pairing: pope cody x fem!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: you're dragged to pope's boxing match, not having ever been told that he does this in his spare time and now you have to confront your fears and the fact that your boyfriend spends his time doing such a violent activity.
content warnings: established relationship, reader is implied to have had a bad past slash childhood, reader has a fear of yelling + anger, mention of blood and cuts, tw smurf!!!!!
a/n: hai my lovelies! i am back with my second pope fic!!! i haven't had this much fun writing for a character in ages <3 also i couldn't decide on whether i should refer to him as pope or andrew so now there's a mix of it. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 credit to @cursed-carmine for the divider <3
wc: 4.9k
You hated the word naive, despite that, it felt simply too suitable for the person you were.
You were naive when you never asked Pope why he came home with bruises, and you were naive when you let it go after he blamed the job. When you chose to enter Smurf's vehicle, you were particularly foolish. You appeared to be, just like all her kids, susceptible to falling for her manipulative tactics.
And now that you were standing next to her chair, you figured that the only important thing to her right now was making you uncomfortable.
Unsure of your purpose in the hall of loud, angry men you turned your attention to the group around the boxing ring. This wasn't your scene in any shape, way or form. You didn't like loud noises, boxing and especially loud irate boxers.
Smurf knew that, which is why you made an effort to look normal, despite the men next to you cursing like they'd never been allowed to before. Like a baby you wanted to press your hands to your ears and hide in the corner.
"What are we waiting for?" you asked quietly.
"You'll see baby, you'll see," Smurf tilted her head as she observed the crowd with sharp eyes. Baby. That's how you knew something was wrong. She only ever used her saccharine voice combined with that nickname when she was out to get you.
Pope kept you far far away from her for precisely this reason. Why you and Pope almost never came to visit unless it was necessary for a job. You'd tried to tell him that he didn't have to go back to Smurf, that he could just work with his brothers, but he was adamant. So you let him, because you weren't one to tell Pope what to do.
You felt something stare into the side of your face and when you glanced to your left, you saw a disheveled man with a beer in his hand and a sick smile. You quickly straightened your back and moved closer to Smurf's chair, praying this would all end.
Andrew will be furious when he finds out, you thought, as you repeatedly started snapping your hair tie against your wrist over and over again. You shook your head to yourself. He won't have to find out...right?
This was all a mess. A mess Smurf was more than happy to create as she took a look at you. Nervous, uncomfortable and scared — she had you exactly where she wanted.
Your hands were itching to grab your earphones from your bag as soon as the first boxers were announced. When the first boxer entered the ring, men cheered and you turned your head away from the man's terrifying expression.
You, instead resorted to checking out the crowd. There was a small group of women, but they appeared to be just as bloodthirsty as everyone else. No one seemed as out of place as you did.
You pulled the edge of your shorts down, wishing you had brought a jacket with you. Who would've thought a boxing ring would be this chilly? Goosebumps were rising everywhere where your white sweetheart neck top wasn't covering your skin.
"Baby," Smurf said, and you felt your stomach turn at the nickname. "Look."
You felt the world tilt around you the moment you spotted Andrew sitting in the corner, hands covered in his boxing gloves. You watched him get to his feet, and move toward the center of the ring. He didn't see you, and you were glad for it. You were especially glad for it when you watched Andrew start beating his opponent.
Hit after hit after hit.
The crowd kept cheering, fists pumping in the air while your hands started shaking more by the second. It was when the opponent hit Andrews' face, that you turned and walked out of the ring. Not hearing Smurf's snake-like voice calling after you mockingly.
You walked and walked and walked, not even caring that Smurf had driven you here. She'd practically begged for your help on something, coming by you and Andrew's apartment. Sweet naive you thought, yeah, I'm sure she needs actual help. She hardly ever begged beg for anything. God, you had been so wrong. This was a sick, twisted game. Of course, it was.
You had no idea how or when you'd ended up in your apartment. You kicked off your ballet flats to the opposite side of the apartment, before sliding down the door.
Andrew was boxing in his spare time. Naturally the jobs had nothing to do with the bruises you spent all of your free afternoons tending to. He'd never been this hurt before. Why would he be now? You would've never thought he spent his free time raging and hitting people. That he was capable of this much force and anger. You could still see his face behind your eyelids, and you pressed the bottom of your hands harder against your eyes until stars replaced your boyfriend's bruised face.
Your head dropped to your knees as you sat there for ages and ages. Andrew lied to you. He has been lying to you for god knows how long.
You felt sick and even more, you felt guilty. Because you were terrified. Not only had he lied to you, but he'd also lied about being this violent. You hated how much that scared you. How much you wanted to cry.
You were aware that Pope wasn't a man of the most gentle nature, but he tried to with you.
In fact, he was at his most gentle with you. Sure, you'd seen a different side of him when he was with Smurf. In fact, that was seemingly his most aggressive side, but otherwise? Otherwise, he was the man who was so nervous on your first date, he didn't say a single word besides hello. The man who'd spent the first sleepovers at your place, lying on the edge of the bed, afraid of touching you, terrified of making you uncomfortable. You had spent so much time caring for Lena together, taking her out on ice-cream dates and getting to know what he was like as an Uncle. He spoiled you rotten.
You had never once uttered a dream of yours, without having it fulfilled promptly. Not only that, but you knew his most significant sacrifice had been his temper. He knew how much you struggled with raised voices, how you'd immediately shrink the moment someone directed their anger at you.
The first times, you'd somehow ended up in the same room as the Cody boys while they planned jobs, Andrew would just stand up and leave the room the moment someone disagreed with him. You still remember Craig's perplexed "What's up with him?" You'd questioned Andrew about it later that night, because as far as you'd been concerned, Craig had been rather unpleasant to him, you'd expected your boyfriend to fight back.
Andrew had simply pulled you closer to his chest in bed, brushing his palm along your waist. "Didn't want to make you sad." he'd muttered against your hair.
"What?" you'd asked puzzled, lifting your head off his chest.
"You don't like yelling. It makes you sad."
"You did that for me?"
"Of course." he'd said, eyebrows furrowed, because who else would it be for? For who else would he change such an integral part of himself? He'd been the brother with the temper since he could think. Pope, the boy who hit and yelled at everyone.
He'd changed himself for you,and not only that, he'd taken a jab at his pride for you, allowing his brother to corner him in front of everyone, and he had just let him. For you.
It made you feel horrible that he had to change himself for you, but he'd told you that he felt better about himself, like he was actually worthy of you. Your life was peaceful and domestic, interrupted by the occasional job which usually went down flawlessly.
It wasn't until Lena was back from the foster home and then put back in, that Andrew was different, and you'd just assumed it was because of him missing Lena. But it was all weird. He was different, came home with bruises and was more quiet than usual. But never ever any less gentle with you.
You hated that the sight of him in the boxing ring managed to erase every single tender touch of his. All you could hear was the shattering of the man's face as your boyfriend continued to hammer him.
Your boyfriend punched someone until they were bleeding raw on the floor, and he did it with such vehemence that you weren't sure you'd ever be able to get rid of the image. You'd heard chatter about his violent side from his brothers, and he'd told you about it himself, but witnessing it for yourself was different.
You slowly rose up on unsteady legs and walked towards the shower. The shower calmed you down. Hot water streaming down your body, helping you forget about Andrew for just a few minutes.
That was until you stepped back into your shared bedroom and instinctively reached for his clothes. You grabbed a shirt and his boxers, and when Andrew's scent hit your nose, you flinched. You stared down at his shirt, and you wanted to pull it off. Crack crack crack was all you could hear. The yelling of the men in your head cushioned the sound of Andrew opening the door.
You were about to pull his shirt off, grab one of your own pajama shirts instead, when Andrew gently tapped on the door not wanting to startle you. You still flinched, turning to see his face. And terror was written large there.
Smurf had told him.
You managed a tiny "Hi." but there was no smile or kiss. You merely stood next to the drawers, your hand returning back to your hair tie, snapping it against your wrist over and over again.
You knew Andrew was just as scared, his fingers were twitching nervously, as he stared at you. "Hey," he gently approached you and when you didn't step away, he drew even closer. He cautiously placed his bag down on top of the drawer, before turning to you.
There was a small band aid on his right cheek, and you felt your heart break when you realized it was the one you usually kept in your car in case of an emergency. He had clearly attempted to fix most of the wounds before entering your apartment so you wouldn't see how severely the other guy had injured him.
The fear was written big in his eyes. You almost wanted to just give in, but your mind didn't let you. Fear was gripping your body just as much as it was his. Seeing what he was capable of was freezing your body. It's like it never mattered that you loved him more than anything else in the world; your mind just insisted on replaying the boxing match on loop.
Andrew could tell you weren't going to come any closer to him anytime soon, so he closed his hands into fists, turning towards the bathroom. And you just let him. You could practically hear his heart breaking as he turned on the water, and you knew he had his head pressed against the tile, because that's what he always did when someone wrecked him.
You padded towards the kitchen, opened your freezer and grabbed some ice. Your brain was both empty and full, but it was largely packed with cruel words at yourself. You were horrible. You were terrible for shutting him out like this when he hadn't done anything to you.
But you couldn't help it. You felt a tear slide down your cheek, and you leaned your head back, trying to suck it up. You weren't supposed to be acting like this. You were a grown woman, not a child. You weren't supposed to resort to childish habits, making yourself small and shut down, stop talking. God, he didn't do anything, you kept telling yourself as you shut your eyes tight.
You didn't hear him approach you. "You want me to make you dinner?"
You turned, ice in hand and shut the freezer with your back. "No, not hungry," you replied quietly. You stepped closer, and could see Andrew's body freeze up as he waited for you to do something. You stretched out your hand with the ice. "For your bruises."
Andrew stared down at your hand before taking it carefully. "Thank you," he murmured, eyes glancing back up at you.
When he saw your hands trembling, he wanted to cry. He swiftly turned and walked back into the bedroom, before he could hurt you any further. You remained in the kitchen for a few minutes, before gradually following him. Sleeping on the couch was too much. You're safe with him, nothings wrong, he won't yell at you, you kept thinking, slowly padding back into the bedroom.
That's until you spotted his wet curly hair in the corner of your shared room, reaching inside his bag. "Are you packing?" you asked, confused.
Andrew straightened up, turning his body towards you. "I know what you saw today. And—" You could see him thinking about Smurf, anger rising in his throat. "And I'm sorry," he added, deciding not to acknowledge Smurf's existence.
"It's your hobby," you replied quietly. "I wish you'd just told me about it."
Andrew shook his head. "Not a hobby," he muttered, and then provided the only answer you needed. "Smurf," and it clicked. Of course, Smurf forced him into it.
Your gaze dropped back down to his bag. "You don't need to leave."
"I scared you."
"You didn't," you whispered.
"Don't lie to me." he scoffed, and you pursed your lip. Right.
You didn't look at him as you slipped beneath the covers of the bed. It was your only way of proving to him, and yourself, that you weren't scared.
He stared at you for a while, and you didn't glance at him. Instead, you pulled the covers up, reaching for his side and pushing the covers back. He stared at his side of the bed before he slowly slipped under them and pulled them up too. The two of you laid on your backs for a while, staring at the same ceiling.
There was no sweet touching, no shared gentle kisses, no Andrew listening to you ramble about your day, nothing.
You missed him, and you glanced down at his hand, lying above the cover, twitching nervously. You wanted to touch it, press a kiss against every bruised knuckle, but then you heard the groans of his opponent again and you shuddered against the bed sheets.
"The — the other boxer is fine," he said quietly. "I know it looked bad." He turned his head, the sheets rustling as he looked at you.
"It was bad." slipped out of your mouth, and you bit your lip hard.
You could practically feel the panic rise in him. "I know, but— he just had a couple bruises. He— he didn't even have to go to the hospital." He knew it was a low bar. So terribly low, but he needed you to come back to him. He couldn't lose you.
You stayed quiet and Andrew wanted to cry. This was bad. Of course, Smurf wouldn't even let him keep you. She'd take everything from him, this would always be the way his life would work. He thought maybe this time it would be different. This time he could change for you, And he did. He tried so hard to be different, but it was never enough. Nothing ever would be. It seemed there was something in him, something evil and dark, that scared everyone off.
"Did you win?" you asked, even though you knew the answer. Andrew stayed quiet and you knew. "You're good at what you do," you whispered.
What he does. Punch people? Hurt people? Make people bleed? Cause pain? Andrew didn't reply, staring at the ceiling.
He wanted to leave, and so he pushed the covers away, but you reached for his arm immediately, gripping his still-wet bicep. "Don't leave," you whispered, and he turned to look at you.
"You don't want me there."
"I didn't say that."
Andrew leaned his back against the headboard, and you sat up slowly, crossing your legs. He waited as he stared at you, expecting some explanation for your disorienting behavior.
"You scared me," you whispered, and you could see Andrew's finger twitch in his lap. You could see him itching to disappear. He'd scared you. He'd scared you.
He felt sick. "You just kept hitting him. Even when he was on the ground," you whispered. "And I know that's—that's how boxing works, but I'm just — I've never seen you like that," you stared at your hands in your lap, before looking up again, and this time you almost seemed mad at him, an emotion he'd almost never had directed at him from you before." You lied to me, Andrew." you gritted out through your teeth. "You've been lying to me for months."
Andrew looked away at that, feeling disgusted by himself. Foreseeing what was about to come he looked down at the soft covers under him, felt your warmth, that he could sense despite the space between you. His eyes glanced towards you, in your sweet and pretty pajamas, and he wished he'd appreciated this more.
Not that he hadn't before, but fear had always lingered in the background. Fear that he'd hurt you and that you'd leave him. That Smurf would take you. He wished he had just taken hours to just sit there, and live in the moment with you, push everyone away and just appreciate that you were here with him. He wanted to cry.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly again, avoiding your eyes.
You stared at him, and then you bit your lip, counting to ten. You could do this. This was your sweet Andrew. He'd never raised his voice at you, never. This is what you kept repeating over and over again to yourself, as you pushed the covers away.
Andrew watched you pad into the bathroom, heard you open drawers and close them, before you came back into the room, rounding the bed until you were on his side. There, you grabbed the ice he'd left on the night table, and handed it to him.
"Press it to your right temple," you murmured, and then you just climbed into his lap. One knee on each side of his thigh. His thigh twitched under yours nervously, and you had to hold yourself on his left shoulder to not fall off.
You carefully opened the first aid kit, keeping it on the bed. Your hand on his shoulder lightly traveled up to his face, turning it towards you, like he wasn't already staring at you. Andrew's hand fell limp against the bed, ice too. The bed sheets turning dark, as the ice melted.
Before he knew it, he was desperately reaching for your hips, pulling you closer. You were touching him. You were in his lap and you were taking care of him. You didn't leave. He felt his breath quicken, like he was about to cry.
Meanwhile, you wordlessly grabbed a cotton pad, applied some anti septic on it and pressed it lightly to his cheek. He could feel your hands shaking and how much strength it was taking you to not succumb to your fear. To not let your mind convince you to get into your car right now and just drive away.
Andrew let his hands travel up and down on your waist and under your shirt, squeezing your soft waist. You squirmed, when you felt his cold hands, but then relaxed into the oh so familiar touch. His calloused fingertips tapped your ribs restlessly as he watched you with his big hazel eyes.
You were so gentle and he was sure there were tears in his eyes. His eyes felt really warm and his throat felt tight. You stopped cleaning for just one second, eyes darting to his face, and you gave him such a sweet smile, that the tears dried immediately. You weren't leaving. You weren't leaving.
Once you were done, you set everything aside, and just slumped down in his lap, hands resting on his hard stomach.
"I'm sorry for letting Smurf drag me there." You avoided his eyes, ashamed of letting her manipulate you. You stared down at his stomach, wondering how blue and purple his ribs were. You'd probably hear him wince in his sleep all night. You never told him about this habit, worried about scaring him off.
"Not your fault."
You stayed quiet for a while, taking the chance to properly see how truly in pain he was. He was good at hiding it, but you knew Andrew. He wasn't going to wince, or cry out. He'd live in the pain and say he deserved it. That it's fine. That he hurt you and his opponent which meant he deserved to suffer.
You watched his big hazel eyes as they scanned you, watching you for every shift in your face. You felt sick that you'd done this to him, that you let Smurf do this to the two of you. Andrew had tried so hard to keep away from her twisted traps and yet you fell in anyways. Of course you did. You were vulnerable and sensitive and she knew that. You wanted to cry for the fact that he had to put up with her, and with you.
"I know I'm not easy," you whispered after a while, your voice breaking. "I'm sorry you had to—to change so many things about yourself because of me. And I'm sorry for all of this." You brushed a tear from your face. "I know it's not easy to deal with me and my -" you waved a hand in the air. "My sensitivity." You grimaced.
"I like dealing with you." Andrew said after a long pause, where he'd waited to see if you wanted to say anything else. He knows you hadn't always been heard by the people in your life, so he tried hard to give you the space you needed.
You chuckled wetly, and his lips lifted for a second. "I didn't change things about me." His eyebrows furrowed because he wasn't sure how you'd gotten there. "I'm just trying to be good. For you," he titled his head, trying to catch your eyes. "You don't like yelling, so I don't yell. You don't like fighting, so I don't fight." You shot him a look then, and he guiltily added. "In front of you."
He paused, finger tapping restlessly against your waist, making you squirm for a second. "I like being good for you. I can sleep better, and it makes waking up easier," he sounded so earnest, and you wanted to cry then and there. "I don't know what I'd do without you." he said slowly, as if also now comprehending how much you meant to him.
He squeezed your side anxiously. "I—I don't want you to be afraid of me. I would never hurt you, and what you saw today was just— it's not who I am when I'm with you."
It was silent for a while. You could hear an owl outside, waves washing against the shore and a dog barking. The waves calmed Andrew down, helped him sleep. Or at least that's what he told you. You weren't so sure now. He sounded so very sincere when he said he slept better with you.
You fixed a curl for him, lightly pushing it aside, before you dropped your hand again. "I don't want to see that again," you said in a low voice. "If you want—you can keep doing it, but I don't want to see it,"
Andrew shook his head. "I'll quit," he said, hands traveling up your waist again. "I'll get my money tomorrow, and I'll— I'll get you whatever you want, and I'll never do it again."
You didn't say anything and Andrew worried that he'd been too eager, too much. But then you finally spoke. "Do you like boxing?" You jabbed a finger into his chest. "Don't lie."
Andrew pressed his lips tight together. "I like—" he glanced up at you, worried that'll make your fear worse, make you scared of him even more, but you seemed so open to anything he had to say that he spoke the truth. "—hitting stuff." He finished the sentence. "I don't like to hurt people."
You nodded slowly as if you'd expected that answer and brushed a hand over his shoulder. "We'll use the money to get you a boxing set again. Punching bag, gloves, the whole thing," you pondered. "I think there's a great shop downtown for boxing equipment. I walked past it a bunch of times. We can set everything up in the backyard. That way you can hit stuff, but not hurt people,"
"That doesn't scare you?," he asked, already thinking how intense he got when he was allowed to hit stuff.
"I don't know," you went quiet again, toying with his neckline. "Maybe." Your eyes flickered up towards him. "I just—I don't like all that hitting stuff, you know?"
You looked terrified to be telling him this. So far, throughout your relationship, he's always had to pick up on it, never had you outright tell him. "And that combined with yelling?" You shook your head, already getting scared at the idea. "Just—just reminds me of bad stuff." You whispered. "And I know you won't hurt me like ever." You reassured him noting the way he was getting progressively nervous about the image you had of him in your mind.
"But it scares me that you could." It sounded so stupid to you. Like a child. But Andrew understood more than he let on. "That—That all this anger could one day be directed at me, that one day you'll just want to be this angry and violent with me." You brushed a tear away, before Andrew had the chance too.
He straightened up a bit, pulling you closer, as his hands traveled down to your hips. He was unsure how to say what he wanted to say. "I—I love you," he said, and your eyes shot to his.
You knew he did, but he oh so rarely ever did say it. He made you feel loved regardless, so you never had the desire to hear it constantly. It made it even more special, when he'd whisper it in bed after a rough day, and you were half asleep. So for him to say it so outright while you were staring him right in the eye, was special to say the least.
"I would never hurt you," he pressed his fingers harder into your hips, not enough to hurt you, as he thought about his next words. "You don't have to believe me, i just—I want you to know that I wouldn't."
He hated that he wasn't capable of saying more, that he didn't know how to, but when you smiled at him, all teary eyed and a soft smile, he knew he had done well enough. That his best, was always enough for you. That he never had to reach this impossible bar with you. That all you asked of him was that he minded your fears, the way you minded his.
"I love you too," you whispered, before your arms came around his neck, and you pressed your face into his warm body. His arms tightened around your waist, as he squeezed his eyes shut. You smelled like vanilla, and he finally felt his heartbeat slow down, as you scraped your fingers lightly against his still wet hair.
You were still worried you were being possessive, ripping him away from things he loved. That you were like Smurf, so you spoke, breath hitting his collarbone.
"You—you won't hate me for this, right?" you whispered. Andrew squeezed your waist.
"You're doing me a favor." he whispered, and he meant it. No boxing meant less guilt, less disgust for himself. He wouldn't have to lie to you anymore, and he wouldn't have to live in fear that you'd find out. He'd see Smurf less, and have to stop listening to her talk about what a bad influence you were on him. How he was getting soft with you, how his loyalty should always be with his family first.
Now he'd be able to hug you without hiding groans of pain, he'd be able to feel your gentle kisses across his face without having you be worried about his bloody cuts.
summary — the first rule of sleeping with your attending was to make sure it meant nothing. you’d been very good at that right up until you weren’t.
warnings — 8.1k words. 18+ Minors DNI!! (explicit sexual content, oral [m! recieving], unprotected p in v, power imbalance [attending/resident], friends with benefits dynamics, mild dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, a lot of talking during sex, can be read as slightly coercive maybe?), hurt/comfort, commitment issues, fear of emotional intimacy, lightly implied widower undertones, age gap (jack’s 50/reader’s a resident, implied to be late twenties), jack jokes about paying for sex, alcohol
notes — this one started light in the beginning and ended pretty heavy like idk where all that came from i wrote the first half when i was in a better mood and finished it when i got this request and i guess i was just feeling like i wanted to make it hurt even more
Jack Abbot came with his perks. He’d taken you under his wing when you first joined the PTMC as a second-year-resident, and somewhere over the space of a year, he’d taken you to his bed. You’d built him as a man who lived in a sad bachelor pad with the way he’d taken you to his house after a shitty shift; no preamble, just a jerk of his head toward the parking garage and a raspy ‘come on’ that you’d followed like he was still your attending after-hours.
And fuck, you couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel slightly good to see a floor-to-ceiling windowed penthouse and drink something amber and expensive after you’d spent the last few years of your life not seeing the other end of what your work could bring you. It was grim and improper, you knew, fucking your attending in the early hours of the morning before the sun fully rose, but you knew it was coming; half the ED had placed bets on it and Cassie and Javadi were yet to know they were right.
He’d taken you against the window the first time.
“You afraid of heights?” he’d asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. You’d shaken your head, or tried to. “No,” he’d murmured, your jaw in his hands. “Didn’t think so.”
He’d taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.
A part of you wondered often the sort of impression you’d given Jack, what he’d seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because you’d spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was.
He was a better lay than you’d ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours.
You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didn’t count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee — you took it to go — and you didn’t learn his middle name on purpose. You’d never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.
But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadn’t accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place you’d sworn was temporary.
And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasn’t the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that you’d stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; you’d sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. You’d started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.
And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.
This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not looking to make it one. Is that alright?
He’d said the words while putting on his briefs, and you’d agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. You’d wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. He’d been more honest than any man you’d let touch you. He’d told you the terms up front and never moved them.
So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.
Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. He’d put on his coat a heavy thing that should’ve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.
“Jack,” you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, “I’m not going home with you.”
His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights.
“You good?” He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. “You looked a little out of it today. Come — I’ll make you soup.”
You pinched your eyes shut at his words. “What’s that even supposed to mean — I was fine.”
“Don’t take it personal,” he said. “Come on, soup.”
“Seriously, I was fine.” You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. “I’ve been awake for nineteen hours, I’m not sick —” You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing you’d let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. “I’m not going home with you,” you said again, this time with a sharper edge.
He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. “Did I upset you?”
“No, it’s not a fight,” you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. “I’m not mad at you, Jack. I’m done with this. The whole — all of it.”
He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, “You’re calling it?”
“Yeah, very much,” you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driver’s side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, “Sorry. I guess.”
He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didn’t want it, and you’d never once been able to sell that lie for either of you.
“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. “Alright. Then let’s at least end it properly.”
When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.
He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”
“One time,” you said quietly, almost in a whisper. “And then I mean it. It won’t change anything.”
“I believe you,” he said. “Last time, then. Make it count.”
Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm you’d settled into with him at around month two — the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed — had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didn’t want to shut his mouth.
He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom.
He’d opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever he’d been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting.
“Slow,” he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. “Fuck.”
You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldn’t afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him — six months of evidence, a body of proof — fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds.
“You — huh — last time. Really?” he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, “Good girl.” His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. “Good — yeah.”
You’d have smiled if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think you’d won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.
“You really mean it?” he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “You’re done?”
You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasn’t a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor.
His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.
“Don’t go quiet on me,” he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. “You hear me. I know you — shit.”
You’d found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm.
You’d have been lying if you said this wouldn’t be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking.
“You’re really gonna — ” He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. “ — gonna do this and walk, you’re — ”
You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.
“Are you kidding me?”
He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. “What?” he muttered.
“Why won’t you shut up?” You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. “You’re acting like a child.”
“Acting like a child,” he huffed, head tipping back. “I’m pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. “You’ve been throwing one since we got off.”
His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead — the one still working him — stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged.
You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples.
“Better,” he muttered. “Neck was startin’ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.” The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. “What’s this really about?”
You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didn’t believe could survive being said out loud over a man who’d made it clear exactly what this was on day one.
“You know,” you said.
“Maybe. But humor me.” His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. “Thought we had something nice going and now — ” He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. “So, what’s going on up in that pretty little head of yours?”
“I want more than this,” you said plainly. “That’s what’s in my head. I want the whole thing — the relationship and dates and stuff. I think I’ve got enough time to — get into that.”
“Yeah?” he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek.
You had to press your lips together, because you obviously weren’t expecting him to offer, and yet you’d been holding your breath anyway.
“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”
His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.
“You should,” he said after a moment, swallowing. “Get into that. You’ve got the time.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. “Not gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even I’m not that selfish.” His brows furrowed, like he’d just processed his own words. “Most days.”
His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours.
This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.
“S’it somebody at work?” he asked. “Has to be. You don’t have time yet to meet anyone who isn’t.”
You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. “No — no one. I haven’t met anyone yet.”
He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up.
He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. “You’d rather have no one than me, huh?”
“Wow,” you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. “Now that’s mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.”
“Yeah?” His brow lifted, scar catching the light. “Course you can.” His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. “Always hear someone in the hospital talking about you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“M’not.” He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. “I mean it. It’s about time you got out from this old man.”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. “It’s what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.” His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. “You should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. I’ve already done my time.”
You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what he’d say and do if you’d said them, and you couldn’t take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.
You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like he’d understood whatever you didn’t say.
“Yeah, baby,” he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. “I know.”
He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. “Spoiling me rotten and then telling me you’re leaving.”
“Shut up now — ”
He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. “Get me used to this and then — what? Go hand it to someone who hasn’t earned it.” He laughed brokenly against your throat. “Selfish girl.”
You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. “Go find — someone else yourself,” you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. “You’re not lacking options — ”
“But I like having my cake,” he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. “Eating it, too.”
“Gross,” you mumbled against him.
One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, you’d assumed it’d take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. You’d stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. You’d slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question.
One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. You’d gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate; a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.
Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack.
You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.
“You’ll fit,” Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense.
You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his size’s arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasn’t thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too.
The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone.
Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal.
“Excited?” he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else.
You kept your head tipped back against the seat. “More excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.”
His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. “Some Marriot-adjacent mattress? You’re aiming low.”
“It’s horizontal and not on-call. I’m easy to please.”
“Since when?” he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldn’t call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument she’d been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. “You used to say my sheets were scratchy.”
“For a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy — ”
“Finally,” he breathed out, satisfied, like he’d been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. “I almost forgot you’d been in it.”
God. You hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and he’d never once explained, and that you’d both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasn’t yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didn’t count anymore.
“Can we stop at the next exit?” Trinity said from the back. “I need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.”
Dana hummed. “There’s a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?” She looked through the map on her phone. “Everybody go when we stop. We’re not pulling off twice.”
“Works for me,” Robby said.
Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. “We’re stopping?”
“Yup,” Dana confirmed. “Bathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.”
Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment.
Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. “Single stall in the back of those places, you know?” he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.”
You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. “Weird thing to know off the top of your head.”
His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didn’t strictly require it. “How much would it take?” His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. “You and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.”
“Can’t be bought.” You forced your eyes to the windshield. “Sorry. Not for sale.”
“No?” His voice dipped, amused. “Everybody’s got a price.”
“Not me.” You turned your head and found him already closer than he’d been a second ago. “You really think you could afford me?”
“Could take a run at it.”
“Wouldn’t get far.”
“Fifty,” he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips.
You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. “I don’t get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.”
“Oof.” He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. “Expensive date.”
“It’s never a date with you.”
He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. “Right. Hundred, then.”
“I’m gonna report you to HR. You’re my attending.”
“Good luck with filling out the history we have for that.”
You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. “You really think I’m the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?”
You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. “Would you?”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “In your dreams, Jack.”
“Frequently,” he said, not missing a second. “Vividly, too.”
You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. “Keep dreaming, then. It’s all you’re getting.”
You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.
“Christ.” He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. “Missed you.”
Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased.
Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennis’s head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky.
At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth — almost hypnotic — interstates often did when they’d gone out of the clutches of the city. You’d meant to stay awake. You’d made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt.
When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. You’d fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there.
You weren’t proud of how you didn’t want to move just yet, so you didn’t move.
You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him you’d made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle you’d been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldn’t tip into your lap, and set it down.
You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jack’s arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennis’s skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kid’s hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy.
You’d furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off.
Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didn’t allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping resident’s head and his face crumpled slightly.
He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennis’s skull.
“Ow.” Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. “What — Dr. Abbot — what —”
“Wrong shoulder, kid,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t —” Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. “Sorry. God. Sorry.”
You’d started to sit up to peel yourself off Jack’s chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.
“Not you,” he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. “You’re fine where you are.”
You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.
You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.
You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didn’t trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.
He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand.
You put your hands in your lap where they couldn’t get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.
The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending they’d be here without the boxed wine.
You’d lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone he’d done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.
He was older. Closer to Jack’s range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if he’d ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didn’t own a single thing he refused to speak about.
“Pace yourself with that,” he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. “It comes up to you pretty quickly.”
“Bit late for that,” you said, lifting the cup up an inch. “This is already number three.”
“Then I’m too late to save you and might as well make it worse,” he said, offering a hand. “Mark. Philly. I run the shop out there.”
You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things.
He tipped his head to look at your badge. “Pittsburgh Trauma. You like it?”
“Most days.”
He shrugged. “Anybody who says every day is lying or hasn’t been doing it long enough.” He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. “Let me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.”
You were going to say something back—you had something, you’d half-built it—and then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress.
“Mark,” Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. “Jack Abbot. Pittsburgh.”
“Jack.” Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. “I think I’ve read you —” He referenced one of Jack’s studies you knew all too well, something he’d handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.
“That’s me.” Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. “Philly? You inherit the department or build it?”
“Little bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,” he said lightly. “You enjoying the conference?”
“It’s a conference,” Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. “You know this one’s my best trauma resident? I’d put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldn’t have called that fast.”
“That so?” Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. “He doesn’t seem the type to hand those out.”
“He’s nice to everyone.”
“She’s underselling it.” Jack’s hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. “You’ll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.”
It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men do—fast, behind a pleasant face—and land on a play.
“Well.” He tilted the glass toward Jack. “I won’t monopolize you. I’m sure you’ve got the room to work — everybody wants a minute at these things.”
The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jack’s features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man.
“S’alright,” he said pleasantly. “Got everyone I need right here.”
Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jack’s measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.
“Fair enough,” he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. “Pleasure. Good luck with the residency.” He nodded at you, then to Jack. “Abbot.” And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasn’t already spoken for.
Jack’s hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.
“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more.
“Do what?” he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand.
“Don’t.” You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldn’t carry over to strangers. “You know what you did. You’re not stupid.”
“I said you were good at your job.” He had the gall to look reasonable. “Becuase you are.”
“That’s not what it was and you know it — thank you.” Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to walk over and put your hand on me when I’m talking to another man and act like — ” Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. “ — like you’ve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.”
Jack’s lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. “He’d have you in his bed by ten,” he said, calmer now. “Guys like that — it’s their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didn’t lose anything worth keeping.”
Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. “Yeah?” you asked, voice going quieter. “Isn’t that what you were?”
He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. “If you can’t tell the difference between me and a guy like that,” he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, “then I really don’t know what to tell you.”
“Maybe there isn’t one.”
His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. “That’s how you think of me?”
“That’s not — ” You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. “That’s not what I said.”
“It sounded a hell of a lot like it.” He shook his head. “Six months and you’re putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.”
“Jack — ”
“You wanted it, too. Okay?” When you let out a small ‘what?’ he continued, “You heard me. You’re acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.” His voice had dropped low, and he’d walked closer to you before you even realized. “You never once asked for more until the night you walked. So don’t put it all on me.”
“I asked,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. “You were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said you’re no good past what we were doing.”
“I said it because it’s true,” he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.”
“Then stand on that,” you said. “You don’t get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You don’t get to keep me in your life like this forever because you can’t stand to either let me in or go.”
“I’m trying to do right by you,” he said roughly.
You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. “Why are you doing this?” You shoulders came up to your ears. “I don’t — it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I don’t get why — I need to move on.”
He closed his eyes at that for a moment. “I know you do,” he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. “I — can we go somewhere else?” He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, “Please.”
You’d watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldn’t, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, it’d make your body hurt even more, and you’d still do it.
The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasn’t a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.
You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you weren’t sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, “Jack — ”
“Did you want it to be me?” he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action.
“What?”
“The whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.” His body was stiff against the wall. “Was that — did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.”
You took in a shaky breath. “You.” It came out more plainly than you’d expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. “I left because I wanted more — with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.”
His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.
“I don’t think I can give you that,” he said.
“Okay.” You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. “Thanks for telling me that, then.”
He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. “I didn’t — didn’t say I never wanted to. Don’t think that.” He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. “Wanting you that way wasn’t hard. I’ve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.”
He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.
“I did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.” He laughed wryly, no humor in it. “I stopped letting myself want things — I thought it’s a lot easier to get through a night if there’s nothing you’d be hurt to lose.” His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. “Feels like I’m losing you, and it hurts like hell.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t meant to.”
You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out.
“But you don’t know if you can do it,” you said, words coming out shakily.
He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he could’ve told. “I don’t know.”
You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do.
“But — but, I don’t wanna lose what I’ve got with you,” he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. “I know that the nights you’re not on are longer. And if I can’t have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago — for me, too.”
The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words you’d always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. You’d kept careful track of everything he wouldn’t give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part — the part that made your blood run even hotter — was that it counted. It counted, anyway.
“So what do we do with that?” you said. “I don’t — I don’t know where that leaves us.”
He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most he’d ever given you in one night.
“I’d want to try,” he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. “Not the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.” He let out a breath. “If you still want it. I wasn’t very great the first time, and I’m out of practice, too.”
You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. “You were okay with it a month ago — ”
“It hurt,” he said immediately. “It hurt, you walking out. I didn’t have anything better than to let you, but don’t — don’t think it didn’t.”
He moved when you didn’t respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.
“Let me try,” he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. “I want to learn this with you.”
You looked up at him. He held it — your eyes, the closeness, all of it — instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract you’d be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so.
“You can’t disappear on me,” you said instead of considering the second option, “when it gets hard. I don’t ever want to feel like I made up something I didn’t.”
He nodded stiffly. “If I do, you can drag me back out.”
His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.
“Just let me try,” he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. “Please. I’m asking. I don’t do that a lot.”
pairing — underground fighter!andrew ‘pope’ cody x fem!reader
summary — pope cody’s got himself a girl he’s sweet on who works on him between rounds, and there’s no part of him that can imagine the thought of leaving you.
warnings — ( 14.5k words ) 18+ MINORS DNI !! explicit sexual content ( p in v, m!receiving oral, pope’s got a size kink, marking, scratching, praise kink, softdom!pope, slightly needy!pope? he’s also rly awkward during sex) slow burn-ish, no physical appearance described of reader (small hands + general size difference noted in relation to pope, no other physical descriptors) obsessive!pope, guns and threat at gunpoint, financial exploitation of reader - she’s paying off a debt by working, brief harassment scene, hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort, violence, blood + injuries, emotional ending, incarceration, brief mentions of drug use, absent parent, protective!pope, reader’s guarded / slow to trust, unwanted touching (not from pope), pope has a heavy savior complex in this, no use of y/n, pope’s pov, canon-compliant (ish) but it’s pre-season one.
notes — this one got a little away from me and i’m already Sorry it’s a shawn hatosy summer!!! also i’m laughing to myself ab this fic bc the original plot was gonna be so different but this is just the way the cookie crumbled while writing + experimented with a different writing style bc i just think pope’s pov would feel like a lot at once
Craig had made some pretty stupid decisions in his life. He blew his money on blow and bikes most of the time, but once in a blue moon, he made decisions that really cut it, like putting in over three grand into Pope across a single night. Money Craig didn’t even have, money he’d borrowed off a man people didn’t borrow off, because he watched Pope punch a bag by the pool and put a body on the concrete in a parking lot behind a bar and decided his older brother was an investment.
It was, as it turned out. Pope won. Craig got his three grand back and then some, and that was how the basement off Atlantic became a regular thing, because Craig had a taste for it now and Pope had a use for cash that didn’t run through Smurf’s shady fingers first.
The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn.
Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off.
It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect.
Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either.
The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.”
You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it.
“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it.
He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood.
He took the rag off your hands.
And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition.
It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds.
Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it.
The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count.
Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it.
He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully.
He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them.
“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”
You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”
So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up.
“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?
You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.
Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue.
“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.”
Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you.
Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him.
“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.”
He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around.
“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear.
That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’
“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.
“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”
He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it.
“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.”
You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”
“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did.
He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you.
His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off.
“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.”
Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb.
You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off.
“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.”
Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?”
“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”
Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?”
It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him.
You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.”
Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened.
It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself.
“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly.
“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.”
You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.
For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest.
His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there.
There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb.
The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.
You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long.
The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.
“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”
“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”
“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy.
“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting.
“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”
“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.”
“What if I—”
“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.”
You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.
There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.
You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.
He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be.
He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.
He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back.
He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful.
He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.
The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know.
“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said.
“I’m fine.”
“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”
He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped.
Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.
“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”
Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question.
“Hold still,” you said.
“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.”
In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.
He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you.
You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”
“Don’t try to help me.”
“I didn’t say—”
“It’s written all over your face.”
You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.
That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken.
“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all.
“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed.
“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”
“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.”
“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct.
“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.”
“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.”
“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.
One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that.
“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you.
“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.”
“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again.
You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.
“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.”
He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.
“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”
“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.
“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.
He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.
“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”
The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.
“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.
“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged.
Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?”
“This week, yeah,” you said.
“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.”
You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.”
“Leo pays you enough?”
You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”
Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”
You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.
“This week?”
You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.
Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.
You looked at it, then at him. “No.”
“For the kid.”
“Andrew.”
“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.”
“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.”
“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”
He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.”
He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”
You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.
“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.”
He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.”
He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago.
He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry.
It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that.
You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice.
He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.
He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.
You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing.
Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.
Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.
Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate.
“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?”
He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it.
“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.
“The one that does the cash, man.”
“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”
“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”
Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.”
“Don’t.”
“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.”
“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.
“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?”
“Why’s she there?”
Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”
“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”
“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”
“How much?” Pope asked immediately.
Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”
“Just say it.”
“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.”
Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”
He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face.
Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”
“It’s her brother.”
“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.”
Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.”
Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.”
“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—”
Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that.
If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand.
“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.”
Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”
He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did.
It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect.
This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.
Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.
You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.”
“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through.
You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.
“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.”
He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten.
You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance.
Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”
Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”
“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince.
You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”
Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to.
He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve.
He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from.
Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.
The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.
He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.
Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.
You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional.
He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest.
Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended.
He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it.
“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”
“Andrew—”
“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”
He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.”
That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.”
You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?”
“No.”
“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.”
He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”
You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground.
“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”
When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.”
He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?”
Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.”
The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.
He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.
You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.
He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck.
He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it.
You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it.
His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.
Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.
His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it.
It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.
You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you.
You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.
“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.
Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his.
“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.”
Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once.
“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”
Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?”
“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.
He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip.
You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.
“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast.
“We don’t have to—” you started.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.”
Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.
One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current.
It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.
“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.
He fluttered his eyes open halfway.
“Better than this place,” you clarified.
Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly.
The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried.
“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”
You blinked. “Where?”
He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”
You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.”
“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”
“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.
“C’mon.”
He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.
Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed.
So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close.
The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours.
Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt.
When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home.
He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing.
Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house.
He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.
“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow.
“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper.
You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it.
“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.
“No.”
“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came.
He kissed you slow.
He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.
