Nothing to worry about."

"You should've said something," he growled, shaking his head.

"So you could've sent me home?" you shot back immediately. "I handled the shift just fine."

"You handled it," he agreed tightly, nodding while his jaw was tightly set. "But now you're limping, and I'm willing to bet your hip's killing you."

He sent you a dark look before focusing back on the road. Before you could argue further, the car pulled up in front of your building.

You weren't about to pretend you weren't grateful not to walk the rest of the way home. Turning toward him, you opened your mouth to thank him and wish him goodnight, ready to forget it all about the previous conversation.

Only to frown when his car door slammed shut. Seconds later, he was already on your side of the car, opening your door for you.

"You don't have to—" you started while pulling your seatbelt off.

"Don't," Jack warned simply as he leaned inside to grab your bags.

It was ridiculously sweet. And it also made you feel slightly guilty because you knew his own leg had to be hurting after such a long shift too, but he didn't show even a hint of discomfort.

He just straightened back up with your bags in one hand while holding the car door open with the other, waiting patiently for you to get out.

Getting out, you knew there was no point arguing with Jack, so you simply started walking toward the building's main door. Turning back toward him, you walked straight over and reached into your bag without even asking for it back, you already knew he wouldn't give it to you.

Once your keys were in hand, you unlocked the door and headed straight for the elevator. When Jack stepped into the small space beside you, you realised he was actually walking you all the way to your front door.

It felt strange being trapped in such a narrow space with him, but he seemed completely determined to make sure you got safely inside your flat, as if something terrible might happen between his car and your front door. You supposed you never really knew, but it still felt highly unlikely.

The ride up to your floor was quiet and slightly awkward, despite how quick it was.

Standing in front of your door, you unlocked it and suddenly felt far too awkward to simply say goodbye there. So you stepped inside, leaving the door open behind you as a silent invitation.

"Want some water?" you asked, breaking the silence as you made your way toward the kitchen. "You can leave that by the door," you added, pointing to the bags still hanging from his hands.

"I'll take some water, yeah. Thanks," he replied softly.

When you returned to the living room with two glasses of water, Jack was standing in the middle of the room, relaxed as though he belonged there. He was looking around at every little detail—every book, every picture, every vinyl record—studying it all with quiet attention.

Watching him in your space made the butterflies in your stomach go wild. Your mind instantly started imagining him there all the time, as if his belongings naturally belonged beside yours, some jazz vinyl mixed in with your indie pop collection, his medical books stacked beside your fantasy novels. It would fit so perfectly.

Shaking the thought away and forcing a soft smile, you stepped closer and handed him his glass.

"Thanks," he murmured, his gaze drifting slowly from your head to your toes without the slightest hint of shame.

The two of you remained standing in the middle of the living room, slowly sipping your drinks. Locked in each other's eyes, the tension quickly became unbearable, yet neither of you looked away. Jack held your gaze openly, his expression soft and calm. Gone was the tired, sarcastic man you usually worked with. This version of him felt entirely different, but oddly comforting.

After a few seconds, he stepped closer—with a slight limp of his own—and set his glass down on the nearby table. Gently, he took your own empty glass and placed it beside his.

"I know the best treatment for your hip," Jack said, his voice low and deep. His eyes gleamed with something you couldn't quite name.

"Yeah?" you asked, your voice embarrassingly shaky. Ridiculous, you were a grown woman.

"Relaxation," he whispered, lust filling his eyes. That had been what you couldn't name before.

As soon as the word left his mouth, his hands rose to your cheeks—warm, soft, safe—before he leaned in. His lips hovered just above yours, not quite kissing you, but making no effort to hide how badly he wanted to.

The second you felt his warmth so close, your eyes fluttered shut in anticipation and, without even realising it, you rose slightly onto your tiptoes to meet him halfway. A few long seconds passed before you finally felt Jack's lips against yours.

They were soft and unhurried, as though he was trying to ease you into it while slowly pulling himself closer. His warmth completely surrounded you now, his chest pressed lightly against yours. You weren't even sure when he'd moved that close, only that it felt incredibly good.

He was everything you had imagined—steady, solid, grounding—while your own hands shook where they rested against his chest. His hands had slipped from your cheeks to your hips as carefully as possible, mindful not to hurt you while gently tugging you closer.

"Let's go sit down, yeah?" He murmured against your lips.

You hadn't even realised you'd started shaking. Your legs felt weak, your thoughts racing so fast you could barely keep up with them. No one had ever made you feel like this before—not once in your life had someone unsettled you so completely.

"Mmh," you hummed against his lips before leaning up to kiss him again.

Both of you laughed softly into the kiss as Jack began stepping backward. When the backs of his knees bumped against the couch, he paused for a second before sitting down. You moved to sit beside him, but his hand stopped you.

