BANANA SYRUP AMERICANO
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Barista!Reader
Prompt: “You are my heaven, my obsession, my prayer and bliss.” + Silver
A/N: This is for the A Doctor A Day event hosted by @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft and me! Special thanks to @yxtkiwiyxt for encouraging me to write this <3 and to @probablyreadinsmut and @stellamarielu for reading and helping me work through the fic. And @salingers, Anna and Dulsè and @maiamore for listening to me yap about this fic and tease it for so long. This kinda reads like an awards acceptance speech— which it is, an award for getting over this writer's block.
divider by @omi-resources
Years ago, a friend once told you that you had the habit of picking the most unavailable, worst sort of man in the room to have a crush on— and then too only for entertainment. Because it was safe to like someone you knew you never had a chance with, instead of putting yourself out there and facing rejection. It was a devastating read because she was right… to a certain degree.
After years of therapy, you had a crush on Doctor Jack Abbot who, thankfully, wasn’t the worst sort. Instead, he was the best person in any room he walked into. He was the kind of man who penned letters for the bereaved family of his patients. He had a small smile reserved for everyone despite the exhaustion lining his face. Unfailingly polite. Always kind. Quick to praise and reassure. Calming. Firm. Steadfast. One of the most wonderful people you’ve ever met.
But he was still very much unavailable if that ring on his finger was anything to go by.
It did start as an entertainment, feelings were fun, they made you feel alive— the fluttering in your stomach, the giddy excitement, the thrill of an encounter, the euphoria of a single smile. It was just the little kick you needed to look forward to the day, especially during the godawful witching hours you had to wake up at. That is, until you had started to care for him. You could tell if he had a hard shift by the pronounced unevenness of his gait. And the way he would tiredly lean over your counter to speak to you in a low, gruff voice as if he wasn’t quite sure what would escape him if dared to be louder.
It wasn’t safe at all to like him. You once burned yourself on the espresso machine when you had been distracted by a lock of his curls falling over the side of his forehead. He could smile at you, and you could get a concussion from tripping over a chair. If he ever spoke to you in soft murmurs, you could tweak your back during a fall because your knees were too jelly to hold you up. God forbid he ever stared into your eyes too long, you were convinced your heart would give out then.
But your friend had been spot-on about your fear of rejection. Over time, your condition had worsened, feelings were like an infection that spread from your chest to your brain. You had gone from skipping heartbeats at the sight of him to thinking about him incessantly. If they plugged you to those monitors in his ER, all the squiggly waves of your heartbeat would spell out his name. However, if you confessed and he didn’t feel the same, where would that leave you? Like a hopeless star forcibly wrested from the moon— alone in a cafe at 4.30 AM.
And he was the moon— not only because of the silver that laced his curls and scattered across his face, shimmering in the low lighting, but because he had that pull and gravity that churned your breaths like a tide. So you had swallowed every word of love, every gesture of affection, every yearning thought bleeding from your soul until you felt like you might burst from it. You had hidden it all perfectly and neatly so you would never lose the precious few moments you had with him every few days.
He breathed easier at the sight of her, like his head finally broke out over the water. He rolled his shoulders, suppressing the shiver that snaked down his arms— the cafe was always warmer than the ER. Jack felt a muscle flutter in his neck as his jaw unclenched and relaxed. His mouth felt dry as he took a deep breath. Shit. He should’ve chewed gum after that patient in South 15 who sprayed blood all over his face and got some in his mouth during the process. He could still feel the metallic tang on his lips despite having washed and rinsed his face several times— more memory than reality.
He stretched his neck to peek inside, silently cursing when he noticed her drop a few pumps of banana syrup in a cup. He had hoped to beat her to making that drink. The first time he met her, Jack had been so engrossed in the medical case study that he hadn’t looked up to notice that the person behind the counter had changed. Mildly amused that he was being asked what he would like to drink instead of being handed his usual, he had quipped a dry “Americano with banana syrup.”