“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him.
Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.
He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.
“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone.
“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him.
Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.
Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.”
He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you.
You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.
His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured.
You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.
He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still.
“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him.
“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating.
“Andrew.”
“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.
“Can I—” he started.
“Yes.”
He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.
His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.
He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely.
You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.
His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.
You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.
“Are you—”
“Mhm.”
You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly.
You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.
“C’mon, hey—”
You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.
Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation.
His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.
You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.
“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.
You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.
You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp.
“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”
He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up.
You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.
“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”
You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?”
“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.”
“So ask.”
He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?”
You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”
The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.
You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.
You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.
He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.
He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing.
“You okay?” you asked, quiet.
“One second.”
You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.
He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.
“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.
“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless.
He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.
His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.
“Andrew—”
“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.”
Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.
“That good?” he murmured.
“It’s—” you started, breath catching.
“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?”
“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”
He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.”
Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.
You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.
His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.
“You with me?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”
His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.”
It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.
You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.
He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.
Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up.
He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog.
“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”
“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”
“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.”
Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.
“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”
Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder.
“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it.
Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.”
Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.”
“People talk—” you started to say.
“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”
Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”
The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead.
The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.
“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”
“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?”
“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”
He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”
“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”
Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.”
Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.”
Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.”
“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”
“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”
Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”
Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.
Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?”
“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.”
“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.”
Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.
“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you.
You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.
Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today.
He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.
“Get in the car,” he said to you.
You stayed still.
Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”
You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.
“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled.
You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.
“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out.
You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”
He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.”
You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down.
“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.”
Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”
“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.”
“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.”
“Don’t call me dumb.”
“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.”
You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”
“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.
“That’s not how—”
“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”
“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”
“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”
A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.
So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized.
It rang twice.
“Hello?”
The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home.
“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?”
He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.”
“Jesus—why?”
“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere.
“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?”
“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”
“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.
“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything.
“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”
“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?”
“I don’t care about that.”
“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”
“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear.
“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?”
Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.
He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.
You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped.
“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”
It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.
“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.”
“Andrew—”
“Please.”
Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift.
“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”
He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.”
“I don’t want your brother to—”
He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time.
Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you.
“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”
He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.”
He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.
“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”
And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line.
Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison.
He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.
“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”
Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.”
“Please, just—”
“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.”
The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.
when it gets dark, jack’s chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if it’s a group of men. he’ll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groups—jack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he won’t let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if you’re too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesn’t say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when you’re out together. he’ll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if it’s “just” your thighs.
when you can’t decide what to wear, he’ll pick for you.
“the purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.”
he’ll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
“such a pretty girl, mhm?”
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. he’ll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.
“attagirl”
“good job, baby”
“you’re doing so good”
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. you’ll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesn’t grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the world—because to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, he’ll scratch your head until you practically purr.
“you like that, baby?”
“just relax. but don’t fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open f’me.”
it’s your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, you’re jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.
pairing: dr. jack abbot x younger resident!reader
summary: You’re 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 you’re too terrified to name.
Because the problem with Jack Abbot isn’t that he wants to take care of you. It’s 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 rhythm—monitors 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.
“Sometimes it’s the chip,” she said.
“It’s not the chip,” 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 “absolutely could’ve done faster if anyone had let her finish,” and Dr. Mohan was answering in that careful, measured way that made even a correction sound like she’d considered the whole person first.
You shifted the sandwich lower against your palm.
“It’s fine,” you said, already turning. “I don’t need it.”
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 up—the 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 didn’t 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.
“Bag?” the cashier asked.
“No,” 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 Abbot’s shoulder beside yours.
You stared at him. “Seriously?”
He finally looked at you.
Jack Abbot always looked like he’d been awake since the Clinton administration. It should’ve 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 you’d learned to notice after months of seeing him around PTMC—the subtle distribution of weight that came with his prosthetic leg and the old damage he carried without announcing it.
“What?” he said.
You lowered your voice. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“That’s my lunch.”
“Looked like it.”
“You paid for it.”
“Sharp today.”
You huffed, heat crawling up your neck. “Jack.”
That got you the smallest change in his face. Not a smile. He didn’t hand those out recklessly. More like one corner of his mouth remembered humor existed and gave a half-hearted twitch before giving up.
“Eat the sandwich,” he said.
“I was going to.”
“No, you were going to put it back and pretend you weren’t hungry.”
You opened your mouth.
Jack’s 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.
“Damn,” she said, appearing at Jack’s shoulder with a coffee she had definitely not paid for recently enough to still be that hot. “Abbot’s buying lunch now? Is this a resident perk, or do I need to almost faint near the muffins?”
Mohan didn’t look up from stirring sugar into her tea. “You would never almost faint quietly enough to qualify.”
“I don’t faint,” Santos said.
“You got lightheaded during central line training.”
“That was low blood sugar and a hostile learning environment.” Santos pointed two fingers toward Jack. “But I’m serious. I want in on the cafeteria patron program.”
Jack looked at her.
Santos looked back.
The silence lasted exactly long enough for her confidence to thin at the edges.
“Or not,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “Noted. Very selective program.”
Dana passed behind the group with a stack of charts under one arm and a look sharp enough to split sutures. “If any of you are done loitering in my cafeteria like it’s a damn wine bar, I’ve 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.”
Whitaker blinked. “Who? Adult guy or kid guy?”
Dana didn’t slow down. “That’s the part that’s gonna disappoint you.”
Santos grinned. Mohan gave a small, resigned sigh. Jack, without looking away from you, said, “Eat.”
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 didn’t know how to hold. He’d seen the little calculation you’d tried to hide, the quiet defeat of deciding hunger could wait until later, and he’d stepped in with no fanfare. No pity. No soft voice.
Just a card tapped against a reader and a dry order to eat.
“I can pay you back,” you said.
Jack’s eyes dipped briefly to the sandwich and then back to your face.
“Don’t.”
“I don’t like owing people.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“That’s not how money works.”
“It is when I decide I don’t care.”
You gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “That’s very generous of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
You should’ve let it go.
You really should’ve.
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.
“Careful,” you said, tucking the sandwich against your chest. “People are gonna think you’re my sugar daddy.”
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 you’d gone too far.
Then Jack took the receipt from the cashier, crumpled it in one hand, and said, flat as a dead monitor, “People think a lot of stupid shit.”
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.
“Oh, that was not nothing.”
“It was lunch,” you said.
Mohan looked at you over the rim of her cup, thoughtful in a way that made you feel unfortunately examined. “He noticed before anyone else did.”
You pressed the cold sandwich wrapper against your burning face.
Dana shouted from somewhere down the hall, “Santos, if you’re socializing instead of working, I’m assigning you Lego ear.”
Santos snapped upright. “I’m not socializing.”
“Good,” Dana called. “Then you can do it faster.”
You stood there with Jack’s lunch in your hands and tried very hard not to smile.
It would’ve 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 didn’t become flashy. He didn’t start acting like some rich asshole in a bad romance novel, throwing cash around and waiting to be thanked for it. That would’ve been easier to resist, probably. Less intimate, anyway. You could’ve rolled your eyes at that. You could’ve made fun of him. You could’ve 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, “I was already standing there.” He brought you half a container of pasta from the staff fridge because “Robby ordered too much and nobody here understands portions.” 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 he’d 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 nurses’ 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 he’d run both hands through it enough times to qualify as a cry for help.
“Is Abbot feeding you?” he asked.
You nearly dropped your pen. “What?”
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. Jack’s attention was fixed, but his expression had that faintly skeptical set that made med students stand up straighter by instinct.
“Food,” Robby said. “Coffee. Whatever else he’s pretending is a coincidence.”
“He bought me lunch once.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And coffee.”
“Sure.”
“And maybe pasta.”
Robby’s eyebrows rose.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do you have a point?”
“Not one worth putting in writing.” He took a sip of coffee, then winced like it tasted exactly as bad as he expected and somehow worse. “Just be careful.”
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.
“He’s a good guy,” Robby said, quieter.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s uncomplicated.”
You swallowed. “I know that too.”
Robby’s 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.
“Okay,” he said. Then, because sincerity seemed to physically pain him if left unbalanced, he added, “Also, if this turns into some HR nightmare, I’m denying I noticed.”
“There’s nothing to notice.”
“Great. Love that. Very convincing.”
You looked back down at your schedule so he wouldn’t 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 didn’t smile.
He just looked.
That was becoming the problem.
Jack didn’t flirt the way other men flirted. He didn’t 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 he’d 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 “haha, she’s old but reliable” 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.
“Please,” you whispered, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “Not tonight.”
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. “Jesus Christ.”
“No,” he said. “Just me.”
“Do you always lurk in parking garages?”
“Only when cars sound like they’re about to die.”
“It’s fine.”
Jack looked at the hood. Then at you.
“That’s not a fine sound.”
“It does that sometimes.”
“It shouldn’t do that ever.”
You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “I’m taking it in next week.”
“You’re not driving it until then.”
A laugh slipped out of you, brittle and defensive. “Okay, Dad.”
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. “Pop the hood.”
“I don’t need you to—”
“Pop the hood.”
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 wasn’t 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.
“Do not drive this,” he said.
You were already shaking your head. “I have to get home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, Jack.”
He stared at you over the hood. “You got a better plan?”
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 couldn’t afford to identify. But admitting that felt worse than standing barefoot on broken glass.
“I can call someone,” you said.
“Who?”
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.
Jack’s voice dropped. “Get your bag.”
“I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“I’m not fixing everything.” He came around to your side of the car, opened the door, and stood back enough to give you room. “I’m stopping you from driving a death trap.”
You didn’t move.
Jack exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh.
“You can be mad in my car,” he said. “It has heat.”
That was how he won.
Not with softness. Not with a speech.
Heat.
You grabbed your bag and got out.
Jack’s car was clean in the way a person’s car got when they didn’t 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.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes stayed on the road. “Yeah.”
“Your leg?”
“I said yeah.”
“Right. Sorry.”
His jaw worked.
Then, quieter, “Long day.”
That was as much as he usually gave. A door opened an inch, then locked again.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
The wipers dragged water from the glass in steady, tired arcs.
At a red light, Jack said, “Where do you take the car?”
You laughed weakly. “To a mechanic who knows me by name and already looks tired when I walk in.”
“I’ll call someone.”
“No.”
“You don’t know who yet.”
“I know it’s going to involve you paying for something.”
The light turned green.
Jack drove.
You looked at him, incredulous. “You’re not even denying it.”
“Seemed like a waste of both our time.”
“Jack.”
“I know a guy.”
“Of course you know a guy.”
“I’m old.”
“You’re not that old.”
That got you a glance. Brief, sharp, almost amused.
“No?”
“No,” you said, and then because you had apparently decided self-preservation was for other people, you added, “Just old enough to have a guy.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
You felt victorious and doomed at the same time.
“I can handle it,” you said, softer. “The car. I’ll figure it out.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Jack was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.
Then he said, “Because figuring it out shouldn’t mean hoping your brakes make it another week.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
You looked out the window so he wouldn’t see it.
The thing about being broke—really, really, broke—wasn’t 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 didn’t reach for the door handle.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll pay you back if your guy does anything.”
“No.”
You shut your eyes. “Please don’t make me fight you in your car. I’m tired.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop noticing.”
“No.”
Your eyes opened.
Jack was looking at you now, body angled slightly in the driver’s 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. “Why?”
He didn’t pretend not to understand.
“I don’t know,” he said.
It was the first answer he’d given you that didn’t sound like a diagnosis.
That made it worse.
You tried to smile, tried to make the air lighter before it crushed you. “This is getting very sugar daddy of you.”
The joke landed differently in the dark.
You felt it. So did he.
Jack’s 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.
“You should go inside,” 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 Robby’s 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.
“Night, Jack.”
His hand tightened once around the phone.
“Lock your door.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Yes, Doctor.”
His eyes lifted.
There it was again, that almost-smile. Faint. Dangerous.
“Don’t start,” 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 Jack’s back after getting one text that said, Car’s 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 wasn’t 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.
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars?” 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.
Jack’s eyes flicked over your face. “Not here.”
“Oh, no, definitely here.”
Robby pressed his lips together and took one very deliberate step backward.
“Coward,” Dana muttered.
“Experienced,” Robby corrected.
Jack lowered his voice. “You called the mechanic.”
“You paid the mechanic.”
“Yeah.”
“Eight hundred and sixty dollars, Jack.”
“Would’ve been more if you kept driving it.”
You stared at him. “That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“And I told you I wasn’t letting you drive a death trap.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
For the first time, something like frustration cracked through his calm.
“No,” he said. “I don’t get to decide everything for you. But I do get to decide what I do with my money.”
Dana made a low sound. “Jesus.”
Santos whispered, “This is better than whatever I was supposed to be doing.”
Mohan, passing with a chart, said, “You're supposed to be working.”
You barely heard them.
Your whole focus had narrowed to Jack’s 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.
“I can’t pay that back right now,” you said.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It makes it done.”
You laughed once, without humor. “You’re impossible.”
“Usually.”
“You can’t just—” You stopped, aware suddenly of how many people were pretending not to listen. Your voice dropped. “You can’t just keep doing this.”
Jack’s gaze held yours.
“Doing what?”
The question should’ve been innocent, but it wasn’t. 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.
“You know what,” 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.
“Okay,” she said. “As much as I’d love to watch whatever this is turn into a workplace training module, Abbot, bed nine needs you. You—” She pointed at you. “Take a breath before you rupture something expensive.”
Jack’s 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.
“Friday,” he said under his breath.
You turned your head. “What?”
“Pick up your car Friday.”
Then he was gone.
Santos waited exactly three seconds.
“So,” she said, bright-eyed. “How does one apply for the Abbot scholarship fund?”
Dana pointed at her without looking. “Bedpan in curtain three.”
Santos deflated. “Damn it.”
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 Jack’s blunt handwriting.
Your old ones were unsafe.
That was it. No apology, no explanation. Just another problem he’d noticed and solved before you could decide whether to be grateful or furious.
You sat in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the note, then laughed until your eyes burned.
The fundraiser was Robby’s 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 wasn’t 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 “frontline heroes” while nurses calculated how many working monitors the cost of the floral arrangements could’ve bought.
You hadn’t planned to go.
Then Gloria Underwood’s office had needed extra administrative support for check-in, and Robby had said, “It’s easy money. Wear something nice. Try not to let the donors explain healthcare to you.”
You’d 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 “college career fair,” 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:
Don’t.
You smiled despite yourself.
You:
thank you, by the way
for the shoes too
even though you’re 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 should’ve 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 doesn’t 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 wasn’t covering.
You:
the dress?
Jack:
What else would I mean?
Your face went hot.
You:
don’t ask me that when i’m 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 could’ve said.
You said none of them.
You:
yes
Jack:
I’ll pick you up at 10.
Your stomach flipped.
You:
jack
Jack:
10:30 if you’re going to argue.
You:
you don’t even know what i was going to say
Jack:
I’m 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 he’d 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 would’ve walked past without entering because the window displays didn’t include prices, which meant the prices were rude. Jack parked, got out, and came around to your side before you had fully finished spiraling.
“I don’t like this,” you said as he opened the door.
“You haven’t gone in yet.”
“That’s why I still have hope.”
He gave you a look.
You stepped out, hugging your coat tighter around yourself. “Jack, I’m serious. I’m not letting you buy me some expensive dress.”
“Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That was too easy.”
“You said some expensive dress.” He closed the car door. “Find a cheap one.”
You stared at him.
He headed for the shop.
“That is not a loophole,” you called after him.
“It’s exactly a loophole.”
Inside, the boutique was too quiet, too soft, too expensive in ways it didn’t 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 didn’t seem to notice.
Or he did notice and simply didn’t 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.
“No,” he said through the door.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, startled. “You haven’t even seen it.”
“I saw the sleeve.”
“You can diagnose a bad dress by sleeve?”
“I’ve diagnosed worse with less.”
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.
“No,” he repeated.
The saleswoman, traitor that she was, nodded. “He’s right.”
You shut the curtain. “I hate both of you.”
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 you’d meant to be invited. Like you hadn’t spent the week calculating grocery money in your head and pretending exhaustion didn’t 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.
“Let me see,” Jack said from outside.
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
“You admit that way too easily.”
“I’m old.”
You smiled, then caught your own face in the mirror and watched the smile fade.
This was a bad idea. Not the dress—the 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 you—the music, the soft movement of hangers, the saleswoman tactfully vanishing somewhere behind a rack. Jack’s gaze moved over you once, controlled enough to be deniable and slow enough to ruin you anyway. He didn’t leer. He didn’t 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.
“Well?” you asked, because silence was going to kill you.
Jack leaned back slightly, but it didn’t make him look relaxed. It made him look like restraint had become physical.
“No,” he said.
Your face fell before you could stop it.
Then he added, lower, “That’s the problem.”
The words landed low enough to make your stomach tighten. You looked down at yourself, then back at him. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
His eyes returned to your face like it cost him effort.
“It fits.”
It was such a stupid answer. Controlled, careful, almost useless—and somehow hotter than a compliment, because you could hear everything he wasn’t 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.
“It’s probably expensive.”
“Probably.”
“Jack.”
“You like it?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s my point.”
You exhaled, trying to laugh, but it came out thin. “You can’t keep buying me things.”
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 hadn’t left the dress, or you inside it.
“I can do what I want.”
“You sound like a nightmare.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
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. “People are going to think I’m exactly what I joked about.”
Jack’s reflection didn’t move. “What’s that?”
You met his eyes in the mirror. “Your sugar baby.”
There. Said out loud in the warm boutique light, with the dress between you as evidence.
Jack’s gaze held yours. Then he stepped closer, just enough that his voice didn’t have to carry. “That what you want this to be?”
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.
“I don’t know,” you said, tilting your head. “Depends on the benefits package.”
Jack looked at you for a long second. Then the almost-smile appeared, brief and devastating.
“Change,” he said. “Before I regret asking.”
You spent the rest of the day pretending your hands weren’t 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 nurses’ 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 “normal arms,” 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.
“Okay,” she said when she saw you. “I’m going to say something, and I need you not to make it weird.”
“That’s never a good opener.”
“You look hot.”
“Santos.”
“What? I said don’t make it weird.”
Mohan, passing behind her, said, “You made it weird by announcing you weren’t going to.”
Santos ignored her. “Abbot seen you yet?”
You busied yourself with the check-in list. “Why?”
“Because I’m invested.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one. It’s being right.”
You were saved from answering by Dana appearing at your side with two badges and a look that missed nothing.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
Dana’s eyes swept over your face, then the room, then the entrance where Jack had not yet appeared. “Uh-huh.”
“You too?”
“Me too what?”
“Nothing.”
Dana handed you the badges. “Honey, I’ve worked ER longer than some of these donors have been pretending to care about ER. I know when there’s a thing.”
“There’s not a thing.”
“Then stop looking at the door like you’re planning an escape route.”
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 wasn’t 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 he’d 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 couldn’t 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 “oh my god” 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.
“Hi,” you said, which was embarrassing because you knew more words than that.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face first, then the dress, then back up slowly enough that your skin warmed beneath the fabric he’d bought.
“Hi.”
You tried for a smile. “You clean up okay.”
“I was going to say that.”
“You can still say it.”
“No.”
“Too generous?”
“Too easy.”
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. “What is that?”
“Receipt.”
“For the dress?”
“For the car.”
Your stomach dropped. “Jack.”
“Relax.” He slid it across the check-in table with two fingers. “It says paid. That’s all.”
You looked down.
Paid.
Your throat tightened.
“You said you didn’t like owing people,” he said.
“I still owe you.”
“No.” His voice stayed quiet, but something in it made the word feel less like comfort and more like a line drawn in permanent ink. “You don’t.”
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.
“Abbot,” he said, “Underwood wants us near the front for the photo.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “No.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. She used the phrase ‘visible leadership.’”
“That makes it worse.”
“I agree.”
Robby looked at you then, eyes flicking once between your dress and Jack’s face. His mouth twitched.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Abbot looks like he’s about to be taken out behind the building and shot, but that’s formal for him.”
Jack gave him a look.
Robby clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Come on, visible leadership.”
Jack didn’t move immediately.
His hand came to rest at the edge of the check-in table, close enough to yours that your fingers could’ve brushed if you shifted an inch.
“Don’t disappear,” he said.
Your pulse kicked.
“I’m working.”
“After.”
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 “the Pitt” 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 didn’t 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 weren’t 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 “you weren’t going to get one.” 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, “This is very attentive of you.”
He didn’t look down. “You looked like you were going to stab him with a pen.”
“I was.”
“Bad idea.”
“Because violence is wrong?”
“Because you’d still have to finish check-in.”
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 you’d gone to retrieve extra place cards from the side table.
“Dr. Abbot,” 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. “Hell of a turnout. You ER people clean up better than expected.”
Jack’s smile was minimal and false. “We try.”
The man’s eyes shifted to you.
You felt it like cold water.
“Well,” he said. “Some of you more than others.”
Jack’s face changed by degrees. Anyone else might’ve missed it. You didn’t.
“This is—” Jack began.
The man cut in with a laugh. “No, no, let me guess. You’re the resident I’ve been hearing about.”
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. “Abbot and one of his young residents,” he said, eyes moving over you slow enough to make the dress feel suddenly too visible. “People do talk.”
Jack’s voice came out clipped. “Don’t.”
“Relax, Jack. I’m joking.” He lifted his glass slightly, like that made it harmless. “I just didn’t think you were going to start making public appearances with your little girlfriend now.”
The words entered you cleanly: little girlfriend. Not girlfriend—that would’ve 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.
“It’s not—” you started, because apparently your first instinct was to make yourself smaller for the comfort of a man who had just insulted you.
Jack’s voice cut through yours. “Don’t call her that.”
The donor blinked. So did you. The room didn’t stop, not exactly—the music kept playing, silverware still clinked, someone laughed too loudly near the stage—but the air around the four of you tightened.
The donor’s smile twitched. “Easy, Doctor. No harm meant.”
“I’m not interested in what you meant.”
Jack didn’t 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 donor’s hand fall from his shoulder.
“If you’ve got something to say about me,” Jack continued, “say it to me. Leave her out of it.”
The wife looked away first. The donor’s face colored.
“No offense intended.”
Jack’s gaze didn’t move. “You don’t get to decide that.”
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 couldn’t 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.
“I need some air,” you said.
Jack’s head turned toward you immediately. “Wait.”
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 didn’t 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 here—not 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.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” you said.
Jack let the door close behind him. “Done what?”
You turned on him. “Made it worse.”
“They made it worse.”
“Now everyone thinks I’m exactly what he said.”
His face changed at that, anger tightening somewhere beneath the surface, but not at you. Never quite at you.
“They don’t know what you are.”
Your chest pulled tight.
“And what am I?”
The question came out too vulnerable to take back.
Jack didn’t 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 couldn’t stitch closed.
You hated that you wanted him to say it.
You hated more that he looked like he wanted to.
Instead, he said, “Not that.”
A hard little laugh left you before you could stop it. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I’ve got.”
“Great.”
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.
“You bought the dress,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You fixed my car.”
“Yes.”
“You buy my food. You show up. You pay for things before I can even figure out how to say no.”
Something moved in his jaw, but he didn’t interrupt.
“What do you think people are going to call that?”
“I don’t give a shit what people call it.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me what you call it.”
The words took the air out of the terrace.
You looked at him.
Jack’s eyes held yours, tired and dark and unflinching. He wasn’t letting you hide in the joke this time. He wasn’t 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.
“I call it confusing,” you said.
His expression shifted.
You kept going because stopping felt worse. “I call it you being too good at noticing things I wish you wouldn’t. 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 don’t even know how to defend myself because I don’t know what we’re doing.”
Jack’s hands were still at his sides, but nothing about him looked relaxed.
You swallowed. “And I call it unfair that you get to act like this is all practical when you look at me like that.”
His voice dropped. “Like what?”
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know what I look like under the dress.”
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, “I don’t.”
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.
“But I’ve thought about it.”
The terrace went silent.
Or maybe your body stopped receiving sound from anything that wasn’t 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 hadn’t touched you, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he’d already imagined where his hands would go first. The want in his face wasn’t polished or easy. It looked dragged out of him, unwilling and hungry, like every careful thing in him had finally started losing.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“Yes, I do.”
You stepped closer, just enough to watch his control take the hit.
“What was I going to say?”
His eyes lifted.
“That we shouldn’t.”
The truth of it sat there between you, almost laughable.
You shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. 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.
“You’re right,” you said.
Jack nodded once, like the verdict had been delivered.
Then you added, “That's what I was going to say.”
His eyes sharpened.
You took one more step.
“But it’s not what I want.”
For the first time all night, Jack looked shaken.
Not much. He’d 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.
“Say that again,” 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.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
Jack looked at you for one long, unbearable second, then lifted his hand slowly enough to give you every chance to step back.
You didn’t.
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 didn’t take.
“You’re not my little girlfriend,” he said.
Your chest tightened. “No?”
“No.” His thumb shifted under your chin, tipping your face up by degrees, not forcing you, just making it impossible to look anywhere else. “You’re not little. You’re not a joke. And you’re sure as hell not something I’m ashamed of wanting.”
The words sank through you, hot and low, settling in every place he still hadn’t touched. Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth and stayed there long enough to make the choice for both of you.
Then he kissed you.
It wasn’t frantic at first.
That would’ve 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 hadn’t 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 Jack’s 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 didn’t go far.
His forehead hovered near yours. His breathing was harsher now. So was yours.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
You laughed, breathless enough that it came out softer than you meant. “You kissed me.”
“I know.”
“So your professional opinion is hypocritical.”
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.
“You keep talking,” he said, voice low enough to feel like it belonged between your legs instead of in the open air, “and I’m going to forget we’re still at a hospital fundraiser.”
Liquid heat shot through you, sharp and shameless. You curled your fingers higher into his lapels. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
Jack searched your face for one last sign that you wanted him to be better than this.
You didn’t.
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.
“Come on.”
“Where?”
His eyes held yours.
“My car.”
The walk through the ballroom should’ve been humiliating. Maybe it was. You couldn’t 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 Jack’s face to yours, then back again, and he lifted his glass slightly—not 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 she’d 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.
“You can change your mind,” he said.
The words loosened something in you.
Not because you wanted to.
Because he meant it.
You stepped closer. “I’m not changing my mind.”
Jack’s eyes searched yours.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t want.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He nodded once.
Then you said, quieter, “Do you?”
His face shifted.
“Do I what?”
“Know what I want.”
The garage seemed to hold its breath.
Jack opened the back door.
“Get in,” 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.
“You still think this is about money?” he asked.
Your breath caught.
You shook your head.
“Words.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I don’t think it’s about money.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“What’s it about?”
You could’ve said care.
You could’ve said want.
You could’ve 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, “Your sugar daddy complex.”
Jack’s eyes flashed.
Then he kissed you hard enough to knock your head back against the seat and it was nothing like the terrace—careful 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.
"Jack—"
"Don't talk." His lips dragged to your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear that made you arch. "Just—let me —"
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 neck—approval, hunger, relief—and his fingers pressed higher, found the wet heat through your underwear, and stopped.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're already—"
You bit his earlobe. "Your mouth on the terrace did that."
He laughed—a low, broken thing—and 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.
“I tried to be careful with you,” he said, voice rough, his fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering, teasing, “I 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.”
Your breath hitched as his middle finger pressed inside you, just the tip, just enough to make your hips buck.
"—and 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 whimper—high 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 pumped—not 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.
"Jack—I need—"
"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 it—this tired, controlled man in his undone suit, licking your wetness off his fingers like it was the best thing he'd tasted all night—made 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 —"
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 laughed—breathless, wild—and 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, Jack—"
He pushed inside you.
The stretch was a shock—full 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 feel—"
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 first—a 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 dress—"
"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 instantly—hot, 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 shoulder—not hard, but enough to make you gasp—and 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 instinct—hungry, claiming, the restraint he'd held for weeks finally snapping.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Taking what she needs."
"Jack—I'm close—"
"I know. I can feel you. You're squeezing me so fucking tight—"
His thumb pressed harder on your clit, circling faster, and the orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden 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 out—his name, a curse, something that might have been a sob—and he kept thrusting through it, drawing it out, letting you ride him through the aftershocks.
"Fuck—" His voice broke. "I'm going to—"
"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 it—hot 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 him—messy, 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 was—"
"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 probably—" 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 compartment—absurd, practical, so perfectly him—and 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. Jack’s 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 who’d finally let himself want something he couldn’t triage.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re about to disappear into your own head.”
That almost-smile moved over his mouth, faint and tired. “You diagnosing me now?”
“I learned from a very bossy doctor.”
“He sounds unbearable.”
“He is.”
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. “I don’t know how to let someone take care of me without feeling like a burden.”
Jack didn’t answer quickly. That made it worse. Better. Finally, he said, “Needing help isn’t the same thing as being helpless.”
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for knowing exactly where to put the words. You loved him a little for it too.
“Jack,” you said softly.
He waited.
You smiled, small and shaky. “Do I get an allowance now?”
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.
“You get breakfast.”
“That’s it?”
“And your car.”
“Already got that.”
“And the shoes.”
“Also already got those.”
“And whatever else you need,” he said, thumb brushing once at your neck, “if you stop acting like needing it makes you less.”
Your smile faded into something softer. “That sounds an awful lot like a boyfriend.”
Jack looked at you for a long moment, tired and undone and still there. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m working up to that.”
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 wasn’t looking at you like a mistake, or a risk, or something he’d 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.
▐ the many times you and jack abbot have gotten caught at work ⤷ 18+
The On-Call Room Incident
The first time it happened, you’d only been at the hospital a week. Jack Abbot had that intense, exhausted-doctor energy that made your stomach flip every time he looked at you. After one too many shared glances in the trauma bay, he led you to the on-call room.
His mouth was on yours before the door even clicked shut, rough and desperate. White coat still on, he pushed you against the wall, hands sliding under your scrubs. “Been thinking about this since you walked in,” he growled against your neck. You moaned when he yanked your pants down, fingers finding you already soaked. He didn’t waste time, lifting you, wrapping your legs around his waist, and thrusting in deep with one smooth stroke.
You were riding him hard, his face buried in your tits, when the door swung open.
Nurse Santos froze in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Dr. Abbot—oh my God.”
Jack didn’t stop immediately. One more deep grind that made you whimper before he stilled, still buried inside you. “Little busy, Santos,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. You hid your burning face in his shoulder as she backed out, muttering apologies.
He looked at you, half-laughing, half-still-hard. “Round two in the parking garage after shift?”
The Supply Closet
Second time was pure stupidity and pure horniness.
You needed sterile gloves. Jack needed you bent over. You compromised in the supply closet on the fourth floor.
He had you braced against the metal shelves, scrubs around your ankles, taking you from behind with those deep, punishing strokes that made your knees shake. One hand covered your mouth to keep you quiet. The other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he panted, biting your shoulder. You were right on the edge when the door rattled.
Dr. Robby walked in, reaching for a box of gauze, and stopped dead.
Jack froze mid-thrust, cock twitching inside you. You clenched around him involuntarily.
Robby blinked once, twice. “Jesus Christ, Jack. At least lock the damn door.” He grabbed what he needed and left without another word, but not before you caught the tiniest smirk.
Jack exhaled a shaky laugh and started moving again, faster this time. “We’re so getting fired.”
You came so hard you saw stars.
The Rooftop
Third time was almost romantic.
Middle of a brutal 24-hour shift. You both snuck up to the rooftop for air and ended up against the low wall overlooking the city. Jack had you facing away from him, pants pulled down, panties shoved to the side as he fucked you slow and deep.
His chest pressed to your back, one arm banded around your waist, the other rubbing tight circles on your clit. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you,” he murmured in your ear.
You were gasping, close, when the access door creaked open. Two residents stepped out for their own smoke break and got an eyeful of Dr. Abbot railing the new attending against the railing.
They immediately turned around. One of them actually said “Sorry, Dr. Abbot!” before fleeing.
Jack didn’t even slow down. If anything, he fucked you harder after they left, like the risk made it hotter. You came biting your own wrist to stay quiet.
The Locker Room
The fourth time was the one that actually got you both written up.
End of shift. Empty locker room. Or so you thought.
Jack had you sitting on the bench, legs spread wide, his face buried between your thighs. He was eating you out like a man starved, long, filthy strokes of his tongue, two fingers curled inside you hitting that perfect spot. You were gripping his hair, thighs shaking, right on the edge when you heard the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat.
It was the department chair.
You tried to close your legs. Jack just held them open, gave your clit one last slow lick that made you whimper, then casually wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Evening, sir,” he said, voice rough. “We were… debriefing.”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
The chair just sighed. “My office. Both of you. Tomorrow. Clothes on.”
Jack still smirks every time he sees you in the halls now. You’ve both been more careful.
But you both know it’s only a matter of time before the fifth time happens.
this is highkey buns, sorry yall 💔 i also have really bad writers block so requests would be appreciated 🥰
Summary: You were only unloading Jack’s dishwasher. That was all. You were in his kitchen, barefoot and comfortable in one of his old shirts, waiting for him to come home from tactical training. Domestic. Normal. Safe. And then Jack walked in wearing tactical gear. The vest. The boots. The radio. The duty belt. The quiet, knowing look on his face when he realized you could not stop staring. You tried to be normal about it. Jack noticed. Of course he did.
Warnings: 18+ only, smut, established relationship, tactical gear/uniform kink, dom/sub dynamics, praise kink, light restraint, orgasm denial, oral sex, rough sex, kitchen counter sex, consent-heavy dominance, aftercare, Jack being smug and quietly devastating.
Author's Note: You’re welcome, readers. Tactical gear Jack has been in my head for far too long, and today I am making that everyone’s problem. This is for everyone who looked at that vest and immediately understood the vision. the boots, the radio, the command voice, the smugness, the “leave it on” of it all.
We did this together, and honestly? I think we should all be ashamed.
But we won’t be.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
You knew Jack’s kitchen well enough to know he had run the dishwasher. That was the first problem. The second problem was that you also knew Jack well enough to know he had absolutely no intention of unloading it before he left for tactical training.
You found the clean dishes by accident.
You had been at his townhouse for almost an hour, tucked into the corner of his couch in one of his old T-shirts and the soft lounge shorts you kept in the bottom drawer of his dresser. Jack pretended not to notice they had taken up permanent residence there. You pretended to believe him.
The TV murmured low in the living room. Your phone was facedown beside you. Late afternoon light stretched warm across the hardwood, catching on the coffee table, the arm of the couch, the spot near the entry where Jack always kicked off his boots, even though he complained when you did the same thing.
He had told you to let yourself in.
He always did now.
That was dangerous information if you let yourself think about it too long, so mostly, you didn’t.
You used your key. You kicked off your shoes. You curled up in his house like it had started making room for you without either of you saying it out loud.
Then you wandered into the kitchen for water, saw the clean light glowing on the dishwasher, and sighed as if this were somehow your responsibility.
“Of course,” you muttered.
The dishwasher door opened with a soft hiss. Warm air rolled up, damp and clean, smelling faintly like detergent and steam. The heat brushed your bare legs. Jack had loaded the bowls in the wrong direction again, because apparently, a man could be trusted with a trauma bay, tactical medical support, and other people’s lives, but not proper dishwasher geometry.
You started unloading it anyway.
Not because you were trying to be domestic. Not because the green mug already in his cabinet made something soft move behind your ribs. Definitely not because this had started to feel like your kitchen too.
You were simply a helpful person.
A generous person.
A person who had taken her bra off the second she got comfortable because Jack was not home yet, and you had planned to do nothing more strenuous than drink water, watch terrible television, and bully him into ordering Thai food when he got back.
You put the plates away first. Then the bowls. Then the mugs. The green one went on the second shelf, where Jack always reached for it in the morning, even though he claimed he did not have a favorite.
You were stretching to slide a mug into place when the front door opened.
You did not look over right away. “You ran the dishwasher and abandoned it,” you called, rising onto your toes. “I’m choosing to believe that was a cry for help.”
Jack did not answer. That was your first clue. Your fingers paused on the cabinet handle. The house changed when Jack entered it. You never knew how to explain that without sounding ridiculous. It was not sound, exactly. Not silence. Not even presence.
It was pressure. A subtle rearranging of the air.
You lowered yourself back onto your heels and turned.
Jack stood just inside the kitchen entry.
And your entire brain stopped. Not paused. Stopped. You had seen him in scrubs. You had seen him in old T-shirts and jeans, and the gray sweatpants he pretended were not specifically engineered to ruin your life. You had seen him half-asleep at this very counter, hair flattened on one side, making coffee with the grim focus of a man performing surgery on a French press. You had even seen him at work when he got sharp and calm, voice low, hands steady, the whole room rearranging itself around him because Jack Abbot had decided panic was not useful.
But this—
This was different.
Camouflage tactical pants tucked into boots. A tan quarter-zip stretched across his chest and shoulders, darkened slightly at the collar from sweat. Camouflage sleeves pushed up enough to make his forearms a personal attack. Protective glasses shoved into his hair. A radio clipped at his shoulder. A duty belt low on his hips, heavy with equipment you did not know the names for, and suddenly wanted explained to you in unnecessary detail.
And the vest.
God help you, the vest.
It was not sleek. It was not pretty. It was bulky and practical and worn in, half-unfastened, like he had started taking it off and gotten distracted. A black patch across the front read POLICE in block letters.
It should not have done anything to you.
It did several things.
Several immediate, humiliating things.
Jack’s gaze moved from your face to the mug still in your hand.
His mouth twitched. Barely. “You okay?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Yeah.” Your voice caught. “I—yeah.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. Not much. Enough.
Heat rushed up your neck.
You turned back to the cabinet too quickly and shoved the mug onto the shelf. The wrong shelf. The green mug sat neatly beside his stack of bowls. The kitchen went horribly quiet.
Jack looked at the mug. Then at you. “That’s the bowl cabinet.”
Your fingers were still on the cabinet door. “I know.”
“You put a mug in it.”
“It’s visiting.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Small. Slow. Awful.
You shut the cabinet like that would erase the evidence, and bent for a plate from the dishwasher. A plate was normal. A plate was safe. A plate had never come home from tactical training looking like it could ruin your life with one raised eyebrow and a vest buckle.
Jack stepped farther into the kitchen. His boots sounded heavy on the tile.
You stared very hard at the plate. “Training was good?”
Jack hummed. “Mm-hm.”
“Good.” You croaked.
“Long.”
“Right.” You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Long is… training often is that.”
Jack went quiet. That was worse than if he had laughed.
You lifted the plate toward the cabinet. Wrong cabinet. Again. You froze with your arm half-raised.
Jack did not say anything. He did not have to.
You could feel him looking at the cabinet. Then at the plate. Then at you.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I didn’t.” Jack replied.
You couldn’t look at him. “You were about to.”
“No.”
Somehow, that was worse.
You lowered the plate slowly and opened the correct cabinet with all the dignity available to a person actively losing a fight with kitchen storage.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorway. Still in the gear. Still quiet. Still watching.
“You’re flustered.”
You laughed. It came out too high. “I am unloading the dishwasher.”
“Badly,” Jack murmured.
You exhaled, “You’re welcome.”
His eyes dropped. Not crudely. Not obviously. Just enough. Bare legs. Soft lounge shorts. His T-shirt. Your bare feet on his kitchen tile. You, too comfortable in his house to have expected him like this.
When his gaze returned to your face, something had shifted. Still amused. Still warm.
But darker now. More certain. “Oh.”
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘oh.’”
“I did.”
You pressed your lips together, “Don’t.”
He pushed off the doorway and took one slow step closer. You looked at the vest.
Mistake.
Jack noticed. His hand rested briefly against the front of it, fingers brushing one of the buckles like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly where your eyes were.
You looked away so fast that your shin almost caught the open dishwasher door.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Careful.”
You gripped the counter. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yep.” Too fast.
He came closer. Not too close. Close enough. The kitchen smelled like detergent, steam, and him now. Work and heat and Jack.
You picked up another mug. Then forgot why you were holding it.
His gaze flicked to it. Then back to you. “Need help?”
“No.”
“You sure?” He asked.
“Yes.” You answered quickly.
Jack glanced at the mug in your hand, “You’ve been holding that for a while.”
You looked down. You were, in fact, still holding the mug.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
Jack’s smile deepened. Small. Unbearably pleased.
You shoved the mug into the correct cabinet this time and immediately wished you had not looked proud of yourself for completing a task toddlers could master.
Jack caught that too. “Good job.”
Your face went instantly hot. The words were mild. Too mild.
That was the problem.
He had said them like he was talking about the mug, but his voice had gone just low enough to make your pulse stumble.
You turned to him. “Don’t do that.”
His expression stayed innocent. Too innocent. “Do what?”
You glared, “You know.”
“I don’t.” Jack shrugged a shoulder.
“You absolutely do.”
A beat passed.
His eyes dropped to the way your hand curled around the counter edge.
When he looked back up, his voice was quieter. “You like the gear.”
Your mouth went dry. “I—what?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
You shook your head, “I do not.”
He raised a brow, “No?”
“No.” Your eyes betrayed you, straight to the vest.
Jack saw. The smugness sharpened.
You shut your eyes. “Damn it.”
A low sound left him. Almost a laugh. Not quite. “That’s what I thought.”
You opened your eyes.
He was close now. Close enough that you could see the dust on his boots, the tired edge around his eyes, the way the tan quarter-zip pulled across his shoulders beneath the vest.
You swallowed.
Jack watched your throat move. Said nothing.
Which was, frankly, rude.
“You’re enjoying this,” you said.