Spreading his legs slightly, he guided you to stand between them instead. His face hovered near your stomach, immediately making you self-conscious. But the moment his lips pressed soft kisses there through your shirt, the butterflies in your stomach only grew wilder. Your breathing turned uneven as you stared down at him.

His eyes lifted to yours while his lips continued trailing slow kisses over your stomach.

"Can I?" he asked quietly, his voice rough with restrained need.

It was unfamiliar—feeling this wanted by someone who wasn't rushing straight toward sex. There was something comforting about the patience in him, about the way he seemed to want more than just your body. His fingers rested lightly against the hem of your shirt, playing absently with it, waiting for permission.

When you nodded—a little too quickly, you'd admit—mischief flickered in Jack's eyes as he raised a single brow in silent warning. The effortless dominance he carried so naturally made your head spin.

"Yes," you managed to say, breathless, earning another quick kiss in return.

Agonisingly slowly, Jack pushed your shirt upward, his lips following the rising fabric. Once it was high enough, you tugged it off yourself, suddenly standing half-naked in front of the man you'd been hopelessly crushing on for months.

You still hadn't dared look directly at him, but the second you heard him click his tongue in disapproval, your stomach dropped. Had he imagined your body differently? Was he disgusted by what he saw? Was the soft weight on your body suddenly repulsive once shown without clothes?

"No fucking wonder you're limping," he muttered, sounding almost irritated.

Looking down quickly, you were met with a patch of darkened skin peeking out from beneath your pants. The bruising already looked terrible, staining your skin in a way that made it obvious to anyone that it hurt like hell.

"Oh," you breathed out shakily, finally releasing the breath you'd been holding.

He wasn't disgusted by you at all, he'd simply slipped into doctor mode. You weren't even sure he'd realised it, but one of his thumbs was slowly caressing the bruise while his eyes remained fixed on yours.

"Did you at least get their name?" he sighed, shaking his head.

"It wasn't his fault," you explained quietly.

"He should still pay for the medical treatment. You were a pedestrian, it was his fault anyway," Jack continued scolding gently, resting his chin against your soft stomach while keeping his eyes on you.

Scoffing, you shook your head. "What medical treatment?"

"Still," the older man muttered stubbornly before glancing back down at the bruise.

As carefully as he could, he tugged your pants down a little farther, revealing more of the dark purple mark. It wasn't pretty, but at least it was only a bruise and not a broken hip. That would've been a nightmare.

"Does it hurt?" His voice softened again, slipping back into the soothing tone he always seemed to use around you.

"Not right now," you whispered, far too distracted by the feeling of his lips brushing against your skin again.

He kissed around the bruise as though he could somehow heal it with tenderness alone. Every soft press of his mouth made your heart skip wildly in your chest—a feeling that was becoming dangerously familiar whenever he was near. At first, it had annoyed you but now, standing half-undressed in your living room, it felt exhilarating.

He chuckled softly at your answer before pressing another kiss to your skin.

Then, before doing anything else, he leaned back against the couch. His warmth barely left your body, yet you missed it instantly. Once he'd settled farther away, his hands moved to the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion.

The sight nearly stole your breath.

This man—older than you by more than a decade—had a better body than most men your own age you'd ever been with. His chest was broad and toned, scattered with freckles that made you ache to trace every single one with your fingertips. His stomach was firm too, though softened slightly by a thin layer of fat that somehow only made him more attractive, more real. It made you want to bite into it.

And his arms, God. They'd already been distracting enough at work, but seeing them like this, bathed in the warm sunlight filtering through your curtains, was almost unfair.

"Wanna sit down now?" he teased, his thumb still stroking over your hip. "Because this must be killing you."

Nodding, you finally dragged your gaze away from his chest and smiled sheepishly when you met his eyes. You felt no embarrassment about being caught staring, and judging by the smugness on his face, he was thoroughly enjoying the attention. Then again, he had no shame either—his own eyes had drifted toward your breasts more than once already.

"How about we take these off first?" he murmured teasingly, lightly snapping the waistband of your pants against your good hip.

"Sure," you replied, feeling strangely at ease around him now. "Just warning you… I'm not wearing my best underwear today."

"Oh no," Jack said dramatically, shaking his head in fake disappointment.

His hands betrayed him completely, though, as he carefully slid your pants down your legs, making sure not to brush too hard against the bruising. Once they passed your thighs, the fabric dropped to the floor on its own.

Leaning back against the couch, Jack rested his hands low on your hips while he looked at you with quiet hunger. His gaze wandered slowly over every inch of you, from your face down to your knees, taking everything in with patient, gentle attention.

And weirdly—for probably the first time in your life—you didn't really feel self-conscious. You'd made peace with your body years ago, but old insecurities from your teens and early twenties still lingered in quiet corners of your mind.

Yet there was no judgment in his eyes. No disgust. His gaze moved over your stretch marks, your soft stomach, your love handles, the natural curve of your breasts, and the faint hair peeking out around your panties without hesitation or discomfort.