It wasn’t until he had faced the dark liquid with warm artificial banana-scented steam wafting over it that he looked up to find the prettiest face dubiously staring at the drink before flickering up to meet his eyes. For a moment, he had forgotten the world, his phone and stethoscope nothing but dead weight. Then gingerly, almost hesitantly, she had asked if he would like some cream in his drink. And the soft, dulcet tones of her voice had spread under his skin like warm sunshine. It raised his hairs. He had twitched where he stood, an almost silly attempt at shaking off the effect she had over him.
She had taken his reaction as a refusal, and his fate had been sealed— Americano with banana syrup, every time. Excruciating and euphoric. It was too sweet for his tastes, but the kind of sweetness that he couldn’t feel on his tongue because he had eaten something far sweeter just before. And that was her. Every moment with her made him feel as giddy as a child eating candy.
It was not that he couldn’t ask to try something else. The next time they met, he was a bit late. Two of the night shift nurses before him had ordered a large frappuccino to be served in two different cups for them to share. But they had ripped into her after she had handed them two large frozen drinks, even though she only charged for one— because she was trying to make them fat. Both those ladies had found themselves at the Kraken’s feet the next time they had to stick the guy.
When it was his turn, she had handed him his drink with an excited flourish. Her eyes looked so eager to please, so proud to have remembered his order that he didn’t have the heart to tell her he wanted something else. He had doubled down on his supposed love for banana syrup americano with such ardour that it had taken her two days to cajole him into taking some cream or warm milk to balance the astringent sweetness. She had looked so utterly… beguiling with that pleased, crooked little smile and the sparkle in her eyes that his hand had instinctively moved to rub her head before he’d swung it down mid-air to pick his drink instead, cursing himself for stupid, inappropriate impulses.
Jack didn’t do sunshine, he didn’t do smiles that reminded him of gentle warmth in the winter. He was a creature of the night, he found comfort in the darkness. So he’d run from that little corner of the PTMC, made do with the stale coffee in the break room that someone from the day shift had put on and forgotten about. But he felt like that guy from the myths— Odysseus— who didn’t put wax in his ears while the rest of his crew did.
Everyone went about their routine, while there was a siren at the far end of the building, weaving quiet and peace with the flowing, silky threads of the dim lighting, the rumbling of the espresso machine, the steady drip of the large batch of the medium roast— the one that smells of hazelnuts— along with the soft rhythm of her humming and the cadence of her halting footsteps. And, god help him, but he was drawn to her.
He felt like a bastard for it too. Jack had known love before, how could he not recognise its enticing sweetness that emanated from her. But it was her eyes, with their special sort of grace, that spoke without her intending them to. They scanned him with worry and concern whenever he walked in during a difficult shift, and they silently complained to him whenever he turned to leave. It made him want to turn around, soothe her with kisses and make promises to her— small promises like he would see her soon, and big ones like he would see her every day for the rest of his life. He had no business making promises to her.
They were so unlikely that even when the entire night shift staff and some of the day shift had noticed his particular proclivity towards the cafe, none of them had suspected that he might feel something for the ‘barista babe’ as Dr Ellis refers to her. Dr Walsh likes her dirty chai lattes— thinks the spices are better than most. And he’s here drinking banana Americanos. He felt insane.
At some point, he stopped watching the clock, he would perk up as if sensing her in the building like a biological alarm. The charge nurse kindly carved out a few, precious minutes for him to take his break somewhere after half past four— but somehow, always before her cafe opens at five— believing he needed the caffeine boost and time to decompress. Nobody suspected any ulterior motives when they should’ve been able to sniff out his desperate, dirty secret.
She had once tucked her work t-shirt into her jeans, and seeing her bend over the sink, had made him harden against his scrubs. His mouth was so dry that he hadn’t been able to string a sentence together for several long moments even after he had returned to his desk. She’d reduced him to nothing more than a lecherous old man— he still hadn’t shaken off the sight of her ass filling out those jeans. His palm itched to find out if she’d fill his hand the same way— to test the weight and the feel of her against him.