“A little.” Too honest. Too calm.
Your stomach flipped. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“No.” The single word landed low.
Your hand slipped on the counter.
Jack’s gaze dropped to it. Then back to your face. His smile softened into something darker.
More focused. “Oh, baby.”
Your entire body went warm. “Don’t call me that right now.”
His head tilted. “Why?”
“Because I’m already—” You stopped.
Jack waited. His eyes stayed on your face, patient and pleased and quiet enough to make the silence feel like a touch.
You cleared your throat. “Because I’m unloading the dishwasher.”
He looked at the open dishwasher. Then, at the single spoon still sitting in the rack. Then back at you. “Almost done.”
You hated him.
You wanted him so badly your knees felt unreliable.
Jack stepped closer. Your back met the counter. He did not touch you.
Not yet.
His gaze moved over your face, taking in the blush, the uneven breathing, the way you kept trying not to look at the vest and failing every time.
Then his hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved away. You didn’t. His fingers brushed the loose collar of your T-shirt where it rested against your shoulder.
Barely. Not enough. Too much.
His voice dropped, “You want me to take it off?”
Your eyes jumped to his. “The shirt?”
His mouth curved. “The vest.”
Oh. Right. The vest.
You looked at it again, because apparently, you had learned nothing.
Jack watched you look. Watched your breath catch. Watched your fingers tighten against the counter.
When you dragged your eyes back to his, he looked unbearably smug. Your voice came out smaller than planned. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack went very still. The kitchen went quiet around you.
His thumb brushed once against your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”
You nodded.
He waited. Right. Words.
“Yes,” you said softly. “Maybe don’t.”
Jack smiled then. Slow. Private. Absolutely lethal.
“Hands on the counter.”
Your breath left you. “What?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “You heard me.”
The words were quiet. That was the problem. Jack did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The command settled into the kitchen with the same calm certainty he carried into rooms where people were used to listening when he spoke.
Your hand tightened around the edge of the counter.
Jack saw. His gaze dropped to your fingers, then came back to your face.
“You good?”
You nodded, then caught yourself because his eyebrow moved. Barely. Still enough.
“I’m good.”
Jack believed you. That was worse. Better. Both.
His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile, not quite mercy.
“Then, hands on the counter.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink around the sentence.
The open dishwasher breathed out the last of its heat beside you. The single spoon still sat in the rack, ridiculous and bright beneath the kitchen light. Somewhere in the living room, the television murmured to itself, low enough to be forgotten but not low enough to let the house feel empty.
You turned because he told you to. That was the first thing. The second was that Jack noticed the exact moment you realized you liked it.
Your palms met the counter. Cool stone. Smooth beneath your hands. You spread your fingers over it and tried not to think about how exposed the gesture made you feel. Tried not to think about the soft lounge shorts riding high on your thighs, the oversized T-shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, the fact that your back was to him now, and you could no longer use his face to prepare yourself for what he might do next.
Behind you, Jack did not move.
The silence was deliberate.
You felt it travel down the line of your spine.
Your skin prickled. “Jack.”
His boots sounded once on the tile. Then again. Slow. Measured. Not stalking. Not rushing.
Just coming closer because he had decided to, and because you had put your hands where he told you to put them.
He stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him reached you before his hands did.
The vest touched you first.
A brush of hard tactical fabric between your shoulder blades. Warm from his body underneath, rough at the edges, practical in a way that made it feel more obscene than anything designed to be sexy ever could.
Your fingers curled against the counter.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “I didn’t tell you to move.”
You had not moved. Not really. But your hands had lifted by a fraction, your fingers starting to curl like they wanted to reach back for him before you remembered yourself.
You flattened them again. The counter was cold. Your skin was not.
Jack’s hand settled at your waist. Warm. Steady. A single touch, and your whole body went too aware of itself. The old cotton of his shirt against your skin. The loose waistband of your shorts. The bare line of your shoulder where the collar had slipped. The cool air in the kitchen. The hard vest behind you.
His thumb moved once against your side. “Good.”
One word. No flourish. No smirk you could see.
Still, your breath went uneven.
Jack heard it.
His hand stayed where it was, not moving higher, not moving lower, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in giving you anywhere to hide. “You like that.”
Your eyes shut. “I don’t know what you mean.”
His mouth brushed the side of your neck. Barely there. “Liar.”
It should not have sounded affectionate. It did. A shiver moved through you before you could stop it. Jack’s palm flexed at your waist, grounding you without letting you pretend he had missed it.
The kitchen smelled like detergent, fading steam, and him.
Cold air still clung to his clothes from outside. Beneath that was sweat, dust, soap, and the faint metallic edge of gear and training equipment. It was not cologne. It was not polished. It was Jack after a long day doing something physical and dangerous enough that your body had apparently decided common sense was optional.
His other hand came to your opposite hip. Now he had you between him and the counter. Not trapped. Held.
There was a difference. Jack knew it. Worse, he knew you knew it too.
His mouth touched your shoulder, a slow kiss just below the place where your shirt had slipped. The touch was soft enough to make your knees go weak. His hands tightened at your hips before you could sway.
Jack’s thumbs moved in slow arcs beneath the hem of your shirt, finding skin. Your breath caught. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked softly as it cooled. Jack’s vest shifted against your back when he leaned closer, and the sound of it—fabric, buckles, the faint scrape of equipment—went straight through you.
His fingers skimmed your stomach. Not high enough. Not low enough. Just enough to make you feel the shape of his restraint.
You started to turn your head toward him.
His hand left your waist and came to your jaw, two fingers beneath your chin, guiding your face forward again. “No.”
Your pulse jumped. The word was quiet. Simple. Devastating.
You faced forward again.
Jack’s thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand dropped back to your side. “Stay there.”
You pressed your palms more firmly to the counter. “That’s bossy.”
His mouth hovered near your ear. “You like bossy.”
Your face burned. “I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
A frustrated sound escaped you before you could swallow it down.
Jack stilled. Then, softly, “There.”
Your stomach flipped. “What?”
“That sound.” His lips touched the back of your shoulder.
The hand beneath your shirt slid slowly up your stomach, then stopped at your ribs. Waiting. Teasing. Holding back exactly enough to make you feel the absence of everything he was not doing.
You went silent.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck. Slow. Patient. Awful. Every touch felt measured. Not because he was hesitant, but because he had figured out that patience ruined you and was immediately putting that information to use.
His palm flattened over your stomach and drew you back against him. The vest pressed hard into your back. The duty belt brushed the back of your thigh. You felt him there, solid and warm and controlled, and your body gave one helpless little shift backward before your mind could stop it.
Jack’s grip tightened. Not a warning. A response. His breath changed against your neck. For the first time since he had walked through the door, the smug control slipped just enough for you to feel the man underneath it.
You caught it.
Your mouth curved despite yourself. “There he is.”
Jack went still. The air changed. His hand stayed flat over your stomach, but his thumb stopped moving.
You had gotten him. Only a little. Only for a second. But enough.
His mouth came close to your ear. “Careful.”
Your smile widened, shaky but real. “With what?”
His hand slid to your hip and pulled you back into him again, slower this time.
Your smile disappeared. Every thought went with it.
“Thinking you’re in charge because I let you have one.”
You swallowed hard. “That was one?”
His mouth brushed your neck. “One.”
The word should not have undone you. It did. You were suddenly aware of your hands again, of how badly you wanted to take them off the counter. To reach back. To touch the vest. The straps. His belt. His hands. Anything. You wanted to turn around and get your mouth on his, wanted to make him stop sounding so calm when you could feel he was not.
Your fingers flexed.
Jack saw. “Hands.”
You flattened them.
He kissed your shoulder. A reward. You hated how fast it worked. You loved how fast it worked.
Jack’s hand slipped beneath your shirt again, slower now, knuckles brushing bare skin on the way up. His touch stayed to the edges: waist, ribs, stomach, the underside of wanting without giving it a name. He was not rushing toward the places your body begged for. He was making you feel every inch before then.
You let your head tip to the side. More room. You did not say it.
Jack did not need you to. His mouth found the space you gave him. His lips were warm against your neck, then his teeth grazed just enough to make your breath catch, and your hands press flat again against the stone.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
The praise sank into you slowly like heat. You had been embarrassed before. Flustered. Mouthy because it was easier to be difficult than honest. But somewhere between the counter under your palms and his vest at your back, the fight in you had softened.
Not gone. Changed.
You were still aware of how ridiculous this should have been. The open dishwasher. The last spoon. The clean mug sitting in the bowl cabinet. His kitchen lit golden in the late afternoon while Jack stood behind you in tactical gear and touched you like he had all night and no intention of wasting a second.
But the embarrassment had started to dissolve into something heavier.
Relief, maybe. Relief at not having to hide how much you wanted him. Relief at being told exactly what to do by someone who would stop the moment you asked.
Relief at Jack’s quiet certainty, at the way he gave commands like promises and praise like reward. His hands slid down to the hem of your shirt.
You tensed, not from fear. Anticipation moved through you so sharply that your breath caught in your throat.
Jack felt it. His mouth touched the back of your shoulder. “Still good?”
“Yes.”
He trusted it.
His thumbs hooked beneath the fabric. “Arms up.”
The command was simple. That made it worse. You had been told to keep your hands on the counter. Now he was telling you to move them. The shift itself felt intimate, as if he were changing the rules and trusting you to follow.
You lifted your hands slowly.
The counter disappeared from beneath your palms, leaving you briefly unanchored. Your arms rose above your head. The position pulled the shirt higher, exposing the line of your stomach, leaving you open to him in a way that made your face burn before he had even taken anything off.
Jack watched. You could feel him watching. His hands rested at your waist for one long second, as if he was taking in the fact that you were standing there because he had told you to.
The silence made your pulse beat harder.
Then he began to lift your shirt. Slowly. The cotton slid up your stomach. Over your ribs. Higher. He did not rush. Of course, he did not rush. Jack had learned that patience ruined you and had apparently decided to make it your problem.
You made a small, impatient sound before you could stop yourself.
The shirt stopped. You froze.
Jack’s mouth came near your ear. “Something you need?”
Your eyes closed. Terrible man. “No.”
His fingers held the shirt exactly where it was. Not up. Not down.
A strip of kitchen air cooled your skin.
“No?”
Your pride made one final, useless attempt at survival. It failed immediately.
“Please.”
Jack’s breath changed. Only slightly. Enough.
His mouth touched your shoulder. “Please, what?”
The word sat on your tongue, embarrassing and simple, and exactly what he wanted.
“Take it off.”
A pause.
Then his lips curved against your skin. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still listening.” He lifted the shirt the rest of the way.
The fabric dragged over your chest, your shoulders, your raised arms. For a second, it covered your face, warm cotton and the faint smell of him, and then it was gone, dropped somewhere behind you onto the kitchen floor.
The air touched your bare skin.
Jack went still. Completely. Your arms were still raised. Your breathing had gone uneven. The vest pressed warm and hard against your back. And Jack, who had been so smug, so pleased, so devastatingly in control, did not say anything. For one second. Two.
The silence reached your pulse before his voice did. “You weren’t wearing anything under this.”
Your face went hot. “I was comfortable.”
His hand came back to your waist. Slow. Firm. “In my kitchen.”
“You weren’t home.”
His fingers tightened once. “I am now.”
The words landed low and heavy between you.
You started to lower your arms.
Jack caught the movement immediately. “Ah.”
You froze.
His mouth brushed your shoulder. “I didn’t say you could move.”
Your whole body went hot. Slowly, you lifted your arms back into place.
Jack’s hand slid over your waist, controlled, almost reverent, like he was taking a second to recover and refusing to let you see how badly he needed it.
Unfortunately for him, you knew him too well.
Your mouth curved despite the heat in your face. “Oh.”
His fingers paused.
You smiled, breathless. “Oh, baby.”
Jack’s grip tightened at your waist. “Careful.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to almost brush his. “Did you not know?”
His mouth hovered near your ear. His voice was low. Still controlled. Barely. “I know now.”
A shiver moved through you.
Jack felt it.
His mouth touched the side of your neck. “There you go.”
Your arms ached faintly from being raised, but you did not lower them.
He had not told you to.
Jack noticed.
You felt the exact moment he noticed: the way his hand stilled, the way his breath went rough, the way his body pressed closer behind yours until the vest brushed your bare back again.
He leaned in, mouth at your ear. “You’re waiting.”
Your eyes fluttered. “You didn’t tell me I could move.”
For a second, he was silent.
Then his hand spread over your stomach and pulled you gently back into him. “That’s my girl.”
The praise hit harder than you expected.
Your breath shook.
Jack’s mouth moved along your neck, slower now, rewarding every second you kept your arms lifted. His hand stayed at your waist, then drifted over your stomach, then back to your hip. Teasing. Learning. Not attempt to hide how much he liked the way you were listening.
Finally, his voice came low against your skin. “Hands down.”
You lowered them slowly. Relief moved through your shoulders.
Before you could decide what to do with your hands, Jack spoke again.
“Behind your back.”
Your pulse jumped. The kitchen blurred softly at the edges. You turned your head a fraction.
Jack was waiting there over your shoulder, eyes dark and steady, giving you time because he always gave you time.
Your hands slid behind you. Slowly. Obediently.
His mouth curved. “There she is.”
The words were soft. Too soft for what they did to you. Your hands stayed behind your back, fingers curling around your opposite wrist, because you had no idea what else to do with them. The position pulled your shoulders back and left you open to him, skin still warm where his mouth had been and cooler now beneath the kitchen air.
Jack did not touch you right away. He looked. You felt the weight of it move over you. Down the side of your neck. Across your shoulders. Along the line of your spine where the vest had been brushing you. The kitchen felt too ordinary amid the silence: the open dishwasher, the clean spoon still abandoned on the rack, the soft ticking of cooling metal, the fading detergent steam caught beneath the sharper scent of him.
Then he stepped closer. The vest touched your back first. Hard fabric. Warm underneath. A scrape of tactical gear against bare skin that made your stomach pull tight.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it. His hand moved behind you, slow enough that you could have stepped away, and closed around both of your wrists. Not tight. Not rough. Just firm. Certain.
Your eyes fluttered shut.
His thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist, and the carefulness of it almost made the whole thing worse. He held you like he meant it. Like he knew exactly what you were giving him and had no intention of taking it lightly.
“You good?” he asked against your shoulder.
Your answer came out quieter than you expected. “I’m good.”
His grip settled.
His free hand came to your waist, palm spreading warm against your skin. Then he drew you back by degrees, not pulling hard, not forcing, just guiding until your spine met the vest and your hips met the solid line of him behind you.
Your lips parted.
The air left the room.
Jack’s mouth touched the side of your neck. Barely.
You felt it everywhere.
He kissed you slowly, once beneath your ear, then again lower, where your pulse had become embarrassingly easy to find. His hand slipped from your waist to your stomach, flat and steady, holding you against him while his mouth learned what made your breath change.
You tried to swallow. It came out as a sound instead.
Jack’s grip around your wrists tightened. Not a warning. A response.
He liked that.
You knew because his breath shifted against your neck. Because the calm line of him behind you went a little less calm. Because his hand pressed you more firmly back into him, making sure you felt exactly what listening to him had done.
Your eyes opened. The kitchen cabinets blurred in front of you. The cabinet with the mugs. The bowl cabinet with the green mug still sitting in the wrong place because neither of you had bothered to fix it.
You should have found that funny.
You would have, if Jack’s mouth had not opened against your shoulder. If his teeth had not skimmed just enough to make your knees loosen. If his free hand had not slid to your hip and pulled you back again, slower this time, letting you feel him through all that gear, all that restraint.
“Jack.” His name came out thin.
He hummed against your skin. Not a question. Not yet. He knew what you wanted. That was the problem. He knew, and he was taking his time with the knowledge. His hand dragged slowly over your stomach, then back to your waist, then lower to the band of your shorts. He did not go beneath it yet. He only rested there, fingers spread, the heel of his hand warm against the place where your body had gone tight with waiting.
You pulled against his grip without meaning to. His hand around your wrists did not move. The reminder went through you like a spark.
You were not trapped.
You were held.
There was a difference, and Jack knew exactly how to make you feel it.
His mouth came to your ear. “Tell me.”
Only two words. Soft. Rough at the edges.
You closed your eyes.
The old instinct rose—joke, dodge, say something difficult enough to make the wanting less obvious. But your shirt was on the floor. His vest was against your back. His hand was at your waistband. And you were tired of pretending you were not shaking.
“Touch me,” you whispered.
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth pressed to your shoulder. A reward. His hand slipped lower into the waistband of your shorts. Slowly. The first real touch made your whole body lock. Jack held you through it. One hand around your wrists, the other moving with maddening patience, his mouth warm at your neck, his breath uneven now.
He did not ask again.
He trusted the way you leaned into him. He trusted the way your head tipped back against his shoulder. He trusted the way your fingers curled helplessly in his grip instead of pulling away.
And because he trusted you, you gave him more.
A breath. A sound. His name, softer this time.
Jack moved as if he were learning you by touch and already knew he would remember every answer. Every shiver. Every little hitch of breath. Every helpless attempt to chase his hand when he slowed down.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Your body listened before your pride could object.
A low sound moved out of him, almost a laugh, pleased and dark and far too close to your ear. He liked that too. He liked it when you listened.
You could feel it in the way his grip tightened around your wrists. In the way his mouth became less patient at your neck. In the way his body leaned heavier into yours for one second before he reined himself back in.
“You’re doing so good.” The praise sank into you, warm and devastating.
Your head fell back against him. The ceiling light caught in your vision. Soft gold. Too bright. Too ordinary for this. His kitchen. His counter. The open dishwasher still breathing out the last of its heat.
Jack’s hand moved again. The world narrowed. The hard vest. The radio is brushing your shoulder. The duty belt against the back of your thigh. His mouth at your throat. His breathing is no longer even.
He brought you closer slowly. So slowly, you almost did not recognize what he was doing until your hands tightened in his hold and your legs started to tremble.
Your breath broke. “Please.”
The word slipped out raw.
Jack stopped kissing your neck. Everything in him seemed to listen. His hand did not stop.
Not yet.
“Please what?”
You made a sound that was not quite an answer.
He slowed. Cruel. Controlled. Patient enough to ruin you.
Your forehead nearly dipped into the counter in front of you. “Jack.”
His mouth touched your shoulder. “That’s not an answer.”
Your face burned. Not shame. Something warmer. Something that made the wanting sharper because he was making you stand inside it and speak.
“Please don’t stop.”
His breath left him rough against your neck. There. That got to him.
The knowledge made your knees weaker.
Jack gave you what you had asked for, and your whole body went soft and tight at once. Your wrists strained in his hold. His grip steadied you immediately, keeping you exactly where he wanted you while his mouth returned to your neck and his fingers worked over you in slow, tight circles.
You were close enough now that the room started to slip.
The tile beneath your feet. The cabinet in front of you. The hum of the refrigerator.
All of it blurred around him. His hand. His vest. His voice in your ear. “That’s it.”
You shook against him.
He felt it.
He gave you more.
Then, just as your body started to tip toward the edge, just as your breath caught and stayed caught, just as your fingers curled helplessly behind your back—
Jack stopped. Completely.
For one impossible second, you could not process the absence. Then you made a sound so desperate it should have embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
You were too far gone for that.
Your body tried to follow his hand.
Jack’s arm came around your waist immediately, holding you still, holding you up, his mouth pressing to your shoulder in something almost tender. “Easy.”
You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you.” He murmured.
“You stopped.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “I did.”
You pulled at your wrists, helpless now, frustrated enough that your eyes burned. “Why?”
His hand rested flat over your stomach. Still. Warm. Maddening.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Because you begged so pretty.”
Heat rushed through you, full-body and humiliating.
“And I want to hear you do it again.”
For a second, you could not answer. You could only stand there with your hands still held behind your back, Jack’s vest pressed against your bare skin, his arm firm around your waist, his breath warm at your ear. The kitchen felt too bright for what he had done to you. Too normal. Cabinets. Counter. Open dishwasher. The last spoon was still sitting in the rack like neither of you had any intention of finishing what you started.
You whispered his name.
Jack’s mouth touched your shoulder. “Turn around.”
Your pulse jumped.
His grip loosened around your wrists. For a second, you did not move. Not because you did not want to. Because the absence of his hold made you feel strangely weightless, like your body had forgotten what to do without his hand telling it where to stay.
Jack noticed. His fingers brushed once over the inside of your wrist before he let go completely.
“Slow.”
One word. You obeyed. You turned carefully, bare feet shifting against the cool tile, counter at your back now, open dishwasher to your side, Jack in front of you.
He looked almost unfairly composed for a man whose breathing had gone rough against your neck moments ago.
Almost.
His vest was still half-unfastened. The tan shirt beneath it clung to his shoulders. His hair was mussed from the protective glasses shoved into it. There was dust on his boots. A shadow along his jaw. His eyes moved over your face first, then lower, and the effort it took him to bring them back up made your stomach twist.
“There,” he said softly.
Your fingers found the edge of the counter behind you. “What?”
Jack stepped closer. His hands settled at your waist. “I wanted to see your face.”
The sentence should have been tender. It was. That made it worse. His thumbs moved once over your skin, slow and warm. He watched you take the touch. Watched your lips part, your shoulders lift, the way your body could not decide whether to lean into him or brace against the counter.
Then he bent slightly.
“Jack—”
His hands tightened at your waist. A warning. A promise.
Then he lifted you.
The counter was cold beneath you.
You gasped at the sudden shock of it, the stone pressing against the backs of your thighs, cool enough to make your whole body jolt. Jack stepped between your legs before you could close them, his gear brushing you, his hands still steady at your waist.
The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The television in the living room had gone to some muted commercial you could not place. The refrigerator hummed. The dishwasher clicked again, cooling metal, soft and domestic and absurd.
Jack stood between your knees like he belonged there. Like he had always intended to put you there.
Your hands moved toward him before you thought better of it.
He caught your wrists. Fast.
Your breath stopped.
Jack looked down at your hands, then back at your face. “Not yet.”
You made a soft, frustrated sound.
His mouth curved. “Hands on the counter.”
You stared at him. “You just let me turn around.”
“And now I’m telling you where to put them.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “You’re very bossy.”
Jack guided your hands to the edge of the counter on either side of your hips.
His fingers pressed over yours until you gripped it. “Hold here.”
Your hands curled around the counter. The stone was cold under your palms.
Jack waited until he saw your fingers tighten. Then he let go. “Good.”
The word went through you with humiliating ease.
Jack saw that too. His gaze sharpened. “You’re going to be a problem now.”
You tried to breathe normally. “You already knew I was a problem.”
“I knew you were mouthy.” His hands slid to your knees. Slow. Firm. “This is different.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs as he eased your legs wider. Not rushed. Not rough. Just certain. Every inch of space he made felt deliberate.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “You love my mouth,” you said.
Jack stopped. For half a second, the entire kitchen went still.
Then his eyes lifted to yours. Dark. Amused. Worse than amused. “Yes.”
The answer was immediate. Too immediate. Your pulse stumbled.
Jack’s thumbs moved once over the inside of your knees. “But right now,” he said, voice low, “I’m interested in what it does when I tell you to be quiet.”
Oh.
Your mouth parted. Nothing came out.
Jack’s expression warmed with satisfaction. “There she is.”
Your face burned. “That was mean.”
“No.” His hands moved higher on your thighs, slow enough to make your thoughts scatter. “That was honest.”
The kitchen air felt cool against your bare skin. Jack felt warm everywhere he touched you. The vest shifted when he leaned down, hard fabric brushing the inside of your leg before he caught himself and adjusted.
Still controlled. Still careful. Still somehow making every careful thing feel worse.
His fingers found the waistband of your shorts. You went still. Jack noticed. His gaze lifted to your face. “You good?”
Your throat worked. “I’m good.”
His thumbs slipped beneath the soft fabric. “Hands stay.”
Your fingers curled harder around the counter.
Jack drew your shorts down slowly. Not because they were difficult. Because he wanted you to feel every second of it, the fabric dragged over your hips, your thighs, catching briefly beneath you until he lifted you just enough to ease it free. The movement was smooth and effortless, one hand at your waist, one at your thigh, his body still between your knees, the vest brushing your skin whenever he leaned close.
You stared at the ceiling because looking at him felt impossible. That did not help. The ceiling was too ordinary. The kitchen light was too warm. The dishwasher was still open. Your shorts slid down your legs and fell somewhere near his boots.
Jack did not move for a moment. He just looked.
The quiet of it made your pulse beat everywhere. “Jack.”
His hands settled back on your thighs. “I’m here.”
The answer came immediately. Grounding. Ruinous. His thumbs moved slowly over your skin, and he eased your knees apart again, reclaiming the space he had made before.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Still with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He lowered his head and kissed the inside of your knee.
Soft. Patient. A beginning.
Your head tipped back against the cabinet.
Jack’s voice came low against your skin. “You asked so nicely before.”
Your eyes fluttered shut. “I was desperate.”
“I know.” The smile was in his voice.
You hated that. You loved that.
His mouth moved higher. Still not enough. Your hands twitched on the counter.
Jack noticed without looking up. “Hands stay.”
Your grip tightened immediately.
The reward came as another kiss, slow and warm, higher than the last.
You let out a shaking breath.
Jack looked up at you. Focused. The kind of focus that made rooms go quiet around him. “Then take it.”
The words emptied your lungs.
Jack lowered his mouth.
The first touch made your whole body jerk. Your fingers clamped around the counter. The cold stone bit into your palms. Your shoulders hit the cabinet behind you with a soft thud, and Jack’s hands tightened on your thighs to keep you there, open and still and absolutely nowhere near in control.
“Oh, my God.” The words broke out of you before you could stop them.
Jack paused. Barely.
You felt the shape of his smile against you. “Quiet.”
You inhaled sharply.
Then he did it again. Slower this time. Like he wanted to feel the exact second you lost the fight with yourself. Your head tipped back against the cabinet. The kitchen light went soft and gold behind your closed eyes. Everything narrowed to Jack between your thighs, the rough brush of his vest against your leg, the pressure of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he seemed to listen with his entire body.
You tried to move.
Jack held you still. Not harsh. Firm enough. A reminder.
Your hands stayed on the counter. Barely.
His thumb stroked once over your thigh, approval without words, and the gentleness of it almost made you unravel faster than the rest. You made another sound. Smaller. More helpless.
Jack hummed low, pleased, and the vibration went through you like a spark.
Your eyes flew open.
He looked up. That was worse. His mouth was still close. His eyes were dark and steady, watching your face like he was reading every answer you gave him. “You like that?”
Your voice had vanished. You nodded.
Jack’s hands stilled.
The silence pressed hot against your skin. Right. Words.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved. “Tell me.”
Your fingers dug into the counter. “I like that.”
He rewarded you immediately.
Your breath broke.
Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs, adjusting you closer to the edge, and the movement made the counter colder, him warmer, the room smaller. You wanted to touch him so badly your hands ached around the stone.
One hand slipped. Only an inch.
Jack lifted his head. “No.”
The word was quiet. Your hand froze.
He did not look angry. He looked pleased. Terribly pleased. “Where do your hands stay?”
Your face burned. “On the counter.”
His thumb stroked the inside of your thigh. “That’s right.”
He waited until your hand curled back around the edge.
Then his tongue found you again. A reward. A ruin. You were a mess within seconds. Not gracefully. Not prettily. Completely. Breath snagging. Thighs trembling. Shoulders pressed against the cabinet. Hands locked around the counter because Jack had told you to keep them there, and somehow that command had become the last solid thing in the room.
Jack took his time. Of course he did. He had learned that patience ruined you, and now he was proving it. Every time you thought you knew the rhythm, he changed it. Every time your body started to rise toward something, he softened. Every time you whispered his name, he gave you enough to make you do it again.
“Jack.”
His hands tightened. You heard his breath change. Felt it. He liked his name like that. You knew it now.
You used it. “Jack, please.”
He lifted his mouth just enough to speak against your skin. “Please what?”
You let out a broken little laugh, almost angry with how badly you needed him. “You know.”
“I do.” His mouth brushed higher. Not enough. Not yet. “I want to hear you.”
Your head fell back. The cabinet was cool against your shoulder blades. Your own breathing sounded too loud in the small kitchen. “Please don’t stop.”
Jack’s hands flexed. There. He liked that. The knowledge made you ache.
He gave you more. The room slipped sideways. The hum of the refrigerator disappeared. The TV disappeared. The open dishwasher, the cooling spoon, the late afternoon light across the tile — all of it blurred into sensation.
Jack’s mouth. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice, when he murmured, “Good girl,” like praise, was another way to touch you.
Your hands started to loosen from the counter. You caught yourself.
Jack saw anyway. “That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Hold on.”
You did. Your fingers curled around the edge until your knuckles ached. Your thighs trembled under his hands.
He brought you close slowly. Too slowly. You could feel it building, feel yourself tipping toward that bright, impossible edge he had denied you once already. Your breath came in pieces. Your body tried to move with him, tried to chase, tried to close around him.
Jack held you open. Held you still. Kept you there.
“Jack,” you whispered.
He lifted his eyes to yours. The sight almost ended you by itself. Still in gear. Still composed enough to look up like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. Not composed enough to hide the roughness in his breathing.
“What do you need?” The question was quiet. Devastating.
You swallowed. The begging came easier this time. Too easy. “Please.”
His mouth touched your thigh. “Please what?”
Your cheeks burned.
You did not hide. Not this time. “Please let me.”
Jack went still. His eyes darkened. For one breath, all the smugness slipped, and what was left underneath was hunger so sharp it made your fingers tighten on the counter.
Then his mouth curved slowly. “There it is.”
He kissed your thigh. A reward. “Again.”
You shook your head once, breathless. “Jack.”
“Again.” His voice was rougher now. Less teasing. More affected.
And because you could hear what it did to him, because you could feel that he was not nearly as untouched as he pretended, you gave him the words.
“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me come.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. Then he lowered his mouth again. This time, he did not stop. Your whole body went tight. The counter edge cut into your palms. Your breath caught and stayed caught. Jack’s hands held you through the first shudder, then the next, one arm pressing over your hips to keep you exactly where he wanted you while the rest of you broke apart around him.
You heard yourself say his name. Once. Twice. Too soft to be a scream. Too ruined to be anything else.
Jack stayed with you through all of it. Not rushing. Not moving away. His mouth is softer now, his hands gentler, easing you down instead of dropping you.
Your body went heavy. Boneless. Your head fell back against the cabinet, and the kitchen came back in pieces.
The hum of the refrigerator. The detergent smell. The cool counter under your palms. The sound of Jack breathing. He kissed the inside of your knee. Then the lower part of your thigh.
Then he looked up at you. His hair was mussed. His mouth was wet. His vest was still on. And he looked unbearably pleased with himself. “You still good?”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling hard. “I think you know I’m not.”
His mouth curved. Warm. Smug.
So comepletely Jack, you almost laughed.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
He rose slowly, stepping back between your thighs.
His hands settled on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching you. He leaned close enough that the vest brushed your bare skin again, and you shivered even now.
Jack noticed. His smile deepened.
You closed your eyes. “I hate the vest.”
“No, you don’t.”
Your laugh came out weak. “No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”
Jack’s mouth brushed yours. Slow. Deep. A reward and a promise. When he pulled back, his eyes had gone dark again.
Your hands slid from the counter toward him. This time, he let you touch the vest.
For one second.
Only one.
Then his hand closed gently around your wrist. “Not yet.”
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved over your pulse. “I’m not done with you.”
The words landed low.
Your hand was still caught in his. Your fingers had barely touched the vest before he stopped you, and somehow that single second had made the wanting worse. Rough fabric beneath your palm. The hard line of the strap. Heat beneath it. Jack beneath all of it.
You stared at him.
Jack stared back. His thumb moved once over your pulse. Not soothing. Not really.
A reminder.
The kitchen still felt tilted around you. Your body was loose and shaking from what he had already done, your thighs still bracketed around him, the counter cold beneath you, the cabinet cool against your back. Everything smelled like detergent and sweat and Jack. The open dishwasher had stopped steaming now, but the clean scent lingered beneath the sharper edge of his gear.
Your voice came out thin. “You’re not?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “No.”
Your fingers flexed in his hold.
He looked down at the movement. Then back at your face. “You want to touch me.”
It was not a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes darkened.
For a second, the smugness softened into something heavier. Hungrier. The kind of look that made you realize he had been holding himself together too. Not unaffected. Not even close. Just disciplined enough to make you think the ruin had been one-sided.
It had not.
The proof was in the tension along his jaw. The roughness of his breathing. The way his hand tightened around your wrist before easing again, like he had to remind himself not to rush just because he wanted to.
Jack leaned in. His vest brushed your bare skin.
Your breath caught.
He noticed. “Soon,” he said.
Your eyes fluttered. That one word felt like a promise and a punishment. “Jack.”
His mouth touched yours. Not a kiss. Almost. “Hands up.”
Your pulse kicked. “What?”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “Above your head.”
The kitchen seemed to go quieter.
You were still sitting on the counter, still trembling, still trying to recover from him, and now he wanted your hands where he could see them. Where you could not reach for him. Where he could take that final inch of control before giving anything back.
Your fingers curled once against his.
Then you lifted your hands.
Slowly.
Jack guided them the rest of the way, his palm firm around your wrists as he pinned them above your head against the cabinet.
The wood was cool behind your knuckles.
Jack’s body filled the space between your thighs. His gear brushed you everywhere. The hard vest. The duty belt. The heavy weight of him still mostly dressed while you were bare and breathless on his kitchen counter.
He looked at you like that did something to him. Like he had meant to keep the upper hand and had not accounted for the sight of you listening this well.
His mouth moved against your jaw. “Still good?”
You nodded once. “I’m good.”
His grip settled around your wrists. “Stay there.”
Your answer came out as a breath. “Okay.”
Jack kissed you then. Slow at first. Deep enough to make your hands flex above your head, your wrists pressing into his palm, your body shifting toward him before he had given you permission to move. His mouth tasted like heat and restraint and the ruin he had pulled out of you minutes ago.
Then the kiss changed. Something in him shifted. The edge of all that careful patience wore thin. His free hand slid down your side, over your hip, beneath your thigh, drawing you closer to the edge of the counter with one controlled pull. Your breath broke against his mouth. The counter dragged cool beneath you. His gear scraped softly, buckles and fabric and belt, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen.
Jack’s forehead touched yours. His breathing was no longer even. Not even close.
“You sure?” The question was rougher now. Less composed.
You looked at him. Really looked.
At the dark focus in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way he was still holding himself back because your answer mattered more than his urgency.
Your chest tightened. “Yes.”
His hand tightened around your wrists. “You want this?”
“Yes.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Like the answer hit him somewhere deep. When he opened them again, the smugness was gone. What remained was worse.
Need, disciplined down to a blade. “Say it.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth hovered over yours. “Tell me.”
You swallowed. The words felt different now. Less like begging. More like choosing.
“I want you to fuck me.”
Jack went still. The whole kitchen held its breath with him. Then he kissed you hard. Not careless. Never that. But harder than before, deeper, the last of his patience burning down to something urgent and raw. His hand stayed around your wrists, keeping them above your head while his other hand moved between you.
You heard the shift of his belt.
The low rasp of a zipper.
Your whole body went tight.
Jack felt it immediately.
His mouth brushed your cheek. “I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
He pushed his pants and boxers down only as much as he needed. No more. The gear stayed. The vest stayed. The boots, the belt, the tan fabric pulled tight across his shoulders. He was still dressed like he had walked in from training and found you in his kitchen, and that fact made everything feel sharper. More desperate. Less polished.
Jack’s hand came back to your hip.
He looked at you. Waited.
Your wrists flexed above your head. “I’m good,” you whispered.
His gaze softened for one breath. Then he moved closer. He pushed into you slowly, stealing the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the cabinet.
Jack stopped. Completely.
Every muscle in him seemed locked with the effort of it. “You okay?”
“Yes.” The answer came immediately. Breathless. Certain.
Jack’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “Good.”
Then he moved. Slowly at first. Controlled even now. He gave you time to feel every inch of the change, the stretch of being held open to him, the pressure of his body against yours, the hard edge of his vest against your chest every time he leaned in to kiss you. You tried to move your hands down on instinct, needing to touch him, needing something to hold onto besides the cool cabinet and his command.
His grip tightened around your wrists. “Not yet.”
A sound left you. Frustrated. Needy.
Jack’s mouth found your neck. “I know.”
He moved again, deeper this time, harder, and the whole room tilted. Your legs tightened around him. His breathing broke. A real break. Low and rough against your throat.
You caught it even through the haze. “There,” you whispered.
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. His eyes were dark. “What?”
Your lips parted around a shaky breath. “Right there, Jack. Please.”
He drove into you again, harder, and the words disappeared from both of you. The counter creaked softly beneath you. The cabinet knocked once against your wrists. The spoon in the dishwasher shifted with a tiny metallic sound that should have been funny and was not, because Jack was moving now like the control he had used to wreck you had finally turned on him.
Still measured. Still focused. But rougher. More urgent. His mouth found yours again, catching the sounds you could not swallow. His hand kept your wrists pinned above your head. His other hand gripped your hip, dragging you closer, holding you exactly where he wanted you while the vest brushed and pressed and turned every thrust into another reminder of how this had started.
You were shaking again.
Already.
Jack felt it. His mouth curved against yours, a flash of smugness cutting through the roughness. “Already?”
You would have snapped at him if you could breathe. Instead, you made a broken sound and pulled against his grip.
He held you there.
“You did that on purpose,” you managed.
“I did.” His voice was rough. Pleased. Not nearly as steady as he wanted it to be.
That made you smile despite yourself. “You’re not as calm as you think.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, the room narrowed to that look.
Then his hand released your wrists. “Touch me.”
You did not need to be told twice. Your hands came down fast. One grabbed the edge of the vest. The other slid to the back of his neck, fingers pushing into his hair, finally, finally holding on to him the way your whole body had been begging to since he walked through the door.
Jack groaned. A real sound. Low. Uncontrolled. The sound ruined you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “There he is.”
Jack caught your mouth with his. The kiss turned messy. Hotter. Less careful around the edges. His hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched you higher on the counter, changing the angle until your nails dug into the back of his neck and your whole body jolted against him.
The gear scraped against your skin.
His vest. His belt. The rough line of fabric and equipment. The hard, practical pieces of him still on while his control came apart under your hands. He was still dominant. Still the one setting the pace. But now you could feel what it cost him. Every breath. Every rough sound against your mouth. Every time his rhythm faltered because your hands found another strap, another edge, another place where his body was warm beneath the gear.
“Jack.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve got you.” The words came rough. Almost broken.
“You keep saying that.”
His hand tightened on your hip. “Because I do.”
Your chest pulled tight. For one second, the heat went soft at the center. Then he moved again, and you lost the thought completely. The kitchen blurred. Your hands clutched at him, one fisted in the vest, one at his neck, holding him close as he drove you higher. The refrigerator hummed somewhere far away. The counter was cold beneath you. His mouth was hot against yours. His breathing filled your ears.
His praise came low and rough, no longer polished, no longer smug in the same way. “That’s it.”
Your eyes closed.
“Good girl.”
Your fingers tightened.
“Just like that.”
Your body answered every word.
Jack knew it. He used it. He kept one hand at your hip and brought the other to your jaw, making you look at him when your head started to fall back.
“Stay with me.”
Your eyes opened.
He was close. You could see it now. In the tension around his mouth. In the way his breath caught every time you pulled him harder against you. In the way the rhythm turned rougher, less perfect, more honest.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His thumb brushed your cheek. “I know.”
“I’m—” You tried.
“I know.” His mouth touched yours. “Let me feel it.”
The words tipped you over. Your whole body went tight around him, hands clutching at the vest, mouth open against his, his name breaking somewhere in your throat as the room disappeared in a rush of heat and sound and Jack holding you through it.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath breaking hot against your mouth.
“Oh, fuck.”
Your hands tightened in the front of his vest. “Jack.”
His grip dug into your hip, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to tell you he was there with you, right there, as gone as you were.
“I’m gonna come,” he said, voice wrecked now. “Oh—fu-fuck.”
The sound of him losing control almost tipped you over again.
His mouth brushed yours, messy and barely there.
“God, you’re doing so good,” he breathed. “So good for me.”
You clung to him, his vest rough beneath your hands, his body tense and shaking against yours.
“Jack,” you whispered again.
That was what did it.
His eyes closed. His breath caught. His whole body went tight, and then he buried his face against your neck with a rough, broken sound.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “Good girl. Good—God, baby.”
His hand tightened once at your waist. Then loosened. His body stayed pressed to yours, still shaking in small aftershocks he could not quite hide. For a moment, there was no command. No teasing. No smugness. Just Jack breathing hard against your throat, vest rough beneath your hands, his body warm and heavy and finally, completely undone.
His mouth pressed to your skin. His body went still.
For a long moment, there was only breathing.
Yours. His.
The hum of the refrigerator returning slowly. The cooling dishwasher. The ordinary kitchen gathering itself around the wreckage of what had just happened on the counter.
Your hands stayed on him. One in his hair. One curled into the vest.
Neither of you moved. Then Jack laughed once. Soft. Rough. Disbelieving.
His forehead stayed against your shoulder. “You okay?”
Your laugh came out weak. “I think my soul left my body.”
His shoulders moved with a quiet laugh. The sound warmed your skin. “Still good?”
You nodded against him. “I’m good.”
His hand, no longer commanding, slid slowly up your back.
Gentle now. Careful.