If anything, he looked captivated.

Smiling softly, he leaned forward to press another kiss against your stomach before settling back comfortably against the couch again. Once he was fully relaxed, he patted his thighs lightly, eyes never leaving you.

You hesitated awkwardly, standing there half-naked in the middle of your living room. Even if he clearly liked your body, a small part of you still worried you might be too heavy for him. Buying yourself time, you bent down to pull your socks off.

"Come on," he coaxed with an amused smirk. "You're not gonna break me."

Your eyes widened in surprise. You hadn't realised your thoughts were that obvious—you'd always been good at hiding your insecurities and fears. Perhaps, it had been that your partner didn't really pay attention.

"You think too loudly, sweetheart," Jack said, his teasing smile softening. "And you're way too pretty to waste time worrying about stupid things."

As if to reassure you even more, he patted his thighs again before his hands slid back to your hips, guiding you closer inch by inch.

His gentleness and words made you smile despite yourself, your eyes dropping shyly toward the floor. Once you reached the couch, you slowly lowered yourself into his lap, your legs settling on either side of his hips. He was so broad that the stretch tugged slightly at your sore hip, painful but strangely pleasant too.

Your hands rested uncertainly on his shoulders, still hesitant to put your full weight on him even though your hip was throbbing. Jack solved the issue himself by gripping your waist and pulling you down firmly onto him.

The second your full weight settled in his lap, a sound escaped him—a rough mixture between a groan and a moan that instantly sent heat rushing through your body. As a reflex, your thighs pressed together, or tried to. Instead, the movement rocked you lightly against him, your body brushing over the hardening shape still trapped beneath his cargo pants.

The reaction it pulled from both of you was immediate—a long shared breath, shaky and warm.

The moment your eyes met, laughter burst out of you unexpectedly. Jack laughed too, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. Meanwhile, his hands slid slowly up your back. Without thinking, you melted into him, your arms slipping around his neck automatically.

The hug felt dangerously close to home.

He was so warm, so solid, comforting in a way you couldn't even explain. Like curling beneath a blanket on the coldest winter night. Safe. Easy. Real.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, your thoughts betrayed you again, instantly imagining what it would feel like to fall asleep wrapped in this warmth every night. To wake up curled into his burly arms, head lying on his chest.

"You're so warm," you whispered against his neck before pressing a soft kiss there.

Jack laughed quietly under his breath and pulled you even closer in response. He kissed the top of your head again, slow and absentminded, the kind of affectionate gesture that felt almost painfully domestic.

The hug, the forehead kisses, the quiet closeness—it made your heart race uncontrollably. And with your ear pressed against his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding faster than normal too.

His hands slid from your back to settle on your ass. They didn't grope or squeeze greedily, they simply rested there, warm and steady. Grounding. And at the same time, impossible to ignore when his now hard cock was pressed right between your thighs.

Lifting your head from his neck, you kissed him again. This time the kisses turned deeper, messier, more desperate. Teeth brushed lips, tongues tangled slowly and warmth spread through your entire body until you felt dizzy with it.

When it became too much, you instinctively rolled your hips, searching for friction.

And friction was exactly what you found.

His dick, hard beneath the fabric of his pants and your panties, rubbed perfectly against your clothed clit. It had been so long since you'd felt someone against you like this that greed started creeping in before you could stop it.

Pressing your hips down harder against his, satisfaction bloomed in your chest when a rough groan escaped him. His hands remained on your ass now, kneading softly while guiding your movements, encouraging every slow grind against him.

The feeling of skin, heat and pressure was intoxicating. Too much and somehow not enough at the same time. The rough fabric of his pants against the backs of your thighs suddenly became unbearable though, you needed it gone.

Without really thinking, your hands slid from his shoulders down toward his waistband. Rising just enough, you started tugging at them.

Rising slightly, the loss of friction made you whine immediately, even though it had been your own doing. But before you could get very far, Jack's hands gently stopped yours.

You froze at once. Your fingers hovered shakily above the waistband of his pants, your stomach dropping.

"I'm sorry," you whispered quickly against his lips. "Sorry."

Your pulse thundered painfully now, not from desire but embarrassment. Maybe you'd pushed too far. Maybe kissing had been fine, touching had been fine, but this—

"Shhh." His voice was soft and immediate, reassuring. "Relax, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong."

But you still couldn't look at him. Your gaze darted everywhere except his face until one of his hands gently cupped your jaw, carefully guiding you back toward him. His eyes looked exactly the same as before: warm, patient, hungry in the gentlest way imaginable. No discomfort. No anger.

"You know about my leg, right?" Jack asked quietly. After a hesitant nod from you, he nodded too. "But you've never seen it," he continued softly. "I just don't want you to be surprised, okay?"

