Hi! I'm Tallinn, I'm 25, and I currently write for Jack Abbot, Baelor Targaryen, and Dean Winchester. I used to write for Bucky Barnes but am taking a break; we'll see how I feel after Doomsday.
At this time, I don't write smut as I'm asexual and don't really feel comfortable, nor confident in my abilities to do so. There may be some mild sexual content in my series, however, and because I am an adult writing for adults, this blog is still going to be 18+ so minors DNI!
You are responsible for your own content consumption!
Condal and Hess better be so grateful to the people in charge of the dragons because my emotional dependency on those sky puppies is the only reason Iâm going to finish this show
Realizing that probably part of the reason I can't get over my crush is because I want romance and a relationship so badly and he's a wonderful person that I think would be a good partner but ultimately I don't KNOW that, I'm imagining it. And I saw a YouTube comment that said, "Keep the dream, replace the person." So, like a normal person, I'm going to write fics centered in all my daydreams about my crush but I'm going to replace him with men who aren't real :) maybe that will help me get over it.
Daemon: Rhaenyra listen to me I saw a blond girl with dragons. A blond girl with dragons Rhaenyra. Now that may not seem at all unusual or miraculous to you or me probably because all our dragons are still alive and we have no reason to think anything is going to happen to them but would this woman who roofied me 58 times in a one week span have lied? Do you think sheâd show me a tree man without cause? Do you think people are just blonde for no reason? Exactly. Now put your shoes on, weâll avenge Jeremy
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
The lamplit room is filled with Jackâs exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. Youâre still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. Heâd slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom â where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
âDo you wanna order food?â you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
âWhat?!â Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
âI said, do youââ You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans heâd arrived in. Heâs shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again â then heâs painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, âI asked if you wanted to order food. âCause I donât really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order âcause Love Island doesnât come on for another hour, andââ
Jackâs scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. Thereâs a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like youâre a quick fuck that doesnât know when to stop talking, like heâs waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
âI think Iâm gonna head out now, actually,â he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
âOhâŚâ you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesnât tear your chest in two. âAre you⌠Are you okayâ?â
âYeah,â he shrugs and rises from the mattress. âIâm fine. I justâ Need to get home.â
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. âWell, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? âCause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morningââ
âGo ahead,â Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesnât reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. âI think Iâll survive a week without it.â
Your frown deepens at his joke.
âDid I do something?â you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
âNo,â he scoffs. âOf course not. Why would you ask that?â
âI donât knowâŚâ you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. âYou never leave right after we have sex, so Iâ I didnât know if, maybe⌠It wasnât good for your something, or if I said somethingââ
âNo, it was greatââ Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldnât.
The word âhoneyâ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when heâs talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still canât name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
âI just gotta go now. Okay?â
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. âSureâŚâ
Jack leaves with a polite nod â like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction heâs thanking you for and not something youâve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesnât speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesnât look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You canât quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen thatâll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. Youâre stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you â because youâre the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person youâll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than itâs obviously already going.
You donât move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
âWhat is going on over here?â Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. âChartingâŚâ you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
âLooks like it,â Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. âCâmon. Walk with me.â
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, âWhatâs going on with you today, kid?â
âItâs nothing,â you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the manâs side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, itâs very clearly not nothing.
âIâm not asking to be polite, kid,â the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. âI can tell somethingâs wrong, and itâs affecting your work, soâ Just tell me.â
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the manâs gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
âItâs about your friendâŚâ you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
âJack?â he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day youâre having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him â âcause he canât have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. âHeâs just⌠been offââ
âHeâs always off,â Robby scoffs.
âWell, not with me,â you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. âAnd now heâs not talking to me, and I have no idea what I didâŚâ
âWell, knowing Jack, you probably didnât do a damn thing,â Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. âJust give him some time, alright? Heâll come around. He always does. For now, youâve got a patient in 8 thatâs asking for youââ
Before you can make a guess on who it is â though you think you already know the answer â a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The manâs fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. Heâs tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry heâs red in the face.
âI have been waiting out thereâŚâ the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. ââŚFor four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?â
âHow did you get back here?â is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the manâs brutal touch is gone.
âWeâre seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you arenât back here,â Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. âBut touch anybody in here like that again, and you wonât be seen at all. Got it?â
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. âI was just asking a question, manâŚâ
âIâll handle it, boss,â Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
âDonât touch me,â you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
âTrust me, man,â Ahmad quips. âI donât want to.â
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time youâve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. âYou alright, kid? Did he get you?â
âIâm fine,â you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesnât quite meet your eyes. âIâve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.â
âWell, yeah,â the man scoffs playfully. âYouâre with Abbotâ Iâm sure youâre an expert at dealing with assholes by nowâŚâ
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didnât really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you â even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush â even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now â even when you know thereâs nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the manâs chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. Youâve lost feeling in your arms now â theyâve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb â but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window â as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jackâs presence.
Youâve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until youâve helped the person in front of you first â which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, youâll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
âThree minutes since the epi,â you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
âHold compressions,â Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
âGive me another amp of epiâ and more suction,â you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older manâs sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. âWhat do we do? Should weâ Should we give PCC?â
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. âNo, itâs too late for thatâŚâ he hums sympathetically. âAnd heâs not an ECMO candidate, soââ
âWell, can you tell me something that we can do?â you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, âThereâs nothing else we can do for him, kidâŚâ
âRobby,â you whimper, flinching like heâs hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. âCâmon. Please, we canâ We can think of somethingâ We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe itâllââ
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
â12:07,â you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlahâs soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
âCâmon. Iâll clean up,â the woman tells you, sniffling. âYou take a second.â
âIâm fine,â you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
âYouâre not,â Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. âAnd thatâs okay. Just take a second.â
You remind yourself to breathe â in for seven beats and out for eight â as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
âWhoa⌠you okay?â you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
âFine,â you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
âOh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,â Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
âDo you ever think before you speak?â Santos quips. âOr is the stupidity genetic?â
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room â Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if youâd just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like youâve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now â because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here â with Samira, perhaps â and if thatâs why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldnât have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he wouldâve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
âSorry,â you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jackâs scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
âWhat happened?â he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jackâs broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasnât let you give him in some time.
âAre you okay?â she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
âYeah, Iâm fine,â you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. âIâm not, actuallyâ I donât know why I said thatâ Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didnât mean to⌠to interruptâŚâ
âYou didnât,â Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. âI-Iâll see myself out,â you stammer hopelessly. âSorryâŚâ
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heartâs telling you that youâre having an embolism and youâre about to keel over at this very moment; your brainâs telling you that youâre just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
âHey,â a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find heâs wearing a smile on his bearded face when heâs close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
âYouâre the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, arenât you?â he asks.
You donât have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
âIâm sorry, sirâŚâ you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. âItâs just⌠Itâs been a long day, okay? I didnât mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, thatâs all. Iâmââ
You turn to face him again when heâs standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdonâs, though youâre not quite sure how long itâs been since your eyes have closed â a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. Youâre still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frankâs gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
âThere you areâŚâ the man coos. âWhat happened to you out here?â
You hardly hear him, like heâs speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
âIs⌠Is it bad?â you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupidâs bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. âOwâŚâ
âWhoa, careful thereâŚâ Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. âDid you fall on your back?â
âDid somebody hit you?â Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
âWowâŚâ you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. âSo many questionsâŚâ
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you donât see.
âYeah, câmon. Letâs go,â the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. âCome with meâŚâ
âI can walk,â you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupidâs bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. âJust⌠Be normal, alright?â
âRightâŚâ Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh â because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if youâve just been rescued from a bar fight. Thereâs hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyoneâs too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. Youâre five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robbyâs eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
âJesus fucking ChristâŚâ the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
âIâm okay,â you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
âWhat the hell happened to you?â he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
âWe found her like this,â Frank shrugs.
âI told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.â
âHa-ha,â you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. âOwâŚâ
âWho did this, huh?â Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. âIt wasnât that asshole from before, was it?â
âI didnât see him,â you lie through your teeth.
âAny trouble seeing? Any double vision?â
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
âDid you fall on your back?â he asks you then.
You nod once.
âWhat about a headache?â
âI always have a headache,â you answer. âIâm fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned upââ
âLook at youâ Youâre not fine,â the man snaps. âNow, câmon. Youâre coming with me.â
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Melâs voice, which comes from behind you.
âShould I find Dr. Abbot?â she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
âAbsolutely do not do that,â you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
âO-kayâŚâ she stammers and trails off.
âIn here,â Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. âFind Abbot,â he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking â âNothing that mother nature canât fix,â he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
âThese beds are so hard,â you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. âWe should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?â
âYeah, Iâll go tell Gloria,â Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. âIâm sure sheâll get right on thatâŚâ
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You donât even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
âCan I ask you a stupid question?â
âBetter than anyone I know, Dr. RobbyâŚâ
âHa-ha,â he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. Itâs freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. âWhy didnât you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?â
âBecause he doesnât careâŚâ you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
âOh, câmon,â Robby scoffs. âEven you donât believe that.â
You donât. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because itâs in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just arenât sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did â in the way you wanted him to â and youâre not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
âHeâs busy right now,â you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. âToo busy for me, and I donât wanna bother him, so⌠Just drop it.â
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you donât see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. âI know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.â
âYouâre right,â you mumble. âHe doesnât act like itââ
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. âWhat the hellâs going on in here?â he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. âI hate you.â
âYeah, I knowâŚâ the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
âWhat happened?â Jack presses, more firmly this time.
âNothing,â you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. âItâs not the first time someoneâs swung at meââ
âYeah, but itâs the first time itâs been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,â Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. âWho the hell did this?â
âSome guy from Chairs, I think,â Robby shrugs. âNameâs Driscoll. Ahmadâs already handling it. Heâll deal with the police.â
âGood,â Jack nods, firm in a way youâve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. ââCause weâre pressing charges on this asshole, alright?â
âHonestly, Jack, I donât care what you doâŚâ you sigh. âBut my head is really starting to hurt, and I really donât feel like handling this right now.â
âOn it,â Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
âHere. Câmon,â the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. âMake room for me.â
âWhat?â you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. âScooch,â is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
âThanksâŚâ you mumble, half-shy.
âDonât mention it,â he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
âIâm sorry about, Louieââ
âYou donât have to do thisââ you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
âDo what?â he asks.
âI didnât mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?â you confess quietly, âcause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. âI wasnât⌠I didnât mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you donât have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think Iâm upset, âcause Iâm not.â
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
âOkay. I hear you,â Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. âBut Iâm still not sure what Mohan has to do with thisââ
Honey, he wants to say, but doesnât allow himself.
âIf you want to be with her, thatâs okayâ Or if itâs just because you donât wanna be with me, thatâs okay, too,â you explain in a strangely even voice. âBut I wish you wouldâve just told me, instead of bailing on me last nightââ
âI didnât bail on youââ
ââSo then I wouldnât have to catch you and Samira doingâŚâ you trail off, face screwed. âWhatever the hell you were doing back there.â
âCatching us?â Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. âThat would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, thatâs all.â
âYeah, wellâŚâ you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. âIt seemed pretty intimateâŚâ
âIt wasnât.â
âMore intimate than youâve been with me,â you argue sheepishly.
âWell, not to be crude here, butâŚâ Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. âWe literally had sex last night.â
âYeah, and you left,â you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. âAnd I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didnât get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means Iâm running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.â
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesnât deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know theyâll have a real impact on him before he responds.
âYouâre right,â he sighs after a few long moments. âIâm sorryââ
âDonât be sorry,â you shake your head at his apologetic tone. âJust donât⌠Donât be so mean, you know? If you donât wanna be with me anymore, why canât you just say?â
âBecause I do want to be with you,â he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. âHow would you ask me that?â
âBecause you arenât acting like itââ
âBecause I almost told you that I loved you,â Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. âLast night, I mean, when we⌠I almost said it⌠Because I felt it, but then I⌠I realized I hadnât said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.â
âButâŚâ you start in a broken whisper. âWhy does that have to be such a bad thing?â
ââCause it makes me feel guilty,â Jack answers. âThe way I love you makes me feel guilty, like Iâm abandoning her. And I⌠I donât know what to do with all that⌠grief.â
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jackâs right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants â made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
âWhy donât you just give it to me?â you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. âYour grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you donât have to carry it all on your own.â
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jackâs lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. âJesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, arenât we, honey?â he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. âThatâs the first time you called me that in two daysâŚâ you observe distantly.
âWhat?â
âHoney.â
âYeah,â he sighs. âIâm sorry for that, tooâŚâ
âDonât be sorry,â you repeat, this time with a smile. âJustâ kiss me or somethinââŚâ
âGladly,â Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
âOw,â you whimper.
âOuch,â Jack winces. âShit, honeyâ Sorry.â
âAre you okay?â you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. âI havenât checked in on you yet, I know youâre hurtââ
âIâm fine,â he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. âI got a little banged up, but⌠Iâm good now.â
âPromise?â you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
âI promise. I'll tell you about later,â he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness youâve been craving all day. âWhat about you, honeyâ Are you okay?â
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
âI will be,â you answer honestly for the first time all day.
"All because my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried so hard to suck out
âthe cure, Olivia Rodrigo
summary: youâre the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.
wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)
warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jackâs characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear itâs just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T
acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!
a/n: iâm not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company
masterlist
When you first get to the PTMC, Jack canât decide what he thinks about you.
He vaguely remembers youâ youâd done a rotation here, some time ago. One of the unfortunate ones whoâd drawn the short stick and been stuck on the night shift. He has a hazy recollection of your face during an MVC, your jaw hard set and a permanent smile to your face. He vaguely remembers, at the time, the only thing heâd really though was:
Jesus, this kid needs to dial it back.
The sentiment, of course, remains the same when itâs handoff time, and Robby is telling him all about what an awful fucking day itâs been, and of course now he says âOh, remember that med student you got stuck with awhile back? Smiley-face? You mustâve done something right, because she matched into the ED for her residency. She starts today.â
Not exactly the news an attending wants to hear right after the horror show the day has been so far. Especially when intern/baby resident in question is⌠charismatic.
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing,â Ellis says, her eyes trained on you as you soothe a crying teenager who just got wheeled in. âIf you ask me, we could use someone who actually smiles. Bit too dark and dreary in here for my taste.â
âYou like dark and dreary.â
She gives him an unimpressed raised eyebrow. âSo? We canât all be doing it. Like, weâve got Shen, but his is more iced-coffee induced than actual smiling charm.â
âI can be charming when I want to be.â
âNo, you can be flirty or suggestive. Thereâs a difference.â
Jack does not justify her response with one of his own, instead choosing to look down at his tablet and pretend to chart while he listens to how youâre interacting with the patient. The teenager seems to be calmed down, and the parents don't sound frantic or worried.
Maybe Ellis is right. Unfortunately, this tends to be the case fairly often.
He sighs and focuses on the chart heâs supposed to be doing and attempts to wipe his mind of bright smiles and glittering eyes.
â
The PTMC and Emergency Medicine in general was not, actually, your first choice. It wasnât even your second, or your third.
First was surgical. Everybody wants to be surgical. You wanted surgical. Itâs flashy, it pays well, and itâs cool as fuck. Plus, unlike some of your classmates, you actually have the stomach for it (one of the many things that eventually translated well to emergency medicine.)
Second was Ortho. Because bones are cool. Ortho surgeries are fun too, when theyâre not arthroscopy after arthroscopy.
Third was any kind of unit like Burn or ICU. A high stress program that wouldnât let you think, let you run on adrenaline all day.
But then you did your rotation in general surgery and absolutely fucking hated it.
Surgeons are assholes. Surgeons are uptight nerds who like to subject anyone they consider beneath them to cruel and unusual punishment.
Even in during the short duration of your rotation through surgery, it almost killed you. You could practically feel the light in your soul dimming at every pointed comment, every sharp correction, every barked insult and something or other cruel word.
And then there was the PTMC. The stupid ED that wasnât supposed to fun, was supposed to be grueling and exhausting (especially since youâd gotten assigned to the night shift.) But instead of awful you got amazing, which sucked.
Seems counterintuitive, but itâs true.
You wanted to like surgery enough to power though. But not a single rotation after the ED even came close to measuring up. The speed, the action, the gore, and the kind but firm guiding direction from the attendingâs and residents.
Matching into the PTMC was an event actually worth celebrating. As in, you decided to un-tense minutely and splurge on actual champagne that you drank in your apartment while dancing to your favorite music.