The dominance loosening into care before you could fully come down from it.
He lifted his head and looked at you.
His face had softened. His hair was a mess. His mouth was warm and swollen from kissing you. The vest was still on, crooked now, one strap half-loose, the POLICE patch no longer centered.
You reached up and touched it with two fingers.
Jack looked down. Then back at you. His mouth curved. Smug again. Barely. “You still hate the vest?”
You stared at him. Then at the vest. Then back at him. “I need you to understand that I am currently too vulnerable to answer questions.”
Jack laughed, low and warm. His thumb brushed your cheek. “That bad?”
You let your head fall back against the cabinet. “Worse.”
His smile softened. “Come here.”
“You are already kind of in my personal space.” You exhaled a laugh.
“Come here anyway.”
This time, there was no command in it. Just him. You leaned into him, and Jack gathered you carefully against the front of all that gear, one arm around your waist, one hand cradling the back of your head. The vest was still hard against your skin.
Somehow, in his arms, it felt softer.
He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
“You did so good,” he said quietly.
Your eyes closed. That praise hit differently now. Not sharp. Not dangerous. Warm.
You let out a slow breath against his neck. “Don’t be smug.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
You laughed, boneless and breathless.
He held you tighter for a second, like the laugh mattered.
Behind you, the dishwasher clicked one last time.
Your eyes opened.
“The spoon,” you whispered.
Jack went still. Then he started laughing against your shoulder.
You felt it more than heard it. Deep. Quiet. Helpless.
You smiled into the side of his neck. “Your dishwasher is still open.”
“I know.”
“You’re breaking kitchen safety rules.”
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you.
His eyes were still dark, but softer now. “You want to finish unloading it?”
You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then at the vest. “Absolutely not.”
His smile came slow. Warm. Entirely too pleased. “Good answer.”
You ended up in Jack’s bed after.
Not right away.
There was the shower first, warm water and his hands gentler than they had been in the kitchen. He washed the places where the counter had pressed into your skin. He kissed your shoulder under the spray. He wrapped you in a towel without making a joke about how unsteady your legs still were, which you appreciated enough not to mention how smug he looked about it.
Then one of his shirts.
Then water.
Then bed.
The room was dim by then, the late afternoon light gone blue at the edges of the blinds. You were curled against his side, cheek resting over his heart, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheet. Jack’s hand moved slowly over your back, up and down, steady enough that your breathing had started to match his without you meaning for it to.
He had been quiet for a while. Not distant quiet. Jack had different kinds of quiet. You knew them now.
This one was warm. Settled.
His fingers paused at the center of your back. “Hey.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him.
His face was softer than it had been in the kitchen. Hair damp. Jaw relaxed. No gear. No vest. No command in his voice now.
Just Jack.
“Hey,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your side. “You okay?”
You smiled faintly. “I’m good.”
He nodded. No hovering. No second-guessing. Just belief. Then his gaze dropped to where his hand rested against your back. For a second, you thought he might make a joke. Something about the vest. Something about the spoon. Something dry enough to pull you both back onto safer ground.
He didn’t.
His voice was low when he spoke. “Thank you.”
Your brow softened. “For what?”
Jack’s hand stilled. His eyes came back to yours. “For trusting me like that.”
The room went quiet around the words. Not empty. Full.
Your throat tightened before you could stop it.
Jack looked almost careful now, like the sentence had cost him more than any command he had given you downstairs. Like this was the part where he had less armor. No tactical vest. No smugness. No easy way to turn the weight of it into heat.
Just him, telling you he knew what you had handed him.
You shifted closer, your hand settling over his chest. “I do trust you.”
His jaw moved once. “I know.”
His fingers resumed their slow path over your back, but his voice stayed rougher than before. “I just don’t want to ever take it lightly.”
Oh.
That landed deeper than you expected.
You pressed your cheek back against his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath your ear.
“You don’t.”
Jack’s arm tightened around you.
Not much.
Enough.
You felt his mouth touch your hair. “Good.”
You closed your eyes.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The house was quiet. The kitchen was downstairs with its open dishwasher and its abandoned spoon and the counter you were still not emotionally prepared to think about. The vest was somewhere else now. The boots. The belt. All the hard edges stripped away.
But Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back.
And when he kissed the top of your head again, it felt like the softest part of everything he had meant all along.
summary: the new nurse in the pitt has caught jacks attention.
content: fluff, hurt/comfort, yearning, protective jack, age gap, miscommunication, slow burn, he snaps at you, descriptions of reader injury/blood, mentions of abuse (patient)
wc: 10.5k
note: this is my first fic, enjoy :))
masterlists
You desperately wanted to make a good first impression on your first shift at PTMC.
The universe had a different idea, with your plan actively unravelling.
You’re new to Pittsburgh, and unfamiliar with the notorious unreliability of the public transport system, causing you to be 45 minutes late and frantically running from the nearest bus stop into the emergency department.
This is your worst nightmare. You picture everyone looking at you as you walk in, silently judging. Hating the feeling of eyes on you. You’re definitely flushed red in the face, your bag being packed to the brim with items you certainly do not need weighing you down, cursing yourself for packing so heavy.
While running through the entrance of the ER, you’re barely looking where you’re going and end up colliding with a chest, solid and unmoving you almost mistake him for a wall. You stumble a little, losing your footing and almost fall backwards over your own feet.
Warm hands on your shoulder steady you, preventing the horrific embarrassment.
“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry– I didn’t even see you,” your voice is frantic and apologetic, worried you’ve already made an enemy and you hadn’t even started your shift.
A deep, gravelly voice cuts through to you, grounding your panicked state.
“Hey, kid– easy, easy. You’re okay.” His voice is instantly calming. “You our new nurse?” he asks gently, while his hands slip to your arms, fully stabilising you.
You settle down quickly, gathering yourself and finally looking up at him, nodding after a while realising he asked you a question.
He’s incredibly attractive.
The first thing that you notice about him is how big he is. He’s taller than you and so broad, forming a literal wall between you and the ER in this moment, no wonder you crashed into him. He stands so close to you that you have to lift your head to look up at him as he towers over you with a gentle, concerned look. Butterflies twist in your stomach.
You swallow thickly, nerves returning as you realise you probably fucked this impression up by remaining silent and gawking at this man.
Collecting yourself, “Uh– yes! That’s me–” you stumble over your words internally cringing, “I’m so sorry about being late, it won't happen again.”
He chuckles quietly, finding your flustered state incredibly cute, and extends a hand to you.
You notice the size of his arms, his veins, his hands– oh, you’ve got to stop thinking like this. You’re so fucked.
“Dr. Abbot, nice to meet ya, kid.” His voice is low and gravelly, stirring your stomach. “But don’t let it happen again.” His voice is firm, making your insides flip and guilt rises within you.
“No, no of course not. I promise. I’ll be 45 minutes early every day!” Your voice is laced with guilt and you avoid his eyes, whilst shaking his hand, feeling like you’ve already failed before starting.
“Jesus, kid, breathe.” He chuckles, mouth twitching in amusement. “You’re apologising like you hit me with your car.” He soothes, smirking a little at how easily his teasing had gotten to you.
He watches your face fall in relief, and you let out a small, shy laugh. Still holding onto your hand a second longer, it's hard for him not to notice how incredibly soft your hands are in his, how untouched by cruelty, unlike his rough, calloused hands. Something protective stirs in Jack, confusing him, but a drive to keep you safe, keep you soft takes root in him. He needs to ensure this place doesn’t ruin you, doesn’t cause you to burn out like he's seen time-and-time again with nurses and doctors.
“I’m really not usually this much of a disaster– well, most of the time.” You laugh shakily.
You notice his intense stare, like he’s studying you, makes you squirm under his gaze. Your eyes flick down where your hands are still joined, you notice the sheer size difference, how his hand completely engulfs yours. You go to pull away, when he brings a second hand to cup your hand, completely engulfing it, before he pulls away entirely. Your breath hitches, trying to stave off any completely inappropriate thoughts,
Dr. Abbot tilts his head towards central, signalling to meet him there once you’re settled.
“Oh– and, kid?” He drawls, eying your bag as you head towards the lockers.
“We do have supplies here, I promise.” he teases, but his voice is soft and amused, referring to your massively overpacked bag, watching heat flood your face and you nod, completely embarrassed.
Jack watches you scuttle away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, but his mind is elsewhere, how you were looking at him so shyly, your wide doe eyes ingrained in his mind. Imagining your eyes after kissing you, those eyes looking up at him when– Fuck. This is so unlike him.
Approaching central, he sees Lena and Shen talking in hushed voices. He chooses not to entertain their shenanigans, just crossing his arms and staring up at the patient board, but he catches Lena’s fierce stare in his periphery, alongside Shen’s smirk.
“Stay away from my nurses, Abbot. She’s clearly a good kid.” She scolds, her tone firm and motherly. He can feel her eyes shooting daggers at him.
Jack doesn’t look away from the board, smirking a little.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is low and equally amused, shaking his head gently. “Just being friendly.”
Shen scoffs, “Yeah? Friendly? You look like you wanted to eat her.”
Jack tenses a little going to defend himself before Lena’s sweet voice interrupts him. She walks past Jack making her way towards you where you had emerged from the lockers and placing a protective hand on your shoulder.
“There ya are, honey. I’m Lena, your charge nurse. C’mon, let us give ya a tour, get a lay of the land, yeah?”
During the tour, you notice Abbot seems to never stray too far from you. Always directly behind you, his hand hovering over the small of your back whenever the halls get crowded, ready to move you if needed.
Surely it's just friendly, you tell yourself.
You hope otherwise.
───────
True to your words, you’re never late again.
Always early to every shift, settled down and working by the time Jack clocks in. But he notices since you’re starting to be early, you get closer and closer with Robby, and it wouldn’t bother him, if you’d at least show the same fondness for him.
Every shift, you avoid interacting with Dr. Abbot at all. You tell yourself it's necessary, you can’t let yourself fall for an attending, despite how flustered, frankly, just warm all over, he makes you feel. You love watching him work, his competency and confidence as he works allures you. Especially in trauma cases, when he barks orders to his residents, you imagine him telling you what to do, when to do it, how to do it, guiding you.
However, during a particular trauma, you were meant to be in the background, watching and learning. But you couldn’t stop watching Abbot’s hands work with such fine precision, the way they flex, the veins popping out. You get lost in your head staring at how big they are, how they’d feel cupping your face, your neck, inside you–
That’s when you decided, for your own well being, but most importantly your work, you couldn’t be around him.
From then on, if you needed anything, you went to anyone and everyone, to avoid speaking to Abbot. Even if he was right there, and asking if you needed anything, you’d go quiet, and your quiet, meek voice dismisses him, “Oh, uh, I’m okay, thank you.” Before you turn and scuttle off in the complete opposite direction, towards Shen.
It bugs him.
How you avoid him, how easily you laugh and joke with Robby, or how you always go to Shen for questions or help.
Jack watches right now, as you laugh freely with Robby, gazing up at him as if you’re hanging on to every word. Gazing at him like he hung the moon. He feels an ugly feeling crawling up his throat, and doesn't want to admit jealousy. He’s not jealous. He’s not. He simply wishes you'd talk to him, with those wide, round doe eyes, smiling shyly and getting you to fall apart with the simplest of words and touches.
He’s so lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice Robby walking by ready to leave for the day.
“You got a good one there, brother, might steal her from the dark side if you’re not careful.” Robby jokes in passing, leaving Jack completely stunned. His eye twitches and his breath stops.
No.
His gaze flickers up to you across the ER, your sweet laugh cutting through the air.
You’re his.
───────
Admittedly, you’re making it very hard to make you his.
You’re almost too polite with him. A small, “good evening,” greeting when he comes in, a simple, “see you tomorrow, boss,” whenever you head out. You’re impossible to get time alone with.
Every time he catches you walking down the hall, jogging to catch up to you, asking you how your night is, you get all quiet. You don’t even look at him beyond a polite glance, your smile is tight and professional. Nodding before dipping into the closest room to get away.
He sighs, thinking you could be so focused on your work you may not want to entertain small talk. But he knows that’s not it, seeing how you laugh every time Shen or Ellis make jokes as you walk with them in the hallway.
So he tries to talk to you when you’re not as busy, just charting.
Jack’s leaning against the counter at central, pretending to be looking at the patient board, but his eyes keep drifting over to you, thinking of ways to get you to talk to him.
He watches the way you pout while charting, your brows pulled tight in concentration, and has the sudden urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb. He wants to gently scold you for mindlessly chewing at the tip of your pen whilst you work, to take his hand and brush the hair covering your face behind your ear–
His body takes him over to your desk before his mind catches up with him, a seemingly magnetic pull driving him to your side.
He slots himself beside you, a hand over the back of your chair, leaning down to look at your screen.
“Oh– Dr. Abbot!” you startle, being caught off guard.
Your mouth dries and your heart rate ticks like a rabbit, having him so close. His face is so close to yours, you don’t turn your head, you can’t. You can hear his breathing, can smell his cologne at this distance. Your mind reels.
He can smell you too. Caramel and vanilla.
The proximity alone has your stomach flipping, his hand behind you becoming an oddly domestic, claiming gesture. Placing a hand on your back, his voice is gentle, low when he speaks.
“This is good stuff, kid, keep it up.”
His praise sends a jolt down your spine and your face reddens instantly. He can feel you twitch under his hand.
You dip your head, hiding your red face and mumble a quick, breathless, “Uh– thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
He watches you fidget, uncomfortable from the praise. Laughing quietly, before removing his hand.
You’re so shy. Shy with him. Oh.
But then you flee, almost running in the opposite direction, and his mind reels. Maybe he’s read this all wrong.
───────
He concludes after a few more nights of avoidance that maybe you just want nothing to do with him at all.
He keeps his distance, returning your polite greetings, but he hates it. The night shift is supposed to flow, be light and less stressful. Jack's spent so long cultivating an environment where people feel free to laugh, ask questions, not be afraid of getting things wrong.
Now you’re here and he’s all confused. He wants you to enter the stream but it feels like wading against a river trying to figure out what to do differently for you.
He decides to just ask. He approaches you during your break one night.
You’re sat in the break room scrolling mindlessly whilst poking at your food.
His quiet, tired voice cuts through.
“S’alright if I join ya?”
You’d been too tired, too into your phone you hadn’t noticed him come in. Nodding fervently you allow him to sit opposite you, his tone of voice sounding different than it does most nights, almost resigned. You actually look at him properly, concerned.
“Listen, kid. I just wanna apologise if I’ve ever done anything to make ya uncomfortable, yeah?” His eyes meet yours, intense and serious.
You pause.
Uncomfortable?
Fuck.
You were avoiding him so much he thought you didn't like him, made you uncomfortable. Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking rapidly putting your phone and fork down immediately.
“No, god, no. You’ve never– that’s not it–” Stop rambling, you tell yourself. Swallowing, taking a deep breath, you realise you need to get over yourself. “M’sorry for the way I’ve been acting. It's not you.” Your voice is quiet, avoiding his eyes.
He tilts his head down to try and meet yours again, concern on his face. His voice is so soft, when he says,
“You sure, kid? You can tell me–”
You shake your head again, cutting him off.
“You make me nervous.” You blurt out in one panicked breath. You squeeze your eyes shut in embarrassment and literally bring your head to the table, groaning.
Abbot lets out a quiet chuckle, amused.
“Honey, hey, look at me.” He coaxes trying to get you to stop wallowing in embarrassment. “Please?”
You lift your head slightly, hands covering your face, peeking at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, like this is funny to him, like you didn’t completely ruin everything–
“S’okay.” His expression softens, voice gentler now. “You never gotta be nervous around me, you hear me?”
Oh.
He misunderstood, thinking you mean nervous of his authority. You can work with that, you haven’t entirely humiliated yourself.
Your hands drop from your face, blush still evident on your cheeks and a shy smile creeps up. You nod in affirmation to his words letting out a deep breath.
“I want you to come to me as well, for anything. Not just Shen, Lena, or Robby. Me.” His inflection on Robby’s name confuses you and makes you giggle a little.
The sound awakens something within Jack, without thinking, he leans over placing a hand over yours where it rests on the table.
“I mean it. Anything.”
───────
He notices how you don’t run from him anymore, don’t push him away, let him exist within your space.
You’re still nervous most of the time, but you push it away, and he’s proud. He wants you to come out of your shell with him.
One evening, Lena calls you into North 7 for a debridement, knowing how much you love mindless, repetitive tasks. It unwinds your brain, picking out thousands of tiny pieces of gravel and debris from a patient's leg, letting you let go and not have to worry about doing something wrong.
You’re about halfway through, the only thing heard in the room is the slow hum of the patient's monitor, and Lena tidying up a cart nearby, when you hear the door open.
You frown, not enjoying having been disturbed and the loud, chaos sound of the ER filters through the door. You keep your attention laser focused onto the patient, until you hear his familiar, gentle voice, checking in.
“All good in here?”
You hesitate, stopping your motions for the first time since you started, before lifting your head up and looking at Dr. Abbot, leaning against the doorframe. Your breath hitches as you make eye contact, his focus entirely on you, not the patient. His head is tilted, and his eye contact is intense, making you nervous.
Lena scoffs to herself. Checking in, my ass.
“Mhm.” Your sweet voice hums in affirmation, the only thing you can manage to verbalise at the moment.
Lena pauses from tidying up the cart, turning raising an eyebrow at you, oh god not you too.
“Good. Can always count on ya to keep things moving smoothly, can’t I, sweetheart?” His voice is sweet, almost cooing.
You’re starstruck. Sweetheart.
You blink, unable to respond, but he’s already leaving with a smug, self-assured smile like he accomplished his goal. You swallow, unable to stop the smile spreading on your face, ducking your head to hide your flushed, red face from Lena.
Walking down the hall, he recalls how much the praise got to you when he complimented your charting, and watching you now?
The knowledge that praise gets to you so much?
Wrecks him.
He feels a sense of power, knowing how much he can get you to fall apart from a few words.
───────
The closer he gets, the more he observes your interactions with everyone else. You’re just as shy and nervous with everyone too. A quiet little thing.
During shift change over one morning, a few night shift and day shift nurses and doctors are gathered gossiping about a particularly rowdy patient you had that night.
You’re off to the side, included, but just about. He notices that's always the position you take, included just enough, but never in the centre, never leading, and never actively involved. He thinks maybe you just like to listen, observe, feeling more comfortable for you like that knowing how shy you are.
He frowns, because the rowdy patient they’re on about? You were the only nurse working with him. He wasn’t dangerous by any means, he was strapped to the bed. Jack would never let you in a room with a patient that’s a danger to your safety.
But the group were already feeding the rumour mill, exaggerating the patients words and actions. He watches you from the corner of his eye where he’s leaning against the counter with a pen in hand, stopping his writing to watch.
He wants you to speak up, correct them, and join in.
He watches your eyes dart around the group, you lick your lips, breathing becoming shallower. You’re assessing for the right time to jump in. You’re so nervous to speak up, his heart aches.
And when you try? You’re so quiet, no one even noticed. Immediately you were cut off.
He watches you blink, swallowing in embarrassment before collecting yourself as if you hadn’t even spoken, smiling along.
His heart breaks.
You’re used to this, being spoken over always happens, you’re just too quiet sometimes, better at one-on-one interactions, not groups. Though you’re a little stung, you push it away, familiar with the feeling. Sighing, you slip into your coat before silently taking your leave.
Just before you can head through the exit doors, he catches up with you.
“Hold up, kid.” You hear him jogging slowly behind you.
You turn, smiling at him, he can see the tiredness and hurt in your eyes even if you’re trying to hide it.
“You leaving without saying goodbye?” he teases lightly, his expression incredibly soft.
You dip your head shyly,
“Didn’t think anyone would notice.” You mumble, trying to laugh it off.
His brows scrunch, a displeased look on his face, almost offended.
“I notice.”
His words are so final, so real. You just stare at him with a vulnerable expression. His words heal something deep, knowing someone cares about your presence. You’re speechless.
He places a hand on your back guiding you outside, noticing your hesitance.
“C’mon. Let me walk ya to your bus stop, you can tell me about the rowdy patient, yeah?”
You nod shyly, trying not to let your eyes well up from his care. It’s a short distance, the sky brightening as you both walk. He’s silent and attentive, actively listening to every word you tell him, like they’re the most important words ever.
When you reach the stop you turn to thank him, but before you can he speaks first.
“Hey. M’proud of ya, for speaking up in there.”
You give him a little confused look shaking your head.
“It didn’t really feel like I did.” You laugh awkwardly, embarrassed to revisit the moment knowing he was watching.
“You did. I’ll always listen, whatever you wanna talk about, yeah?” Your chest tightens painfully at the sincerity in his voice. You can only nod, suddenly too affected to trust your own voice.
“G’night, sweetheart” He drapes an arm around your shoulder squeezing you before letting you board.
On the way home, your head mulls over his words, settling on one detail.
He’s proud.
───────
Being around Abbot so much recently is fucking with you, to say the least.
His constant praise at your actions, you begin expecting and waiting for it. Every time he’s within your vicinity, you wait for his gentle but ragged voice ushering praise.
“Good catch, sweetheart.”
“Don’t know what I’d do without ya.”
“Jesus, you really make my life easier, y’know that?”
And he always delivers.
Aside from the praise, he’s incredibly attentive and observant, knowing what you need exactly when you need it. Encouraging breaks any time he sees you get overwhelmed during the night, telling you to drink water, take a breather.
But he’s also so patient with you, like no one's ever been. With him, you begin to unlearn your fear of being judged for saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, because he never judges.
Tonight is no different.
You’re in central 7 with Dr. Ellis, with a very panicked, frantic mother and her daughter. Her child is only around 6 years old, clearly withdrawn and quiet. Her mother explains to Dr. Ellis how she’d been bathing her daughter that evening, when she found a large bruise on the daughter’s back and legs, suspecting her husband’s abusing her.
You immediately make eye contact with Ellis, silently signalling that you’ll call Kiara, the hospital social worker. But before you can step out to do so, a large, loud and drunk man barges through the door, angry.
He’s unsteady on his feet, eyes directly narrowing onto his wife, before pushing past you and immediately going to yell at her.
“You bitch! You have NO right bringing our daughter here without my permission–” He yells spit flying out of his mouth, alcohol clearly on his breath
“Sir–” Ellis tries to calm him down, placing a hand on his shoulder which he shrugs off.
“No!” He shrugs her off
“Your permission?” The mother yells back, cutting him off in disbelief. “You’re laying your fucking hands on my kid and you think I’m gonna let you be near her?” She’s defensive, shrill, adrenaline thrumming through her.
The yelling gets to you admittedly, you’re never good whenever patients of their families raise their voices. They carry on, Ellis begging for them to keep it civil or he will be removed by security
The door opens swiftly with Dr. Abbot and a night shift security guard filtering through to de-escalate.
Drowning it all out, trying to not let it affect you, you turn your attention to the little girl on the bed, all hunched up scared of her parents yelling. You turn her towards you telling her to focus on you. You just try to distract her in any way possible, asking her questions about school, her friends, her hobbies. It works a little, her tiny voice whispering over her parents yells.
The father is finally removed, and the air to the room returns, silence taking over.
“It’s alright, you’re okay.” You comfort the girl placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, testing it beforehand to see if she pulls away.
Jack turns to you then, really looking at you. The way you’re so gentle with the girl, how your focus was on her comfort during her parents screaming match. God, he admires you. But he also picks up on your tense shoulders, the way your breathing is unsettled, your face is tighter than normal.
You step back once the mother sits by the daughter’s side comforting her, you don't realise you walk back into Jack’s hand, which now rests on the small of your back. He leans closer to you dipping down to speak into your ear,
“Go take a breather, yeah?” His voice is soft, gentle.
You look up at him to convince him you’re fine, you don’t need a break. But the look in his eyes is stern, pleading: do not fight me on this.
───
Jack finds you around 5 minutes later in the stairwell, you seem to just be sitting there lost in your own head.
He approaches slowly, groaning as he sits next to you on the stairs, your shoulders touching. He speaks first,
“You did really well there – with the girl.” He nudges your leg with his as he praises you, trying to cheer you up. You can tell he’s looking at you from the corner of your eye but you keep your eyes on your lap. Pedes cases always got to you.
“She shouldn’t have had to hear that.” Your voice is quiet, unsteady. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, but the tears build in your eyes anyways. You dip your head down further trying to hide.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice softens, his hand settling on your knee. “Talk to me?” His voice is begging.
You lift your head to look at him, drying your eyes. “It’s stupid, really.” You shake your head quickly, trying to laugh through it. “I just don’t handle yelling very well.”
“Yeah. I thought so, honey.” His thumb rubs back and forth over your knee, comforting you. “That’s not on you.” His voice is gentler now.
“I feel ridiculous.” You wipe quickly under your eyes. “I should be able to handle it better by now.” Insecurity laces your words at breaking down like this in front of an attending.
“No.” His response is immediate, firm but gentle. “Don’t start thinkin’ the answer is makin’ yourself colder.” He aches at the prospect of you removing the brightest parts of yourself, to dim your light to handle the harshness of the world. Absolutely not. He wants to shield you, be the barrier between people's cruelty and your soft, gentle heart.
Your shiny eyes meet his, vulnerability flashing through them. Without even thinking he brings his thumb to brush a stray tear from your cheek. He watches your eyes flutter close and your breath hitching at the gesture, his heart leaping.
“Take as much time as ya need. Come find me at the end of the day, I’ll take you home, yeah?” His voice grumbles, sending a jolt through you.
Your eyes open ready to protest, you can’t possible accept a ride from him, thats asking too much–
“Ah, ah, I’m not taking no for an answer.” He smirks before standing and heading back out to the ER.
───
Before your shift ended that same day, you had asked Lena to show you how to work the medicine cabinet as you’d had trouble returning a vial earlier in your shift.
The day shift starts to filter through whilst Lena is describing the steps to take, making you distracted.
You see Dr. Abbot in your periphery down the hall, talking to another nurse, one you had never seen before, most likely on the day shift.
She’s gorgeous.
She stands tall, confident and makes him laugh. Nothing like you.
Your heart aches, as you stare unapologetically, completely drowning out Lena’s voice. You watch as he also dips his head to catch her eyes, how he touches her arm, how charming he is.
It feels like your heart gave out and fell into an endless pit. Eyes flickering away slowly, realising your hope that the way he treated you was special, is just his charm. His naturally flirtatious personality.
God you’re so stupid.
Lena sighs, shaking her head before closing the cabinet and turning to you, sensing your distraction and sadness.
“Hun, you don’t wanna go down that route.” Her voice is firm, but motherly. Like she’s truly trying to protect you, not wanting you to get hurt.
Your head snaps over to her wide eyed and panicked having been caught.
“Oh– no it’s not like that.” you laugh awkwardly, embarrassed but your excuse is weak and she sees through it instantly. Placing a hand on your back and directing you away from the hallway before you get in your head any longer.
“Trust me, hun. I’ve been around long enough to know, men like him don’t realise the effect they have on girls like you.”
Your brows furrow at her words, girls like me? You reach the lockers before she hits the final blow.
“You’re young, go on dates. Don’t pine over old men like him, you’ll only get hurt.”
She walks off, leaving you speechless. You gather your things, mulling over her words. Is she right? Have you been misreading everything, pining over a man who’s naturally charming and kind to everyone?
You’d completely forgotten Dr. Abbots offer to take you home by the time you’re walking out of the doors. Your mind is only repeating her words and reevaluating all of Abbot’s actions towards you, trying to search for when you’d started to misinterpret things.
Jack frowns watching your hunched up form walking out of the ER from where he stands and talks to Ruby. He excuses himself from the conversation, trying to catch up with you before you leave, but you’re already down the street by the time he’s at the door.
───────
Just as he thought he was making progress, the rug is pulled from under him, and you’re colder than ever.
You’re distant with everyone, clipped greetings and polite words the only things you mutter during your shifts. He watches how you avoid groups, but more importantly, how much harder you’ve been working.
You’ve doubled your workload, trying to forget your feelings by distracting yourself. Always with a patient, never sitting down and charting, avoiding your colleagues asking you what’s wrong. Or, avoiding where Dr. Abbot could find you and make you fall for him all over again.
He notices how you’re no longer early to your shifts, just right on time, jumping straight into cases. Whenever he tries to coax you into slowing down and taking breaks, you brush him off, refusing to admit you need them. But he notices the bags under your eyes, you’re pushing yourself too much and he hates it, he can’t help and it’s hurting him.
But he also notices how late you stay. As you no longer chart during the day, you spend 3 to 4 hours overtime during the day shift charting. Robby allows it, sensing something going on with you but doesn’t want to overstep. Occasionally, you ask to work doubles, staying to around 1-3pm during the day shifts. It’s completely wrecking your body, but you don’t want to think about anything else except work.
One evening, during shift change before you got to work, Robby pulls Jack aside.
“Hey, brother, I gotta ask.” Robby glances over his shoulder towards the door, checking you hadn’t arrived yet, before lowering his voice. “Somethin’ going on with her lately?”
Jack’s brows furrow instantly, worry clenching at his heart. “Why?”
“She’s running herself into the ground, to put it mildly.” Robby sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s working through till the afternoon, then coming back to do it all again at night. Girl can’t be getting more than a couple hours of sleep.” His expression tightens. “M’worried about her.”
Jack goes still, his stomach dropping.
He noticed, of course he noticed. He just hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten.
His jaw tightens, hand dragging tiredly across it as he sighs.
“Fuck.” The word leaves him quietly.
“I’ll talk to her.”
───
Later that night, Jack came to find you during a particularly quiet lull around 11pm. He assumes you’d be with a patient, checking with Lena before heading towards south 16. He’s rehearsing his speech to you, over and over.
When he approaches the room, his body stops. He hears you laugh. It’s beautiful, and he doesn’t realise how much it hurt him not hearing you laugh recently.
Rounding the corner he sees you through the glass stitching up a man’s forehead, and you’re blushing. You have that bashed, shy smile as you work, the type that was reserved for Jack. You're standing close to the man from where he sits on the edge of the bed, and he’s looking up at you with desire in his eyes, clearly flirting with you.
He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does, insecurity clawing at his heart. The man you’re stitching up, he’s definitely closer in age to you than Jack is. He hates the way that fact digs under his skin, the sudden awareness of the years between you two. You’re still soft, bright, and untouched by the world in ways he hasn’t been for too long. He can’t take his eyes off the easy smile you give the man, bitterness twisting low in his chest.
He knows he should leave, but he can’t bring himself to move. Which is why when you turn, putting down the sutures, you see him outside watching you, and your body stills. He watches your face fall, and it hurts him how you’re no longer happy to be around him.
Jack sighs ready to turn and leave, but you excuse yourself from your patient and head outside to catch him.
“Hey–” Your voice is gentle and cautious, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear nervously at Abbot’s expression. “Did you need something?”
Jack’s jaw tightens as he hears your voice, trying to steady himself. This is the first time you’ve chosen to speak to him in ages, and he hates how relieved and conflicted he is right now.
His eyes flicker behind you, to the man in the room sprawled out on the bed scrolling through his phone, and his chest tightens. Possessiveness and insecurity battle within his heart, and he doesn’t even think when he blurts out a cold comment to you.
“Didn’t realise we were entertainin’ patients now.” His voice is clipped, and he regrets it as soon as he says it.
He watches your face fall. Fuck.
Your head shakes rapidly, apologetically.
“I-I’m sorry–” Your voice is meek, he can’t bear that he caused this.
“Just don’t let it happen again.” Jack’s voice is firm, as he walks off. He needs to leave, clearly not in his right mind, he’s hurting you and he’s completely out of line.
───
The way he spoke to you eats him all night, distracting him. He’s completely unfocused during cases, Shen telling him to take a breather during a trauma, get his head right. How is he supposed to make sure you’re okay if he’s also driving you away.
He decides to start small. Around 1am he watches you exit a patient's room, pausing outside leaning against the wall. He can tell you’re exhausted by the way you hold yourself.
He slows as he approaches you, wanting to get you to slow down, take a break. Up close he can see the way your shoulders sag like the weight of the wall is the only thing keeping you together, your undereyes heavy with exhaustion. He can’t remember the last time you sat down.
“Hey– hold up.” His tone is softer, contrasting the way he spoke to you earlier. “You eaten yet?
Your eyes flick towards him briefly, before looking away again.
“M’fine.” You’re short, a little dismissive.
Jack nods awkwardly, he knows he doesn’t deserve your kindness right now.
“It’s quiet, you should take your break–” He tries but you cut him off.
“I said I’m okay.” Though your tone has little real bite behind it, it’s still harsher than he’s ever heard it.
He stills, letting out a deep sigh. The silence between you both hangs in the air thickly. You won’t look at him.
Jack nods, accepting his defeat watching you walk off.
What he doesn’t see is the guilt flooding your face.
───
You need to apologise. He’s your attending and it was extremely unprofessional of you, a nurse, to speak to him that way. Guilt is clawing at your throat and you can’t get rid of it.
You decide that after you finish organising the supply room with Lena, you’ll find him. Explain yourself.
You’re standing on a stepping stool as Lena passes you supplies to restock the shelves with.
“That guy– from earlier? He was a real hottie, hun.” She says while passing you a box of nitrile gloves. Your face scrunches in amusement as you let out a breathy laugh
“That guy who got his head smashed with a beer bottle? Yeah, right. Like I need that kind of trouble in my life right now.” You joke back with Lena about the flirty guy.
“C’mon, you’re young. Live a little! He’s insanely hot, god knows if I was 20 years younger I’d jump his bones–” you cut her off with a real, chesty laugh.
“Lena! You’re married!” You turn towards her with a wide smile.
“I can appreciate beauty when I see it, hun.” She smirks before continuing. “What’s the harm? He’s still here isn’t he? Go get his number, go on dates, have mind blowing sex– just do something to get you outta this slump, y’hear me?”
You sigh whilst organising the top shelf. You don’t want that guy. You want Abbot.
What you didn’t realise was Jack was walking past and heard snippets of the conversation, well, particularly Lena’s grand speech about having mind-blowing sex with the man. He falters in his steps, realising who she’s talking to, who she’s talking about. The ugly, possessive feeling rears within him again. He peeks through the door, watching your face. You’re smiling, like you’re considering it. He can’t handle it. He storms off, childishly slamming the door of the next room he enters, blaming it on the draft.
You jolt at the sudden noise and frown before continuing. “I dunno, Lena.” Your voice is almost sad. “He’s not who I want.”
“You’re still hung up on him, aren’t you, honey?” Her voice is soft, pitying. She watches your sad smile when you nod in affirmation. “M’sorry, hun. It’ll pass, I promise.”
You don’t want it to pass.
───
You can’t seem to find Abbot for the rest of the night, until a trauma comes in around 5:30am forcing you both into the room together.
The EMTs roll the patient in on a gurney as you jog over to Trauma 1, reading off his vitals. Fuck, it’s a kid.
“Pediatric MVC, eight-year-old male, unrestrained passenger. Vehicle rolled twice after being T-boned at a high speed. Drunk driver.” The EMT scoffs.
You begin to glove up as you walk alongside the stretcher, Jack on the other side, his eyes land on you as he actively listens to the EMT, his gaze feels as if he was assessing you.
“Initial GCS was 10 on scene, refrained from intubation. BP 80/52, heart rate 145, satting 92 percent on non-rebreather.”
You watch Abbot nod, cutting through the patient's clothes as Ellis and Shen check current vitals and assess internal injuries. You end up stationed directly behind him, ready to hand him what he needs. But him in action is making you nervous, like he doesn’t want you here.
The EMT cuts in. “Father pronounced dead on scene, mother inbound, no obvious injuries.”
“Decreased breath sounds on the left side, significant bruising across the abdomen and chest. Patient increasingly lethargic.” Abbot begins his assessment. But is being drowned out by an increasingly loud scream from the floor outside the room, his mother arriving.
She rushes to the doors, doctors encourage her to wait outside but she barges in regardless. Her sobs and yells for the doctors to save her son cut through the room, loud and distracting. You take a deep breath at the sound trying to focus, remain unaffected by the scene, present.
Abbot’s jaw tightens as the room erupts around him. The mother’s wailing to his right, monitors beeping rapidly as the boy gets worse, the blood coating his gloves as he presses harder against the kid’s abdomen.
“Pressure’s dropping.”
“BP 78/40.”
“We’re losing him, Abbot.”
Fuck. Each sound and sensation cramming for dominance within his skull, overriding his focus.
And then he glances behind at you, where the station is set up ready for you to hand him things. But you’re spaced out, wide-eyed and pale, clearly overwhelmed by the sounds of the boy crying in pain and grief for his father, the mother’s wailing. Jack’s chest twitches violently. One thing at a time. Save the boy.
“Get her out!” He yells across the room, his voice loud and booming, a couple nurses urge for the mother to wait outside.
But he can’t focus with you standing there looking wrecked, your hands shaking. His focus should be on the boy, not you.
“Gauze.” He commands, a hand outstretched towards you.
Nothing.
The gauze finally hits his hand, a few seconds delayed.
His pulse spikes, the room suddenly feeling too loud. Your presence pressing against the back of his skull.
He snaps.
“I can’t afford hesitation right now.” Jack’s voice cuts sharply across the room, eyes snapping to yours. “If you can’t keep up, leave.”
You feel like you’ve stopped breathing. The room goes painfully quiet, heat rushing to your face instantly at the humiliation.
Your chest feels like it’s caving, shame burning beneath your skin. You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, staving off tears.
You nod once, unable to trust your voice, before stripping off your gloves with trembling fingers backing away from the table.
Another nurse takes over flawlessly, the room continuing like normal around you. You exit the room, tears burning your eyes and threatening to fall.
Lena sees your shaken state from across the room, beginning to make her way over to you. But you duck, scuttling away to lock yourself in the toilet. Needing to break down in private.
You sink against the wall, sliding down until your head rests on your knees.
You know he’s right, you shouldn’t have hesitated. Your throat tightens.
The boy could’ve died because you froze. He still might. For what? Because Abbot didn’t want you near him anymore? Because the sounds of the boys’ mother screaming cracked something open inside of you?
Abbot’s words replay over and over in your head as self-punishment, as you sob into your hands.
───
Jack regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
He watches your face crumple in devastation and it almost knocks the breath from his lungs.
Your teary eyes flicker away, avoiding his fiery gaze. He hates that he’s the one who put those tears there, made you cry. He never wants to be the reason for your pain.
He watches you nod, so meekly it hurts his heart, the tremble in your hands when you pull off your gloves. Every instinct in him screams to go after you. He can’t. He turns back to the table, continuing to work on the boy even more distracted than he was before.
───
You manage to gather yourself not long after, exiting the bathroom and ignoring Lena’s concerned looks, just searching for a simple case to get your mind off what happened. You can hear the chaos continuing in Trauma 1, still working on the boy.
Lena assigns you to a wound debridement, a simple task to recalibrate and gather your thoughts.
You set up your tool table beside you, and you’re lucky your patient isn’t a chatty one. His arm rests on the bed, skin burnt red and white.
You’re utterly exhausted, emotionally spent. Too in your own head to notice how cramped your fingers get around the scalpel.
You try to reposition your grip, but the blade unexpectedly slips from your grasp, falling and slicing a clean gash from your hand down your arm. Pain slices hot and immediate.
“Shit–”
The scalpel clatters into the tray as blood begins to well. Your vision blurs for half a second, before you jerk back sharply, hissing from the sudden pain
“Oh shit you okay, lady?” You hear the patient ask, but you’re already halfway out the room, asking Matteo to finish your case before entering an empty room to sort yourself out.
“God fucking damn it, piece of shit–” You curse violently, voice breaking, trying to hold back tears yet again, whilst setting up the equipment you need to clean your cut.
Your heart beats violently, embarrassed at fucking up yet another thing. Abbot cannot know, he cannot have another thing to chew you out over.
You’re not that lucky.
“Hey, listen, I wanted to say that– what the fuck?” Jack’s voice is shocked when he glances down at your bleeding arm from where he stands at the door.
Your head whips around immediately, eyes wide and panicked but you don’t speak or move. Fear wraps around your heart knowing you’re going to get scolded for being distracted, getting yourself hurt, or creating unnecessary paperwork for the hospital.
The sight of your bleeding arm disturbs him. But what hurts more is the way you look at him, wrecked and terrified, like a child that just got caught for doing something wrong, more worried about his reaction than the fact you’re hurt. He shakes his head stepping inside fully making his way to you.
“Sit.” He commands, his voice tight, clipped.
Your breath hitches at his tone, interpreting it as annoyance for having to deal with this, but you do as he says, not wanting to make things worse.
“You don’t have to–” You attempt to say you’re fine, you don’t need help, it’s a small cut. But when you look into his eyes, you pause, there’s something softer behind them, concern.
“Yeah. I do.” His voice is gentle and strained like it pains him you’re trying to hide your hurt.
You watch his face as he washes out your cut and stops the bleeding. You can’t read him. He avoids your eyes, focusing solely on your injury, you watch as he clenches his jaw and swallows.
He can’t look into your eyes again, the broken teary look you’re adorning right now would completely break him. He feels your pulse thrumming from where he holds your wrist, shaky breaths like you’re trying not to cry in front of him.
“This’ll sting–” He warns gently before bringing a cold disinfectant wipe to your cut. He cleans it so gently, so carefully, you realise how much you’ve missed him. His touch, his care, his smell.
You hiss slightly at the alcohol stinging, and he quickly retracts, gaze flicking to meet yours worried.