For a second, you simply stared at him. Then laughter burst out of you unexpectedly. Real laughter, the kind that shook your entire body.

Was he seriously worried you'd be disgusted by his prosthetic? By an amputated limb?

Jack leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, head tilted while he watched you laugh yourself to tears. A small smile tugged at his lips, like he understood you'd needed the release after panicking.

Once your laughter finally settled, tears prickling lightly at the corners of your eyes, you looked back at him. Relaxed against your couch, shirtless and warm in the dim morning light, he looked strangely comfortable there.

"You know I'm a nurse, right?" you asked in disbelief.

He answered with one slow, firm nod. Eyes blinking softly in a cat like way.

But then doubt crept in anyway, irrational and sharp. It made no sense for him to think you'd care about his injury, which meant maybe he was only saying it because he wanted to stop. And if he wanted to stop, that was okay—but the thought that he might be searching for an excuse instead of simply telling you hurt more than it should have.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you shifted back slightly until you were sitting more on his thighs than directly against his crotch. His thumb still stroked gently along your jaw while he studied your expression carefully.

"We can stop if you want," you said softly, though the voice barely sounded like yours. "We don't have to…"

The words trailed off awkwardly. Your toes curled restlessly against his skin while you fought the urge to fidget with your fingers.

"What if I don't want to stop?" His voice dropped lower again.

You stayed quiet, only staring at him while he searched your face.

"Do you want to stop?" Jack asked.

His gaze pinned you in place, making it impossible to look away this time.

Blinking quickly, you shook your head. "No."

"Then come back here," he murmured, teasing warmth returning to his tone so suddenly it sent heat rushing between your legs again. His tone wasn't commanding, but it had that natural dominance that didn't really let you do anything but what he said.

At some point his hands had slipped back onto your ass, stroking lightly until you shifted closer once more, settling back properly against his lap. Relief flooded through you when you felt him still hard beneath you, still wanting you just as much as before.

A soft moan escaped you as you rolled against him again.

"Good girl," Jack said deeply, voice raw.

The words hit you like a lightning strike.

Your entire body reacted instantly—thighs tightening around him, your breath catching embarrassingly hard while a pathetic little moan slipped free before you could stop it. Mortified, you buried your face against his shoulder while instinctively rocking your hips again.

"Didn't you want this problem solved?" Jack teased lightly.

Between your legs, you felt his hands playing with the waistband of his cargo pants. Deliberately, the back of his hand brushed against your clothed clit, adding just enough pressure to make you whine again.

A soft laugh rumbled through his chest beneath you.

Then your next roll of your hips dragged another rough groan out of him, lower this time, almost strangled. The sound sent a thrill straight through you.

"Who's laughing now?" you asked breathlessly, unable to stop yourself from grinning.

The light smack he gave your ass was the only answer you got before his palm rubbed soothingly over the spot afterwards.

A moment later, he tapped lightly against your thigh in silent request. When you lifted yourself just enough, Jack awkwardly tugged his pants off the rest of the way beneath you.

While he worked them free, you occupied yourself by kissing along his neck and shoulder slowly, patiently. You didn't want him to feel rushed or self-conscious. Nothing about this had felt hurried from the start, and you weren't about to change that now.

Once the discarded pants landed somewhere across the living room, his hands guided you back down onto him carefully so you wouldn't strain your sore muscles for too long. Your hip was definitely starting to ache again.

Settling comfortably against him once more, you kissed him deeply while your hips resumed a slower, steadier rhythm.

The soft fabric of his boxers felt infinitely better against you than the roughness of his cargo had. Even more intoxicating was the warmth of his bare skin against the backs of your thighs.

Combined with his wandering hands and his mouth against yours, it all became overwhelming in the best possible way. You weren't inexperienced, but somehow this felt entirely new—raw and exciting enough to make you feel like you were discovering sex for the first time all over again.

Between your legs, heat and dampness had already soaked through your panties, probably staining his boxers too. Normally that thought would've embarrassed you. Right now, though, you barely cared.

Maybe Jack sensed it too, because his hand suddenly slipped between your bodies, easing beneath the cotton of your underwear.

His fingers moved slowly through the soft hair there without hesitation, without comment, simply exploring you gently. The lack of judgment alone made something in your chest loosen. No criticism, no awkward remarks.

For several long seconds he only teased you lightly, fingers wandering until a shaky moan of his name finally escaped your lips.

You felt his smirk against your mouth immediately afterwards.

Then his fingers slid lower.

The second they found your clit, your entire body jolted. You'd been half convinced he'd drag it out and tease you endlessly, but instead he touched you with immediate purpose—slow, tight circles that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Your kisses quickly fell apart after that, little gasps and broken sounds replacing them as you struggled to focus on anything except the feeling of his fingers working between your thighs.