A small, petulant and kinda unfair part of him felt gratified that she felt something for him too. She’d once told him that the Earth travels around the sun almost 100 times faster than a speeding bullet as she recounted her trip to the planetarium with her friends. And he’d felt pity for this poor rock they call home because he knew what it was like to helplessly spin in someone’s grasp— to have mornings start with the sight of her and evenings set with thoughts of her.
So he had faked hunger and pain— although at his age, the latter wasn’t too difficult to feign— to soak in her concern. He gobbled up everything she slipped him in the name of taste-testing, their fresh warmth seeping into his chest and his limbs because they had come from her hand. Jack Abbot leaned a little closer every day to hear her breath hitch, and he enjoyed the way her gaze stuttered when he looked into her eyes. He wallowed in her affection and quiet smiles.
It was horrible of him to do it— to encourage and lead her on when nothing could come of this flirtation. They didn’t belong together. She wasn’t for him. She was engaged. He should’ve kept his distance, been perfectly polite and civil— nipped this whole dizzying bloom of feelings in the bud. He should let her move on with the man she was set to marry, step aside and never cross her path to confuse or distract her.
Jack should’ve known this would colossally backfire on him— it was worse than shooting his own damn foot. He wanted her a little more every day. She was intoxicating— her thoughtfulness that left him a little speechless, her intelligence that never failed to arouse him, her kind heart and her dry wit. He never stood a chance. She was adventure and shelter all rolled in one— the storm and the lifeboat. Love had wrapped around his every breath, and he was drowning in the futility of it all. There was no medicine, no treatment, no solution.
He’d hoped to confine her to this little cafe, an oasis of calm he retreated to when the ER sounds overwhelmed, and even the crackle of the police scanner grated on his nerves. He wanted to pretend she was a figment of his imagination, someone who didn’t exist outside of the walls he had drawn. But she wasn’t one to be confined and compartmentalised, he carried her out with him nestled against his ribs. The image of her settled nascent in the back of his mind somewhere, haunting him on his early morning walk back home when the blooming flowers he walked past smelled of her.
He searched for her in the quiet, persistent loneliness of his home. He waited to hear the echoes of her voice following the dull footsteps in the apartment above his— as if she was there, close to him instead of miles away. And sometimes, he invoked her, almost like a prayer, before he slipped off to sleep so he could meet her in his dreams again. There were days he would miss her, but he wasn’t on shift. He would wait, wide awake, for the clock to crawl into the early hours before he would visit her in that cafe again— pretending to be on call instead of admitting that he had driven here to see her.
It wasn’t until a difficult shift— one that led him straight to the roof because he couldn’t breathe— that he’d given up on putting a lid on his heart. Who was he kidding? He’d lost control of the situation long ago, perhaps on the very first night he had met her eyes. But she had joined him there with a cup of hot chocolate that had seared his tongue on the very first sip, she hadn’t wanted the drink to cool before she had found him, and a thick slab of banana bread. His sun, finally out in the open skies— the very one who’d lit up his moon on countless nights. All because she heard the nurses whispering about the vet they had lost.
It was the longest he had ever spoken to her. And he didn’t know how he had survived on a few meagre moments of her attention in the night. He’d been afraid for a moment on the rooftop, the moment was so surreal, or maybe it was the night shift sleep disorder, that time had stretched between them like silk threads— fragile yet endless. It was a moment so dangerous, so dreamlike, that he was afraid he’d slip up the words he had only dared utter to her in his dreams.
Yet, instead of stoic silence, he had talked. And talked. And talked. Then he had rambled some more, a part of him still cringes when he remembers his baseball analogy of life and death. She hadn’t been able to hide the twitch of her lips fast enough, and he was grateful she hadn’t laughed in his face. Although, any amount of embarrassment would have been worth listening to that bright, free sound that was her laughter— it was never a small, dainty sound, dear god, did it put a smile on his face.