And now, youâre here. Determined to not fuck this up. To keep moving, keep going, and be a fucking excellent ED doctor.
Except your attending, Dr. Jack Abbot, one of the reasons you joined the ED in the first place, keeps giving you funny looks when he thinks youâre not looking.
Youâre not sure if heâs aware that you know that heâs staring at you. You do have a wider than normal field of peripheral vision, so maybe he doesnât know that you can still see him out of the corner of your eye?
Regardless of if he knows or not, itâs unnerving. Because heâs your boss. And you know heâs capable of being an incredible doctor and mentor, because you see it every single day.
Just not directed at you.
Heâs not really mean, or standoffish, or anything like that, heâs just⌠not necessarily kind. Not in the way that you see him with the other residents on his service or even with you, during your rotation as a med student.
Hell, heâs nicer to Santos than he is to you.
âDid I like, say something to offend him and I donât know?â
Trinity makes a face at you from over the edge of the monitor. âIsnât that more my area of expertise?â
âNo. You offend people on purpose.â
âTrue.â
You prop your head on your hands, resting your elbows on the counter above her. Your keycard, attached to your breast pocket via a red, heart-shaped badge reel is lovingly adorned with pink rhinestones and cute stickers. The pocket itself is filled with several glitter gel pens (and regular pens, just in case.)
âI just donât get it. Iâm nice, right?â
âDisturbingly so.â
âExactly. The only thing I can think of is that Iâve messed up or something, but itâs Dr. Abbot. Heâd tell me if I did. He doesnât exactly hold back.â
âDo you really need me for this conversation?â
You level her with a look, but she just groans.
âWhy do you even care? So what, one guy doesnât like you, boohoo.â
âHeâs not just some guy. Heâs my attending. And you mightâve secured your spot here, but iâm all shiny and new. I canât exactly earn peopleâs respect if our boss doesnât like me.â
Trinity doesnât immediately respond with a scathing remark, which usually means that youâve made a valid point.
âShould I talk to him?â
She sighs. âI think youâre overreacting. Youâve only been here for like, two weeks? Three? Heâll probably calm down the more you work together.â
âDid he stare at you all weirdly when you first started?â
âWell, no, but thatâs because I donât suck at my job.â
Now itâs your turn to glare.
âSorry. I guess youâre not completely hopeless.â
You roll your eyes. âThanks, Trin.â
She scrunches her nose up at the nickname like you knew she would, because she hates it, which makes it one of the only weapons you have against her.
Trinity wasnât as helpful as youâd hoped, and night shift means no Dana to ask for advice. Thereâs Dr. Ellis, but sheâs pretty close to Dr. Abbot, which means thereâs a high chance that whatever you ask her will make it back to him. You arenât really close enough to Dr. Shen to ask him âHey, how come Dr. Abbot stares at me when he thinks Iâm not looking and isnât as nice to me as he is to you guys?â
The question is stupid and kind of pathetic, so really, you shouldnât be asking anybody, but youâve always been crippled by an intense need to be well-liked. It feels like winning, and it feels good and safe. Safe is good. Safe is great.
Wanting the guy who's essentially your boss to like you is completely rational, right?
You just wish heâd tell you what youâre doing wrong, so you can fix it.
Also, itâs just driving you crazy.
Even if he just legitimately didnât like you, and made that apparent, itâd be something. You could work with that. You could figure out what it was he didn't like via intense pattern recognitin and fix it. Problem solved!
But he isn't obvious about it. He behaves indifferent and detatched- like you could die tomorrow and he wouldn't care.
Itâs the not knowing. If you could just ask him, if he could just give you an answer, then youâd know where you stood, and everything could be fine.
What changed? You want to beg, What happened after my med student rotation? Do you even remember that? What did I do? Where did I go wrong?
It eats away at you over the course of the week. It has been since you noticed, which was pretty much on day one. You donât show this outwardly of course, because youâre pretty sure you can get through to him and level out the wrong-footedness you feel around him through stubborn determination. Surely, at some point your unwavering nature will win out and heâll finally see there isnât anything he needs to hate about you. This is an incredibly healthy mindset to move through life with.
The week closes with an MCI around 5pm, which is just everyoneâs favorite thing in the world. The night shift gets called in, minus Trinity, who was already there working a double, and everyone sets in for the long haul. You do your best to focus on the patients and do not at all think about the ease and camaraderie between Mohan and Abbot, because that would be a very fucked up progression of priorities.
Eventually itâs all overâ patients are stabilized, some arenât. Overtime ends with phantom blood on your hands and being strong-armed into drinks in the park afterwards.
You feel awkward, because you donât work with the day shift people that often, so youâre not really sure how best to be yourself and not come across as weird. Neither of your âsafeâ people (Trinity and Dennis) are present, so thereâs no way in hell youâre going to be capable of relaxing.
You take the beer thatâs tossed to you, even though you think beer is gross (why does it taste like that? Why do people enjoy it?) and sip on it excruciatingly slowly, trying to hide a grimace and occasionally chiming in with mentally rehearsed and carefully crafted jokes and comments.
Itâs exhausting, and not at all how you wanted to spend your night after an MCI. In a dream world, you donât have the social backbone of a wet paper bag, and you say no, and you go home to your house and shower, then watch one, maybe two episodes of a tv show, scroll through Pinterest, and then go the fuck to bed.
But for the low low price of much needed rest, you get to drink one of the most disgusting alcoholic beverages known to man and worry if everyone thinks youâre being weird! Yay!
Also. Side note. Minor comment. Little issue.
Jack Abbot is sitting next to you. Like, right next to you on the bench. Because he came late and it was the last spot open. So heâs just right there. Posture loose and open and not at all like he didnât just help you try to save a girl your age who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like two hours ago your elbows werenât brushing, elbow deep in a manâs organs, saving his life.
Jack, unlike you, looks comfortable to be at the park with everyone. He doesnât look like heâs analyzing conversation to determine the best thing to say next.
Jack isnât looking at everyone. Heâs not looking at anyone. Heâs looking at you.
You turn, give him a little smile.
Again.
Maybe he doesnât know you can still see him out of the corner of your eye. (No, heâs a vet, heâd definitely also have wide peripheral vision. But maybe he thinks that you donât have it, because youâre not a vet.)
(Youâre probably thinking too much about the peripheral vision.)
Jack doesnât stop staring at you. Instead, he reaches over to where your barely-drunk beer is in your hands, and says:
âHere, give me that.â
And then he just. Takes your beer. Straight out of your hands.
Jesus fucking fuck he so hates you.
â
âHe took your beer?â
âYes,â You groan from the kitchen island in Trinityâs apartment, âHe said âhere, give me thatâ and then just took it. He didnât say anything else to me for the rest of the night.â
She lets out a low whistle. âMaybe he doesnât like you. What could you have possibly done to make him not like you?â
âI donât know!â
âWell, you better fix it. Having your attending hate your guts will like, majorly suck.â
âI donât know how to fix it. Thatâs what iâm over here for. To brainstorm.â
âI thought you were here to steal the cookies Huckleberry made?â
Dennis peeks his head up from the couch. âWait, what?â
You wave a hand. âSemantics. Focus.â
âOkay,â Trinity taps a pencil on a notepad, âHave you tried sleeping with him?â
âHeâs like, probably over twenty years older than me.â
âSo? I know your type.â
You roll your eyes. âAs if heâd go after me, Trin. He doesnât like me.â
âHate sex is a thing.â
âName one time hate sex solved the hate part.â
She purses her lips. âTouchĂŠ. What about like, baking him shit, like Huckleberry does forââ
âShut up Trinity!â
You both snicker.
âNo dice,â You sigh, âI canât bake for shit. Recipes never have enough context. Theyâre never specific enough.â
âTwo tablespoons of sugar isnât specific enough for you?â
âYouâre not helping.â
Trinity holds up her hands in mock surrender. âTo be fair, I never agreed to help. I just said weâd both be here if you wanted to come over.â
âI think you should just ask him.â Dennis pipes up.
He shuffles off the couch and slides into the second chair at the kitchen island adjacent to you. âDr. Abbot is a straightforward guy. He appreciates honesty. Doesnât beat around the bush. I canât imagine him being truly upset that you tried to fix a problem.â
âI want to, but thatâs like. Too straightforward. What ifââ
âOh my god,â Trinity moans, âJust ask him. Or fuck him. Do something so I donât have to hear about it anymore.â
You frown, opening your mouth to object, then close it with a sigh.
Sheâs right.
You have to just move on. Either deal with it or deal with it by⌠not dealing with it. Talk to him or donât.
Easier said than done.
â
It takes two more shifts of unrequited awkwardness for you to finally reach your limit. At a certain point, probably when you almost snapped at him for hovering (doing his job) while you were trying to intubate a patient, you realize that you cannot, actually, just get through to him via stubborn determination.
Damn.
So when you have a second, you corner him in one of the quieter hallways. The conversation has the potential to be horrifically embarrassing and mortifying, so itâs best if thereâs no audience.
âDo you have a minute, Dr. Abbot?â
He glances down at his watch, then crosses his arms and leans against the opposite wall.
He doesnât talk (unnerving, annoying) and his sharp, ever analyzing gaze makes your skin prickle as you cross your hands behind your back and mirror his position, leaning against the wall.
Heâs so irritating. He wonât even give you a fucking inch. Thereâs nothing to go on.
âDid I do something wrong?â
For the first time since you became a resident in the ED, he makes an expression: surprise.
âWhy do you think you did something wrong?â
âBecause you wonât fucking talk to me!â You hiss, absolutely fed up with Dr. Jack Abbot, âHalf the time you only look at me when you think I wonât notice. You donât talk to me unless itâs required for teaching, and even then, itâs short and stilted. Iâve seen how you interact with literally every other person who works here. I know you can be nice. Youâre just not nice to me, and Iâd like to know why.â
You pause. âAnd you took my beer!â
Thereâs a moment of silence, and then thereâs a breathy, almost wheezing sound that takes you a minute to place.
Heâs laughing.
Jack fucking Abbot starts laughing.
You honest to God want to kill him.
âSorry,â He says, eyes sparkling with mirth and shoulders loose, âI can see how all of that can be taken negativelyââ
âHow else was I supposed to take that.â
Jack levels you with a look, and you shut your mouth. âBut it was not my intention.â
He just stops speaking there, like thatâs a perfectly adequate explanation and not at all vague and almost more disconcerting.
âSoâŚ,â You drawl, âWhat was your intention?â
Something interesting, a little more heated than just analytical sparks in his gaze, and he tilts his head, eyes flicking up and down your body.
Under the silence and scrutiny, you resist the urge to squirm in place, hands squeezing themselves in an effort to subdue the itch.
âYou hate confrontation.â
Your chest feels like a cinder block just slammed onto it. âWhat?â
âYou,â He levels a finger at your chest, âHate confrontation. You hate it so much that you lie about yourself to people instead of saying things they might not like.â
You laugh nervously, voice high and reedy. âA lot of people do that. I donât think thatâs a crime.â
âItâs not. But it doesnât exactly make me want to trust you with my residents. With my team.â
âYouâre worried Iâll what? Get somebody in trouble? Do something shitty?â
âIâm worried that something is going to happen to you, and you wonât tell anyone about it.â
The hallway grows silent. In this distance thereâs beeping, someone shouting orders, a child crying. But not in the five feet of space you, Jack, and the conversion currently occupies.
âWhy do all of this?â You gesture vaguely to the space between you two, unwilling to be more specific. He does not deserve the itemized list you assembled in your head.
âI wanted to see if youâd confront me about it or not. Confirm my suspicions.â
âThatâsââ You wrinkle your nose, âActually kind of shitty of you.â
Jack just hums.
âSo what now? Did I prove myself to you?â Your tone is mocking.
He scoffs, âGod, you really hate confrontation, donât you?â
Your skin prickles again. âNo.â
âLying again.â
âShut up.â
He knows how uncomfortable heâs making you. Heâs doing it on purpose. And right then and there, you decide you donât care what Jack Abbot thinks, because if Jack Abbot is going to be a self-assured asshole, Jack Abbot can go fuck himself.
Your pager going off saves you from verbalizing any of this, and with one last glare, youâre gone.
â
If Jack was an obnoxious lurker before, it doesnât hold a damn candle to how he behaves now.
Heâs just. Everywhere. Around every corner. Driving you crazy.
When you bring this up to Trinity, she looks at you like youâve finally lost it.
Which. Okay. You probably have. But thatâs beside the point! The point isâŚ
âŚThe point is that Jack Abbot is getting on your last nerve and you really donât have any to spare. Life has been stomping all over the other ones, so the singular nerve Jack is stabbing with his annoying pointed looks and almost lingering touches and stupid little questions (âHey, that was a rough one, are you alright?â) is just worn out. It doesnât have anything left to give. You donât have anything left to give.
But, like you were brought up to do, you keep right on giving. And working. And smiling.
Because it goes a little something like this: Thereâs no one to pick you up if you fall. You pick yourself up when you fall, and youâve gotten pretty fucking good at it. All of your friends (read: Trinity and Dennis and maybe Mel) are doctors, which means you all have shitty work/life balance and no one would even be available if you called and said âHey, every morning I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and convince myself to get up while listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, after which I will inevitably cry on the bus to work. Would you mind helping me with my laundry?â
Okay. Well. Trinity would probably show up if you asked because once she decides that youâre her friend sheâs really intense about it (sheâs a bit like a Doberman or some other dog like that, not that you would ever tell her) and Dennis probably would too, but only because he never says no when someone asks for help so it kind of just feels like youâre taking advantage of him. Mel is far too busy juggling being an ED doctor and caring for Becca for you to even think about asking her without feeling intense, soul crushing guilt.
So yeah. You donât really have a best friend, unless one would count the singular romance book youâve read so much the spine is completely fucked and the pages are yellow from years of travel and rereading. Counting any book as a best friend is probably very pathetic. But hey, donât fix what isnât broken.
So you have a system and a method and crying before and after work every single day is totally, completely normal, healthy, and sustainable. Probably even more so in the medical field, and especially since youâre a PGY1. Interns gotta suffer and all that jazz.
Jack Abbot does not need to make the suffering worse by existing near you constantly. Things are really honestly bad enough.
âHey,â Trinity grabs your arm as youâre going by during a mellow shift, grip not tight enough to hurt but enough to be a bit past uncomfortable, especially for a girl not used to physical contact, âYou good?â
âNo,â You want to shout, collapsing on the floor in a heap of bones and tears, âI havenât done laundry in so long that Iâve started wearing my cleanest dirty socks instead of washing more. I donât have the energy to spend my days off doing anything productive, but every time I sleep instead of doing chores the anxiety eats me alive. I canât sleep at night because the guilt makes me so nervous sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I donât wash myself in the shower and I just stand in the water until it gets cold. Every day I wake up with the same headache, and then I take medicine for it, but by the time itâs gone Iâm going to bed and then I wake up with it all over again. I think my liver is shot from over-the-counter medication usage. Everything hurts. Iâm so tired.â
Trinity needs you to be okay. Trinity is too busy and under too much stress to worry about you. She needs you to be okay. Everyone needs you be okay.
âMhm!â You nod, lips spread wide, âPretty good day actually, all things considered.â
Itâs not a total lie. The headache relief youâve been taking religiously is kicking in faster than it usually does today.
Trinity scans your face, looking for signs of a lie, and she must find something (not shocking, itâs very hard to pretend that everything isnât awful when Everything Is Really Awful) because her grip tightens minutely and she does that pursed lip thing she does when sheâs worried and about to express it through anger or bitchiness.
âDonât fuck with me. I donât want to find out youâre like, doing drugs or something stupid like that. If youâre having a hard timeââ
âTrin,â You interrupt, skin prickling uncomfortably as she implies that youâre not capable of handling things on your own, âIf I need help, I know I can ask for it. And look,â
You tap your unbroken collection of glitter gel pens still intact in the front pocket of your scrubs. âItâs gotta be a good day. I still got my glitter.â
She wrinkles her nose, but drops your arm. âI donât even know why you keep those. You canât use them on like, anything. Itâs against hospital policy.â
You shrug. âGlitter is a great motivator and mood elevator. Plus, kids love âem.â
You manage to feign something important coming up and duck out of the conversation and then, when the coast is clear, dart into one of the lesser used bathrooms and tuck yourself in the darkest stall.
Even in a hospital, toilet seats are disgusting, but you canât quite summon any actual disgust as you plop down on the white porcelain, only lightly cracked, and cradle your exhausted head in your hands.