Soon enough, the kisses became one-sided in the best way possible. Jack simply nipped and licked lazily at your lips, a smug smile tugging at his mouth while you struggled to breathe through the pleasure rolling through you.

From watching him at work, you'd hoped his hands would be skilled—steady, strong, careful. You'd been completely right.

A man his age, as experienced as you'd imagined him to be, clearly knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't fumble around searching for your clit or rush too quickly to the point of slight pain. Everything he did felt deliberate and perfectly paced, like he already knew your body despite never touching you before.

It was insane how naturally you fit together.

Sure, you'd known each other for over a year. You'd flirted shamelessly for most of it. But you never could've imagined actually being with him would feel this good. This easy. Like two puzzle pieces assembling.

"Feels really good," you breathed out between shaky moans against his lips.

"Yeah?" he teased softly before kissing you again.

"Mhm." You nodded rapidly, biting your lip as another wave of pleasure rolled through you.

"Good." That simple word, paired with the soft kiss he pressed to your forehead afterwards, made warmth spread through your chest just as much as between your thighs.

His fingers never left your clit, never broke their steady rhythm. Eventually it became impossible to focus on anything except feeling, Jack didn't seem to mind in the slightest. He wasn't asking for anything back from you, wasn't trying to make you perform for him.

Instead, his mouth wandered lower.

You couldn't exactly blame him when you'd been arching into him shamelessly, practically pressing your chest into his face every time pleasure jolted through you. Gently, his lips moved across the swell of your breasts while his teeth tugged teasingly at the fabric of your bra, letting it snap softly back against your skin.

He did it again. And again.

Finally, blinking through the haze, you looked down at him.

His eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them before—heavy with hunger. You'd seen him irritated, exhausted, sarcastic, even angry at work. But this version of him? This was entirely new.

And it was all because of you.

"Wanna take this off for me?" Jack asked, his voice calm and grounding despite the way his fingers kept working between your legs. "How does that sound?"

"Good," you moaned immediately when his touch pressed a little harder against your clit.

With trembling hands, you unclasped your bra and let it slide off. Cool air brushed over your bare skin instantly, your nipples already hard from both the temperature and the overwhelming pleasure building inside you.

The second your chest was fully exposed, Jack let out a slow breath.

"You're absolutely breathtaking," he murmured.

And then he kissed you there.

You barely even processed the compliment because the moment his mouth closed around one nipple, your thoughts scattered completely. His free hand cupped your other breast, rough thumb stroking over the sensitive peak without mercy before rolling it between it and his index finger.

It was too much. Completely overwhelming.

His mouth, his hands, his fingers between your legs—it felt like he was everywhere all at once. Yet the idea of him stopping felt unbearable too. Something tight and hot was building low in your stomach now, pressure winding tighter and tighter with every movement of his hand.

"Jack—" You moaned loudly.

The warning barely left your mouth before his teeth grazed your nipple a little harder. At the same time, his fingers sped up slightly against your clit.

That was all it took.

Pleasure crashed through you so suddenly your back arched hard against him, thighs clamping around his while your nails dug helplessly into his shoulders. The sounds leaving your throat were embarrassingly broken—high, shaky whines mixed with uneven breaths as you struggled to recover from how hard the orgasm hit you.

Recovering only became more difficult when Jack spoke again.

"Good girl," he murmured against the skin above your pounding heartbeat. "You just needed to relax."

The bastard absolutely knew what he was doing.

Especially when he could clearly feel the way your pussy clenched again at his praise while his fingers still rested between your thighs. Dropping your forehead against his shoulder, you let out a breathless laugh before lightly biting at his skin.

"You fucker."

Chuckling softly, Jack slowly slipped his fingers back out from your underwear before settling both hands comfortably on your ass again, as though they naturally belonged there. His other hand drifted soothingly along your back while he rested his head lightly against yours.

"Don't be mean now, sweetheart," he teased before giving your ass a playful slap. "You know you love it."

You opened your mouth to deny it automatically, purely out of spite, but his lips brushed against your ear before you could get the words out.

"I can still feel you clenching to it," he whispered, voice so low it sent a full-body shiver through you. As if your body wanted to prove him right, you felt your pussy involuntary clench afterwards.

"Just like that," he praised softly, along with a little laugh.

Groaning, you bit his shoulder again while trying desperately to steady your breathing.

For several quiet minutes, neither of you moved much. You simply stayed tangled together on the couch, half-dressed and warm, breathing each other in. It was soothing enough to make you sleepy.

And maybe that should've scared you—the intimacy of it, the domestic softness settling so naturally between you—but it didn't. If anything, it made you want to stay there longer.

Jack seemed perfectly content to follow your lead. Even with that effortless dominance wrapped around everything he did, he never pushed or demanded. He simply let you decide where things went next.

Still, despite the warmth and comfort, you wanted more.

Which meant eventually you had to get up.