He loves her. He was in love with her. It was a fact he had only fully realised and accepted when he had stood before his late wife, strangely wordless. He used to tell her about Robby and Dana, about new students, the workplace gossip and even the latest take-out place he had tried. And for the first time, he had found that he had already shared that with someone else. He had someone to talk about the mundane little things in life with. He wasn’t alone— not anymore. He had cried tears of relief that day. On his next visit, he had left his ring there in the columbarium— right next to their photo and her funerary urn.
“You seem a little lost, Dr Abbot.”
He gave you a tired smile— nothing more than a twitch of his lips, before his head moved somewhere between a nod and a shake, but still a gesture of acquiescence. Funny, how invaluable and precious such a small thing can be. You tear your eyes from his profile as he stares out the window, taking in the untimely, out-of-season rains.
You hide the urge to caress the lines framing his eyes by busying your hands around the metal pitcher, turning the knob on the steam wand. You hoped the steady rumble of the machine would quiet the demons inside your head that told you to reach out and tuck his silver hair behind his ear. You wondered how he would react. What would his expression be if you pinched his earlobe right after?
“What’s got you smiling like that?” He groused, a teasing lightness lifting his tone. You bit your lip to contain the grin, distracting him by pouring the milk into his coffee— extra hot, just as he liked it. Silence settled between you again, a seemingly comfortable one, while you panicked internally to look for an excuse.
“Princess has a new love interest,” you diverted, voice low and conspiratorial as you shared the gossip you had recently gleaned. His brows rose into an expression of grudging respect before he trained his eyes on you with rapt attention. Princess moved fast, and yet here you were yearning after this man for a year. No one’s fault but your own.
“Didn’t she have one just a few months ago?” He mused, taking a sip of his drink. The rim of the cup couldn’t mask the amused curl of his lips.
“Yes, but that one dropped out of the running. She felt like he wasn’t serious enough about her—”
“Was she serious about him?” He sarcastically butted, receiving only a chastising glare that accompanied the prim set of your lips.
“Anyways, this new boo has a surprise weekend getaway planned for her. Wouldn’t tell her where they’re going or what they’re doing—”
“Sounds like something a serial killer would do,” he scoffed.
“Exactly. I told her to share her location the entire time. All he said was to dress weather-appropriate. So something outdoorsy?” You wondered.
“Definitely camping,” he trailed off as you suppressed a chuckle, turning away from him to roll the lid onto the coffee dispenser. He was eyeing the cheese danishes in the display. Jack would never order it, he knew you wouldn’t charge him for it. He paid for his drink by shoving a five-dollar bill in the tip jar. The poor college students who show up for their shift later in the morning are always ecstatic to see it.
You dumped the sodden coffee grounds in the bin, making a mental note to save some for your aunt’s garden before sending them to the local community composting project. She had handed you the reins of her coffee shop while she took her maternity leave, recently giving birth to a tiny baby girl. There was a dull ache under your ribs, the kind that squeezed the entirety of your chest.
Your aunt would return once her daughter was old enough. You would leave. And a piece of you would be left behind here to haunt the walls of the PTMC, trailing Dr Jack Abbot like a shadow. And he would forget about you, until you were less than an afterthought in his daily life— someone he might not even recognise passing by on the sidewalk.
“Camping isn’t everybody’s thing. Doesn’t seem like it would be Princess’ thing,” he murmured. He was here. For now, he was gracing your nights like a blessing.
“It could be glamping,” you teased.
“Do not talk to me about glamping”— you giggled at the sheer affront in his voice—“that’s just not camping—”
“It could be something more romantic too—” you piped up.
“Than camping?” An edge of disbelief lined his tone. You poured the coffee into a filter before sliding the filter basket into the machine, pressing the button to brew a fresh canister of medium roast. A gentle scent of caramel filled the air with the steady drip of coffee as you turned to face him again.