“I’ve got you.” He coos, rubbing a thumb back and forth against your hand, avoiding your injury. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”
His soft tone breaks the flood gate, tears flowing freely and you sob. Hard.
“M’so sorry.” Your voice breaks, blurting out apologies, as you try to catch your breath. “I’m sorry, please–”
His heart shatters at the sound, immediately setting the wipes down and cupping your face.
“Hey– No. No, honey. Don’t.” His warm hands ground you, wiping the tears as they fall. He can’t stand the sight of you falling apart in front of him.
You shake your head. “I keep fucking up–” you whisper brokenly, your expression apologetic.
“God, c’mere.” He coos bringing your head to his chest rubbing his hand on your back. “You got nothin’ to apologise for, y’hear me?
His chest aches at your cries, knowing he led you to this, knowing he hurt such a sweet girl. His sweet girl.
“I shoulda never yelled at ya, it weren’t right.” His voice vibrates through your body against him, sniffling into his chest. “You get that? You did nothing wrong, baby.”
Baby.
He pulls back cupping your face again, eyes intense and searching. Searching for something in your eyes that tells him you understand him, that you know you didn’t do anything wrong.
“Is he– is the kid–” You choke out, genuinely terrified that your slip-up had cost the kid his life, and had cost the mother losing both loves of her lives on the same night.
Jack shakes his head quickly, dismissing your worry. “He’s good, he’s stable. Dontcha worry about that. I let shit get to me, yeah? Not on you.”
You sniffle, breathing jagged as you settle down. The kid will be okay. Abbot isn’t mad at you. His hand lifts from your cheek to smooth down your hair on your forehead, tucking it backwards. Looking at you like you're precious.
Unexpectedly, he brings his forehead to rest on yours, whispering:
“I never wanna make you feel like that.” His voice wavers slightly, but you notice. “Never again.”
You stop breathing at his proximity. Realisation crashing down at how stupid you’d been to avoid him all this time, to let insecurity overrun your thoughts. His lips are so close to yours.
“Jack–” You practically whimper his name.
His breath hitches, searching your eyes before leaning in slowly.
He presses a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, testing.
Instinctively, you turn your head towards his lips.
You both pause, staring at each other and breathing heavily. He watches as you dart your tongue out, licking your lips nervously, and he breaks.
He crashes his lips to yours.
It’s hungry, full of apology, and devotion. He brings a hand to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. Electric sparks fly down your spine, your mind turning to mush. The emotional toll of the day mixing with the high of finally kissing Jack, you melt.
He finally pulls away, after needing to catch his breath, not because he wants to stop kissing you. He’d kiss you for the rest of the night, if he could.
He takes in your flushed state, catching your breath and looking at him with so much trust. Your red cheeks, dazed and glossy eyes, and plump red lips and he lets a sound akin to a growl out. The look wrecks him.
He shakes his head, pressing a short, quick kiss to your hair before physically stepping back before going too far with you.
“I didn’t– I convinced myself you didn’t want me like that.” Your whisper breaks the silence. “I couldn’t be around you, it hurt too much.”
Oh.
He swallows the lump in his throat before nodding. He understands. Why you avoided him all this time, you must have been going crazy. Hell, you’d affected him so much tonight he snapped. He can’t imagine what living like that for so long would do to you.
“You don’t gotta explain, sweetheart.” He brings the chair to sit in front of you on the bed, and he takes your hands in his, bringing a small kiss to your knuckles. “But you scared me, doll. You gotta take care of yourself.”
Your gaze flickers downwards a little embarrassed, nodding
He turns your injured hand over in his, nodding his head towards it before gently asking.
“How’d this happen?” He refocuses on cleaning and assessing if it’s deep enough for a bandage or stitches.
“Wasn’t–” You pause, recalling how he scolded you last time for being distracted, shaking off your fear, you continue. “Wasn’t paying attention, cutting off patients' dead skin. Hand cramped n’ tried to fix it, blade slipped.”
He takes in a deep breath hearing your shaky explanation.
“Why didn’t ya tell someone, hmm?” He speaks softly, his attention focused on placing small little butterfly bandages along the cut.
You shrug. “Wasn’t thinking straight. Was overwhelmed, on the verge of crying again. Just needed to be alone.”
Crying, again. He hates the recollection that he made you cry that night. That after you had left the trauma room, you’d broken down alone.
He places the last bandage on, setting down the equipment and turning to you once more, placing a hand on your thigh.
“You always come to me when you’re hurting, yeah? I hate that I didn’t know, baby. Hate you were hurt and you tried to deal with this alone.” He begs, squeezing your thigh.
He sighs in relief as he sees your small nod. “Good.”
He places a small, gentle kiss over your cut. “There we go, all fixed up, my sweet girl.”
You flush red, a shy smile taking over your face before you can stop it, letting out a small laugh of disbelief.
“There she is.” He coos at your smile.
───────
After a few months of dating, Jack took a sabbatical, and asked you to go with him.
It was his way of an apology, for snapping at his sweet girl, taking you away from the place that you’d been running yourself into the ground for.
He didn’t tell you much, just to pack your cutest dresses. You obeyed mindlessly, trusting him completely. Truthfully, he couldn’t get enough of seeing you in sundresses after one particular picnic date where he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, or hands. Needless to say, the date ended early, with Jack driving you back to his place to tear off the sundress.
You’re leaning against Jack in his truck as he drives through the country. He had specifically chosen to bring this truck due to its bench seats, needing a hand on you at all times.
The warm breeze filters through the truck windows, and you hum gently along to the faint country rock playing through the truck radio, Jack tapping his fingers against the wheel along with the beat.
Everything felt perfect, domestic, calm.
Until you get deeper into country backroads.
You frown the first time you drive by a small animal on the side of the road, clearly roadkill. It disturbs something in your stomach, seeing the bloody mangled animal alone. You try to push it down, focus on Jack, the trip.
Until you seem to keep passing more animals.
Deer.
Squirrels.
Rabbits.
Foxes.
Every animal seems to twist your heart more and more, saddening you so deeply, wishing you could protect the babies that died alone.
Jack, observant as he is, feels you go quiet against his shoulder. No longer humming or drumming your feet with the music, just looking straight ahead into the dashboard, stiff. Something had set his girl off. He brings his hand that rested on the gear stick onto your thigh, giving it a firm squeeze, checking in on you.
His hand is warm where it rests on your thigh, grounding, as he coos, “Talk to me, sweetheart.” He glances over briefly before looking back at the road. “What’s got my pretty girl all quiet, hmm?” he says, softly.
Your stomach flips, of course he notices. He’s so in tune with your tells by now, you couldn’t even hide it if you tried. You whine a little embarrassed, turning to hide your face into his side.
His heart aches at the small, sweet noise you make and his grip tightens protectively on your thigh. Sensing your shyness, his thumb starts rubbing back and forth on your leg.
“Don’t hide from me, my sweet girl,” his voice is gentle and sweet, the tone he uses when he knows something is bothering you. Gentle fingers tip your chin upwards to meet his eyes momentarily, your stomach twisting as he brushes the hair behind your ear, a silent plea: tell me.
Hesitating, feeling shy and not wanting to ruin the trip you tell him, “It’s nothing, really, It’s the animals–”, your breath hitches as Jack drives by another dead deer on the side of the road. Your voice breaks before continuing, “It hurts”, you whisper sadly whilst immediately ducking your head to not look out the window for too long, the scene disturbing you.
Oh. Realisation floods Jack’s face and his heart clenches, oh, his sweet, sensitive baby.
You hear Jack breathe out a small sigh, before dipping his head and placing a small gentle kiss to your forehead.
“Yeah? That’s what’s gotten my girl all upset?” his voice soothing and rubs his hand up and down your thigh in comfort. Your stomach twists at his sigh, unsure if he’s silently judging.
“They might have had family or friends waiting for them!’’ your voice is whiny, desperate for him to understand as deeply as you do why you’re upset. You sniffle a little, trying not to let tears fall.
Jack blinks, trying not to laugh at his sensitive girl, knowing it’ll upset you more. He doesn’t mean to find it amusing, but your true devastation over deer and squirrels having family and friends, he can’t help but let out a low chuckle.
“You’re right baby, m’sure they’re sat around the dinner table, waiting for ‘im to come home.” He teases gently a smirk playing at his lips.
“Jaaaaack! It’s not funny,” you pout petulantly, hurt. You shift away from his side, scooting over to the other side of the truck, feeling dismissed.
Jack shushes you quickly, grabbing you by your shoulders before you move away, hating the way you curl in on yourself so easily. He pulls you back into his side, coaxing an apology.
“M’sorry, baby, c’mere.” He’s still smirking a little, but knowing he may have teased too much in your sensitive state, he needs to calm you down.
You feel him pepper quick kisses to your forehead, whilst rubbing the back of your neck gently. Your body relaxes instantly at the touch.
You sniffle a little calming down, wrapping your arms around his middle.
“Shh, baby, I know, I know.” He says, his voice softer now, before continuing. “I was so mean for teasing my delicate girl, yeah?” His inflection rises at the end of his question, like he was comforting a small kitten.
Sniffling, you nod at his comfort. “You know I love how my sweet baby feels everything deeply.” he croons, and you feel him run his fingers at the nape of your neck into your hair, petting you.
“You just keep your eyes on me, yeah? Focus on me for the rest of the trip.” He commands gently, shielding you away from the hurt of the world.
The low music continues to hum in the car, yours and Jack’s breathing matching as you sit quietly soaking the evening breeze.
Gravel crunches as you pull up to the cabin, you notice he doesn’t make a move to exit the truck yet. You frown, worried, is something wrong? Before you can even ask him, Jack breaks the silence, with such a soft tone it's unexpected.
“S’why you’re my favourite nurse, baby”. You falter, his words stirring something in your stomach, his praise making you shy. You feel him draping his arm around your waist and tugging you into his lap, straddling him.
Unable to avoid his intense eye contact, you duck your head shyly, quietly asking, “What is?”
For the life of you, you can’t figure out what he means. He ducks his head following yours to look into your eyes, cupping your face.
His voice is low, serious, when he speaks. “Your sensitivity, compassion, empathy.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, uneasy by the intensity of his praise. Tucking your head into his neck to hide your shyness, you quip– “It’s not the sex?”
You hear him chuckle, the vibration running through your body.
“You were my favourite before the sex smartass– no, you have a big heart, biggest I’ve ever known, you care deeply.” You feel him guide your head out of his neck, needing to see your face, his thumbs brush against your cheeks as he watches your wide, doe eyes trying to accept the praise.
“Plenty of other nurses and doctors are empathetic.” You begin shyly, trying to brush the compliment off, uneasy by how seen he was making you feel. Always having been told your sensitivity is a curse, especially in this field, and it’ll wear you down.
Jack immediately interjects, not enjoying how quick you are to self deprecate, diminish yourself.
“Not like you, baby.” His voice is stern, as are his hands gripping your face. Desperate for you to see yourself the way he does.
Those three simple words cut deep, your eyes watering from so much care. He wipes the tears before they fall and watches a shy smile tugging at your lips, hitting him like a punch to the chest.
“You hear me, baby? Hmm?” he coos gently while pressing a kiss against your temple. You nod in his hold, cheeks flushed from receiving so much affection, never having been treated so carefully before.
“You’re m’favourite attending.” You mumble shyly fidgeting with your hands in your lap.
Jack laughs deeply, he knows, of course he knows. He just hadn’t expected that to be what you said. He finds your tone so cute, like you're too shy to admit it.
“Oh yeah? S’not Robby?” He teases, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear, laughing again at your scrunched up face, like the idea is ridiculous to you.
“I know, sweetheart.” He calms you, presses a final, soft kiss to your temple and brings you closer to his embrace.
Outside, the sun sets as crickets chirp around you, the air gets cooler but neither of you rushes to leave the car yet, this moment meaning something so deep to the both of you.
─
Jack is setting down the last of the bags in the bedroom when he hears you yelp from the bathroom. Before he can even ask if you’re okay, you call out for him, your voice startled and afraid.
“Jack!”
His heart jumps, and his mind immediately rushes to the worst idea, that you’re hurt somehow.
Jack runs to the bathroom panicked, “Baby, what’s–” he calls out in fear, until he enters the room, and pauses, blinking.
You’re crouching on the toilet seat like the floor is lava, with one shoe off, in your hand, looking around the floor terrified. You meet his eyes, genuine fear behind them,
“I swear, it's taunting me! It looked me right in the eyes!” you whisper urgently pointing at the small bug in the corner of the room.
Jack laughs for real this time, tilting his head affectionately, “baby, what are you doing?”
You screech as you watch the tiny dark bug scuttle along the bathroom floor and chuck your shoe at it, completely missing it.
“Please– kill it, quick!” you beg him
He smirks at you from where he leans against the bathroom door frame, crossing his arms, and taunts you, “What if his family is waiting for him to come home, hmm?”
You groan as Jack points out your hypocrisy, squealing again as you watch it come towards you. “Jack, I swear to god–”
He hangs his head in, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face before he walks over and stomps on it. He picks you up into his arms and mumbles into your hair.
“Yeah, you’re not lasting ten minutes out here, sweetheart.”
Y/N’s eyebrows raised, “Oh?” She shook her head, mouth falling open, “Oh, Harry, that’s so sweet, but really, you don’t have to do that! I’m just whining, is all.”
“I insist,” he told her, “I want you to – if that’s something you want to do. See it as me showing my gratitude for letting me stay here.”
“Your gratitude? Harry! I’m not sure you realize it, but you’re staying here to protect me, yeah?”
Harry pouted, “For my peace of mind. It’s not entirely selfless, so I think that helping you get your nails done is in order. Now, either you’ll take the money in cash, or I’ll transfer it into your account, you can pick.”
Y/N scoffed, “Harry, I –”
“I won’t ask it again,” he clicked his tongue, “Choose or I’ll choose for you.”
or
Harry treats Y/N better than any boyfriend she's ever had
part 1
part 2
(17.1k+ words)
iii.
The heat was suffocating.
Really, Y/N was being a little dramatic; she could admit that. It was still technically Spring, so it wasn’t even the hottest that it could be, but it was the warmest day of the year so far. The kind of heat that had her wondering if her tiny laundry day shorts were really that inappropriate for her office, or if she could make it work as long as she had granny panties for full coverage of her bum. If she showed up in a tank top and those itty-bitty shorts, she knew Niall and Aki would be supportive (probably wouldn’t even mention it, honestly, because at the end of the day, they are not going to fuss over what she was wearing and would actually try to start an HR case if someone else did), but their floor manager would definitely have an issue.
Still, she wore her airiest dress that was still work appropriate, but there wasn’t even the whisper of a breeze in the air to keep her cool. It was the sort of stifling, still heat of a desert that she’s never been to. Where you could see heat waves in typically motionless air, and even the sight of them somehow made it feel that much warmer. Y/N so desperately wanted to crawl inside of this video she’d seen of the Japanese countryside this morning, in the cold stream of clear water running over rocks near a bridge. She could just plop right in there and dip her body back, then float her way anywhere that it ended up. It was almost like her homepage had been teasing her with what she couldn’t have before she stepped into the unforgiving heat outside.
It could be much worse, though. If she had to do her usual commute, then she’d have had to walk like ten minutes in the heat to the subway. Underground was always just a little cooler, but with how many bodies were packed together in the station and then subsequently in the train, there was always more heat generated. Which was nice in winter, when the freezing temps would make her fingers stiff, but at this point of the year, it was not going to work for her. After a heated subway ride, they’d pile out of the subway car, and it would feel nice for all of 2 minutes once she was in the fresh air again, and then the sun would get quite hot again. A lot of this wouldn’t be as bad if she weren’t on her way to work, but everything is always exacerbated tenfold, since chances are she had been rushing around that morning trying to get ready.
But, instead of having to go through that, she was getting the princess treatment and being carted to and fro, via Harry Styles Car Services.
It’s not like she’d asked! Harry more or less demanded, actually, and Y/N wasn’t in the business of denying something that would benefit her in the end. Just as she hadn’t denied him when he told her that he should probably hang around her flat for a couple of weeks after what happened at the mall. If it kept her safe and less paranoid, why would she tell him no? Even though her flat wasn’t necessarily hostess material – she thinks that hardly mattered when Muffy was there.
That first night, after her run-in with Finley, Harry had brought her home and stayed with her until she woke up from her post-adrenalin-rush nap. He offered to buy her dinner (which meant he’d already bought it), then proposed that he at least stay the night if it was okay with her, just to make sure nothing weird happened. Y/N had been relieved, because she had no idea how she was going to trick him into staying the night before he offered. That had removed any trickery needed, so she made a nice bed for him on her sofa and settled Muffy on his belly, with a bottle of water on the coffee table so that he could drink it.
“I understand if you need to close or lock your door or anything.” Harry told her, “To feel safe, I get that.”
“Oh, well, Muffy and I kind of have an open door policy,” she explained, “I don’t know if she’s willing to sacrifice that. Once the door shut when the air conditioner kicked on, and she cried at my door for 30 minutes.”
“To be let in?”
“To be let out,” Y/N stressed, “She hates a closed door. Anyway, as long as I don’t wake up to you staring at me from the side of my bed, Paranormal Activity style, then I’m okay.”
Y/N slept better than she probably should have with Harry in her flat. She woke up once to pee, and when she dipped her head around the corner to peek at him, he was snoring on the couch, one leg kicked out of the blanket, and on the back of the cushion. Muffy was cuddled to his throat, which was a little traitor-esque, but she’d accept it for now. When she went back to bed, Y/N fell asleep in all of two minutes.
She had suspected he would only stay that one night to make sure nothing sketchy happened, and then he’d go back to his flat. However, the following morning, during the breakfast that he’d woken up early to cook for her, he plated a waffle and eggs; he’d found her fruit that she had not bothered taking out of the package yet to wash, and he washed, prepped, and sliced it. It was the sort of breakfast that your boyfriend makes you after he cheated on you and has no intention of telling you, but his guilty conscience compels him to do something kind (not that she’s ever been in that situation or something).
So, Y/N was slightly suspicious, narrowed eyes on him on her sofa where she’d balanced on the folded blanket he’d placed at the right end. “What’s with the 'I’m sorry I cheated on you' meal?”
Harry’s head tilted, “I’m sorry I cheated on you?” He repeated, but then shook his head, “Well, no, there was no cheating involved. You’re the only person I’m in an unintentional mutual stalking dynamic with. This is more so, ‘Hear me out, even though it might be a little crazy’ meal.” Y/N had dipped a piece of waffle into the syrup, feeling it sticky and sweet on her lips when she slid it into her mouth, “I’ll be honest, I don’t like the Finley thing at all. He's suddenly showing up at a mall, full suit, just 'happening' to run into you, and recognizing you, then wanting to go out for coffee? Either he’s the world’s dumbest prick, or there’s some weird ulterior motive. And with how similar you look to Antonyia, I just feel like. . .they might be trying something. I don’t know – I need to do more digging, and I need Adam to look into it too, while I’m preoccupied with. . .well, with you.”
“With me?” She repeated, the syrup sugary on her teeth.
“Yeah, so – I propose that I sort of hang out with you for a while, a little closer than we have.” He motioned around them with his hand, “Like, if it is okay with you, I’d stay here with you. Maybe I’d go to the store and things with you, stuff like that – just for a bit, to make sure everything is status quo. They don’t know who I am, hopefully, but maybe if anyone is following, they might be deterred from approaching with me around.”
Y/N raised her eyebrows, lulling her tongue around the syrup sticking to her mouth – she loves waffles, but it’s a sensory nightmare to eat, “I mean – do you have time for all of that?”
She actually didn’t mind. Maybe she should, but she didn’t even really care that much when she thought Harry was legitimately following her around. At least he would be right at her side rather than somewhere in the shadows, making the back of her neck tingle. Plus, it would sort of be like having a bodyguard to some degree, right? That would make her feel. . .nice, actually. Harry was the one she called when she was scared anyway, so why not cut out the middle man and just have him with her?
“That’s okay,” she poked into a strawberry, “I probably would have bothered you calling every time I got scared.”
Harry seemed surprised by how easily she’d agreed. Y/N was a little surprised with herself by how easily she agreed, but again, if the assassin for hire is paranoid, she’s going to be paranoid too. Also, she thinks, even if she said no, Harry would have still just followed her out of a sheer sense of guilty responsibility. He probably would have gone ahead and installed that camera outside her door, too. This made things easier for both of them, right?
“Right,” he agreed, “Um, okay, yeah! You don’t mind if I sleep here?”
“Nope,” she shook her head, “I think Muffy would like it too.”
So, yeah, it was sort of easy to agree to it. That was just a couple of days ago, and so far, Harry had integrated himself into her flat with little fuss. He brought two computers and a suitcase of clothes. . .well, she thinks it’s clothes, but she didn’t want to dig through it to see what else he might have put in there. Harry had offered for her to thumb through the fabric, but she denied it. Typically, the offer was enough for her.
There was no arrangement for him to take her to and from work. On Sunday, they didn’t do much of anything together. Y/N lived her life as she usually did on Sunday, stressed about the upcoming week, sad that the weekend was over, doing her laundry, and taking a nap. Harry offered to cook for her, but since he’d cooked breakfast, Y/N told him that she would cook dinner. Not that it was anything elaborate – just pasta, and she did nothing but heat up the noodles and warm up the sauce, but Harry acted as if she’d made the noodles from scratch. He praised her, ate seconds, then washed the dishes and dried them afterward. Now that Y/N thinks about it, they did not leave the house.
In the mornings, Harry makes her breakfast before Y/N goes to work. The first day, she commuted like she normally did (they discussed it, that the general morning traffic between here and her job was deemed safe enough that someone couldn’t try anything too nefarious out in the open), but that evening, Harry just came to pick her up instead of her getting on the subway. “What use am I just milking your energy bill while you’re at work without doing anything to deserve it? At least let me drive you to and fro.”
And she would hardly say that he’s doing nothing to deserve it, but Y/N wouldn’t say no to a free ride. Which ended up being super beneficial on a day as hot as this one, so his air conditioner is on the highest setting, almost cold enough that goosebumps were starting to pebble across her skin. It was good though, otherwise she would have caught aflame. To start off a date at work blistering hot and sweaty was just asking for her to be in an overstimulated, horrific mood the entire day. She should probably have Niall and Aki send him thank-you cards because she’d be in much better spirits than she would have been otherwise.
He had rolled them through a coffee drive-through – a little shack that Y/N had always passed and thought looked sort of suspicious, but Harry swore by them. He bought her a drink and a little sweet pastry for her to eat later (she tried to hand him her card, and he took it between his index and middle fingers, slid it back into her purse, and then slid his wallet from his pocket to grab his card). Then he pointed all of the vents toward her, which made her laugh, holding the sweating cup in her palm, listening to the ice cubes click together.
“Thank you,” she breathed out, “I can’t believe you left the air-conditioned flat to take me to work. You’re a better man than like. . .any of the people I’ve dated.”
“Babe, every anecdote about your prior relationships is starting to break my heart. Where were you finding these men?”
Y/N scrunched her nose, “Inside the tortured tiles of a frat house,” she told him, “Then the tormented wooden grains of the bar.”
Harry groaned. He really did hate every dating story she’s ever told, no matter how mild Y/N thought the offense was. She had learned a little while ago that her taste in men was piss poor, and somehow all of the dickheads found her like lost ships spotting a lighthouse in the night. They just never left her alone, and Y/N must have a big, bright sign floating above her head that says something along the lines of ARE YOU A SHITTY GUY WHO LIKES TO LIE? THIS GIRL IS FOR YOU!!!
But when she tells the stories, they’re more of a haha funny rather than a ‘this is a horrible thing that happened to me.’ However, when she tells Harry these stories, he legitimately seems horrified. No giggling or eye rolling and clowning the men of her past. Actually, he seemed set on reminding her that this behavior was unacceptable and that there was no reason she should have ever gone through any of these scenarios with any of these men. Y/N is on the fence about how she feels with it – she appreciated the sentiment, but unless he planned on fixing everything these men had ever done to her, she’s going to need him to giggle with her.
They pull up to her job, and Harry always takes them into the parking garage, then drops her off at the door to the lobby on the first level. Y/N gathered her things up, heaving her purse up over her shoulder, and gave him a sullen look with a deep pout, “Well, I guess I’m off then,” she complained, because she hadn’t realized how hard it was to leave the house when someone else worked from home, even though he was chauffeuring her. The fact that he gets to go back to her flat and hang out with Muffy, sit on her couch, where he could probably take a nap if he wanted to – sort of drives her crazy. He gets cutesy-girl flat ambient lighting, and Y/N has to bake under the fluorescent light of an office for the next 8 to 9 hours. It’s totally unfair, “Enjoy my beautiful, comfy home.” That is, unless he has some mission or something. Y/N still very loosely understands what he does exactly.
“Poor baby,” he raised his hand, plucking her bottom lip, and it forced Y/N’s brain to shut down, then promptly reboot. Has he ever touched her like that before? The closest he’d gotten was when they were LARPing at the BDSM club, or whatever, and speaking of – she didn’t nearly get enough information about that as she thought necessary. Like, what, she’s just supposed to continue her day-to-day without knowing the exact ins and outs of what Harry was doing with someone else? She is so nosy, she has to know every nook and cranny of it; every nitty, gritty aspect of something that has nothing to do with her. But in the same breath, she also doesn’t want to know anything about it at all, because it sort of makes her feel sick with something like jealousy every time she imagines him with someone else. And that’s nothing, she is ready to confront just yet.
“Do you want me to bring you something for lunch?” He asked, and he meant it; his hand slipped from her mouth to rest back in his lap, “I can bring Niall and Aki something too?”
“You already packed me lunch, though?” Y/N’s gaze flitted to the lunchbox she had buckled to the strap of her purse, “It’d be rude not to eat it. And you sliced my kiwi so nicely.”
Harry sighed, almost dreamily, “You’re the only one who appreciates my doting,” he told her, “Honestly, I haven’t been able to in a while, so it’s nice to take care of someone a bit. Send me pictures of you eating the kiwi.”
“Okayyyy,” she finally popped the latch of the door, “Kiss Muffy’s head for me.”
“Course I will.”
It’s domestic, all of it. So weirdly domestic for such a weird situation, but it just works.
Y/N knew that she should ask more questions. She knew it would be beneficial to have some idea of what was going on, but as nosy as she is about some things, for others, she just didn’t need to know. In a spiritual sense, she wanted to keep the peace in her life as much as she could, given the circumstances. If that meant only knowing vaguely that Finley is just some sketched-out pet food company CEO who does shady shit, then so be it. Because she knows herself, and she knew that if it was deeper than money, or more violent, it would keep her up at night, even with Harry sleeping so nearby. Then she’d just be stressed out about what Harry was getting up to when he wasn’t with her, and if he was safe. Not that the safety of an assassin should be her biggest concern, but it definitely ranks pretty high when said assassin has vowed to keep her safe. And when said assassin makes her stomach feel all flippy floppy, and her heart twists up in erratic, messy knots.
So in her head, he’s just following some people around. He watches from afar and stays relatively safe, free of any bumps or bruises. Nothing she needed to worry about.
He wished her a good day, and she could hear the car idle behind her until she waved her work ID in front of the badge reader. Only when she walked through the security entrance did she hear him actually drive away, as the gruff-looking man behind the desk signed her in. Niall is waiting for her inside by the elevators, and Y/N tilted the straw of her drink toward his mouth before he could whine or ask.
“Yummy,” he sighed after a sip, “Did Daddy get you this?”
“I need you to stop calling him that,” Y/N kept a lot of Harry and hers interactions a secret, once again considering the circumstances they were under, but if she said absolutely nothing about him, then Niall would have gotten suspicious. Harry’s her type, and he’s around a fair amount; not speaking about him screams an omission of guilt about something. Niall wouldn’t know what, but he would know to start probing her, and she can never keep a secret from him for long when he knows that she’s hiding something.
Which is why she started telling him the truth about little, inconsequential things. Like, when it finally clicked in Niall’s head four days after they went clubbing that for Harry to send her to the right club, he would have had to be at the BDSM club to begin with. So she told him, not that Harry was actually there spying on some guy, but that he’d had a previous BDSM relationship and it was something he was interested in. She isn’t technically lying then, is she? She’s just not telling him the entire truth, but to be fair, he didn’t ask, ‘Was Harry spying on a friend of the guy that I set you up on the blind date with?’ he’d asked ‘Wait a minute, what the hell was Harry doing at a sex club?’
Of course, all truths come with the responsibility of dealing with Niall after the fact. He was as floored by this realization as Y/N had been, and demanded to know every single aspect of it. Y/N gave him her limited knowledge of the situation, to which he asked for more, and Y/N had to tell him she sadly only knew that scant amount. “And he barely told me that,” she explained, “I had to go through a lot to get that little bit.”
So, Niall had no choice but to let his mind run wild, and in turn, run Y/N’s mind wild. Thus far, he’s decided that Harry likes being called Daddy, is into tickling, and probably leaves an ass bright red from spanking. He’d also deduced from his limited time spent with him that Harry is great at aftercare, that he can go for hours, and from his catching print efficiency, he’d determined that his dick was big. According to Niall, big enough to “change your life and make you believe in deities you’d never even heard of,” and. . .well, she could buy that.
“How lucky are you that some hot rando from your psych lecture just stumbled upon you with a fat cock and dominant, caretaking tendencies?” He clicked his tongue, “The other day, this guy hit me up on Hinge and said for a blow job, he’d take me out for steak. I should be getting the steak for my beautiful eyes alone.”
Aki appeared like an apparition, stepping into the elevator with them, “You need to find a Daddy like Harry.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“God, guys, shh!” Y/N whined, and she couldn’t necessarily say it was because he had proposed the idea of mic’ing her again so that if she needed him, she wouldn’t even have to bother calling. He would just listen all the time. But Y/N knew who her friends were and what they liked to talk about, so she asked if he’d let her think about it. Which, sure, she told him to hold off on it, but that didn’t mean he had to listen to her. For all she knew, he was hearing everything right now, which is precisely why she needed Aki and Niall to shut up, “You’re going to get another HR case against us.”
Aki pouted, “See, and that one wasn’t even fair, because why were they eavesdropping on our very private conversation?”
“Yeah, it’s like they’ve never seen someone demonstrate the mating press before.”
Despite their grumbling, they both do settle into a different discussion. Aki tries a sip of Y/N’s drink next, and they all whine about how hectic the weeks following this particular album’s release have been. Usually, there’s a little bit of a lull right after release. Everything has been scheduled and ready, so all they needed to do was click some buttons, make a few calls, and let things fall as they do. Hell, they even had Aki making edits to popular shows and movies with singles in the background to generate more hype and encourage more sales. For whatever reason, it just seemed like the entire process was determined to be difficult. Interviews cancelled, radio shows claiming to have never gotten access, Spotify forgetting to send a ‘new album’ alert to monthly listeners. It was one thing after the next, so everyone at work was pretty on edge.
The days were going by quickly, at least, and before she knew it, Harry would be messaging her an hour before she clocked out to let her know that he was there, but to take her time. He really was like the boyfriend that she had read about online, but never got to experience for herself. It was messing with her head a little, but she could admit that it was, which she thinks would benefit her in the long run. To be too delusional and think she didn’t have feelings would make a problem, and to be too delusional and create feelings on his end toward her would also be a problem. As long as she kept these feelings in check and recognized that Harry was doing all of this out of a sense of responsibility and guilt for accidentally tying her up in all of this.
Y/N had begun to wonder recently what her part was in all of this. Was she really just some accidental acquisition? Or had this been something preplanned by people much richer than her, with much more money? Y/N did find it rather weird that the CEO of a company would need a blind date to be set up with someone, especially when he isn’t bad-looking. And yeah, it was a blind date, but was the date ever really that secretive? She knew what he did for work, so she’s certain he knew what she did, and unless he had a sudden interest in music talent marketing, she couldn’t imagine why he’d want to even pretend to give her a chance. Unless there was some ulterior motive. Unless there was someone involved in all of this that she allegedly looked a lot like.
But what would they even use her for? As a stand-in? Had someone really tipped them off the night of the blind date that Harry would be waiting? Or had he ever even planned on showing up to begin with? Maybe he tipped off Harry’s team that he would be there with Antonyia or whoever, then didn’t show up, but see if she was mistaken for the woman? Maybe they would threaten her to pretend to be her, like in a spy movie or something. Y/N leading them on a goose chase through the city, jumping over fences and ducking behind buildings, only for them to catch up and realize that she’s just wearing a wig, and she’s actually someone with much less money and power. Then the real version is flying off on some private jet to the countryside of some remote country, where she’d carry on correspondence from the safety of a farmhouse.
All of it is too much to even try to sort through. She’d like to ask Harry what was going on, his theories and thoughts, what he thinks about the situation that she’s in. . .that they’re in. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Harry is normally so happy and open, but she suspected that this would be the one thing he’s sort of cagey about. And Y/N just cannot bear the thought of making it awkward for even a moment in time, especially when Harry is staying at her flat. If she asks and he, for once, refuses to answer, well, that will just keep her awake for days. Maybe she could ask when he was drunk? Or maybe, one day, he’ll give her an opportunity accidentally, where it would make sense for the conversation to head that direction.
Y/N sighed, digging the pad of her thumb into her temple, “What’s wrong?” Aki asked, already reaching into her purse, “Do you have a headache? Need a pain killer?”
“No,” she shook her head, “Just wondering why it feels stifling in here. Don’t they have industrialized air conditioners?” Y/N already reached behind her computer monitor to reveal her pink, portable fan that was a little loud, but always cooled her off instantly.
“They probably have it rigged so it only pipes cold air to the top of the chain,” Niall added unhelpfully, dangling off the side of their cubicle while Y/N and Aki get settled inside of it. Stringing their purses on the hook, clicking on their computers, and rearranging things in a manner that suited Y/N’s brain more. “We’ll feel like this all day, most likely.”
Y/N did for a moment think about whether she was at home. How Harry would probably offer to routinely switch out cold washcloths on her head or the back of her neck and have all the fans pointed at her. He’d be enforcing her water intake for sure, but she knew he would be the one bringing it to her, even if he was in the middle of working. Harry just liked to do things like that – it was how he showed his care; pampering people with the devotion of a servant with his royal member of the castle.
Maybe it was an act. Maybe it wouldn’t last long, and this was all a ploy to trick her into thinking that he was a good guy (though she believed that was highly unlikely). Y/N doesn’t know; she just knew that she was going to enjoy it for as long as she could.
. . .
“Do you want to get your nails done?”
Y/N looked at her bare nail beds – she couldn’t even remember the last time they had something on them. She used to be pretty good at that, keeping up with them. She’d get just gel sometimes, she’d get acrylics the other, but the price got too high, and she had become far too impatient to sit there for an hour while they did it. No matter how much she liked the results or how pretty and girly they made her feel, at the end of the day, Y/N is lazy and spends too much money on a Gacha game to justify the cost.
But she’d been complaining about how bitten up her nails looked, and how long it’d been since she’d gotten a pedicure. These were conversations that Harry had to get used to while he stayed with her, because some days, even after spending all day with each other, Niall or Aki (or both) would end up on the phone with her for most of the evening too. And usually they’re doing all the whining and complaining that they couldn’t do throughout the day, at risk of creating a “negative work space,” so they do it at home instead.
Y/N offered to get up to leave the room, but Harry assured her it was okay, that she could live as normal without having to worry about him changing her typical routine. And somehow, someway, he’d figured out how she didn’t like getting into her bed with outside clothes on, so before she showers, she usually rots for a little while on the couch. She’ll eat, scroll on her phone, decompress from work, and then finally take her shower, brush her teeth, wash her face, and get ready for bed.
So she’s on the floor while Harry is on the couch – he’d spent all day out too, and had some minor bruises on his knuckles that she’d caught sight of. Y/N had been trying to figure out how to ask about them, but kept choking over the words and bringing something else up instead. She did that about three times before her phone started ringing, and it was Niall and Aki.
They had spoken about a lot of things, just this and that, new tops, Aki bottoming for the first time in like three years, a game that she and Aki had been playing that they’re slowly convincing Niall to start with, Niall’s newest movie hyperfixation, this album they’re excited about, this one edit song that’s made them want to live in 2000s cyberpunk architecture. Aki was showing off her new set of nails, and Y/N gushed over them, how long she gets them, and how cool they were – a deep purple-y red that had jewels glued to the tips. Aki said she’d give her the number to the salon she goes to.
“Ah, I wish, but I can’t defend the cost, y’know, with all the other random shit I buy,” she sighed, “It has to be budgeted into your life because your nails are at least 20% of what makes you, you.”
“True, true.”
“But I think about it sometimes,” she continued, plucking at the hangnail on her pinky, “They’d probably gasp if they saw the state of them now. Hey, Ni, did you –”
To be honest, an hour later, by the end of the conversation, Y/N hadn’t even remembered what they’d talked about. She had just been relieved that neither of them had brought up ‘Daddy’ referring to Harry, and Y/N having to explain herself out of that. When she twisted around so she lay on her side on the floor instead of on her belly, Muffy had been mid-zoomie and slid, then slammed on the hardwood right into Y/N’s body. She laughed, plucking her up by the belly and mocking her big meow to pull her close to her chest.
That’s when Harry asked her if she wanted her nails done. Now she’s wondering if he noticed how eaten up her fingers looked, and he’s about to start encouraging her to drop the money on them. She’s deciding if she should feel offended or not, pouting, “Yikes, do they really look that bad?” She tilted her head to look at him, where his legs are tucked in a criss-cross, his laptop balancing on top of them. His bruised knuckles are in full view when he scratches above his ear, and she wonders if they ached at all, “I mean, I’d like to, but I –”
“No, no, I know, you said you can’t justify the cost, but I can,” he smiled softly, “Just pick a day, and I can pull out some money.”
Y/N’s eyebrows raised, “Oh?” She shook her head, mouth falling open, “Oh, Harry, that’s so sweet, but really, you don’t have to do that! I’m just whining, is all.”
“I insist,” he told her, “I want you to – if that’s something you want to do. See it as me showing my gratitude for letting me stay here.”
“Your gratitude? Harry! I’m not sure you realize it, but you’re staying here to protect me, yeah?”
Harry pouted, “For my peace of mind. It’s not entirely selfless, so I think that helping you get your nails done is in order. Now, either you’ll take the money in cash, or I’ll transfer it into your account, you can pick.”
Y/N scoffed, “Harry, I –”
“I won’t ask it again,” he clicked his tongue, “Choose or I’ll choose for you.”
There’s a curl of something tight in her belly, warm and hot, and it sort of makes her feel like she’s sweating a little. Her heart skips a beat, and she imagines this in a little different context, but immediately almost shakes her head like a dog to throw it out through her ear. She huffed a little breath, opening her mouth to tell him that she won’t accept it in any form, but her phone vibrates on the floor. When she looked at the screen, it was a notification from her bank, 150 quid transferred into her account.
She gasped, shoving herself up from the floor, “Harry! That amount is –”
“Not enough? I can send some more.”
“Too much! Oh my god,” she grabbed her phone, swiping it open, “How did you even –”
“It’s easy when I have your account numbers,” he told her, then shut the lid of his computer. “You should never allow a man in your house without him spending money on you.”
She was frowning, “But I have been letting you. You buy me coffee almost every day before work, you’ve sent me lunch, and you’ve been paying for groceries for the last like week and a half, Harry. Not to mention all the money you’ve spent on gas getting me to and from work.” Y/N looked around for something to throw at him, but came up short, unless she wants to chuck her phone across the room, but she’s trying to make a point, not bruise him.
“And that’s bare minimum necessities. Let me spoil you with something fun.”
“But –”
“Y/N,” his voice is serious, stern, her heart feels like it’s thundering in her chest now, “It’s a done deal, Sweetheart. I’m excited to see what nails you get.”
Y/N sighed a little, pressing the pads of her fingers into her floor and watching them blanch. She’d learned very early on that Harry is hard to deter once he has his mind set on something, especially if it has to do with making her life better. Which is nice, really, she doesn’t think anyone apart from Niall and Aki has had her best interest in mind to this extent. Y/N really could not see any ulterior motive for this with him. He merely wants her to get her nails done on his dime, for whatever reason.
“Well, I’ll. . .I’ll have to get a pedicure too. You sent me too much for just one.”
Harry grinned widely and brightly, showing each dimple. “That’s a good girl,” he praised her, and Y/N’s belly curled hot and tight in a way that is getting very difficult to ignore now. Did he have any idea how he sounded when he said things like that? Did he know how it made her feel? Y/N felt like he was teasing her right now. “Just let me know the day, and I’ll take you.”
That night in bed, after her shower and her skincare, she rolled around helplessly. She hadn’t really been ready for bed yet, but she thought if she spent any more time with Harry in the living room, he’d start trying to buy her a car, so she fled. The reprieve is nice, and just for a moment, there’s a little relief from the intense twisting and fluttering in her chest. But knowing he’s just right down the hall doesn’t do anything to settle her either.
Especially with her and Muffy’s open-door policy, and an overactive (as well as horny) imagination that Y/N has, she just kept imagining him slipping inside. Telling her that he needed to sleep in the same bed with her to keep her extra safe, before wrapping his arms around her body and sneaking his hands into her undies. Or something – she doesn’t know. Maybe she’d have a filthy dream, and he’d hear her, come to her room to make sure she was okay, and find her writhing and rocking her hips into the bundled up blankets on her bed that she stuffs between her legs for hip alignment. Then he’d get hard and have to go back to the couch and touch himself to her breathy, needy sounds or something.