You have to keep going. There is no alternative. There is no other option.
Your chest feels tight and loose at the same time, and your skin feels clammy and wrong. Everything feels wrong. The lights are too bright and the material of your scrubs is scratchy and awful, and the longer you sit in the stall the more you want to throw up.
Someone knocks on the door before you get the chance to move down to your knees and start worshipping the porcelain altar. Assuming it to be Mel, who sometimes has a habit of showing up at the wrong time, you open the stall door to reveal none other than Jack Fucking Abbot.
You stare at him blankly for a few beats, too bewildered to feel sick. âYouâre not allowed to be in here.â
âIn the menâs bathroom?â
âThis isnât the menâs bathroom.â
âThe sign on the door would say otherwise.â
Embarrassment brings the nausea back tenfold. You hold the stall door in a white knuckle grip to keep yourself upright and from hurling onto your boss.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry, I swear I didnât do this on purposeââ
Jack raises an eyebrow, his hands folded behind his back. Military man, right.
âClearly.â
You stumble forward. âI need to goââ
âWoah, down girl. I didnât knock because I cared which toilet you use. You work here. Use whatever toilet you want. Preferably not the one in the attendingâs lounge.â
âThereâs an attendingâs lounge?â
âNo.â He grins, a devilish upturn to just the corner of his lips.
âOh,â You pause, then catch up to the rest of what he said, âThen whyâd you knock?â
âCause it kind of sounded like you were dying in there, and Iâd rather if you didnât.â
âWhy not?â
âThe paperwork, for one. Two, Santos would probably shank me.â
âAh.â
âAlso,â He shrugs, âIâd miss you.â
You scoff. âNo you wouldnât.â
âI would.â
âYou donât like me. You donât even trust me.â
Jack gets this pinched look on his face; his lips pull down, his brows furrow and he narrows his eyes, just a bit.
He opens his mouth to respond when the door bangs open.
Jack doesnât even look up before heâs barking:
âFind another bathroom.â
âBut I have toââ
âFind another bathroom or Iâll cut your dick off.â
The guy grumbles away, but Jack never takes his eyes off you. Itâs unnervingâ to be the sole focus of his attention.
Youâre the first to break the now tense silence of the bathroom.
âThat seemed a bit extreme.â
âIâm not a man who does things by halves.â
âNo,â You sigh, âI suppose youâre not.â
Jack cocks his head to side, almost predatory. More methodical than anything. He looks at youâ really looks at you. Shamelessly drags his eyes up your body, likely cataloguing every mystery bruise, frown line, eye bag, freckle, and all the million lines of exhaustion that seem etched on your very being, right down through the bones and marrow.
He sighs, crossing his arms before leaning back on the opposite wall of the bathroom.
âWhat am I going to do with you?â
His words instantly have you on edge, bristling at all the unsaid things behind his tone.
âIâm not something to be dealt with. Iâm a person, not some fuckingââ
âYouâre like a stray cat,â He interrupts, âAlways hissing. Do I need to win you over with treats? Should I start bringing canned tuna?â
âYouâre an asshole.â
âAnd youâre drowning.â
Just like that, all the humor gets sucked from the room, replaced with the cold, sharp grip of reality. Suddenly exhausted by the weight of it all, you drop back down onto the toilet seat.
Jack gives you a few moments to respond, get angry, or defend yourself, but you donât. Heâs too good at reading you, it seems. What is there to say?
When you donât speak, he does.
âDid you think no one would notice?â
âNo one has.â
âAm I no one?â
You lean back, closing your eyes and awkwardly resting the back of your head against the wall and the back of the toilet.
âYouâre nosy.â
If this were any other moment, any other scenario with any other person, you would never ever act so contrary. But youâre tired and Jack seems to bring out the worst in you.
He makes an amused huffing noise. âYouâre good at what you do, Iâll give you that.â
âWhat, exactly, am I doing?â
âPretending.â
You scoff. âFuck off.â
âCome on, sweetheart. How much longer are you going to do this to yourself?â
You lift your head off the back of the toilet. âYou act like Iâm killing myself:â
âYou are,â His inclined his head, âJust really slowly.â
You scrub a hand down your face.
âLook. I understand why you think you have to care, but you donât. Iâm just going through a rough patch. Iâll get through them like I always do. Iâm not gonna crash and burn or endanger myself or do whatever it is youâre worried Iâm going to do, okay? So you can leave me alone. Iâm fine.â
Jack doesnât get to respond, because the second the words are out of your mouth the nausea thatâs been churning in your stomach since you made it to the bathroom rises all at once, and you barely have time to slide off the toilet and turn before youâre throwing up hard enough to almost choke.
The worst part is that you forgot to eat lunch so your stomach is woefully, painfully empty. Youâre throwing up nothing but bile, throat burning and tears streaming down your face.
âAlright, come on,â A warm hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and if you werenât busy hurling your guts out, youâd marvel at the feeling and juxtaposition between the Jack you know, whoâs all cold indifference, and the Jack currently holding your hair out of your face while you vomit.
âLet it out,â He soothes, hand still rubbing, âDonât fight it. Itâll be over soon.â
âI hate throwing up.â You choke, coughing and gasping.
âNo one does. But youâll feel better when itâs over.â
Over feels like itâs never going to come. But eventually your stomach stops clenching, you manage to stop heaving, and youâre slumped over the toilet, sucking down gulps of air, sweat beading on your forehead and the back of your neck.
âThis,â You mumble in between gasps, âMeans nothing.â
You canât see Jackâs expression, but his response is so quiet you almost miss it.
âOkay.â
You canât see his face, but you know this isnât over.
â
Jack sends you home once youâre capable of standing on your own two feet without shaking like a newborn fawn.
(âYou canât send me home.â
âYes I can. Youâre not allowed to come back to work after throwing up in the bathroom.â
âWe both know Iâm not the only person to do it.â
âYeah, but I havenât caught the other people in the wrong bathroom and held their hair back while they vomited.â
ââŚâ
âYou only have two hours left anyway. Go home.â)
The problem lies in the fact that the buses arenât running yet, which means that you canât, actually, get home. Your house is an hour away on foot. An hour youâd normally be capable of walking, but your phone is almost dead, youâre exhausted, and you still feel a little weak because of the vomiting.
So after retrieving your things from your locker, you find yourself sitting on the little bench outside the PTMC, waiting for the minutes to tick by. If you didnât bring at least one book with you everywhere you go in case of emergencies (like this one) you probably would have just walked into oncoming traffic.
Itâs cold out and your jacket is cheap so you have to burrow into it, hood up to retain any semblance of warmth. It would be almost cozy âhuddled in your jacket, watching the city go by, tucked into your favorite romance bookâ if the shift hadnât gone the way it had and if a grueling bus ride and half mile walk didnât await you once the buses finally start running. Waiting for you beyond that is just chores and an empty apartment.
Your fingers tighten on the edges of your book.
âWhy the fuck are you still here?â
You jolt in place, cracking your neck over to the side and blinking blearily.
Jack. Again.
He makes an expectant face at you as if to say âWell?â when you donât answer immediately.
Your eyes dart back and forth nervously, even though you know you havenât done anything wrong. âThe buses arenât running yet. Itâs an hour walk to my house.â
Jack scrubs a hand down his face and curses under his breath.
âHow long until your bus gets here?â
You check your phone. Shit. Only four percent left.
âAnd hour and a half. Maybe a little longer if itâs running behind more than usual.â
He seems put out by your answer, as if the busâs heavily fluctuating schedule is of personal consequence and offense to him.
âUm,â You start, both uncomfortable at having been caught reading a romance book in public and at the general air of frustration Jack seems to be venting at the moment, âIâm fine. I have my book. I donât mind waiting.â
Jack just sighs.
âDo you really think Iâm just going to leave you out here, in the cold, after you threw up in the bathroom, to wait for the bus, for nearly two more hours?â
You wince. âWell, it doesnât sound great when you put it like that.â
He works his jaw. âHave you eaten?â
âNoâŚ?â
He shakes his head.
âCome on. Youâre coming with me.â
â
âI have to admit, this isnât where I thought we were going.
Thirty minutes later finds you seated on the cracked vinyl seat of a booth in a cheap diner, staring at a menu and rationalizing spending your last $15 on what will probably be mediocre pancakes.
Jack is seated across from you, already two mugs of coffee âblack, but oddly enough, decafâ and not even bothering to pretend to look at his menu. He either comes here often or doesnât care to act like he isnât staring at you.
Probably both.
âWhere did you think we were going?â
Steam curls out of your own untouched mug of coffee âordered for you by Jack, also unfortunately decafâ and you debate just getting up and running out of here.
Too bad youâre too exhausted to run anywhere. Jackâs probably banking on that.
âI donât know,â You shrug, setting the menu down, âMaybe to Gloriaâs office to write me up or something.â
âWhat would I even be writing you up for?â
âDisobeying direction? Iâm sure you could come up with something.â
The waitress chooses that moment to appear, notepad in hand. âAre we ready to order?â
Jack rattles off his order, and then two sets of eyes turn to you expectantly. Before you can order the single fruit bowl you were planning on getting (the cheapest thing on the menu) Jack pipes up:
âOrder whatever you actually want. Not whatever you think is cheapest or easiest.â
The waitress, a middle aged woman who has probably seen much worse than whatever the two of you have going on, just chuckles lightly under her breath.
You hesitantly list the item youâd been eyeing and thank the waitress.
It isnât until after the menus have been taken and Jackâs coffee re-upped for the third time that you manage to courage to speak.
âYou didnât have to do this, you know.â
âI know.â
âNo, I mean,â your fingers curl on the edge of the table, desperate for something to hold onto, âI canâtâ Itâll be awhile until I can pay you back. I barely made rent this month.â
âDo you think I would take you to breakfast and then make you pay?â
âYesâŚ?â
âYouâre not touching the bill, kid. Iâm a gentleman.â
âOh,â You didnât really see that coming, âOkay.â
Jack gets a funny expression on his face, then resumes his drinking coffee and glancing out the window routine.
âSo,â You say after a beat, âWas there something you wanted to talk aboutâŚ?â
The silence just feels so awkward. Itâs killing you.
He raises a brow. âDo you want to talk?â
âIâm asking you.â
âAnd Iâm asking you what you want to do. What do you usually do when you come out to eat?â
âI donât? Eating out is expensive, so. But when I do itâs usually by myself, so I end up just reading.â
Jack gestures to your bag beside you. âDonât let me stop you.â
âWhat?â
âRead your book.â
âBut thatâsâ isnât that boring for you?â
He sets his mug down. âI didnât bring you here because I wanted something from you. I brought you here because you had a shitty day and it seemed like you could use some cheering up. If reading makes you feel better, then do it.â
You have to look out the window to avoid his gaze. You donât understand how your perfectly crafted facade just crumbles into fucking dust around him. How he manages to see right through you at every turn, how he manages to uncover every lie and every half truth.
âHow did you even know I like diner food?â
âBecause I pay attention to you.â
You finally look back over at him, arms folded across your chest; not really defensively, more like youâre trying to hold your entire body together by sheer force of will.
Jackâs lips twitch. Not really a smile, but almost. âYou bring it up every time Santos wants to get food after a shift. She always says no, because she hates it, but it never stops you from suggesting it.â
Itâs just one detail. One tiny, inconsequential detail that heâs apparently memorized and held onto because to him, itâs important. For some impossible to understand reason, he seems to care.
"Also," He shrugs, "I'd miss you."
You scoff. "No you wouldn't."
"I would."
âDo you hate me?â
Jack looks back at you, seemingly startled by the abrupt question.
âNo.â
You take a deep, shuddering breath.
âOkay.â
â
âYou did what?â
You wince from your spot lying face-down on Trinityâs couch.
âNot so loud, Trin. I have a headache.â
She ignores you, seated on the floor almost directly in front of you. âSo youâve gone from hating each other to going on a date?â
âIt wasnât a date,â You groan, âWe spent almost the entire time in silence. I read my book and he stared out the window and did⌠whatever it is men like him do when they stare out the window.â
âBrooding,â Trinity says, âHe paid. That means itâs a date.â
âNo it doesnât!â
It doesn't. It totally doesn't. Just because Jack said he doesn't hate you doesn't mean he likes you either. There are a lot of emotions in between hate and love. Like toleration, for example. Mild amusement. Exasperation. An appropriate amount of annoyance.
Trinity pokes you on the back of your head, having none of it.
"He likes you. Why else would he willingly hang out with one of us after work?"
"He goes out for drinks in the park sometimes." You mumble.
"Yeah, after an MCI."
What Trinity doesn't know is the events leading up to breakfast at the diner, because that would involve telling her about the whole throwing up from anxiety in the men's bathroom directly after a mini-panic attack because she confronted you about your unhealthy lifestyle (which all just sounds a lot worse than it is), so there isn't really a way to give her the kind of context necessary to get her off your back and dissuade her from her (insanely insane) belief that Jack likes you. Romantically.
"Trust me Trin, he was just being nice. Nothing romantic about it."
It was kind of romantic. Just eating surprisingly good food in the company of someone you don't need to pretend around, enjoying being in the company of another human being without worry or expectation.
Not that she needs to know that.
"Jack doesn't do nice. Have you seen him? What happened to the hating?"
You shrug. "You'll just have to ask him, because I don't know."
You do know. He told you. Explained it.
It doesn't make sense.
Trinity throws her hands in the air dramatically.
"Whatever. You two are impossible."
She finally withdraws, leaving you to wallow in your headache-induced misery by yourself on her couch.
Your phone vibrates on the floor next to you, and you groan, rolling further over to hide yourself in the crack of the couch, shunning the light like the reclusive vampire you are.
Your phone vibrates again.
âDennis,â your voice is muffled by the couch cushion so it ends up sounding more like âdenimâ, âCan you please see whoâs texting me and tell them to fuck off?â
Dennis, who was eating cereal at the tiny table near the kitchen when you first showed up fifteen minutes ago and has pointedly stayed silent throughout the entire exchange between you and Trinity, finally speaks.
âYour phone is two inches away from your hand.â
âI have a headache I donât wanna look at the screen.â
You feel rather than actually see him roll his eyes, but then thereâs the clink of a spoon against a bowl and the faint sound of socked âyouâve genuinely never seen him ever be barefoot under any circumstances, no matter what, heâs always wearing socksâ feet as they make their way over to your temporary pit (couch) of despair.
Thereâs a quiet rustle as he picks up your phone off the floor.
âOh.â
You whine, dramatic and upset. âWhat?â
âUm,â He grabs your shoulder, slowly rolling you over and away from the back of the couch, âItâs Jack?â
âWhat!?â You screech.
You throw yourself up, wincing as you immediately regret it when the pain in your head doubles, take a steadying breath to ignore it, and then grab the phone from Dennisâs outstretched hand.
You turn on the phone andâ yep. Sure enough. A text from Jack, complete with the stupid picture of a dinosaur you made his profile picture. Because heâs old.
(It was funnier at the time.)
Somewhere behind you thereâs a crash, and then the thump thump thump that can only mean a person running towards you at dangerous speeds for sock covered feet on cheap linoleum.
âIncoming,â Dennis mutters.
âDid I just hear that right?â Trinity gasps, nearly giving herself blunt force trauma via the back of the couch, âDid Jack just text you?â
âI donât know!â You cry.
âHow do you not know! Your phone is right in your fucking hands!â
âIâm tired! Stop yelling at me!â
âGuys!â Dennis shouts, holding up his hands, âI refuse to spend my day off listening to you two argue over the validity of romance with our attending. Give me the phone.â
He snatches the phone without waiting for a response, quickly typing in your password (if there was ever a moment you regret telling him in case of emergencyâŚ) and opening the text.
He makes an incredulous face at the phone before saying:
âHe asked what youâre doing today.â
Trinity claps once. âFucking called it!â
âTrinity!â Dennis snaps, before sighing and tapping at your keyboard, âIâm telling him that you have a headache and youâre at our place and to please not text againââ
âNo!â You squeal, launching yourself off the couch, arms outstretched, but your legs tangle over each other and you fall and slam, gloriously and beautifully, face first into the coffee table.
âOo!â Trinity winces, covering her mouth.
âOh my god!â Dennis balks, âAre you okay?â
âJust give me the fucking phone.â
Peeling your face off, you grab the phone, squinting at the screen and ignoring the black spots in the corner of your vision.
hi, you type, Iâm at Trinity and Dennisâs. Did you need something?