“Yeah, like stargazing—”
“You could do that during camping—”
“—but camping means critters. And I hate creepy crawlies—”
“But it’s part of the romance,” he insisted, leaning over the counter to argue his case, his eyes insistently staring into yours as if it strengthened his arguments. But your gaze slid down, riveted by the movement of his mouth as he spoke and the shape of his lips as he formed his words, “That’s when you press closer to your partner and ask them to get rid of the beastie—”
“Beastie?” You giggled, “Why, Dr Abbot, how many dates have you pressed up to asking them to kill the scary bugs for you?”
He rolled his eyes as you joined him at the counter, a stubborn twitch at his jaw expressed his pity that you were so blind to the virtues of camping, while a shadow of laughter still lingered over his lips. And Dear Lord, he had that dimple. The silver tongs loudly clattered in your hands as you blindly slid the display open to reach for a cheese danish.
“If it’s bugs that bother you, then there’s nets, thermacell repellents, insect repellent creams. You just haven’t been with the right accommodations— or the right partner.” There’s an edge to his voice you can’t quite place. Camping was nothing, you could be watching snails crawl and have the time of your life if it was with him.
“You’re probably one of those people who gently escort an insect or a lizard out of the house instead of killing it.” You hoped your words didn’t come off as the lovesick sigh they sounded to your ears as you slid the pastry towards him. His lips turned down with a noncommittal shrug and a hum, “No point killing it.”
He reached for a plastic knife, and you should stop him now— save him the effort. But it was a ritual that soothed. It is always somehow sliced unevenly, despite the focused furrow of his brows. The bigger piece always nudged towards you. It was almost habit now to just reach across and take the smaller cut of the pastry from his plate.
The very first thing you had fed him was a biscotti, handed it to him along with the drink. He’d stared at you, adorably wide-eyed and befuddled when you had refused his payment for it. It’s a meeting gift, you’d explained, since it was your first day taking over from your aunt. All your customers had received one, but he was the first since he had arrived well before the cafe had opened.
The next day, he was late. But he’d dug into his pockets and procured the tiniest whisk, barely the size of your thumb, attached to a keychain. A meeting gift. He’d delivered it without any fanfare, just the quiet words, “Didn’t have anything on me last time, welcome to the PTMC.” Since then, everything you baked was tailored to his preferences. Not that Jack Abbot ever critiqued or complained, he would polish off everything with the urgency of a man on the move. You studied his tells— the arch of his brows, the corners of his mouth, and the pause before he takes a sip.
Your mother always said that food tasted of more than just the ingredients— it was flavoured with emotions, the good and bad. Your creations tasted of your love and affection for him. But when he touches them, portions them, and hands you back a piece, it tastes different. His touch makes it sweeter, richer, more flavourful— it leaves you as warm and fulfilled as any sacred offering would. It made you wonder which of his emotions laced it.
“I have to spend extra time at the gym, with all the sweets you’ve been feeding me.” He chided, but took a large bite out of the danish before sliding the other half towards you. His workout looked good on him, sinful even, with the way he filled out the scrubs. He had broad shoulders that made you wonder how they’d look parting your thighs. And the kind of arms that sent a girlish trill through our stomach. You looked away as his hand reached up to brush the flakes off his face. Astaghfirullah, this was so not helping.
“I shouldn’t… I gotta fit into the clothes I’m having sewn for the wedding,” You hesitated. There was an odd beat, a moment of silence you didn’t quite know how to define. But he stopped chewing, as if the pastry was dry and sticking to the walls of his mouth. Dr Abbot, infamous for his prolonged and steady eye contact, was absorbed in staring at the crumbs on the plate. He washed it down with a large gulp of a coffee you knew was still scalding. He didn’t take another bite.
And you wondered if you had offended him in some way— or hurt him. His face contorted into a small grimace, the crinkles by his eyes deepening for a moment before smoothing out again. It was just a danish. You didn’t even know why you had turned down the chance to share it with him. The tailor would be leaving in some fabric in each outfit, so you could loosen it in case of any weight fluctuations. And you could cut back on calories elsewhere.