Wow, like, typically, she isn’t this worked up over next to nothing, but she can’t help it. She can’t explain herself either. The air conditioner is working overtime, and the ceiling fan is whipping soundly above her head, creating a mindless hum that she is trying to let lull her to sleep. Goosebumps dot along her arms from where they are outside of the covers, so she stuffed them back beneath them, mindful of the sleeping kitty stretched long ways at her left side. Muffy typically started half of the night with one of them, got up to pee, then ended the night with the other one, like true shared custody. She was thankful to have her warm little body to fall asleep with, but would miss waking up to her purring the following morning.
It’d be easier if Harry just slept in her room with her. . .but that wasn’t a good idea. Y/N wouldn’t even suggest it because she knew he’d say no – he probably wanted to sleep in the living room so he’d be closer to the front door than she was. And she had a suspicion that her safety would nullify any feelings that she had, like wanting the cat to be with her all night without shutting the door.
So she’d have to deal with it for now. It’s for the best anyway – she’d definitely do something embarrassing if she had unremitted nightly access to Harry in her room. And when would she have time to tilt her face into her pillow and squeal quietly? Harry would ask what she was doing right away, because he’s as nosy as she is, and wouldn’t let it slide.
Y/N plucked her phone up from the nightstand, where she had laid it to charge and hopefully to sleep, but went on Pinterest instead. If someone is paying for her nails, she'd better make it count.
. . .
The day starts with her nail appointment.
Well, technically, it doesn’t start like that. It starts with her being at work, but they had a half-day scheduled for them to work on the pipes or something (she didn’t know, and she didn’t care, because a half-day was a half-day no matter what the circumstances were), where she revealed to Niall and Aki that Harry was taking her to get her nails done. She’d mentioned it offhandedly, not even thinking about the reaction she was bound to get when she told them, but she regretted it almost instantly when their twin gasps just about echoed off the cubicle.
Niall, who once again was nowhere near his desk, is sitting on a mini roller chair with his iPad in his lap (he gets his work done well enough that nobody can really complain at him for never sitting where he’s supposed to), grips her arm tightly, “Oh my god,” he squeezed, “From start to finish, how did this happen?”
Y/N laughed a little, realizing her mistake only then, “Ahh, well, it wasn’t anything crazy. I just said I hadn’t gotten my nails done in a while, and so he offered to pay. He wouldn’t necessarily take no as an answer, though.”
“So he’s Sugar Daddy now, instead of just Daddy,” Aki spun back around, holding her chin in her hand. “Wow, I already liked him, but now I really like him. When are you locking him down? Men like that don’t stay single for long.”
Her face felt hot, “It’s not like that,” she told them, “He’s just being nice.”
“Men are never this nice unless they want to get their hands in your pants at least a little bit,” Aki replied immediately, “Or maybe he wants to see your nice manicured nails on his. . .you know. I’d say it, but we have snitches around here that like to start HR cases,” she glared over the top of their cubicle at their coworker pair beside them (Aki refers to them as their evil, prude counterparts, but their names are just Stanley and Holly; they’re both early 40s and Holly definitely reads smut, so they were all a little surprised she didn’t like sex convo), “You ought to ask him if that’s what he wants.”
Even Niall gasped, scandalized, “She can’t just ask, Aki, that’s way too bold!” He turned to look at Y/N again, “I’ll ask for you. Is he coming to pick you up today?”
“I’m not asking, and you’re definitely not asking,” Y/N denied him, “It really isn’t like that, guys, he just owes me one for –” For mistaking me for someone one time? For holding me at knifepoint when he thought I was some bad person, involved with some bad thing? For accidentally getting me entangled in something beyond a measly little music marketing office worker? For going through my messages and internet history and tracking my location for weeks? For sleeping on my sofa to keep me safe, even though he drives me to work and cooks for me? “For helping him embroider this present for his Nan,” she lied through her teeth, wiggling her fingers, “It took a lot of time, and I broke my nails messing with the embroidery hoop, so he felt bad. He thought that I should have them pampered or something.”
“Still,” Niall grabbed Aki's hand, mindlessly plucking at her acrylics, “To pay for your nails is so boyfriend. So,” he lowered his voice, just above a whisper, “Sugar Daddy Dom – if you will. I think you have a chance if you just let him know the feelings are reciprocal.”
Y/N shook her head, “You two are as delusional as I am, so I really can’t trust your take on this.”
Aki peeked her head up over their cubicle wall and looked around before catching the attention of Levi, one of their coworkers. She all but calls him over like a dog, with a click of her tongue and a call of his name, and he trotted over like a dog, too. He had a big crush on Aki, she thinks, and he also may have had something for Niall at some point (or still does). Honestly, Y/N always got the feeling that Levi wanted to bury her under a rock and take her spot as their friend, so it makes sense that he barely looks at her when he dangled over the wall.
“Would you pay for someone’s nails if you didn’t have a crush on them?”
Levi tilted his head, “Uh, no?”
“Perfect, thank you,” Aki grinned, then waved him off, “Talk to you later.”
“Seeeeee,” Niall’s hand was still on her thigh, squeezing, “An undeluded source.”
“Ugh, I don’t know,” she covered her face with her hands, hid in her palms, and groaned, “He’s just really nice, guys, I don’t want to make anything weird.”
Niall rolled closer, slotted their legs together, “You won’t,” he promised, “Just say you want to kiss and see where it goes!”
It sucked not being able to tell them the whole truth. Had they known, then they would have realized why Harry was being as nice as he was to her. Even if they were technically friends now, and shared the same interests, and spent so much time together, Y/N knew that it was mostly tied to a sense of guilt and responsibility. Plus, Y/N has always believed that the more time you spend with someone, the more likely you are to feel attracted to them, and perhaps develop a teeny crush on them. Even if he did find her attractive right now, once the need to be around her disappeared, any sort of desire he might feel for her might disappear too. Like all of the guys and girls in UNI lectures that she’d convinced herself she was in love with, only to forget about them as soon as she passed her exam and walked out the door.
Yeah, the context was a bit different, but humans are all the same when you really think about it.
Still, she tried not to think about it when Harry picked her up because it would put her in a sad mood, and this was not a sad-mood kind of day. This was a good day, a fun day, because the sun was out, but it wasn’t blisteringly warm, and Y/N was about to get her nails done for the first time in a year. When Harry pulled up to get her, he had a milk tea waiting in the car for her (and a Lactaid so it didn’t mess with her stomach too badly), and he had the album she’d been listening to on.
“Hi, Sweetheart,” he all but sang when she crawled into the car, “Have you decided what design you want?”
“Yeah, I think so,” she told him, “But I’m still unsure whether or not I should get acrylics.”
“My vote is yes,” he replied without a beat, “Then you can tap on things ASMR style, I like listening to that.”
At first, when they pulled up to Aki’s regular place, Y/N imagined Harry just dropping her off and coming to get her afterward, but instead, he parked the car and unbuckled.
Y/N’s brows raised, “Oh, you’re coming in?”
“Duhhh,” he pocketed his keys and hopped out of the car, “I love watching nails get done. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No! No, not at all, just – I guess I just wasn’t expecting it,” she waited patiently in her seat, because Harry fussed at her when she didn’t let him open the car door. He looped around the front, tucking his sunglasses up into his hair like a headband to keep his flyaways out of his face. He always dressed like he had a lot of money, Y/N noticed, even his comfy clothes at home were cashmeres and silks. Today, he wore an olive green knitted tank top that made his shoulders look massive, and nice white trousers. She wondered what he’d gotten into today, while she was at work for the brief period of time she was. And felt severely underdressed in her own work clothes, because office-appropriate meant rocking summer camp jorts, and that’s just how life has to be.
Y/N signed in for her appointment, and they got her back right away, since it’s the middle of the day during a work week. There aren’t that many people there, which is a relief. Another big reason she hadn’t been going was that she could only go on the weekend, and there were always about 3000 people who were also there, so it was crowded, took forever, and her whole Saturday was practically gone by the time she was free. This is much better. And they let Harry shack up in the spot beside her, and – like always – Harry did very well in assimilating himself in the space. It was a Vietnamese-owned salon, and apparently, Harry had spent half a year in Vietnam for his father’s work.
This was news to her, so Y/N is as engaged as her nail technician, asking him questions and poking his brain. It’s things like this that make Y/N realize she doesn’t know Harry all that well. Y/N is so intrigued, looking at the photos, listening to him share stories, hearing similar childhood stories from her technician, and Y/N didn’t even notice when they were done with her pedicure. She had collagen socks on, ice cold on her feet that were now lacquered in a pretty, sparkly Boysonberry color.
“Yeah, it was pretty cool.” He told her, “We moved around a lot when I was younger, but that was one of my favorite places to live! I wish we could have stayed longer.”
Y/N stretched her toes when the socks were pulled off, “Have you gone back since?”
“Yeah,” he grinned, nodding, “A couple of years ago! I stayed for a month after a pretty bad breakup. I was just hopping from country to country for a while. I said it was to 'rediscover myself, ' but really I just didn’t want to face my friends and family afterward.”
The nail tech, Tracy, asked the question Y/N probably would have been scared out of, “Why was it so bad?” It was the sort of question that only older women could get away with asking (or maybe Niall). Y/N wanted to know desperately, though, so she didn’t say anything to stop him from sharing. She just stared at him with big eyes, waiting for him to tell them.
Harry’s face gets a little rosy. “Ahhh,” he started, awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck while she slid the foam flip-flops onto her feet for her to waddle over to the manicure chair, “Well, that’s the thing – we were going to be engaged.”
Y/N gasped – she couldn’t help herself – and Tracy gave her a look that said Girl, do not ruin this, he’s about to divulge secrets, be chill. So after the gasp, Y/N attempted to stay chill, once again quietly listening, which was – in itself – a prompt to continue again. Harry is a very open person, about all things (besides the obvious), and Y/N thinks it’s one of the reasons people begin to favor him so quickly. It feels like you know him before you ever truly do, because he answers openly and honestly, no matter the question being thrown at him.
That being said, this is the first time that Y/N has ever witnessed him seem hesitant to share a story. She wondered if it still hurt him, or if he was embarrassed by what happened. Oh god, had he cheated? Was he a bad guy? Finding out like this would totally blow. Morally, Y/N could not be developing a crush on a cheater.
“I mean, it’s sort of a long story, but like a Cliff Notes version? Basically, I had bought the ring, told everyone I was going to propose, and went on vacation with our families to Fiji, hired a photographer. . .all of the things. I’m pretty sure someone had already ruined the surprise and told her my plan with everything,” he motioned his hand around in the air. “She’d been crazy giddy for the entire trip. More giddy than normal, and I had even caught her looking at wedding dressers over her shoulder one evening. But when it came time to drop on one knee I. . .y’know. I just couldn’t do it,” Y/N held in another gasp, but her eyes went wide. Harry scrunched his face a little, a small, pitying smile, and a shrug of his shoulders, “It just felt like I couldn’t be my true self with her, y’know? Not to be crass, but like. . .I couldn’t burp, toot, have morning breath, or be in a bad mood. And I wasn’t necessarily honest about some aspects of my job, you know. . .I used to have to travel a lot for it, but she wouldn’t have been able to come along—things like that. So I didn’t get on one knee, and like – I actually broke up with her right then, which if I could go back, I would do that differently. She smacked me, ran off, and then. . .well, yeah, so did I. I booked a flight home and moved out all my things, then booked another flight to Vietnam.”
Y/N didn’t know what to say. She could barely wrap her head around it, so he broke up with her because he couldn’t be himself? Or he called it off because he hadn’t been honest about the whole hitman thing? Was it both? Or was he just really not ready to commit yet?
“Wow, that’s. . .” Y/N nodded, “That’s heavy.”
“Yeahhhhh, but you know, it was for the best. She’s much happier now, with a bloke who took her to Maui and proposed to her by the seaside. We’ve since reconciled, as much as we could have, all things considered. I deserved her tearing into me, and she really tore me a new one, and then a new one, inside of the new one. But yeah, there’s my story.”
Tracy clicked her tongue. “Crazy,” is what she offered, nodding her head toward Y/N, “What about you? Any stories?”
Y/N startled, “Oh, um – I’m not sure, all of my exes kind of sucked.” But you don’t really have to pay her to go on a tirade about a couple of them, namely her last serious-ish relationship. It was around the time Harry was fleeing Fiji, Y/N was getting cheated on by a situationship turned boyfriend because he’d gotten jealous she was talking to other guys. At least, she’d thought that he was her boyfriend, but she soon learned that he actually wanted to siphon his emotional needs off her while barely putting in any effort on his end, and continuing what their “original arrangement” was. Only this time, he gets to fuck whoever he wants, and Y/N is left in the dark, thinking nothing of it.
She hated him for it, and unlike Harry, there was no reconciliation that they faced together down the line. Y/N actually had decided that if she ran into him in public, she would have no choice but to swing at him on sight.
Harry seemed horrified by her story, “What a dickhead,” he tapped Y/N’s phone screen for Tracy so that the image of her nail design wouldn’t disappear, “If we ever run into him in public, let me know, and I’ll swing on him.”
It makes Y/N laugh. They move on from exes and start talking about a new movie that’s supposed to come out, and sort of make plans on seeing it together. By the end of it, Y/N has a nice, pretty set of acrylics that look like jelly and a big smile on her face while she clicks them against the table. Harry praised Tracy’s work, complimenting something about her technique, and then slid her a tip (at the front desk, it said they preferred cash). Y/N hadn’t seen how much it was, but she knew it was enough to make Tracy grin widely and thank them profusely, so that was nice.
She walked them to the front, but when Y/N reached into her purse to grab her card, Harry all but hip checks her out of the way with his card already pulled out and shoved in the reader.
“Wha–hey! Harry, I –”
“Hm? What?” Harry looked around, then to Tracy, “Do you hear something?”
Y/N scoffed, “Harry, I have the money!”
“You can’t tell me a story about your shitty ex and expect me to let you swipe your card,” he typed his code into the PIN pad and removed the card when the reader started alarming at him, “Use that money for something else.”
Y/N huffed again, but ultimately, it was too late. She didn’t know Harry’s information to send him the money back, so it was going to sit in her account until she used it. Maybe she could use it on him or something? Would she be able to beat him in ordering them dinner? Or buying them drinks?
It just feels wrong, like she takes, and takes, and takes from him. Even if he’s okay with that, there’s still a guilty welt that sits in her chest that she won’t be able to shake unless he lets her do something for him. She’s unused to this unremitted selflessness, even if it’s because he’s feeling guilty. Nobody had ever tried to take care of her to this extent before, so she’s unsure what to do with it.
Harry looped his arm around her shoulder and guided her out of the salon, humming, “C’mon, let’s look at them in the light.”
They are very pretty, inside under the regular lighting, but even more so when they glitter in the sun. Harry gushed at them, even slotted their fingers together so that he could flip her hand over and move them how he wanted to let the light catch them. His hands are a little rough, still slightly bruised around his knuckles, and parts of his hands are calloused. “How does it feel, hm? Do they hurt?”
“No, not – not too badly,” she kept hold of his hand – did hers feel soft to him? Y/N felt sort of dainty with him holding her, which is a way she has never felt before, really. Even when she wears dainty jewelry or dainty shoes, she’s always felt more like a bull surrounded by blown glass rather than a gazelle carefully maneuvering through a room of ceramic. But Harry, all broad, roughed, bruised hands, and she thinks if she sat between his legs, he could crush her between them – he makes her feel all soft and cute. “They’re pretty?”
“They’re gorgeous,” he squeezed her hand, kept a hold of it as he led her back to the car, “But it’s hard for anything not to look gorgeous on you.”
Y/N rumpled her lips, “Okay, okay, wrap it up,” she wiggled his hand off, listening to him giggle when he popped open the door, “Sweet talker.”
“This sweet talker is starving, baby,” he murmured, “Do you want to get something to eat?”
They end up staying out all day. It was around 2 PM when they got out of the nail salon, so they went for a late lunch. Harry chose a Mediterranean place that he said she had to try, and Y/N trusted him, so she went along with it. Y/N was starving, so she’s happy that it isn’t technically a sit-down with a waiter kind of place, and more of an order at the counter and they’ll bring the food to you kind of place. Harry ordered first so that she knew what to do, but she had her card in a tight grip and used all of her force to slam Harry out of the way to Tap-to-Pay. Does he barely budge? Yes, but he’s startled enough by it happening that Y/N is able to pay.
The man at the cashier let out a startled laugh, along with Harry, who soon complained with a big whine, “Heyyy –”
“I don’t want to hear it.” Y/N cut him off quickly. It was nowhere near the price of her nails, but it was something at least, and it made her feel better.
The food is good, and Harry told her about this new craft store that opened up about twenty minutes away, so after they eat (she does try some of Harry’s food out of his basket, but not without asking – and a sip of his drink, which is very Niall/Aki/Y/N behavior, but Harry seemed okay with it), they head there. It’s new enough that it’s pretty crowded, so she sticks to Harry’s side like he’d glued her there, and he is happy with that. He actually told her a couple of times not to stray too far from him.
Then, after the craft store, they piddle around at different shops in the area. They get ice cream and decide to walk through a park nearby, and Y/N is thinking about how good of a day she’s been having. Spending time with Harry is always quite fun, but she could admit that being spoiled was pretty fun too. She liked how he kept close to her, a hand on her shoulder or at her waist, maybe even her lower back as he guided her around. The sun was starting to get lower in the sky, so she knew they would go home soon, but there was joy in knowing that they could still spend time together. Not at any point in his stay with her had she been annoyed or wanted to not see him, which was nice. But it also meant she was going to be really sad when he finally did have to leave. The flat was going to seem very empty. . .Muffy would probably be pretty upset, too.
Everything is good and normal until it isn’t.
There’s a shift in Harry from one moment to the next. They’d been walking around the newly planted flowerbeds, idly talking about the glow bugs that would pretty soon start lighting up the open fields closer to late Spring. Y/N had been reminiscing about catching them in her hands and letting them crawl around over the creases of her palms and the dips of her fingers, when Harry’s phone vibrated in his pocket. The first one he ignores, but the second and third happen in rapid succession. When he slid it from his jeans, he read over the messages, and it suddenly wasn’t a lighthearted, fun little walk anymore.
Harry quietly took hold of her wrist with his free hand, “Come on, baby.” Her eyes widened at the pet name, startled by the sudden use of it, “Let’s go back to the car.”
“Oh? Yeah, okay,” she agreed, her eyes started to dart around – what had he seen? With a lowered voice, she asked, “Is. . .is everything okay?”
He’s silent for a moment, apart from a soft hum that was neither a reassurance nor a denial. The grip on his wrist is firm – it isn’t too tight, but it’s still the sort of grip that lets her know it was pretty serious. Y/N’s heart is starting to thud against her sternum, a prickle along the back of her neck, and the sort of empty, “losing feeling” thing her thighs do when she starts to feel scared. There is this sort of fight or flight tingle that starts to knock around her cells, but Harry had already chosen flight for them.
The car is nearby at least, and Harry opened her door, then buckled her in, which was also new, “I’m going to need you to stay in the car, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Y/N’s eyes go wider, “Wait, what? Don’t – no, don’t leave me alone!”
“I have to, Sweet Girl, but it will only be a minute.” He shut her door, then wrapped around the car, went to the front seat, and clicked open the bottom half of the seat as he had told her it did. Y/N’s eyes widen when she sees what’s there – most of it is covered and in cases, but he pulled a gun out, and a shocked sound escaped her throat, “Ah, fuck, I was hoping I could at least show you how to hold a gun if you needed to, but –”
“What? Harry, what the fuck!”
“I know, I don’t have time to explain, okay. I’m leaving the keys with you. Don’t unlock this door for anyone but me, okay?”
Y/N hated how whiny her voice sounded when she spoke again, but she couldn’t help it, she was freaked the fuck out! “Harry, I’m scared, I –”
“I know, I’ll explain everything when I come back, okay? I’m so sorry, I really – I have to go, I’ll be only a second.”
He clicked a button on his door, shut the door, and then jogged off back into the park. Harry followed the pavement to a trail that led into the wooded area before disappearing from her sight entirely. Y/N doesn’t like this; she really, really doesn’t, and she hates how hopeless she feels just sitting here. Y/N checked her phone, but she isn’t sure what for. Her heart is racing, and she’s looking around. As soon as the car door had been closed, the silence in the car was deafening; he hadn’t even turned it on. She can hear her blood roaring in her ears, her lip threatening to tremble – this is fucked up! What had he seen? Or, what had been sent to him? Why did he rush her off like that? Y/N hadn’t noticed anything sketchy – fuck, they were the only ones in the park! What could have happened? Was someone following them?
Y/N does wait. She waited, and she waited, and she waited, until her stomach felt sick, and she couldn’t wait anymore. It was stupid to get out of the car, she knew that, but she at least reached over and lifted Harry’s seat. Her hands were trembling as she reached toward the bags, carefully peeling them open and reaching in. She finds a taser, which she has a very loose understanding of how to use, but she knows better a taser than a gun, and wielding a knife just doesn’t seem smart.
She needed to stay in the car. Y/N needed to be smart, wait patiently, as she’s meant to, because if Harry’s okay in there, he’s going to be so pissed at her for coming out to find him. But that’s only if he’s okay. If he isn’t okay, then he might be happy that she came to see what was taking him so long. She’d just never been good at being a sitting duck; if he wanted her to stay put, then he probably should have tied her up or knocked her out, she doesn’t know. There was just no way she was going to sit and wait in the car any longer.
The park is eerie now, under these circumstances. Before it smelled like spring, the air was nice, and Y/N was just thinking about how beautiful the world is. Now it feels like she’d been plucked out of whatever romantic comedy film she’d been in, and into the horror movie this was turning out to be. She’d always had light footsteps, which had never benefited her (unless she was sneaking to the kitchen late at night for sweets when she was younger, but this is her adult life) until right now. She swallowed thickly and walked briskly until she disappeared behind the tree line and strained her ears to hear something.
There were low, murmuring voices coming from the left, she thinks. Y/N was no Eagle Scout, but she could tell where sound was coming from, and there was still just enough light from the setting sun to make out where she was going. The further she went in, the louder the voices were, and when she picked up on Harry’s, there was a tiny little part of her that settled. His voice sounded clear, not like he’d been getting his ass beat or anything, and really, that should have probably calmed her down enough to go back to the car.
But she pushed forward, listened closely, though she could only make out a few words here and there, beyond the shuffle and shifting. There were two other voices that she didn’t recognize. She squinted until she could sort of see them coming into view.
“. . .lucky that we didn’t. . .”
They’re barely talking above a whisper, which is the problem. Or, Y/N guesses that makes more sense than in movies where everyone is speaking at top volume when they’re in public about to kill someone in an alleyway. This was a public park, and while not a well-trafficked one, there were still enough people coming through to be careful.
“Fucker,” there’s a spitting sound, “Mind your fucking business –”
“No, I think you need to mind yours,” Y/N could hear better, pressed her body against the bark of a tree, one palm against the trunk, and then her cheek against her knuckles, “You’re fucking stupid to follow her.”
There’s a scoff from the other end – Y/N can’t see them well, but she thinks if she stepped out anymore, she’d definitely be in view of them, “What, are you mad that your bitch is involved now?”
Y/N grimaced when she heard the crack of what she imagined was a fist meeting a body part, the huff of air leaving someone’s lungs. More scuffling sounds, while her heart is still doing flips, taking her stomach along for the ride. There’s a sweat building at the back of her nape – she’d never really been around anything violent before, and the sounds are horrible.
“Fuck, okay, okay, let up, man, shit,” the man spoke again – “S’not. . .it’s like I said before, I’m just following orders. I don’t know what they’re planning.”
She swallowed thickly, still trying to catch her breath. Y/N lulled her tongue over her mouth, her lips feeling dry and cracked as the wind started to pick up, rustling the leaves surrounding them. Her mind was at least a little at ease now that she knew Harry was okay. It was also a little tied in knots because, from her eavesdropping, she’s just found out this guy has been following her. Has it been for a while now? Or just today? How did Harry find out? And who was with Harry beating this guy up? The aforementioned Adam? Or someone else he worked with.
There’s another thud, like a body hitting the ground, and a low groan, “Will you take care of him?” Harry sighed, “We need to get back to the car.”
Y/N mouths ‘fuck’ to herself before pivoting on her heel. Would she be able to make it back to the car without Harry seeing her? Stupid idiot, she should have left as soon as she realized that he was okay! Now he’s going to know she chased after him, because there’s no way she’s going to be able to maneuver these trees, get to the path, and get back to the car without him noticing at all. Her heart is racing for a whole different reason now, as she tries to avoid any twigs or leaves that would crunch beneath her feet. She’s lucky it wasn’t autumn, or else every single step would’ve echoed like a plate shattering in a silent room.
Still, she was out of breath, panting as soon as her feet hit the actual pavement. It’s only when she’s out of the treeline that she realizes Harry said We need to get back to the car, instead of I need to get back to the car.
“Y/N,” Harry’s voice emerges from behind her, and startles her so bad, she thinks if she needed to pee, it would’ve been down her leg by now. His tone is nowhere near the silly, softhearted one he usually gives her. “I thought I told you to wait in the car?”
Slowly does she turn around to face him. The image is shocking, to say the least – the cute knitted top was spared, but his fist was covered in blood that wasn’t his own. There’s a smear of dirt and something dark on his bottoms too, near the cuff on the left side. She’d never seen Harry like this before – whatever he was getting up to during the day, he’d always been relatively cleaned up before he came to get her from work. All dimpled smiles and fresh clothes, with cuts and bruises lining his knuckles. If someone asks about them in public (namely, the sweet old women he bewitches into loving him at all their regular stores), he tells them that he boxes in his free time and his gloves aren’t very good.
And sure, he kind of does box in his free time, only it’s someone’s face, not a bag of cut-up textiles and rubber mulch. Her brain is swimming, slurring around as she tries to make sense of this. The sinking sun leaves shadows all over, dancing across her pupils, obscuring her view, and confusing her further.
Harry looked down at himself, his brows raised like he hadn’t realized there was blood on his fist, on his arm, up to his elbow like he’d really hit the guy hard. He looked back up at her, gaze much softer, “Baby, are you scared?”
Was she scared? Y/N is really confused. She’s frightened that someone was following her, yeah, and Y/N wondered how long that had been happening. The fact that someone could be trailing behind, and she didn’t have even an inkling of an idea, made her insides twist uncomfortably. There’s room to go down a rabbit hole of panic-inducing thoughts about how many times she could have been followed, but she has to wipe that away. What was scarier was that someone wanted her for something, but she wasn’t sure what it was. That guy didn’t even know, or at least he said he didn’t. Did Harry know?
And the other scary thing. . .the elephant in the room (or in the park, she guesses). Harry had only ever been fun-loving and silly after the mess of their first meeting. That night, he had truly scared her, with a knife to her throat and a threat in her ear, but as soon as he realized she was telling the truth, he was all giggles and apologetic smiles. Even at his freakiest, when she knew he was tapped into her phone and probably stalking her every move to make sure she didn’t go to the police station, she wasn’t that afraid of him. It was hard to be when he went to bowling parties for his niece, liked to embroider, and sweet-talked Gladys at the fruit tea place, when he was always so gentle with her, and sweet, calm, and patient.
To hear that serious, stone-cold, threatening tone again was scary, yeah. To hear him beat that guy up was scary. But could she really fault him for any of that? This was his job, she knew what it was, even though he tried to keep her as separate from it as he could. But she knows what he does – she’s known. Seeing it in person is just a different thing entirely.
The thing was, too, that he was in this predicament, with this particular man, because he was protecting her. At least that’s what she’d gathered from the limited amount of conversation she’d heard.
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of wet towelettes – the same ones he used to wipe her hands when she’d gotten ice cream all over them. He runs them over his knuckles and up his arm, a hasty clean up, though there was very little he could do about his bottoms. Harry pockets the messy napkin, tucked away out of sight, like the gun that she has no idea where he put it.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N’s voice sounds hoarse, like she hadn’t spoken for hours when it’d only been just a few minutes, “I’m – ah. . .I’m really sorry, I just. . .I got worried and –”
“No, I’m sorry,” he rushed forward, using his cleaner hand to turn her, pivoting them in the direction of the car, “C’mon, baby, let's get you home. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
Technically, it’s Y/N’s fault that she saw it, but she doesn’t fight him on the semantics. She just lets him guide her to the car, still with great haste, but less urgent and scary than before. He takes the keys from her (that she’d stuffed in her jort pockets, knowing they’d be way harder to grab), then takes her to her seat, buckles her in again, and shuts the door. When he pops open his seat again, he reveals that the gun had been tucked in his waistband before he carefully deposits it back in its proper bag. Y/N is suddenly re-aware of the taser she’d shoved in her cardigan.
“Oh, I –” she pulled it back out before he could close up his seat, “I took this. Just in case.”
Harry’s eyes lit up, surprised, and a soft smile graced his mouth, “Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise stroked something inside of her that longs to be petted and patted. Especially when she thought he was going to lay into her – which is still an option, probably, but at least not right now.
Before he got in, he did a quick sweep, it seemed. Y/N isn’t sure what he’s searching for, but he checks the little pockets, nooks, and crannies of the outside like he’s searching for something. He seemed pleased when he came up short, with a little nod. He crawled into the car, started it up, and immediately pulled them out of the parking lot. There were no other cars there at all, besides a random bike and the owner of it sitting on a bench with his dog and a coffee cup. Y/N wondered if he was sketchy too, but he didn’t even look up when they were driving off (she knew this because she stared at him through the rearview the entire time, now swallowed with paranoia).
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to drive us around for a while, okay? Just to make sure nobody is following us. I’ll explain what’s going on while we do, okay?”
She swallowed hard again, “Yeah,” she agreed, “That sounds good.”
. . .
They drive for an hour.
Y/N is unsure where they all go; she just knows that he’s taking roads and ways that she’d never been before herself. Once they leave the more city area, she gets lost in the roads that make up the suburbs, but she guesses that’s for the best. It’d be more obvious if someone were following them on roads where there were only a few cars in each lane, rather than the near-constant influx and flow of taxis, SUVs, and sedans downtown. The trees are really flourishing here; there are long roads where there are only trees on either side of them, and houses hidden at the end of paths and trails that start from the road and disappear inward. The silence out here is more eerie than it is comforting, and for that reason, Y/N is glad that Harry is not only talking, but has music playing very low in the background, just as some additional noise.
How he explains it is that when Harry is unable to put his full focus on monitoring their surroundings and/or is in a situation where he can’t really “work” to the extent that he needs to (i.e. fucking around with her all day instead of high-speed chases and gun fights, or whatever it is that he does) – he has Adam cover some of the slack. Adam is someone he works for/with, so he trusts him wholeheartedly. Harry explained to her some high-tech software that they utilize, but most of it goes over her head, so the long and short of it was that there was an unregistered vehicle that had been flagged once at the nail place, which wasn’t too concerning, but once again, in a gravel parking lot adjacent to the one she and Harry were in, on the opposite side of the wooded area he’d been hidden in.
So Adam messaged Harry, snuck into the woods, and. . .well, yeah – they beat the guy’s ass but didn’t get much out of him.
“Ugh, I really try to keep you out of most of it,” he tells her, “Because I don’t want you to worry about anything or think too deeply about shit, but now that you’re like, pretty much directly involved, I feel like you have a right to know more.” He combed his hair from his face, shaking it out, “Finley, the pet food guy? The whole pet food thing is a pretty big rouse – I mean, he definitely does sell it, but it’s shit quality, and full of fillers and severely limited in nutrients, like it’s seriously worse than –”
“Harry.”
“Right, sorry,” he got back on track, “Basically, there’s a lot of drug and gun trafficking going on – real sick shit, y’know? It’s not a big ring, by any means, he’s no cartel, but it’s polluted enough of the city that government officials started to take note of it. And with a relatively sharp and random increase in crime rates, it looks bad on them, is bad for funding, things like that.” He waved his hand around, “A ton of legal B.S. gets involved when you’re trying to take something like this down, even at a small scale, so sometimes it’s easier to hire out, y’know? Which is where my, uh. . . “company” comes in. Adam and I have been following this for a very, very long time. The night you were meant to have your blind date, he was supposed to meet up with Antonyia.” He took another turn, through a little town area with grocery stores, fast food, and sit-down restaurants, different furniture stores, and chains. It’s bright, and there are a lot of people.
“Antonyia, we believe, has connections to his seller. You know, when you hire an exterminator for bugs whose main diet is other bugs? You have to get rid of the bugs that are being eaten, as well as the bugs that are overrunning your house. Take away their food source, and then they don’t come back, y’know? We could get rid of Finley, sure, but then they’d distribute to another stupid bloke that’s hungry for a power trip. And we could get rid of them, but then there’d be another, again, and again, and again – so we need to take out their food. Right? Was that a good metaphor or was it shit?”
Y/N giggled a little, “No, it’s good, I understand what you’re saying, I’m pretty sure,” she scratched her thigh around the bottom of the jorts, which went from being more comfortable than itty bitty shorts digging into her crotch, to being just as irritating. Y/N thinks she just can’t stand denim against her skin, honestly, “So you were hired by the government to do illegal shit like kidnapping and. . .I’m guessing like violence or whatnot?”
“Yeahh, pretty much. So we find out who they are, where they are, tell who needs to know, they get the FBI involved, blah, blah, blah. All that. I couldn’t have you telling the police what you saw, though, because it would’ve put a huge wrench in everything. This is all a very ‘need to know’ kind of situation. I think their chief might be aware, but nobody else in the precinct.”
Y/N’s mouth feels dry – she wishes she had water or something, “So what does this have to do with me?”
Harry heaved a hefty sigh, “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he almost whined a little, shaking his head, “I reckon he really just wants to use you, to trick us, not knowing that we know you are not Antonyia. Like, I think he wants you as a body double to fool us while they sneak her somewhere. She’s still in town, though. All the calls he makes to her come from a 40-mile radius of us, but they ping and bounce off the cell towers, so we can’t pinpoint her for sure. It’s seriously annoying. Anyway,” he glanced at her, and she was already staring at him, so of course she noticed, “I know this is all upsetting, and scary, and you deserved to know more about what was going on even before someone started following you. But baby, seriously – if I tell you to stay in the car, I really need you to, okay? If there was someone else with him. . .if they had gotten to you before you’d found me, I just. . . I can’t even stomach thinking about it. I need you to listen to me, yeah? I need you to trust me.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” she reached up, pressing her knuckles into her eyes, and was reminded by the poke of her nails that she got them done today, “I was so nervous, and I was worried that you were in there by yourself, like – like getting your ass beat or something. I knew I wouldn’t be of great help, but I thought I could be like. . .at least a distraction so you could get the jump on them.”
Harry laughed, and with one hand, reached over and squeezed her bare knee, “I don’t know if I should be touched that you would’ve put yourself in danger for me, or offended that you think I’d get my ass beat.”
They drive around for a little over an hour and a half in total before Harry feels comfortable taking her home. Y/N doesn’t ask what Adam is going to do with the man who was following her, because she doesn’t know if she actually wants to know (she’s okay with being in the dark about some things, actually). Her brain is so overstuffed with everything that she can barely wrap her head around all of it, but having a clearer picture of what’s going on does sort of make her feel better. She thinks it does, at least. She isn’t really sure.
Harry parks the car, he hops out first, and rounds the car to get her again. He opens the door and holds his hand for her to take when she climbs out, then follows behind her so closely she might as well be standing on his feet and letting him walk her. She gets it, though, and honestly, she appreciates it. It feels like he’s shielding her from the public eye, and that relaxes her a little. He ushers her inside, escorting her like a bodyguard, and at this point, she doesn’t know how she could think of his role as anything but that. He is her bodyguard, keeping her safe.
Once they get to her flat, Y/N goes in the shower immediately. She had to get these jorts off her body before she had a panic attack, so she wriggled out of them and turned the water scorching, let it pelt hot at her skin. It was weird – the day had felt like 2-in-1. Maybe even 3 – the fact that she had just been at work doing her normal job, giggling with Niall and Aki in her cubicle, not even 10 hours ago, was sort of insane.
Y/N scrubs the day off, soaks in one of her nice oils, and lets it seep into her skin before she washes it off. By the time there’s a knock on the door, Y/N had just been sort of standing underneath the spray for a little bit with her eyes closed. “Um, yes? Come in.” She called out, peeking an eye open to make sure that, for whatever reason, she wasn’t showering with the curtain pulled wide open.
“Sorry, I don’t want to bother you,” Harry began, “But I warmed up a towel in the dryer for you. I can just leave it on the counter?”
“Oh! Wow, thank you, yeah, you can just leave it on the counter, I’m getting out of here in a second. Then you can have one,” she grimaced, “I guess I should have offered you the shower first since you – y’know – and the blood.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he clicked his tongue, “Enjoy your shower, yeah? You deserve it.”
Y/N hardly thinks she deserves it, but she appreciates him. Still, shortly after he closes the door, she gets out – steam has filled up the room and is even lifting off her damp skin while she curls the warm, fluffy towel around her body. It’s so nice, and almost immediately soothes away the goosebumps that are dotting all along her skin. How his brain works is a mystery to her – he’d just done this to be sweet? Y/N knows she should stop comparing him to past boyfriends, but she just really can’t think of any of them who treated her nearly as sweetly as he has. And she was putting out with them.
After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she shuffles to her room to get dressed for bed, while Harry slips into the bathroom behind her. The washing machine was going, so she imagined he was running his pants through a cycle. Muffy toddles into her room, jumps onto her bed, and waits patiently on Y/N’s pillow because she knows it's almost time for sleep.
But Y/N knew she’d be restless, no matter how many stops she pulled out. She could spray her lavender scented room mist, read her favorite fanfics until her eyes grew heavy, or scroll mindlessly on an app for hours, but she knew that her brain wouldn’t shut off. Even after a hot shower, underneath her blankets with her fan whipping above her, and her kitten snuggled warm against her belly – Y/N’s body is exhausted, but her mind is absolutely wired. She could probably stay up for hours and rattle on about anything.
For a while, she just listens to Harry bop around her flat. After his shower, he typically gets dressed in the bathroom and comes out smelling like his body wash and lotion. He’ll get a glass of water and drink it in one sitting, go to her door and make sure it’s all locked before securing it with three mobile locking mechanisms. He does the same for her windows, only he just reinforces their locks with one single mechanism beyond their usual. Y/N can hear him pull the blankets out of the basket she keeps them in, in the living room, and then she can hear him get on the couch too.
“Harry!” She calls out to him without thinking, and can hear him pause in his routine.
“Yeah? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” she reassured him, “Could you – do you think you could come in here?”
Harry appeared at her doorway in a little under five seconds, face drawn into a concerned pout with a soft tilt of his head, “What do you need, hm? Is it too cold? I can adjust the thermostat.” He must be referring to how she’s completely bundled up to her neck, the blankets and sheets hiding all of her body besides her head.
That’s not her issue, though – she’s actually nice and warm under her blankets.
“Do you think. . .” Y/N shuffled a little, “Do you think you could maybe sleep in here tonight?”
Harry’s gaze was already soft, and yet, it somehow softens even more, “Of course, baby,” he murmurs, “Do you want me to make a pallet on the floor?”
She shook her head, “You can just get in the bed,” she told him, “I don’t mind. Besides, I hardly think the couch has been good for your back.”
He laughed. He was in briefs, and he had some random shirt on that looked big and worn, the print on the front so faded she couldn’t make out any of it. His fabric softener smells so good, though, when he peels back the blankets and crawls in with her (Y/N thinks he usually sleeps shirtless, because sometimes she’ll go out in the living room and he’ll have pulled it off in the night, in a bundle on the back of the couch). There’s a flush of cold air that zips beneath her covers as he sets his phone on the nightstand, before he stretches out his legs and lies on her other pillow, and tucks them both back in. But still, even at his most “comfortable-looking”, after he pulled the blanket over his body, she could tell that there were all of two centimeters between him and the other end of the bed.
Harry looked over to her, then startled at the fact that she was glaring – eyes narrowed and lips in a frown.
“What, do I stink? Why are you all the way over there?”
“Well, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable so – oh!” Y/N wrapped her fingers around his arm, digging the new nails into his biceps a little and tugging until he got the hint and started to shuffle over to her. They’re still a little sore after getting done, but not as bad as they had been before. Harry had her take a paracetamol when they got home anyway, because she’d been complaining about a little headache, and it had alleviated it a bit.
“If I were uncomfortable, I would’ve told you to make the pallet on the floor,” she reassured him. They were much closer now; Y/N was on her side, and Muffy was still nestled up against her belly, but she was really the only thing stopping them from being pressed right up against each other. Y/N hadn’t shared a bed with someone in a very long time, now that she thinks about it. The additional weight on the mattress and the shared body heat were even more reassuring to her than she’d imagined when she suggested it.
Harry makes a soft noise in his throat, a small shiver rattles through him in the way it always does when you crawl under warm blankets after being in a cold room. And then she watches him physically melt into the mattress, with one big deep breath, sinking into the cushions around him. He even tilted his nose down a little, pressing the tip into her comforter and taking a big, deep breath in.
“This is nice,” he told her, his head turned to the side so that he could look at her. Y/N wasn’t even trying to be secretive about staring at him – she had no energy to, “Your room smells so good. Same with your sheets. And, wow, this bed is really soft too.”
“Thank you,” she replied, then realized her hand was still gripping his bicep. She lets go, but she does skim the tip of her index nail along where she knew the boat tattoo was, looping a little design, “And thank you for protecting me today. And everything else.”