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.
âWe,â You haul yourself to your feet and stagger over to the kitchen table, âWill never speak of this.â
âI definitely am. When Iâm the maid of honor at your guys wedding, Iâm gonna give a speech and be all âyou guys, she gave herself a concussion the first time he textedâââ
âThere will be no wedding!â
âThatâs just what you think.â
Your phone vibrates again, signaling a response.
Just wondering how you were doing. Surprised to hear youâre not holed up in your apartment reading something.
Ah, sexy old men and their correct grammar and punctuation when texting. Shouldnât be endearing.
âWhatâs he saying?â
âGo away!â
You tap out a quick response.
Not today unfortunately lol I have a headache so no reading for me
Isnât this the sixth day in a row youâve had a headache? Should I give neuro a call?
You stomach flips.
nooo Iâm fine i get them all the time
Thatâs not exactly reassuring.
I went to the doctor for them awhile ago apparently theyâre normal
Who?
if I tell you, are you going to call him and make him send over my chart?
Yes.
Your heart is starting to pound a fluttering beat in your chest, and you hunch over your phone.
then iâm not telling you. itâs fine, really
they usually go away when i take over the counter stuff
So your plan is just to destroy your liver?
pretty much
We need to work on your planning skills.
we?
Iâm not doing all the work.
Now stop looking at your phone. Drink some Gatorade and take a nap.
this is a resident apartment thereâs no gatorade here just redbulls
Have either of them buy you one. Iâll pay whichever one it is later. Go to sleep. You need it.
You turn off your phone, shuffling back over to the couch and flopping down onto it.
âIâm taking a nap. Jack wants one of you to go buy me a Gatorade. He said heâd pay you back later.â
âHe said what?â
â
You end up sleeping the entire day away, which should have screwed up your sleep schedule, but thankfully you live in a state of perpetual exhaustion and are fully capable of falling asleep anytime, anywhere, no matter how much you last sleep. Itâs a gift.
Shockingly, the shift you work the next day is actually much easier to survive and your smiles arenât nearly as forced. Go figure. Who knew that getting an appropriate amount of sleep would be so helpful?
âSomebodyâs in a better mood today.â Jack mutters as you sidle up next to him under the board.
âIâm pretty sure I slept for like, fourteen straight hours. Thanks for the Gatorade, by the way. I woke up around hour three, chugged it, and then went back to sleep. No headache when I woke up!â
âWonderful,â He drawls, âItâs almost like taking care of yourself is actually beneficial.â
âI take care of myself plenty.â
He casts you a sidelong glance, expression pinched.
âWhen was the last time you drank water without being prompted?â
âThatâs different.â
âOkay,â He dips his head, âWhen was the last time you ever felt truly relaxed?â
You give him a beaming smile, so wide it hurts. âWeâre not going to talk about this right now!â
âYou started this conversation. Iâm trying to do my job.â
You snort. âYouâre waiting to see if someone else is going to take the sunburn guy.â
âAre you accusing an attending of cherry picking?â
âOf course not. Just observing, sir.â
Jackâs turned to look at you now, head tilted up, hands folded behind his back.
When you say sir, his eyes flick down to your lips, and then his jaw tightens.
The air suddenly becomes charged, the space between you two filled with something too electric to be air.
It smells like aftershave, hospital antiseptic, wanting, and something thatâs distinctly masculine.
You look away first, swallowing hard past the sudden dryness of your mouth.
âYou know,â You say, crossing your arms and looking up at the board, âTrinity thinks you like me. Romantically.â
âMm.â
âI told her that was dumb,â You babble, âObviously itâs not true, but. She wonât let it go, so if she says something, just ignore her. Or not. Whatever you want.â
âWhy wouldnât it be true?â
You whip your head around so fast youâre pretty sure something cracks. âWhat?â
âI mean,â Jackâs voice is gruff as he shrugs once, âIs that really so unrealistic?â
âOf course it is,â You sputter, âYou donât like me.â
âIâve actually never said that. That was a conclusion you came to on your own. I distinctly recall telling you that I donât hate you.â
âJust because you donât hate me doesnât mean that you like me, let aloneâ like that.â
Jack tilts his head, almost predatory, and all that sharp tension rushes straight back in.
âLike what?â
Something hot and dangerous is starting to unfurl in your chest, untethering from where it was previously lodged deep behind your ribs, out of sight, out of feeling.
âCode Blue en route, ETA two minutes.â
Jack jerks his head in the direction of the ambulance bay. âYou gonna go get that?â
âUh,â Youâre pretty sure youâre stroking out, having a seizure, or something, because the only thing youâre capable of comprehending is the fact that Jack just not-so-subtly implied to actually liking you. Romantically.
âGet going then.â
You scurry away, hot all over and absolutely done with emotions in their entirety.
â
The rest of the week is hell on Earth. Perks of being in your twenties.
Things could be worse though!
Kind of.
Itâs just that itâs been several days since Jack basically confirmed Trinityâs suspicions on romance and you canât stop thinking about it. Obsessively.
Itâs bad.
Bad enough that when Mel asked if there was any way you could cover her shift, you said yes.
âOkay,â Dennis stage-whispers as youâre downing your third coffee of the day, miserably charting at the nurses station, âI feel the need to ask how bad things can possibly be if youâre covering a day shift.â
âMel asked.â
Dennis blinks incredulously. âYou love Mel, but not enough to work a day shift voluntarily.â
âWhat exactly are you asking me here?â
âDid you and Jack hit a rough patch or something?â
âKeep your voice down!â You hiss, ducking your head as if you can hide from Princess and Perlah, âAnd for your information, no. We didnât. I just wanted to do something nice for Mel.â
âI donât believe you.â
âI donât need you to believe me.â
Day-shift crawls on in a whirlwind of chaos and a level of dumb-fuckery that can only be achieved from the hours of 8 a.m to 8 p.m. As usual, the place is understaffed, overcrowded, and filled with a lingering sense of impending doom.
By the time night-shift starts filtering in, youâre ready to completely give up and start a new life a sheep rancher in New Zealand. Itâs always been the plan if being a doctor didnât work out.
Jack finds you in the locker room once the handoff is over, sitting on the little bench in the same position Dennis found you in earlier. Face in your hands, heels in your eyes, methodically counting breaths and wondering if that fluttering feeling in your chest is from caffeine consumption or sleep deprivation.
Itâs fine. Your fine. Everything is fine.
âYou donât look too good.â
âIâmââ
âDonât say youâre fine.â
âBut I am,â You grit, âI just need a minute.â
âOkay.â
Thereâs the distinct sound of Jackâs slightly uneven footsteps, and then thereâs a warm weight pressed against your side.
You take another shuddering breath that feels less like breathing and more like placing a single brick in a wobbly foundation.
âShouldnât you be out on the floor?â
âI donât work tonight.â
You raise your head just enough to look at him. âYou donât? I thought I saw you on the schedule. Why are you here if you donât work?â
Now that youâre looking at him and not starburst patterns on the back of your eyelids, you can see that heâs wearing casual clothes, not scrubs, and he doesnât have his usual army-issue backpack with him.
âI got Shen to cover me. I came here for you.â
Your next breath in almost gets stuck in your chest, air struggling to move past that alive and wriggling thing that keeps moving every time Jack is around.
âWhatâd you do that for?â
The barest hints of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. âDennis called me. He said youâd need picking up after your shift.â
Shame, guilt, and embarrassment flood your veins, turning your blood into sickly-sweet poison that makes your stomach roll and twist.
âOh my god, Iâm so sorry, I have no idea why he did that. You really didnât have to drive all the way over here, I swear I didnât tell him to call you or something like thatââ
âI know you didnât,â Jack soothes, voice a rumbly, smooth timber that washes over your permanently-frazzled nerves like a balm, âWhich is why I came.â
âI donât understand.â
Jack stands, pulling your bag and change of clothes out of your locker.
âIâm going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, so you donât have to answer it again. Can you do that for me?â
You nod once.
âWords.â
âUhâ yeah. Yes.â
âGood.â
Thank god the locker room is emptyâ everyoneâs either on the floor or already left for their homes.
He closes your locker down, shoulders your bag, and hands you your clothes.
âIs it easier for you to accept help when you donât have to ask and donât get the chance to say no?â
It sounds so pathetic, hearing it laid out like that. The ugly guts of you; cut open, laid bare, and marked for research. Exhibit A, the inside of the girl no one ever needed to worry about.
You donât want to agree. You want to laugh it off, maybe run away from it. Sit up straight, wipe your face, take the bag from Jack and explain that this is all a big misunderstanding and youâre perfectly fine and he can stop worrying about you now.
âYes.â
Jack doesnât verbally acknowledge your response besides a single dip of his head, like he knows that if he does anything more itâll turn your response into a confession and thatâs just too vulnerable for the hospital locker room.
âIâll drive you home.â
âI donât mean to be this way, you know.â
The passenger seat of Jackâs car isnât somewhere youâd ever imagined yourself being. Not even late at night or on the bus when youâre pretending to be someone else whoâs better at chasing what they want.
âIt stopped being intentional a long time ago,â your hands are fisted into the material of your sweatpants, nails digging into the fabric, âIt was just the natural progression of things. I like being liked.â
What you donât say, what becomes an unspoken truth that lingers in the air despite not being verbalized, is the survival aspect of it. Why and how a person fuses this kind of thing to their personality; to their life. The circumstances that makes the natural progression of things end it being better for everyone if you just donât have needs.
âI know.â
âI know you know, I just⌠needed to tell you. Myself.â
Itâs odd seeing Jack illuminated by streetlights instead of fluorescent overheads. Itâs odd being able to watch his hand flex on the steering wheel, watching his forearm tense as he shifts gears in his old stick-shift.
âYou like being told what to do.â
Your face heats, but youâre determined not to lose face now. Especially after managing to survive being emotionally flayed open, willingly, by him.
âIt feels safe. If I know what yoâ someone wants, then I canât mess it up, and I can relax.â
You can practically see the gears turning in Jackâs mind.
âMakes sense.â
The rest of the drive is quiet, the silence only filled by the sounds of Pittsburgh around you and the gentle crackle of something from the radio turned down too low to hear.
And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you begin feeling something that approaches calm.
Jack doesnât have any expectations. There isnât any one particular way he wants you to act or expects you to behave like. Thereâs nothing he wants you to do.
So you do what you want to do.
You relax.
â
In the weeks following Jack driving you home, there is a quantifiable shift in behavior between the two of you.
He starts pulling back.
It strikes you as odd first, and your natural inclination is to pull back tooâ to guard the soft, vulnerable bits youâve showed him in case he throws them back at you.
But then you realize what heâs doing.
Instead of telling you how to proceed on a case when you come to him for advice, he asks you questions and steers you to the answer. He holds back when heâs evaluating a case with you, patiently following your lead and only interjecting when necessary.
Heâs making space for you try new things and learn without fear of rejection. Building your confidence bit by bit.
It feels more intimate than sex.
After much deliberation, screaming into your pillow, and Reddit forum searching for HR violations, you decide to get him a card. Because heâs actually been really kind and helpful and he makes you feel like you can actually survive residency.
âWhatâs this?â
âA thank you card.â
Youâre staring at your shoes, eyes flicking up and down between Jackâs face and the floor.
âWhat for?â
âIt says it in the card.â
You scurry away, attaching yourself to the closest patient to avoid seeing Jackâs face when he does finally open it.
But when you look back, heâs just staring at it, a small smile on his face.
â
Itâs the card that does him in.
Jack hasnât made his feelings for you a secret, despite your unwillingness to see him as anything other than standoffish in the beginning.
He came on too strong at firstâ that was his fault. He didnât yet understand how imbedded your need ran and how long itâd been since anyone bothered to look deeper.
Heâd hoped, at least, that you were letting Whitaker and Santos help, and though you let them closer than most, it was clear you still seemed intent on holding up yourself and everyone around you on your own.
But it wasnât just that. It was the way you oozed kindnessâ like it was a byproduct of your existence. He watched you get so wrapped up in being the perfect resident, perfect friend, perfect person, that no one ever stopped to let you know how good you were just by being.
He hadnât planned on developing feelings or anything of the sort. At first, youâd just been one of his residents. Smart and capable but lacking confidence in yourself to fully commit. Then there was that MCI, and drinks in the park afterwards where heâd painfully watched you sip a beer you clearly hated, and everything just clicked right into place.
He never intends to flirt with you. It just happens. He canât help himself. Heâs a weak fucking man when it comes to you.
And then you bring him a card. A fucking card. To thank him for doing his job as an attending, a job he shouldâve been doing better from the start. It has an illustration of bananas on it and says âThanks a bunch!â.
He knows heâs completely gone, then. He was capable of being in denial before, could delude himself into thinking that what he felt was casual, but the sight of you before him, hands nervously wringing, your glitter gel pens sparkling as they caught the light was just the final nail in the coffin.
He allows himself a modicum of flirting on a day to day basis, mostly because if he couldnât tease that real smile out of you at least once per day, heâd lose his mind.
Sometimes he takes you back to the diner, especially on longer days where none of your smiles reach your eyes and you start obsessively uncapping and capping your gel pens.
Even though you think it âlooks dumbâ youâve also taken to sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the booth, and he pretends he canât see you sneaking fries off his plate because he knows how much effort it takes you to ask him if you can sit with him instead of on the opposite side.
Then he starts driving you home during a string of bad weather after you start sneezing from walking in the rain everyday, but even after the storm passes and the weather clears up he still finds you at the lockers, every day, car keys in hand. No matter how many times he does it, you always look so happily surprised that heâs still offering.
As if heâs not wrapped around your finger.
One day, after things have been mellow for awhile, Whitaker calls him and says that neither he nor Trinity have seen you in three days and you called out of work.
So naturally, as a calm and collected man, he showed up to your house.
Youâd answered the door after the third time he knocked (which was great, because he was gearing up to force the door open) and you just looked miserable. Your hair was a mess, you head blanket wrinkles imprinted onto your face, and your eyes were puffy.
âJack?â Youâd mumbled, squinting your eyes against the not very bright light in the hallway, âWhy are you at my apartment?â
âNo oneâs heard from you in three days.â
You wince. âI swear I meant to text Trinity. I just have a bad headache.â
His fingers twitch towards a penlight he doesnât have. âHow bad?â
âI donât know. Like a seven on the pain scale?â
âJesusâ Iâm coming in.â
âNooo,â You cry, but shuffle back from the door and put up very little fight as he ushers you to the couch.
Your apartment isâŚ.. exactly as messy as heâd imagined a resident who lives alone would be. For someone who doesnât drink enough water, there are an incredible amount of beverage bottles and cans littered about.
âDo you have headache relief?â
You gesture to the kitchen. âCabinet furthest to the left.â
While rifling through your very disorganized medicine cabinet, he spies an orange prescription bottle with your name on it, dated for the previous year.
âWhy do you have a prescription for a high level antihistamine?â
âStop snooping. Itâs for my migraines.â
âYouâve had a prescription this entire time and youâve been taking all that over the counter shit?â
âStop being mad,â You mumble into the couch cushion, âMy migraine meds put me to sleep, so I canât take them when Iâm working. Plus I donât have any refills left so I save them for when itâs really bad.â
âYou called out of work and havenât left your apartment in three days and you donât consider this bad?â
âCould be worse. Could be throwing up.â
He sighs. Sets the bottle on the counter, breathes in once, then lets it out slowly. Imagines all the ways he could murder whoever made you think suffering alone for three days is preferable to asking for help.
âIâm going to help you back to bed,â He starts, voice low as he rounds the couch, âAnd then youâre going to drink some electrolytes, have a snack, and take your meds. Okay?â
The migraine has clearly taken it out of you, because you put up zero fight as he manhandles you to your feet and helps you drag yourself back to your bed.
âMâ sorry my apartment is a mess. I was supposed to clean it.â
âIâm not judging, sweetheart,â He says, tucking the blankets up around you, lips twitching as you make grabby hands for a giant triceratops plushie that looks to be the size of your upper body. âIâm gonna make you a snack, so try to stay awake until I come back. Can you do that?â
âMhm. Iâll try.â
âGood girl.â
He manages to find a cucumber in your fridge, cuts it into slices and then adds a few pieces of lunch meat for protein. Last but not least, he snags a bottle of blue Gatorade from your pantry.
(He only knows they were there because he bought them for you a few weeks ago.)