Carefully pushing yourself to your feet, your shaky legs protested immediately as you stretched your arms over your head. Once again, you found yourself standing between his spread thighs while his gaze wandered openly over your nearly naked body.

Jack let out a low whistle of appreciation that made you roll your eyes instantly.

"Shut up," you muttered, fighting back a smile as you turned toward your bedroom. "I'll be right back."

When you returned a minute later, your heart skipped unexpectedly at the sight waiting for you.

He was still exactly where you'd left him, relaxed against the couch cushions with his legs spread comfortably. Like he belonged there, the thought crossed your mind again.

And he didn't seem remotely uncomfortable about his prosthetic being visible now that his pants were gone. The human body really was incredible in the way it adapted.

As you approached, Jack said nothing at first. He simply patted his thigh again in invitation.

Smiling softly, you settled back into his lap without hesitation this time, all your earlier self-consciousness gone. Once comfortably seated, you held up what you'd brought back with you.

A condom.

His smile widened immediately, surprise and clear approval flashing across his face.

"You're not tired?" he asked quietly.

You doubted he even noticed how instinctively his hands had already settled back onto your hips the second you sat down. It seemed neither of you could stop touching the other for very long.

"I have trouble sleeping," you teased lightly, tilting your head. "What about you, old man? Getting tired already?"

Clicking his tongue, Jack tried and failed to hide his grin. Accepting the challenge, he took the condom from your hand before pulling you firmly back against the hard length between his thighs.

"You'll get tired before I do," he warned, voice low against your lips.

And the way he kissed you afterwards made it sound dangerously close to a promise.

It was a rushed kiss, overflowing with longing and want. His tongue slipped immediately into your mouth, tangling with yours while your teeth brushed together clumsily in your desperation. His hands kept pulling you closer and closer until there was no space left between you at all.

Chest to chest, you could feel everything—his heartbeat hammering beneath your palms, the rise and fall of his breathing, the twitch of dick between your thighs whenever you rolled your hips.

It only took seconds before the grinding started again, though "dry" hardly fit anymore. Not when both of you were already flushed and overheated from everything that had happened. Anf from how soaked you felt between your legs.

One of Jack's hands tapped lightly against your ass before slipping lower, tugging your panties down as far as he could manage.

"Okay, okay," you mumbled between kisses, with a breathless laugh as you lifted yourself enough to help.

You hurriedly kicked the fabric off while Jack tugged his own underwear down as well. The second you noticed how neatly trimmed he was, self-consciousness crept back in unexpectedly.

"You don't… uh…" Your eyes dropped nervously between your legs. "You don't mind, right?"

Jack looked almost offended by the question.

"What do you take me for?" he asked seriously, immediately shutting the doubt down before it could grow. "Come here, sweetheart. Stop being silly."

The warmth in his voice made you smile despite yourself.

Settling back over him, you hovered there for a moment with your hands braced against his shoulders while he rolled the condom on carefully. You couldn't stop staring at his hands, at the way his fingers moved along himself with practiced ease. Anticipation curled low in your stomach instantly.

He wasn't the biggest man you'd ever been with, but somehow you already knew he'd fit you perfectly. No painful stretching. No discomfort. Just right.

"Ready?" he teased, stroking himself once more while his eyes gleamed mischievously up at you.

Nodding quickly, you shifted closer with a shaky breath. Your heart was pounding so hard it almost felt ridiculous. You couldn't remember the last time sleeping with someone had made you nervous like this.

Then again, you'd also never spent months hopelessly crushing on someone before finally ending up in their lap.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him.

The first stretch pulled a soft gasp from both of you. Just like you'd expected, he fit perfectly, full enough to make you shiver, but immediately comfortable—warm and right. Jack's fingers tightened instinctively against your hips, hard enough to make a small sound of pain slip from your mouth before he immediately let go.

"Fuck, sorry, sweetheart," he breathed, his hands dropping quickly to his own thighs.

"It's okay," you reassured him softly.

Missing his touch almost instantly, you grabbed his wrists and guided his hands upward onto your chest instead. Somewhere safer. Somewhere he wouldn't be afraid to hold you tightly.

On instinct, his palms squeezed gently while his thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing another shaky breath from you.

Once fully seated in his lap, neither of you moved right away. You simply sat there breathing together, staring at each other as the reality of the moment settled over both of you.

Then, almost at the same time, you both laughed quietly. The nervous tension melted immediately after that, and something about knowing he was just as affected as you were made your chest ache warmly.

Unable to resist, you leaned down to kiss him again.

The kiss deepened quickly, soft turning hungry within seconds, and your hips began moving instinctively against his. At first you only rocked slowly, getting used to the feeling of him inside you.

But soon you pushed yourself up carefully on your knees, lowering yourself back down in a slow rhythm. Every movement dragged him along your walls in a way that made little moans spill helplessly from your mouth into his.

Jack wasn't much quieter.