You swiped the piece of pastry from his plate and devoured half of it in a single bite. The awkward lull passed as if you had imagined it while you watched him gather his thoughts. He looked up again, with clear, twinkling, olive eyes. And a smile so soft, so tender bloomed on his face, it robbed you of your breath.
“Are you happy?” His eyes were so imploring, like a man in the midst of a prayer. There was a hitch in his voice like your answer determined his next breath. And you were utterly lost.
“With the clothes? Yeah, they’re super pretty on me…” But you knew it wasn’t quite what he was asking. He faltered. You had never seen him do that before. His eyes slid away from yours as he took an uneven, stilted breath. His gaze fell upon the tray of sugar and honey sachets, roamed over the frames lining over the tiled wall, flitting over the menu overhead behind you. It was like a butterfly that glided from one bloom to another— indecisive, unsure, so unlike Jack Abbot.
You watched the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed. It knocked you off kilter when his eyes glided past you to settle on the damn half-eaten pastry in your hand. You are never making cheese danishes in your life. You hadn’t realised you had held the pastry out between you until he glanced up at you with a silvery glint of challenge in his eyes, one you had no idea how to measure up to.
Your hand hovered in the air, quite inexplicably but undeniably out of habit. But it was one thing to share a bitten-off morsel of food with friends or family, another entirely to offer it to Dr Jack Abbot. He had once told you that human mouths were filthy. You wondered if you could lower it back onto the plate smoothly, naturally. But the awkwardness was clogging your throat, and you were overthinking everything. It almost made you nauseous.
He straightened his shoulders with a stubborn jut to his chin. He looked dark and forbidding, as if you had done something wrong. There was no stopping the gasp that escaped your lips as he stooped to steal the sweet off your fingers. Your stomach lurched as if you were sitting on some flimsy raft facing turbulent waves. You felt his lips press against the tips of your fingers— dry, soft. Your fingers twitched with the current that travelled up your hand and into your trembling arm.
The swivel of his jawbone was hypnotic, you were so tempted to reach out and touch the line of his jaw to feel the rocking motion under your palm. It wouldn’t be too difficult, he was still bent over the counter, his lips a mere stretch of the fingers away. You recognised this moment in your bones— knew instinctively that things would forever be altered. There would be a life before this moment, and a very different life after this.
In some ways, the thought was comforting. You inhaled a deep, bolstering breath. He knew. And after all that yearning, there were only two outcomes. He held your hand in his— large, warm, steady— as he gently wiped off your hands with a napkin. It was as if his eyes were reading your soul through your own. His thumb caressed the inside of your wrist, his touch slow and reverent.
And even as he withdrew, rounding the counter to deposit the plate in the sink and fling the napkin in the bin, your eyes followed his form like he was the guiding north star. You had never known him to be the sort of cruel man who would lead you on despite knowing how you feel for him. You had seen him smilingly give up his comfort and wishes for others— considerate and kind. But despite the anticipation and hope that surged through your veins, you silently prayed— nothing more than a heartfelt ‘please’ to guide you through the change and upheaval.
You weren’t sure to whom you prayed, but the answer came in his smile and the affection that was sewn into the lines that framed his mouth. It was as if you had been thrown a paddle or an oar for that adrift raft. There was only one way through.
“Jack—”
“I meant the wedding,” he interrupted, and your brows furrowed. Why was he talking about the damn wedding?
You could see the tension he carried on his frame, the rigidness of his shoulders and the almost defensive way he folded his arms before phrasing the question again, “Are you happy with the marriage, sweetheart?” His voice was low and coarse. It wasn’t a question, it was more a silent command.
In this moment, even with a gun to your head, you could not name the groom. Your sister liked him but disliked his family. It was the very recipe for disaster. And you couldn’t understand what she liked so much about the man to marry him.