He doesnât make you sit up to eat, but instead scoots you a little ways away from the edge of your bed so thereâs space for the plate.
You slowly nibble your way through, taking little sips of Gatorade when he nudges the bottle into your hands.
You finish the cucumbers, eat most of the lunch meat, and drink half the Gatorade before burrowing back into the blankets and declaring yourself done.
âCan I have my sleep mask please? I think itâs on the floor under my nightstand?â
âOf course you can.â
After your face mask is on and the curtains closed, he gives you the correct dose of your meds and gently shuts the door to your bedroom.
He fires off a quick text to Whitaker (he doesnât have Santosâs number) that says youâre fine, stuck in bed with a migraine, and that heâs handling it.
And then he gets to work.
Two hours later your apartment is clean, your laundry is started, and Jackâs relaxing on your couch, aimlessly watching the news.
He hears the door creak open but knows you hate feeling on the spot, so he keeps his gaze trained on the tv even as he hears the sound of you shuffling over to the couch.
And then you pause.
âJack.â
âYes?â
âDid you clean my apartment?â
He finally looks over to you, and when his gaze reaches your face his stomach drops.
Youâre crying.
He hauls himself off the couch (heâs thankful that he put his leg back on a few minutes prior) and stops in front of you, arms twitching at his sides with the need to fix, help, to stop whatever it is thatâs making you cry.
âWhatâs wrong? Did I overstep?â
âNo,â You warble, voice wet, âI just havenât had the time or energy to clean in here for so long, and itâs been stressing me out so bad I avoid staying here during my off days. Itâs just really, really nice of you.â
You look at him, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide with worry, âIâ Iâm not sure how to repay you for all of this. I know you said going to the diner was fine, but this isâ a lot.â
âSweetheart,â He starts, bracing one hand on the side of your face, thumb deftly sweeping across your cheek and wiping away the quickly drying tears, âIâm not doing any of this because I expect you to repay me. Iâm doing it because I care about you and I want to see you happy.â
You sniff hard. âThis is a lot of work, though.â
âI like doing it. I like taking care of you.â
Another sniff. âIt doesnât seem very fun.â
âI told you. Youâre like a cat. Had to coax you over and now look at you,â he thumb rubs circles over your cheekbone, âPractically purring.â
You wrinkle your nose. âI donât know if I like this metaphor.â
âGet used to it.â
You sigh, dramatic and long.
âI suppose Iâll allow it.â
âOh, youâll allow it, huh.â
You fold your hands behind your back, rocking back and forth on your heels. âYes. Iâll allow it.â
âWell, arenât I lucky.â
Later, when youâre lying on the couch, two movies into what Jack thinks is an unofficial early 2000s rom-com marathon (your favorite genre) you turn to look up at him from your spot tucked into his side.
âThis is romantic, right?â
He presses a lazy kiss to your forehead, because he knows how much you like physical affirmations as well as verbal ones.
âYes.â
âYouâre serious about this?â
âYou need confirmation?â
âIâd rather have it in writing, but this will do for now.â
He huffs a breathy laugh, tucks you closer to his chest.
âIâll put it in writing for you later.â
You hum, pleased, and snuggle back into him, letting out a content sigh.
Summary: Maekar is trying to provide a good life for his new wife by removing himself from her company and offering alternatives. He fails. Warnings: a bit of angst because of pining, a bit of smut.
The morning light cut through the high, narrow windows of Summerhall with a pale, wintry insistence, and Maekar Targaryen, prince of the Seven Kingdoms, found himself staring at the ceiling of a room that was not his own. It was decorated with painted vines, a delicate feminine touch he had never bothered to notice before. The bed linens smelled of lavender and something else, sweet and warm. The weight on his arm was the source of the latter.
You were curled against him like a dormouse seeking warmth, both your hands wrapped around the corded muscle of his forearm as if he were a lifeline in a storm. Your cheek was pressed to his shoulder, lips slightly parted in the ease of deep, trusting sleep. A strand of your hair had escaped your night braid and lay across his tunic.
Maekar did not move.
He was a prince, a warrior, a man who had crushed rebellions beneath his mace and watched men die without flinching. But this, the soft, contented curve of your mouth, the way your breath puffed in tiny, even waves against his sleeve, paralyzed him. He cast his mind back, desperately trying to remember when exactly his careful, honorable plan had crumbled to dust. It was the previous night. It had been a fool's errand, a mission of pure and unparalleled idiocy disguised as magnanimity.
For months, he had constructed a cage for you, gilded and sprawling, and called it a marriage. After the death of his first wife, the mother of his children, the very concept of a new bride had felt like a betrayal, a picking at a wound that had barely scarred over after years. His brother, King Aerys, had insisted. The match was politically sound. You were from a fine lineage, a daughter of a loyal house, and your dowry was a collection of trade agreements and land rights that made the court accountants rub their hands with joy.
And you. You were a pretty thing: young, sweet, blinking up at him at the Sept with your big eyes, he had noted absently, and a slight pout on your mouth. He recognized that pout now, not as petulance, but as a sign of deep concentration, an unconscious expression you wore when you were trying very, very hard to be brave.
At the wedding feast, you had tried to engage him in conversation, your voice a soft, hopeful melody against the droning noise of the hall. He had grunted in response, complaining about the seasoning on the boar. You had blinked, then smiled, a small, tentative thing, and said, "Perhaps the kitchens will do better with the lemon cakes, my prince. Would you like me to ask them to bring some?" Deflecting his rudeness with a kindness so artless and sweet it had made his teeth ache.
He had taken you to Summerhall, the seat of his power and the monument to his own complicated legacy. He gave you servants who curtsied low, spacious rooms filled with sunlight and tapestries you seemed to admire, and a generous allowance that could have purchased a small fleet of ships. He had daughters, Daella and Rhae, who were delighted with you, finding in you a new playmate, a doll who could speak and laugh and teach them new embroidery stitches. His sons were a different matter. Aerion was a burning star of chaos somewhere in Essos, Aemon was at the Citadel, chaining himself to books, and DaeronâŚDaeron was usually never counted. The thought of his eldest, a dissipated dreamer, brought a familiar, leaden weariness to his gut. But the girls were happy, and you were occupied.
He thought he had it all handled.
Everything was provided, he had reasoned, watching you from across the courtyard one afternoon as you and Rhae chased a butterfly. You were a young maiden. His idea of a comfortable existence was good service, a sturdy roof, a well-stocked armory, and a couple of friends with whom to share a flask of strongwine. He had assumed, in his colossal, self-absorbed ignorance, that your needs were the same.
Until he started to see it. The quiet sigh you suppressed when he answered your sweet inquiry about his wellbeing with a noncommittal grunt at the dinner table. The way your eyes, those big, expressive eyes, would track a young knight in the yard as he laughed with his comrades, not with lust, but with a kind of wistful, academic curiosity. You were studying a creature you had never encountered. Daella, his sweet daughter, was already starting to enter that phase of mooning over singers and sighing at sunsets, a phase he dreaded with every fiber of his being. And you, his wife, a lively girl not much older than his own children, were saddled with a grumpy man whose range of communication with her was limited to tactical assessments of mutton and grunts about the weather. You were drowning in comfort and starved of life.
He could commission solutions. Jewelry? A cascade of sapphires appeared on your vanity. New dresses? Bolts of lace and silks in hues of deep green and amethyst filled your wardrobes. Rare books? He had a first-edition history of the Rhoynar, bound in pale leather, delivered to your solar. You had been effusive in your thanks, your pout melting into a radiant smile, but the smile never quite reached your eyes. The problem, he realized with a cold, hard jolt, was not resources.
The problem was romance. He couldn't morph himself into a handsome young knight with a carefree disposition and light humor, the kind of man who would compose a song for you, who would bring you a wildflower heâd picked on a reckless morning ride, who would whisper sweet, foolish nothings in your ear. He was Maekar Targaryen, a blunt instrument, a man of duty and gristle and a simmering, constant irritation at the world.
His poor wife. You were left to smile and giggle quietly at his dry, caustic remarks about a visiting lordâs speech. And you seemed genuinely amused by them, your laughter a soft, surprised ripple of sound that made him pause, mid-chew, in confusion. You were so deprived of pleasant company that you took what you could get from him, poor sweet thing. The realization had made him want to kick himself.
So, he had formed a plan, a scheme that, at the time, had seemed the pinnacle of rational, self-sacrificing genius. He went through his guards the next day under the guise of a brutal, unforgiving drill. He had them running siege patterns, sparring until their padded armor was dark with sweat, watching them like a hawk. He found the one he was looking for: Ser Elyas, a bastard from the Reach. He was honorable, sharp as a blade, and handsome in that sun-kissed, broad-shouldered way that maidens were supposed to swoon over. His laugh was easy, his temperament unruffled.
"Ser Elyas," Maekar had rumbled, his voice a low thunder. "You are being reassigned. You are now the personal guard to my wife, the princess. You will see to her safety at all times. You will accompany her on walks, attend her in the gardens, and ensure no harm befalls her."
He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.
Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.
He was at his witsâ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.
The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.
"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.
He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "IâŚI came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.
You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.
He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.
But he didnât catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, beingâŚpleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."
The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."
He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.
Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."
Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"
"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.
He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.
And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.
Now, it was morning. The maidâs insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.
"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"
Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.
You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.
All this time, you had wanted him.
He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.
"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."
The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.
The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.
You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.
You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.
This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.
And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.
The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?
"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."
You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"
"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."
But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."
It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.
This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.
Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.
A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.
"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."
He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.
"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."
Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.
"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.
"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."
"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.
"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."
"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."
You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.
"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."
He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.
"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.
"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."
He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.
But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.
It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.
But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.
He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.
Then came the night of the kiss.
It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.
"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.
And then you kissed him.
It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.
Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.
You had kissed him.
This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.
A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.
But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.
Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?
He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.
He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.
Gods be good.
He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.
Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.
He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.
But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.
Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.
Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.
The kisses continued.
Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.
He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.
The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.
It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.
Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.
Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.
He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.
"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."
Your breath caught. "Maekar..."
He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.
"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."
His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.
When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.
You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.
He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."
"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."
You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.
This, too, became a habit.
Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.
He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.
It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.
You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.
The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.
"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"
"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.
You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.
"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"
The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.
"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you neverâŚ" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."
"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.
"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."
He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There areâŚconsequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."
"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."
It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.
You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."
Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.
But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. ButâŚ" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."
Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.
"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."
The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.
He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.
"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.
His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.
You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.
"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."
"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."
"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."
Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."
"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."
He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.
"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader
summary: Youâre used to handling things alone, even if handling them means skipping meals, ignoring problems, and laughing before anyone can see where it stings. Then Jack Abbot starts noticing too much. He pays attention in that quiet, maddening way of his, all dry comments and practical solutions, until calling him your sugar daddy stops feeling like a joke and starts feeling like the only safe label for something youâre too terrified to name.
Because the problem with Jack Abbot isnât that he wants to take care of you. Itâs that you want to let him.
wc: 12.9k
a/n: and here it is, the accidental sugar daddy abbot fic i started over a month ago!! was initially toying with the idea to turn this into a multi-chaptered story but eventually settled on a one-shot instead because i have way too many ongoing fics i need to finish at some point lmao. i really wanted to take the sugar daddy trope and make it feel more grounded and in-character for jack, less flashy billionaire fantasy, more quiet practical care that gets way too intimate before either of you knows what to do with it. not beta read.
warnings: age gap, workplace power imbalance, attending/resident turned sd/sb dynamic, class/money insecurity, possessive/soft dom!jack, semi-public sex, piv, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, biting/marking, daddy kink adjacent, public humiliation, no use of y/n
MASTERLIST
By the third time your card declined in front of Jack Abbot, you were ready to walk into traffic and let Pittsburgh finish what your bank account started.
Not dramatically. Not even with much feeling.
Just a clean, practical exit from the kind of humiliation that made your skin feel too tight over your bones.
The cafeteria at PTMC was too bright for this hour, all hard fluorescent light and polished floors and the faint, permanent smell of fryer oil losing a war against antiseptic. Behind you, the emergency department pulsed on with its usual awful rhythmâmonitors chiming, stretchers squealing past, somebody coughing low and ragged, the sound dragging itself through the corridor, Dana Evans barking for someone to move their ass before she moved it for them. It was a living thing down here. Hungry. Overlit. Never satisfied.
You had a wrapped turkey sandwich in one hand, a bruised banana in the other, and that particular, skin-tight shame of being broke in public.
The cashier, who looked as tired as everyone else in the building, tried not to make a face at the register.
âSometimes itâs the chip,â she said.
âItâs not the chip,â you said, because apparently your mouth had decided the truth was less embarrassing than optimism.
You could feel the line behind you growing restless. A respiratory therapist with a Diet Coke. A med student in wrinkled scrubs whispering urgently into their phone. Dr. Whitaker, gentle-eyed and awkward, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to give you privacy by force of will. Somewhere near the coffee station, Santos was talking too loudly about a procedure she âabsolutely couldâve done faster if anyone had let her finish,â and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like sheâd considered the whole person first.
You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.
âItâs fine,â you said, already turning. âI donât need it.â
A hand reached past your shoulder and tapped a card against the reader.
The machine beeped.
Approved.
You froze.
Jack Abbot stood close enough behind you that you caught the familiar edge of him before you looked upâthe clean, medicinal bite of hospital soap, the stale warmth of coffee, the faintest trace of sweat under scrubs after too many hours on his feet. He didnât look at you right away. He watched the cashier print the receipt with the same expression he wore when waiting for labs, jaw set, eyes tired, patience worn thin but not gone.
âBag?â the cashier asked.
âNo,â Jack said.
You stood there with the sandwich in one hand and the banana in the other, suddenly too aware of the bruised peel, the cold give of the sandwich through the cloudy plastic, the line behind you, and Jack Abbotâs shoulder beside yours.
You stared at him. âSeriously?â
He finally looked at you.
Jack Abbot always looked like heâd been awake since the Clinton administration. It shouldâve made him less attractive. It didn't. The exhaustion sat under his eyes and in the lines bracketing his mouth, but there was something about him that made tired look like discipline instead of defeat. His hair was a little mussed, his scrubs were creased at the hips, and his stance had that slight adjustment youâd learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMCâthe subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.
âWhat?â he said.
You lowered your voice. âYou didnât have to do that.â
âI know.â
âThatâs my lunch.â
âLooked like it.â
âYou paid for it.â
âSharp today.â
You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. âJack.â
That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didnât hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.
âEat the sandwich,â he said.
âI was going to.â
âNo, you were going to put it back and pretend you werenât hungry.â
You opened your mouth.
Jackâs eyebrows lifted.
You closed it again.
Behind him, Whitaker looked down at his shoes like they might offer instructions, visibly desperate not to be part of this. Santos, unfortunately, had no such instinct.
âDamn,â she said, appearing at Jackâs shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. âAbbotâs buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?â
Mohan didnât look up from stirring sugar into her tea. âYou would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.â
âI donât faint,â Santos said.
âYou got lightheaded during central line training.â
âThat was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.â Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. âBut Iâm serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.â
Jack looked at her.
Santos looked back.
The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.
âOr not,â she said, taking a sip of coffee. âNoted. Very selective program.â
Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. âIf any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like itâs a damn wine bar, Iâve got three beds backing up, a grown adult arguing with registration, a kid melting down in triage, and a Lego stuck in one of their ear canals.â
Whitaker blinked. âWho? Adult guy or kid guy?â
Dana didnât slow down. âThatâs the part thatâs gonna disappoint you.â
Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, âEat.â
Your face was still hot.
The sandwich felt heavier now that it had been purchased by him. Not because it was expensive. It was hospital cafeteria turkey on wheat, overpriced and bland, the cloudy plastic crinkling under your fingers every time your grip tightened. But Jack had noticed. That was the part you didnât know how to hold. Heâd seen the little calculation youâd tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and heâd stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.
Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.
âI can pay you back,â you said.
Jackâs eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.
âDonât.â
âI donât like owing people.â
âYou donât owe me.â
âThatâs not how money works.â
âIt is when I decide I donât care.â
You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. âThatâs very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.â
âDonât make it weird.â
You shouldâve let it go.
You really shouldâve.
But the humiliation had already burned off into something else, something warmer and more dangerous, because Jack was standing there with his tired eyes and that blunt, immovable steadiness, and you had never been good at leaving tension alone when you could poke it until it bit.