Soft groans vibrated against your lips while his grip flexed against your body, and every now and then he hit a spot inside you that made your thighs tighten around him uncontrollably.

Still, after a few minutes, exhaustion was already catching up to you. Between your long shift, your bruised hip, and the emotional rollercoaster of the night, your body was starting to give out.

You tried to hide it by kissing him deeper, slowing your movements into lazy rolls of your hips instead of proper thrusts. But of course Jack noticed immediately.

"I told you you'd get tired first," he teased softly against your mouth.

Before you could protest, his hands slowed your hips until you were sitting still against him again. When you tried moving once more, his grip tightened gently around your waist, holding you in place.

"Jack," you whined quietly, attempting to squirm free.

"Tsk." He clicked his tongue before deliberately shifting his hips upward just enough to make you gasp. "You're exhausted and your hip hurts," he scolded calmly. "We're not pushing it."

With a defeated sigh, you finally stopped fighting him.

Searching his expression nervously, you expected to find disappointment somewhere in his face. Frustration maybe. Annoyance. Instead, all you found was softness, warmth and concern. Desire still lingering there too, but patient now instead of consuming.

The sudden tenderness made your eyes sting unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, looking away before he could see you tearing up.

"You don't have to be." Immediately, he pulled you gently against his chest again. "You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart."

The second he wrapped his arms around you, your body seemed to finally give up entirely. Tension melted straight out of your muscles as though all you'd needed was his warmth to feel safe enough to let go.

One of his hands rubbed soothingly up and down your back while the other reached for the blanket tossed over the couch earlier, draping it carefully around your shoulders.

Only then did you realise you'd been trembling for the past minute.

Shock, stress, adrenaline—your body had probably been running on fumes since the accident earlier that night. Then there'd been Jack coming to your apartment, all the emotional chaos of finally crossing this line with him… It had been a lot.

"We can keep going," you whispered weakly against his skin anyway.

You felt him shake his head against your hair. "Nope."

The simple firmness in his voice somehow made you relax even more. Your eyes still sting with unshed tears, but you were finally getting your breathing back to normal. A minute later, your stomach growled loudly enough to break the silence entirely, both of you burst into laughter instantly.

"I feel sore everywhere," you complained dramatically as you finally pushed yourself upright a little.

The mood had shifted already, softer now, calmer—but you still didn't want him to leave. Some irrational part of you worried that if he walked out this morning, this whole thing would disappear with him.

"Go take a shower," Jack said gently, kissing the top of your head. "I'll make us something to eat."

"You're staying?" The question came out far more vulnerable than you intended.

Jack scoffed softly, his eyes immediately locking onto yours. His hands settled back onto your ass automatically.

"You think that little of me?" he asked quietly. There was a smile on his lips, but this time it looked faintly hurt around the edges. "I care about you for a hell of a lot more than sex, okay?"

His thumbs stroked lightly against your skin.

"If you want me gone, I'll get dressed right now," he continued gently. "But I don't think that's what you want."

It took your brain a few seconds to fully process the sincerity in his voice.

"I want you to stay," you admitted softly, suddenly embarrassed you'd doubted him at all.

Jack answered by kissing you again. Not hungry this time. Not desperate. Just soft and reassuring enough to quiet every lingering fear in your chest.

"Go take your shower then," he murmured against your lips.

Once you were finally standing again, wrapped in the blanket and still trembling slightly, you watched Jack sit forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Do you need help?" you asked meekly, nodding subtly toward the space between his legs.

Laughing softly, he leaned closer until his forehead rested against your stomach. The edge of the blanket brushed against his skin while your fingers slipped gently into his hair. The gesture soothed both of you instantly. Soft. Familiar already.

"No, I'm fine," he replied before pressing a quick kiss to your stomach and nudging you toward the bathroom.

You disappeared down the hallway with one last glance back at him.

Once alone in the bathroom, waiting for the water to warm, you finally looked properly at the bruise blooming across your hip. It looked awful—dark spreading across your skin in uneven patches. Even brushing against it hurt. Walking had become nearly impossible without limping, and you already knew the next few days were going to suck.

After a quick shower, you returned to the living room wearing soft pyjama shorts and an oversized shirt. Your body felt heavy and relaxed now, though your hip still throbbed painfully.

The second you stepped into the kitchen, you stopped.

Jack stood by the stove, shirtless, cooking scrambled eggs like he belonged there.

You hadn't been prepared for the sheer domesticity of it. Somehow, seeing him casually cooking in your kitchen felt more intimate than everything that had happened on the couch. The fact that he was doing it shirtless only made it worse.

Now that you were dressed again and no longer overwhelmed by desire, it felt easier to slip back into yourself. Easier to joke. To breathe.

"I'm pretty sure cooking without a shirt isn't medically recommended, Doctor," you teased, leaning against the doorway.