“Does it matter what I think about it as long as I look good in the dresses?” You laughed, a half-hearted attempt at levity in a situation out of your control.
She couldn’t belong to anyone else. Not when she didn’t love that other man. Not when she looked at him with eyes so melodious they practically glowed and sang. Not when she had woven herself into the meaning of his existence. Not when she felt like the first ray of sunshine after a few gloomy days. And he’s had enough gloomy days to last him a lifetime. He would snatch her from the very sky if he had to.
“Yes, it matters. You can’t marry him.” He stressed, drawing closer to her to meet her line of sight, searching for a way to make her understand so she wouldn’t look this baffled.
“Jack, I think you’ve—”
“You don’t love him—” He insisted.
“— well, obviously not, that’s because—” Her hands gently pressed on his forearm, a warm, calming touch that scattered his next words until all he was left with was the bare truth.
“I love you.”
There was a moment of charged stillness and furiously thundering heartbeats. Jack felt like he was on the ledge of the roof again— untethered. She looked wide-eyed and lost, mouth slightly agape.
“Oh.”
A short breath barely steadied him, he felt a little lightheaded, “Oh?”
“You thought… I was engaged. This whole time?” Her brows arched up in disbelief.
“Listen”— he smoothed his hands down her arm, comforting and cajoling as he selfishly asked for far too much of her—“He probably loves you, anybody would. He’s probably a nice guy. You must have seen something in him to decide you would invest in an entire future with him. But…” He frowned as he glanced at his hands. He’d never touched her before— never this intimately. He knew certain liberties weren’t afforded to him, a line that was drawn. And he’d crossed it, thoughtlessly. He glanced at her face, searching for any signs of discomfort.
She gave him an innocent, tight-lipped smile even as her eyes were dancing with amusement. It felt like she was laughing at his expense, and he would make a fool out of himself every day if it meant he could watch her laugh.
“Don’t stop now, you were about to make a really good point,” she encouraged before chewing on the inside of her cheek. His mouth felt dry at the sight of her lips moulding and contorting into intoxicating, pouty little shapes as she stifled her laughter. He felt the corners of his mouth helplessly stretch wide in an answering smile, and something between a huff and a chuckle escaped with his next breath.
“I need you to— I need you to tell me you can be mine,” he begged.
“I’m yours, Jack Abbot,” She easily acquiesced.
“No, not like that. You’re about to—”
“Jack”—her hands steadied over his chest, she traced the length of his shoulder while her palm rested over his heart—“your breathing is erratic.”
Of course, it would be. His heart descended from where it was galloping in his throat to settle under the touch of her palm. He’d spent so long wading through one battlefield after another, concentrating on just the medicine. It was the only way, the only thing that helped anyone, that kept him sane. She had never been part of his plan, and yet here she was, somehow an integral part of his definition of medicine. And she might never understand the way she was the cure for all his ailments— the cool relief of his soul and the warm comfort of his heart.
He reached out to trace the curve of her cheek, his knuckles barely grazing her, feeling a bit like a purveyor of priceless art. His fingers unfurled to cradle her face, his hand touching the warm skin and soft cotton. He felt a tug in his belly, like a rope yanked him by his core, as she nuzzled into his palm. Her lips placed a gentle kiss against the fluttering pulse on his wrist.
“I can’t— I know it’s unfair… I can’t offer you much. But I wish I could explain just how much I—”
“Then try…” She coaxed, and he shivered as her breath fanned across his forearm. A sheen of wetness had gathered over her lashes.
“You are my heaven, my obsession, my prayer and bliss.” He confessed.
His thumb caught the stray tears that had escaped her eyes. Her hand bunched his scrubs in a fist as she pressed closer to him, tilting her head to kiss the laugh lines just below his lips. His shoulders fell in relief as he melted into her arms. Jack leaned his forehead against hers, eyes incapable of looking away from hers, hoping she would see the sincerity of his words.
“Ever since the day I met you, I have ended every prayer with the wish to spend just one more morning with you,” She sighed into the space between them, and the words settled against his ribs with a quiet incredulity. Since when did disbelievers like him get anything this good?