âCareful,â you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. âPeople are gonna think youâre my sugar daddy.â
Whitaker made a strangled sound and turned toward the condiments with the strained focus of a man suddenly invested in ketchup packets, while Santos choked on her coffee hard enough that Mohan closed her eyes like she was choosing patience on purpose. Jack only stared at you, and for one awful second, you thought youâd gone too far.
Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, âPeople think a lot of stupid shit.â
He walked away before you could answer.
You watched him disappear through the cafeteria doors and into the arterial chaos of the ER, shoulders squared, limp controlled, already swallowed by the work waiting for him.
Santos leaned closer, grin wide enough to be medically concerning.
âOh, that was not nothing.â
âIt was lunch,â you said.
Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. âHe noticed before anyone else did.â
You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.
Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, âSantos, if youâre socializing instead of working, Iâm assigning you Lego ear.â
Santos snapped upright. âIâm not socializing.â
âGood,â Dana called. âThen you can do it faster.â
You stood there with Jackâs lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.
It wouldâve been easier if that had been the end of it.
But Jack Abbot, you learned, was not a man who did anything halfway once he decided it made sense.
He didnât become flashy. He didnât start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That wouldâve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You couldâve rolled your eyes at that. You couldâve made fun of him. You couldâve called it ridiculous and kept your pride intact.
Jack was worse.
Jack was practical.
He bought your coffee the next morning because, as he put it, âI was already standing there.â He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because âRobby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.â He left a protein bar beside your laptop during a night when the waiting room looked like every bad decision in Pittsburgh had agreed to arrive at once. He noticed when your left shoe started peeling at the sole and said nothing, which somehow made you more self-conscious than if heâd pointed at it.
Robby noticed before you did.
Or maybe Robby noticed everything and simply chose when to weaponize it.
It was just after noon on a bad shift, the kind where every hallway seemed to have sprouted a stretcher and every call light sounded like one more thing nobody had enough hands to answer. You were near the nursesâ station, trying to make sense of a scheduling conflict that had three departments blaming each other in increasingly creative language, when Robby came up beside you with a tablet in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
His hair was doing that thing where it looked like heâd run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.
âIs Abbot feeding you?â he asked.
You nearly dropped your pen. âWhat?â
Robby glanced toward trauma two, where Jack was leaning over a chart with Dr. McKay, both of them listening while Javadi spoke quickly and carefully, too eager to be casual. Jackâs attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.
âFood,â Robby said. âCoffee. Whatever else heâs pretending is a coincidence.â
âHe bought me lunch once.â
âUh-huh.â
âAnd coffee.â
âSure.â
âAnd maybe pasta.â
Robbyâs eyebrows rose.
You narrowed your eyes. âDo you have a point?â
âNot one worth putting in writing.â He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. âJust be careful.â
That killed the humor faster than you wanted it to.
Your eyes shifted back toward Jack before you could stop them.
Robby caught it. Of course he caught it. He was annoying that way, all ragged compassion and clinical perception, the kind of man who could call out a hemorrhage, a lie, and a panic attack in the same breath.
âHeâs a good guy,â Robby said, quieter.
âI know.â
âThat doesnât mean heâs uncomplicated.â
You swallowed. âI know that too.â
Robbyâs face softened by a fraction. It made him look older, which was unfair, because he already looked like the hospital had been chewing on him for years and kept forgetting to swallow.
âOkay,â he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, âAlso, if this turns into some HR nightmare, Iâm denying I noticed.â
âThereâs nothing to notice.â
âGreat. Love that. Very convincing.â
You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldnât see your face.
Across the department, Jack glanced up.
For a second, through the moving bodies and swinging privacy curtains and fluorescent glare, his eyes found yours.
He didnât smile.
He just looked.
That was becoming the problem.
Jack didnât flirt the way other men flirted. He didnât crowd you with charm or drown you in compliments or make a show of wanting to be watched. He looked at you like noticing was a form of pressure. Like every detail went somewhere and stayed there. The coffee order. The bad shoe. The way you tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were cold. The way your voice got flatter when you were trying not to admit something hurt.
You wished heâd be less good at it.
You wished you liked it less.
The car thing happened on a Thursday.
You were leaving PTMC after a shift that had somehow lasted ten hours despite only being scheduled for eight, which felt like a violation of both labor law and physics. Your head ached from fluorescent lights. Your feet throbbed. The parking garage smelled like wet concrete, exhaust, and old rain, with the city beyond it slick and dark under a spring storm that had rolled in hard after sunset.
Your car made the noise again when you turned the key.
Not the cute noise. Not the âhaha, sheâs old but reliableâ noise.
The expensive one.
A grinding, metallic cough dragged itself out from under the hood, followed by a rattle that sounded like several important pieces had started a fight and nobody was winning.
You shut the engine off immediately.
âPlease,â you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. âNot tonight.â
The car answered by doing absolutely nothing, which was at least better than exploding.
You tried again.
The sound came back worse.
A knock hit your window.
You screamed.
Jack stood outside in the harsh garage lighting, rain clinging to his shoulders, one hand braced on the roof of your car. He looked unimpressed by your survival instincts.
You rolled the window down halfway. âJesus Christ.â
âNo,â he said. âJust me.â
âDo you always lurk in parking garages?â
âOnly when cars sound like theyâre about to die.â
âItâs fine.â
Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.
âThatâs not a fine sound.â
âIt does that sometimes.â
âIt shouldnât do that ever.â
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. âIâm taking it in next week.â
âYouâre not driving it until then.â
A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. âOkay, Dad.â
His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
Your stomach dipped.
Not fear. Not exactly.
Something else.
Jack leaned slightly closer to the open window. âPop the hood.â
âI donât need you toââ
âPop the hood.â
There was a particular tone he used in the ER when people were bleeding, lying, or being stupid about symptoms that could kill them. Apparently, your car had been triaged into that category.
You popped the hood.
The storm pushed rain sideways into the garage, misting the concrete in silver sheets beyond the open level. Jack moved around to the front of your car and lifted the hood, shoulders hunching slightly as he looked inside. He wasnât wearing a jacket, just dark scrubs under a gray zip-up that had seen better decades, sleeves pushed to his forearms. The overhead light caught the tendons in his hands, the salt at his temples, the hard concentration in his face.
It was obscene, honestly, watching a man become attractive over engine trouble.
He checked something, frowned, checked something else, then lowered the hood with more control than the situation deserved.
âDo not drive this,â he said.
You were already shaking your head. âI have to get home.â
âIâll drive you.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
âNo, Jack.â
He stared at you over the hood. âYou got a better plan?â
You did not.
You had forty-three dollars in your checking account, a rent payment looming like an execution date, and a car making noises you couldnât afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.
âI can call someone,â you said.
âWho?â
The question was simple. Too simple.
That was the problem with Jack. He had no patience for the decorative lies people used to get through conversations. He stripped things down until you either told the truth or stood there bleeding around it.
You looked away first.
Rain ticked against the garage opening. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rose and fell, dopplering into the wet city.
Jackâs voice dropped. âGet your bag.â
âI donât want to be a problem.â
âYouâre not.â
âI donât want you fixing everything.â
âIâm not fixing everything.â He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. âIâm stopping you from driving a death trap.â
You didnât move.
Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
âYou can be mad in my car,â he said. âIt has heat.â
That was how he won.
Not with softness. Not with a speech.
Heat.
You grabbed your bag and got out.
Jackâs car was clean in the way a personâs car got when they didnât spend enough time in it to make a mess. There was an old coffee cup in the holder, a folded jacket in the back, a snow scraper on the floor, and a faint smell of leather, rain, and whatever soap he used that always made you think of hospital sinks and his hands.
He turned the heat on without asking. Then, after a second, he aimed one of the vents toward you.
You noticed.
You hated that you noticed.
Neither of you said anything as he pulled out of the garage. The rain blurred the windshield, smearing Pittsburgh into traffic lights and dark brick, ambulance bays and slick streets, the city looking bruised and alive under the storm. Jack drove with one hand low on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift, fingers flexing once when his leg seemed to bother him.
âYou okay?â you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes stayed on the road. âYeah.â
âYour leg?â
âI said yeah.â
âRight. Sorry.â
His jaw worked.
Then, quieter, âLong day.â
That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.
You nodded. âYeah.â
The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.
At a red light, Jack said, âWhere do you take the car?â
You laughed weakly. âTo a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.â
âIâll call someone.â
âNo.â
âYou donât know who yet.â
âI know itâs going to involve you paying for something.â
The light turned green.
Jack drove.
You looked at him, incredulous. âYouâre not even denying it.â
âSeemed like a waste of both our time.â
âJack.â
âI know a guy.â
âOf course you know a guy.â
âIâm old.â
âYouâre not that old.â
That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.
âNo?â
âNo,â you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, âJust old enough to have a guy.â
The corner of his mouth moved.
You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.
âI can handle it,â you said, softer. âThe car. Iâll figure it out.â
âI know you can.â
âThen why are you doing this?â
Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, âBecause figuring it out shouldnât mean hoping your brakes make it another week.â
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked out the window so he wouldnât see it.
The thing about being brokeâreally, really, brokeâwasnât just the lack of money. It was the math. The constant, grinding math of survival. A sandwich became a calculation. A repair became a catastrophe. A strange noise under the hood became a negotiation with God or luck or whatever indifferent force kept old cars alive for one more day. You got used to making everything stretch until stretching felt like living, and then someone like Jack came along and called it unsafe in that blunt, infuriating voice, and suddenly the whole thing looked different.
Not brave.
Not independent.
Just exhausting.
He pulled up outside your building and put the car in park. Rain ran down the windshield in crooked streams.
You didnât reach for the door handle.
âThank you,â you said.
Jack nodded once.
âI mean it.â
âI know.â
âIâll pay you back if your guy does anything.â
âNo.â
You shut your eyes. âPlease donât make me fight you in your car. Iâm tired.â
âI noticed.â
âStop noticing.â
âNo.â
Your eyes opened.
Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driverâs seat, face cut by passing headlights and dashboard glow. Up close, in the dim, the lines around his eyes looked deeper. So did the restraint. He wore it like part of the uniform, like scrubs and a stethoscope and whatever pain he kept filed away under function.
Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. âWhy?â
He didnât pretend not to understand.
âI donât know,â he said.
It was the first answer heâd given you that didnât sound like a diagnosis.
That made it worse.
You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. âThis is getting very sugar daddy of you.â
The joke landed differently in the dark.
You felt it. So did he.
Jackâs eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Maybe less. Long enough for your pulse to trip, not long enough to accuse him of anything. Either way, when he looked back up, his face had gone still in a way that made the warm air from the vents feel suddenly too hot.
âYou should go inside,â he said.
You nodded.
Neither of you moved.
Then his phone buzzed in the cup holder, snapping the moment clean down the middle. Jack glanced at the screen, saw Robbyâs name, and declined the call before typing something one-handed with the resignation of a man who knew better than to leave him unanswered too long.
You opened the door before you could do something stupid, like ask him to come upstairs.
âNight, Jack.â
His hand tightened once around the phone.
âLock your door.â
You smiled despite yourself. âYes, Doctor.â
His eyes lifted.
There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.
âDonât start,â he said.
You got out before your face could betray you.
The car repair cost eight hundred and sixty dollars.
Jack didn't tell you this.
The mechanic did, because you called behind Jackâs back after getting one text that said, Carâs handled. Pick it up Friday.
Handled.
Like it was a chart. Like it was a consult. Like it was one of the million things at PTMC that needed to be assessed, fixed, signed off, and moved along.
You stood in a supply hallway with your phone pressed to your ear, your grip tightening around the case while the mechanic cheerfully explained that Dr. Abbot had already squared it away.
Squared it away.
You were going to kill him.
Unfortunately, when you found him, he was in the middle of resetting a dislocated shoulder with Robby at the bedside and King handing over medication with careful, focused precision. There was a teenage patient crying, his mother pacing, Dana telling everyone who wasnât useful to back up, and Jack looking exactly like a man who could not be murdered until after he finished being competent.
You had to wait.
That made you angrier.
By the time he stepped out, stripping off gloves and tossing them into the trash, you had worked yourself into something sharp enough to throw.
âEight hundred and sixty dollars?â you said.
Jack stopped.
Robby, behind him, stopped too.
Dana looked up from the desk.
Santos, who had the survival instincts of someone convinced she could talk her way out of anything, immediately leaned over the counter.
Jackâs eyes flicked over your face. âNot here.â
âOh, no, definitely here.â
Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.
âCoward,â Dana muttered.
âExperienced,â Robby corrected.
Jack lowered his voice. âYou called the mechanic.â
âYou paid the mechanic.â
âYeah.â
âEight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.â
âWouldâve been more if you kept driving it.â
You stared at him. âThat is not the point.â
âThat is exactly the point.â
âI told you I didnât want you fixing everything.â
âAnd I told you I wasnât letting you drive a death trap.â
âYou donât get to decide that for me.â
For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.
âNo,â he said. âI donât get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.â
Dana made a low sound. âJesus.â
Santos whispered, âThis is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.â
Mohan, passing with a chart, said, âYou're supposed to be working.â
You barely heard them.
Your whole focus had narrowed to Jackâs face, the stubborn set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. He looked tired. He always looked tired. But underneath it was something else now, something protective enough to be annoying and personal enough to hurt.
âI canât pay that back right now,â you said.
âI didnât ask you to.â
âThat doesnât make it better.â
âIt makes it done.â
You laughed once, without humor. âYouâre impossible.â
âUsually.â
âYou canât justââ You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. âYou canât just keep doing this.â
Jackâs gaze held yours.
âDoing what?â
The question shouldâve been innocent, but it wasnât. Not after the lunches, the coffee, the rides, the mechanic, or the way Jack looked at you like you were a problem he wanted to solve with his bare hands. You stepped closer before you thought better of it.
âYou know what,â you said.
For a second, the department moved around you, loud and bright and indifferent, but you and Jack were still.
Then Dana slapped a chart down on the counter hard enough to startle everyone within ten feet.
âOkay,â she said. âAs much as Iâd love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. Youââ She pointed at you. âTake a breath before you rupture something expensive.â
Jackâs mouth tightened, but he listened.
Of course he listened to Dana. Everyone did, eventually.
He stepped past you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm.
âFriday,â he said under his breath.
You turned your head. âWhat?â
âPick up your car Friday.â
Then he was gone.
Santos waited exactly three seconds.
âSo,â she said, bright-eyed. âHow does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?â
Dana pointed at her without looking. âBedpan in curtain three.â
Santos deflated. âDamn it.â
You hated how badly you wanted to laugh.
By Friday, when you picked up your car, there was a new pair of black nonslip clogs sitting in the passenger seat.
Not fancy. Not wrapped. Just sensible, comfortable work shoes in your size, made for twelve-hour shifts and the brutal, steady wear of the ER. A sticky note was pressed to the box in Jackâs blunt handwriting.
Your old ones were unsafe.
That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem heâd noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.
You sat in the driverâs seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.
The fundraiser was Robbyâs fault.
At least, that was what you told yourself, because blaming Robby was easier than admitting you had agreed to attend a hospital donor event while quietly hoping Jack would look at you in something other than scrubs.
PTMC held one every year, apparently. A grim little ritual where administrators, donors, board members, and exhausted medical staff gathered in a hotel ballroom to pretend the emergency department wasnât being kept alive by overworked staff, aging equipment, and the quiet fact that everyone had learned to make do with less. There would be speeches. There would be bad chicken. There would be wealthy people using phrases like âfrontline heroesâ while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements couldâve bought.
You hadnât planned to go.
Then Gloria Underwoodâs office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, âItâs easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.â
Youâd said yes before checking your closet.
That was how you ended up in your apartment three nights before the event, sitting on the floor in a towel, surrounded by every dress you owned and the creeping realization that none of them worked. Too casual. Too tight in the wrong way. Too old. Too funeral. Too âcollege career fair,â stiff in all the wrong places and not nice enough to pass under ballroom lighting. One had a broken zipper. One still had a stain from a margarita incident you refused to revisit.
Your phone buzzed.
Jack:
Car still running?
You stared at the message, then at the graveyard of dresses around you.
You:
yes, dad
Jack:
Donât.
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
thank you, by the way
for the shoes too
even though youâre insane
Jack:
You going tomorrow?
You stared at the message for a second too long, then looked down at the heap of rejected clothes around your legs.
You:
maybe
Jack:
That means yes.
You shouldâve stopped there.