Harry stretches his other hand over to her and slips his fingers into the slots between hers, “Don’t thank me for something like that. Protecting you is a given.” He squeezed softly, “I’m sorry for scaring you, and I’m sorry for what you heard and saw, Bunny.” Bunny – that’s new. Y/N likes it more than she probably should. “And all on the day you got these pretty nails? I’m so irritated.”
“Noo, don’t, it’s – it’s okay. I mean, aside from all of that, I had a really good day with you,” she’s being maybe too honest right now, but she doesn’t care. Harry being in her room, in her bed, makes her feel warm, safe, and all too cozy. She went from a wired, overexcitable brain to something softer and quieter. Something way closer to sleep than she thought she’d be able to get tonight. “I always have a good day with you.”
Her eyes were closed – she doesn’t remember closing them, but she knows that she doesn’t see Harry smile, but she can hear it in his voice when he replies, with their fingers still locked together.
“That makes me happy, Bunny,” he tells her, “I’m so glad.”
. . .
Y/N is a snuggly little thing.
Harry had his suspicions. He saw how she was with Niall and Aki at the club, how she was always slouching and snuggled close to someone’s side. Or in the way she melted into him when they were at the sex club, when he looped around her back and made her pretend to be his kitten. She was gentle and sweet, prone to turning soft as putty and mold along whoever was at her side. There had been a few times on the couch, even, just sitting side by side, that he could tell she wanted to rest against him in some way. She was someone who thrived on contact, and Harry always thought people like that were so cute. How adorable of the human body to love being pressed against another warm being, feeling dopamine and comfort from just their presence close to their skin.
So, Harry had felt self-denying by not cuddling with her a ton, but he also didn’t want to overstep an unspoken boundary. He hardly thought he was Niall and Aki's status, who were able to receive these cuddles with next to no warning or forethought. It’s why he never really took the chance to pull her in close without permission.
But she’d been scared today. The beginning of it had started so nicely, only to sour toward the end, and he knew her head was filled with confusion and a little distress. He isn’t sure how much she saw or heard of him talking to the fuck that was following them, but it was enough to have her shaken up at the sight of him. Enough that, when he saw her face, any form of scolding for leaving the car had faltered from his mouth. She’d seemed startled stiff and unmoving – like a poor bunny that was caught off guard eating clovers in the forest or someone’s front yard, unsuspecting.
Had she not asked him to share her bed, he probably would have slept outside her door anyway. He’d been getting on the couch afterward, but something was unsettled in his bones. Harry needed to be closer, for his own peace of mind. He wanted her within an arm’s reach, but he’d been willing to settle for being a meter away.
So it really wasn’t a problem for him to share the bed with her. And as soon as she fell asleep, it was like her body was a magnet to whoever was nearby. Muffy readjusted, going near their heads and getting comfortable on the pillow above her sleeping form. In an instant, Y/N was glued to his side, legs slipping over his, arm pushed up against him, her face close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. Who was he to deny this sweet, sleeping thing, anything at all? Harry turned on his side to better accommodate her, opened up his arms, and felt as she burrowed into his chest.
Then she truly melts into his hold, and he even hears the tiniest little snore. It’s all she needed to be sent deep into her dreams, and he’s glad. Y/N doesn’t sleep very well – he hears her get up throughout the night because he doesn’t sleep very well either. But as sleep starts to pull at him, he can sense that they’d both be sleeping pretty well tonight, snuggled together like this.
Summary: You try to drop off food for Jack at his work without getting caught by him. But it doesn't really go your way. (1.1k)
Warnings: mentions of food, implied age gap (not specific), use of pet names, Jack is a pining fool in love, pda in the hospital, 4th part to the 'My saviour' fic , part 2 Part 3, can be read as a stand-alone!!!!!
It's almost scary how good you and Jack get along. How easy is for you two to be together. Ever since the lunch, you've been spending most of your free time together.
And you aren't getting sick of it at all. It's the complete opposite. It's like a drug, one taste and now you can't get enough.
That's why, you are walking down the emergency room in the dead of the night with dinner in your hand.
You know, today is Dr. Shen's turn to choose a restaurant, and Jack has told you multiple times about how the guy has no taste. It's like Dr. Shen chooses the worst restaurants in the whole city just to piss Jack off.
You make your way towards the nurses station, and Lena clocks you immediately. She eyes your visitors badge, and you pace nervously as she looks at you.
It's the first time you are there as Jack's girlfriend and he doesn't even know about it. You just hope you aren't stepping over some boundaries.
"Hi, hun. Looking for your family?" Lena asks, voice warm.
"Hi, I'm not. I'm just dropping this off." You raise the bag with the lunch boxes. There's a brocoli soup and pasta from Jack's favourite restaurant.
"For who?" She asks, eyes a little wider. She's never seen you before. And it's not often that pretty girls like you deliver food here.
"Umm, is Dr. Abbot around?" You ask shyly, looking around for any signs of his light curly hair. Your question earns you a knowing smirk from Lena. She doesn't need to ask to know you and Jack are a thing.
"He's responding to a trauma right now, honey. You can wait for him in the staff room?" She suggests.
"Oh no, that's okay. I just wanted to drop this off. Is it okay if I leave it here? Would you mind passing it off to him?" You give her your best kind smile, hoping she'll say yes. But you don't need to worry, from what you've heard about the head nurse, you know she's a complete angel.
"Sure thing. I'll let him know as soon as he is done." Lena itches to ask you a million questions about you guys, but she'll just interrogate Abbot instead of you. You seem far too sweet to be interrogated like that.
"Thank you so much." You beam at her." It was lovely to meet you. I hope the rest of your shift goes by quickly."
"It was nice to meet you, too. It's good to know Jack has somebody to look after him." She whispers the last part with a soft smile which you return and give her an understanding nod before you turn around and hurry out of the busy ER.
-
Jack comes from the trauma room not even a minute later. "What's this?"
"Your dinner." Lena smiles cheekily at him, and Jack just frowns and raises his brows. He's really not in the mood for a guessing game.
"Your sweet thing was here, dropped off this food. She seems great, don't fuck it up, Abbot." Lena states all smiles, except the 'don't fuck it up' part.
Jack's head whips around the room so quickly, looking for you. "Y/N was here?"
"Yeah, you just missed her." She doesn't need to say more before he's stalking to the waiting room. He finds you as you are about to round the corner.
He jogs up the remaining distance separating you. You turn around to look at him when you hear the footsteps, and your cheeks warm at getting caught.
"You running away from me, doll?" He calls out, making the heat in your cheeks worse.
"No?" You quip back quietly.
"No? Then why are you walking out of here like the building's on fire?" Jack finally gets close enough to you to touch you.
His big, warm hands immediately settle on your hips, pulling you flush against his black scrubs. You gasp, surprised by the sudden affection. "You were busy. I didn't want to bother anybody."
"Bother? The only thing that bothers me is that you came here all alone when it's so late." His thumb slips under your shirt, stroking circles there. It makes you feel like a puddle of feelings.
"Sorry, but if it makes you feel better I'm sharing my location with my roommate." It doesn't make him feel better, but it's better than nothing.
"Can you share it with me, too?" And you nod, giving him another sheepish smile. He doesn't seem to be mad about you being here. But you ask, just to be safe.
"Did I overstep by coming here? I just thought, you could use some dinner."
"No, doll. You can come here anytime you want. In fact, I'm begging you to come here anytime you want." Jack's self control finally slips, and he leans down to give you a soft kiss on your jaw. His colleagues and their gossiping mouths be damned.
"Okay, good."
"Good." He counters, giving you another quick kiss, this time on the soft mouth of yours.
"Thank you for the food by the way." He tells you, and your mind has a hard time catching up on what he's talking about when his hand is stroking your skin and his mouth is kissing you stupid.
"You're welcome. I didn't want you to eat smelly sea food again." You tease, and Jack laughs. Yes, that's exactly what Shen ordered the last time.
"Thank you." He says again, sealing the deal with yet another kiss. He should stop though, before someone reports him to Gloria for being inappropriate in her hospital.
"I got you your favourite pasta." You add, and that earns you a groan from him, head falling back in exasperation.
"Doll, that thing costs was too much." You just shrug, because sure it does, but you think you might be a little too much in love with Jack to care.
"So? You treat me to food all the time. It was my turn now." He never lets you pay, it's like him buying you things is his loves language, well besides the touches, kisses and sweet words, too.
He shakes his head at you. "Doesn't work like that." He says, and kisses you for a fourth time. You coming in here is definitely gonna be a problem when he can't stop kissing you.
Before you can respond a nurse, Mateo, comes looking for Jack, and he groans once again. "See you after the shift?"
"I'll pick you up, doll. Drive safe, yeah? And text me when you get home." Jack demands gently as he peels himself away from you. He feels like a stupid teenager in love.
"Okay, I'll be ready. Now go get them doctor Abbot." And this time, you are the one that kisses him, leaving your chapstick smeared all over his lips.
✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Someone needs to write a Jack Abbot x reader fic where they are coworkers and go out to a bar and he watches her on the mechanical bull and SMUT INSUES
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff, sexual tension, angst
word count: 6.2k
a/n: sorry for taking ages!! and don't hate me too much :DD i hope you enjoy! and as always, since this is an ongoing process, your ideas and thoughts for future scenes are more than welcome! big kisses to everyone who has sent in ideas already<33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
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Even after the unimaginable has happened, life doesn't stop. It just keeps moving like it always has. Death is just another part of the cycle of life—inevitable and natural, no matter how cruel it seems.
The tear in your heart doesn't close all at once, but it slowly mends itself together, thread by thread—day by day. The faces of those you'd lost aren't forgotten—will never be—, but they find rest in your mind. They stop haunting you when you close your eyes, their expressions softening, no longer filled with accusation.
Jack helps more than you ever thought possible. He makes the process smoother, less jagged than it used to be. He makes it easier to carry.
That night, coming home after the shift, you tried to be strong. One breakdown should be enough—you were tougher than that. So you showered, changed and then climbed into your own bed. Listened to Jack shower through the cracked door, stared at the ceiling, counted your breaths and willed sleep to come. Eventually, the shower stopped. The house grew silent, but sleep didn't come.
After a while, you gave in. Crept out of bed, padded silently down the hallway that felt longer than usual, knocked on the door quieter than you'd meant to. Jack was sitting against the headboard, lights still on, with that distant look in his eyes that mirrored yours. It was like he'd been waiting for you to come back. You didn't even have to say anything before he lifted the covers in a silent invitation, and that was that. And when a few tears slipped from your eyes unwittingly, he didn't say anything about it; he just pulled you closer.
Since then, you repeat that routine after every shift. Pretend to go to bed, wait in your room, and then drift down the hall to his room. The wait grows shorter over time—thirty minutes becomes ten, ten becomes five. Jack never comments on it, just lifts the covers and waits to turn off the light until you're beside him.
He's there when you wake up crying. You're there when he does.
The days blur together as you bury yourself in studying and working, waiting for time to dull the hurt. You know it'll never disappear—not fully—but past experiences have taught you that the sharp edges eventually soften. That the weight becomes bearable.
One day, you realise you'd stopped waking up in tears. Still, you cross the hallway every night. And every night, he makes room for you without a word.
"Fuck, it's already disgusting outside," Trinity complains as she steps up the board. She swipes at the light sheen of sweat on her forehead and tugs at her collar. "I walked here, and I regret every life choice that led me to that decision." She leans against the counter, looking miserable.
"First heatwave of the year," Lena says as she gathers her things. "It hit us early this year, and it's only gonna get hotter. Good luck today!" She says, patting your shoulder on her way out.
"Yay us!" Trinity grumbles, resting her head on her arms. She lifts her gaze to you. "It's like people get dumber when it's hot."
You huff quietly from the other side as you sign off on your last patient. "You say that about the patients, no matter the season."
"Because every season it’s true! But when it's hot, it's even worse," she shoots back, cracking open her water bottle. "And, you—" she gestures lazily in your direction, "—get to sleep through the worst of it."
"Night shift perks,” you shrug in response.
She takes a sip. "Still no chance of you coming back to days?"
You make a face. "Sorry."
"Boo," she says.
"Where's your other half?" you ask as you log off the computer.
"Off being a farmer boy or whatever it is that he does on his days off."
"Huh?" you murmur, brows furrowed, but you're too tired to ask what that even means. "Okay, well, I'll see you later."
You're only a few steps away from her when she calls out again. "Oh! I sent you the photos from the other day. There are some really cute ones."
"Thank you," you blow her a kiss, before you turn around, walking towards the ambulance bay where Jack's waiting for you. "Have fun melting," you call over your shoulder.
You vaguely hear her grumble before the doors shut behind you.
It's blisteringly hot inside the house when you come home. Thick, heavy heat clinging to your skin. It's even worse than outside, with all that warmth trapped and unmoving.
You'd expected it, what with the power outage that struck the area during the night. Because while PTMC had backup generators, Jack's house needs to be reset manually, and so the house is unbearable.
Jack disappears almost immediately to deal with it, tugging at his shirt, muttering something under his breath about breakers.
You don’t wait around. You take a quick cold shower, and then you plant yourself outside on a recliner. In less clothing than you usually wear, you stretch out, letting the faint breeze dry the last of the water on your skin.
Trinity's sent you thirty photos. There's the usual chaos: Trinity and Lily up on the bar, Shen mid-shot, clearly destroying that frat guy at pool, a couple blurry ones of all of you dancing, the lights smeared into vibrant streaks.
Then one of you and Jack. You pause. It’s not even a particularly interesting photo—just the two of you standing close, both smiling hazily at each other. Still, the butterflies in your belly flutter at the sight.
Another image pops up, this time of you facing the camera, grinning wide, with Jack’s arm wrapped around your waist.
Then—
An image of Jack and Lily. Lily’s flashing a peace sign at the camera while Jack smiles at her. You zoom in on his face. He looks happy.
There’s something about it. Something that sits wrong. Not sharp, not painful—just… off. A small, quiet drop in your stomach. You stare at it longer than you should.
"Do you want an ice cream?" Jack calls out through the open terrace door.
"Yes, please," you answer, scrolling past the photo and shaking off the odd feeling. Setting your phone down beside you, you lean back, letting the sun hit your skin. By the time Jack steps outside again, you’ve already decided to forget it.
He looks like sin, sweat dripping down his forehead, and the collar of his shirt soaked. "AC's up and running again. The house should be cool in about—" His voice trails off as he walks around the back of the recliner.
"What?" you say, one hand lifting to shield your eyes from the sun. You tilt your head slightly, following his gaze. Oh. You don’t shift to cover up. If anything, you stretch a little more into the recliner, one leg bending lazily, your pink bikini glowing against your skin.
Jack clears his throat, glancing deliberately away. "Uh," he stammers, still avoiding eye contact as he steps closer, ice cream in hand. "Soon. The house will cool off soon."
"Great," you sigh, shifting in your seat. He nods, still not looking. You watch him for a second, then let a small smile curl at the corner of your mouth. "Wanna join me?"
He hesitates; you can see it in the way his shoulders tense, and his jaw tightens just a little. He sneaks a glance at you despite himself, and this time his gaze doesn’t snap away just as fast.
"I—uh... I have to check—" he begins, stepping back toward the door. He doesn't even finish his sentence before he vanishes inside again. Your eyes flick down, catching the way his hand shifts, conveniently covering his crotch.
You bite back a grin.
Jack can't remember the last time he put on a suit, much less a tie. He's faced down trauma bays and multiple mass casualties—but a strip of silk has him beat. He loosens it again, trying to remember the steps. Over, under, pull—no, that isn't right. It still sits crooked against his collar, mocking him. He exhales sharply through his nose and drags it loose, starting over.
The hospital is hosting a fundraiser tonight, and with Robby currently stuck dealing with some administrative problem, he'd all but forced Jack to take his place. It was a good chance to sweet-talk a few higher-ups into directing some of the proceeds their way—and while Jack despised these events, he felt obliged, given Robby was keeping a secret that could ruin all of your careers.
"Jack?" you call out, heels clacking as you step out into the living room. "Will you zip me up?"
At least he wasn't going alone.
He steps back from the hallway mirror, leaving his tie be. He turns toward you—and forgets entirely what he was doing. The late afternoon light catches you just right, emerald green glinting richly. The fabric skims your body like it was made for you, every line, every curve. For a moment, all he can do is look.
Say something, he tells himself. Anything.
"Yeah," he manages, his voice rougher than he means for it to be.
You don't notice, though, already turning around. The bare line of your spine is exposed, the zipper dipping lower than he'd expected. His hands hover for a second before he brushes the soft skin of your back as he reaches for the zipper. He swallows, dragging it up slowly—slower than necessary. When it reaches the top, his hand lingers for just a second longer than it should have before he forces himself to step back.
"There," he says, clearing his throat.
You turn, offering him an easy smile. "Thank you."
You glance over his outfit, your attention drawn to his tie. "You clean up well," you say as your fingers reach out, loosening his tie. He catches the faint warmth of your perfume as you step in. You knot it deftly, smoothing it into place. "There you go."
"Thank you, sweetheart," he gruffs out. "You don't look too bad yourself."
It is the understatement of the year, but Jack's speechless, dizzy with the scent of your perfume swirling around him.
You grin, stepping back and giving him a small spin. "I don't think I've worn a gown since prom."
Jack huffs out something that might be a laugh, one hand coming up to adjust his cuff—anything to keep his hands busy. "Yeah?" he asks. His eyes flick over you again. "Well," he adds, "if you looked the way you look now, whoever went with you was a lucky guy."
You smile shyly and puff his shoulder softly. "We should go," you say, reaching for your bag.
"Yeah," he answers—but he doesn’t move right away.
You’re halfway to the door before you notice, turning back. "Jack? You coming?"
He blinks. "Yes," he mutters, clearing his throat. His gaze drags over you one more time before his feet move.
The fundraiser is being held in the grand ballroom of one of the upscale hotels near the hospital—one of those places with crystal chandeliers dripping from impossibly high ceilings and polished marble floors so glossy they reflect the candlelight.
Gold-trimmed tables are arranged beneath soft amber lighting, each one dressed with ivory linens, delicate floral centrepieces, and place cards embossed in elegant script. Waiters weave through the room with silver trays balanced effortlessly in one hand, offering champagne in slender crystal flutes and bite-sized hors d'oeuvres that almost look too pretty to eat.
It’s lavish in a way that makes your stomach twist.
Because while the hospital pleads budget constraints every time staffing shortages come up, apparently, there’s plenty of money for imported roses, a live string quartet, and whatever this venue costs per hour. You can only hope tonight raises enough money to justify it.
Your hand tightens around Jack’s arm as he guides you farther into the ballroom, heels clacking gently on the floor. "I've got major imposter syndrome," you murmur, leaning in close so only he can hear. All around you, there are women in gorgeous gowns and glimmering jewellery, while you're in a rented one, your necklace borrowed from Samira, and your most expensive earrings (they cost $50 and you got them at half price).
Jack glances down at you. "Everyone's pretending they belong," he says. "With their fancy dresses and fancy words. It's why I don't like coming to these events."
You huff out a quiet laugh at the discontent in his voice.
He steers the two of you toward your table near the centre of the room—close enough to the stage that someone clearly thought he was important enough to be seen. You stay standing behind your chair, smoothing down your dress while guests continue to pour in around you.
The room fills with the hum of conversation—light laughter, clinking glasses, and friendly greetings. Here and there, guests approach Jack to shake his hand, and by extension, yours, exchanging a few words before moving on. In just five minutes, you’ve encountered more influential figures than you ever have at work.
In between, the two of you lean into whispered commentary, trading observations about the guests filtering in. Jack knows far more than you expect—department heads, donors, board members, surgeons with inflated egos and hospital administrators with reputations for scandal. Every time someone passes, he has some dry little piece of gossip ready, and it’s entertaining enough that you almost forget how out of place you feel.
A loud gasp breaks the moment.
"Is that you, Jack?"
Jack turns, revealing a woman approaching him who seems to belong here in a way you never will. With her blonde hair elegantly pinned up, champagne-colored silk hugging her figure, and diamonds glimmering at her ears, she exudes confidence as she reaches for his shoulder, leaning in for a hug with an air of familiarity.
"Dr. Warren," Jack says politely, his smile brief and courteous. You notice how he steps back as soon as he can, subtly reclaiming the space between them without drawing attention to it.
She laughs softly. “Oh, come on! I thought we were past all that doctor formality. Call me Anna.”
Jack nods but makes no attempt to mirror her familiarity. Instead, he gently places his hand at the small of your back, guiding you forward and into the conversation.
"This is Dr. Anna Warren," he says, looking your way. "She’s one of the attendings in the ER at Presby."
Anna’s eyes shift to you, her smile unwavering. "Oh," she says lightly, as though mildly surprised. Her eyes glide over your body in a slow and unhurried way, ready to judge but finding your outfit satisfactory—all Jack's doing since he was the one who paid for it. "I didn’t realise you had company."
The words are perfectly pleasant and somehow still feel pointed.
You smile and offer your hand, introducing yourself. "It’s nice to meet you."
She shakes your hand firmly. "I didn't know nurses were allowed here," she ponders with a slight smile, looking over at Jack.
"She’s finishing her R4 this month," Jack says, ignoring the clear jab, then turns to you with a warm smile. "Joining us as an attending afterwards."
"Oh?" Anna says, bringing his attention back to her. "What’s her speciality?"
"Emergency medicine," you respond with a bright smile, reentering the conversation.
Her brows rise slightly. "Really?" she says, looking you over. "You look very young."
"She’s one of the best residents we have," Jack says.
Anna smiles, though it's noticeably sharper. "Well, that’s impressive."
"She’s already outperforming half the attendings," Jack adds with a smile. "Best procedural numbers in the department."
Warmth blooms in your chest from the praise. You have to fight back a beam.
Anna lets out a soft laugh. "Well, it's good to know who our competitors are." The comment is framed as a joke, but the underlying implication is unmistakable.
Her focus shifts back to Jack instantly. "You know, I never thought I’d see you at one of these events again."
"Robby couldn’t make it," Jack replies with a shrug.
Anna’s expression softens. "A shame." Then, she says with a small laugh, "Though, I can’t pretend I’m not glad he forced you to come instead."
"Oh, Robby didn't make me. My wife did," he nods towards you. It's said casually, but the effect is immediate.
Anna’s smile falters for the briefest moment. "Oh," she says.
You have to fight back a smile at her face and at the fact that he just lied to her. You didn't make him come; if anything, he convinced you to come.
"We got married a few months ago," Jack says easily.
Anna recovers fast, her smile settling back into place. "Congratulations," she says.
You smile sweetly, leaning further into Jack. "Thank you."
She nods, but there’s the faintest stiffness to it now. Jack’s body remains angled toward you, his hand steady at your waist, attention on you even while she’s standing there.
Anna glances between the two of you. "Well," she says smoothly, "it sounds like things are going very well for you."
Jack nods, smiling at you. His fingers squeeze your waist briefly. "They are."
She offers one last smile. Her hand lifts to squeeze his arm in goodbye, but falls down when you place your hand on his chest. "It was nice to see you again."
"You too, Dr. Warren," Jack says. Not Anna.
Her smile flickers for half a second before she turns away.
The second she’s gone, you let out the breath you were holding, a laugh escaping with it.
Jack glances down at you. "What?" He pretends to be confused, but his mouth curls slightly.
"Nothing," you say, shaking your head. There's a light whine as the mic gets turned on and the host begins presenting the evening. Jack pulls out your chair, his arm settling on the back. He keeps it there for most of the evening.
By the time the evening begins winding down, the whole ballroom has softened around the edges. The speeches are over, the auction items have all been claimed, and the rigid polish of the fundraiser has finally started to melt into something looser and more relaxing. Jackets have been abandoned over the backs of chairs, heels have been kicked off under tables, and the low hum of conversation has grown louder beneath the music.
The dance floor has opened near the front of the room, where the tables give way to a polished stretch of marble lit gold beneath the chandeliers. A few couples sway lazily beneath the lights while the band plays something slow and smooth.
You stand beside Jack near the bar, cradling the last of your wine, watching the dancers. The nerves from earlier are gone, replaced by the warm buzz of wine and the even warmer satisfaction of having Jack at your side through all of it—his hand at your waist when people stopped to talk, the way his eyes always found yours, the quiet certainty of his attention even with more accomplished women vying for it.
“Wanna dance?”
You turn to him, startled just enough to laugh.
Jack is holding out his hand. There’s a crooked smile on his face, one brow raised slightly.
You stare at him for a second before taking his hand. "I thought you didn’t dance."
His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, and he starts guiding you toward the floor. "I don’t."
You laugh softly as you follow him.
He glances back over his shoulder, smiling. "But I’ll make an exception for you."
He leads you onto the dance floor and turns to face you beneath the chandelier light. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then his hands settle on your waist—slowly, like he’s giving you every chance to step away, even though you both know you won’t.
You slide your arms around his shoulders, and soon the two of you find a natural rhythm, swaying gently to the music.
Jack was telling the truth. He doesn’t really dance. There’s no elegance to it, no polished rhythm—just the simple shifting of his weight with yours, his hands warm where they hold you, his body close enough that the rest of the room starts to blur. Somehow that makes it better. There’s nothing performative about this; no pretence.
It’s just the two of you.
"You know," you say, "for someone who doesn’t dance, you’re doing alright."
Jack lets out a quiet huff, glancing down at his feet. "I’m just swaying."
You lift one shoulder, grinning. "That still counts."
He looks a bit sceptical, so you smile and inch a little closer. His hands shift naturally, resting more securely on your waist.
The room moves around you in a blur of candlelight and dark suits and glittering dresses, but standing there with him feels oddly private, like the two of you are alone.
Jack glances down at you again. There’s something in his expression that makes it hard to hold his gaze for too long—not because it’s intense, exactly, but because it’s warm.
"You alright?" he asks. It’s a simple question, but the way he asks it conveys something deeper.
You nod. "Yeah."
He studies your face for a second, then gives a small nod of his own, satisfied. "Good. Thanks for coming with me."
You hum. "Of course, I am your wife after all. Couldn't let you fend off the wolves all by yourself," you tease with a grin.
"Ha," he grumbles, his hand adjusting at your waist as you both turn in a slow half-circle to pass another couple. "What would I do without you?"
"Better not to wonder," you say.
Your hands shift a bit higher on his shoulders, fingers grazing the back of his neck. He exhales softly, letting his gaze drift to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes.
He hums.
You should probably tease him again, say something light, break whatever this is before it feels too real. But you don’t want to.
Because wanting him doesn’t feel sharp anymore. Jack’s mouth tilts faintly at one corner, and you can't help but smile back.
Feeling lighter than you have in days, you clock in for yet another night shift. Patient after patient, everything runs smoothly as it can in the Pitt.
Just as you step out of an exam room, rubbing sanitiser between your hands, you catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. A spike of movement. Too fast. Too sharp. You turn, and your stomach drops.
A patient has Lily in a tight headlock.
"Shit," you mutter, taking off at once. You barely hear your own voice calling out 'Code Hula Hoop' through the rush of blood in your ears. The door swings open under your hand as you rush in, too caught up in the moment to wait for security.
"Let go!" You reach for the patient’s arm, twisting it to break his grip.
Within seconds, Bridget arrives, trying to control the patient's other arm, her voice firm yet strained. "Sir—let go—"
The patient jerks, his grip loosening just enough for Lily to gasp, but before you can fully process, he swings toward you instead. The blow comes out of nowhere. But someone else sees it. A hand catches your arm—hard—and yanks you sideways. You hit something solid.
Jack.
You barely dodge the punch that flies through the air where your face just was, close enough to feel the whoosh of it. All at once, the room floods with security, staff, and bodies. Voices overlap, hands take over where yours were.
You step back, breathing heavily, adrenaline coursing through you.
"What the hell happened?" Jack asks, spinning you around. His tone is sharp. "Are you—"
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Lily gasps, and just like that, his focus shifts. You catch a glimpse of him, swallowed instantly by the frenzy in the room. Fragments come at you—a shift in his shoulders, someone shouting, the clear command of his voice cutting through the chaos.
You stand still for a moment, trying to breathe through your chest tightening. You follow as Lily is moved over to the wall.
"Are you okay?" you ask, your hands steady despite the adrenaline still rushing through your veins, holding her upright.
She coughs, fingers brushing over the angry red marks forming around her throat. "I’m fine." Her voice is rough, affected by the pressure that was put on her vocal cords.
You gently tilt her chin up, examining the bruising and the way her voice catches. "You’re not fine."
Before you can say more, Jack is there, his hands replacing yours before you’ve stepped back. "Look at me," he instructs Lily, his voice a different tone now—softer. "Any dizziness? Trouble swallowing?"
She shakes her head slightly, still trying to catch her breath.
"We’re getting a CT scan," he says, steady and firm, leaving no room for argument. His thumb brushes lightly along her jaw as he checks for tenderness. "Just to be safe."
She nods.
For a brief moment, all you can see is the tightness in his shoulders, the underlying tension beneath his calm exterior. His attention lingers just a moment longer before he steps back.
That weird feeling from the other day returns, but you push it away. This isn’t the right time.
"Ellis, do a neuro assessment and order a CT," he instructs before turning to you, his voice strained. "A word." Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides out.
You hesitate just long enough for Lily to catch your hand and give it a quick squeeze. You return the gesture softly before following him.
He stops abruptly in the hallway, turning so suddenly you nearly run into him. He crosses his arms and stares at you in silence, weighing his words. "Do you have anything to say?" he finally asks.
You cross your arms, mirroring him. "No?"
His exhale is sharp, and he runs a hand over his face, as if trying to gather his thoughts. "You cannot—" he stops, his jaw tightening. "You can’t just run into a violent situation without backup."
You let out a disbelieving breath. "Are you serious right now?"
"I’m dead serious," he replies. "You put yourself in direct danger—"
"Did you not see what I did?" you shoot back.
"I did," he counters firmly. "It was irresponsible. You made that situation worse. You don’t think. You just jump in without thinking about the consequences."
"Oh, fuck off," you retort, your words coming out more sharply than you intended—but you don’t take them back. "You would’ve done the same."
He blinks, thrown for half a second. "I've had training. You haven't."
"So I’m just supposed to stand by while she’s being choked?" you respond, disbelief creeping into your voice. "You saw the whole thing," you continue, your anger flaring up, fueled by adrenaline—and something else you don't want to place. You don't even care that you're having this conversation in front of everyone. "And you’re lecturing me about following protocol?"
"Yes," he replies, his tone unwavering as he steps closer. "Because protocol exists to keep you safe."
You let out a dry laugh, but there’s no humour in it. "That’s ridiculous."
"You call a code, maintain a distance, and wait for security," he insists, his voice still even while yours has risen in volume.
"And what if something goes wrong in that time?"
"You could have been grabbed, hit—" he continues, dodging your question.
"I wasn’t," you interrupt sharply.
"That’s not the point."
"It kind of is," you reply, shaking your head. "This is bullshit, and you know it."
His frustration begins to bubble to the surface, breaking through his usual control. "You don’t get to decide what's right."
"And you do?" you shoot back.
"I’m still your attending," he retorts instantly. "So yes—" He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand across his face before letting it drop. In a low murmur, he adds, "You just can’t help but cause trouble."
The weight of the word hangs between you, heavy and charged.
Your expression hardens instantly. "Right. I'm trouble because I won't let our patients assault our nurses."
"That’s not what I meant," he says, though the tension still lingers in his voice. "You don’t think things through in these situations—"
"Abbot. MVC incoming," Lena calls from down the hall, cutting him off.
Jack briefly closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "We’re not finished with this," he says as he grabs a pair of gloves.
Then, he’s off again—jumping back into the chaos as if nothing just happened. As if he hadn't just prodded at a deep and painful bruise. You grab your own gloves and turn away, the weight of his words still sitting spikily under your skin as you head toward your next patient.
Each step sends the spines in deeper.
"I'll be back with your results soon," you say as you close the door behind you. A slow breath escapes your lips as you make your way to the hub. The argument from earlier still weighs heavily on your mind, but you haven't had a chance to talk about it yet. You'd barely even had time to check on Lily, who, despite all your protests, has decided to keep working.
You should probably find Jack, apologise for being headstrong, but also let him know that you'd do it again. That potentially getting hit is worth it if you can save someone else.
You only make it three steps before a sight stops you cold, anchoring you to the spot. Jack and Lily stand at the hub, shoulder to shoulder.
He's leaning over her to look at what she's pointing to on the screen. There's nothing inappropriate about it—nothing that would raise any suspicions—but for you, it’s enough to send a chill down your spine.
Because combined with everything else, it all suddenly makes sense.
Embarrassment flares as realisation hits you like a punch to the gut. Your stomach drops so sharply it feels like your body forgot how to hold itself upright. You try to breathe in, but nothing fully comes through. Your lungs feel too small to contain this sudden truth.
Oh.
That thought comes first, followed closely by:
Right.
It settles fast. Because it fits.
The way he watches her when he’s focused. The softness in his voice when he speaks to her. Earlier, when he replaced your hands without a second thought. Everything aligns with a sickening clarity.
Jack doesn't like you.
The realisation isn’t sharp. It’s heavy. Final, in a way you don’t argue with, because there’s nothing to argue against. Just… evidence you’re suddenly noticing all at once.
You weren’t the one he was scared for. Wasn't the one he was smiling at like that in the photos. He hadn't been affected by you on the recliner earlier; he probably left because he felt awkward that you couldn’t take a hint. He definitely hadn't wanted to kiss you at the fundraiser.
And worst of all. He had never asked you to stay every night, yet you kept showing up. An intruder who didn't realise how she'd overstepped.
Your throat tightens involuntarily.
Lily makes sense in a way you don’t. She's kind, warm, and gentle—everything that you’re not. You're combative and impulsive—you're trouble.
That reality echoes in your head now, twisted and strange—not as irritation, not as a warning, but as something else entirely.
A conclusion.
And it's not that you think that Lily is trying to steal him, but she'd be good for him. At least when this ends, she can be there for him. Wake him when he's having nightmares, rub his leg when it hurts, and make him breakfast on days when he can't do anything but lie. You'll give her your blessing even if it's with a bleeding heart.
Swallowing hard, you muster the strength to slip past them, pushing through the ambulance bay doors. You miss the way his gaze shifts toward you as you pass. Once outside, you lean against the cool wall, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes as the warmth of the night wraps around you.
Get it together.
Your chest still feels wrong, so you press your nails into your palms until the sensation shifts to that. A more manageable pain.
A few minutes later, the doors swing open again.
You hear him before he says anything. The familiar sound of his footsteps signals his approach. "Hey," Jack says quietly. "You okay?" His voice carries a hint of concern.
You swallow, stifling the weight of everything pressing down inside you—a skill you’ve perfected over the years. A wry smile tugs at your lips, masking the turmoil beneath. "Yeah," you reply, your voice steady, even though your heart is crumbling beneath the surface. He doesn’t believe you; you can feel it, but he doesn’t press. Not when the argument from earlier still lingers in the air.
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," he begins. "I was just—" he runs a hand through his hair. "I was scared. That could’ve gone really bad. Still, I shouldn’t have said it like that."
You nod. "I understand. I'm sorry, too." Sorry for being a distraction when he was worried about Lily. Sorry for getting in the way.
Jack's mouth opens to speak again, but an ambulance pulls in before he can say more. You give his arm a gentle pat as you move forward. You don't linger like you normally would. "No harm done. We’re good."
He hesitates, as if he wants to say something else, but ultimately lets it go. "You sure?"
"Yeah, it was just the heat of the moment."
He frowns at you, still slightly unsure, but you turn your attention forward again. "What have we got?"
"Michelle Waters, 36 years old—"
The shift drags on, but somehow you manage to keep going. You have to; there’s no other choice. But every time Jack appears, a tightness seizes your lungs, as though they’ve forgotten how to expand—only remembering a second too late.
You’re surviving on stolen breaths when the clock finally strikes seven.
Robby catches you just as you’re logging out of the computer, looking like he’s already dealing with five different problems despite only being here for ten minutes. "Hey, do you have a second?"
"Sure," you reply with a sigh, standing up. "But let me just say, I did it to protect Lily, and I didn’t even get hit, so I don’t get why it’s such a big deal."
"What?" Robby asks, bewildered. He rubs his face harshly. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."
"Oh. Great," you say. "What’s on your mind then?"
"Okay, just hear me out," he starts, shifting his weight. "Heather wants to switch to night shift for a few weeks before she leaves, and you already know how day shift works—"
"So, you want me to cover for her," you conclude flatly.
"Yes," he admits, wincing. "It’s only temporary—just a few weeks. You’ll still have your days off before boards. It would really help us if you—"
"I’ll do it." Before this shift, you would have hesitated. Now, it's an almost instant answer that leaves your mouth.
Robby's still trying to plead, "Just think about—" he stops. "What?"
You shrug once. "I’ll do it."
He blinks at you like he’s waiting for the second part of the sentence that doesn’t come. "You don’t want to think about it? Or discuss it with Jack?"
You glance past him without meaning to. Jack stands across the hub, tablet in hand, deep in conversation. He’s nowhere near finished, tied up helping the day shift. The tightness in your chest returns.
You turn back to Robby. "No," you shake your head. "Why should I? It’s not like we’re really—" you shrug, voice lowering, but Robby understands what isn't said. You're not really married. Jack doesn't have a say in what you do. Just like you don't have a say in what he does.
You don’t need to be the thing that makes his job harder. Switching to the day shift for a few weeks might be good. It might give him the space you've been denying him.
Robby hesitates, opening and closing his mouth a few times. "Because—" he starts, then catches himself. With a sigh, he gives up. "You know what, never mind."
He studies you for a second longer, then gives a slow nod like he’s decided not to touch whatever this is. "Alright," he says. "I’ll let Heather know."
"Good." You turn away before he can say anything else. Your shoulders stay rigid as you place a soft kiss on Jack's cheek, lighter than usual, whispering that you'll see him at home. Doing your best to act normal—like nothing has changed, even while everything has.
"Hey—I'm still sorry about earlier," he says, catching your hand.
"Don't worry about it," you smile at him, the best you can, squeezing his hand. He believes it this time.
"Okay. Text me when you get home," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. You nod, then slip out the doors before the tears you’ve been holding back all shift can spill over in front of everyone.
Jack figures out you like praise. It ruins his life.
Jack Abbot x fem!reader
He doesn't notice at first. The way the heat creeps up your face when he commends you on a job well done, or the way you appear lighter after his words, or how you have to stand there for a beat, eyes blinking as you try to compose yourself.
Then, during the events of Pittfest, Jack looks you dead in the eye as he tells you, "you did good." He would have had to be blind to miss the way your cheeks got rosy and your gaze dropped, despite the slight puff in your chest.
He brushes it off, already dragged into another victim's case, already assessing damage.
But later, across the road, sitting in the park, he watches as your shoulder's rise a little when Robby says you all did a good job. And Jack.. well, Jack can't help the way it sticks.
Not just in his head.
In his chest.
At first, he tests it without meaning to. A quiet, “nice catch” when you pick up on something subtle in a case. A low, absentminded “good thinking” when you anticipate what he needs before he says it.
And every single time—every single time—you react.
It’s small. Subtle enough that no one else would clock it.
But Jack does.
Your shoulders straighten just a fraction. Your lips press together like you’re trying not to smile. Your eyes flick down, then back up, like you’re grounding yourself. Like you need a second to absorb it.
Like it matters.
Too much.
That’s what gets him.
Because people like praise. That’s normal.
But you—you light up for it.
And once he notices it, he can’t unsee it.
It ruins him.
Completely.
Because now he starts using it.
Not intentionally at first. Not consciously. It just… slips out.
“Good work in there.”
“You handled that well.”
“That was quick thinking.”
And every time, you do that same thing—soft, flustered, quietly pleased—and Jack feels something warm and dangerous settle low in his chest.
It’s addictive.
Worse than coffee. Worse than adrenaline.
Because it’s you.
And it’s the fact that it’s him you’re reacting to.
A mass casualty event makes it worse.
Long hours. Chaos. High stakes. Everyone running on fumes and instinct.
You’re in the thick of it, keeping up, keeping steady, doing more than anyone expects of you.
And Jack watches.
He watches the way you don’t hesitate. The way you step in, take control when needed, defer when appropriate. The way you care.
And when it finally slows—just for a second—he finds you.
You’re catching your breath, hands braced on your hips, hair a mess, eyes still sharp despite the exhaustion.
He steps into your space without thinking.
“You held that together,” he says, voice low, steady. “That was solid work.”
You freeze.
It’s subtle—but he sees it.
The inhale. The way your eyes flicker. The faint flush creeping up your neck.
“Thank you,” you murmur, softer than usual.
And something in Jack’s chest tightens.
Because that one hit harder than the others.
After that, it’s over for him.
He starts looking for reasons.
Not fake ones. Never fake. You’re good—too good for that.
But he notices everything now.
Every small win. Every sharp call. Every moment you hold your own.
And he tells you.
“Nice save.”
“Good call.”
“You did well today.”
And you take it every time like it’s something fragile. Something precious.
Like it means something.
It gets to the point where Robby claps you on the shoulder one shift, tells the team, “you all did great today.”
And Jack watches you.
Watches the way you smile politely, nod, accept it.
But it’s… different.
Not the same.
Doesn’t hit the same.
And that’s when it clicks.
Hard.
It’s not just praise.
It’s his praise.
That realization?
Yeah. That’s what ruins him.