"Don't worry," he replied without missing a beat, glancing back at you briefly before returning to the pan. "I've got the best nurse around to take care of me."

Then he winked.

You rolled your eyes instantly, fighting a smile while he turned the stove off. Dinner—breakfast or whatever this meal counted as, was ready.

As you reached into the cabinet for plates, a huge yawn escaped you. It was ridiculous how completely your body had relaxed after an orgasm, a hot shower and finally letting yourself feel safe. Earlier, you hadn't lied when you said you had a hard time falling asleep, but now it felt like you might pass out standing up.

The meal itself passed in easy conversation.

You talked about work, books stacked around your flat, music from your vinyl collection. Jack teased your taste in indie pop while pretending not to know half the artists already. The eggs were ridiculously good too, which annoyed you a little.

Once you'd finished eating, he immediately forced you back onto your seat while he cleaned up. You'd protested, arguing that if he cooked then you should do the dishes, but he'd refused the second he noticed your limp worsening.

So instead you sat there with your cheek resting against your hand, watching his broad back move beneath the warm sunlight while he washed dishes at your sink.

It was such an ordinary sight. And somehow that made it unforgettable.

"You know," you started quietly, eyes still fixed on him, "I have one of those plastic stools if you want to shower."

"Yeah?" You could hear the smile in his voice immediately.

Relieved he hadn't taken offence, you nodded awkwardly. You knew he wasn't secretive about his disability, but you still didn't want to accidentally say the wrong thing.

"It's not exactly a disability shower thing, but…" you trailed off carefully.

"I'd like that," he replied easily, turning toward you. "A stool's fine. Don't worry."

Once he reached you, he leaned down and tilted your chin upward gently. A small kiss brushed your lips. Then another. Finally, one soft kiss landed on the tip of your nose.

"You're waiting in bed, though," he murmured with a wink. "Doctor's orders."

After showing him where the stool was, locking the front door, and turning off the apartment lights, you finally made your way toward your bedroom.

The room glowed softly from the bedside lamp while the sound of running water drifted from the en-suite bathroom. You'd left him a towel and a spare toothbrush without even thinking about it. Neither of you had outright said he'd stay the night, it had simply happened naturally, like an unspoken agreement.

At some point, exhaustion dragged you under.

The sound of the bathroom door opening startled you awake. Disoriented, you blinked sleepily toward the doorway where Jack stood, shirtless and damp-haired beneath the soft light.

"Sorry," he whispered immediately.

"It's okay," you mumbled, pushing yourself up slightly. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."

Jack smiled softly before walking toward the bed. The limp in his step was more noticeable now, and guilt twisted in your chest immediately. You suddenly hated how little your apartment offered to make things easier for him.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, glancing toward the prosthetic.

"Been worse," he replied with a faint smirk before his expression softened. "It won't make you uncomfortable if I take it off?"

The vulnerability in his eyes startled you more than the question itself. You'd never seen Jack uncertain before. At work he was always composed, teasing, confident.

"Of course not," you answered immediately, giving him the gentlest smile you could manage.

Nodding once, he carefully removed the prosthetic and placed it beside the bed. You watched him massage along the scar absentmindedly for a moment before he finally slid beneath the blankets and leaned back against the headboard.

"I left the stool in the shower," he said after a beat, voice quieter than usual. "Hope that's okay."

"It's fine," you replied softly, reaching over to take his hand. "You can actually lie down, you know."

Laughing under his breath, he finally stretched out beside you. Slowly but visibly, his entire body relaxed more and more the longer he settled into the mattress.

"This bed is terrible," he announced after a few moments of silence.

Scoffing dramatically, you smacked his chest lightly. "Do you know how expensive mattresses are?"

Pulling his hand from yours, he wrapped his arm around your back and tugged you closer until your head rested against his chest.

"You'll come to mine next time," he murmured sleepily, eyes already half-closed.

"Next time?" you teased, tilting your head to look up at him.

Like this, relaxed and exhausted, he somehow looked younger. Softer. His freckles stood out beautifully across his face in the low light.

"Oh, definitely," Jack replied, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. "A bruise like that takes weeks to heal. Lots of relaxation."

"Oh, sure," you laughed, shaking your head. "The bruise. Right."

Still smiling, you leaned over to switch off the lamp before settling back against his chest. His breathing rocked you gently while your fingers traced lazy patterns up and down his stomach. Trying to comfort him the same way he'd comforted you all evening. And somehow, wrapped up in the warmth of the biggest crush you'd ever had, you fell asleep faster than you had in years.

All because of one stupid, unexpected accident. Honestly, you couldn't bring yourself to complain about it.

©fromsil.

i know this one came up terribly late, but im still dealing with some depressive aftermath. hope you enjoy it though, cause i kinda rewarded your waiting with a 13k second part hihi (yes it's a pattern that they never get to cum... if you noticed, no you haven't.)