Instead, with the fatal confidence of a woman sitting half-naked on her bedroom floor and losing an argument with formalwear, you typed:
You:
it means maybe now i just need a dress that doesnât make me look like i wandered into the fundraiser by accident
The reply took longer than usual.
Jack:
Show me.
You stared at the message, suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin the pile of rejected clothes wasnât covering.
You:
the dress?
Jack:
What else would I mean?
Your face went hot.
You:
donât ask me that when iâm half naked on my bedroom floor
The typing bubble appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Jack:
You have tomorrow off?
You stared.
Then stared harder.
You:
why
Jack:
Answer the question.
There were several smart things you couldâve said.
You said none of them.
You:
yes
Jack:
Iâll pick you up at 10.
Your stomach flipped.
You:
jack
Jack:
10:30 if youâre going to argue.
You:
you donât even know what i was going to say
Jack:
Iâm learning patterns.
You pressed your phone facedown against your thigh and sat there half-dressed and mortified, thighs pressed together, waiting for your body to stop reacting like heâd put his hands on you.
The next morning, Jack arrived at 10:28.
Of course he did.
He drove you to a small boutique outside downtown, the kind of place you wouldâve walked past without entering because the window displays didnât include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.
âI donât like this,â you said as he opened the door.
âYou havenât gone in yet.â
âThatâs why I still have hope.â
He gave you a look.
You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. âJack, Iâm serious. Iâm not letting you buy me some expensive dress.â
âOkay.â
You blinked. âOkay?â
âYeah.â
âThat was too easy.â
âYou said some expensive dress.â He closed the car door. âFind a cheap one.â
You stared at him.
He headed for the shop.
âThat is not a loophole,â you called after him.
âItâs exactly a loophole.â
Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didnât need to announce. Pale wood floors, warm lighting, racks arranged with almost insulting confidence, the dresses hanging with more breathing room than your apartment closet could spare. The air smelled faintly of steamed fabric and perfume, and the woman behind the counter looked up with the calm precision of someone trained to know who was buying before anyone spoke.
You hated that. You hated more that Jack didnât seem to notice.
Or he did notice and simply didnât care.
He told her what you needed in a few clipped sentences: hospital fundraiser, semi-formal, comfortable enough to work check-in, not black unless you wanted black, shoes optional because you had shoes. He didn't mention size like a man trying to guess or gesture vaguely at your body like an idiot. He looked at you when that part came up and let you answer for yourself.
That tiny bit of respect did something inconvenient to your chest.
The saleswoman brought options.
You rejected the first three.
Jack rejected the fourth before you could come out of the dressing room.
âNo,â he said through the door.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. âYou havenât even seen it.â
âI saw the sleeve.â
âYou can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?â
âIâve diagnosed worse with less.â
You pulled the curtain back just enough to glare at him.
Jack sat in a low chair outside the dressing rooms, one ankle braced carefully, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He looked absurd there, too solid and worn-in for the soft gold mirrors and velvet hangers, like someone had dropped a combat medic into a room built for silk and champagne.
His eyes flicked to the sliver of dress visible through the curtain.
âNo,â he repeated.
The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. âHeâs right.â
You shut the curtain. âI hate both of you.â
The fifth dress was the problem.
You knew it before you opened the curtain.
The fabric skimmed instead of clung, soft where it needed to be, structured where it counted. It made you look like youâd meant to be invited. Like you hadnât spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didnât count if you kept moving. The neckline was tasteful, but not innocent. The color warmed your skin without washing you out. You turned once in the mirror and felt something low in your stomach shift.
Confidence, maybe.
Or danger.
âLet me see,â Jack said from outside.
âYouâre bossy.â
âYes.â
âYou admit that way too easily.â
âIâm old.â
You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.
This was a bad idea. Not the dressâthe dress was perfect.
That was the bad idea.
You opened the curtain, and Jack looked up.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The shop noise seemed to thin around youâthe music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jackâs gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didnât leer. He didnât smirk. He just looked, jaw set, eyes catching for half a second too long at your waist, your hips, the neckline of the dress, like the only thing keeping his hands to himself was the fact that you were standing under boutique lights instead of somewhere with a locked door.
His jaw shifted.
Your fingers tightened around the curtain.
âWell?â you asked, because silence was going to kill you.
Jack leaned back slightly, but it didnât make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.
âNo,â he said.
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Then he added, lower, âThatâs the problem.â
The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. âToo much?â
âNo.â
âThen what?â
His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.
âIt fits.â
It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost uselessâand somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasnât saying in the rough edge of his voice.
You stepped fully out, smoothing your palms down the front of the dress because you needed something to do.
âItâs probably expensive.â
âProbably.â
âJack.â
âYou like it?â
âThatâs not the point.â
âItâs my point.â
You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. âYou canât keep buying me things.â
He stood. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just unfolded himself from the chair and came closer, stopping at a respectful distance that still felt indecent because his eyes hadnât left the dress, or you inside it.
âI can do what I want.â
âYou sound like a nightmare.â
âIâve been called worse.â
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â
You glanced toward the mirror, unable to hold his eyes. In the reflection, he stood behind you, hands at his sides, older and tired and steady, and you looked like something neither of you could keep pretending was professional.
The thought went through you too sharply.
You swallowed. âPeople are going to think Iâm exactly what I joked about.â
You met his eyes in the mirror. âYour sugar baby.â
There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.
Jackâs gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didnât have to carry. âThat what you want this to be?â
Your mouth went dry. The smart answer was no. The honest answer was more complicated, and the answer your body wanted to give had no business being spoken in public before noon.
So you made it worse on purpose.
âI donât know,â you said, tilting your head. âDepends on the benefits package.â
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.
âChange,â he said. âBefore I regret asking.â
You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands werenât shaking.
Saturday night came wrapped in rain and reflected light.
The hotel ballroom looked too clean, too bright, and too expensive for a fundraiser built around people who spent most days trying to keep the whole place upright. White tablecloths. Gold fixtures. Centerpieces too tall for conversation. A stage at the far end with the PTMC logo projected behind the podium, clean and official and nothing like the controlled disaster of the emergency department. Nurses and doctors looked strangely exposed out of scrubs, like actors at the wrong rehearsal. Dana wore navy and carried herself with the same brisk authority she had at the nursesâ station, like the ballroom was just another crowded hallway she intended to get under control. Robby had put on a suit, but he wore it with visible reluctance, one hand already tugging at his tie before the first speech had started.
Dr. McKay arrived with her hair pinned back, already checking her phone for updates about her son. King stood beside her, fidgeting lightly with her bracelet while listening to Whitaker ramble about how strange it was to see everyone with ânormal arms,â which he then tried to explain and somehow made worse. Javadi looked polished and nervous, her mother somewhere in the room like a pressure system. Mohan was composed, elegant, and already listening to the opening remarks with the patient focus of someone rationing her tolerance carefully.
Santos wore a sharp dress and confidence like body armor.
âOkay,â she said when she saw you. âIâm going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.â
âThatâs never a good opener.â
âYou look hot.â
âSantos.â
âWhat? I said donât make it weird.â
Mohan, passing behind her, said, âYou made it weird by announcing you werenât going to.â
Santos ignored her. âAbbot seen you yet?â
You busied yourself with the check-in list. âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm invested.â
âYou need a hobby.â
âI have one. Itâs being right.â
You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.
âYou doing okay?â she asked.
âYeah.â
Danaâs eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. âUh-huh.â
âYou too?â
âMe too what?â
âNothing.â
Dana handed you the badges. âHoney, Iâve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when thereâs a thing.â
âThereâs not a thing.â
âThen stop looking at the door like youâre planning an escape route.â
You opened your mouth, found nothing useful, and looked back down at the check-in list.
Dana smirked and walked away.
Jack arrived ten minutes late in a dark suit, and something behind your ribs fluttered hard enough that you had to look away.
It wasnât fancy. That was the worst part. No special tailoring, no flashy tie, no clean magazine version of him. Just a dark suit on a man who looked like heâd rather be elbows-deep in a trauma bay than standing under chandelier light, his hair slightly unruly, his face tired, his posture adjusted in that familiar way. The jacket sat broad across his shoulders. The shirt opened at the collar because of course he looked better slightly undone. There was a roughness to him the room couldnât soften, something lived-in and disciplined and worn close to the bone.
Robby said something to him at the entrance.
Jack answered without smiling.
Then his eyes found you.
Everything else blurred.
Not fully. You were still aware of the check-in table under your hands, the murmur of donors, Santos whispering âoh my godâ somewhere behind you with absolutely no attempt to hide it. But Jack looked at you in that dress, and the rest of the room slipped out of reach for one dangerous second.
He walked over slowly.
âHi,â you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.
Jackâs gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric heâd bought.
âHi.â
You tried for a smile. âYou clean up okay.â
âI was going to say that.â
âYou can still say it.â
âNo.â
âToo generous?â
âToo easy.â
His eyes dipped again, just once, and something in your stomach tightened before he seemed to remember the room around you. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
You stared. âWhat is that?â
âReceipt.â
âFor the dress?â
âFor the car.â
Your stomach dropped. âJack.â
âRelax.â He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. âIt says paid. Thatâs all.â
You looked down.
Paid.
Your throat tightened.
âYou said you didnât like owing people,â he said.
âI still owe you.â
âNo.â His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. âYou donât.â
You looked up at him, and for a second the ballroom felt too bright, too crowded, too public for the thing trying to break open in your chest.
Before you could answer, Robby appeared beside Jack with the timing of a man either doing you a favor or robbing you of a bad decision.
âAbbot,â he said, âUnderwood wants us near the front for the photo.â
Jackâs voice came out clipped. âNo.â
âYeah, thatâs what I said. She used the phrase âvisible leadership.ââ
âThat makes it worse.â
âI agree.â
Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jackâs face. His mouth twitched.
âYou look nice,â he said.
âThank you.â
âAbbot looks like heâs about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but thatâs formal for him.â
Jack gave him a look.
Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. âCome on, visible leadership.â
Jack didnât move immediately.
His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers couldâve brushed if you shifted an inch.
âDonât disappear,â he said.
Your pulse kicked.
âIâm working.â
âAfter.â
Then Robby dragged him away with a level of cheer that was clearly retaliatory.
You watched Jack go and tried to remember how to do your job.
For a while, the event was exactly as awful as promised.
Speeches about resilience. Applause that sounded expensive. Donors talking about âthe Pittâ like it was a concept instead of a place where every decision had a body attached to it. Gloria Underwood spoke with smooth authority while Robby stared at the middle distance like a man practicing astral projection. Langdon appeared late and left early, moving through the edge of the room with a smile that didnât quite reach his eyes. Collins was mentioned by someone near the bar, her name landing with that particular hospital weight of people who had been part of the machinery and then werenât there in the same way anymore.
You checked people in. You directed donors toward their tables. You smiled until your cheeks ached.
And Jack kept finding you.
Not obviously. Not enough for anyone to call it hovering. But he passed behind your chair and set a glass of water near your hand. He appeared during a lull with a plate from the buffet because âyou werenât going to get one.â He stood beside you while an orthopedic surgeon whose name you immediately forgot talked at you for seven minutes about golf, his presence quiet and solid and just intimidating enough to make the man eventually wander away.
At one point, you leaned toward him and murmured, âThis is very attentive of you.â
He didnât look down. âYou looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.â
âI was.â
âBad idea.â
âBecause violence is wrong?â
âBecause youâd still have to finish check-in.â
You laughed into your glass.
Jack looked at you then, and the humor in his face faded into something warmer before he caught it.
You saw him catch it.
That was the dangerous part.
Near the end of dinner, a donor with silver hair and a smile like a polished blade cornered Jack near the bar. You recognized him vaguely from the check-in list, one of those names with a foundation attached, the kind of man who spoke slowly because he expected people to wait for the privilege of his point. His wife stood beside him in pearls, looking around the ballroom with faint disappointment.
You were close enough to hear because youâd gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.
âDr. Abbot,â the man said, clapping Jack on the shoulder like they were old friends and not strangers separated by several tax brackets and a moral canyon. âHell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.â
Jackâs smile was minimal and false. âWe try.â
The manâs eyes shifted to you.
You felt it like cold water.
âWell,â he said. âSome of you more than others.â
Jackâs face changed by degrees. Anyone else mightâve missed it. You didnât.
âThis isââ Jack began.
The man cut in with a laugh. âNo, no, let me guess. Youâre the resident Iâve been hearing about.â
His wife made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite disapproval.
Your fingers tightened around the place cards.
Jack went still.
The man looked pleased with himself, encouraged by his own cruelty. âAbbot and one of his young residents,â he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. âPeople do talk.â
Jackâs voice came out clipped. âDonât.â
âRelax, Jack. Iâm joking.â He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. âI just didnât think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.â
The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriendâthat wouldâve been embarrassing enough. Little, like you were an accessory, a midlife crisis in a nice dress, something young and decorative Jack had brought out because he could. Something people could reduce in one glance and one ugly little adjective.
Heat rushed to your face so fast it felt like pain, and still you smiled automatically, hating yourself for it.
âItâs notââ you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.
Jackâs voice cut through yours. âDonât call her that.â
The donor blinked. So did you. The room didnât stop, not exactlyâthe music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stageâbut the air around the four of you tightened.
The donorâs smile twitched. âEasy, Doctor. No harm meant.â
âIâm not interested in what you meant.â
Jack didnât raise his voice or step forward. He simply stood there in his dark suit, tired eyes gone cold, body held in a kind of controlled restraint that made the donorâs hand fall from his shoulder.
âIf youâve got something to say about me,â Jack continued, âsay it to me. Leave her out of it.â
The wife looked away first. The donorâs face colored.
âNo offense intended.â
Jackâs gaze didnât move. âYou donât get to decide that.â
Your breath caught.
People were starting to notice. Not enough to make a scene, not enough for anyone to step in, but enough that the space around you felt suddenly brighter. Dana had turned slightly from the bar, her attention fixed and assessing. Robby watched from near the stage, glass lowered now. Even Santos had gone still, the eager curiosity wiped off her face by the look on yours.
You couldnât stand any of it. Not the attention. Not the humiliation. Not the awful, sharp thrill of Jack defending you like he had any right to. Like he wanted the right.
You set the place cards down.
âI need some air,â you said.
Jackâs head turned toward you immediately. âWait.â
But you were already moving.
You slipped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, then through a side door onto a covered terrace overlooking the wet street below. The rain had softened to a mist, silvering the railings and turning the city lights hazy. Cold air hit your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms where the dress left them bare.
You gripped the railing and forced one breath in, then out. In, then out. In. Out. It didnât help. The door opened behind you, because of course it did.
You laughed under your breath because the tears were already gathering hot behind your eyes, making the terrace lights blur at the edges, and you refused to let them fall hereânot in the dress Jack bought, not with your hands locked around rain-cold steel, not because some rich asshole had found the ugliest name for what you were already afraid this looked like.
âYou shouldnât have done that,â you said.
Jack let the door close behind him. âDone what?â
You turned on him. âMade it worse.â
âThey made it worse.â
âNow everyone thinks Iâm exactly what he said.â
His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.
âThey donât know what you are.â
Your chest pulled tight.
âAnd what am I?â
The question came out too vulnerable to take back.
Jack didnât answer right away.
Mist clung to his suit jacket, darkening the shoulders. Behind him, warm light spilled through the glass door, all gold and soft edges, turning the ballroom into something distant and unreal. Out here, the air smelled like rain on stone, cold metal, wet city streets below. Everything was sharper than it had been inside. The railing under your hands. The damp hem of your dress against your legs. The silence between his breath and yours.
He looked so out of place and exactly right, a man built for crisis standing in the aftermath of one he couldnât stitch closed.
You hated that you wanted him to say it.
You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he said, âNot that.â
A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the one Iâve got.â
âGreat.â
Jack came closer, stopping beside you but not touching. The restraint was worse than touch. You could feel him there anyway, the heat of his body cutting through the cold night, the careful space he left like distance could still save either of you.
You stared out at the rain-blurred city. Headlights smeared over the street below. Somewhere, a siren rose and faded, thin and familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
âYou bought the dress,â you said.
âYes.â
âYou fixed my car.â
âYes.â
âYou buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.â
Something moved in his jaw, but he didnât interrupt.
âWhat do you think people are going to call that?â
âI donât give a shit what people call it.â
âI do.â
âThen tell me what you call it.â
The words took the air out of the terrace.
You looked at him.
Jackâs eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasnât letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasnât letting himself hide either. That was the terrifying part. The thing between you had been allowed to live as banter because neither of you had forced it to stand under direct light.