“Jack… I’m not getting married.” There was a teasing lilt to her voice as he admired the way her lips curved.
“I sure hope not, baby.” He sounded choked to his own ears, and the sliver of fear rang loud in the empty cafe.
“No. I meant, I’m not engaged.” She bit her lip, and he had the urge suck that plush bottom lip into his mouth and test its softness with his own teeth. It took a moment for her words to register, and he leaned away to peer into her face.
“But your aunt said her niece was getting married…”
“I’m not her only niece.”
“You never mentioned a sister—”
“It’s my cousin’s wedding.”
“You said you had to plan a wedding, talk to the caterers, and decorators, and—”
“It’s a wedding in our family, of course, everybody would have to help,” her words were lined with a trace of gentle exasperation. He kissed her temple with a quiet groan, a little embarrassed but very elated. There was no hiding the grin that crept over his face.
“This is the part where you kiss me, darling.” There was an irresistibly coy look in her eyes. Jack looked forward to the serene nights he would spend counting her lashes.
“And you would want that?” He confirmed.
She was guiding his face to hers with a gentle grasp on his neck before he had even finished his words. She was warm in his arms— passionate and urgent. While he kissed her with the light patience of a new lover, he felt utterly claimed. The kiss was a relinquishment, an admission, that nothing within him belonged to him— it was all hers. With every glide of his lips against hers, he realised he would spend the rest of his days chasing this high.
She bit his lip, the hushed moan that died in her throat was soft and goading. He licked past the seam of her lips to sink deeper into her. He groaned at the scrape of his tongue against hers, a sound she readily swallowed, pushing him against the curved, hard palate of her mouth. A thin, silvery string of spit connected their mouths as he tilted her face to his liking.
He welcomed her into his mouth like he had been waiting for her return— with a soft sigh. His hands stroked up the length of her spine, until he had cradled her nape and pushed her closer against him, her flesh pliant as she moulded herself to him. Her tongue was ticklish and electric against the smooth inner lining of his cheek. And Jack closed his lips around her to suck her deeper into his mouth. She tugged at his hair, her whimper reverberating in his mouth.
He could spend hours with his lips joined to hers, coaxing and cajoling sounds out of her that he would fold away in his memory and imprint on his heart. Her nights would belong to him, and his days would belong to her. Abbot knew his home would be hers, and he prayed that she was kind enough to never throw him out of her heart where he would set up his home.
They lingered close to each other, their breaths mixing over grazing lips. He nudged her nose to the side before pressing a devout, affectionate kiss on her lips. It was a foregone conclusion that as long as his name existed in this world, it would forever be tied to hers.
“I will never let you regret choosing me,” he vowed, his voice barely over a mumble.
“And I will never make you a banana syrup americano again,” she promised solemnly.
“Now, you know how much I love it…”
She looked at him with pleading eyes, a note of guilt and apology shading her mien as she pursed her lips.
“No… Don’t tell me— you knew!” The shock and affront in his voice were unmistakable as his words pitched higher.
“I am sorry. My aunt made me memorise the regular orders before I came here. But you were just so cute. And I was waiting for you to tell me your regular order—” Her words were drowned by her giggling until she gave up her struggle to throw her head back in laughter. He punishingly bit her chin before nuzzling the side of her cheek where her hijab framed her face.
He gently patted her head, “We’re gonna be okay?” He had meant it as a statement and reassurance, but the inflection in his voice had given away his fear and insecurity.
“It’ll be quite a shock to your family, won’t it?” He clarified.
He returned her sweet smile, obediently leaning over and surrendering to her pecks. She kissed him once, and then again, one more time before deciding on another loving kiss.
“We’ll be okay,” she murmured against his lips.
And they were. Doctor Jack Abbot had the sort of akhlaq her mother prized, and the sort of character her father admired. But, most importantly, he had their daughter’s heart.
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