Because now it’s not harmless anymore.
Now it’s loaded.
Now every “good job” sits heavy on his tongue before he says it.
Now he’s hyper-aware of how close he’s standing when he says it. How your eyes flick to his. How your breath catches just slightly.
Now he wants that reaction.
Wants to see you light up like that again.
Wants to be the reason.
One night, it slips further than he means it to.
It’s late. Quiet. The kind of lull that only happens at 3 a.m.
You’ve just come out of a rough case. You handled it well—better than well.
He finds you by the nurses’ station, flipping through notes, trying to stay busy.
“Hey.”
You glance up.
And there it is—that automatic softening when you see him.
God.
“You did good in there,” he says.
You blink.
Then that same reaction—flush, small inhale, eyes dropping.
“Thanks, Jack.”
He should leave it there.
He doesn’t.
“Real good,” he adds, quieter this time.
Your fingers still on the page.
And when you look up at him again—there’s something different in your expression.
Something a little unsteady.
A little wanting.
And that—
That nearly does him in.
Because now he knows.
Not just that you like praise.
But that you like his.
And Jack Abbot has never been a man who does anything halfway.
So now?
Now he’s standing there, far too aware of the effect he has on you…
…trying to decide whether he’s about to be a very good man—
or a very, very bad one.
He lasts about a week.
A week of watching you, of holding it back, of trying to convince himself that this is just a thing—just a quirk, just a reaction—and not something that’s starting to feel a little too personal.
A week of failing to ignore the way you look at him.
So he does what he always does when something starts getting complicated.
He gets direct.
It’s after shift. Late. The hospital is quieter, the chaos dialed down to a low hum.
You’re grabbing your bag, ready to head out, when he steps into your path.
Not blocking—he’d never corner you—but close enough that you have to look at him.
“Got a minute?”
You blink up at him. “Yeah.”
There’s that softness again.
Christ.
He exhales, runs a hand over the back of his neck—rare, for him—and then just says it.
“Go out with me.”
No build-up. No fluff. Just Jack.
Your eyes widen.
“Like—” you start, then stop, then try again. “Like… a date?”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
There’s a beat.
Then two.
And he watches the exact moment it hits you—really hits you.
That flush. That little inhale. That barely-contained smile tugging at your mouth.
“Okay,” you say, a little breathless. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And that’s it.
That’s all it takes.
Dating Jack is… exactly what you’d expect.
Steady. Intentional. A little intense in a way that sneaks up on you.
He doesn’t play games. Doesn’t leave you guessing. When he wants to see you, he says it. When he likes something, he tells you.
And the praise?
It doesn’t stop.
If anything, it gets worse.
“Good choice,” when you pick a place for dinner.
“You handled that well,” after a rough shift.
“You look nice,” in that low, quiet way that somehow hits harder than anything louder ever could.
And every time—you react.
Every time.
He notices.
Of course he does.
The first time he really tests it outside of work is small.
You’re at his place. Late. Shoes kicked off, sitting too close on the couch, something mindless playing on the TV that neither of you are actually watching.
You say something—half-joking, a little self-deprecating—and he just looks at you.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
You glance up.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
You blink.
He leans a little closer, voice softer now.
“You’re good. Real good.”
And there it is.
That reaction.
Stronger than before.
Your breath catches. Your gaze drops. Your shoulders pull in just slightly like you don’t know where to put the feeling.
And Jack—
Jack feels it land.
Hard.
It shifts after that.
Subtle, but undeniable.
The space between you gets smaller. The touches linger longer. His voice drops lower when he talks to you, like it’s just for you.
Like it means something.
And one night—
it finally snaps.
You’re in his kitchen, of all places.
Late again. Always late with you two.
You’re laughing about something, leaning against the counter, and he’s standing a little too close, watching you a little too intently.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters.
You grin. “I am not.”
“You are,” he says, stepping in, close enough now that your breath stutters. “You act all sweet, but you know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he cuts in, softer now.
His hand comes up—slow, deliberate—tilting your chin just enough that you have to look at him.
“You look at me like that every time I say something nice to you.”
Your lips part.
“You get all quiet. All—” his thumb brushes your jaw, light, testing. “—flustered.”
Heat floods your face instantly.
“I don’t—” you try again, weaker this time.
He huffs a quiet, almost amused breath.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You do.”
And then, quieter—
“You like it.”
It’s not a question.
And that—
that’s what breaks you.
Your eyes flick away, your breath uneven, and that tiny, almost shy nod gives you away completely.
Jack goes very still.
Because… yeah.
That does something to him.
The kiss comes a second later.
Slow at first. Measured.
But there’s an edge to it now—something deeper, something heavier than before.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, steady, grounding, and when he pulls back just enough to look at you—
you look wrecked already.
All from a few words.
From him.
“Good girl,” he murmurs without thinking.
And—
you melt.
It’s instant.
Your breath catches so sharply it’s almost a gasp, your hands gripping his shirt like you need something to hold onto.
Jack freezes.
Because—
oh.
Oh.
“Say that again,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.
That does him in.
Completely.
His grip tightens just slightly, eyes darkening as he looks at you like he’s just figured out something dangerous.
“You like that?” he asks, voice low.
You nod. No hesitation this time.
And that’s all the permission he needs.
After that?
Yeah.
It ruins his life all over again.
Because now it’s not just at work. Not just quiet compliments in passing.
Now it’s this.
Soft praise against your skin. Low, steady words that make your knees weak and your thoughts scatter.
“You’re doing so well.”
“That’s it.”
“Look at you.”
And every time—you fall apart for him a little more.
And Jack?
Jack was already hooked.
But this?
This just seals it.
Because there is nothing—nothing—that gets to him more than knowing he can take you apart with nothing but his voice… and put you back together just as easily.
summary: abbot worries about the amount of time you're spending at work, and he's got a sexy funny way of showing you.
warnings: you know the drill by now: age gap, inappropriate workplace relationship, possessive abbot, dr abbot kink yum, naive reader, jack is kinda toxic but whatever, softdom!jack
notes: based on this request! thank y'all so much for sending in such wonderful things tehe i'm trying my best to work through all my requests while still maintaining integrity and making them good!! I hope you like it! thank you so much again kiss kiss kiss
masterlist 𓊔 request 𓊔 tag list
There are few things that Jack Abbot hates more than seeing you in his emergency department.
Not for lack of appreciation for you-- no, he has plenty to appreciate about you. The first of which being your ass in those psych scrubs. They fit you like a glove. It was a sight tempting enough that he’s certainly contemplated admitting himself just to stare at you on his days off.
It’s the sight of your pretty face in the dead of night that upsets him.
When you’re still in the ED during his shift, it means you’re at the very best working a little later than usual. At the very worst, you’re working a 24-hour shift.
Based on the way you’re cradling your head at the nurse’s station, he’s guessing it’s the latter. Unfortunately, it happens more often than he’d like.
You’re a pleasure to work with. So sweet, so smart, so obedient.
You’re also so much younger than him: a fact he both loves and hates to think about.
He doesn’t know why your age makes it that much harder to see you working such long hours. When Whitaker or Javadi show up with swollen cheeks and dark eyes, he thinks nothing of it. If anything, he’s almost happy to see that the grueling demands of residency are still kicking the kids’ asses these days as much as they did when he was in medical school all those years ago.
But you.
He can’t stand the sight of your eyes looking so tired. He hates the heat on your cheeks from all of the caffeine you’ve consumed. The flyaways in your hair, ever beautiful, should be from something else, something more fun.
On your off days, maybe you go dancing with your friends. Maybe the tired eyes are from a killer hangover, the hot cheeks from too much alcohol, and the flyaways are from running your hands through your hair all night long.
The thought kills him.
You shouldn’t be here right now.
“Still here?” Is how he decides to greet you.
Immediately, you stand straight, head snapping to attention before an easy smile falls across your face.
“Dr. Abbot.” You exhale, relaxing your shoulders slightly. “Gosh, I think you just woke me up.”
He wants to bottle the shy giggle that falls from your lips as you swipe a thumb at the corner of your mouth. Tilting his head toward the break room, he grins softly.
“Let’s get you a cup of coffee.” He puts his hand between your shoulder blades. Another laugh, and you’re staring up at him with a reluctant smirk. Still, you’re letting him guide you to the break room. He narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What’s that look for?”
“Maybe no more coffee for me. I think I’ve had five cups today,” you admit, bringing your fingers up to your cheeks. They must be burning with that amount of caffeine.
He chuckles at you, taking his hand off your back to open the door. Unsurprisingly, nobody else is in the kitchen when you both enter.
You move for the fridge, grabbing a bag that he assumes is your lunch. There’s little cut-up fruits, half a sandwich, and a water bottle. You take it and then zip the bag back up, putting it in the same spot you got it from.
“Are you here all night, sweetheart?” He takes a step closer, taking the sealed bottle from your hands and opening it for you. He brings it to his own mouth, taking a small sip before passing it back to you.
Words betray you now. A little dumbly, you nod and take a sip from the bottle.
His eyes track your movement the whole time, except for when you move it from your lips. They’re fixed only on your mouth from then until you hold the water out to him.
A teasing grin makes its way to his mouth.
“You’re sweet,” he says lowly. Your bottle goes to his mouth again, and then he’s pushing it back into your palms. “Listen, I don’t know how good these long shifts are for you.”
“W-what?” A bead of water rolls over your lip.
His thumb is pressed against it instantly, catching it before it rolls onto your chin. Wordlessly, he brings the same finger to his mouth and wraps his own lips around it. He does it with such instinct that you almost don’t register the fact that he did it at all.
You swallow hard.
“You’re young.” Is all he follows up with. Your heart begins to beat a little harder.
“I-- I mean, I’m not that young,” you blubber. “I’ve finished school. I’m completely qualified to t-”
“You’re the most qualified, I have no doubt about that,” he interrupts, “but I think these doubles are going to burn you out. You shouldn’t have to work so much. It’s not how you should be spending the best years of your life.”
A small frown tugs down each corner of your mouth, and it makes Jack’s stomach twist and drop. He’s wrapped around your finger and you’ve got no fucking clue.
“I’m a little confused,” you reply with a nervous chuckle. “I’m a resident, Dr. Abbot. Plenty of residents work this much, especially ones with a fellowship like me.”
“I just hate seeing you so worn out.” He nudges the bottle up toward your lips and you obey, letting him guide it to your lips. Your eyes are fixed on each other the whole time the cold water bites your sensitive teeth.
For a moment, you hold the water in your mouth, chin tilted up to look at him. You’re waiting for permission. When he nods, you swallow it all in one gulp. There’s no questioning where this dynamic sprung from. Truthfully, it’s been here all along.
You’ve never not eagerly obeyed every order he’s presented. You like Dr. Abbot. He looks after you. He’s confident near the point of cockiness, yet still so achingly gentle with you when you ask questions.
This was bound to happen.
“Am I doing something that’s making you doubt my ability to handle this?” You question as you continue to stare.
The backs of your thighs are pushed up against the small circle table. One of his hands rests atop it, body pressing against yours. He’s solid, strong. His other palm holds your waist, and you notice his fingers flexing like he’s trying his best not to dig them into your skin.
“Not at all,” he whispers. “You’re doing a real good job, sweetheart.”
Your brows draw together, hand wandering up to his face to trace the lines beside his mouth. They’re deep, carved into his skin even without his muscles moving.
“Then what?”
“I’m just worried about you. You’re so young. This is a lot to take on.” He talks quieter with your hands trailing along his features. “You should consider cutting back on your hours. Spending less time here.”
You draw your hands back to your sides. A stricken expression crosses your face for a fleeting moment before it morphs into one of hurt. So quickly, your eyes well with tears and you’re pulling your bottom lip into your mouth.
“O-ok. I can ask to strictly keep my fellowship to day shift, but I think that-”
“What?” He’s louder again, and both his hands hurry to cup your face. It doesn’t hurt much when he cranks your head to force you to look at him. “Baby. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It sounds like you don’t want to see me here anymore,” you pout. “I’m not trying to be here too much, I just-- I get paged, and usually my patients need evaluation and monitoring until they’re transferred to psych, and I-- I guess I do end up on nights a lot. I don’t mean to be a bother. Especially not to you. I’m so sorry, Dr. Abbot.”
A stronger man would tell you to quit calling him that. Especially when he’s holding your face centimeters away from his own. His throbbing dick is pressing into your stomach for fuck’s sake.
But he’s not a strong man. You make him weak.
Hearing you think that he’s bothered by your presence carves a big, aching hole in his chest.
“I love having you here. I’m sorry. Don’t go, baby, please,” he begs.
Your eyes widen even more, a tear slipping from the corner. Caution to the wind, he closes the distance between you to press his lips to where it’s rolled to the top of your cheekbone. When he pulls back, he licks his lips. Your tear is wet and salty on his tongue.
“You love having me here?” You repeat.
“Course I do, sweetheart.” He smoothes out those flyaways on your head while he maintains his steady eye contact. “Now don’t cry, ok? I don’t want to start my day off by making a pretty girl cry in my arms.”
That brings a small giggle out of you, and you’re throwing yourself into him shortly after. His arms wrap around your middle. Strong and sure as always.
“Dr. Abbot?” You mumble into his chest.
He hums, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.
“You love having me here the most, right?” You pull away to reveal a teasing grin. “I’m your favorite, aren’t I?”
God, that’s his favorite smile. He can’t bring himself to care that your teasing questions are your way of innocently poking fun at him and his obvious attraction. Though, he sometimes wonders if you notice it for what it is.
A desperate yearning for his coworker. His student, really. Much, much younger student, at that.
He didn’t know if Heaven was open for guys like him who went home and jacked off to pictures of their younger coworker from the hospital website. But he knew that Heaven was tangible when he was looking here at your pretty lips.
“You’re my favorite.” He brings his lips to your cheek in a soft kiss that lasts a moment longer than it should. “There’s not even a competition.”
PAIRING ➩ jack abbot x inexperienced younger reader
WC ➩ 6.6k
SUMMARY ➩ navigating your budding relationship with your attending is hard enough especially without the added disaster the summer holiday brings
WARNINGS ➩ mentions of ptsd and fourth of july related chaos, prosthetic conversations, smut (they’re so soft for each other)
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ here’s my confession that i absolutely hate writing smut and have to force myself through it for you guys 😭 so if it flows awkwardly or end abruptly that’s why
part one
Nothing actually monumental happened after Jack Abbot had you gently pinned to his truck, nothing other than him wrecking your entire world with one quick half makeout session before sweetly opening the door for you.
It starts a cycle that leaves you so depraved and embarrassingly desperate that you don’t even recognize yourself by the time two weeks have passed. You’re not the type to get sucked into a crush and especially not the type to be losing sleep over when the next time your boss is going to kiss you.
Jack doesn’t do much differently in his defense, he stays professional at work other than that heavy gaze of his and he starts to bring you home without the arrangement ever really being spoken out loud. You walk out of the hospital together, only shifting close enough that your arms brush together when you’re in the parking ramp and relatively out of sight.
You’re not sure if the kissing (outside his truck, inside his truck, in the hallway outside your shitty apartment) is the only thing he’ll do because he thinks it’s the only thing you can handle but you’re humiliated to admit he might be right.
It’s as hot out today as it feels inside your chest when he finally walks in, eyes a little more tired than usual but his pace is steady and your gaze stays on him until he’s standing at the main desk with Robby beside him.
They’re talking about something in low murmurs and you’re trying to pretend you’re busy even though you imagine the way your pen flies out of your hand as soon as he scans the room and lands on you, really sells you out.
You give him a sheepish smile before you’re bending down out of sight to grab the traitorous object, staying squatted for a few extra seconds with your eyes squeezed shut to try and manifest yourself out of existence. By the time you stand back up, he’s crossed the room and is now standing directly in front of you on the other side of the desk.
“Dr Abbot.” You imagine your face only looks half as startled as you actually feel and his amused look seems to prove that. “How are you?”
“How am I?” His head cocks to the side a little like he’s trying to figure out if you’re asking him something else under the guise of small talk. You purse your lips awkwardly, getting that familiar stuck feeling that itches to life whenever he watches you a little too long.
You know you are an intelligent woman, a doctor above her peers who dedicated an entire lifetime to knowledge and earned a position to be proud of.
That being said..
Jack Abbot had the ability to make you feel absolutely clueless and you found yourself actually enjoying the feeling, maybe even a little addicted at times. You blamed the addiction for being the reason your eyes suddenly darted down to his mouth, only shooting away when you saw his lips quirk up in that infuriating smirk of his.
“Fine don’t answer.” You forced out tightly, nearly turning your body fully away from him in preparation to wander off and bury your head in a hot holiday case load until you couldn’t remember your own name let alone his.
Even though you were beginning to think you’d hold onto his name far longer than your own at this point.
“Hey don’t do that.” His voice was so soft and teasing you almost felt your knees weaken, slightly turning back in his direction when his hand lightly gripped your arm but letting the annoyance linger on your face for emphasis. “I’m alright sweetheart. I’m good, okay?”
You both knew exactly why you were asking him that, why you were extra curious about his state when you were surrounded by American flags and loud pops sounding across the city with the sun still shining brightly enough to mask the real effects of the fireworks.
The night would only get more intense from here on out now that the festivities were really going to start and if you worried about him on a typical day, then you worried about him tonight.
Jack didn’t seem too keen on talking about that time of his life with you and you tried not to take any offense to it. You’d started to chat on your rides home, sometimes sitting outside your building for an extra hour until he noticed your gaze getting a little too low and tired. Most of the conversations were about you and your life, gently being steered away from his own personal matters whenever you gave it an attempt.
You didn’t blame him necessarily despite how much it bothered you for naive reasons. He probably would spend the rest of his life being misunderstood by people with decades more experience and wisdom than you under their belts so you figured he didn’t want to even attempt to find properly placed empathy with you.
You could care and listen but you could never understand.
But that didn’t stop you from noticing the way he would lightly flinch at loud car horns or the barely visible winces when you were kissing against his truck after a long shift, his leg starting to bother him from standing all day.
“Yeah.” You breathed out in response to his question although you knew he only answered to make you feel better, not because he actually wanted to. “You know where to find me.”
It wasn’t a question but a silent offer, as non pushy as you could be. You’d outstretched your shoulder to him and it was up to him to want to use it or not if it came down to that.
The beginning of your shift went as decent as any holiday could, a constant swarm of heat related injuries being immediately followed by the typical round of firework burns and then the drunken partygoers stumbling (or being carried) in not much later. It was a rotation of the usual traumas mixed with some festively dressed flair that made your head spin.
You barely passed by Jack but you tried not to focus on it too much, you were at work and you didn’t need to constantly be pining after your boss who happened to be a very very very good kisser.
It was nearing the harder part of the shift, that climb into the very earlier morning that always seemed to get steeper and steeper each time. You’d start to feel the exhaustion of the late hours but without the adrenaline boost the final few brought along, the ascent before the roller coaster dropped.
You heard it as you passed by one of the rooms, nurses whispering about a patient that had came in. Normally you didn’t listen in on gossips, especially knowing how quickly it got twisted between the more bored nurses, but the keywords stuck into your skin and made your footsteps slow.
A veteran that had came in with wounds he gained during a PTSD episode, mostly self inflicted.
Your stomach churned at the news although you had expected a few patients coming in from the old folks home nearby, elevated heart rates and other symptoms caused by the extreme stress. The sick feeling only got worse when you made a few quick rounds in quickening laps only to come to the conclusion that Jack wasn’t around anywhere you could see him.
You didn’t hesitate before your body was turning, barely choking out a quick excuse to Ellis that you needed to take a call before you were heading up the staircase and pushing out onto the roof.
It was instinctive and you felt a little bit of regret, the shame of intruding on a private moment even though you knew you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if something happened and you hadn’t risked embarrassing yourself to try and help. You felt a little bit of relief to see him standing there, not much considering he was on the opposite side of the railing and his back was so tense it looked painful.
Now it was your turn to flinch at the fireworks surrounding you, almost non stop as they came from different parts of the city in waves. It was nothing like a suburban neighborhood where you might here a family lighting off a few small shooters, instead it was almost like you were in the middle of a competition on who could make the most noise.
“Jack.” You called softly, wondering if he could even hear you over the fizzling that was starting to bleed under your skin.
You sighed and opted for stepping closer, not wanting to startle him but still letting your hand slide over his bicep from behind. He stiffened even more and turned his head to the side, possibly seeing you out of his peripheral vision or maybe knowing you by touch at this point.
Maybe he figured you were the only one naive enough to grab him from behind while he was standing pretty close to the edge of the building.
He didn’t say anything and neither did you, letting your arms snake around his middle now that he knew it was you. You laid one of your hands across his stomach, the other resting against his heart and feeling the way it was racing slightly. The railing pressed coldly against your stomach but it was a welcome break from the heat that you hoped he could feel on his back too as you tugged him a little closer to you.
It felt like hours passed, probably ten minutes if you were correctly timing it in your head before he was sighing and gently taking your hands to remove them from his frame. You frowned instinctively and it stayed on your face as he turned around and ducked under the bar so he was back on the safer side of it with you.
His own hands immediately went to your waist and you shifted closer to him, cupping his face gently in a bold move of affection you wouldn’t have dared do under normal circumstances. You were barely getting used to kissing him occasionally let alone sharing such an intimate touch after a hard night, his dark and tired eyes peering down at you with unmistakable affection.
“They need me down there?” He rasped it out slow and more steady than you were expecting.
You let your thumb rub against the stubble on his cheek before shaking your head firmly in denial.
“They’re fine for a second.” You still answer verbally, figuring he would need the double reassure that he could take a breath. “You need me up here?”
There it was again, that offer for him to let you in and solidify whatever this was you were doing was more than flirty banter and stolen kisses.
You were shocked enough for it to show on your face when he nodded his head in agreement, fully expecting him to tell you he was okay and that you needed to go help downstairs. He would’ve said it gently in a way that reminded you of your importance to the crew but it still would have landed like a rejection.
Instead he was letting his head nod continue up until his mouth pressed against yours.
It was sweeter than your usual kisses, lacking the heat and desperation that seemed to naturally creep up whenever you got a moment alone.
Other than his big hands burning your body, one of them still on your waist and doing that pulsing move he seemed to do absentmindedly now and the other pushing through the restraints of your loose ponytail to halfway tangle in your hair.
You could almost feel it when the need took over him, his frame bending over yours in a way that made you shrink back to accommodate it. His breathing got heavier and the pace picked up too fast to be natural, his hands gripping you like he was worried you could be taken.
You were just about to pull yourself back to get him to stop but there was no need, a loud pop freezing him in his tracks immediately. It was closer than the other ones, maybe even set off in the parking lot of the hospital right beside you.
The worry settled over you in a cold wave and you sighed as you shifted even closer if that was possible, making sure he felt you in every point you could mold against him.
“Hey.” You whispered and his gaze was a little unfocused as it tried to meet yours. “I’m right here, do you want me to be?”
It was more of a grounding technique than an actual question, you weren’t going anywhere at this point regardless of how he answered but you still felt the relief when he nodded automatically.
“Come back inside Jack.” You said quietly, rubbing his face in soothing circles and trying to ignore the heat in your gut when his hand tightened in your hair again.
He was silent in his agreement again but a win was a win no matter how wordless and you took both of his hands in yours so you could walk backwards until you got him into the stairwell.
It was nearly impossible to let go of him once you were nearing the chaotic crowded hallways of the ER but he seemed visibly calmer surrounded by the familiar loud voices and beeping machines.
You watched as he fell right back into the routine as soon as another trauma was being rushed in, giving you one last squeeze to your side before he was speeding off to go and help.
—
You hadn’t expected Jack to forget to take you home because he was still himself despite the hard night, a gentleman who had set an expectation that he planned to continue to fill.
But you were a little thrown off by how normal he seemed now, like your moment on the roof hadn’t happened at all. You didn’t want to press him any further, especially since it was possible his good mood was genuine and not just him avoiding his real emotions, but the concern was growing heavier and heavier as his familiar hand on your lower back led you to his truck.
He didn’t seem to notice the look on your face when he gently backed you up against his truck, mouth on yours as you eagerly kissed him back.
You might have been worried but very little could stop you from kissing Jack Abbot back.
Your mouths moved together hotly, leaving the sweetness of the rooftop behind completely as that familiar tension simmered between you. The same kind of band snapping that you felt after a long day of eyes met across the room and light touches whenever you passed by each other.
Jack made a low noise from his chest when your tongue was gliding across his bottom lip, your own sound of impatience making him chuckle against your mouth before he was opening up and letting you in.
You didn’t need him to tell you that you kissed like somebody who was inexperienced but he didn’t seem to mind, in fact it felt like he liked you best when you got a little sloppy and eager.
His grip was tight on your hips to keep you pinned against the truck even though you weren’t planning on going anywhere at all, too busy tasting his mouth and tangling his tongue with yours in a way that was borderline filthy.
“Alright baby c’mon.” He spoke gruffly into the kiss as he pulled off, pecking your lips a few more times on his way to ending it. “Get in the truck.”
You frowned but knew you couldn’t stand in the parking lot forever, momentarily forgetting all the things to be concerned about and feeling that familiar frustration from the beginning of your shift.
There was a childish lack of understanding on your side of things. Why didn’t he want to do more than kiss you?
It was easy to forget about your own selfish desires again as soon as you got into the car and began the drive to your apartment, the smoke in the air and abandoned piles of firework scraps and ashes making your nose scrunch up in distaste.
You were once again washed with concern for him even though the festivities would be mostly over with now, still stuck with the image of him up on the roof with his mind elsewhere even when he was staring at you.
He parked in front of your building and cleared his throat in a way that let you know he didn’t plan to stick around and talk tonight.
Maybe it was the frustration from his slow pace and confusing signals or maybe it was out of sheer worry for him but regardless if it was selfishly motivated or not, your hand was sliding over his knee.
“Will you come up?” You said it quietly, an offer you’d never made before sounding foreign coming from your mouth.
He stared at you for a long few seconds that sucked any of the confidence you had a moment ago right out from you, retracting your hand and already preparing to apologize for assuming something like that just because he had kissed you a few dozen times.
You were cool and casual, you could do casual kissing even if it was done by somebody like Jack Abbot.
Thankfully he didn’t give you too much time to spiral, turning off the truck and pocketing the keys before he was silently getting out. He took advantage of your stunned frozen frame, circling around the front so he could open your door.
He kissed his teeth and took a step back to emphasize it was time to get out, the noise a little degrading like he was calling a dog. You should have been annoyed by the sound but shamefully you felt a heat rush over you and you eagerly followed the wordless order.
You followed him up to your floor like it was his apartment building and not yours, standing stupidly outside your door for a second like you were waiting for him to let you in. He leaned against the wall and raised an expectant eyebrow at you that made you jump into movement in realization, digging out your keys and flushing bright as you fumbled with the lock.
It had seemed like a grand thing to have him in your apartment, a monumental colliding of worlds you had been semi building up in your mind since the first time he slipped his hand under your unzipped jacket.
Any of your thoughts on what it would be like were immediately thrown out the window considering there wasn’t a moment to process him standing in your entryway before he was kissing you again.
It was somehow even more feverish than it had been in the parking lot, your mouths moving together in practiced clumsiness as you wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him as close as possible.
His sturdy palms pressed hard into your lower back and you whined in protest at the sensation, met with his fingers pressing in that now familiar pulsing motion in response. He didn’t seem at all ashamed to be reduced to a frantic state with you, easily mirroring your inexperienced desperation despite the opposite being true for him.
“Jack.” You panted it against his open mouth but you forgot what you were asking for as soon as you said it, maybe just longing to say his name and feel it on your tongue.
The syllables felt completely unnecessary considering he was back to rubbing his over yours, such an unexpectedly messy move from somebody as calm and collected as he typically was. It was almost boyish, nearing amateur and you felt like you could die from the feeling of it.
“You drive me crazy.” He whispered it and it felt like a different type of confession, both of his rough hands coming up to cup your cheeks.
He applied enough force that you felt them squish just enough to jut your lips out in a fishlike pout, annoyance flickering over your face that he immediately kissed away as he loosened his grip but kept the hold.
You stopped the urge to almost giggle, thankfully saving yourself the embarrassment in favor of rubbing your hands over his on either side of your face until you could wrap them in yours and bring them back down between you.
“Will you stay here?” You didn’t realize that’s what you wanted until you offered it, at the same time hit with the knowledge of how devastated you’d be if he said no.
“I’d never deny you anything.” He said it softly and despite how common it was becoming, especially in your stolen moments, you still weren’t used to it.
Occasionally you missed the sarcasm and easy banter, finding it a lot easier to navigate than those genuine whispers he was using more and more frequently.
“So I should be careful what I ask for?” You hummed in faux deep thought as you started to walk backwards again like you had on the rooftop, this time leading him down the dimly lit hallway towards your bedroom.
“Doesn’t matter.” He said back easily in a way that made you believe him, signed and sealed when he stopped in your doorway to press you against the wood and kiss you again.
You smiled into it, letting go of one of his hands in favor of running your palm through his greying curls. He made a noise of approval that felt like you’d won the lottery, curling your fingers just enough to be felt before you were sighing and pulling off fully.
“Do you want a shower?” You asked and he wagged an eyebrow at you, making you laugh softly but shake your head so he understood you were being genuine.
“Can’t here.” He said back shortly, gaze flickering downwards before meeting yours again with a lot less comfortability than his face had held a second ago.
“There’s a stool in the closet.” You responded back as casually as possible, hand rubbing over his chest almost soothingly on instinct even though you figured he’d been a little defensive if he realized that’s why you were doing it. His eyebrows furrowed like he was trying to figure out if you had any different intentions than just letting him clean up. “I can’t reach the smoke alarm.”
You shrugged at the end of the statement and he huffed out a surprised laugh, like how easily you’d come to a solution for his leg shocked him. Truthfully you hadn’t made any adjustments because you didn’t plan for this to happen, for him to be here and for you to be so afraid he’d leave.
You wished he’d let you make space for him and his disability without feeling like you were pitying him but the day was tough enough without that conversation added on.
So instead you shifted closer and pressed light kisses against his jaw, feeling his breath hitch at the rare first move from you. You waited until you felt his body relax, his hands back on your body and his neck slightly bared for you to continue your exploration.
“I want you to stay Jack.” You said against his warm skin, voice a low whisper that made him visibly shudder. “I know what that means so take a shower and get into bed with me.”
He moved a hand up to your hair, tightening enough that you got the idea he wanted you to look at him. You pulled your face from his neck and peered up patiently, feeling pleased when he pressed into another deep kiss.
His tongue was back in your mouth instantly and you gasped at the immediate fast pace, only granting him more access to you. You clung to him tightly when his hands went lower than your hips, smoothing over the back pockets of your pants before he was cupping your ass and pulling you tight against him.
Your own were desperately smoothing over his back and shoulders, grasping any strong part of him you could.
“You’re so good to me.” He muttered against your mouth but you were a little too dazed to process what he was saying and the reasoning behind it, why your simple gesture of treating him like he was normal might affect him like this. “Good for me. You know that, right sweetheart?”
You nodded dumbly and tried to kiss him again, making a noise of protest when he dodged it with a smile and a quick peck to the top of your head.
“Showers.” He reminded you and you sighed but nodded in agreement, fully aware you both were still disgusting after a long hot shift.
“Be quick.” You meant it to be a teasing jab but it was breathy and tight, his eyes darkening a little at the sound of it before he was nodding.
Luckily you had a guest bathroom so you didn’t have to wait for each other to finish, showing him where everything was before you were washing up as quickly as you could with the overt awareness he was only across the hallway fully undressed.
You had more embarrassment than self control so you waited for him patiently on your bed once you were finished, sitting on the edge of it like it wasn’t your own. Your wet hair was soaking through the straps on your tank top but you definitely weren’t patient enough to let it dry and he clearly wasn’t either considering he was stepping out with damp curls that made your stomach clench.
Thankfully you had some clothes from your brothers last visit still in your dresser so he had a fresh outfit but you almost wished he had been forced to stay in his scrubs, a little dizzy from the black shirt that was a little too tight on him and the sweatpants.
He was a little too domestic, a little too casual and a lot of Jack Abbot in your bedroom with that longing look in his eyes.
You didn’t even need to say anything before he was on you, pressing you flat on your back against the bed as he settled above you, holding himself up with a forearm next to your head as he kissed you deeply.
He tasted like toothpaste and smelled like your shampoo, so deliciously a combination of the two of you that you almost felt drunk. Your hands tugged at his curls as you fell into the dozenth makeout session of the night, the heat steadily rising again as he pressed against you.
A light wince made you pause, turning your head to stop him from kissing you further and distracting you from the obvious discomfort in his lower half.
“Take it off.” You said it softly but there was no room for argument.
He had put his leg back on to make the walk from your bathroom back to the bedroom, not having his crutches on hand clearly considering how short notice of a sleep over this was, but you frowned at the way he was awkwardly hovering on the opposite side to keep himself above you.
“No it’s fine.” He mumbled, kissing wetly against your neck and almost successfully getting you to forget what you were talking about.
“Jack stop.” You continued firmly, feeling a tinge of guilt when he sighed and tucked his face down into the curve of your shoulder. “Please?”
He groaned at the interference but thankfully listened to you, shifting over onto his side beside you so he could sit up enough to maneuver his leg off. You watched him curiously although you could feel his lighthearted glare pointed at your face when he noticed you observing
“Sorry.” You say sheepishly, voice soft as you rub a hand over his chest and guide him back until he’s the one laying flat instead of you.
There’s no protest or reply to your apology due to your mouth pressing against his again, resting your full weight on his chest and letting one of your legs slot between his. You try to ignore the fact this position means your thigh is pressed into his crotch but your body naturally heats up with interest as you kiss.
It feels like an eternity of your mouths moving together, the soft noises he’s drawing out of you so easily sounding so unlike yourself it makes you dizzy.
“You drive me crazy.” He half groans with a fistful of your hair and you can’t help but laugh, a little bit delirious from it all. “I didn’t know I could feel like this again.”
“Yeah?” You practically whisper it, not able to stay smug for long considering he’s playfully growling at your response and flipping you back over so you’re underneath him again.
You sigh in relief when he kisses across your neck and collarbones, thick fingers moving to pull the straps of your tank top down your arms so he can bunch it around your ribs. The constriction of the fabric only adds to the breathlessness you feel when he starts to kiss lower and lower, a sharp gaps ripping from your throat when he lets his tongue smooth over your hardened nipple.
His free hand comes up to the other side of your chest, almost rough in the way he gropes and pulls. You’re half sitting up to try and watch him, mouth parted in a constant steam of high pitched sounds that you can’t focus enough to be embarrassed by.
“So pretty sweetheart.” He finally takes a second to actually take you in, helping you pull the tank top over your head in between kisses on your skin. “There we go baby, let me see.”
“You too Jack.” You don’t even recognize your voice, the whine and high pitch so unlike your usual cadence that you almost went to laugh at yourself if you weren’t so busy trying to tug his shirt off. He smiles down at you in that crooked weathered way that makes you feel insane, clearly amused by how desperate you are.
Your eyes raked over his torso once it’s bare in front of you, a low sound coming from your throat as your breathing picks up. You could tell Jack was fit from the way his shirts fit a little too tight around the arms and chest but he’s so solid and thick, so much more of a man than you ever expected to be hovering above you with a gentle wanting gaze.
He’s back down against you and kissing you hotter now, tongues sliding together as your hands roam wherever you can reach. You rub his biceps and back muscles, shuddering out a harsh breath when his own go back down to cup your ass and adjust you underneath him so he can slot between your legs comfortably.
You nearly whimper when he finally settles and you can feel the whole heat of him on top of you, pressing against your core that had been aching since you first left the hospital.
He chuckles into your mouth in that low addicting way, shifting his hips far enough forward to really apply some pressure just to test your reaction. It’s a whine of his name that follows, half annoyance and half mindless pleading for something more.
“I don’t know if you can handle it baby.” He says in a sugary sweet tone like he’s genuinely concerned for your well being, moving his hands around the waistband of your shorts. You feel him press down lightly on your stomach and you sigh in frustration, lifting your hips to try and get him to continue undressing you.
“You’re supposed to teach me.” You say back, half delirious.
His eyes darkened at that, at the obvious implication and reminder of not only your inexperience but of his position of authority above you. Your words seemed to spur him into action and it wasn’t long before you were both undressed, taking your time to take in each other’s bodies in a way that almost felt too romantic.
You felt like lovers on your honeymoon, not at all the energy of a scandalous and impulsive hookup with your boss.
He kissed down your body gently, letting his hands touch every part of your skin like he was committing it to memory as he praised you in soft murmurs that felt more exhilarating than any thing you could have imagined before this. You could probably get off just from his low voice telling you how beautiful you were for him, for him.
Then there was the way he let you scan over him too, a hint of insecurity on his face when it came to his lower half and the blank space where his limb used to be. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t treat it like a foreign alien in the bed with you and you could visibly see the relief in the way he sighed and slumped back against the pillows.
You kissed against the wrinkles on his face, practically obsessed over the grey hair on his stomach leading down to his length that you could barely look at without turning bright red in the face.
The heat was still undeniable beneath the softness of the moment, the way his breath stuttered as he took your hand in his and placed it between his legs.
Your voice was needy and high as you asked him, begged him, for his approval with your wrist moving the best you could. He kept his hand over yours and the size difference made you a little faint, barely able to see the fact you were the one wrapped around him and stroking him tightly.
He’d stopped you after a short amount of time, muttering into your mouth that it had been a long time for him and he didn’t want to finish without being inside of you.
“Can you take it baby?” He asked sweetly once he had you back under him, thick fingers rubbing between your legs in a slow way that was bringing tears to your eyes. “Look at you, getting so worked up.”
“Please Jack.” You gasped and shook your head, trying to keep your thighs open so you didn’t bury his hand between them. He was barely touching you yet but that was both the problem and a relief. “Please touch me already, I want it so bad.”
“I know you want it babygirl but you need to let me take care of you.” He kissed his teeth in disapproval to your begging and now you full out sobbed, being comforted by his finger finally pressing into you.
It was a slow stretch and already a bit much for you, far more than anything you could do with your own hands or a pillow especially when attached to a face and voice like his. He tried to kiss you through the second one but you could barely stop your whines long enough to respond, opting for sucking across your neck instead.
“Fuck you’re so tight.” It was a low growl right in your ear once the third finger was pressed in, your own wetness so loud in the quiet room you could feel your face heating up. “Don’t know if I’ll fit kid.”
“Make it fit please please.” You were helplessly begging now despite knowing he was just mocking you, struck hard by the mere suggestion he might not give you what you needed tonight. “No more Jack, can’t take it anymore.”
He practically cooed as he finally got you to focus enough to kiss him back, waiting until you were relaxed enough again before he was pulling his fingers out. You whined in protest but he shushed you immediately, so firm and authoritative that you immediately pressed your lips closed tightly.
“Just shut up for me baby.” His tone was still as sweet as it had been the entire night but there was an edge to it that made you inhale shakily. “You wanted to take it so you’ll take it.”
You nod eagerly at his words, entire body stiffening when you actually feel him pressing against you below, already clenching before he could even move forward. He sighed at the resistance and kissed you again, rubbing your sides and clearly trying his best to get your body to the point it needed to be.
“You’re so good sweetheart.” He whispered into your mouth and you felt your heart inflate at the praise. “Know you’ll take cock so perfectly.”
You audibly whimpered at the lewd word which was a bit ridiculous considering the state you were currently in, distracted enough by the things he was saying that he was able to slide deeper into you.
He groaned and tucked his head into your neck at the same time you winced in pain from the stretch, no amount of preparation with his thick fingers could prepare for the new sensation and you started to really doubt your ability to handle it for the first time.
“Don’t do that babygirl.” He grunted and it took you a second to realized you were getting even tighter around him from the pain. “Gotta relax for me okay?”
You nodded and did your best to listen to what he was saying, knowing that regardless it was your instinct by now to follow his orders. It had been engrained in you, a desperate need to please him and make him feel proud of you that clearly carried over to the bedroom just as smoothly.
It took a few minutes of kissing before he was able to move, room falling into a heated silence other than his low grunts and your constant stream of his name and whatever else you were able to babble out.
“This what you needed?” His voice was tight and strained and the sound of it alone was enough for you to know you weren’t going to last long with him over you like this. “Just some cock baby? Now you’re all better?”
You kissed against his mouth both from pure need and because you couldn’t take hearing him talk anymore, the filth coming from his mouth the most intoxicating things you’ve ever heard.
It was easy to forget about everything other than him, easy to forget your responsibilities and the heavy burden to always be better than you were the day before because he didn’t expect anything from you, especially right now. Jack was holding you like you couldn’t do a single thing wrong in his eyes and you felt like you’d finally found the impossible ceiling to your need to succeed.
You didn’t need to worry about a thing when he was kissing you and telling you how good you were doing for him all the way through your release, reminding you how good you made him feel and how beautiful you were as he cleaned you up and gently tucked you into bed after.
There was a half second where you panicked as you watched him step near the hallway door, sitting up halfway in bed covered in the shirt he had been wearing earlier and nothing else.
You didn’t need to say anything, the look on your face explaining enough for him to soften and shift back over to you, holding your face and kissing you gently.
“Just getting you some water.” He mumbled against your lips and you felt another wave of warmth run through you.
Jack didn’t leave and it was scarily natural to mesh together in a tight embrace, making low conversation in the dark room while he played with your fingers until you finally dozed off.
ivy mel @thatonedindjarinfan - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