Sugar daddy. Old man. Doctor. Daddy.
All those little names you used to turn intimacy into comedy before it could ask something of you.
Now Jack was standing there asking.
Tell me what you call it.
Your mouth felt dry.
âI call it confusing,â you said.
His expression shifted.
You kept going because stopping felt worse. âI call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldnât. I call it you making it really fucking hard to feel normal around you. I call it embarrassing when someone says the quiet part out loud and I realize I donât even know how to defend myself because I donât know what weâre doing.â
Jackâs hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.
You swallowed. âAnd I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.â
His voice dropped. âLike what?â
You shook your head. âDonât.â
âLike what?â
âLike you already know what I look like under the dress.â
The words left you too soft, too honest, and Jack inhaled slowly. Neither of you moved while rain whispered beyond the overhang and the ballroom noise pressed faintly through the door, muffled and useless, like it belonged to a different night.
Then he said, rougher than before, âI donât.â
The words went through you slowly, leaving heat in places they had no right to reach.
His eyes lowered, not all the way down your body this time. Just to your mouth.
âBut Iâve thought about it.â
The terrace went silent.
Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasnât him.
You stared at him, suddenly aware of everything at once: the dress clinging where the mist had touched it, the cold air slipping beneath the hem, the damp railing at your back, the small, charged space between your body and his. Jack hadnât touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like heâd already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasnât polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.
âJack,â you whispered.
âI know.â
âYou donât know what I was going to say.â
âYes, I do.â
You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.
âWhat was I going to say?â
His eyes lifted.
âThat we shouldnât.â
The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.
You shouldnât. He shouldnât. The age gap was there, humming under the surface. The hospital. The money. The care. The fact that everyone seemed to have noticed before either of you had admitted it out loud. The fact that Jack carried enough damage to make most people step carefully, and you were standing there in a dress he bought, wanting him to ruin every careful thing about you.
âYouâre right,â you said.
Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.
Then you added, âThat's what I was going to say.â
His eyes sharpened.
You took one more step.
âBut itâs not what I want.â
For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.
Not much. Heâd never give that much away in public. But you saw it in the slight part of his mouth, the break in his breathing, the flicker of something raw beneath the restraint.
âSay that again,â he said.
The words nearly undid you.
You lifted your chin because if you were going to tell the truth, you were going to do it with your head held high.
âI donât want you to stop.â
Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.
You didnât.
His knuckles brushed your jaw first, careful in a way that made your whole body ache. Not rough. Not yet. Worse than rough, maybe, because he was still holding himself back and you could feel the effort in every inch he didnât take.
âYouâre not my little girlfriend,â he said.
Your chest tightened. âNo?â
âNo.â His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. âYouâre not little. Youâre not a joke. And youâre sure as hell not something Iâm ashamed of wanting.â
The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadnât touched. Jackâs eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasnât frantic at first.
That wouldâve been easier.
It was deliberate, a firm press of his mouth to yours, steady and devastating, like he had finally decided to stop lying but still hadnât given himself permission to forget where you were. His hand held your jaw; the other stayed at his side, fingers curled tight like touching you anywhere else might finish what the kiss had started.
You made a small sound against his mouth.
That was what broke it.
Jack stepped into you, guiding you back until the rail met your spine, and the kiss turned filthy in one sharp, breath-stealing shift. His mouth opened wider, tongue pushing past your lips to lick deep and slow against yours, wet enough to make your knees weaken, sure enough to make heat pool low in your gut. His breath came rough through his nose, his hand sliding from your jaw to the side of your neck, thumb tucked beneath your chin like he wanted to feel the exact second you stopped fighting him and melted under his palm.
You grabbed his jacket.
He made a low sound, almost a warning.
You pulled him closer anyway.
The rail pressed against your back. Damp air cooled your bare arms. Inside, beyond the glass, the fundraiser glowed on with its speeches and donors and useless flowers, but out here Jackâs body cut off the light, his mouth hot and sure, his hand at your neck keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
When he dragged himself back, he didnât go far.
His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.
âThis is a bad idea,â he said.
You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. âYou kissed me.â
âI know.â
âSo your professional opinion is hypocritical.â
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed dark, fixed on yours with a heat that made it impossible not to remember his tongue in your mouth. He looked like he was still tasting you, like he was one wrong word away from dragging you back against the railing and making a mess of that pretty, expensive dress.
âYou keep talking,â he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, âand Iâm going to forget weâre still at a hospital fundraiser.â
Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. âIs that supposed to scare me?â
âIt should.â
âIt doesnât.â
Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.
You didnât.
His thumb dragged once along the side of your neck, slow enough to make your thighs press together under the dress, then he stepped back and opened the door.
âCome on.â
âWhere?â
His eyes held yours.
âMy car.â
The walk through the ballroom shouldâve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldnât tell. Jack stayed close without touching you, which somehow looked worse after what had just happened, like distance had become another form of confession. Your mouth still felt swollen from his, your skin too awake beneath the dress, your whole body lit with the kind of want that made every normal step feel rehearsed.
Robby saw you first, because of course he did. His eyes moved from Jackâs face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightlyânot smiling, just acknowledging the inevitable.
Dana caught your eye from near the bar with one eyebrow raised. Santos looked ready to say something disastrous until Mohan turned her gently but firmly toward the dessert table. McKay glanced over, clocked enough to know better, and immediately pulled Whitaker into a conversation he looked relieved to have guidance for. Javadi watched for half a second too long, then looked away like sheâd remembered curiosity had consequences.
Jack ignored all of them.
You loved and hated him for it.
The elevator ride down was worse.
Mirrored walls. Soft music. Your reflection beside his. His shoulder inches from yours. The phantom feel of his hand still on your neck. Neither of you speaking because speech had become a loaded weapon and you were both already wounded.
In the parking garage, the air smelled like rain and concrete again.
Jack unlocked the car.
You stopped by the passenger door, suddenly aware of the line you were crossing. Not the moral one. That had been smudged for weeks. This was more physical. More real. A door. A backseat. His face in the dim garage light, turned toward you with all that want and all that control and all the consequences waiting behind both.
He saw the hesitation immediately.
Of course he did.
âYou can change your mind,â he said.
The words loosened something in you.
Not because you wanted to.
Because he meant it.
You stepped closer. âIâm not changing my mind.â
Jackâs eyes searched yours.
âTell me if I do something you donât want.â
âI will.â
âI mean it.â
âI know.â
He nodded once.
Then you said, quieter, âDo you?â
His face shifted.
âDo I what?â
âKnow what I want.â
The garage seemed to hold its breath.
Jack opened the back door.
âGet in,â he said.
Not loud. Not cruel.
Just low enough to go through you like a match.
You got in.
The door shut behind you, and for one suspended second you were alone in the dark leather backseat with your heartbeat, the rain ticking somewhere beyond the garage, and the reflection of Jack moving around the car in the tinted window.
Then the opposite door opened.
He slid in beside you, too big for the space, too warm, too close. The dome light cut over his face for a second before it faded, leaving him in shadow and stray fluorescent spill. His knee brushed yours. His hand came up, not touching yet, braced against the seat near your hip.
âYou still think this is about money?â he asked.
Your breath caught.
You shook your head.
âWords.â
âNo.â
âNo, what?â
âNo, I donât think itâs about money.â
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
âWhatâs it about?â
You couldâve said care.
You couldâve said want.
You couldâve said every soft, terrifying thing his hands had been saying for weeks with coffee cups and repair bills and the new shoes you wore until they stopped hurting.
Instead, because you were trembling and stubborn and still you, you whispered, âYour sugar daddy complex.â
Jackâs eyes flashed.
Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terraceâcareful and slow and weighted with confession. This was hungry. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugged, and the sound you made was swallowed by his mouth as his tongue slid against yours, wet and deep and tasting like the whiskey he'd barely touched all night. His other hand found your waist, gripping the silk of the dress, bunching it, pulling you across the seat until your hip hit his and you gasped into his mouth.
"Jackâ"
"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Justâlet me â"
His hand slid up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and the leather was cool against the backs of your legs but his palm was hot, rough, callused from years of work and combat and things he never talked about. You spread for him without thinking. He made a sound against your neckâapproval, hunger, reliefâand his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're alreadyâ"
You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."
He laughedâa low, broken thingâand his fingers hooked the edge of your panties, dragged them down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help, and he dropped them somewhere on the floor mat, already forgotten, already gone. His hand came back wet.
"Look at me."
You did. His eyes were dark, half-lidded, his breathing ragged. The garage light caught the silver in his beard, the flush rising up his neck, the way his thumb was already circling your clit like he'd done it a thousand times before. He hadn't. But he knew exactly what he was doing.
âI tried to be careful with you,â he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, âI tried so fucking hard. Then I walked in and saw you at that table in the dress I bought you, and I knew I was done.â
Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.
"âand you knew, didn't you?" He pushed deeper, slow, watching your face. "Knew what it was doing to me."
You couldn't answer. His finger was inside you, thick and deliberate, curling, finding the spot that made your vision blur. Then a second finger joined it, stretching, and you heard yourself whimperâhigh and desperate and not caring who heard.
"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."
He worked you open like he had all night, like the parking garage was empty, like the world had shrunk to the space between his fingers and your cunt. His thumb pressed your clit in slow circles while his fingers pumpedânot hard, not fast, just deep and aching, stretching you until you were dripping down his hand, until your nails dug into his shoulder through his jacket.
"JackâI needâ"
"I know what you need."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and you watched him bring them to his mouth. Watched his tongue slide across his knuckles, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of itâthis tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all nightâmade your hole clench around nothing.
"Get on top of me."
It wasn't a question. He was already reaching for his belt, the buckle rasping open, the sound sharp and final in the close air of the car. You climbed over him, the dress bunching around your waist, your knees finding the leather on either side of his hips. His cock was hard beneath his briefs, straining against the fabric, and you reached down and wrapped your hand around it.
He hissed through his teeth. "Fuck â"
He was thick. Hot. The head slick with something that might have been precum, might have been your imagination, but when you stroked him once, slow, his hips bucked into your palm.
"If you keep doing that," he said, his voice strained, "this is going to be very embarrassing for me."
You laughedâbreathless, wildâand leaned down to kiss him. "Then stop me."
He didn't.
His hand found your hip, guided you forward, and the head of his cock nudged against your entrance. Wet. Ready. The two of you hovered there, breathing each other's air, and his forehead pressed against yours.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I want you. Please, Jackâ"
He pushed inside you.
The stretch was a shockâfull and deep and so much more than his fingers had promised. You gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders, your head falling back as he filled you inch by inch, until you were seated in his lap, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet heat.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you feelâ"
He couldn't finish. His hands found your hips, held you there, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just the feeling of him inside you, the throb of his pulse through his cock, the way your body adjusted, accepted, wanted.
Then you moved.
Slow at firstâa roll of your hips that made his eyes roll back, a tilt of your pelvis that drove him deeper. His grip tightened on your waist, guiding, and you found the rhythm together: him thrusting up as you sank down, the slap of skin loud in the enclosed space, the wet sound of your bodies meeting.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough, his eyes fixed on where you were joined. "Taking all of me. Fucking yourself on my cock in a parking garage."
You moaned, riding him harder, the dress bunched around your waist, the silk skin-warm and bunched up. His thumb found your clit again, pressing, circling, and the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, hot and sharp and building.
"The dress," you gasped. "You bought me this dressâ"
"I bought it so I could take it off you." He tugged at the strap with his teeth, the fabric slipping down your shoulder, exposing your breast to the dim light. His mouth was on it instantlyâhot, wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucked, hard, and you cried out, your rhythm faltering.
"Say it again." His mouth against your skin. "Say sugar daddy again and see what happens."
You laughed, breathless, your hips grinding against him. "Sugar daddy."
He bit your shoulderânot hard, but enough to make you gaspâand then his hand was in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes.
"Then take what I give you." His voice was low and rough and it made your pussy squeeze around him. "Take this cock like you've been wanting to since I fixed your goddamn car."
You did. You rode him harder, faster, the leather squeaking beneath your knees, the car rocking with the motion, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. His hand stayed in your hair, his other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and he thrust up into you with a rhythm that was pure instinctâhungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."
"JackâI'm closeâ"
"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tightâ"
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a waveâsudden and overwhelming, your vision white, your back arching as your cunt clamped down on his cock, pulsing, milking, the pleasure so sharp it was almost pain. You heard yourself cry outâhis name, a curse, something that might have been a sobâand he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.
"Fuckâ" His voice broke. "I'm going toâ"
"Inside me." You grabbed his face, forced him to look at you. "I want it. Please."
He came with a groan that was almost a prayer, his hips driving up one last time, his hand gripping your hip so hard it would leave marks. You felt itâhot and thick, pumping into you, filling you, his cock twitching with each pulse, his breath ragged against your lips. The sensation pushed you into a second, smaller climax, your body clenching around him, drawing out every drop.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was harsh, uneven, mingling with yours in the close air. The car smelled like sex and sweat and the faint, stubborn trace of hospital soap beneath his cologne, and your thighs were slick and trembling, and his cock was still half-hard inside you, and it was the most real you'd felt all night.
Then he laughed.
A low, disbelieving sound, his shoulders shaking against yours. You started laughing too, breathless and giddy, and you kissed himâmessy, open-mouthed, tasting salt and spit and the whiskey he'd barely touched.
"Well," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. "That wasâ"
"Stupid," you supplied.
"Reckless."
"A really bad idea."
His hand came up to cup your face again, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Worth it."
You kissed him again, slower this time, and you felt him smile against your mouth. When you pulled back, you were still straddling him, his cock still softening inside you, and the reality of it settled into your bones like warmth.
"We should probablyâ" you started.
"Yeah." He didn't move. "In a minute."
His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together, and the garage light caught the gray in his hair and the tired lines around his eyes and the way he was looking at you like you were the first real thing he'd seen in years.
"I'm not going to pretend this was casual," he said.
"Good," you said. "Because it wasn't."
He helped you clean up with the wet wipes he found in the glove compartmentâabsurd, practical, so perfectly himâand then he helped you rearrange the dress, his hands careful now, almost reverent, smoothing the silk over your hips like he was putting something precious back together. The fabric was wrinkled now, carrying the memory of his hands, and when you looked at yourself in the window reflection, you saw the flush on your chest, the bite mark on your shoulder, the way your hair had come loose from the careful updo.
You looked like someone who had been thoroughly, completely, indisputably wanted.
He watched you adjust the strap, his eyes following the small, careful movement like it mattered. You sat half-turned against him in the backseat, put back together enough to face the world again, though both of you knew exactly what had happened here. Jackâs hand rested at the back of your neck, thumb moving slowly against your skin, and in the dim garage light he looked less like the man everyone trusted in a crisis and more like someone whoâd finally let himself want something he couldnât triage.
âWhat?â you asked.
He shook his head.
âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â
âLook like youâre about to disappear into your own head.â
That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. âYou diagnosing me now?â
âI learned from a very bossy doctor.â
âHe sounds unbearable.â
âHe is.â
The quiet settled, full of everything waiting outside the car: the fundraiser, the rumor, the receipt, the repaired car, the shoes, the dress, every careful thing Jack had done before either of you had dared to call it care. You looked down. âI donât know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.â
Jack didnât answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, âNeeding help isnât the same thing as being helpless.â
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.
âJack,â you said softly.
He waited.
You smiled, small and shaky. âDo I get an allowance now?â
For half a second, he stared at you. Then his eyes closed, and the laugh that left him was quiet, rough, almost unwilling. It felt like winning something no one else got to see. When he opened his eyes, they were warm.
âYou get breakfast.â
âThatâs it?â
âAnd your car.â
âAlready got that.â
âAnd the shoes.â
âAlso already got those.â
âAnd whatever else you need,â he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, âif you stop acting like needing it makes you less.â
Your smile faded into something softer. âThat sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.â
Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. âYeah,â he said. âIâm working up to that.â
The fundraiser was still waiting upstairs, all polished glassware and polite cruelty, the kind of room where people could turn want into rumor before the night was over. You would have to go back to PTMC after this. You would pass Jack in hallways. You would hear his voice over trauma bays, see his name on charts, feel the weight of every title that should have made this impossible.
But in the backseat, with his thumb moving slowly against your skin, Jack wasnât looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something heâd have to explain away in daylight.
He was looking at you like something worth keeping.
And for what it was worth, you finally believed you were.
